A Brief Synopsis of My Apprenticeship with Carolina Artisans Thespian Society; Part I

When my father moved out of my family home in January of 1990, he moved into a sleek two bedroom condo in a newly renovated downtown building. Fitted with no-maintenance necessary appliances, clean high-ceilinged room in cool pastels, and a private off-street parking lot, it was, I would learn, one of Asheville’s preeminent addresses for the recently divorced.

In 1990 or so, divorce spread like wildfire through the parent’s of my peers. About once a week, some dad or another moved out. Bus rides home through North Asheville turned into some combination of support group and dysfunctional family home tour.

“Yeah, there’s Andy’s house. His dad took off last month with a Harley riding x-ray tech named Denise.”

“There’s Bill’s house. His dad left his wife for a student in his senior seminar at the university. They’re getting married.”

“Oh, and Jessica. Her Dad followed a Brazilian flight attendant home to Sao Paolo last year. Her mom’s pissed cause he quit paying child support.”

And the popular favorite:

“Hey look, guys, that’s Kim’s house. Kim’s mom went to the Outer Banks with her reading group, came back, kicked her dad out, and invited her “special friend” Phyllis to move in.”

At least once a day, someone would claim parental separation to snag a hall pass to the guidance counselor’s office. And for every one legitimately distraught child of divorce looking for real answers and affection in the guidance office, there were ten other children of recently broken homes looking to cash in on the opportunity to check out what illicit activity was going down behind the dumpster in the bus lane.

For a time, divorce was the grand unifier. The one commonality between the beautiful, blonde, popular class president, and me, the shirking weirdo, who spent lunch in the library reading about English History, the Russian Revolution, the Beatles, vampires, theatrical agents, and the Catholic Church (not necessarily in that order). I believed our shared tragedies might spark a real dialogue, leading to real, mutually respectful friendship, and possibly a date with the captain of the ninth grad boy’s soccer team. At the time I also believed you could get high smoking opium-scented incense. Both, as it turned out, ended up being untrue.

.

The circumstances surrounding most divorces fell into one of two camps.

Some went driving off in their mid-life crisis inspired sports car with a skanky ho in the passenger seat. Others went crazy, went to Outward Bound, and came back announcing a radical career change just as their long-suffering wives had hit the proverbial ends of their ropes.

My father fell into the second category—the minority position. And though I empathized with the tales of spending Christmas vacation watching a new stepmother named Tracy teeter around the tree wearing nothing but the Frederick’s of Hollywood “Santa’s Little Helper” collection, I could not relate. There was no evidence of hanky-panky preceding my mother’s announcement of impending separation, which I found to be both confusing, and a little disappointing.

“Are you sure Dad didn’t have an affair?” I asked my mother.

She rolled her eyes, and watched my father load the seventh box of dusty New Yorker back issues into his car. As if to say: Are you kidding?

Certainly adultery would have been something. The addition of a busty former secretary might have provided me with tangible reason to hate going to my father’s condo on allotted weekends, instead of the embarrassing, awkward dread that accompanied all visitations. My father lacked all practical knowledge of keeping house. He could not cook, clean, entertain, or fix anything three dimensional. We mostly ate out, and came home to sleep in the ugly, uncomfortable twin beds he purchased for us.

Dad’s post-separation mindset had exactly two manifestations: 1) Wacky, permissive, over-generous, guilt-ridden buddy and 2) Caustic, impatient, oblivious, needy bastard looking to project his ire at my mother on the nearest available stand-in. This worked out well for him as he had two daughters. The Boop could count on spending her weekends receiving new toys and appliances, not having to brush her teeth or hair, and chasing Dad around the living room to the sound of the William Tell Overture played at 77rpm on the stereo. I, on the other hand, took to hiding out to avoid requests such as: “So, when are you making dinner?” or “I think you could be a much more interesting woman if you could, you know, work on yourself.”

As we were located downtown, hiding out was easy. The front door opened onto Haywood Street, which, at the time, featured a book store, a hippie shop, an elaborate Catholic church, and the Main Branch of the public library. My mother’s office was in the building next door, which also featured a frozen yogurt stand and a bakery. On paternal custody Friday’s, I’d come home from school via the bakery where I’d stop for a snack and flirt with a trio of weird ninth graders apt to cut class for breadsticks. After that, I’d drop in at Mom’s office, maybe fiddle with the Xerox machine, maybe collate grants, maybe walk down the hall and pester my mother’s current boyfriend, Dean. The next stop was the bookstore. I perused the fiction aisle until I talked myself in then out of shoplifting a copy of Jane Eyre. Then downstairs to what was then Asheville’s only coffeshop, where I tried to appear cool among the henna haired likely lesbian baristas and purple haired, black clad weirdoes. At the hippie store, I’d look at all the gauzy skirts and brightly colored Mongolian yak sweaters, blow my lunch money on incense or reduced priced dangly earrings. Then, I’d head for the Catholic Church just in time to interrupt the priest’s cigarette break by asking lots of questions about architecture, local history, and, time permitting, excommunication. At which point, it was usually safe to return home to the condo. (Between my mother’s office and my father’s condo, by month two of the separation, most of Haywood Street’s denizens knew who I was.)

Weekends provided even more time to kill. By the time Saturday afternoon rolled around, I’d gone pretty much everywhere there was to go on foot (and within reason), leaving me with little option but the public library.

My usual public library routine did not differ markedly from my lunch time library routine. Except having no pantheon of rich, beautiful, popular kids to study from the second story windows, I was able to spend more quality time on reading trashy novels, trashier biographies, and accidentally breaking the microfiche machines. If managed correctly, time could be wasted for up to eight hours, leaving little opportunity for awkward silences around the condo.

It was on one such Saturday, a cold, slushy January afternoon, while my father and the Boop sat at home watching Chevy Chase in silence that I happened to notice an announcement on the library bulletin board.

It read:

AUDITIONS TODAY

Needed: Young Actors

Aged 10-20

To participate in Spring Season

Of

C.A.T.S

Carolina Artisans Thespian Society

Sign-up in downstairs hallway

I was struck by a sizzling bolt of epiphany. Seeing as how I’d shown such promise on the stage and been denied the opportunity to shine by the politics of the Junior High drama club, seeing as how I was currently living a sad, sort of half-life, shuffled between maternal abode and the Condo, seeing as how my celebrity was inevitable, I chalked my fortuitous sighting up to an Act of God, and made a mental note to thank the Almighty at my earliest convenience.

Downstairs, I boldly made to the sign-up table, forged a parental signature, and auditioned.

By Monday, I was informed that I was part of the company.

When my mother learned of my incipient stardom, she did a great job conveying indifference.

“You’re already taking piano lessons,” she said. “You’ve quit at least three other extra-curriculars this year, and you’re in serious danger of failing math. Why do you think this is a good idea?”

I said something along the lines of “acting is my life” and probably added some barbed comment about the divorce.

Mom took my information packet from the audition and went off to call the company head. I paced the living room, anxiously awaiting her decision.

After she hung up the phone, Mom sighed: “This is not what you think, Alison. They’re requiring me to pay‘tuition’ in order for you to be in the play. It sounds like sort of a fly by night operation, and I have, to be honest, a funny feeling about the whole thing. Do you really want to do this?”

I nodded.

Something Rotten

From: horatio@elsinore.dk

Sent: Thursday, May 25, 1154 2:45am

To: The Wittenberg Crew

Subject: In Case You Haven’t Heard . . .

I finally got your email(s) last night—our systems have been down since the invasion—so please excuse my late response. I’m not sure how much of what’s happened around has gotten back to Wittenberg, but let me just say, calling the events “tragic” would be a massive fucking understatement. “Catastrophic” would be more like it.

I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in over a month. Last night, Fortinbras told me I looked like shit, and told me it was high time for me to get the hell over it and get on with my life. I think this was his way of getting me out of the house. Which is fair? I mean, I don’t live here, and Ham’s been dead for three weeks, and there’s nothing left for me to do. I think the length and severity of my grieving process is starting to remind them of Ham after his dad died. And that freaks people out.

Though this is not the first time my spring break has had a body count (that would have been sophomore year, when I went to Norway with my suitemates, and Gustavus was accidentally impaled on an antlered Viking helmet, while playing touch football with some local chicks), eight people have died (not included Ham’s dad) since I left Wittenberg after midterms.

Who’s to blame for the high death count?

Well, that’s sort of up in the air, depending on who you ask. The Elsinore party line has it that Ham’s uncle, Claudius, was the mastermind, having killed Ham Sr, married his wife, and made a foiled attempt to execute Ham the younger. That’s the version Fortinbras prefers. We’ll call that one “Version A,” and it’s the one you’ll probably read about in the papers. It’s (arguably) true, except for the part where Fortinbras slays Claudius in order to save my life (which is utter and complete bullshit—Claudius was dead before the arrival of the Norwegians, and my life wasn’t valued highly enough to be in danger).

Version B, favored by the gung-ho “Go Claudius types,” finds Hamlet in the role over mass murdering psychopath, who drove his girlfriend crazy, raped his mother, had his best friends executed, and drove Denmark to the brink of oblivion, thus allowing for Fortinbras’s invasion. You guys know I love Ham—always have, always will—but, though less technically true than version A, this also contains a grain of truth. Let me put it this way: remember how we were a little nervous when Ham climbed the Wittenberg bell tower after the Homecoming Weekend panty raid? We should have been terrified.

So, now without further ado, the true version, henceforth to be known as “Version C,” goes a little like this:

You all know how stoked I was to spend Spring Break in Elsinore. I’ve always loved Ham’s family (R.I.P.). The Elsinore clan treated me like I was one of their own—a prince in my own right—not like I was the son of an ignorant, alcoholic, grand master of the Copenhagen shellfish guild, and his sexually frustrated, malcontented, fishwife. Ham was a great friend, an outstanding roommate, and, though it may sound shitty to mention it, super generous with his allowance money and political favors.

To be honest, I’d never set foot in a castle until meeting Ham (unless you include the Karl’s Kastle franchise, which I don’t), and Elsinore lived up to my every expectation. Drafty passages, shabby tapestries, unique little enclosed chutes for emptying your bowels, excellent food, and lots of hot, female courtiers (sidenote: that’s different from a “courtesan,” Jan, but thanks for asking).

Anyway. I knew things would be different this spring break. I mean, Ham Sr had recently passed away, Ham had left school, and we all knew from his live journal, just how hard he was taking it. But no amount of theatrical blogging could have prepared me for the changes wrought by Ham Sr’s death.

Sometime between his father’s death and mother’s remarriage, Ham had gone from morbid college guy to angel of death. I’m not exaggerating. He wore all black, moped around the corridors at all hours, and, worst of all, started speaking in verse. He entertained thoughts of suicide and, I believe, sexual reassignment surgery. (The latter I intuited one day after hearing him babble on endlessly about how he was waiting for “Sally’s flesh” to melt while pointing at his own arm. When I asked him about it, he copped attitude and said something about weeding his garden. Now, there are landscapers at Elsinore and there’s nary a dandelion in the lawn. How would you read that?)

I was worried about him. REALLY worried. I tried drugs. I tried alcohol. I tried pornographic minstrel shows. I tried whores (female and, on one occasion, male). I tried talking to his girlfriend (crazy bitch, but that’s a whole other story). I even tried talking him through the seven stages of grief. All to no avail.

So I tried thinking outside the box. I figured he needed a laugh. A good old-fashioned prank to get his mind all the rotten mess in Denmark. So I paid this bum five Kroners on April Fools to dress up like Ham’s Dad and tell him to get on with his life. We worked out a little speech that would implicate Ham’s uncle in his father’s death, describe the afterlife in a humorous way, and then at the end, we’d finish off with “You know they took the word “gullible” out of the dictionary” or something like that. Then, we’d go get a beer.

(It would be sort of like that time Ham and Rosencrantz rigged up “the voice of god” to insult Professor Jorgensen whenever he mentioned Beowulf in Lit Lectures. Still classic. Jorgensen’s face at “I’m God. Who the hell are you, buttfucker?” lives on as one of my most treasured memories. I nearly pissed myself.)

Suffice to say, the prank didn’t work. Mostly because the bum passed out before we got to the punchline. And Ham, poor bastard, goes rushing off to plan his stepfather’s murder. And I, ass that I am, figured Ham’s historic penchant for procrastination (remember how he turned in his Alchemy midterm eight months late?) would probably derail any real tragedy.

I was wrong. In fact, it’s hard to conceive of me being any more wrong.

Which brings us back to the death count.

So I guess you could say this whole mess is sort of my fault. But I did, for the record, try to tell Hamlet that SEVERAL times before he started killing people.

That said:

If anyone is looking for a summer sublet on a nice, inexpensive house in Wittenberg, I have it on good authority that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s place will be available immediately.

Fortinbras and I decided to keep the funerals quiet. Instead of sending flowers or cards (there’s—uh—no one left to send them to), we’d request that you make a contribution to the Yoric Foundation, a brand new non-profit I’ve started committed to counseling emotionally troubled young people against killing their families. The Healing starts at Home. Even if that home happens to be Elsinore. Visit our website at www.alaspooryoric.com

I’m going to try and get back to Wittenberg sometime next month. I took incompletes in most of my classes, so, no worries there. I can’t wait to see you guys. I’m definitely going to need a drink.

Ray

Election 2004: Dr Evil vs. Prince Charming

Dr. Evil’s Assets:

Intelligent, poker-faced, incumbent VP, with thirty+ years of experience. Has worked for three different presidents before current administration. CEO of multi-national corporation. Smarter than the President.

Dr Evil’s Liabilities:

Stony, scary, incumbent VP. Has worked for Nixon. Might not be completely human. And seriously, who’s NOT smarter than the president. Evil.

Prince Charming’s Assets:

Charismatic, populist, seemingly guileless. Good old southern boy. Rousing public speaker. Successful lawyer. Best looking candidate for executive office since JFK. Probably not evil.

Prince Charming’s Liabilities:

Smarmy, maudlin, a little flaky. About as subtle as a gallon jug of molasses. Actorly. Ambulance chaser. Possibly a mimbo.

Dr Evil Fun Fact!

Spent months following 9/11 in a secret hide-out at an undisclosed location.

Prince Charming Fun Fact!

Reputedly bought a house around the corner from me, in a matter of speaking.

Dr Evil personal tragedy:

Heart condition. Lesbian daughter.

Prince Charming personal tragedy:

Lost a son. It was pretty sad, actually.

Dr Evil debate style:

Reasonably articulate, coercive. Likes to stonewall, plays on public fear by continuing to imply parallels between Sadaam Hussein and 9/11 . Likes to mutter.

Prince Charming debate style:

Lays it on pretty thick. Talks to audience as if they were a jury. Inclined to include litany of Dr Evil’s nefarious plots. I believed for a while that he might accuse Dr Evil of clubbing a baby seal with his bare hands. And to be honest, I probably would have believed him. Likes to continually take debate back to health care.

Most absurd moment:

Dr Evil’s suggesting that Kerry’s vote for a decrease in weapons production back in 1984 might have “lost” us the Cold War.

Most transcendent moment:

Dr Evil’s face the first time Prince Charming mentioned Halliburton.

Lowest blows:

Dr Evil:

“Senator Gone,” Remarking how Prince Charming’s hometown newspaper does not endorse him. Also, bringing up Howard Dean.

Prince Charming:

The not-so-subtle barb with regards to Dr Evil’s lesbian daughter. Also, mentioning Ken Lay.

Weirdest allusion:

El Salvador. Why would anyone try to win an argument by bringing up El Salvador?

Best Lost Opportunity:

The sepia-toned dramatic reenaction of Prince Charming’s closing remarks.

Advantage:

Prince Charming. Definitive.

Postcards from Underground

From the recently recovered correspondence between Dante and Virgil

Yo Virg:

What’s up?

Just thought I’d drop you a line to let you know I’m out of the woods, so to speak, back in the human world. Those bastards in Florence aren’t begging me to come home yet (okay, so, they won’t let me in the city at all) but I feel like I’m on the verge of a breakthrough. Time heals all wounds, right?

Had a blast hanging out. It really was like a dream come true for me. Couldn’t have made it through without your excellent sense of direction—and man, Dis wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun without all your Styx puns.

Keep it real, man.

I remain

Your biggest fan,

The D-man

Dante:

Glad to hear you made it out alive. Not much has changed since last we spoke. Last night, Homer and I went downstairs and got a few beers with the demons. As usual, he drank too much and tried to infer that I was a plagiarist. “Just because we use the same source material, doesn’t make me a plagiarist. You didn’t invent the goddamn Trojan War either, you myopic Greek asshole.” He, then, threw an ashtray at my head. We’ve been arguing this point for at least a millennia, and his misguided ire shows no sign of ebbing. It always ends with Homer whining over his bad eyesight and me having to ring up Odysseus for clarification. I swear to God, I would rather spend eternity with the hypocrites then have to spend another night listening to all of Homer’s shit. So to your point about time healing all wounds? Good luck with that. For some people, eternity is not long enough.

I’m flattered by your devotion to my work, but seriously, man, I’m really nothing special in the grand scheme of things. Are you working on anything new? I’d love to see a draft.

How’d things work out with you and Beatrice? Any resolution?

Take Care,

V.

Virg:

You’re too modest, dude. Seriously.

Beatrice was great. Thanks for asking. Paradise was a trip. She kept to a pretty rigorous schedule, but we found the opportunity for some q.t., if you catch my meaning. She looked just as hot as she did the first time I saw her, and I’m looking forward to seeing more of her in the future.

Per your request, I’ve enclosed the first part of this new project I’m working on. I think you’ll recognize the source. Feel free to make any comments, etc.

Still no love from the Florentines. Any advice?

Later,

The D-Man

Dante:

Your manuscript shows promise. I like some of the descriptive passages (the bit about swamp—very nice), but I do have some concerns. First of all, I’m struggling with the meter. I understand you want to maintain an easy to understand, sing-song quality. And I understand your misgivings about Dactylic Hexameter. It is old hat. Even Homer (whom I let take a look at your pages, hope you don’t mind) agrees. However, you might want to stay away from limerick. It is brave, but maybe not the brave you’re after.

Secondly, I understand that you’re still sore on the subject of Florence, but from the sounds of it, the only people in Hell are Florentines. It’s just not credible.

That said, everyone in Limbo is very enthusiastic about your progress. After hearing one of your passages aloud, Aristotle had the big guy downstairs up for a reading. He likes the way you’ve captured the place, though he wonders if you’ve presented him in a sexy enough light. “Evil is seductive,” he says, “and sort of cool. A sad hollowed out Satan is not much of an antihero.” I told him I didn’t think that was your point, and he conceded that you might be under some pressure from upstairs, vis-à-vis Beatrice. So no worries.

Just a thought here: might help your relations with the hometown crew were you not so quick to put them all in Hell.

I’m glad you got some downtime with Beatrice. All work and no play, you know. But Dante, seriously, the first time you saw her she was nine years old. I’m an open-minded man, but nine years old is too young. You are freaking me out.

V.

Virg:

Thanks for the advice. I see your point about the limerick thing. Working on other ideas.

What do you think about haiku?

I’m really not a pedophile; you just would have had to have seen Beatrice at age nine.

Peace,

The D-Man

Dante:

I’m going to take a strong stand against haiku.

Shot in the dark here, but it might be a good idea to lay off the love sonnets to nine-year-olds. Especially nine-year-olds in Florence.

V.

Friendly Advice Tip#7

It’s the idiosyncrasies that count. Real friends aren’t your friends just because of the people you know, or the music you listen to, or the ease with which you affect a blasé stare. They’re your friends because you’re you. Because you laugh at (or tell) really bad jokes. Because you cry at tv commercials. Because you over-cook your pasta. Because you secretly love Ashlee Simpson. Because you are honest, and comfortable, and secure with them, and give the chance to be the same around you. The people you have to work to impress will probably never be your close friends, because you will never allow yourself to freedom to just be yourself. Likewise, if you require acquaintances to pass a complex series of examinations before you’ll hang out with them, you may never know the real joy of loving someone for being exactly as they are. It’s possible to love friends unconditionally, even if you don’t see them for years, and they can be the best family you’ll ever have. Trust me.

Friendly Advice Tip #6

If today were a movie, you wouldn’t be the star. Despite what you may believe. Everyone else out there is starring in their own epic drama in which you are merely an extra. So lighten up. Everyone is not talking about you. No one really cares what music you’re playing in your car, or what movie you check out at the indie video store, or what CD you buy at the hip record shop (and I’ve worked at both—it’s true). And if anyone does care that you’re wearing last year’s boots, or reading a Faulkner novel when everyone else is reading Joyce, then those people are vapid, boring, self-conscious losers who probably have nothing better to do with their time than to sit around and criticize strangers. You know, people like you.

Friendly Advice Tip #5

Musicans, as a rule, are not nicer, smarter, or more interesting people. Hip musicians may not even be nicer, smarter, or more interesting people than other musicians. Moreover, dating a musician does not make you nicer, smarter, or more interesting. It just makes you arm candy. I don’t care how much feminist rhetoric* you have memorized, dating and/or fucking musicians exclusively is groupie behavior. And the more famous he is, the more of a groupie you’ll become. If you want celebrity, go for it on your own terms, don’t coattail it, because dangling from an arm at the VIP lounge is not all it’s cracked up to be, and by the time you figure that out, it’s possible the rest of us will have stopped taking you seriously at all.

*It stands to reason that this sort of behavior is not limited to heterosexual women, and musical jackassery is not limited to men. But I don't hear a lot of bitching from men dating female musicians, or women dating female musicians, so deal with the bias.

Friendly Advice Tip #4

Everyone in the world cannot afford designer jeans. Or for that matter, organic butter, hybrid cars, boutique cosmetics, and European cigarettes. And if you think about it, you probably can’t afford all those things either. Most people who refuse to buy the generic have either a significant income or someone doling out a significant allowance. At some point, it may come down to that $25 of shampoo vs. you eating for a week, and at that point, you’ll make the right choice. And incidentally, the cheap beer is trendy—don’t think your fashionable poverty act is fooling anybody.