Theater Program Notes: Million Dollar Quartet

 Published February 24, 2023, for Revival Theatre Company's production of Million Dollar Quartet

A Million to Two

Sam Phillips broke two formidable barriers on his way to the Million Dollar Quartet

By Jake Stigers

By the time the events of the fabled Million Dollar Quartet occurred, producer Sam Phillips had made an indelible name for himself as a recording impresario, a discoverer of future music legends … and a progressive thinker who effected remarkable changes in an industry, a culture and even a nation that were largely locked in a white-Christian-male hegemony.

When Phillips introduces himself at the beginning of the Million Dollar Quartet musical, he admits he “prob’ly could’a been a big wheel here. But there’s a cussedness ‘bout me.” That “here” was Memphis, TN, where in 1950 he’d opened the Memphis Recording Service—a cheap, hardly-any-frills storefront recording studio. Under the slogan “We Record Anything-Anywhere-Anytime,” he gave literally anyone who walked in off the street the opportunity to make an acetate recording of a song or a special message for a loved one.

But Phillips’ long game extended far beyond capturing endless renditions of “Happy Birthday” for people’s grandmothers.

In 1939, Phillips and his brother took a road trip that passed through Memphis, where he became enamored with the music of Beale Street. Yet-to-be blues and jazz legends like Louis Armstrong and B.B. King were helping define Beale Street as a vibrant, robust music scene celebrating and nurturing music by black artists … music that captured Phillips’ heart and forever defined his musical tastes and sensibilities.

Having grown up farming with his family in Alabama, Phillips was already deeply familiar with the gospel music he heard reverberating from black churches and with the songs he heard black sharecroppers sing as he worked alongside them. The world of Beale Street cemented his lifelong fascination with—and keen ear for—the music created and performed by black amateurs and artists alike.

Phillips started his career in the early 1940s as a deejay and radio engineer at station WLAY in Alabama. Unlike the prevailing standard that dictated stations restrict their programming to music only by black artists or only by white artists, WLAY employed an uncommon “open format” that at night broadcast a mix of music by both white and black artists—a practice that inspired Phillips to hammer at that artificial race barrier the rest of his career.

He moved to Memphis—home of his beloved Beale Street music scene—in 1945 to command the airwaves as an announcer and sound engineer for WREC, which gave him a bigger audience and broader access to the music, musicians and—most importantly—fellow deejays he’d work closely with as he established and built his recording empire.

By the time he left radio and opened his Memphis Recording Service studio, he’d amassed a network of industry connections and become a beacon for struggling artists—especially black artists—who wanted to get their work recorded and hopefully broadcast across the airwaves. To help facilitate this goal, Phillips launched his own label in 1952: The Sun Record Company.

In addition to creating the recording studio’s bread-and-butter “Anything-Anywhere-Anytime” recordings, Phillips and Sun Records slowly built a roster of music up-and-comers like Junior Parker, Howlin’ Wolf, and a 19-year-old songwriter and music impresario named Ike Turner.

A genuine fan of the black Beale Street artists and the music they created—particularly the blues—Phillips had hoped to both preserve their work and eventually push through restrictive race barriers to get their songs played on white radio stations instead of just black-only stations and late-night open-format programming.

But he couldn’t get anything he recorded to be played on the white stations—even with a decade of industry connections. “There were a LOTTA years when dee-jays wouldn’t play none a’my records. Back then I’d PAY ‘em, but they still wouldn’t play ‘em,” he explains in the Million Dollar Quartet musical.

So he devised a workaround.

Again, a quote from one of his fourth-wall monologues in the musical: “How would it be if I could find me a white kid who could light a fire under a song like the great Negro singers?”

Sam Phillips wasn’t the first person to put black music in the hands of white artists. And while there are endless discussions to be had about white artists appropriating black music, culture and their attendant successes, the narrative can honestly be parsed to allow that Sam Phillips was among an early few who were more interested in getting the music he loved to wider audiences and navigating a racist culture and industry to the best of his ability to make that happen. He saw music as a mechanism of democracy, and he wasn’t above tinkering with elections to give the people what he knew they wanted.

“As Sam saw it,” biographer Peter Guralnick writes, “what he was doing was to help open doors through which black artists and white artists alike—poor people deprived of education and opportunity but possessed of innate wisdom, talent, and imagination—might someday pass.” He brought to Sun an underpinned mission to make recordings that “would help knock down the wall between black and white musicians and markets” and contribute to the fall of racial segregation.

And despite deeply established racial barriers, Phillips’ philosophy and business model worked. In its 16-year run, Sun Records produced more rock-and-roll records—including an impressive 226 singles—than any other record label of its time. He slowly changed opinions, broke down barriers and got black artists to the table … and on the white airwaves.

The white singers and musicians Phillips discovered and promoted through Sun Records are a veritable who’s-who of 1950s icons including Roy Orbison, Charlie Rich, Sonny Burgess and the four men he assembled on a fateful December night in 1956: Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins and a fresh-faced Jerry Lee Lewis.

Not content with using black voices and music to disrupt current radio standards—and flush with cash from recently selling Elvis Presley to RCA Records—Phillips broke through another radio barrier in 1955 when he launched an all-female radio station with the delightful call letters WHER.

Radio stations weren’t entirely devoid of women’s voices at the time—many stations had one female announcer to cover homemaking, society events and other things traditionally seen as of interest only to women—but an all-women-all-the-time format was truly transformative and profoundly groundbreaking.

Staffed entirely with women both on-air and off, WHER was both progressive for its time and now very cringey from our modern perspective. The station broadcast from a studio he patronizingly called The Doll Bin in the nation’s third-ever Holiday Inn. (Phillips was one of the original investors in this innovative hotel-franchise concept, and it eventually earned him a fortune.) But—again from our modern perspective—the misogyny gets worse: He painted the studio pink and purple and decorated it with bras and panties hanging from a clothesline. I wish I were making that up.

To round out the cringe, he managed to objectify the invisible faces behind the radio voices with the slogan “1000 Beautiful Watts.”

But still: Women. On the radio. In the South. In the 1950s, when women weren’t even allowed to open bank accounts in their own names. Phillips was incredibly progressive, incredibly brave and—if you’ll excuse the gratuitously gendered expression—incredibly ballsy.

WHER was such a hit that it quickly inspired women-only stations to pop up around the country. It broadcast continuously from 1955 until 1973, two years after the National Press Club opened its membership to women and started making the concept of women-only radio less and less remarkable.

The Million Dollar events of December 4, 1956, propelled Phillips and Sun Records into a heyday that lasted through the end of the decade. But as rock and roll slowly disappeared under the waves of pop, funk, folk, psychedelic and the other rock genres that defined the 1960s, Phillips quietly disappeared from the public eye. The artists he discovered and launched into stardom continued to produce iconic music—and the race and gender barriers he challenged continued to crumble—but Phillips turned his attention to other broadcasting, investment and development interests.

And the music he loved and the industry he changed continue to rock and roll forward as his million-dollar legacy.

Jake Stigers is a frequent contributor to theater programs in the Corridor and can often be seen on stages in the Cedar Rapids area. His program notes and essays on art, history, mental illness and anything else he finds interesting are archived on TheOneWhoMumbles.blogspot.com

Theater Program Notes: Titanic

The RMS Titanic: At once a triumph of engineering and a metaphor for the the hubris of an era sailing at full speed
By Jake Stigers

The RMS Titanic was already a legend when it unmoored from terra firma and embarked on its storied first–and last–voyage across the Atlantic in 1912.

Weighing 46,328 tons, towering 104 feet high and built to accommodate 3,547 people–though only an estimated 2,224 people sailed on its maiden voyage–it was “the largest moving object in the world,” as chief naval architect Thomas Andrews declares with pride and an unmistakable air of hubris in his soliloquy prologue to the musical Titanic.

The second of the White Star Line’s three Olympic-class liners (the eponymous Olympic had launched in 1911 and the Britannic was just beginning construction with an eventual 1915 launch), Titanic represented an apotheosis of human achievement and pride: “At once a poem, and the perfection of physical engineering,” as Andrews boasts at the beginning of the musical and eventually the ship’s entire passenger manifest laments from a grim new perspective at the end.

Titanic and her Olympic-class sisters also represented a triumph in White Star Line’s luxury-liner race with rival Cunard, builders of the now dwarfed RMS Lusitania and RMS Mauretania.

But size, human achievement and Titanic’s catastrophic, conviction-defying demise–White Star Line never officially declared the ship to be unsinkable, but owner J. Bruce Ismay had reportedly declared that Titanic was so safe that it was its own lifeboat–weren’t the only catalysts that launched the ship and its wreck into the pantheon of disaster mythology. The culture that built it–and in many ways went down with it–also played a conspicuous role.

In 2004, the satirical newspaper The Onion published a wry, tongue-in-cheek special edition devoted to deconstructing the mythology and legend surrounding the Titanic sinking. It smartly–if not callously–summarized its perspective under a banner headline and multiple subheads that pulled no punches 90 years after the fact:

WORLD’S LARGEST METAPHOR HITS ICE-BERG

Titanic, Representation of Man’s Hubris, Sinks in North Atlantic

1,500 Dead in Symbolic Tragedy

Well-to-Do Dowager Gets Hair Disheveled for First Time

Stewards Kindly Ask Third-Class Passengers to Drown

The seeds of Titanic’s hubris were planted two centuries before she set sail

The first Industrial Revolution began around 1760 with the discovery of new, more efficient, more affordable manufacturing processes for everything from producing textiles to generating power from steam. It slowly but surely transformed economies and population centers in Britain, throughout Europe and across the Atlantic in the newly established United States. Along the way, it raised the standard of living across almost all populations and demographics … while it also laid foundations for an eventual explosive growth of capitalist wealth and economic disparity that very measurably thrives to this day.

New discoveries and inventions for streamlining the mass manufacturing of steel in the 1850s kick-started what is now considered the second Industrial Revolution in Europe and America. This more efficient production of steel vastly improved developments in railroads, shipping and manufacturing and eventually spread to the developments of the electricity, chemical and petroleum industries. It continued to transform the ways people lived and businesses operated … but it also continued to broaden the growing chasm between wealth and poverty.

In 1873, American writers Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner published The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today to satirize the greed and political corruption wrought from a century of Industrial Revolution spoils in post-Civil War America. It shone harsh light and judgment on the nation’s deeply entrenched graft, materialism, and obsession with money and power. But perhaps more memorably, it gave a name for this period of dramatic, arguably obscene stratification between rich and poor.

Across the pond, Britain’s Victorian Era and France’s Belle Époque mirrored the Gilded Age’s remarkable innovations in technology, manufacturing, science, medicine and even the arts–all with improvements in the standards of living for many populations. And all without remedying the staggering economic disparities between the wealthy and the impoverished.

When Queen Victoria died in 1901, the Edwardians–named for her successor, King Edward VII–started relaxing the social strictures and pieties of Victoria’s influence and ushered in what American author Samuel Hynes eventually described as “a leisurely time when women wore picture hats and did not vote, when the rich were not ashamed to live conspicuously, and the sun really never set on the British flag.”


Titanic brought this Zeitgeist to life in bold, statement scale

It was in this spirit of financial, cultural and social hubris that the massive ship Titanic was conceived of and born.

Taking inspiration from London’s 5-Star Ritz Hotel, Titanic’s designers finished First and Second Class staterooms and public spaces in a range of fashionable styles from Empire stateliness to the florid indulgences of Louis XV. A squash court, a Turkish bath and 24-hour telegraph service offered novel diversions.

Thomas Andrews even added a relatively unnecessary fourth smokestack to give the ship a more grand, imposing profile.

And into the good ship Titanic strode three stratifications of passenger ready to traverse the Atlantic in the circumstances their money–or lack of it–had made them accustomed:

First Class
Titanic’s First Class manifest was a venerable Who’s Who of Edwardian society and the keepers of the Western Hemisphere’s wealth and influence. At least a generation out from the Gilded Age forebears who built their family wealth and social status, the Titanic First Class passengers enjoyed lives of privilege and leisure tempered only by intricate and often labyrinthine social rituals that demonstrated good breeding, old money and civilized superiority to the lower, more vulgar classes.

That is not to say this population did nothing beyond living off the passive income of generational wealth. Many family patriarchs–and sometimes widowed matriarchs–still kept their businesses running efficiently and profitably, but they were also actively involved in exploiting the working classes, fighting unions, building monopolies, and heavily influencing the political and financial systems that kept their family dynasties in wealth and power.

It is certainly fair to say that these families and icons of business also contributed immense amounts of money to build museums, libraries, concert halls and other civic amenities, but not without preserving the wealth and privilege they and were accustomed to enjoying.

The men of First Class gleefully clarify this perpetuation of wealth and power in a lyric sung early in the Titanic musical: “Remarkable U.S. Steel is splitting shares at five to four! Monopoly makes the industry far better than before!”

Second Class
While the demarcations between Edwardian First Class and Second Class were absolute when buying tickets on a luxury ocean liner, they were far more fluid in the real world.

Titanic’s Second Class passengers still spent a great deal of money and expected a great deal of opulence and privilege on their voyage. But for reasons extending from budget constraints to a modest lack of interest in the conspicuous pomp and circumstance of First Class, these passengers still enjoyed extravagant accommodations without extravagant costs–and still without encountering passengers of the Third Class.

That is not to say there weren’t curious lookie-loos and brazen social climbers peering around the metaphorical–and physical–walls dividing First from Second Class.

In a clever bit of narrative construction, the Titanic musical embodies this Second Class ambition in the character of Alice Beane. Based loosely on the actual passenger Ethel Beane, Alice breathlessly and without a trace of shame bombards her beleaguered husband with facts and gossip she’s memorized about the First Class passengers as they board the ship.

It’s a neat writing trick for a number of reasons: It very clearly illustrates the tacky social-climbing aspirations that many Second Class passengers had, it comically delineates the Second Class climbers from the First class noblesse, and it introduces a lot of information about a lot of passengers to the audience without forced or ponderous exposition.

And if Alice Beane’s brazen antics don’t fully establish this demarcation in the first act, John Jacob Astor IV spells it out explicitly in the second act: “A few too many climbers. … Lately I’ve noticed that anyone with a few million dollars considers himself rich.”

Third Class
While First and Second Class passengers traveled with varying degrees of conspicuous privilege and wealth, Third Class passengers traveled with a more urgent sense of purpose: escaping lives of poverty, crime and hopelessness in Europe (and beyond) and emigrating to experience the storied opportunities and dreams of living in America.

These European immigrants were traveling at the end of what historians now call the New Immigration wave, which started in the late 19th Century when President Benjamin Harrison designated Ellis Island in New York Harbor as a federal immigration station.

Earlier immigration waves established a cross-cultural tradition of coming to America to establish new lives, housing and income sources–usually in Irish, German, Jewish and other ethnic enclaves–and then summoning remaining family members to cross the Atlantic to reunite in the New World. With Ellis Island protocols and record-keeping in place, immigration became more efficient, and the numbers of reuniting family members surged well into the 20th Century.

Despite the dangers of tenement life and the poverty wages of Industrial Revolution employment, the spirit of American opportunity still lived in these immigrants’ hearts and imaginations. But as the decades around the turn of the century saw a growing establishment of business owners, professionals and even politicians rising from these enclaves, the lure of legitimate American opportunity became stronger and stronger, drawing more and more people through Ellis Island and driving the exponentially explosive growth of New York City and other urban centers.

And while the White Star Line built its reputation and socioeconomic iconography on the opulent accommodations it provided its high-profile, high-wealth passengers, its primary source of revenue was actually from its Third Class passengers. These passengers were far more economical to house and feed, and their accommodations were designed to maximize the number of people who could occupy any given amount of space.

That’s not to say they were in any way unlivable. To attract Third Class passengers away from competitors who also used this business model, the White Star Line outfitted Titanic and its Olympic-class sister ships with sleeping, eating and public accommodations that had never been seen or experienced by most of its passengers. There were flushing toilets, warm running water, steady meals, comfortable beds and even bathtubs–though the entirety of Third Class had literally two bathtubs: one for all the women to share and one for all the men to share.

Titanic’s Third Class passengers encapsulate this mix of excitement, awe and wonder in a moving set of lyrics as they board the ship at the beginning of the show:

Get me aboard
Call out my name
It’s to America we aim
To find a better life
We prayed to make this trip!

Let all our children’s children know
That this day long ago
We dreamt of them
And came aboard this ship!

These are the cultural waters–both metaphoric and literal–that Titanic navigated as she headed west into the Atlantic

History has given us an understanding of the mechanics and enormity of Titanic’s demise through newspaper accounts, books, movies, YouTube channels and devoted internet sites.

Titanic the musical takes us on a more introspective journey with the ship and its passengers and explores the very human side of the tragedy through a prism of privilege and want, hubris and awe, and shared dreams of a future that’s both collective and jarringly unequal.

SIDEBAR: Why do we use female pronouns for ships?

Throughout recorded history, people have referred to ships as she and her and grouped them with sister ships and sent them on maiden voyages and led flotillas on mother ships … but why?

The short answer is there is no clear answer. Or at least there are many possible answers, including these:

For centuries and millennia, sailors have traditionally been men who’ve often named ships after important women in their lives as a way to keep them symbolically close on long voyages.

Sailors have dedicated ships to goddesses and mother figures (like Christopher Columbus’ La Santa María and the now-retired RMS Queen Mary) to petition for safe passage on journeys.

Ships have been seen as metaphoric mothers caring for the sailor in her womb.

The Latin word for ship is navis, whose linguistic feminine gendering eventually translated to a more literal interpretation of seeing ships as feminine.

SIDEBAR: Cedar Rapids’ Brucemore Historic Site has a Titanic connection

George and Irene Douglas, who lived in Brucemore from 1906 to 1937, have a tragic connection to the Titanic sinking: George’s brother and sister-in-law, Walter and Mahala Douglas, and Mahala’s maid, Bertha LeRoy, were sailing home on Titanic after a three-month trip to Europe to celebrate George’s retirement and to buy furnishings for their Minnesota home.

Mahala and Bertha survived the sinking, but Walter–feeling an obligation to be a gentleman and not board a lifeboat–did not. His body was recovered (and identified by the monograms on his shirt and cigarette case), and he and Mahala are now entombed in the Douglas family vault in Cedar Rapids’ Oak Hill Cemetery.

Jake Stigers is a frequent contributor to theater programs in the Corridor and can often be seen on stages in the Cedar Rapids area. His longtime fascination with the Titanic disaster and with Gilded Age-era history made the opportunity to write program notes for this production especially thrilling for him.

Juneteenth

Afro-American Literature (as it was called at the time) had, quite frankly, a killer reading list. In one semester we covered the major works of Amiri Baraka, Richard Wright, Toni Morrison, James Baldwin … and those were just the writers I’d heard of. I was a junior in college, I’d just declared my English major and I had only three semesters to complete it … preferably in classes with great reading lists like this one that I could enthusiastically devour.

It hadn’t occurred to me that I might be the only white person in the class. And when I walked in that first day, I was. Until two white girls walked in a couple minutes later. I’d never been the racial minority before—no less the racial minority who paradoxically represented the oppressor to the people around me—and the experience made the class and everything we read and discussed and learned all the more profound.

The professor was brilliant. He peppered his lectures with names and dates and fascinating contextual histories without ever using notes. He got his students to participate with enthusiasm—even the shy ones. His influence literally transformed the way I thought and wrote, and I hear his voice in my writing to this day.

He and his reading list taught me way more than I could even hope to expect about the Black experience in America. I found myself spellbound in incredulity as I began to understand the ubiquity—the enormity—of black suffering in the name of white American “freedom” and “liberty.” I literally wept as I read the stories and absorbed the sociopolitical implications of the literature in our curriculum. And I vowed that I would always strive to be aware and understanding of racial perspectives and how they shape the lives and personal contexts of the people of color in my life and my larger orbit.

The class was truly a transforming milestone in the way I defined myself and the way I related to my surroundings. It blew open the doors of my relatively sheltered world and it energized me as a global citizen.

But it wasn't until a year later, when I ran into the professor at a beautifully minimalist staging of Ntozake Shange’s for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf and he not only remembered my name but also offered to drive me home, that for some reason I suddenly realized—to my absolute, gut-dropping horror—that those two white girls and I had slowly, gradually drifted toward each other and had eventually spent the semester sitting—rudely, arrogantly, cluelessly, cruelly—front and center in his classroom … while our Black classmates had sat behind us. In the back of the learning bus.

The professor died within a year after that ride in his car. Before I had the guts and the decency to find him and somehow apologize. I have never kept in touch with anyone—black or white—from that class. Thirty-three years later, I still feel sick to my stomach when I think about it.

As we are currently fully aware, there is racism everywhere—deliberate racism, violent racism, habitual racism, institutionalized racism, self-unaware racism. "I'm not a racist, but …" conversations happen in hushed tones where white people gather and look around furtively before they speak everywhere, every day.

 
Depending on the circumstances when I encounter these conversations, I either walk away or stand there awkwardly until the moment has passed. I've called a few people out on their racist comments a couple of times, sometimes angrily, sometimes in a spirit of hopefully changing a mind or a heart. But regrettably all just a couple of times.

 
I'm—we're all—far from perfect. Despite my best intentions, I'm not racism-free. I admit I fleetingly embraced the overgeneralized idea of "all lives matter" before it hit me like a hail of bricks how that undermined—more accurately, destroyed—the core message of and desperate need for Black Lives Matter. And while I feel a slight level of relief unloading this story on social media, it doesn't exonerate me or excuse me or even atone for my unwitting behavior 33 years ago.

 
I realize that living in my largely privileged white bubble with my white family and my overwhelmingly white friend base both in life and on social media that it keeps me safe from awkward conversations and maybe even confrontations. But I hope that maybe this admission sparks a dialogue somewhere. That it inspires other people to reach out and just talk to each other. And get to know each other. And start to care about each other. Because it's harder to hate—and harder to even realize that you're hating—when people stop being abstractions and start being, well, people.

I don’t even know how to begin to apologize to the Black people I insulted and the white people I enabled in that classroom over three decades ago. And I hope if you know me or eventually get to know me that I'm living my life in a way that you can accept as an apology … and believe that it’s a genuine, productive path to my own improvement.

As I hope everyone is fully aware, today is Juneteenth—also known as Freedom Day—the anniversary of the 1865 emancipation of the last remaining enslaved African-Americans in the Confederacy. I first learned about Juneteenth in a high-school history class, and I’d often wondered since then why it’s never really been a massive national holiday. And now—despite the devastating circumstances that have finally brought it to the country’s attention—I’m thrilled it’s officially become a national holiday … and an integral part of our larger dialogue about race.

The national-holiday designation came quickly and largely unexpectedly last week—especially given what little awareness Juneteenth had even a year ago—so federal agencies and even private companies didn't have a lot of time to plan and coordinate procedures for proper celebrations and shut-downs.

But many found a way, and they've closed their doors and encouraged their employees to take the day off to celebrate the milestone … the freedoms … the progress … and the hope for continued communion in the march toward equality in our country’s minds, our hearts and our shared American culture.

Cedar Rapids>Dubuque>Car With Total Strangers>O'Hare>Fucking Hell>Eventually NYC

Four years ago today, I embarked on what ended up being a 19-hour, four-airport, one-roadtrip-with-strangers odyssey trying to get to NYC for my 50th birthday. I documented the increasingly infuriating saga on Facebook—to the endless amusement of my family and friends, who literally encouraged to turn it into a book—but I'm too lazy for that so I'm just piling it all here. Please enjoy. Or not.

May 2, 11:21 pm

This weekend’s performance of the Big Birthday Broadway Bash has been delayed while we search for an understudy. Thank you for your patience.

#HowToTurn50 #AndWithholdYourStandingOvationBeforeTheShowEvenStarts


May 3, 12:08 am

Curtain up! My chauffeur parents and I just have a bit of a drive ahead of us.

#HowToTurn50 #AndFinallyExhale


May 3, 4:16 am

My (slightly revised so I want to make sure the tank is full but miraculously still on time) Big Birthday Broadway Bash begins!

#HowToTurn50 #AndLoseAllYourSleep


May 3, 6:34 am

We made it to Dubuque—where the airport is quite modern and cool and the snacks are on a table with a sign that says $1 each and there’s a cardboard box to pay or make change for yourself all on the honor system—and I’m seated on the plane where there are two quite hot men except one of them is literally sitting in a crowd of children so whatever but anyway I’m back on track for my Big Birthday Broadway Bash!

#HowToTurn50 #AndNotStopYawning


May 3, 8:41 am

See this sunny, optimistic smile? It’s the rictus of a man who got up at 3:00 to drive to Dubuque after he had to rebook when his Cedar Rapids flight was canceled ... and then sat on the runway and even back in the airport for TWO FRUSTRATING HOURS because of the fog and is now finally taxiing back to the runway for another attempt.

#HowToTurn50 #AndUseAllYourSwearWords


May 3, 9:33 am

Well THIS is a first.

After sitting in impenetrable fog on the runway, returning to the gate, deplaning, replaning, taxiing back to the runway, and finally revving the engines and accelerating for takeoff ... we abruptly aborted and came SCREAMING to a stop just short of certain fiery death. Because the engine failure light came on. THE ENGINE FAILURE LIGHT. How ridiculous! I’ve been driving with my airbag light on for 10 years and I have never even once experienced certain fiery death.

So here we sit AGAIN at the gate with the honor-system snack table waiting to think of newer, even more thrilling, ways to destroy the joys of turning 50.

On the plus side, I’ve now had the chance to scope out the entirety of the passenger population and I have revised my two-hot-guys body count to four. But one’s wearing a backward baseball cap so I have to kill him. So three.

#HowToTurn50 #AndAlmostPoopYourselfRightOnTheRunway


May 3, 10:05 am

Keep scrolling ...

Keep scrolling ...

Almost there ...

You know what’s awesome about having good bipolar drugs? I’m totally chill in almost every situation.

Of course, I won’t cry at your funeral, but you’ll be dead so FUCK YOU WITH YOUR FUCKING COMPLAINING.

#HowToTurn50 #AndShrugAtEverySetback


May 3, 10:21 am

A post from Mom:

So, I will add a chapter—no, just a little info—to the airplane trip to NYC that still has not happened. Just wanted to share a super foggy photo [note: I cannot find this photo] of the original taxiing to the gate in Dubuque about 6:33 am today. And the airport did not know that the plane did not actually take off from the runway until I called them 90 minutes later and said the AA site said the plane was delayed. And now Jake is in Dubuque and we and the car are back in Cedar Rapids!

May 3, 11:31 am

Well. They did such a good job re-duct-taping the engine to the wing that you can hardly see it. So we’ve now completed our third boarding and I’m in the process of ignoring our third safety demonstration as we speak. It’s now been over 12 hours since I was notified that my 6:06 Cedar Rapids flight was canceled, I got rebooked to a 6:41 flight a hour away in Dubuque, I deplaned not once but twice, I’ve been reassigned to three increasingly later connecting flights, and I first embarked on my first of five (and counting!) treks across that mega-long-ass gangplank (or whatever it’s called). (Seriously. That thing has an Olympic-length lap pool, a Renaissance vanishing point and two time-zone changes.) (Parentheses party!)

But it’s now 11:31 and instead of launching ourselves into the air at our promised 10:45 takeoff time, we’re still connected to that gangplank (or whatever it’s called) like an emotionally needy fetus to its umbilical cord.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand ... we JUST got told that our re-duct-taped engine WON’T EVEN START RUNNING.

This literally is exactly the reason why I didn’t buy tickets to a show tonight.

#HowToTurn50 #AndGetGrayHairsOnYourGrayHairs


May 3, 2:23 pm

See this pretty house? It’s in Galena, which is about a 30-minute drive east of the Dubuque airport. See the side mirror in the corner of the photo? That belongs to a family of four people I just met in line in the Dubuque airport. What could all of this possibly mean?

I’LL TELL YOU WHAT IT MEANS.

After having my original flight canceled and then driving to Dubuque at 4:00 am to catch a different flight, after evacuating the plane for that flight twice for fog and twice because the damn engine fell off, after canceling my tickets to Jimmy Fallon, after TRYING REALLY HARD NOT TO FUCKING SWEAR (oops), my second flight was finally canceled too. OF COURSE. And! There were no more Dubuque flights today. And! There was no time to drive to Cedar Rapids to catch a flight there. And! There was nobody at the car-rental counter anyway. But! There IS an 8:30 flight out of Chicago tonight. And! The nice family in line ahead of me decided to drive their car there to catch it. And! They invited me to tag along.

So here I am. In a car with (hopefully) nice strangers. Who won’t dismember me and feed me to feral she-wolves.

Being 50 is weird.

#HowToTurn50 #AndHopefullyNotBeFedToSheWolves


May 3, 3:05 pm
We have stopped at a McDonald's. I'm hungry. I have to pee. But I'm suddenly obsessively worried that my captors will run to their car and take off without me. So I'm neither peeing in the bathroom nor ordering food at the counter with my back to the door and the car.

#HowToTurn50 #AndLiveInHopefullyIrrationalFear

May 3, 3:59 pm

This fluffy boi is lurking ominously in the general vicinity of O’Hare from my view out the window of my captors’ car.

BRING IT, MOTHER NATURE! Imma get to NYC tonight even if I have to climb on a broom and turn my back to the Western skies. Because everyone deserves a chance to see SpongeBob Squarepants the musical!

#HowToTurn50 #ViaTheIncredibleKindnessOfStrangers


May 3, 5:47 pm
Gary the O'Hare American Airlines ticketing agent is a dick.

Every other American Airlines employee I've encountered today responded to my good spirits and organized, at-the-ready information and mood-lightening corny jokes with nothing but friendly helpfulness.

Let me tell you the reasons you’re a dick, Gary:

• Blah blah blah made-up rules
• Blah blah blah dramatic sighs
• Blah blah blah made up fees
• Blah blah blah putting me in a center seat when my profile says I prefer aisle seats and there’s no way your ticketing system didn’t tell you the back TWO rows of the airplane were empty.

#HowToTurn50 #BlahBlahBlahI'mTalkingToYOUGaryTheDick


May 3, 6:24 pm

I am FINALLY at my O’Hare gate, my third airport after my second canceled flight and two unexpected car rides totaling 500 miles over the last 16 hours. But this flight is two hours earlier than the one I was supposed to be on. So if it gets canceled too, I still have options. BUT I’D BETTER NOT NEED OPTIONS, PEOPLE. I am painfully tired. And after all my soul-crushing travails, American condemned me to a middle seat by the toilets, which my wide shoulders and delicate nose and I hate. But perhaps I’ll be seated in the waifish constipated goblin section. Because OPTIMISM! POSITIVITY! EMACIATING FIBERLESS PLAGUES AMONG THE MAGICAL WOODLAND CREATURES WHO ARE TRAVELING TO NEW YORK TONIGHT!

#HowToTurn50 #ByDrivingToLotsOfAirportsInsteadOfFlyingLikeNormalPeople


May 3, 7:17 pm

Guess what's shut down right now. Just guess.

No, I'll tell you: ALL THE FUCKING NEW YORK AIRPORTS ARE SHUT DOWN RIGHT NOW.

We are currently enjoying life on dimly lit auxiliary power on the O'Hare tarmac. We will sit here until we receive “an update” in an hour and 15 minutes. Go to hell, world.

#HowToTurn50 #WhileSittingOnTarmacAfterTarmacAdNauseam


May 3, 8:31 pm

You know what would make this fucking hell of a day even worse? I’ll tell you exactly what would make this fucking hell of a day even worse:

We literally—LITERALLY!—just got the “Is there a doctor on board?” announcement—yes, apparently it’s a real thing—because someone across the aisle and one row ahead of me is apparently having some kind of seizure. And there are so many people crowding around her that a good four rows of us are trapped in our seats as the whole plane sits trapped on the tarmac subsisting only on dimly lit reserve power.

I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

So of course—OF FUCKING COURSE!—the self-absorbed douchebag sitting next to me—who has already TWICE demanded that I get up so he can wander the aisles doing his self-absorbed-douchebag things—suddenly decides that NOW is the time to push our row back into the crowded aisle again so he can wander the plane doing even more of his self-absorbed-and-now-potentially-harmful douchebag things.

ON TOP OF THAT!

I don’t even know what’s up with the prick directly in front of me, but he’s trying to interfere in the doctoring so insistently that the flight attendant has repeatedly—REPEATEDLY!—told him that he needs to stay in his seat and stop demanding to interfere and shut the hell up or—and she literally said this to him—“I’ll have to involve the captain.”

Plus the flight attendants have just confirmed amongst themselves and within my earshot that the gagging smell here in the back of the plane is from the “exploded diaper” someone left in the bathroom.

I am so so SO beyond exhaustion and patience and a capacity for tolerance of self-absorbed trash and even basic happiness right now.

#HowToTurn50 #InThePitsOfHell


May 3, 8:58 pm

Why is my phone still on? Why am I using the same screen grab?

I’ll tell you why my phone is still on PLUSS I'll tell you why I'm using the same screen grab:

We have resolved the medical emergency (something about low blood sugar triggering a panic attack, near as I can tell). We have taxied to the runway. We have dimmed the cabin lights. We have been told to off our electronic devices for takeoff.

WE HAVE ALSO SUDDENLY HEARD THE BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAMS OF A FUCKING CHILD WHO HAS LOCKED HERSELF IN THE BATHROOM AND REFUSES TO COME OUT.

The flight attendants are trying to calm the child through the door with a mix of soothing reassurances underscored with FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING LITTLE BRAT OR SO HELP US WE WILL BURN THIS PLANE TO THE GROUND WITH YOU IN IT AND WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOUR PARENTS WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOUR PARENTS?

Oh, wait: The flight attendants seem to have gotten the door open and (hopefully) stun-gunned the child because all is quiet save for the dulcet tones of their forced soothing reassurances. BUT THE QUESTION REMAINS WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE FUCKING PARENTS.

#HowToTurn50 #TheFirstStepIsToGetYourTubesTied


May 4, 12:07 am

Wheels on the ground, bag collected, Uber arrived, traffic at a brisk crawl! I haven’t been so tired—or so in need of a vigorous tooth-brushing—in as long as I can remember. But my tap shoes and my sense of overwhelming relief (not to mention my carefully selected, casually handsome, still-looking-Jimmy-Fallon-fresh shirt) are here, so bring on the big gay musicals!

After a sound sleep, of course. Preceded by a vigorous tooth-brushing.

#HowToTurn50 #AfterAGoodSleepOfCourse


May 4, 12:42 am

I’M! IN! MANHATTAN!

TAKING! ELEVATOR! SELFIES!

AND! POSSIBLY! FLEXING!

time. for. fucking. bed.

#HowToTurn50 #ImOnlyDoingThisOnce

Spilling some British Airways tea

1. Remember how I joked that the British Airways cabin steward would avoid me at all costs because of my weird hat?
2. I was obviously kidding
3. KIDDING!
4. But
5. BUT!
6. He LITERALLY did exactly that
7. For over eight hours
8. And he made sure I clearly saw what he was up to
9. I was in the window seat of an exit row
10. A rather vulgar, messy, entitled couple had the seats next to mine
11. The cabin steward's jump seat faced us
12. He talked to them at length
13. About everything and nothing
14. But when I tried to join the conversation ...
15. He literally gave me a withering stare and went back to learning fascinating things about the vulgar, messy, entitled couple
16. They ignored me the entire flight as well
17. Except the woman offered me a mint when I sat down
18. I had a mask on
19. So I didn't take this as a hint that my breath made my whole person repellent
20. Then
21. THEN!
22. Cabin Satan started bringing them drinks
23. Without them asking
24. Without him asking
25. We were in steerage where drinks weren't free
26. What's more ...
27. He brought each of them TWO of everything
28. In the course of the first few hours he brought the man two beers, two cans of Coke with two bottles of what I assume were vodka, a red wine and a white wine
29. The woman's alcoholic windfall was very similar
30. And aside from the required distribution of meals, guess the sum total of what he brought me
31. Guess
32. GUESS
33. OK, I'll tell you:
34. ONE SMALL GLASS OF WATER
35. But there's more
36. Because OF COURSE THERE'S MORE
37. The captain and many signs CLEARLY stated that it was the law that we all wear masks the entire time we're on the plane
38. Guess who almost never wore masks
39. JUST GUESS
40. Right: the vulgar, messy entitled couple
41. And guess who never said anything to them about it
42. JUST GUESS
43. Right: Cabin Satan
43. Who was literally face-to-face with them as he sat in his jump seat
44. But there's more
45. Because OF COURSE THERE'S MORE
46. I couldn't figure out how to release the fold-out table from my armrest
47. (There was a well-hidden button, and it turned out that mine was stubbornly stuck)
48. I tried to flag down Cabin Satan for help
49. But he was too busy noticing lint on the ceiling
50. I tried to flag down two other cabin stewards for help
51. Again with that nasty ceiling lint
52. I'd hoped my seatmates with their successfully opened tray tables might notice my confusion and volunteer to help me
53. But at this point I was fully repulsed by them and had no interest in striking up any kind of conversation for any kind of reason
54. All this time, my prepackaged dinner WAS SITTING IN MY LAP
55. And when I finally got my tray table released from its armrest prison and opened it up
56. Guess what happened
57. (This is a hard one)
58. OK, I'll tell you:
59. It wouldn't lie flat
60. It actually tilted toward me
61. And the angle was so steep that my food kept sliding toward my lap and I had to hold it and my bottle of water (which came with the meal and wasn't a benevolent bonus from Cabin Satan) in place with one hand while I tried to eat with the other
62. (It's the same lap where my meal had been sitting while I struggled to open my tray table in the first place)
63. Remember that Carol Burnett airplane sketch where Tim Conway is in no-frills coach where he's hit over and over by small and large indignities while everyone in regular seats is having a great time and nobody notices his struggles or tries to help him and he eventually gets sucked out the window?
64. It was like that
65. But with British accents and vulgar people
66. Then the man took his shoes and socks off
67. Because OF COURSE he did
68. Let's not discuss his toes
69. You're welcome
70. Then a few hours later a different cabin steward came down the aisles
72. He was passing out what sounded like "dusty pretzels"
73. The vulgar, messy, entitled people asked for some and he gave two packages of dusty pretzels to each of them
74. I asked for some and OF COURSE HE GAVE ME JUST ONE
75. It was then that I noticed his barn door was open
76. Because when you're strapped in an airplane seat, your eyes are pretty much at barn-door level
77. So even if you don't want to look, there's no way any barn door--open or closed--will escape your attention
78. Sacred Bro Code requires one bro to notify another bro with the utmost discretion if his barn door is open
79. I always honor this bro code
80. With utmost discretion
81. But guess what I didn't do this time
82. Just guess
83. Right: I DIDN'T TELL HIM
84. TAKE THAT, DUSTY PRETZEL TWINK!
85. I hope you mortified yourself all the way from English soil to Colonial soil
86. I did get lots of reading done though
87. It's not like I had anyone to engage with
88. And I desperately wanted to avert my gaze from Cap'n Vulgartoes
89. Moving on ...
90. My first condo in Chicago was on Sheridan just north of Foster
91. Foster Avenue--I soon found out--was the ground path that incoming planes followed on their way to O'Hare
92. Since it was a lovely, sunny day yesterday and we approached O'Hare rather low, I could totally see my old condo out my window
93. Which gave me a strange thrill
94. Though--let us not forget--I had nobody anywhere near me I could tell
95. I'd left my phone on airplane mode the entire trip so I could purge tons of photos and apps without being tempted to spend 75 hours on TikTok
96. My phone was literally in my lap as we flew over my old condo
97. (The lap that had previously been a food vortex)
98. But I didn't think to take a photo
99. Which would have been kinda cool
100. Though--again, let us not forget--I'd have nobody on the plane to show it to
101. Then
102. THEN!
102. After we landed
103. And we were instructed UNAMBIGUOUSLY to stay in our seats until our section was called
104. The vulgar, messy, entitled couple stood right up and began fishing their things out of the overhead bins
105. Because OF COURSE they did
106. Cap'n Vulgartoes at least finally put his socks and shoes back on though
107. And guess who didn't stop them
108. JUST GUESS
109. Right: Cabin Satan
110. You're getting good at this
111. Apparently they had a fast connection to make
112. They'd never been to O'Hare--or even America--before
113. And even though Cabin Satan assured them they'd make their connection, I knew there was no way on earth they would
114. They had to go through customs
115. Then pick up their luggage
116. Then go through the second half of customs
117. Then find the secret hidden train and take it from international Terminal 5 to any of the domestic terminals
118. The ones that are poorly labeled and confusing to figure out even if you know where you're going
119. (See my 3/29 rant about the horribleness of O'Hare for more examples)
120. Then go through domestic security
121. Which is a bit pain-in-the-buttier than UK security
122. Then invariably walk 72 miles to their gate, which is invariably in Ohio
123. As I said: There was zero chance they'd make their connection
124. But did I at least prepare them for any of this?
125. Maybe offer some general description of the process just to give them a sense of what was ahead of them?
126. And show maturity and compassion since they were vulgar, messy and entitled so they know not what they do?
127 HELL.
128. NO.
130. Cabin Satan tried to say goodbye and thank you to me as I walked past him on my way out
131. But there was lint on the ceiling

Adventures in boarding our plane

1. It’s parked super-way-far-away on the tarmac so we all took alarmingly long bus rides to get to it
2. As my fellow bus passengers and I were waiting to climb the steps from the tarmac to the plane, three occupants of the plane were being all but DRAGGED down the stairs and off the plane amid much shouting and concern to the rest of us.
2. Even if the problem was a mere misunderstanding, it didn’t make for good optics.
3. Yikes.
4. I bought this jaunty tropical-toile bucket hat in Scotland, much to the consternation of my fashion-backward niece.
5. Kids these days.
6. They have no taste.
7. But
8. BUT!
9. The nice desk agent I was so polite to yesterday not only booked me in a posh hotel BUT ALSO PUT ME IN AN EXIT ROW.
10. Which may or may not be that big of a plus.
11. There’s no easy-access place to store my bag of books and goodies.
12. So the bag is stowed above my head and my books are in my lap.
13. And I’ll have a clear view of everyone going to the bathroom.
14. CLARIFICATION: I’ll have a clear view of everyone ENTERING the bathrooms.
15. Not actually USING them.
16. It seemed important to make sure you all understand that.
17. See the disembodied feet and ankles in that second picture?
18. They’re the cabin steward’s.
19. I’ve already managed to ask enough dumb questions that I guarantee he’ll avoid talking to me the rest of the flight.
20. Crazy Americans.
21. When we’re tired, we’re EXTRA befuddled, amirite?
22. That should be printed on our passports.
23. In case it isn’t obvious.
24. The captain just said we’re about to pull away.
25. But from what?
26. WE’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TARMAC.
27. And nothing’s been explained about the forcibly ejected passengers.
29. I’m sure there are HIPAA-ish (HIPPISH?) laws about not telling us information about other passengers.
30. But still: Bad optics = awkward discomfort
31. Anyway.
32. We’re about to pull away from our square of tarmac paint and hit the skies.
33. I HOPE.
34. Peace out.
35. Oh—I accidentally made two 2’s.
36. And I somehow skipped 28.
37. When we’re tired, we’re EXTRA befuddled, amirite?

Heathrow redux

1. Is it possible for a bed to be TOO comfortable?
2. Because I slept in the softness of a mother-kitty hug last night
3. But BLERG am I exhausted
4. It could’ve been the pillows though
5. They were so plump they practically had me sleeping vertically
6. The hotel breakfast was good
7. I gorged myself because I didn’t eat dinner
8. Local customs and regional cuisines may come and go, but watery hotel scrambled eggs transcend all boundaries
8. I also managed to spill a lake of honey on my leg
9. My jeans were already into questionable-cleanliness territory
10. Now there’s no question
11. But there’s totally a dark, sticky stain
12. Not even copious amounts of water can make it go away
13. I might have to launder them in a different country
14. I’m also down to my emergency mask stash
15. The ones that smell like the soap didn’t quite get to them in the wash
16. I have one last N95 mask though
17. But I’m saving it for the plane
18. Where paper masks are required
19. The airports here frustratingly refuse to tell you where your gate is until 60 minutes before boarding
20. And they conveniently leave you waiting in the middle of a giant duty-free mall
21. No Balenciaga earrings for me, thank you
22. I’m not falling for your underhanded retail tricks, Heathrow
23. Oh, look: Armani wingtips!
24. Only £700!
25. I’ll take some in every color, please
26. And I’ll need this £900 HUGO suitcase to carry them on the plane, please
27. I’m clearly too big for London
28. I violently banged my elbows on both sides of the shower this morning when I reached up to shampoo my hair
29. I had to awkwardly tuck my knees under my ample bosom to fit in the seat on the airport shuttle
30. But my shampoo-laundered socks and underwear were dry this morning
31. Dry enough
32. I may complain about chafing later
33. If I can stay awake
34. Because my bed was too comfortable
35. I was kidding about wearing Balenciaga
36. I’m a total Fendi girl
37. Maybe Burberry
38. But only on days where I know I won’t run into anyone important
39. Like the middle of the Heathrow duty-free holding cell
40. Did I mention I’m tired?
41. And that I feel less than fresh?
42. I miss my kitties.
43. Oh look!
44. Gate A10
45. FINALLY
46. I’ll head there just as soon as I buy this Ferragamo scarf
47. KIDDING!
48. I’m Fendi all the way, baby
49. I’m also on my way to Gate A10
50. Just as soon as I point out that I accidentally made two 8’s

The Day That Did Not Go As Planned: A Recap

1. I passed my covid test
2. I’ve had only one before this
3. At the very dawn of the pandemic
4. But look—I’m already off the today-recap track
5. The mandatory covid app wouldn’t upload my test results
6. Because why would it?
7. The electronic signs at Edinburgh Airport, in my experience, do everything in their power to be unhelpful to the point of making you miss your flights
8. I spent a lot of time there today
9. More time than my entire transatlantic flight was supposed to take
10. Yet I’m still on this side of the pond
11. As I previously alluded to
12. (You might not have even noticed I mentioned it)
13. I missed my connecting flight to Chicago
14. And then stood in line at Heathrow for literally two hours waiting to get rebooked
15. But I was clearly a breath of fresh air wafting above the cranky, demanding weeds
16. Because I told the woman at the counter that my schedule was extremely flexible and she could get me home in whatever way was easiest
17. (I’d already told my boss there’s no way I’d make it to work tomorrow anyway, so I was clear to take on whatever the fates dealt me)
18. Plus I promised the rebooking agent a tray of scotcharoos and then flashed a bit of man-boob
18. And not only did she book me to fly out tomorrow morning at a respectable, unrushed time …
19. But I got put up at a swanky, tastefully-foo-foo-gay hotel for the night
20. Seriously
21. It’s so nice I just can’t even
22. It’s the Radisson Blu Edwardian:

23. They’ve clearly invested in its handsomeness using the money they saved by spelling it Blu

24. And I’ve always been an Edwardian guy
25. The Victorians were far too vulgar for me
26. With the wanton hedonism of their hourglass silhouettes and saucy, immodest ankles
27. No, sir
28. Not in THIS household
29. I was raised better than that
30. We were far more chaste and tasteful with our pillowy S-curve bosoms, Evelyn Nesbit virtues, and Gilded Age hubris steaming straight toward the iceberg of obscene divisions of wealth and class and the callous insouciance that unceremoniously condemned the Titanic to a grave at the bottom of the North Atlantic
31. As I said: pure Edwardian class
32. (At least the Titanic got closer to North America than I did today)
33. (too soon?)
34. The lobby here looks like a gentlemen’s hunting lodge that has a fairy godmother
35. Burled walnut paneling
36. Handsome portraits of old-money scions
37. Russet-hued marble burnished to a crisp polish
38. And a massive chandelier of crystal beads that doubles as a drag queen’s tiara on weekends:

39. The lady who rebooked me also got the covid thing figured out and documented

40. She didn’t even look at my test results
41. She just trusted me to tell the truth
42. I’m glad she didn’t ask about my syphilis and consumption tests though
43. That would have gotten awkward
44. It still took me until 7:00 to get in my room
45. We’d landed at 3:30
46. Which adds up to 3 1/2 hours of standing at the rebooking counter and then standing waiting for a shuttle to the hotel and then standing in the hotel check-in line dedicated solely to serving the unwashed airline-delayed masses
47. But I’m HERE
48. There’s a lovely dining room in the lobby
49. It’s the kind that 100% has umlauts and cedillas on its menu
50. I have a dinner voucher
51. But I’m tired
52. And lazy
53. And dressed for the pajama-party comfort I was expecting on my Chicago flight
54. And typing stuff on Facebook feels like all I’m capable of doing at the moment
55. Plus the hotel is MASSIVE
56. It would take another three hours to find my way back to the lobby
57. Plus I’ve been eating like an appalling American all week
58. And I have a breakfast voucher for the morning
59. I mean bręakfäst
60. ’Cause it’s fancy
61. I’d timed my socks and underwear down to the day on this trip
62. Meaning I didn’t account for an additional overnight
63. So a shampoo-laundered pair of socks and a shampoo-laundered pair of underwear are (hopefully by morning) currently drying in the bathroom
64. Of my swanky Edwardian hotel
65. I had to give the help the night off to gather coal to heat their meager Edwardian hovels
66. So I faced the indignity of laundering my unmentionables myself
67. Thankfully nobody knows
68. Nobody
70. One other thing:
71. Our shuttle bus pulled up next to a car at a stoplight on the way to the hotel
72. (The swanky Edwardian hotel)
73. There was a kid in a car seat in the back of the car
74. He started waving to everyone on the bus
75. We all waved back
76. At every stoplight until we went our separate ways
77. It melted the cockles of my cold, black heart
78. Plus it was a welcome antidote to the screaming-banshee airport children I’d spent my day with
79. The little kid giggled
80. We all did too
81. It was nice
82. Last thing:
83. I accidentally made two 18’s on this list
84. And I don’t love you enough to go back and fix it
95. I’m also not going to fix the fact that I just jumped to 95
96. But it’s important that I end on 100
97. It makes me look organized
98. And prolific
99. So good night
100. That’s an even 100
101. Oops

Surviving the Bombing of Pan Am Flight 103

Twenty-three years ago—on the 10th anniversary of the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103—I was invited to write a personal remembrance of the event for the scholarly Journal of Personal & Interpersonal Loss through the psychology department at the University of Iowa. As I sifted through my research and artifacts and memories and emotions, I found I had a lot to say—and the essay ended up being over 2,000 words. I was just hitting my stride as a confident professional writer, and though my emotions and penchant to express myself in extremes have mellowed over the past two decades, I’m still quite proud of what I wrote and how I wrote it. If you care to read a sample, here’s the preamble:

On December 21, 1988, a terrorist bomb blew Pan Am Flight 103 out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland, 54 minutes after it took off from London's Heathrow Airport. The explosion sent 259 passengers and crew members tumbling 6 miles to their deaths, killed 11 people on the ground, and created waves of shock and grief that continue to reverberate across the globe. My friend Miriam Wolfe, one of 35 students returning from a semester in London under the auspices of Syracuse University, was on that flight. Her death was the final, jarring event in a traumatic year that had brought me the accidental deaths of four other friends in an Easter plane crash and the breast cancer that would force my mother to endure a mastectomy and painful years of chemotherapy and drug treatments. While it is tempting to canonize the victims of violent disaster, Miriam was different—and inarguably deserving of such hagiography. A tribute written for one of three memorial scholarships established in her honor calls her ‘a rare and gifted young woman who lived life to the fullest; actively worked to change the world for the better; and gave a great deal of love, joy and wisdom to all who knew her.’ Her death yanked me from the comfortable naiveté of my youth and forced me to confront the pain and confusion of the adult world. It destroyed my faith in the inherent good of mankind but showed me how disaster can bring out the best in people. It gave me a nihilistic view of life but forced me to make the most of every moment I have. It made me appreciate the people around me but gave me little tolerance for anyone who wastes my time. And it instilled in me a knee-jerk animus toward religion and nearly all things Middle Eastern. Ultimately, though, Miriam's life and death taught me how to live and love and survive in ways I never thought necessary—or possible.

Excerpted from "Surviving the Bombing of Pan Am Flight 103: The Loss of Innocence and a Dear Friend in an International Tragedy." Journal of Personal & Interpersonal Loss, Vol. 3, No. 1, January–March 1998. Pages 117–134. Publisher: Taylor & Francis.

Oh nose!

Bitch Kitty is sick! She left barf bombs all over the house last night and today she's sneezing all over things we're now reluctant to touch. But kitty sneezes are adorably cute, even if they're coming from a kitty who's hemorrhaging profusely out of every orifice and in the spastic throes of death. A whimsical little sneeze is like a final gift of adorableness to the people standing helplessly around her watching her die.

But back to Bitch Kitty. According to the accredited scholarly journal Everyone Has Syphilis, Bitch Kitty's barfing and adorable sneezing and open hostility toward adult gay men who have so much love to give but no one to give it to are classic symptoms of Profoundly Embarrassing Feline Syphilis That Brings Mortal Shame Upon The Entire Family.

But! There is a cure: Value Size Ultra Mega Hairball Formula Premium Formula Gel. I swear I'm not making that up. It comes in a toothpaste tube and you squirt it on your cat's paw and she fastidiously licks it off and through the wonders of magic and witchcraft—because all cats are witches who are openly hostile toward adult gay men who have so much love to give but no one to give it to—she stops leaving barf bombs all over the house. And it comes in malt flavor, because everyone knows cats prefer malts and drive-in movies over tuna and chicken.

As for the adorable sneezing, we read on the internet—and I swear I'm not making this up either—that you should fill an eye dropper with a gently warmed saline solution and squirt a few drops up the cat's nose while the cat sits calmly and cooperatively as she's basically being waterboarded. Take a moment to look at this picture:

It's a rare and extremely collectible photo of Bitch Kitty hissing and running away but still for one brief nanosecond keeping her hiss aimed in the general direction of my camera, which she does at bag-of-pudding speed (because she's too zaftig to move at lightning speed) every time I enter her field of vision. So guess who in my family would be a lacerated failure at squirting salty water anywhere in the vicinity of Bitch Kitty, much less up her adorably sneezy nose. Just guess. Bitch Kitty LOOOOOOVES my dad, but waterboarding is still waterboarding and my dad is 500 years old and starting to get feeble and Bitch Kitty would open every vein in his body if he tried to waterboard her—even coming from a place of love—and I bet he wouldn't even give us an adorable final sneeze as we stood around helplessly watching him die.

But! The guy at the pet store said there is an alternate solution: Buy a humidifier. Which we did. Let me type that again slowly to make sure you understand it: WE JUST BOUGHT A HUMIDIFIER TO GENTLY MOISTEN THE AIR IN OUR HOME FOR OUR SNEEZY BARFY BITCHY CAT.
In other news, we found proof at the pet store that our country is officially out of plausible, relevant product names. Because we found a product called Stop That!, which I assume is designed to stop kitties from doing whatever "that" is: collapsing the soufflé, ordering too many shoes online, staring at Melania's classy titty pictures ... who knows?

Then! (And I promise I'll end this endless post after this paragraph.) We found the BEST worst name for a product in the whole entire universe: ThunderShirt! Which could be used for superheroes or bodybuilder clothes or storm chasers. But no. It's just for cat anxiety. CAT ANXIETY. The ThunderShirt for Cat Anxiety. Say it 16 times and it's STILL the dumbest use of the coolest name ever to fix an imaginary first-world problem. Like bipolar disorder. Or plain Oreos. Or That.

Art: The Burghers of Calais

(Original French title: Les Bourgeois de Calais)
1889
Auguste Rodin
Impressionism (1872-1892)

The relatively short-lived period of Impressionism in art was as defined by what it wasn't—clear lines, plausible composition, realistic depictions of figures and the space they occupied—as by what it was: impressions of visual perception told through explorations of changing light and color and even through the rough-hewn textures created in paint using varying brush strokes. A radical departure from the longstanding—though always evolving—rigors of academic Realism, the fresh ideas of Impressionism on canvas quickly inspired similar reinterpretations of artistic norms in music, literature and sculpture.

Enter François-Auguste-René Rodin.

Classically trained and well-established in creating representational art, Rodin saw Impressionism's dreamy figure studies and craggy, dimensional textures as a vocabulary he could use to render bold ideas, subjective emotions, and plays of shape and light in sculpture. His raw, turbulent works brought new, profound depth to the revolutionary cacophonies that had so far been constricted to the flat canvases of Impressionistic paintings, and his most riveting use of this complex, muscular multi-dimensional language is in his mighty Burghers of Calais. The sculpture depicts six men walking to their martyrdom to liberate the French town of Calais during the Hundred Years' War. The men are overcome with terror and anguish and resignation and peace all at once, and Rodin sculpted the figures with such a masterful mix of Romantic realism and primitive rawness that you can see and understand their every emotion from your every angle. The piece is enormous in size and exaggerated in scale and arguably unfinished in its rendering, all of which invite you to approach it with your own perspectives, examine it with your own curiosities and appreciate it with your own conclusions.

French law decrees that no more than twelve original casts may be made of any work by Rodin, which means The Burghers of Calais tells its weighty story in museums and university campuses all over Europe and the United States, including a single figure from the piece who stands resolutely at the entrance to the University of Iowa's Boyd Law Building.

I make a point to see my reproduction of the work every summer on my annual pilgrimage to visit friends in Washington, D.C. It stands with other Rodin masterpieces in a relatively austere corner of the sunken sculpture garden behind the Smithsonian's relentlessly round Hirshhorn Museum. I usually stop there on my way to the airport at the end of each visit. I walk around the sculpture a few times to reacquaint myself with the specific details Rodin included—like articulated toes to help propel the walking figures through space—and the specific details he didn't include—like eyeballs to help the figures see where they're going. Then I sit in my same spot on a little concrete ledge to take in the piece in its weighty enormousness, to contemplate the explosive change Rodin and the Impressionists brought to the way we see and understand and interpret art, and to find comfort in the fact that my Burghers will most likely stand caught in their time and this place, waiting for me year after year every time I come to visit them for as long as I live.

Art: Paris Street; Rainy Day

(Original French title: Rue de Paris, temps de pluie)
1877
Gustave Caillebotte
Impressionism (1872-1892)
Art Institute of Chicago

While technically created in the heart of the Impressionist period—which indulged itself in explorations of light, color and brushstroke techniques at the expense of clear representation and plausible perspective—Paris Street; Rainy Day reigns in Impressionism's visual indulgences with cleaner lines, realistic human figures, and vanishing-point perspective that extends almost mathematically from the rectangular cobblestones in the foreground to the ambitiously double confluences of angles at the distant ends of the forked street. To enhance the effect, Gustave Caillebotte paints the figures in gradient levels of focus, creating a photorealistic contrast between the three figures enjoying relative visual clarity in the middle distance, the three (well, two and a half) figures who are too close to stay in complete focus at the front of the painting, and the increasingly-less-defined human shapes receding into the misty distance.

While providing a convenient context for allowing distant figures to fade to gray—along with filling the setting with shimmers of Impressionistic light and reflection—the misty weather in the painting also allows for the curvy shapes of umbrellas and hunched people to provide visual counterpoint to the geometries of the streets and buildings ... plus it gives the figures a range of purposeful movement, whether they're casually dodging raindrops or hurrying to get somewhere dry. The overall effect is a graceful collaboration of shape, energy, atmosphere, physical presence and measured social observation.

Paris Street; Rainy Day greets visitors to the Art Institute of Chicago at the top of the Grand Staircase as they enter the permanent-collection Impressionism galleries. Its rainy ambiance may seem dour, but the choreography of human figures and the multi-directional spatial composition are an apt invitation to explore the museum, intermingle with the other patrons and contemplate even the things that aren't immediately in focus.