February 10, 2013
February 9, 2013
"Quote, Unquote" #21: Gilda Gleans
"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme. Some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity."
- Gilda Radner
The Rose
I've been looking for the origin/author of this story but have been unable to trace the source. It was shared frequently on Facebook this week, but it wasn't until Scott Luedtke shared it that I actually stopped to read. It's the kind of story I love to pollinate ...
The first day of school our professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to know someone we didn't already know. I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder. I
turned round to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that lit up her entire being.
She said, "Hi handsome. My name is Rose. I'm eighty-seven years old. Can I give you a hug?"
I laughed and enthusiastically responded, "Of course you may!" and she gave me a giant squeeze.
"Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?" I asked.
She jokingly replied, "I'm here to meet a rich husband, get married, and have a couple of kids..."
"No seriously," I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age.
"I always dreamed of having a college education and now I'm getting one!" she told me.
After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake.We became instant friends. Every day for the next three months, we would leave class together and talk nonstop. I was always mesmerized listening to this "time machine" as she shared her wisdom and experience with me.
Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went. She loved to dress up and she reveled in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up.
At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet. I'll never forget what she taught us. She was introduced and stepped up to the podium.
As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her three by five cards on the floor. Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the microphone and simply said, "I'm sorry I'm so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I'll never get my speech back in order so let me just tell you what I know."
As we laughed she cleared her throat and began, "We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing. There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success. You have to laugh and find humor every day.
You've got to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die.
We have so many people walking around who are dead and don't even know it!There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up.
If you are nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don't do one productive thing, you will turn twenty years old.
If I am eighty-seven years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn eighty-eight.
Anybody can grow older. That doesn't take any talent or ability. The idea is to grow up by always finding opportunity in change. Have no regrets. The elderly usually don't have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are those with regrets."
She concluded her speech by courageously singing "The Rose."
She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives.
At the year's end Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years ago. One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep.
Over two thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it's never too late to be all you can possibly be .When you finish reading this, please send this peaceful word of advice to your friends and family, they'll really enjoy it!
These words have been passed along in loving memory of ROSE.
REMEMBER, GROWING OLDER IS MANDATORY.
GROWING UP IS OPTIONAL.She said, "Hi handsome. My name is Rose. I'm eighty-seven years old. Can I give you a hug?"
I laughed and enthusiastically responded, "Of course you may!" and she gave me a giant squeeze.
"Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?" I asked.
She jokingly replied, "I'm here to meet a rich husband, get married, and have a couple of kids..."
"No seriously," I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age.
"I always dreamed of having a college education and now I'm getting one!" she told me.
After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake.We became instant friends. Every day for the next three months, we would leave class together and talk nonstop. I was always mesmerized listening to this "time machine" as she shared her wisdom and experience with me.
Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went. She loved to dress up and she reveled in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up.
At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet. I'll never forget what she taught us. She was introduced and stepped up to the podium.
As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her three by five cards on the floor. Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the microphone and simply said, "I'm sorry I'm so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I'll never get my speech back in order so let me just tell you what I know."
As we laughed she cleared her throat and began, "We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing. There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success. You have to laugh and find humor every day.
You've got to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die.
We have so many people walking around who are dead and don't even know it!There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up.
If you are nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don't do one productive thing, you will turn twenty years old.
If I am eighty-seven years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn eighty-eight.
Anybody can grow older. That doesn't take any talent or ability. The idea is to grow up by always finding opportunity in change. Have no regrets. The elderly usually don't have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are those with regrets."
She concluded her speech by courageously singing "The Rose."
She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives.
At the year's end Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years ago. One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep.
Over two thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it's never too late to be all you can possibly be .When you finish reading this, please send this peaceful word of advice to your friends and family, they'll really enjoy it!
These words have been passed along in loving memory of ROSE.
REMEMBER, GROWING OLDER IS MANDATORY.
We make a Living by what we get, We make a Life by what we give.
January 8, 2013
Hey, Mr. DJ!
I was so touched by the story of this incredibly bright and resourceful young man, one Kelvin Doe, that I had to share it with you here. This kid is spinning more than tunes.... Fair warning. It may leave you with an overwhelming sense of HOPE.
January 6, 2013
Where Are YOU From?
by Cherrie Hanson
ANTA MIN AYNA?
WHERE ARE YOU FROM?
What
prompts us to ask this question? An accent? Unusual features? A manner of
dress?
Maybe we ask because we hope to have things in common…it’s a small world after all.
Personal biographies are of great interest to me, but I don’t always ask. Why?
What is the dark side of the question, “Where are you from?” The possible humiliation of not recognizing subtle features of larger groups such as the Hispanics, Pacific Islanders, and South Asians can intimidate us into silence. Or worse, innocent inquiry might cause the “stranger” to feel judged or unwelcome. I once asked a gorgeous man where he was from – I needed to know exactly where his kind of beauty came from. His response was, “I am Palestinian, not Pakistani.” Obviously, he’d been judged and misjudged before.
Another man, one of my dearest friends, initially claimed he was an Italian Jew named Zachariah. The first time we went out to eat, the restaurant was full of people he knew. The language was Arabic, the clothing was Middle Eastern. Hmm…probably not Jewish? His fib was embarrassing and funny, but it pointed to his need to hide who he was. Afraid I would see him in a bad way, fear conditioned him to avoid the truth thus avoiding the pain of rejection. If you have ever witnessed the cruelty of prejudice, multiply that by a few times every day, and you would know the agony of its victims, although you wouldn’t have to overcome its crushing spirit. Maybe you have already experienced being a “stranger in a strange land” then you know what I'm talking about.
Our trusting connection eventually allowed me to ask, “What’s the deal with Middle Eastern men collecting wives?” and if that’s true, “How many wives do you have or intend to have?” He told me, “The Koran does allow a man to marry up to four women, but this option can be vetoed by the current wife.” There has to be a good reason to add another mate to the mix, for example, a woman who is better at cooking, child-bearing, or has some benefit to add to the family. If there are multiple wives, the Koran also states each wife must be treated equally at all levels. Zachariah insists that would be very difficult. Currently, multiple-wife-setups are infrequent and rare. Who can afford children AND wives these days? He knows two men, about 70 years of age, with multiple spouses who are living in the old country, and fading into history….
In time, my extraordinary friend and I swapped personal philosophies and spiritual beliefs, discovering we were more alike than different. We compared our holidays, gift giving rituals, and relatives - same bullshit. He had Mohammed and The Koran, and I grew up with Jesus and The Bible. We lost our fathers to cancer. We loved sharing food with good friends. We agreed the perfect cure for most anything was a hug from someone who cares. My friendship with "Zachariah", a Muslim from Palestine, is a joyous, fulfilling, educational gift I gave myself when I embraced the opportunity to have friends of any race, creed or culture.
Ma’a as-salaama!
Maybe we ask because we hope to have things in common…it’s a small world after all.
Personal biographies are of great interest to me, but I don’t always ask. Why?
What is the dark side of the question, “Where are you from?” The possible humiliation of not recognizing subtle features of larger groups such as the Hispanics, Pacific Islanders, and South Asians can intimidate us into silence. Or worse, innocent inquiry might cause the “stranger” to feel judged or unwelcome. I once asked a gorgeous man where he was from – I needed to know exactly where his kind of beauty came from. His response was, “I am Palestinian, not Pakistani.” Obviously, he’d been judged and misjudged before.
Another man, one of my dearest friends, initially claimed he was an Italian Jew named Zachariah. The first time we went out to eat, the restaurant was full of people he knew. The language was Arabic, the clothing was Middle Eastern. Hmm…probably not Jewish? His fib was embarrassing and funny, but it pointed to his need to hide who he was. Afraid I would see him in a bad way, fear conditioned him to avoid the truth thus avoiding the pain of rejection. If you have ever witnessed the cruelty of prejudice, multiply that by a few times every day, and you would know the agony of its victims, although you wouldn’t have to overcome its crushing spirit. Maybe you have already experienced being a “stranger in a strange land” then you know what I'm talking about.
Our trusting connection eventually allowed me to ask, “What’s the deal with Middle Eastern men collecting wives?” and if that’s true, “How many wives do you have or intend to have?” He told me, “The Koran does allow a man to marry up to four women, but this option can be vetoed by the current wife.” There has to be a good reason to add another mate to the mix, for example, a woman who is better at cooking, child-bearing, or has some benefit to add to the family. If there are multiple wives, the Koran also states each wife must be treated equally at all levels. Zachariah insists that would be very difficult. Currently, multiple-wife-setups are infrequent and rare. Who can afford children AND wives these days? He knows two men, about 70 years of age, with multiple spouses who are living in the old country, and fading into history….
In time, my extraordinary friend and I swapped personal philosophies and spiritual beliefs, discovering we were more alike than different. We compared our holidays, gift giving rituals, and relatives - same bullshit. He had Mohammed and The Koran, and I grew up with Jesus and The Bible. We lost our fathers to cancer. We loved sharing food with good friends. We agreed the perfect cure for most anything was a hug from someone who cares. My friendship with "Zachariah", a Muslim from Palestine, is a joyous, fulfilling, educational gift I gave myself when I embraced the opportunity to have friends of any race, creed or culture.
Ma’a as-salaama!
Cherrie Hanson eats books for breakfast and snacks on documentaries.
She's a photographer and filmmaker. A gifted cosmetologist and guru of healthy lifestyle to many. But perhaps the grandest plume in her feathery chapeau is that of Guardian of The Spheres of Light. If you haven't seen them for yourself, Cherrie's luminous globes are not to be missed!
Not So Random...
We make choices everyday to spread our sunshine, or not. Love, friendship, and kindness are not to be carefully measured- but doled out freely. If you remove your ego from the giving of these gifts, then you can never run out. Don't be stingy!
December 29, 2012
The Tao of Jasper: A Note For The New Year
I peered through the rectangular piece of security glass in the door that separated us, and he stared up at me with those enormous, almost human green eyes. Eyes that were clearly wise and full of love. I was instantaneously smitten with this kitten.
I was with Kerry at the Wisconsin Humane Society and we were "cat shopping". He'd recently said goodbye to his beloved Beauregard, and Miss. Sally (just a wee kitten at the time) was really in need of a companion. I called an attendant over, and asked if I could meet this little man who was already stealing my heart. Kerry came over too, and Jasper began to cast his spell. Kerry already had a soft spot for a little girl down the aisle, but I insisted that Jasper was "the one". In fact, I boldly stated that if he didn't take Jasper home... I would! Kerry adopted Jasper that very night, some 10 years ago.
This Summer Kerry and I combined resources (and households) to economize and help grow our business. Naturally, we were both concerned about how well our cats would co-habitate. My Jackson is a tender little beta boy, his Sally an aggressive alpha girl. Well worry not, three's company. Since their arrival on 47th Street, Sally and Jasper have made themselves quite at home, and Jackson seems genuinely contented with his new companions. He has however, noticed how I dote on Jasper...
You don't know this cat, but you love him. He's so wonderfully laid back, and he has the most agreeable disposition of any feline I have ever encountered. He's so handsome, so affectionate. A true-blue sweetheart. Social and tender, he waltzes into a room and has makes you feel like you're "the only human in the world". Yes I'm swooning a bit, but I'm not the only one. You see Jasper loves everyone. And therefore everyone loves Jasper. Men, women, children...communists, even. I know it sounds a little silly, but there's an incredibly simple and poignant lesson in that. It's called the law of attraction. Apparently Jasper is a zen master.
The week between Christmas and New Years tends to be a bit reflective, doesn't it? Naturally, I've been contemplating 2013, and what it may have in store. I won't waste too much energy forecasting. Over the last couple of years I've been discovering the magic of co-creation through awareness...and that requires you to dream in the present.
I've also been listening to quite a bit of my favorite singer-songwriter, Beth Nielsen Chapman. Not familiar? Check her out. There's a song on her exquisite album "Prism: The Human Family Songbook" that's been on near continuous repeat for a couple of days now. The lyrics speak of how on a human scale, we often feel that our hopes, our desires...our prayers, are insignificant when pit against the vast universe. And yet, if each of us would just give our love...
"Like sand on a mountain / Rain on a fountain / Shade on a shadow / A breeze in this tornado/ Just do what you can, clap with one hand / And shine all your light in the sun"
....then we could really make something beautiful in this world.
So that's my New Year's resolution.
So that's my New Year's resolution.
I'm gonna shine all my light in the sun.
And take a page out of Jasper's book.
Because cattitude is everything. Sorry, I couldn't help myself.
Happy New Year! Michael XO
Musical Treat Of The Week; Double Dip!
Thanks to William for many things, not the least of which for turning me onto my favorite musical treat of 2012, the exceptional "Queen of Denmark" disc by clever singer songwriter John Grant.
Boo Boo, Bacon, & Babs
Whether it's Amy Winehouse's iconic up-do pinned up with pills, or a tasty Kevin Bacon sculpted entirely from, you guessed it- San Francisco artist Jason Mecier's imaginative mosaic portraits are a 3 dimensional, visual feast! Working with a myriad of household items from plastic dolls and makeup to yarn and beans, Jason brilliantly illustrates how one man's junk becomes another man's masterpiece.
"Aint nothing wrong with being a little gay. Everybody's a little gay."- Honey Boo Boo
For a glimpse into Mecier's fascinating process watch this clip...
For more information on this incredibly talented artist visit jasonmecier.com.
Commissions welcome, posters available. I think I need a Streisand....
Thanks for pollinating, Sande Faulkwell!
December 23, 2012
Every December Sky
A Killer Christmas Special....
Sometimes,
things have to marinate for awhile. It was more than 2 years ago that I
first suggested a holiday special to Cassandra. Then several months ago
while we were going over ideas for the upcoming season of her YouTube
channel Cassandra McShepard Television, she brought it up. "Maybe this is the
year we do the Christmas special." That was all the encouragement I needed.
My
initial concept was to pair her with a little jazz combo for the
musical sequences. Maybe we would film them at a local nightclub. Then
my dear friend Scott Luedtke had a genius idea. His husband Brian
directs The Ozaukee Chorus. Maybe Cassandra could be a special guest in
their annual Christmas concert at the Cedarburg Performing Arts
Center...and perhaps we could film their performances for inclusion in
the special! Brilliant.
I
knew that this needed to be a 3 camera shoot, and the prospect of
trying to film during a live performance combined with a mid-December
deadline, seemed daunting. Brian suggested that we could film in early
December if we did it on a rehearsal evening at St. Joseph's in
Grafton...another great idea! Killer Bee Cherrie Hanson and Andy "Rogue Lens' Conkle jumped on
board the train, and I had qualified bodies to deftly man cameras 2 and
3.
David Todd came to the rescue with the amazing Jason Ruck of RuckMedia, who supplied professional cameras and finally at last-
professional editing equipment! Jason and I spent 10 hours in the
editing room at his office. There wasn't anything I wanted, anything I
suggested- that Jason couldn't do. Frame by frame.... "How about camera 2 here, dissolving
into camera 3? Sorry, I like the camera 1 angle better here, can we do
it over?" Every time his answer was "No problem." Call me a dork, but
one of my favorite parts of the finished product is the way the end
credits turned out! In all honesty, I'm as proud of this special as I am
anything else I've ever collaborated on...if not most proud.
So without further adieu (tomorrow's Christmas Eve!), I present...
BEHIND THE SCENES!
The talented Rick Swearingen of Mortensen Photography took some amazing pictures during the filming of the musical sequences at St Joseph's. Here's a 1 minute montage set against The Ozaukee Chorus singing "Caroling, Caroling". What an awesome group of individuals to work with- enjoy!
THE HAIR: A Christmas Story
Originally posted on December 21st, 2011
Some man had trifled with my heart and I was sure it was breaking. Or aching. Or something that it wasn't supposed to be doing. This wasn't my first romantic failure, and it wouldn't be my last. I was on the phone long distance with my Mother crying the blues in her ear, and I could tell she wasn't in the mood for it. Of course, that didn't keep me from going on. And on. Bored and exasperated she finally said "Honey, I don't what to tell you. At least you'll always have Stacey."
Some man had trifled with my heart and I was sure it was breaking. Or aching. Or something that it wasn't supposed to be doing. This wasn't my first romantic failure, and it wouldn't be my last. I was on the phone long distance with my Mother crying the blues in her ear, and I could tell she wasn't in the mood for it. Of course, that didn't keep me from going on. And on. Bored and exasperated she finally said "Honey, I don't what to tell you. At least you'll always have Stacey."
It was December 14th, 1985.
I was at my very first gay party, a Christmas party hosted by my new friend Bobby Herd. Now Bobby (the older brother of my friend Cindy) was about 24 or 25 at the time, and though I looked and acted rather mature for my age.. I was just 14 years old.
Bobby knew I wanted so badly to meet other people "like me", and he took a mondo risk in inviting 2 minors (my only other gay friend Joel, aged 15 was also in tow) to an adult party where lots of booze (and other party favors) were being served. What could possibly go wrong except a police raid, right? I mingled, I met. I smoked a pack of my Mother's cigarettes, in an attempt to look old enough to just be present. That fateful night I would meet a fistful of people who would shape my future and remain close to me for many years to come. But none of them, would leave a mark on the landscape of me, as indelible as Stacey Dean Abillie.
I was crouched on the floor browsing a stack of vinyl, when a voice boomed from over my shoulder "You got any Madonna? Play some Madonna!" I looked up from a pile of records to find the absolute raddest, most exotic looking person I'd ever seen with my own eyes. We were both permed and in-between bleachings, suffering from painfully yellow hair. Did I mention it was 1985? He explained that he was a cosmetology student, and that he was going "white for Christmas". I played some Madonna for him and he was on his way. A short while later he circled back to me with intent.
Bobby knew I wanted so badly to meet other people "like me", and he took a mondo risk in inviting 2 minors (my only other gay friend Joel, aged 15 was also in tow) to an adult party where lots of booze (and other party favors) were being served. What could possibly go wrong except a police raid, right? I mingled, I met. I smoked a pack of my Mother's cigarettes, in an attempt to look old enough to just be present. That fateful night I would meet a fistful of people who would shape my future and remain close to me for many years to come. But none of them, would leave a mark on the landscape of me, as indelible as Stacey Dean Abillie.
I was crouched on the floor browsing a stack of vinyl, when a voice boomed from over my shoulder "You got any Madonna? Play some Madonna!" I looked up from a pile of records to find the absolute raddest, most exotic looking person I'd ever seen with my own eyes. We were both permed and in-between bleachings, suffering from painfully yellow hair. Did I mention it was 1985? He explained that he was a cosmetology student, and that he was going "white for Christmas". I played some Madonna for him and he was on his way. A short while later he circled back to me with intent.
"Hey. My friends and I will buy you whatever you want if you go to the liquor store and buy us some beer." When I told him I was only 14, he looked at me with utter disbelief and said "WHATever" as he pivoted on his heels and disappeared back into the party. Moments later, he and his entourage of infinitely cooler people were on their way out the door. Presumably on their way to a cooler party where beer needn't be solicited from uncool 14 year olds. Stacey Abillie was 18.
His clique tried like hell to avoid our less polished motley crew, but over the following year our paths occasionally crossed. Most famously in Los Angeles, at my first attendance of a gay pride parade. By then my hair had moved onto a fiery shade of red, but his was still yellow- only now on purpose. "Chrome Yellow" by Sebastian, to be exact. On an asymmetrical Mohawk. With a permed, asymmetrical rat tail. He sauntered up to me in the blistering 90 degree heat, and asked me (in my pink cotton jersey mini-dress) "What's in the bag hon? He was in search of lip balm. I had none.
It was Christmastime once again, when it all finally clicked.
Through the impromptu suggestion of our only mutual friend Mark Farrell, Stacey ended up seated squarely at my Mother's kitchen table to help decorate Grandma Furman's Christmas cookies. I think we both wondered what in the hell he was doing there, but there he was.We had our first real conversation over frosting and jimmies, and suddenly for both of us, it was like discovering a long lost limb.
Our mothers were both blonde haired, fair skinned, green eyed Catholic girls from Wisconsin, who were half French and half Irish. We both had super diverse taste in music, 2 older siblings, and a serious obsession with vintage clothes. Later that night when he got home, he called to tell me something else he wanted (but couldn't wait) to share. We were on the phone until the sun came up, and from that night on we were thick as thieves.
Through the impromptu suggestion of our only mutual friend Mark Farrell, Stacey ended up seated squarely at my Mother's kitchen table to help decorate Grandma Furman's Christmas cookies. I think we both wondered what in the hell he was doing there, but there he was.We had our first real conversation over frosting and jimmies, and suddenly for both of us, it was like discovering a long lost limb.
Our mothers were both blonde haired, fair skinned, green eyed Catholic girls from Wisconsin, who were half French and half Irish. We both had super diverse taste in music, 2 older siblings, and a serious obsession with vintage clothes. Later that night when he got home, he called to tell me something else he wanted (but couldn't wait) to share. We were on the phone until the sun came up, and from that night on we were thick as thieves.
I was completely fascinated by his every move. He walked so tall in his own shoes, and I followed him around in awe. I didn't want to be him necessarily, but I sure wanted to be like him. Confident and artistic. So unapologetically HIMSELF. I'd never met anyone who could dream as big as I, and now at last, I had a partner in crime! The cliques that once held us in separate camps were forced to commune, and the most amazing family of friends ever was co-created. Turns out we weren't so different after all.
When he first started coming around the house, my Mother accessed him with great apprehension. Just who was this outrageous looking young man with whom her young and impressionable son had suddenly become inseparable from? She referred to him as the The Hair. "Michael, The Hair called. He needs you to call him back." "Where are you going tonight? The Hair stopped by and said he'll be back to pick you up at 7." It wouldn't take but a few weeks and she was under his spell too. Since they are easily the two most influential people of my life, it seems so right that they shared a loving camaraderie of their own, completely independent of me. By March, The Hair was doing hers.
What to wear, what to wear...
In 1987's Santa Maria, there was little for a gay teenager to do but anticipate the next house party. Much thought was put into wardrobe for such occasions, and we were even known to drive (or hitchhike when necessary) to Los Angeles to buy color coordinating cigarettes from the Nat Sherman store. If Stacey wore one yellow sock and one pink sock, then the smokes were yellow and pink. Yes we were that gay. And we were totally fucking awesome. However, a personality like Stacey's was far too large for our small town, and it wouldn't be long before the siren call of the big city would take him from me. One Friday in August he announced that he was moving to LA. On Monday.
For weeks after he left I moped about. Mom said "He's only 4 hours away, you can visit him all the time if you want." "I know, I said. But its not the same."
I'd lost my limb.
I'd lost my limb.
9 months later, armed with a fierce determination to propel myself into adulthood, I moved to Los Angeles. I was barely 17. My Mother was beside herself with fear, but without involving law enforcement, there really was no stopping me. She entrusted The Hair with her last born, and proceeded to spend the next 2 years sending biweekly care packages with Eric Freitas. Or Lonnie Frye. Or whomever she could get to make a trip down to see the boys.
20 years later I would overhear him at a party, reflecting back on that time, when he had felt such a responsibility to look after me because I was so young. He continued on to say that truthfully, it had been Michael who had looked after him. I suppose we've always looked after each other.
20 years later I would overhear him at a party, reflecting back on that time, when he had felt such a responsibility to look after me because I was so young. He continued on to say that truthfully, it had been Michael who had looked after him. I suppose we've always looked after each other.
We lived a tumultuous and sometimes thrilling life as roomies in LA, but it wasn't always easy. There was plenty of drinking, drugs, and rock n' roll going on at any given moment- which caused inevitable drama. And we didn't always get along either. As MJ once famously sang, "I'm a lover, not a fighter", but Stacey holds the distinction of being the only person I've ever fought with. We used to have fights so ugly, we made other people cry! Then we'd forgive and repair. Because that's what family does. Through the course of it all we also let each other down. Hoisted each other up. I do believe that no one has ever made me laugh harder. Seriously, if you've ever experienced us in the same room, then you know this shit is funny. Laughter is important in any relationship, dontcha know.
When I was 20 I left LA and moved to Milwaukee. The madness of the lifestyle I was immersed in seemed like a potentially disastrous course for me to stay on. And I hated the smog. And the pretentiousness. Go back to Santa Maria? I don't think so. I had spent my entire childhood plotting my escape.
I longed for a place where the seasons were markedly different and there were white Christmases, like the ones I'd seen in the movies. It was scary, you know. To leave my family, my friends, Stacey. But I did it, and it may have been the smartest move I ever made, figuratively speaking. 11 years later Stacey would finally heed my begging call and follow me here. He loves to bitch about how I forced him to come to "this place". Truth be told he loves it here, except for Winter which is like half the year. I hear about that too.
I longed for a place where the seasons were markedly different and there were white Christmases, like the ones I'd seen in the movies. It was scary, you know. To leave my family, my friends, Stacey. But I did it, and it may have been the smartest move I ever made, figuratively speaking. 11 years later Stacey would finally heed my begging call and follow me here. He loves to bitch about how I forced him to come to "this place". Truth be told he loves it here, except for Winter which is like half the year. I hear about that too.
In many ways we're like an old married couple now. It's an interesting observation that while we still finish each other's sentences, we are far less alike than we used to be. We grew up and into ourselves, but never apart. I love that.
It was March, 2006
I had flown to California at my siblings behest. The human form of the spirit I had known all my life as Mother was about to expire. She was only lucid the first 2 days, and then hospice started her on the morphine. She lingered in the hospital bed which had replaced her own, in what had been her room for 44 years. She was so incredibly frail. We only expected her to last another day or two, but she wasn't yet ready to go, and at the end of the week I needed to return home to Chicago and work. I went to go sit with her for awhile before my flight, and say goodbye.
I sat on a chair next to her bed and held her hand and talked to her. She was completely motionless and hadn't uttered a word in 3 days. I was just about to leave for the airport, when in a dramatic moment (Oh, but she was good for those) she suddenly turned her head towards me and her eyes flew wide open. She looked me directly in the eyes, and said with absolute clarity "You tell Stacey I say hello, and give him my love." Just as quickly as her momentary animation had seemingly sprung her back to life, she closed her eyes and drifted right back into the morphine. Those were the last words I ever heard my mother speak.
So many people, places, and Christmases in-between. How do you reduce 26 years of history into something as long as what you've just read? Well you can't, really. Someday when the book gets written, there will finally be a place to share these stories... the story of us. Its a good one, and I promise not to sanitize myself or the role I played. It wouldn't be nearly as interesting. Or funny.
This Christmas we are 40 and 44. We look great, by the way. Stacey's sporting a really short, smart haircut. Me? Well I just have allot less of it these days.
Last night we sat at my kitchen table and decorated this year's "Round 2" of Grandma Furman's cookies. We talked a lot about our Mothers. Stacey lost his, in June. About things. About the future. I remarked about how I thought that moving here would fulfill childhood fantasies of powder-coated Winter wonderlands. The reality is that over the last 20 years, snow for Christmas has actually been an infrequent occasion.
Once again the forecast for Christmas is calling for sunshine, but no snow. It would seem that both white Christmases and friendships that last a lifetime, are rare and special. But you were right Mom. I'll always have Stacey.
Moms know things, they do.
November 26, 2012
Working My Way Back To You...Babe!
I realized this evening after what was only my second day off in over a month (and reveling in every sloth-like moment) that it's been nearly a month since I've shared anything with you... and more on why later- but first: The holidays are upon us, and you know what that means around this hive! So hang tight, the honey should start flowing freely again in a week or so. I'm especially excited about the goodies I'll be sharing with you over the next several weeks, so stay tuned! Hope all is well with each and everyone of you...
Bee Well~
Michael
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