The Goodbye Girl

[michael martin]

Hello everyone. My name is Michael Martin. A lot of you know me because I've been an improviser for nine years. Most of you don't because for the last three years I've been touring with Chicago City Limits, which took up my time and paid my rent. But hello all the same. It's nice to not-meet you guys.



The Goodbye Girl is a Neil Simon movie. I think it's a play too. I know it's a shitty musical that originally starred Bernadette Peters and Martin Short. There's actually an improvised song in it where they let Martin Short freeform - which basically means he does a French accent, Cary Grant accent, and then French-like accent. Don't ask.

:tsk:

You're wondering why in the world I would name my brilliant journal after a shitty musical. Well at any rate, you're probably wondering now because I just put the idea in your head. Or you're going to wonder later why you read these words that I strung together that don't make sense. What?

:loopy:

I've been saying goodbye to a lot of things in my life recently, and I thought that the best thing I could possibly do to help myself through it would be to share my misery and grief with a room full of strangers that don't have my best interests at heart. Make sense? No? Good. You've just met Michael Martin. It's nice to meet you guys.

:up:

Ok Michael, you're saying to yourself, I get the goodbye part - but I am still confused by the title. The Goodbye Girl???? You're wondering - is this a girl named Michael? I mean, that's happened before somewhere I'm sure. And isn't Michelle spelled with an extra e and the el before the e? You're right. So isn't this probably a boy writing this? Yes. So congrats! You just figured out I'm not a girl!

:tsk:

Ok where was I? (I just took half an hour to whip someone at Scrabble). Ah... yes. The Goodbye Girl. The Goodbye Girl is about a girl who quits theater and then comes back because she doesn't know any other way to make money. Plus when she comes back she's all old and stuff and has a kid and Martin Short is living with her due to wacky circumstances. And there's a sassy gospel singing maid that has no reason to be there and the kid is really adorable and can sing in that nasal, grating, adorable way that kids do. And the actor that plays the kid has a stage mom that is breaking her into a nice lifetime of misery and fucked-upped-ness. Anyway - the important part is this - the Goodbye Girl finds it very difficult to keep up with the younger actors when she takes a job in a Broadway chorus. She doesn't have their energy. There's a crappy song called "a beat be - hind" or something where you really get to hear in Bernadette Peter's voice her apathy toward the show. It's a bad show, people. Who thought Martin Short should do a musical that wasn't written for him? Bad idea. Bad Producer. Sit. Roll over. Good Producer.

op: I like popcorn.

I uh.... I'm sorry my producer crapped all over your theater rug. No... Don't bother. The stain won't come out until Legally Blonde the musical is produced. And really... even then a trace will linger. Bad Producer!

:tsk:

Okay. So. Why? Why girl? Why Goodbye Girl? You're saying to yourself, oh this guy identifies with women. You're wrong. Women mystify me. Now you're saying, ok he is straight after all. You're wrong. I live with my boyfriend. Now you're saying, okay that all makes sense now. You're right. Congrats! You've just met Michael Martin. It's nice to not meet you guys.

:up:

So why not The Goodbye Guy? It's alliterative. It's cute. The syllable scansion is friendly yet firm. It tastes like chicken. Why not? Why not the Goodbye Guy? Why? Because stop interrupting me and let me tell you okay? This is my journal, ass. Jesus!!

:flip:

I'm sorry. I'm back. My feelings were hurt, room full of strangers. But I'm back now. Okay. The truth is that I've always had a Goodbye Girl in my life. If you are a girl and a good friend of mine you're probably a Goodbye Girl. You probably left something and then came back. But don't ask me if you are or not. You're asking why again, aren't you? Yes you did. You just did. You implied it. You think I don't know you, room full of strangers? Stop it. You'll hurt my feelings.

:tsk:

Here's your next question. Is this going to be a journal about Goodbye Girls?
No, ass. It's just a title I made up off the top of my head. Why are you reading so much into this? Why have I had so much coffee? AHHHHHHHH!!!!

op: I like popcorn.

This is going to be a journal about saying goodbye to things. And coming back to them. Or sometimes not. It's gonna be a journal about a lot of things. About how rich and touching life can be if you let it. And about how you can sometimes fill up inside with so much joy that you almost think you're meeting god, whoever She is. I'm going to talk about living in a car in Tampa, and leaving that. I'm going to talk about leaving Chicago City Limits, and coming back to improv. I'm going to talk about leaving parrots behind when they die on you, and coming back to them in your dreams. And it's going to be fun, damnit!!! So stop asking questions and listen up.



Because... it really is nice to meet you guys.

p.s. I'll stop using emoticons. I really will. I just think it's hilarious to have so many options.

 

[michael martin]

Goodbye St. Louis

When I was a child I lived in the greater St. Louis area. Actually, it was a podunky town called O'fallon, about half an hour to fourty minutes from the greater St. Louis area, depending on traffic. I don't really know why I tell people that I was born in St. Louis, because I wasn't. I didn't grow up there, either. I grew up in O'fallon. I think it has to do with the harsh reality of moving to Inverness, Florida (an even more podunky town) when I was fourteen. We uprooted our family to be closer to my mom's parents, which is fine because as far as racists go, they're pretty nice. Besides. I was fourteen and starting high school. Nobody in Inverness knew me as "that kid with the perm in the back, cable knit sweater collection, and obsession with the Beatles." I was able to reinvent myself as "that interesting new waver city kid from (everyone gasp) St. Louis."

I strutted down the hallways of the small Florida high school knowing everyone was parting to gaze upon my magnificance. I was, after all, wearing Birkenstocks, cut-off jeans, a tweed jacket, rosary and fido dido teeshirt. My hair was spiked and sometimes grey from the old lady tinting wash I found on sale at Goodwill. So of course I screamed St Louis. I screamed cosmopolitan city with no industry but beer, a dilapidated arch that is frequently out of service, and the largest concentration of raquetball clubs in the country. And they WOULD part when I walked down those hallowed halls - not because they were late for class (which I found out later from the principal, was true), but because they were afraid I might know the St. Louis Cardinals. Don't look at me funny, redneck. I'll send Ozzie Smith over to your house to FUCK YOU UP!!!! If he can get time off from his steakhouse.

(everyone gasp)
That one was for nothing. I can't believe you gasped just because I told you to.
You're so impressionable, room full of strangers.

My family was in the process of scaling down our lives and buying laundromats. That's right, I said it. Laundromats. Don't get jealous. I wasn't born with a silver laundryspoon in my mouth, but yeah - at around age fourteen I found myself not only at a new school, but burdened with the prestige of being an heir to a vast laundry and drycleaning fortune that spread all the way from Inverness, Fl to Leesburg, Fl - about half an hour to fourty minutes away, depending on traffic. So like I said, we were building an evil empire with the help of the Speed Queen company, but we were also scaling our lives down. My mother fell in love with a small three bedroom ranch house on the golf course. I can see why she fell in love with it too. It was, after all, made of cinderblock and constantly smelled like a mildewed locker room. We promptly moved right on in and spent a year trying to get the smell out of that house.

Oh the fun we had cleaning as a family. My brothers and I would turn it into a fun series of games we played while cleaning. There was Climb a Tree and Hide, Pretend Cleaning is Over and Read Comics, and (my favorite) Look at Mom Quizically While She Screams. There were aruments about Cleaning Theory. Apparently there's a difference between "sweeping" and "pushing a broom around for an hour." But I don't care what the Theorists say - my older brother is so good at pushing a broom around he can do it for generations.

Take that, Fidel Castro.

Anywhore...

In the end. We all watched my mom clean the house and laughed about it while we watched her make dinner. Then we laughed some more at Cheers reruns while she did the dishes. The smell never came out of that house, though, which is funny. It's the only time I am aware of that my mom suffered a defeat in a cleaning battle. I like to imagine that the house was a bathhouse in the seventies, but I don't think the property was ever zoned for a business. So it must have been very hush-hush. But yeah. Whenever I'm home and I drive by that house on the way to my moms much nicer and cleaner house, I get a clear picture of a young Bette Midler belting through the steam to a crowd of gay men in towels.

Take that, smelly house!!

Anywhore...

I'm going back to St. Louis over labor day weekend for a family reunion. I haven't seen my relatives (dad's side) there in over 8 years. Except that my aunt Brenda took my Icelandic grandma to see me in a CCL show in Illinois. That didn't really count, though, because I had been performing my B show not my A show and I was obsessed with the notion that they thought I was a hack.

(everyone gasp) It's fun to gasp isn't it?

My dad's people are fundamentalist Christians. The kind that frighten me because they are so intelligent. They can rationalize anything, those smart people.
I remember my Lutheran confirmation just before we moved to Florida. My Icelandic grannie drove me home afterward for my confirmation party. We arrived at my mom's clean, odor free house five minutes before everyone else did. Grannie told me about her confirmation - about how she reaffirmed her commitment to God afterward in front of her grannie. Then, there was this awkward silence where I could tell she was waiting for me to get on my knees and pray in front of her. I diffused the situation by offering her a gingersnap.

Take that, Iceland.

Anywhore...

I hope it's a fun one, this reunion. But I am preparing for the worst. I just bet they're going to quote Leviticus to me. That old testament song and dance about how a man who lies with another man the way he would with a woman is an abomination. My main argument is that I wouldn't lie with a woman like that, so Old Testy God must hate bisexuality.

Make up your mind Andy Dick. You're pissing off Old Testy.

There's other stuff in Leviticus I can chuck back at them. Rules for marking your slaves... Monetary conversion charts for when your daughter gets devalued because someone raped her... A nice rant about how evil it is to eat all-you-can-eat king crab legs when you visit a casino...
But even so. I'm looking at this as a working vacation. Maybe they will prove me wrong. That would be exquisite.

Exquisite. Think about the points you would get if you played that in Scrabble. 57. Without hitting a double word score.

That's exquisite!

I guess the moral of the story is this:
I'm glad I grew up openly gay in a redneck podunk town.
At least they were civil enough to judge me behind my back and not to my face.
But I'm also glad that I'm going back to St. Louis.
I get to see what 8 more years of a religion that excludes me does to a family.

And maybe... Just maybe...

They've learned to judge me behind my back like Southerners.

 

[michael martin]

Goodbye Virgie.

I spent the first half of last week in a nursing home in Inverness Florida. A lady I know was dying. She had Alzheimers. She forgot how to swallow, and her living will said no intervienous feeding. She was starving and dehydrating.
I tried to cheer her up by reading her an Irish romance novel. It was fun seeing her smile. She said my first name. She also said, good chapter. Virgie was my grandma's (mom's side) best friend for my entire life. In fact, I consider her family. She was always around for Thanksgivings and Christmasses. My mom asked me to write a eulogy. So I did.

Here it is:

They say before you die that your life flashes before your eyes. I don't know if that's true or not. I never died. It seems like you would need a Ouija board to find out that information. And even if your Ouija board got ahold of a talkative spirit, would you waste your time asking questions like that? I wouldn't. I would want to know what ancient Sumeria was like. Or the Renaissance.

But Virgie was a talkative spirit. I'll say that much. She used to sit out on the dock we shared at the Ozarks and chirp like a newborn bird. The thing that strikes me as phenomenal about Virgie is how she was always social and yet always positive. If you brought up something negative with Virgie the most you would get out of her was something non-commital like "I guess so." Then she would make you a drink and change the subject.

Virgie was so much fun to harrass on holidays, because you could never get under her skin. One thing Scott and I loved to do was to tease her while making her a margarita. You would say something like, "Don't have one, Virge. You're going to get beligerant." And she would say something like,"Oh, will you just get out of town?"

And then she would tell you that she's been drinking margaritas since you were born, thank you very much.

And then you would say, yeah, Virge that's a hellava long bender.

And then she would threaten to punch you in the nose.

You can't argue with that logic.

Eventually I did get out of town. Don't worry. It wasn't because Virgie was finally fed up with me. The nice thing is that wherever I go in life, Virgie will be in my memory. All I have to do is to close my eyes and remember the time at the Ozarks when a 4 year old me was following Virgie up the dock. For the sake of good storytelling, let's say she was going back to the house to fix a pitcher of pina colodas. At any rate. I fell off the dock. And it was dark. I remember sinking down, but I don't remember being panicked. I certainly don't remember my life flashing before my eyes. But I do remember a hand grabbing me by the collar. Grandpa. Grandpa had jumped into the lake with his boots on to save my life. I remember, too, that he still had his cigarette in his mouth.

Usually when I tell that story the cigarette is still lit. But in honor of Virgie's passing I'll tell the truth. It was out. No miracle of physics happened that day. The miracle that happened that day was that 10 minutes later everyone was laughing and joking and drinking pina colodas.

Virgie loved to entertain.

They say that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. I don't know if that's true or not. But I know Virgie's life flashed before her eyes. Almost everyone alive who cared deeply about her went to see her last week. Doesn't that sound nice? A week of people who love you flashing before your eyes?

I'm not sure if every person gets to have that. But if anyone deserves it, Virgie does. As far as I know she never hurt a fly.

I'm glad that my family adopted Virgie. I'm glad I knew her my entire life. I'm proud to call her family, because she's such a good person.

And just think - now she's on the other side.

She finally got to a place where we can remember each other.

That was the eulogy. She deserved it. We always made fun of each other in life... Why should anything be different over something as trivial as death?

 

[michael martin]

Pastor's daughters are hotter.

Hey, room full of strangers! Did you miss me?

Oh...

Well I didn't miss you either. I was just making small talk.

Where was I? Ah. Florida...

There should be a song about a pastor's daughter. Unless there is one already. Daughter rhymes with potter and water, so I'm sure there's a garden metaphor there somewhere. I should look into that. I should warn you that this post contains sexy stuff. So read on.

It stands to reason that when I moved to the Sunshine State I had no friends. I'm not sure why. School had started. I had joined such prestigous organizations as Swim Team and Marching Band. A trombonist in terms of Band is called a 'boner.' But no matter - I could take Z. Cavariccis from Merry Go Round and make them look like Robert Smith himself picked them out. Still - no good friends, really.

Except for one, I suppose. A trumpet player by the name of Eric Blair. You're thinking to yourself, Eric Blair? He sounds misunderstood and hot.

You're right.

And for some reason this hot guy just decided he was going to be my best friend. Later I discovered that he had the alterior motive of wanting me to be frontman for his Aerosmith coverband. I kind of won out in the exchange, because I got a best friend to moon over and watch sleeping, and all he got was a frontman belting out "Love in an Elevator" Bette Midler style. By the time he started hiding the equipment when I came over it was too late. He already liked me!!! And I would just wait for him to fall asleep, so I could stare at him like I wanted to when he was awake. He looked so peaceful.

Here's a tip fellas. If you are friends with a fourteen year old boy who's in love with you, don't have sleepovers in your underwear. And if you do, don't kick the sheets off in the middle of the night. Your friend won't get any sleep.

Did you know trombonists do it in eight positions?

When we moved to Inverness my family was pretty big on God. Jesus and Old Testy were constantly invoked over the dinnertable at my house. "Please touch this meal the way you constantly touch our lives," was a favorite of my Dad's. We were never too keen on the holy spirit, though. I don't think anyone is though. I certainly have never used "HOLY SPIRIT!" as an effective interjection in an argument. So yeah, the Holy Spirt would just hover around like some forgotten middle child while we asked Jesus and his Dad to touch our food. Yuck. I would frequently cross my fingers while praying. I don't need Jesus sticking his fingers in my tuna casserole. That guy touches lepers!

So it stands to reason that my Mom and Dad jumped headfirst into the Lutheran church scene of Inverness. They had no friends either!!! Which was fine with me, because my brothers and I found church hilarious. I mean, there was soooo much to laugh at. The choir that looked like it was borrowed from a traveling carnival. The parkinson's addled organist who complained about her hemeroids. The decrepid old man who constantly stared back at us as if daring us to keep laughing.

Don't worry, old man!!! I'll keep laughing as long as you keep looking!!!

Once, my Mom gave him the finger. She's fun that way.

Did you know percussionists bang it out all day long?

I met Amy Fischer at a church reception one fine afternoon. She commented that she enjoyed my Doc Martin dress shoes, and I commented that I enjoyed her black evening dress. Both of us in our sunday best, we chatted about things like The Smiths, The Sugarcubes, and how cool it is to be dead.

My mom took to hating her immediately. She's not fun that way.

A romance was starting! How jealous would that make Eric!? And how could I resist Amy Fischer? She literally kicked me in the nuts the second time I met her (at school) when I blurted out something she considered private. You gotta love that! And I did.

Here's a tip fellas. Say a girl is speaking with you alone about her period, and she refers to it as 'the parade of steakbits.' As a guy, you would think it funny to bring up that reference later in a larger crowd. And you would be right. That is funny. But not as funny as a kick in the nuts. Trust me.

So I fell in love with Amy Fischer. And we had a blast once my genitals healed. She was a senior and I was a freshman, so our love only lasted a year. But what a year! Sex of every flavor shape and size! Beejays in the church library while church was in session! Sex on a trampoline! Sex in a deserted cul de sac!

Amy was smart enough to tear me away from my best friend Eric Blair. (I still cant get over his name.) I think she had a sense that I was also in love with Eric and knew she had to sabotage it. It wasn't difficult either. Eric was a freshman too. She just made him feel itty bitty when she could, which was usually. Plus she had a car, so she pulled rank that way. Point is, Eric and I drifted apart. Mostly because of Amy. By the time Sophomore year rolled around I had discovered Drama and I dropped Marching Band. Eric didn't try to stop me.

My relationship with Amy flowered and blossomed. Once, while closing the laundromat, Amy spotted a girl she hated in the McDonald's parking lot next door.

"Do you have to pee?" she said.

"Kind of, now that you mention," I said.

"Do me a favor and pee in this cup."

"Are we going to drive by and throw urine on her?"

"What do you think?"

"I think I love you. Give me that cup."

"Thanks. She called me a slut in front of the whole art class because I chose a tampon to draw for my still life."

"Then we better hurry while this is still warm."

That was the nature of our relationship. We loved each other - we dumped piss on people. Plus I got to find out how creepy it is when someone watches you sleep. There's a crayon drawing of me asleep on her couch that is amazingly accurate. She titled it "Sleeping Angel." I think I'm drooling just a little in it.

Did you know that flute players are fridgid bitches?

Here's a tip fellas. Don't refer to women as fridgid bitches when there are women around. Unless you're gay and can get away with it.

Ahhhh. Membership does have it's privileges.

Eventually my mom found out about all the sex. Mom and Dad were out of town and my Grandma came over to 'make sure the house was clean.' She found a used condom in the toilet. It was mine. I should have lied but I didn't. I've never been a good liar. So now, my mom upped the campaign against Amy. Amy had given me her diary to read and my mom 'found it while cleaning.' I guess it just jumped off the top shelf of the closet where it was well hidden. The funny thing is, when the diary jumped, it landed on the raciest page! The diary must have hated Amy too!!!!

I was grounded for a while. Was made to play the cleaning game. Was cloisetered with my comics. Masturbated and fantasized about Eric Blair.

Kept reminding myself to switch from Eric to Amy when I fantasized. Set a deadline for myself. No more sex fantasys about boys after the age of 16.
Period.

I should mention - Amy Fischer bears no relation to the Long Island Lolita of the same name. She did, however, bear relation to the Pastor of the First Lutheran Church of Inverness, Florida. So between our two sets of parents, who were arguing about the ethics of forcing us to break up, our sex-having became public scandal.

Ain't I a stinker?

In the end, they decided they couldn't stop us from having sex, and I'm sure the staff at Taco Bell would have agreed with them if they were present. But alas, they weren't...

Here's a tip fellas. The staff at Taco Bell doesn't get paid enough to care whether you screw in the restroom.

So they pretty much left us alone. But we pretty much stopped going to church. My parents and her parents couldn't really hang like they used to after all that blaming each other. And Amy and I kept boinking until she went to college. I loved her so much. I really did. I would have married her. It's a shame she had a vagina.

But let's look on the bright side.

I got my family to stop going to church!!!

All because I'm the middle child.
I empathize with the holy spirit.

Now.

In the name of the Father, Son (and holy spirit).

Let's eat.

 

[michael martin]

A picture of me and Amy. We took this on a family vacation in Daytona.

 

[michael martin]

The doldrums

Hey. It's you! Room full of strangers! It's been so long!

Silence eh? I didn't know you were waiting for more juicy gossip. Give me a break! I was shooting a TV show this week. JESUS!!!!

Ok great. Now you're agitated. Jesus.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Doldrum is not a word. It only exists in the plural. One can not be in a doldrum. You have to go through the doldrums.

Like Ides. There is no Ide of March. Only the Ides of March. I was born on March 15, so I know. I am destined to kill a tyrant, or suffer a martyrdom - depending on how you view things. For my money, I'd rather kill a tyrant.

Take that, Eva Peron!!!!

But we're talking about the Doldrums. The Offical Scrabble Player's Dictionary (OSPD) has very little to say about the Doldrums.

"(n/pl) - a slump or slack period"

You can always capitalize the Doldrums, because it's also a place. In olden days of piracy, exploration, and slavery sailors named a certain strech of the ocean the Doldrums. It's near the equator, where hemispheres collide. There's not much wind there, though, and thank god for that. Can you imagine how many hurricanes would hit Inverness, Fl if there was wind in the doldrums? A lot more than the one that just did!

I am assuming you took meterorology as a college elective. I did.

My family is fine, thanks for asking.

god is a word that you never HAVE to capitalize, because it's also a verb - to treat as a god. Godded. Godding. Jesus!!!

Thanks OSPD!

My sophomore year of high school was a lot like the doldrums. Not much wind, but boy, were hemispheres colliding! My gay side was taking over and how! Amy Fischer had gone off to New College without me. She did me the favor of calling me the first week and telling me that she was doing it with an older guy - a senior named Ben. She did me the favor of breaking my heart quickly and cleanly. It was over. I was broken.

And the gay side of the force was taking over.

Here's a tip fellahs. Don't worry if I'm trying to talk you into being gay. While homosexuality is something you chose to do (verb) it is not something you choose to be (noun). We are talking about Inverness Fl. No fifteen year old in his right mind would ever choose to fantacize about his best friend dressed as Steven Tyler. Not in Inverness!!! Not in 1990!!!! Not in 2004!!!

Please vote democrat. You get at least 63 points if you play democrat in scrabble. Unless you are building off of demo.

So the gay side of the force was taking over. Without Amy around to complain that I didn't pay much attention to her breasts, I was forced to rely on my first love. Eric Blair. Ahhh. Unrequited love. That shit will burn you.

Problem is - I think he loved me too. Don't get excited - he didn't love me the way I loved him. He just loved having me around. But I had spent so much time with Amy that he was angry with me. We had stopped being friends. I didn't deserve him any more. Plus I think he was going through a Pearl Jam phase, so I think he was blaming himself a lot.

Blame is a worthless emotion. Fear combined with anger.

So I was cast out by Amy, someone I had godded, to wander, friendless, like the Jews. But, unlike the Jews I didn't wander for long. I found my promised land pretty quickly. I found open arms. I found steel and ink and paper.

The printing press!!!!

The Citrus High School Newspaper!!!!

The Whirlwind!!!! GO CHS CANES!!!!

More importantly. I found another Goodbye Girl. Georgianna Waldo.
That was really her name. Georgianna Waldo. I wonder where Waldo is now?

She taught journalism from the ground up. We started by creating journals. The journals were a private discourse between the students and Georgianna.
By the way. You were allowed to call her Georgianna, but most people preferred Ms. Waldo. I'm not most people. Give me an inch, I'll take a mile of journal entries.

It was a class of misunderstood honor students. A gifted, agile gaggle of gals. And me. Lazy old moony old misunderstood me. Boo Hoo. I had ZERO interest in the semantics of journalism. I was more interested in my journal entries to Georgianna. I would write her letters, supposing things about her life which in all probability were not true. Georgianna on safari. Georgianna volenteering for Cancer research. Georgianna going to a satanic orgy.

She was a liberal people!!!!!

I wrote the sex stuff whenever I decided it was time for her to write back. It got her attention!!!!

And she got mine. She threatened to fail me. Aparently you can't write journal entries for 8 weeks and then get an A grade in journalism.

Who knew?

The gifted gaggle had been producing newspapers. What did I care for newspapers? I was busy being brilliant and writing love letters to my teacher!
I was busy scouring thrift stores for cumberbunds that would look good with the embarrasing ZCavaricci's I had so cherished the year before! I was busy abusing my penis every night - thinking about girls and then eventually switching to guys. I was depressed! I was morose!

And the gay side of the force was taking over.

Here's a tip fellas. If you've never got off thinking about a guy you will almost definitely never be gay as a verb.

THATS WHEN IT HAPPENED!!!!

Furious with Georgianna Waldo and furious with the fear of losing my Florida Academic Scholarship I did the one thing I had vowed not to do. I picked up a newspaper.

Salvation!

Salivation!

No, sorry, salvation.

The editorial column! Of course! Why not exploit my laziness as a journalist? II would force Georgianna to give me an A. I would write an editorial.

 

[michael martin]

 

[michael martin]

Wallowing in the Doldrums

Perhaps you cant read it?

Walking from class to class the other day, I noticed a tee-shirt stressing the widespread opinion that Christianity is more valid than any other religion. The logo on the shirt asked the question "What's wrong with this picture?"
and showed Buddha on the cross. I had to look a second time to make sure I wasn't dreaming. It was obscene.

After seeing this, my eyes were open to all of the religious propaganda floating around school. Much of this--especially tee-shirts--doesn't portray what I would consider to be a Christian attitude.

We live in a country where all men are created equal.

Consequently, aren't all men's of women's beliefs of equal importance? The fact that Christianity is the principal religion in the United States doesn't give Christians the right to diminish other forms of worship.

These shirts, in general, are an offensive, disgusting fashion statement. Even though I may agree with the idea behind a few of these statements,

(I just started lying to the publilc at large, like george bush does. I didn't want my mom to know I was feeling agnostic. I agreed with none of the statements)

they are tacky and commercialized. I feel embarassed when I see so-called Christians making a mockery of Christianity. My beliefs are my own
and I don't enjoy seeing "Christian" slogans splashed over the chests of people who don't act as if they have any sort of religious background at all

(Took a lot of heat for that sentence.)

I wonder if everyone will be so hip on dragging my religion through the fashion scene when this church trend is over. Doesn't it say in the Bible that the hypocrites are the ones who worship in the streets, telling their beliefs to the world so that their neighbors will know what great Christians they are?

(run-on sentence)

The next time you wear my (another lie - "my") religion on your shirt, stop to think about what type of message your shirt and your behavior are sending the rest of us.

(pretty weak ending. doesn't deserve an A)



It worked. I got an A. I think Georgianna felt exploited, though. That broke my heart, for many reasons. I just wanted to write love letters to her.

I hear that her husband was a real ass, but that's hearsay. She divorced him that year.

GOODBYE GIRL!!!!!

Here's a tip fellahs. You CAN be nice to people. You should. But you don't get rewarded for it, except that you get to live with yourself. You get to own your own skin.

There was other stuff going on in doldrum town. It was my sop homo more year of high school. I was sophomoric!

I was in honors english, for instance. We did nine weeks of poetry. NINE WEEKS. My teacher said that my poetry reminded her of Rod McCuean's. How dare that bitch call me derivitive! She gave me a book of his poems. I skimmed some stuff. Found one I really liked. Decided that Rod McCuean was a fucking hack. Stopped writing poetry. Bitch.

Don't call women bitches. Call dogs bitches.

Don't argue. I will haul out my OSPD.

Like I said, other stuff going on. One person in my English class was named Maureen Manning. That's her real name. She certainly wasn't a Goodbye Girl.
She was a worker bee. She really loved formatting the newspaper, God bless her. Good Catholic girl. She didn't like it when I took to wearing a rosary. She harrassed me about it endlessly. And when my article came out she was angry.

Good. So was I. I was so angry about religion that one fine day in English class I snapped.

It was right before the bell rang. Maureen was pointing out that by wearing a rosary i was disrespecting her religion. I was getting angrier and angrier. Until finally... snap. I ripped the rosary off my neck. I did not take it off. I ripped the rosary off my neck and threw it in the trash.

Cheaply made coture, rosarys. Alluminum and plastic - from the wealthiest church in the world. Hmmm. Money. Power.

My english teacher, the one who pigeonholed me, told me to go to the assistant principal's office. I went, fuming. Why shouldn't I have been angry? I lost my self control and broke a very nice accessory. White rosary, black clothing. You gotta love it.

Maureen Manning is now someone's wife. I think she's got some boring job too. I have no idea because I wasn't paying attention at my reunion. Suffice it to say - she's Manning her station in life.

And I was manning mine. I marched into the assistant prinicpal's office with a broken rosary that Maureen Manning fetched for me out of the garbage. Thowing it away was sacreligious too.

Who knew?

The assistant principal was a lesbian named Miss "O." That's hearsay. But she was a dyke, people. Softball coach!!! Come on!!! Anyway, everyone knew she was doing Miss Thompson (a non-honors english teacher). Hearsay again, your honor.

Here's what the conversation resembled:

"Hello, Michael, why are you here?"

"Because I threw a rosary away."

"Why."

"Maureen Manning."

"Why."

"She was harassing me about wearing it. It's sacreligious!!"

"Did you know it was sacreligious?"

"Not explicitly."

"Did you think it might be."

"Absolutely."

"I read your article."

"Did you like it?"

"It was well written. You do know that if you poke at a fire, you will get burned."

(at this point I show her that my hands are fine)

"Michael. Don't get yourself hurt, please."

"I think I'll take my chances, thanks."

"What are you reading? Tropic of Capricorn? Oh Jesus. Just read a chapter here in my office and then go back to class. I'm leaving. I have real problems."

"Have a nice day."

"Yeah."

Membership has its priviledges!!!

It was hard not to root through her things while I read.

I didn't.

Here's a tip, fellas. Integrity is its own reward.

Root is both a noun and a verb. Jew is a noun. jew is a verb. You can use it in Scrabble, if you are using the NSA Official Word list. It doesn't appear in the OSPD. I'm not sure I have ever used jew in Scrabble, but I would if I could score lots of points.

Local rumor has it that Miss "O." (O stands for Oberman, I swear to fucking god) broke up with Miss Thompson that year. I always thought it would be hard to live with Miss "O." Maybe it is. Whether Assisant Principaling or Softball Coaching, her job is to tell people what to do.

The truth of the matter is that I will never know if Miss O is hard to live with.
That's something you'll have to ask Georgianna Waldo, my journalism teacher.

She lives with her now.

Nice Haircut Georgianna!!!!

You finally switched from noun to verb!!!

Maybe.

Here's a tip, fellahs. Read Tropic of Capricorn, by Henry Miller.
It's a lot less sophomoric than Tropic of Cancer.

Later, bitches.

 

[michael martin]

http://img.villagephotos.com/p/2004-9/830232/File0007.jpg

One of my highschool teachers encouraged us to rip off The Spoonriver Anthology. What a hack!!!

 

[michael martin]

But What About Drama!!!!?

HEY!

ROOM FULL OF STRANGERS! WAKE UP!!!! IT'S ME!!!

Ok, just keep sleeping.

It occured to me that doing acting is just like posting on the IRC. Communicating ideas and emotions to a dark room full of strangers?

No? Ok, just keep sleeping.

SEX.

Oh, you're awake. Let me tell you about Drama!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I attended Citrus High School in Inverness Florida, Cheryl Israel was the only drama teacher. Slightly overweight, slightly overbearing, slightly homophobic. What a gal! She really redefined the arts scene in Inverness Florida (she would tell you that to your face) by putting on productions like Wizard of Oz, Grease, and Oklahoma!.

I remember she spoke in such a wonderfull, syrupy drawl. Every time she opened her mouth it was like she was painting the walls with ambrosia...
It was like fried green tomatoes every day. She taught much like one would run a church cake walk. No that's not it.

What's the metaphor I'm looking for?

Oh! A backed up southern sewer that spews feces all over a white picket fence? Maybe... That's closer for sure!!!!

Yeah.

I remember - she used to reminice about her glory days at Louisianna State University. ("No I've never seen a broadway show, but I did go to LSU")
About how much she respected her directors. Even when he decided not to cast her as Laura in the Glass Menagerie. She had her heart set on it!!!

Can you believe she had to play the mother!!!??? The domineering, manipulative, deluded mother!!??? Amazing!

One of my favorite things she used to do - this is hilarious, it really is - she would say, get this, she would say that the only thing wrong with the theater department at LSU was (wags pinkie) those people.

She glanced at me every time she would say it. Yeah. She knew what she was doing!

I used to practice serial killer looks in the mirror, just so I could stare her down. It was fun!

"Michael, do you have something you want to say to the class?"

"No... I was... just... thinking."

"About what?"

"Barbed wire..."

She was funny!!! Once I remember we were about to perform a one act and Kissy Simmons (who's on Broadway right now - http://disney.go.com/disneytheatrical/thelionking/bios_cast.html#KISSY-SIMMONS) suggested that we all have a group prayer. What a wonderful idea to spring upon a cast of people who are 2 minutes from opening a show.

This is really hilarious - I said no, get this, I said no and Ms. Israel guilted me into it!!!! Oh that was really cool! She had class - she really did.

I requested that we keep the prayer nonspecific.

Guess what? "In Jesus' name we pray."

Cheryl used to make us run laps around the school track. One lap for every minute we were late to rehearsal! She had a phrase: "Early is Ontime. Ontime is late. Late is dead." Hilarious!

Here's a tip, fellahs! Say someone has the authority over you to make you run laps. Now say you're getting repremanded for being late. DONT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES look her up and down and suggest that it looks like she could stand to be late once in a while.

Those were hard miles, let me tell you.

Plus she was supportive!!!! I remember one specific car ride to District Thespian Competition. So supportive was she!!!

Her:

"Kissy, you have no reason to be nervous. I guarentee you that you have the best voice in this car. You have the best voice I've ever come across. Dreamgirls is a great show. "I am Changing" is a perfect song for you."

Me:

"You just have to emotionally connect with the song."

"Michael's right."

"She's a whore, but she want to be good, like you. She's changing over to God."

"Michael's right."

"She's tired of getting back alley abortions. Tired of stealing antibiotics from the doctor's office so the pus goes away. Tired of her teeth rotting from the lack of health insurance. Tired of the clap. She needs the lord!"

"That's enough, Michael. April - We chose Mack and Mable for you because you're so cute and the song "Look What Happened to Mable" is cute just like you. Not gonna lie - your voice is not as strong or as good as Kissy's. But you're cute. Sell that."

"Yeah, just emotionally connect and sell it."

"Michael's right."

"Yeah, she's a waitress in Flatbush that during the song turns into a movie star. Just think of the irony! She goes from being poor to being a spoiled brat in the flash of an eye! Now, I know you have never been poor, but think about it in terms of the horse you own - or your sportscar - or the diamond tennis bracelet your father gave you..."

"I think that's enough, Michael. She gets it. The point is - Kissy, your voice will take you all the way, it's your strongest asset - sell it. April, you are so alive, so vivacious onstage, and no one can deny that - sell it."

(long pause)

"Miss Israel?"

"What, Michael?"

"What do you think my asset is in theater?"

(long pause. please say i'm funny please say i'm funny please say i'm funny)

"You're very... intelligent."

Heartbreaking. There was a long silence and then I farted. Everyone laughed.

 

[michael martin]

Fart Jokes?!!

I know what you're thinking. I'm thinking the same thing. Fart jokes? Is that a real 'out' to your journal entry? "I farted, everyone laughed?" Isn't that somewhat cheap?

Yes. Yes.

And Yes.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

But the drama continues into the doldrums!

It was still my Sophomore year of high school! I was still terribly misunderstood! I eked out editorial crap every nine weeks to save my journalism grade! I was gradually learning French from a Goodbye Girl named Anne Stone.

(more on Anne Stone later!!!!)

Let's talk about Drama!!!

I got cast in the spring musical. That year it was Oklahoma!. I played a tourtured, misunderstood rebel homosexual - closeted, yet trying to tame the Wild West. My one line was "I got his gun, Curly." But I delivered that line so eloquently, so laced with inuendo. Gun and Curly in the same sentence?
Oklahoma, You're Okay!

Let's face it. I was a chorus boy. Which was fine. I did the normal chorus boy routine: make friends with a few girls... make fun of the rest of the cast with those two girls... make out with one of the girls and ruin the friendship.

Actually. It didn't ruin the friendship. I still see her once in a while. It's infrequent, though. Her name is Veronica Renault. She's a model, and very sucessful, too! Check her out!!!

http://www.celebguru.com/image-VeronicaRenault-1-veronica3.jpg.htm

We just made out for fun. The both of us agreed that be had bigger crushes on the guy playing Jud Fry. Now, usually, Jud Fry is played by someone ugly. Someone intimidating. Someone slightly horrific. But in this case, he was played by a hottie tennis player named Trenton Ware (that's his real name, people!!).

http://djevolve.com/main.html

Apparently he goes by the name DJ Evolve now! I love you, Google.

Veronica and I were smart enough not to argue over who had exclusive rights to Trenton Ware. We didn't jeopardize our friendship by being petty over him. We didn't backstab each other. We just worshiped him from afar.

Then, Veronica made out with him. Still I didn't blame her. I would have if I could have. He was much hotter back then. And he certainly didn't mind making out with a soon-to-be sucessful model. Most guys don't, I guess!

One thing that struck me as odd. On opening night all the boys were in our dressing room putting our makeup and costumes on. Here's a snippet of convo:

Me: Hey. We all look so pretty with lipstick on.

Trenton: (indicating his crotch) I've had lipstick on before.

Stupid Jocks: (Laughter, etc.)

Trenton: Hey Michael. Why do you think we have to wear this makeup shit anyway?

Me: Because Miss Israel is single, and bitter about being single, and she wants to emasculate us?

Stupid Jocks: (Confusion, etc. Maybe - 'what's immaculate?' Depending on time and blocking)

Trenton: Aw, c'mon. Miss Iz ain't so bad...

Me: If you like Amos and Andy...

Stupid Jocks: (Very confused, angry.)

Me: Hey have you guys noticed how the ladies get excited seeing us in makup? I think it really revs their engines.

Stupid Jocks: (Very confused, aroused.)

Me: Yeah. I guess it's like how chicks throw their underwear at Kiss, or David Bowie, or other guys in makeup.

Stupid Jocks: (Less confused, more aroused)

Trenton: (suspiciously eyeing me) Maybe we should all drop our pants and do a buttfucking train in front of them.

Stupid Jocks: (uproarious laughter)

Me: I'm all for it, Trenton. Try everything once?

Trenton: I get to be the caboose.

Me: If you insist.

He never insisted. Poor lonely old, moony old, misunderstood old me.

Veronica started dating him though. Vicariousness! And the next year she got the opportunity to make up the boyfriend-stealing fiasco to me. There was a sk8er boi in love with her that she had zero use for. I *hearted* him, however. She was nice enough to me to tell the sk8er how cool she thought bisexuality was.

It fell right in my lap!

When I think back on my cadre of Goodbye Girls I think it's funny that I always considered myself smarter than Veronica. There's no way I was smarter. More intelligent, certainly. But not smarter.

And just think what she's up to now! Modeling and acting. She was second choice for the female lead in the 5th Element. Clever girl!

Take that, Milla Jovanovitch!!!

To the bank!!!!

 

[michael martin]

http://img.villagephotos.com/p/2004-9/830232/File0011.jpg

I was doing okay on swim team too!

Above we have a picture of me doing the butterfly stroke. Do I look angry? Do the butterfly and see If YOU get angry!

Bottom right. A fight breaks out about my hair! Someone said the chlorine bleached it. I'm trying to explain that no, I come from pure, Viking stock with a little poor white dirt farmer trash mixed in. Jealous brunette boy!!!

Bottom left. A shaving party hosted at my house. I am soooo bad. I feel sooo guilty. Wait... No... Just horny...

 

[michael martin]

Drama and Doldrums

The doldrums can kill a sailor. There's no wind. No current. Sometimes you gotta make wind of your own. Sometimes you gotta fly away. Like a Goodbye Girl.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oklahoma was over. But the music was still ringing in my ears. After seeing a doctor for my damaged hearing, I was ready to embark upon a brilliant career as an actor. Luckily for the Citrus County Art League, I was willing to work cheap! By cheap I do mean free, and by free I mean that I paid a small fee to join the Art League for a year.

The Art League was far from the bastion of superheros and villians I expected.
In fact, when I went to my audition for DRACULA, nobody was wearing a cape but me. However, I was greeted by an effeminate older man and a mouse like woman. Woman? I think. Her name was Karen, so let's assume yes.

The dynamic duo - Bill and Karen - informed me I would be reading the part of the male engenue - the guy who helps Van Helsing thwart Dracula and save miss Mina. Well, I decided, I COULD use my nasal, mincing effeminacy to win them over as a leading man,

(take that, Kevin Spacey)

but why do that when the part of Renfield seems so much less labor intensive.
Yes, indeed! I skimmed the script and saw that Renfield only had three scenes. Why bust my ass, I thought? I insisted that I be given the role of Renfield, the crazy minion of Dracula. Given that there were eight roles and seven actors auditioning, Bill and Karen quickly agreed.

I wound up being fantastic! Less to my own credit and more to the credit of the cast around me. They were horrible! So, by comparison, I was fantastic!
Dracula was a bald, middleaged gay guy. Van Helsing was a balding middleaged woman who couldn't do a German accent if Hitler himself was holding a gun to her head. But me, I was great. Have you ever heard the phrase "chewing the scenery?" I literalized that one. I was the best Renfield Bill and Karen had ever seen!

Take that, Tom Waits!!!

More importantly - I met someone important. A magical man of mystery.
THE AMAZING MONTALBAN!!! The special effects and makeup guy for DRACULA! He drove around in a disheveled van that said Dean Montalbano's World of Illusion on the side. I think it was magnetic or gaff tape or something, so his mother, who he lived with, could drive the car around without the advertizing on it. Dean was what? 25? I'm not entirely sure.
Check him out now!

http://www.hypnodean.com/Welcome.htm

Dean always set my makeup call early. Partially because my makeup was intense and awesome, and partially because he just wanted to have me around. We did some gossiping let me tell you! It was Dean who informed me that Dracula had a one night stand with a guy who locked himself in a bathroom after the sex was over. Aparently this guy wouldn't come out of Dracula's bathroom for like 12 hours, and when he did - his hair had gone white all over.

Dracula was not a good looking guy!

And when Dean was finished with me, neither was I!

Yikes!!!!

I also met my first boyfriend there. The lighting guy. Robert Blotchy. (Not his real name - this guy is petty enough to sue me) My age, and stunningly beautiful. Robert Blotchy. Horribly emotionally crippled. Robert Blotchy. A robot with no feelings. Robert Blotchy.

He had the largest penis I have ever seen on a robot!

Talk about self sacrifice!!!

 

[michael martin]

NOW we're getting somewhere!

I'm sure there's a term for what happens when you leave the doldrums, but I'm not sure what it is. Neither is Antonym.com. My theory is that the exact term perished with the sailors who died on the Titanic. Mind you - there's no documented proof for this theory; Google might help you find out the blueprints of Martha Stewart's jail cell, but if you want to find out the long lost opposite of doldrum, you're on your own! Now, how the hell am I going to explain to my parents that I'm on trial for trying to bust out Martha because the Titanic sank!??! Jesus! Dog in heaven! I wonder if my dead dog is in heaven?

Anyway - my theory is that there's an opposite word out there. A nautical term for when the wind picks up. In fact, if you know it feel free to contact me!

Although, it doesn't matter if I never find the word. It's just fun to search!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Where was I? OHHHH!!! Robert Blotchy! That guy! What a stain on my life, that Blotchy! What a fucker! What a douche! What a cock knock! If I ever see him again I will tear his face off and hand him a mirror. Not literally - don't get excited!

That's how I feel about him now. But let's go back in time!

He was awesome! Literally! He inspired fear and reverance! Every show I
performed I secretly performed for him. And every night after rehearsal we would take a ride in his car and park in some secluded place! Then we would make out or have sex! It was fun! Well actually. It hurt.

Well actually - both.

He had the biggest harddrive I have ever seen on a robot! Maybe even still to this day! And trust me. He knew the kind of awe and fascination it inspired in me. He was a self proclaimed top. A home run hitter! And when he swung his bat - CRACK!!!! Out of the park!!!

The problem was this. There was another Michael that he was in love with.
Boo! Robert Blochy, Boo! He referred to his life as 'the cycle of Michaels.'

He was quite honest with me about it - once he realized I was totally in love with him. It's how he avoided feeling guilty.

Here's what some of our convo sounded like:

"I guess you're wondering why I called you, Michael?"

"Not really - I'm just glad you did."

"I just couldn't take my mind off you."

"Ha! No kidding!"

"Really... I'm serious this time."

"Cool."

"No really, I am."

"Well... cool!" (pause) "Robert, don't you dare kiss me - seriously I swear to God."

"Okay, Michael. Sometimes I fantacize about us, older, maybe living together..."

"Really?" (for the first time we see hope brewing in young Michael. A crack forms in his stoic veneer)

"Yeah - sometimes."

"Oh. Wow. Like married, you mean?"

"Well, that's not possible - we're Gay."

"Right - so do you mean --"

"Let's just say that I want you around for a long time"

"Okay - kiss me!"

(at this point the camera does something cheesy: cut to fireworks, or.... a pot of water boiling over. an icelandic gyser. something. and then something to indicate time passing - an hourglass or something. Point is, we cut to me and Blotchy in bed, maybe I have a caftan and smoke a long filtered cigarette, maybe not. Producers always want to tinker. Point is - we cut to me and Blotchy in bed)

"Was that good, Robert?"

"Sure. It was fine."

"Are you okay?"

"Sure. I think you ripped out my Pancreas"

"What?"

"No. I'm very relaxed right now. Thanks."

"I don't want to hurt you, Michael."

(hysterical laughter) "Robert, what's hurting my right now is this war that George Bush is waging on the citizens of this country."

"It's awful. I have to go back home."

"It's so early."

"Homework."

"You don't do homework."

"Oh."

"You're going to hang out with Michael, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"OK. You do know he's straight?"

"Yes."

"Jesus. You're still hoping he will fool around with you again?"

"Yes."

"I thought you said we were getting married?"

"No, I said I wanted you around for a long time."

"Clearly. Look at how much we do for each other. Throw these away."

"Your underwear?"

"Yeah, or keep them as a trophy, big man, whatever."

"Why are you --"

"I don't want my mom to see blood in them."

"There isn't --"

"There will be."

"I'm leaving."

"Okay. Tell Michael hey for me. I'm just kidding, bye!"


Okay so I was being dramatic about the blood! There wasn't any blood - most of the time.

And everyone has a story or two like that from high school!

Or three, for that matter!

So why do I hate his guts? Why don't I pity him for not knowing the love he could have gotten from me? Perhaps it's what he did to me in college, when he suddenly showed up in town!

On the arm of a politician, no less!

 

[michael martin]

my doppleganger

Look what my doppleganger is up to! Man. If I ever meet him, one of us will die!

http://my8by10.com/michaelmartin/

 

[michael martin]

I actually did meet this one. He lives in williamsburg!
Just like me! Strange world!

http://www.nerve.com/aboutus/editors/editors.asp

 

[michael martin]

The KKK took my baby away!!!!!!

Hey there room full of strangers! What's the good word? I was very excited to see that 600 plus people had seen my journal. Until my friend reminded me that it was probably just me clicking on it over and over again. Thanks Fount!

I've gotten many emails about the politician thing and I've emailed you all back your answers. But I'm not going to publicly post it cause it didn't happen in high school! Ouch! My fault for leading you on! I feel so dirty!
Let's backtrack a bit, shall we? Sorry to break the timeline, but I must go back to something important in my freshman year of highschool. Namely, the KKK.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I moved to Citrus County, Florida, I had long heard my grandfather joke about how it was one of the more racist counties in Florida. My father agreed. The difference being that my grandfather would make this statement with a certain entitled, prideful air, while my father would make this statement with a certain amount of guilt and worry on his brow.

I never took those statements too seriously, however. It took a while for me to notice the suspicious lack of black, brown or yellow people bustling around the cultural epicenters. Perhaps because of all of the red that people were sporting on the backs of their necks? Indeed, Inverness Florida has about two square blocks of town where it seems all of the people of color congregate and live. That two blocks is what my family refers to as "the shortcut," because it's a shortcut if you're driving from Wildwood to the golf course that my parents live on. My grandmother (colorful herself) likes to make remarks as we drive through The Shortcut. I remember one time a few years back driving through The Shortcut with my boyfriend at the time and my family, including Grannie. The convo went a little like this.

Grannie: Here's Inverness, though it's a shame you have to see this neighborhood first.

My boyfriend: This neighborhood doesn't seem that bad, Grannie.

Me: It's not! Boy was our plane ride bumpy! Didn't you think it was bumpy, boyfriend?

Grannie: Yeah, but most people in Inverness don't live in public housing and trailer parks.

My boyfriend: Still, it seems like a nice town. Clean and quiet.

Grannie: You're very nice to say that.

Me: We were living in a trailer when I was born, remember? Are there any crackers - uh - snacks left?

Grannie: Yeah... Most folks here want to work hard enough to have their own houses.

My boyfriend: We wouldn't know about that! Michael and I split 800 dollars for a New York shoebox!

Me: You know what's crazy about New York? Cabdrivers!!! They are so crazy!!!

Grannie: At least you two work. Not like some people around here.

(five second pause. my life flashes in front of my eyes)

Grannie: Yep. This is our ghetto. This is where you go if you want to live off the government and not do any work.

(oh please oh please oh please oh please oh please)

Grannie: Don't get me wrong. There's white people that live here too.

Me: Grannie!!!!!

Grannie: What?

Me: Did I tell you that Boyfriend has a step dad?

Grannie: No.

Me: He's an African American named Walter.

Grannie: Probably one of the good ones, I guess.

Boyfriend: He is, Grannie. He is...

(Silence. We cut to a shot of the family in the car. Everyone is staring ahead. It starts to rain. The raindrops on the windshield somewhat obscure the family faces as, presumably, the car is still heading home. We do not hear the raindrops, but instead there is a low, dissonant cello solo. Cohen brothers style!)

But I digress. I was talking about my freshman year of high school.

My brother and I were dating best friends! I know it sounds like fifties television, but I assure you, it was not! Scott, my older bro, was dating a fair skinned Russian girl named Katya that lived in The Shortcut. I, of course was dating Amy Fischer, who bore no relation to the Long Island Lolita of the same name.

One of the requisites for dating Katya and Amy was that we attend the weekly Amnesty International meetings that they held in the school library.
Now, it may seem fun to you, Room Full of Strangers, being a part of Amnesty International, but I assure you, it's hard work! You have to write letters! In fact, that's pretty much all you do!

Oh yeah - you hold vigil when there's an execution, too. Which, trust me, is frequent in Florida.

Here's a sample of what some of our letters looked like:

Dear Head of Third World Government,

Hi. My name is Michael Martin. I am writing on behalf of Amnesty International. Let me tell you a little about myself. I am a high school student, but not what you might think of as a normal American high school student. I wear a lot of black, okay? Plus sometimes I wrap stuff like curtains around my head and wear that just to challenge people's ideas of what clothing should be - so don't go thinking we have nothing in common!!

I'm writing on behalf of THIS LIST OF PRISONERS I'm not even sure you're aware of this, but these are all people you govern! Not only that, but they are all prisoners of conscience! That means that they didn't commit a crime by the standards of the United States Government! All they did is speak out against atrocities! You may wonder how I know all this - well let me assure you - Amnesty International told me! And, as you well know, they are devoted to peace - so why would they lie?

You seem like a nice man from the pictures I've seen of you shaking George Bush's hand. It looked in the picture like you smell bad cheese or something.
Believe me, I agree - that Bush guy looks smelly.

Something else we have in common!!!

I understand you have a lot of wives. Sweet! But can you imagine what would happen if someone took away all your wives just because they expressed an opinion. Oops, my friend Katya is looking over my shoulder and telling me that your wives aren't allowed opinions anyways. But imagine if they were! And then they expressed it! Maybe they didn't even mean it? Maybe it had something to do with the cycle of the moon? I think you know what I mean! And how lonely would you be if somebody took all your wives away just for that? Craziness!!!

Ok. I gotta go to swim practice. But please release THIS LIST OF PRISONERS. Stay sweet!

2 young
2 drink
2 many +
---------
6 packs

Michael

So Amnesty International was a fun way to socialize with like minded people and affect real change in the world.

We were shocked when the KKK made a statement in the Citrus County Chronicle. Apparently, someone on the county commission had given the KKK, in conjunction with the American Skinhead Movement, a permit to have a Saturday afternoon rally on the steps of the Old Inverness Courthouse!

There was real controversy about this! While a few liberal extremists thought that the county commision was subtly supporting the Klan by giving them the courthouse grounds to hold their rally, most people turned a blind eye, muttering statements like:

"I don't agree with the Klan, but not letting them have their rally on the historical courthouse grounds would be a violation of their constitutional rights."

Amnesty International head office was contacted. They told us that as long as the Klan wasn't supporting the death penalty or holding prisoners on conscience, they would prefer we kept their name out of any protest we organized. We didn't listen.

We made signs that carried the Amnesty International name. The principal called us into his office. Here's what he said.

"I understand you are thinking of protesting this rally. I cannot tell you what a mistake that would be to let the Klan know it got to you by reacting negatively to them. They wear hoods for a reason, kids. So you don't know who they are. I urge you not to protest this rally, because you don't know who you are protesting and who might have it out for you later. Please consider this. Also, if you protest as a function of a Citrus High School Club I will suspend all of you. Go back to class."

We quickly erased the Amnesty International name from our signs. We figured, he tries to suspend us for something we did off school grounds on a Saturday, he gets national media attention. We were right. He never made mention of it.

Even so, Amy Fischer had promised not to go to the rally. A political move on the part of her minister parents? Genuine concern for Amy's safety? I'm not sure. We snuck her over there anyway. Then we all landed on the front page of the Sunday paper.

OOPS.

I guess we should have kept our activities curtailed to writing to a Third World Dictator.

I remember that my Mom and Dad were proud. They took pictures of us in our black with our flags. I think Grannie and Grampie were too, but they didn't say it. They just started to curb the racism a little around the dinner table.

One small step for man, one giant leap for Thanksgiving Day!!!

 

[michael martin]

youth for america!

 

[michael martin]

The Stone Bone

Look at you, Room Full of Strangers! Nice Hat!
I've been extremely lax about posting in my journal, and for good reasons! Finishing up a one man show being one of them. Laziness, the other.
How was your Thanksgiving? I spent mine on Martha's Vineyard. My boyfriend, Carter, has a stepfather who happens to own a palacial estate there. (insert 'well la-ti-dah' here)

During one meal, we had a long conversation about the prefix 'in.' We came to the conclusion that it means the absense of - in the case of insanity, and also it means beyond - in the case of infamy. My ill-equipped OSPD was trounced by the Oxford English Dictionary. My brother and I remarked that it was nice to have a dinner conversation about prefixes without some family member getting angry or frustrated that we were excluding people with our 'word nonsense.'

But enough of that! What of The Stone Bone?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

My brother knew it as soon as we reached Inverness Florida. We were effed in the a. No more semi urban suburb life for us. We had gotten used to the ignorance of living in a small town, but also the luxury and convienience of living close to St. Louis, where one could experience cosmopolitain, enlightening city activities. Like raquetball tournaments, or going to 'The Tavern' and playing Playboy pinball with my cousin Jimmy and his alcoholic father.

Jimmy would note that it was great to get the multi ball 'because you also see some titty.' I would agree, and add that the design was superior to Jackbot and RollerCoasterTycoon.

"Yeah, but look at those tits!"
"Oh undoubtedly! Plus the layout doen't use forced symmetry."

So it was shocking, as I've said before, to move to an even more backward red county. Inverness frightened my older brother and I. It was all over the place. Signs advertizing fried gator tail peppered overgrown roadsides. A disturbing number of shooting ranges and gun shops accounted for what my mother described as charming mom and pop outfits.

This is not to say that Inverness is without culture. You can also visit small, privately owned stores that feature shelacked tree stumps that have lovingly been converted into things like dart boards and clocks. You can rummage around and find velvet Elvis paintings in junk stores. One such painting featured Elvis tearfully brooding over his steel guitar while a ghostlike Pricilla Presley head scowled and hovered in the background. My brother thought the caption, Heart Break Hotel, was a bit overstated, but I begged my mother to buy it and display it in our living room.

"No dice," my mother retorted.

I looked at the painting again and silently agreed. Fuzzy dice would have really brought the whole painting together.

And if ironic Americana was really your thing you could visit some of the local craft stores. This really got my mother going when she saw the swags made of underbrush, eucaliptus and frilly ribbon.

"We should get this, Michael, and hang it in the kitchen."

"Are you sure you're not supposed to burn this in the yard to mask the smell of garden compost?"

"Stop being disagreeable."

"I suppose it's less offensive than the wooden Aunt Jemima wall hanging that says 'Wipe Yo feet, Honeychile.'"

"It's not a racial statement, it's for the mudroom."

"Oh!!! Sorry. I thought it was suggesting that the rich wipe their feet on the backs of the poor."

"I'll be glad when you're finished with puberty," she said, and bought both items.

It was then that my mother started refining a decorating style that my brother and I would refer to as Krafty Kountry Kitchen.

So it stands to reason that upon entering Citrus High School, my brother and I each had very serious, very pointed talks with the guidance counselor. Here's how mine went.

"So I've gotten your transcripts. You seem to be a good student."

"Thanks, you can go ahead an place me in the honors program for everything."

"I'd like to start you off on a regular track and see how you improve."

"No."

"It's sort of school policy, Michael, so you don't get in over your head."

"Oh, believe me, I'm way in over my head. Put me in honors. And French. I'd like to take French."

"Seriously. I'll really need to monitor your progress first."

"But I tested gifted in St. Louis."

"It doesn't make mention of that in your records."

"Yeah. Mensa said it would take longer to get here."

"Oh you meant Mensa tested you, not your previous school?"

(pause)

"Uh. Yes."

"Do you have any card or letter that proves that."

"Housefire."

"What?"

"Destroyed in a housefire, all of it. I wouldn't ask my parents about it, though, they're pretty broken up about losing our... beagle."

"And what was your beagle's name?"

"Mensa."

"Really?"

"Believe me, the irony is not lost on me."

"Michael, I want you to know that I'm here to help. You can always be honest with me."

"And I want you to know that I'm perfectly willing to fake my own death to avoid being thrown into an acedemic track with whatever you people around here consider to be 'average' intelligence."

"Fair enough. I think we understand each other."

"I should hope so. I'm descended from Danish royalty, you know."

"You're pushing it."

"Consider my last comment withdrawn. You have lovely eyes, ma'am."

"Please. I'm putting you on the honors track, and letting you take French, even though you're not a Sophomore."

"Marvelous. Altoid?"

"What are those?"

"British delicacy... they exhibit a curious strength in their pungent flavor."

"Oh Jesus..."

"Perhaps. I'm not sure if the recipe has Aramaic liniage."

So it was that my Brother and I wound up in French class. And so it was that we met Anne Marie Stone.

 

[michael martin]

More Stone Bone

At first glance you wouldn't think Anne Stone to be a fountain of knowledge about the French language and culture. Upon meeting her you might remark to a friend her uncanny resemblance to a certain character from the Star Wars Trilogy. With mounds of flesh heaped upon her improbable frame and the landscape of her body littered with liverspots and broken bloodvessels she certainly didn't look French! But she knew her stuff, and knew how to beat it into the fresh, springy brains of young students. We took off like a shot! By the time we finished French II we knew how to converse very well and could even manipulate the tense our statements.

I knew the differnence between these three statements.

"I have no homework due to the avalanche that hit my house yesterday"

"I won't be able to have homework tomorrow because I'm researching work in the Peace Corps."

"I would have had homework today, but my father pushed me off the roof of our house yesterday."

These statements greatly concerned Anne Stone, until she became aware that the large bruise I was sporting on my thigh had actually been drawn on and smeared, thanks to the help of colored ink pens. After that, she began refering to me as 'imp' rather than 'Michel.'

We had fun, really. My brother and I adopted a dichotomous attitude toward Anne Stone, refering to her as the best teacher we ever had in one breath and Stone Bone in another. We loved to play practical jokes on her. She was poorly sighted, so naturally she was quite enraged the day that one of us placed her glasses on top of the pinata she hung in her classroom, while the other distracted her with idle chatter in the hallway. She was without sight for hours, during which time Trenton Ware actually stood up and pulled out his penis and waved it at her from the back of the room.

It also took the better part of a day for her to find the hard core pornography we scotch taped to her podium. She kind of wandered around in a haze, which we later discovered was more of a perpetual hangover.

We often would go over to her house and practice for French Congres, which is a nerdy, highschool gathering of Francophiles from all over the state. Scott and I would rehearse scenes in French from Ionesco's The Bald Soprano, and I would practice poetry to recite. We were often surprised when visiting her at many things. Her volumes of books were only outnumbered by the empty wine bottles stewn about her kitchen, and she had an alarming number of Venus Flytrap plants that she cultivated on her back porch. Most alarming, however, was the presence of her adopted son, who would inform anyone upon meeting them that he was American Indian.

"That's not exactly certain," she would say.

"Yes it is."

"Hm."

It was enevitable that her son would say something off color in front of her goddy-two-shoes-appearing elite squad of nerds and social miscreants - he did it every time. Sometimes he would comment that the house was even dirtier when we weren't there. That, or he would remark in unhushed tones that his mother frequently passed out at the kitchen table with a bottle of wine at her side.

"And that ain't all - she likes the valium too."

At which point she would order him to his room. While the door was clicking shut and Anne Stone was searching for the key she kept to lock him in, he would say something to the effect that he preferred the company of his comic books to her clatch of weirdos. Then, we would finish up rehearsing Ionesco to the percussive, incessant beating on the wall that betrayed his true social outrage.

"He has behavioral problems," was her only comment.

In order to raise money, carwashes had to happen. That's the natural order of a high school club, after all. Two things made our car washes sucessful, in my opinion. Obviously, the number one draw was the interpretive dance I would do on the side of the highway while waving a french flag. The other factor was that there were many guys in French club that for some reason, didn't wear underwear beneath their bike shorts. Ann Stone was fond of squirting them in the crotch with the hose and I applaud her for it. Especially in the case of the aforementioned Trenton Ware.

Nice unit, DJ Evolve!

The absolute best thing, however, about my three year carreer in French Club was our yearly excursion to Epcot Center. We were required to spend at least three hours in "France" before riding any of the rides. It was expected that we would speak French to the Canadians that Disney had hired to pose as Frenchies in the French village. One of the wonders of Epcot - these schmucks are required to pretend they're actually in France!!!
And Disney forces all park employees to maintain a plastic veneer of politeness in the face of obvious insults. I would prepare myself well for these discussions, by bringing my Wicked French Book, which was full of intricate, delicate ways a semi-fluent person can offend people when they go to France. Here's a sample conversation, translated from French:

"Hello there Sir, I see you have been drawing people."

"Yes, that's right, I draw people's portraits. That's my job here."

"Wonderful. I've come from the French Club of Citrus High School to marvel at the false styrofoam facades of your beautiful country."

"You came all the way to France to have your portrait done by a French artist?"

"Indeed I didn't. I'm required to spend three hours conversing in French with the natives of your 'village.' Do you mind chatting a bit?"

"Not at all, your French is very good."

"You flatter me sir. Is that cologne I detect?"

"It certainly is, you have a keen nose - perhaps you are French after all."

(pause)

"Oh I see. You're making a joke. You must pardon me. The language is still hard for me to think in. Or perhaps you're not funny. No I think my nose is normal. Perhaps you like to overindulge in the cologne?"

"Is it you who is now joking?"

"Of course! Just a pleasantry. Please excuse me if I have offended you."

"Not at all."

"So how do you like shopping at Wal-Mart?"

"You must be mistaken, this is France."

"Yes, I understand that. This is France when you're working, but when you're not working, how do you like the various Wal-Marts and Piggly Wiggly stores that surround Epcot?"

"You're a Rascal. What do you think of France?"

"I think France is, how do you say, like an armpit? The people seem dark and exotic. Please excuse me if my French is not quite accurate."

"Think nothing of it."

"My father says most French people have a great reverence for alcohol and venerial disease. Would you say that's true of you?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Is it true that your mating selection is as indescriminate as that of, let's say, swine?"

"You must be unaware of what you're saying."

"Ahh. I recognize that word - unaware. Would you say that describes the French attitude toward wars fought on the European continent?"

"I'm afraid I must now go have lunch away from you."

"I must excuse myself if I have offended you - my French is not what I should be."

"It's fine, but I'm leaving now."

"Have a good afternoon."

"Good afternoon to you too."

"I really did enjoy your cologne. It's infrequent that my nose is assaulted by the mixture of lilac and putrid eggs."

"Good Day."

So you see. Before there was Da Ali G show, there was French Club.