Life as an Extreme Sport

Category: …and everything else

Mostly everything else in a brain-academic way.

Living in Shatner’s World

...and everything else, KellyZen, Philosophy, Pop Culture

I grew up in an ecumenical household. There was no battle between the Stars – Star Wars, Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica. As long as it was space opera, it was welcome, and this was the influence of my father. I don’t have any memories of this starting, because it always was.

What I do remember, however, is my first.

Oh, you typically hear of “the first” – genre-wise – with regards to Doctor Who; who was your first Doctor? And while I certainly have a first Doctor (Nine, thankyouverymuch), it doesn’t have the same hold on me as my first captain.

Oh captain, my captain – Captain Kirk.

Yes, Sir Patrick Stewart was wonderful as Captain Picard, and I suspect you can trace much, if not all, of my interest in philosophy and history and most importantly, ethics, to Captain Jean-Luc Picard and his thoughtful troubleshooting and conflict resolution. I will happily debate episodes, quote Darmok to you (and Jalad, at Tanagra), and discuss all the ways in which John de Lancie was a fantastic foil to Picard.

But it’s William Shatner that is my captain. Every afternoon, Dad would make sure he was home in time to watch Star Trek with me (in reruns, obviously). We watched Kung Fu, also, but it just wasn’t the same. There was something about Star Trek. Maybe it was because I had been raised on science fiction, Dad choosing to read me scifi novels instead of children’s books. Maybe it was because of NASA and the shuttle and the sense of the potential out there – space, that final frontier. Maybe it’s because as they’ve aged, William Shatner and my father have become similar, in posture and appearance and voice. Maybe it’s a little of it all, bound together with those afternoons watching the TV, rapt, with Dad.

It’s that ephemeral thing that makes something yours, and that fondness hasn’t faded over the years, even if I haven’t always followed Shatner’s career closely.

So it was with some apprehension I looked at the Philadelphia ticket sales for Shatner’s World, William Shatner’s one-man play. While I came of age after that particular incident that was so soundly mocked on SNL, I was a con-goer when I was young, and I’d heard the stories, and I was wary. I have these wonderful memories and an enduring warmth for Shatner; did I want to risk it on a play that might snuff that out and, for lack of less poetic a term, shatter illusions?

I did what any girl in my position would do: I called my father and asked him what he would do. Was it my only chance, he asked me. I confirmed that it was, and Dad held the beat for just long enough before asking, nicely, if maybe I was a little wrong in the head.

William Shatner. When would I ever have the chance again? Sure, he’s going to be here for a comics convention in May, but that’s crowded and… different. Perhaps it’s my con-going youth, but crowds of people paying large amounts of money for a signature and perhaps a photo is just not what a con should be, and not how meeting someone you admire should be. You can call me old-fashioned, I’ll do the yelling to get off my lawn.

So I shrugged and I bought a ticket. The play, after all, had been getting wonderful reviews – at worst, I would lose a few more of the illusions that I had clung to into adulthood. At this point, there aren’t too many left, so they’d be in good company if they did go away.

But oh, oh, they didn’t. I came out of the theatre more starry-eyed and head-in-clouds than before, and so did everyone else. I have never left a show where everyone is talking about the same thing: how amazingly profound what they just saw was, and yet, that’s exactly what happened.

Shatner’s World is a retrospective of William Shatner’s life. It’s a narrative, so while it starts with him as a young man, the stories are what link the show together, rather than strictly linear narration. Shatner’s. Famed. Delivery. is not on hand here, save for casual mocking – instead, it was more like listening to a good friend tell a story – a long, engrossing story that you don’t want to end. This play wasn’t polished; he stuttered and stammered, he got lost in his story, he slipped up and misspoke and corrected and laughed – or then again, maybe the play was just that polished, that these slip-ups that felt natural were worked in to feel natural.

That, right there, is the genius of the experience – while clearly being rehearsed, it felt not-rehearsed-at-all. And Shatner is fast on his feet; he had quippy remarks for the crowd, especially as they reacted to young and shirtless images of him, and the poor person handling the spotlight had a rough time of it when his (or her) aim was off, and Shatner started deviating from his story to give staging directions.

Or was that scripted, too? I couldn’t tell you.

Here’s the thing: I’ve been a fan for my entire life, so I know these stories. I know about his horses, I know about the tragic death of his beloved Nerine and how he found love again. I know the Star Trek saga inside and out, the rivalries and friendships. I know the jokes about him doing anything for money, about the CDs and Priceline and on and on…

And yet I sat, rapt. I was leaning forward on the edge of my (very nice, thank you again lovely usher who moved me to a plush box seat with generous leg room) seat, absorbed in everything Shatner said. And I wasn’t the only one. When I did pull my eyes off the stage to see how the crowd was reacting, rather than just hearing the sighs and laughter, it was hard to miss the fact that almost everyone else was leaning forward, too. Drawn in, and to, attention.

I don’t know that I expected to laugh, but I hoped, and I did – hard and often. What I didn’t expect was to tear up, which I also did at several points, and where I also know I wasn’t the only one, because you could hear the sniffles traveling through the crowd. And it wasn’t at the necessarily expected points, either – it was in moments like hearing his sorrow over his horse, his acceptance at being Captain Kirk, his pride at the house his kidney stone bought, in his first trip to NASA and his final recording for Discovery.

It was in the tender, and the funny – and he was able to turn a story from one to another in the span of a few steps across the sparse stage.

Shatner gets mocked a lot for saying yes – he’s known for doing almost anything put in front of him. But he explained this philosophy in his show, and it makes sense: it’s easy to say no. It’s easy to stay inside, away from the world, disengaged. But one of the hardest things you can do is say yes. Yes to opportunity, yes to life, yes to potentially making a fool of yourself, yes to wonder and awe – yes to love.

Is it Shatner’s World? It is while he’s on the stage, and I’m lucky enough that – even in such a culturally distant way, he’s so central to mine. So perhaps it’s not surprising that I think the ultimate answer to that question, is yes.

NJ Flags at Half-mast for Whitney Houston – The Right Thing to Do

...and everything else

Stepping into the fray because, well, have we met? – there’s a debate flying around social media this morning that Chris Christie, the charmingly offensive NJ governor, has ordered New Jersey flags (state and federal) flown at half-mast Saturday for Whitney Houston’s funeral.

The argument against goes something like this: flags should only be flown at half-mast for first responders, military, and elected officials. (Since, as we all know, elected officials are paragons of virtue and oh wait…) Because Houston had a public battle with addiction, and her cause of death is pending for tox reports, detractors argue she shouldn’t be honoured, and even if her death was “natural” (and for here, please read what people actually mean: of a cause that they deem appropriate and/or acceptable for a black woman), her years of addiction make her unworthy of any kind of honour.

These reasons are wrong, and they smack of both racism and sexism along with judgmental moralism – or perhaps, to be charitable, simple ignorance. In the days of Mariah Carey, Beyonce, Jennifer Hudson and other African American pop musicians (or as VH-1 might say, “divas”), it’s hard for people to remember what the pop musical landscape was like in the early 80s. One word works pretty well, though: white.

And this is acknowledged enough that most comprehensive obituaries are even noting it: Houston, with her pretty, girl-next-door looks and gospel-trained voice, transcended the very limited role expected of black women at the time, and moved out of the R&B/motown/gospel niche and into mainstream music. We don’t really think about it now, but at the time? It was a big deal – and it’s what paved the way for most of the modern “diva music” that exists now.

But Houston did more than just create a positive black female role model in music. She also moved into movies, starring in an interracial romance that ended up being the sort of megablockbuster that guarantees it’s on Lifetime’s heavy rotation. Whether or not The Bodyguard was a good movie is immaterial – good is embedded in other preferences (although I would argue that the sneering dismissal of romance/chick flicks parallels that of genre chick lit/romance novels – a windmill I’ll leave for another day, or the Smart Bitches) – what does mater is that again, Houston transcended the expectations that society placed on a black woman: namely, that she could not carry and open a movie. And while we like to think that America is progressive when it comes to race and romance, the reality is, it’s still incredibly rare, even in 2012, to see an interracial romance in any popular culture portrayal.

We’re in the middle of Black History Month, a month that exists specifically to highlight and emphasize the cultural and historical contributions African Americans have played in American society, in an effort to equalize the disparity shown to important figures in Western culture who have been marginalized due to the colour of their skin. We have a Woman’s History Month in March for the same reason – to balance some of the historical disparities in honouring women, who are frequently marginalized due to their gender.

Right now, people who are disagreeing with honouring Houston are revealing that they’ve either not stopped to think about what she actually did, or are so caught up in stereotypes that their ugly thinking is showing. Accompanying this is that strain of judgmental moralism, the idea that someone has to die in “the right way” in order for it to be permissible to have sorrow for their death. American society in particular has held on to a very peculiar strain of belief that stigmatizes certain deaths as “bad” – that the person who died deserved it and is being punished for their perceived infractions. With Houston, this narrative is developing as “drug users are immoral people and thus deserve their death;” many cancer patients get the implicit suggestion that because they did something viewed as unhealthy or “bad” – say, smoking – they are now being punished – that they must have done something to “deserve” their illness. In a death narrative, there is always judgment, and those judged as lacking for whatever reason receive the accompanying underscore of “death was deserved.”

Ultimately, if it’s good enough for John Wayne, Israel Kamakawiwo`ole, Clarence Clemons, and protector-of-a-child-molester Joe Paterno, it seems like it should be good enough for a woman who broke down doors in music and movies for an entire generation of women after her.

Why Cecile Richards and Planned Parenthood are Right

...and everything else

Quickly, because I’m on lunch, and because I should be throwing myself up against the painful wall of HTML and a CMS, my thoughts on the Susan G. Komen reversal and Keith Olbermann’s question on whether or not Planned Parenthood should decline the funds: no.

Here’s the thing: everyone was arguing that Komen needed to rise above politics and the abortion debate, because the grant money they were giving to Planned Parenthood was specifically earmarked for cancer issues: mammograms, early screening, biopsy, education, etc. Planned Parenthood offers these services to many woman (and men!) who would not be reached any other way, because they are in underserved communities or because they simply don’t have access to any other health care.

Now it’s time for the reverse: yes, Komen leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Yes, I will not support them in their pinkwashing or other fundraising – I’d rather give my money directly to Planned Parenthood or other organizations. But I am not Planned Parenthood, and refusing those funds would make them no better than Komen, playing politics with people’s health.

Planned Parenthood is doing the right thing by rising above petty politics in order to serve at-risk and at-need women and men.

Killing Cliches with Caffeine

...and everything else

Over at her blog, Zoë (Please Respect the Umlaut) Marriott has a RetroFriday post about removing cliches from your writing. It’s actually a really good and thoughtful post, for those of us who tend to fall back on cliches to express a concept (and for those of us who tend to write things like “and make a note of this, blondie, this line sucks but you need to move on right now”).

One of the things she says is: Not every shock that the character gets is going to be a your-friend-is-dead-emo-angst type of shock. Ranjit doesn’t need to double over with pain when he finds out there’s no coffee for his breakfast (although I might).

That got me wondering. What would my reaction to no coffee be? I actually had it this morning, when I realized I forgot my good coffee at home, and was going to have to drink the swill they call coffee at work, but that’s not really the same thing as stumbling into the kitchen, desperately in need of that rush of caffeine – the smell of coffee – and not getting it. How would I react?

What a great writing thought experiment, especially as I’m waiting to find out how much of a column I have to modify. So, I did. Why would I be up early enough that coffee was the only thing on my mind, and what would I do if I didn’t have any?

There was an insistent beeping somewhere, in her head but also to the left of her body. As the noise clarified to outside, rather than inside, her head, she reached for her iPhone, which functioned as her alarm most mornings.

Except this morning it was earlier than sin, and the alarm was silent.

Kelly sat up, blinking the sleep away and trying to organize her thoughts into something approaching coherence.

Cats. Right. Cats. That’s what those are at the foot of the bed. Making noise.

“Screw this,” she thought. “If they want me up at this ungodly, I-cannot-bear-to-admit-it’s-an-hour, time, I’m making coffee first.”

Pulling on her robe, Kelly stumbled to the kitchen, hand firmly braced against the wall. Gravity was not a kind mistress when her head was fuzzy, and coffee, caffeine, was all she could think of. “Water, grounds, go. Water, grounds, go,” Kelly mumbled to herself, victim of one too many mornings where one of those necessary three steps didn’t happen.

Stepping over the furry bundles pressed against her legs, trying to keep them out from under her feet, Kelly filled a carafe with water and took it back to the coffee maker, where she reverently poured it into the brewing reservoir. She pulled out the basket, tossed the old grounds, and reached for the bean grinder.

Empty.

Kelly deflated slightly. It wasn’t a big deal, she could grind more, but grinding coffee was a noisy experience, something better done later in the day when the sound didn’t feel like it was echoing in the space below her eyes. When she was conscious and thinking clearly and wasn’t so focused on each step of making coffee.

She reached for the can and it lifted towards her with surprising speed. The sort of surprising speed that comes when you pick up a plastic tumbler, thinking it’s glass. The sort of surprising speed that happens when the coffee can is empty. Kelly screwed her eyes shut, not awake enough to fully wince, and opened the can.

She peaked. A few lone beans rattled at the bottom.

She carefully put the lid back on the can, and the empty can on the stove behind her, pausing for just a moment to consider eating the coffee beans straight. Would that give her the energy to move beyond wanting to cry — a silly reaction to no coffee, but one anyone raised in Seattle would understand — and be willing to go outside?

She glanced at the clock again. There was a reason no sane human was awake at this hour, and this was it: the coffee shops were not open yet.

Ultimately, I decided that if I desperately needed coffee and didn’t have any, I would be way, way too tired to make the effort to double over in pain. You?

written on a lark (or was it a dare?)

...and everything else

I recently discovered that Sarah, over at Smart Bitches, has a lot of the same taste in plots that I do. Two weeks ago, give or take, she was getting feedback via Twitter from folks about author pitches for reviews, and I joked with her that I knew the absolutely perfect summary to get her to pick up and read a book: “I’ve written a romance about a snowbound doctor – and the young man who steals her heart!”

Sarah, bless, immediately replied “Antennae just went all WHAT WHERE BOOK WANT WHAT IS THIS?”

And I thought, “well, why the hell not?” I’d originally planned on writing a chapter just to amuse Sarah, except then I had to go and make the bad executive decision to fall down a flight of stairs, and I opted for spending the weekend going “ow” instead. (Note: I did not actually decide this, so much as “discovered too late that I did not have on the socks I thought I had on.”)

But on the way home tonight, I thought about the hook and decided to write a small bit, just for the hell of it – in part, just to write.

So here ya go, Sarah – this is for you. If I ever actually write the novel, I’ll be sure to dedicate it to Smart Bitches everywhere… and to send you a great pitch asking you for a review.

Theresa wound her way up the road, eyes firmly forward and hands gripping the wheel at the classic “ten and two” position. This was a familiar drive, and its familiarity is what led her to her caution; with the steep canyon walls and burbling river beside the road, and the snow on the ground, conditions were perfect for a deep, thick, enveloping fog. Theresa was looking forward to sitting by the fireplace with a cup of cocoa, watching the fog swirl through the trees and — if she was lucky — the Northern Lights peek down from above.

But the fog that was so picturesque inside a still cabin could be fatal on the two-lane mountain road leading there, and the region was full of logging trucks that took turns too fast and lost control. She had rotated through the regional emergency department last winter and seen the results of the reckless driving firsthand.

Glancing at the clock, she allowed herself a small smile. Her sister had bet her that she’d be on the road less than an hour before she was thinking about medicine, some way or how, and her sister had been right. …not that Theresa would ever tell her that.

The whole point of this retreat up to the family cabin was to get away. To get away from school and work and to relax, in the brief few weeks that signaled the end of her formal education. Soon enough, she would be back down the mountain, walking across the stage, and starting her residency. But after four long years of work, all Theresa wanted to do was curl up in the cabin, watch silly Lifetime movies, cook, drink cocoa, and read for fun.

The very last thing she wanted to do, she planned to do, was to think of medicine.

~*~

The cold, Ryan concluded, was a good thing. The cold meant he couldn’t feel what he was pretty sure was a badly broken leg. The cold meant that he could just lay there, cushioned by the drift of snow he’d apparently landed in, and think about the hell he was going to get when his sister found out he’d gone skiing off-trail. Again. Of course, all the other times, everything had turned out fine, and this was the argument he would use against her when she tried to pull an “I told you so.”

Of course, first he needed to get out of this mess, and shifting slightly confirmed that in the last few minutes of admiring the setting sun and the fog, his leg had not become any less broken.

“Lauren, if you have any bright ideas, I’m all ears,” he said, even though his sister was tucked away in her NYC office with no idea that he was even out here. It was worth a try, wasn’t it?

Nothing.

“Damnit, what’s the use of having a big si-“ Ryan blinked. Were those lights? Was he hallucinating? Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself out of the snowbank he had landed in and squinted. He knew there was a house around here somewhere — was this actually going to be his lucky day?

The beams of the headlights grew brighter as they neared. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Ryan grinned. Perhaps this evening wasn’t going to be so bad after all.