“Everest” review

4/5

This is the most terrifying fucking movie, man. But, one whose outcome I can 100% prevent
from ever happening to me, which is a relief. *Whew*

Props to the director, cinematographer, stunt team, makeup crew, sound designers, actors, etc. because this is actually a pretty damn good reenactment of the harrowing 1996 event…with a few minor caveats.

1. Parts of it felt rushed, especially towards the end, which was, in my opinion, a significant misstep. The “before” scenes were fantastic, the “during” were captivating, but the “after” was quite a let down. And while It’s not a short film, there was a lot that was clearly glossed over–pacing wasn’t the problem here, truncation was. 2 hours was simply not enough to do this story, nor the climbers themselves, real justice–although this was an admittedly admirable effort.
2. I wish we could have spent more one-on-one time with each of the expedition’s participants, because at a certain point, they all start to blend together. We mostly only know them as, well, climbers. Completely masked, bundled up, snow-covered climbers. Sure, we get quick glimpses into their personalities with brief, bite-sized backstories, but mostly our character development is limited to action shots of them going through absolute fucking hell on the side of Mt. Everest. This isn’t even intended as a slight, it’s just an inherent problem with these dramatized retellings. And I realize that there’s only so much the writers could do with the material, considering it’s a film focused on an entire group’s effort rather than an individual’s, but I do think it’s why the base camp scenes end up hitting the hardest….SPECIFICALLY, the mid-crisis moments where we see the actor’s faces twist in aguish, contort in confusion, soften with sadness, and sag with defeat, where we feel their palpable pain, as each of them processes the deaths (or impending, inevitable deaths) of their friends, coworkers and clients in real-time. As they grapple with this developing tragedy, we suffer right alongside them in stunned silence. Now, this doesn’t mean that I was unable to connect with the climbers, or that I failed to sympathize with their treacherous plight, it’s just that the South Col tent moments felt more impactful. All of it was emotionally taxing and psychologically grueling, but yeah, the base camp situation was what really got the tears flowing. I mean, these were ACTUAL people with ACTUAL families, and holding that knowledge in your heart greatly intensified the nightmare.

A survival story like this hinges upon the cast’s ability to fully transform into their real-life counterpart–not physically, but internally. Complete embodiment is essential. Total dedication is a must. To accomplish this, one must fully commit to the task at hand, slipping into the skin of their respective characters, confidently communicating their every thought, every feeling, every sensation, and every fear, while also making sure to pay proper tribute to the survivors, the perished, and their families. These actors clearly cared very deeply about their work, which resulted in some truly terrific performances; sensitive, respectful, faithful and just fucking beautiful. For me, the most crushing blows came from Emily Watson, whose devastatingly authentic performance as base camp manager broke me in a million different ways. When her voice cracked, all color drained from the world. When her lip quivered, my body went numb. When her eyes welled, I fucking lost it. I felt it all. And those raw reactions cut SO deep. Bone deep. Shattering the soul deep. I mean, she was so goddamn convincing that I began having trouble separating the actor from the character, which is, quite frankly, the greatest compliment I can offer. But, really, everyone clearly put the effort in, so shout out to Elizabeth Debicki, Sam Worthington, Josh Brolin, Jason Clarke, Jake Gyllenhaal, John Hawkes, Michael Kelly, Martin Henderson, Ang Phula Sherpa, Clive Standen, Tom Goodman-Hill, Naoko Mori, and all the rest of ’em. Tremendous stuff.

And while the acting is certainly one of the film’s greatest strengths, it’s really the visuals and
verisimilitude that make this flick a must-see. It is an absolute spectacle; an impressively
immersive experience that transports you from a warm, cozy den to the wind-whipped, oxygen-starved Death Zone. Like, you are RIGHT there beside them, shivering, struggling and scared out of your fucking mind. It looks and feels SO legit, which in this case, proves both a blessing and a curse…rad as hell, but frightening as fuck. An exhilarating endeavor, an exhausting endurance test. I can’t even imagine
how stunning (and scary!) it would have been to see on an IMAX screen.

I also so appreciated the scenes at the summit; those precious, glorious moments of undiluted euphoria, where each soul breathlessly soaked up every second of their fully realized dreams. As the team
members celebrated their victories, their smiles wide and bright, they snapped photos and planted prayer flags, and it is a thrilling, albeit bittersweet, moment. Knowing that they achieved their goal somehow made all that followed a bit easier to stomach. There is something comforting about going out after reaching such a high*. I can only hope that their final minutes were painless and peaceful; a gentle slip into an eternal slumber. I can hope.

TLDR: A solid biographical adventure film, elevated by a slew of stellar performances, jawdropping visuals, and a meticulous attention to detail.
——
PS: I felt like Yasuko Namba deserved more airtime. To me, her story was the most triumphant
—and perhaps the most
tragic—of all, yet we don’t spend nearly enough time with her! After watching the film, I went
and researched the ‘96 event, and learned that during the rescues, she was passed over not
once, but twice—first because she was presumed dead, and then again when she was
deemed too frail to expend energy on. She would eventually succumb to her injuries (exhaustion & exposure)….completely alone.

Following the disaster, Neal Beidleman and Anatoli Boukreev (climbing guides for the
other expedition team, Mountain Madness), struggled mightily with survivor’s guilt, both feeling
deep remorse over her death. I believe that. But, the truth is, she weighed less than a hundred
pounds and yet no one was willing to bring her back to camp, where she could have at least
passed alongside friends? There were other climbers there who could have stepped up…none
did. Many sat sipping their tea as the rescue missions took place. None budged. Even
members from her own team opted out. It was a very fucked up situation. A year later,
Anatoli found her remains and built a cairn of stones around her to try and thwart carnivorous
birds from further desecrating her body. It just sucks. And I’m sorry it happened and I’m sorry
that she isn’t talked about more in the movie.
(Her husband did eventually pay to have her body removed and brought home btw).

PPS: Everest is a majestic, menacing, monster of a mountain. Each step towards the top takes three breaths. Your cells begin to die. Your thinking is impaired. I’ve heard it described as running on a treadmill while breathing through a straw–and that’s WITH the supplemental oxygen tanks! Last year, 17 people died while attempting to summit the 28,000 feet, snow-capped pile of rocks. So, it’s gonna be a nah from me, dawg. Watching this film is as close as I’ll ever get to it. We literally are not meant to breathe that thin air, so I’ll just adhere to the laws of Mother Nature, thank you very much!

Anyways good movie… currently on HBO

*Granted, this entire disaster was preventable, but that’s not the story this film was choosing
to tell. And that’s fine. None of these guides were bad people who deserve to be crucified,
they just made dangerous, dastardly miscalculations that day (plus ran into a lot of bad luck)
and it cost them dearly

Under the Banner of Heaven review

4.5/5

this was quite the ride, quite the experience…

an unpleasant, uncomfortable, unsettling, and undeniably grisly one, yes, but captivating, all the same.

I won’t delve into the plot details because a) it’s based on a true story, so you either know it already or you can look it up yourself and b) I knew nothing about the real-life events that inspired it and found that to be the ideal way to take in the material.

It’s a really interesting series, but one whose contents are inherently difficult to stomach. There are scenes and sequences within that I’ve struggled to shake, that have seemingly taken up residence within my body, clinging to each crevice like an incurable, eternal sickness. Each episode left me feeling so helpless and hopeless, gasping for air as I tried to make sense of the senseless; a real sucker-punch of a show. And if you were suspicious of religion before…be prepared to fucking loathe it by the end.

There is obviously a procedural element to Under the Banner of Heaven, as our (fictional) protagonist detective seeks to solve a double-murder, but there’s so much more to it than that. Within the frame of a whodunnit, lies a fascinating exploration and critique of religious institutions (specifically Mormonism.) Now, I don’t compose longform critiques much anymore, and I’m certainly not a scholar on the subject, so I’ll only briefly touch upon what I found most admirable.

–the way it depicts what it’s like to suddenly doubt all that you’ve ever known to be true. Here we see our lead character enter a severe existential crisis, spiraling further and further into disillusionment, as his foundation of faith crumbles beneath his feet. And there is no swallowing it down nor pushing it aside, as the personal and professional worlds he’s so carefully compartmentalized finally collide in calamitous fashion. Even as a nonbeliever, it was such a disheartening, devastating experience to watch him wade through those murky waters alone. I hurt for him, yet had no salve for his pain. I could not serve as his shepherd. I could not silence what must be heard. I could not shield him from what must be felt. Broken trust can never fully mend and grief is never easy. And while it is true that it is darkest before the dawn, the clarity on the horizon can set you free.

-Detective Pyre recognizing that the tenets, texts and scriptures he once considered sacred, were more likely shaped by the selfish whims and wants of man, rather than by an act of the divine. Urges misinterpreted as revelations, desires masquerading as the voice of God. There can be great danger in granting flawed, corruptible humans the power to determine what is right and what is wrong.

-the way it spotlights the hypocrisy of the higher-ups, those so desperate to control the narrative, so hellbent on preserving the image and reputation of the church, that they sought to twist the law and sweep violent crimes under the rug; preferring to protect the perpetrators over delivering justice to the victims.

Gaslighting. Intimidation. Threats of eternal damnation. Save face at all costs.

-its recognition that patriarchal systems/societies are inherently harmful, often serving as breeding grounds for dangerous, violent, very bad men.

-how it explains that faith need not be rooted in religion to be real, that doubt in church doctrines does not extinguish one’s spirituality, and that all we need to replicate that sense of hope and fulfillment is to find the beauty in the every day: in earth’s natural wonders, in friends, in family, or in the gift of life itself.

-how it describes the calm and comfort we derive from rituals, recitations and routines, even without any religious association.

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Bill Taba: Dear Heavenly Father, bless Jeb’s return home to his family and my return to TV dinners, midnight Marlboros, and endless Diet Cokes. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Jeb: Yeah...

Bill: Your last try.

Jeb: ( laughs ) Oh, gosh.

Bill: You know, when the colonists were wiping out my ancestors, we received a prayer of hope that one day, they’d all vanish and the buffalo would return. ( singing in Paiute ) ♪ ♪

Jeb: You think that holds some power?

Bill: Nope. When the white man saw us singing it, they just mowed us down like blades of grass with their Christ-sickles. I like singing it anyhow. Reminds me of home. We all need a home, Jeb, so I think it’s okay to sing it now and then even if I don’t believe it has power anymore. ♪ ♪

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OK, I am now rambling in a review that literally no one will read, about a miniseries that literally no one is talking about anymore, so I’m going to wrap this up….riiiiiiight after I rave just a little bit about this cast…because wow, what a smorgasbord of spectacular performances. Truly, every single actor here clearly understood the assignment and gave it their fucking all…and it paid off and then some. Midway through watching, I actually had a revelation of my own…Andrew Garfield is HIM. Like, it just suddenly hit me like a bolt of lightning, that he is so beyond deserving of a spot on my favorite actor list. Big day! As far as I’m concerned, he and Daniel Kaluuya are THE guys shining the brightest in Hollywood right now and it’s a true honor to watch them excel in such high-quality fare. I mean, what Andrew has accomplished here is next-level brilliant; a marvel to behold. And though you may find my praise too fulsome in nature, my enthusiasm is legitimate. Every creative choice he makes, every skillset from his thespian toolbelt he uses, proves note-fucking-perfect. Impeccable, god-tier shit. And there is A LOT asked of him. He must present as conflicted, yet collected, broken, yet put-together, sensitive, yet assertive, frazzled, yet focused, lost, yet laser-focused, soft, yet strong, and so on, and so forth. A layered, immensely complicated character like this demands such a delicate tightrope walk, one that he makes look so easy. He never falters, never missteps, not even once. Every single choice is correct–every glance, every glare, every gesture, every tear, every sigh, every delivery, every expression, every intonation and inflection, EVERYTHING.

He is phenomenal, but so is Daisy Edgar-Jones, who delivers one of the most heart-breaking performances of recent memory. And Wyatt Russell, who is tasked with playing a character with golden-boy charm, manic energy a youthful spirit, a rebellious heart, fanatical zeal, political smarm, and murderous rage. And Gil muthafuckin’ Birmingham, who injects much needed wisdom and wit to the material. And Sam Worthington, Denise Gough, Chloe Pirrie, Seth Numrich, Rory Culkin, Billy Howle, etc. etc.

Ack, it’s just so damn good. Please give it a watch on Hulu. I can’t guarantee any of y’all will enjoy it half as much as I did, but I still think it’s worth a shot!

an impassioned response

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Believe it or not, my being gay is not about you.

I’m not gay out of spite.

I’m not gay as a means to enrage.

I’m not gay because of some twisted desire to hurt, upset or disgust the most ignorant amongst us. I’m not gay because of the sports that I played, the clothes that I wore, the haircuts that I had, or the media that I consumed. I’m not gay because I read a book with a queer character, watched a film with a queer lead, or listened to a song by a queer artist. I’m not gay because I didn’t go to church enough. I’m not gay for any reason other than that’s just…who I am. It’s not that deep. Baby, I was born this way or whatever. I didn’t choose to be gay, but I *did* choose to be honest about it. I chose to accept whatever consequences stemmed from my coming out. I figured that I was attracted to women whether I openly acknowledged that part of myself or not…and I just couldn’t justify publicly hiding what I was privately unashamed of. Not anymore. At 15, I wasn’t brave enough to be myself. At 15, I thought I had two options: date boys or be alone forever. And as painful as it was to admit, I knew that the former wasn’t a viable option….that it was, in fact, an unsurvivable march towards self-destruction. There was no future there. There was no good there. So, at FIFTEEN, I smothered the romantic within me. I chose freedom over forced heteronormativity. I chose a lifetime of loneliness over a lifetime of lies. Of course, I wanted to date. Of course, I wanted to go to prom. Of course I wanted to do those things…I was a normal teenage girl, after all. But, society wasn’t ready for that and I had no interest in pretending to be something that I wasn’t just to placate the blinkered masses around me. I might have missed out on many milestone marking moments and various teenage rites of passage, but in doing so I also escaped a great deal of trauma and emotional scarring. It was the right choice, but one that I don’t want kids of today to ever have to make. I can sincerely say that I wouldn’t have made it this far had I been forced to fit inside a box that wasn’t ever meant for me. I couldn’t have stayed afloat if I’d have had the burden of shame dragging me to the depths below. I couldn’t endure a lifetime of burying what felt so right, what came so naturally, what brought only joy, love and respect into this world. So, at 21, I decided to outwardly embrace the parts of me that I was proud of, but that others would negatively judge me for, would reject me for, would hate me for. I came out and I never looked back. Thus far, I’ve been fortunate enough to avoid more serious forms of discrimination (dirty looks and hushed comments are only mild annoyances), but I know what people are saying, I know what they’re thinking, I know what politicians they’re fervently supporting and what bigoted beliefs they’re harboring. Trust me…I know. Afterall, a painted-on smile can only thinly veil the hateful rhetoric boiling within. I’m a liberal lesbian living in a crimson-red county in Texas, I can see through the mask, I can peer through the veneer, I can sense what lurks beneath the surface because I have to. It’s how I stay safe. But, I know that most in this area have only slightly softened their stances on the LGBT community over the years. I’d assume that many have reached the tolerance stage, while a choice few might have even reluctantly started to accept us as close-to-equals. And of course, there are handfuls of powerful, well-connected, Christian nationalist clowns, who are hellbent on pushing back against any progress that we make…indefatigable foes who work tirelessly to ensure that we never know peace. My queerness has zero impact on them, but the legislation they seek to pass proves a direct threat against me.

I’m kind of getting off-topic here, but you can understand how personal this matter is to me and how infrequently I actually speak on it. BUT, the point is this: I just want to do whatever I can to prevent queer kids of today from having to make the same sacrifices that I did, to protect them from suffering through the same internal strife. I want them to understand that they don’t have have to sit on the sidelines and miss out on things like school dances, valentine’s day gift exchanges, or spin-the-bottle. I want them to have the freedom to be themselves without risking their safety or sanity. They deserve that because they didn’t ever do anything wrong. They’re just kids. They’re just regular kids. And it is SUPREMELY FUCKED that we have so many adults who refuse to let them just live, who refuse to let them feel secure, who refuse to let them feel loved, who refuse to let them feel seen in a positive light, who refuse to let them feel good about themselves, feel confident in themselves, feel PROUD of themselves. Like, truly, if you have nothing nice to say, it’s always ok to say nothing at all. Please. If you don’t want to wave a rainbow flag, that’s fine, but don’t actively seek to destroy these children’s lifelines… and in turn, their lives. Let them have their books. Let them find solace in the words of those who’ve walked this path before them. Let them escape to a world where they’re understood, where they’re valued. Let them be.

People are misinterpreting our caring about queer kids’ well-being as “grooming” or being part of some “gay agenda.” All we want is for them to survive into adulthood and know that they are perfect just the way they are. That’s it.

MASS review

4.5/5

There are a million things I’d like to say about this film, a million thoughts I’d like to share, a million words I’d like to write, but I see no point in muddling the film’s message with my own commentary when the script stands so strong on its own. There’s little-to-nothing I could offer that wasn’t already expertly distilled in the screenplay, so I’ll keep this brief.

It took 4 actors sitting in 1 room, huddled around 1 table, just 110 minutes to say all that needs to be said about this nation’s gun violence epidemic, just 110 minutes to reveal the true costs of an unregulated right to bear arms. MASS provides an intimate, all-too-authentic peek into the lives of those personally impacted by this modern, and uniquely American, phenomenon. It’s an uncomfortable, often gut-wrenching, viewing experience, wherein we witness two sets of parents attempting to work through multiple layers of guilt and grief in real time. Lost souls desperately trying to make sense of the senseless. Each individual struggling to cope in their own way, at their own pace, but all seeking the same thing…relief, clarity, closure, purpose, peace. Initially, they find themselves at odds with one another, but as the conversation continues, they start to realize the complex nature of their shared trauma. Two sides of the same coin, forever bonded by this unspeakable act of violence.

And though technically a work of fiction, the events depicted here are, tragically true to life for far too many in this country. These characters might not be based on specific people, but they serve to represent all of those who’ve been physically, psychologically, emotionally or spiritually damaged by our nation’s failings. They put a face to a full-on crisis and remind us that every mass shooting leaves a family shattered, every mass shooting leaves questions forever answered, every mass shooting leaves a gaping hole in the community it curses, and every mass shooting leaves a trail of victims in its wake…those who passed, those who survived, those who witnessed, and those who were left behind…

which, as this film so insightfully points out, includes the family of the perpetrator, the family who must hide in the shadows, who must mourn in secret and find ways to carry on without a wave of public support to lift them up. They lost someone, too, but there will be no room for them at the memorial services, no letters of condolence in their mailbox, no empathy or compassion extended their way. They will be completely, and utterly, alone… forced to grapple with the unimaginable hurt that comes with burying a child while also shouldering the blame for that same child’s actions. A nightmare within a nightmare.

Needless to say, this film exhausted me. After consuming art centered around such difficult subject matter, it’s nearly impossible for one to just move on with their day. If it’s done well–and this most certainly was–then the content will be difficult to shake, latching itself onto the viewer, shifting their perspectives and quietly shaping them into a new person altogether. I believe that this is one of those films that can actually bring about change if it finds the right audience (the 2021 Danish documentary, FLEE, has similar potential) and I hope that it does. We need something to shake the masses out of their slumber, to get them to their Howard Beale “mad as hell” breaking point and help them understand that it doesn’t have to be like this, that we don’t have to live like this. A movie, in and of itself, cannot fix our nation’s broken system, but if it sways just one mind, its already done more to address the matter than Congress…so, that’s something.

In the end, Mass is a “social issue” film done right. Rather than try and force an agenda on its audience, it opts to focus on the humans at the heart of the tragedy. It doesn’t tell you how to think or what to feel, it just peels back the curtain on a hot-button political topic and reveals the true cost of our lawmaker’s inaction. In a single room, on a single afternoon, we sit beside these heartbroken parents and watch them reopen wounds that will never truly heal, watch their faces twist in anguish, watch their bodies sag under the weight of such unfathomable pain. They are hollow. They are haunted. They are hurting. We will hopefully never have to walk in their shoes, but here we get a small glimpse into their lives in the aftermath, a small glimpse as to what that hell on earth is really like. It’s brutal, but healing. Painful, but poignant. Challenging but rewarding. Tough, but important.

Conceptually simple, yet impressively impactful in its execution, this is a film that relies on both its incredible screenplay and a quartet of powerful performances to set it apart from the rest of the pack. I can’t possibly recommend it enough. Even if you’re already a fierce advocate for common sense gun reform (like myself), you’ll still find much to appreciate and admire here. It’s not only a strong “message movie,” but a strong outing, in general. Check it out on Hulu now (Americans) and thank me later.

(also, shoutout to the sound design team and the bit actors knocked it out of the park with their minimal screentime!)

tick tick…BOOM! review

4.5/5

I went into this initial viewing without any clue what kind of film I was about to watch. At all. I didn’t know that Lin-Manuel Miranda was the director. I didn’t know who Jonathan Larson was. I didn’t know that it was an adaptation of a Broadway musical. Hell, I didn’t even know that it was a musical…period. All I’d gleaned from the internet chatter was that a) it was divisive & b) that Andrew Garfield was generating quite a bit of buzz for his performance.

But, now that I’ve had the opportunity to see “tick tick, BOOM!”…all I can say is WOW.

It took a few minutes to adjust to the film’s frenetic, up-tempo pace–a deliberate directorial decision meant to get our heart racing alongside our jittery, java-fueled protagonist–but, by the end of the opening number, I was fully invested in his journey, his friends, his relationship, his show, his whole fucking world. Jonathan’s adrenaline is cranked up to 11 & we have to keep up or risk getting left behind. As he stares down the barrel of an impending deadline, we sweat and struggle in solidarity, holding our breath and pacing the floor…

burnt out, strung out, hollowed out, sung out, empty

runnin’ on fumes, dancin’ in flames

chaos building, clock ticking, time dwindling, it’s madness, madness, madness.

It’s not an impersonal, incurious biopic, but a billet-doux to Broadway. 

It’s not a bland, bullet-pointed regurgitation of a Wikipedia page, but a character study.

This is a film about a flawed, yet brilliant man…a visionary, a unique & incomparable talent taken from us far too soon.

it’s about triumph and tragedy…

about the cost of success and the weight of expectations

about fanciful escapism and inexorable reality.

about the sting of failure & the art of resiliency

about digging deep and pushing forward.

about destiny & drive.

And more than anything, more than everything, it’s about the creative process…the pressure, the grind, the guilt, the fear, the second-guessing, the sacrifice, the selfishness, the dwindling sense of sanity and the mind-melting, soul-sucking, heart-breaking hell of it all…but, also, the highs, the breakthroughs, the a-ha’s, the yahoos and eurekas, the pride, the promise, the satisfaction and the unparalleled rush of relief as you cross the finish line.

It’s a film that steers clear of idolizing it’s subject or idealizing the world of professional theater, instead focusing on how difficult it is to break into the business. It’s not sexy, it’s not glamorous, and it’s certainly not guaranteed. Achieving success in such a cutthroat industry is a one-in-a-million, flight-of-fancy, pie-in-the-sky, rainbow-chasing moonshot & it takes a hell of a lot more than mere talent & ambition to get there. It requires a complete commitment to one’s craft and a ravenous appetite for advancement to have even the slightest of chances. To fervently pursue a personal dream is to place your wants/needs/desires ahead of everyone else’s–an inherently isolating endeavor. Granted, a certain degree of self-centered introversion is an occupational hazard until you’ve learned to healthily balance work & life–a skill that’s often obtained much too late. We see that painful process play out as Jonathan’s relationships begin to fall apart; crumbling into a state of apparent disrepair. As his focus shifts to his writing, he pushes his family & friends away while simultaneously mining their conflicts for lyrical material. He isn’t even aware it’s happening until after the workshop, when he’s finally able to step back & survey the collateral damage.

The film also touches upon the humility that comes with having your best not be good enough, the constriction felt when boundless creativity is stifled by budgetary concerns, the fear of knowing that all career opportunities hinge upon a producer’s pocketbook and an audience’s whims, and the realization that even failure can open doors to a brighter future.

It’s a really interesting concept that was cleverly conceived, beautifully staged, skillfully executed and just a highly effective blend of stage and screen. I have no complaints, only praise. 🙂 Oh, and it goes without saying, but Andrew Garfield has never been better (and he’s reliably great in everything). He absolutely earned a place on that Oscar ballot.

the broadway lights twinkling

his wide eyes all aglow

the piano keys tinkling

hands kiss it’s ivory row

a sacred street

a musical mecca

a distant dream

now closer than ever

PS: I am aware that this film is the current punching bag for a lot of my twitter friends and that they’ll likely cast judgment on me for rating it this high…but I am ok with that. I never proclaimed to be cool (or even a critic), I’m just me & I simply cannot deny that I thoroughly enjoyed this viewing experience. I have no bias towards or against LMM (the only other work I’ve seen from him is Hamilton, which I didn’t care for) and I’m not even a fan of stage musicals (generally speaking), but I loved this. I’m as confused as you are, but this is my truth

“Pygmalion” review

4/5

I didn’t set out to watch this film.

Actually, if I’m being perfectly honest, it was the result of a randomized panic-push, a haphazard impulse pick, a desperate attempt to distract myself after trying–and failing–to watch Woman Under the Influence….a film which is likely fucking fantastic, but one that I found INCREDIBLY triggering. Trust me, I hate to use such an overused (and abused) term, but I mean…it really applies here. I didn’t get far enough into the runtime to know exactly what the themes were, but I *am* a woman with a personality disorder…with a substance abuse problem…. who has been institutionalized… so…yeah, it was hitting a little too close to home for my taste. Sure, I’ve been sober for 7 years and yes, I have stabilized my moods with a combination of therapy & medication…. and yes, I am relatively stable…but I have to be careful. I always have to be careful. The reality is that there is simply no reason for me to endure a film that sets off red flag warnings and fills me with regrets… no need to subject myself to a piece of art that jeopardizes all my hard work…that sticks a hot poker into my barely healed wounds. I don’t care how quality a production it is, it’s just unwise to risk a relapse or breakdown over a movie.

ALL THAT TO SAY, this proved a perfect palate cleanser that really helped wash away that sick, helplessly out-of-control feeling that Woman Under the Influence had brought upon me.

I knew nothing about Pygmalion prior to this watch (it’s on HBOMAX), but within a few minutes, I was able to connect the unfurling storyline to that featured in My Fair Lady! I’m an uncouth, illiterate dolt, so I was wholly unfamiliar with both the stage-show & the titular character’s namesake (apparently a legendary figure in Greek mythology)–and, embarrassingly enough, only vaguely acquainted with the acclaimed musical–BUT, the character name “Eliza Doolittle” transcends the confines of the source material & stands alone…so intricately woven into the pop-cultural landscape. So, I knew of Eliza. Hell, we ALL know of Eliza! But, until now, I hadn’t been FORMALLY introduced to her and my dear readers, I was NOT left disappointed! I am not sure how many times the play has been adapted, but I can confidently state that this was an incredibly enjoyable version. The performances were great, the story was fun, and the script was next-level–sharp, clever, and with a distinctive style & patter that my ears found particularly pleasing. The playful back-and-forth banter, the colorful barbs, the acerbic wit…. all brilliantly delivered by our two leads. Wendy Hiller holds her own, but it’s actually Leslie Howard who steals the show here–he is tasked with delivering dialogue that–in lesser hands–could come off as too cold & critical….yet he always manages to keep the tone mirthful & mordant rather than mean & menacing. Both actors are so adept at using their facial expressions to convey nuance that isn’t spelled out in the script. It’s really a delight to behold–even when they’re at each other’s throats, you can always tell their bark is worse than their bite….and that they’re both squishy & soft underneath their tough exteriors. And as much chemistry as they had together, it felt inevitable that the film’s final frame would seal their budding relationship with a kiss… and yet…. NOPE. They said, “fuck your norms” and completely subverted my expectations! No smooch, just a wry, “Where the devil are my slippers, Eliza?” It was perfect. I was assuming romance, but they gave me something vastly more interesting: a complicated friendship? Honestly, I don’t even really know how to label it, though *I* read it as Higgins being a closeted gay man who simply enjoys the platonic companionship of his protégé. It felt like they came to a mutually beneficial arrangement that I found quite progressive & exciting?? like an aromantic screwball comedy!?

….and if you don’t see the queer subtext in this material, then god help you. Trust me, I am NOT reaching.

So anyways, I really liked this film! I don’t quite know how much credit to give to the screenwriters–as I am assuming it hews rather closely to the stage play–but, damn what a seamless transition between the two mediums. It seems like it was meant to be cemented on celluloid…and I’m glad it was. 🙂

7 years down, a lifetime to go.

When I came downstairs this morning, I noticed there was a solo gift sitting atop the kitchen table–curious, I asked Dad who it was for?? I ran through my internal database of family birthdays and came up empty, so I was quite perplexed…

Turns out, it was for me! I’d completely forgotten that it was my soberversary today. I’d known it was coming up, but it hadn’t registered that I’d officially hit that milestone. This is a new, though perhaps not unexpected, development in my recovery journey…seven years in and it’s lost it’s luster a little. It’s become almost rote, almost mundane, almost just another date on the calendar. Almost, but not quite. I do see the value in celebrating this accomplishment & in appreciating how big of a deal it actually is. It provides an excellent opportunity to pause & reflect–to take some time to remember what was, to recall the hardships I’ve faced and the demons I’ve vanquished, and to acknowledge the strength it took to loosen the unrelenting grip of addiction. But, it’s equally true, that sobriety is not as difficult to maintain as it once was. I’m no longer counting the days, no longer fixated on the ticking clock w/it’s molasses dipped hands, no longer biting nails, sweating bullets, or pacing the floor as the cravings gnawed away at my resolve. But, I remember how that felt….how painful it could be–both physically and psychologically, how panicked I’d get, how terrified I was…. afraid I’d die, afraid I’d live, afraid I’d fail. afraid I wasn’t strong enough, afraid of tomorrow, afraid of myself. Now, a lot of time has passed since I took my last drink–a drink I can’t even remember–but I will never forget the immense weight of fear I felt in those early days; a fear of fucking up & giving in, a fear of looking back & moving forward. My final withdrawal was pure, undiluted hell, but even that disgusting, fluid-filled nightmare couldn’t prepare me for the horrors to come…

The first chapter of sobriety will test you, push you, punish you, leave you begging for mercy. But you’ll be ready. It will beat you down until you think you have no fight left. But, you will. You’ll be bloodied, bruised and broken, but standing tall. You will not let the disease win. Not again. Not this time. Not ever. But, those initial days will be brutal and just as you think the tide is turning, just as the physical symptoms subside…the mental marathon begins. The fog lifts, the guilt sets in, and the full weight of what you’ve done hits you like a full-steam-ahead freight train. It’s as if you’ve been awoken from a years long nightmare–relieved to be freed from that sinister slumber, but quickly realizing that reality is so much worse than you could have ever imagined. Now you can’t run from the truth. Now you have to reckon with the carnage & destruction left strewn about the battlefield. Yes, you quit drinking, but that’s just the beginning–an admirable, and essential, initial step– but it cannot erase the damage your addiction has caused….it just puts it into crisp, crystal-clear focus when you’re at your most vulnerable. Fun, huh? Everything about getting sober is tough–ALL OF IT–but learning to coexist with the bone-crushing burden of regret & remorse proved the most challenging….by far. I struggled so mightily with making amends, with forgiving myself, with moving on, with letting go, with living in the moment, with accepting how many people I’d hurt and how costly my mistakes had been. I still struggle with that. But, I endured. I made it. I am making it. I am here. I am living proof that it really is possible to put active addictions in your rearview mirror, that the indefatigable can be defeated, that you don’t have to be a slave to the darkness. You can extricate yourself from that world. You can win. You can. It’s not impossible, it’s just so fucking hard.

But, if I can do it….anyone can. Yes, even you.

And the biggest of thank yous to everyone who has stood by me throughout this onerous ordeal. I am where I am now because of your help, your support, and your love. So, THANK YOU. 🙂

“Fear Street: 1994” Review

4/5

This film was a time machine–one that transported me right back to a middle school slumber party. Mid-90’s style. We’d just gone to Blockbuster–a gaggle of giggling girls roaming the aisles, scooping up sugary snacks and syrupy sodas as we went along….causing more of a ruckus than we probably should. In the heart of our adolescence, we aren’t yet old enough to rent the hot new horror film on our own, but the adult chaperone caves and said that we could watch an “R” flick….just….this….once. 🙂 After much thoughtful consideration, we picked the Wes Craven hit, “Scream.” It’s the summer of 1997. We’re so fucking giddy. PUMPED. We feel a lot cooler than we actually are, but of course, we are all Very Mature™ for our age and do our best to assure So & So’s parents that we can handle a little bit of a scare (I couldn’t!)! So, we load into the Suburban–complete with a Jack in the Box antenna ball–drive home, run inside & immediately proceed to dive headfirst into the cornucopia of confectionaries that we’d acquired–Airheads, Sour Patch Kids, Cookie Dough Bites, Red Vines, M&M’s, ALL OF IT. THE WORKS. We call dibs on our favs, slip into our flannels, make a big squishy pallet out of all the blankets in the house, get that popcorn a- poppin’–shake shake shake, pour it in a bowl, douse it w/an ungodly amount of artery-clogging melted butter goodness. Get the tape in the VCR (hope the last renter abided by Be Kind Rewind) and then LET’S FUCKING GO!

THAT is what this movie felt like to me….the encapsulation of a memory. It’s as though I’ve rewound a VHS cassette of my life, found a very specific point in my past, hit the play button and BAM……it’s like no time has passed at all. Within seconds I found myself in the midst of an incredibly vivid, fully-realized recreation of a previous event. A deluge of warmth washed over me as I basked in that milestone moment. My first horror film*. I was halfway through my eleventh year–a true child–but, I remember feeling so Grown-Up as I walked out of that video store. An adult finally deemed us responsible enough to consume older-kid fare. It was the beginning of the next chapter & I knew it–I felt it.

It’s been a long while since I’ve thought about that night, but this film was kind enough to spark a recollection within…to grant me access to a part of my childhood that was BEGGING to be relived. I won’t misplace the key to unlock it again. I won’t allow this bright spot to fade into the background. I won’t allow it to become a hollowed-out shell, a faint echo, or spectral outline. It’s now tacked onto the particle board hanging on the skull wall…it’s a part of me that means something, that matters. I guess it’s a cinephile thing, but I know y’all will get it.

The Nineties were dope as fuck–they really really were–and they made up a huge chunk of my childhood (age 5-15), so yeah, this movie absolutely slayed. It surprised me in the best of ways, dragging my depressed-ass adult self back into the past…. and I was more than happy to let it, like, YES, PLEASE, THANK YOU. What a goddamned delight. Yes, Fear Street: 1994 is dripping with nostalgia. Yes, it’s absolutely going to resonate with a certain set of millennials more than it will with other demographics. Yes, it’s corny. Yes, it’s silly. A cynic might say it’s derivative, but I say it puts a fresh coat of paint on a well-worn genre….not merely recycling the classics, but paying homage to another era. It ABSOLUTELY accomplishes what it set out to do–it’s an ooozy, goozy, trashy-slashy, mile-a-minute, jam-packed, gory, goofy fun fest. I had a smile stretched across my face the whole fucking time.

Is it a masterpiece? No, of course not. But, did it entertain? Hell yes it did. Did it evoke something deep within me? YUP (see above). Will I be forgetting it any time soon? NEVER. This was a full-blown experience for me. Ebert called movies “empathy machines,” but sometimes–if you’re lucky–they serve as memory machines, too. And that’s what this was for me. Bless it’s bloody, messy little heart. Thanks to a Netflix Original, of all things, that hot, humid night in ’97 is forever cemented in my mind; on permanent display in my mental museum. And I am grateful for that.

(Oh, and in the 90’s, we could NEVER have had the queer content that this one had. Can you imagine how rad that would have been for this little baby lesbian? Ugh, I’m jealous of the youths for having such casual representation!)

*the first horror film I was exposed to was The Nightmare on Elm Street, where Johnny Depp got eaten by his bed. That scarred me so badly that I slept on the floor of my parent’s bedroom for YEARS afterwards. So, scary movies were a big nope for me until that Scream night! What a banger, right off the bat, no?!

Hard Way Home

UPDATE: 06/06/2021

I didn’t go.

——-

I am supposed to leave for a vacation early tomorrow morning.

I probably won’t go.

You’ve probably heard me mention it in the past few months–the destination? Glacier National Park, up in the great state of Montana.

I mentioned it because I was excited….that excitement was sincere & true. It’s a park that I haven’t yet visited–one that contains a particular element of nature that I’ve never seen before: glaciers. And even MORE enticing than that are the shimmering, mystical turquoise glacial lakes– something I’ve only ever laid eyes on in two-dimensional photographs.

But, that excitement fades as the departure date draws nearer. And now it’s here. It’s tomorrow. And the decision to stay or leave must be made within the next few hours. As it stands now, I’m leaning significantly on the former option.

Why? Well, as most of you all know, I have severe anxiety. This is a great example of how a clinical diagnosis of anxiety differs from the commonplace usage of it. Mine prevents me from living life. Mine halts me in my tracks, stagnates my forward movement, hinders me from engaging with the world. My desire is there. My want is there. My lust and longing is there, but I simply cannot take the physical steps out the door. I know this doesn’t make sense. How could it? This is a trip where I have to pay exactly zero dollars. I’m on disability, so my $500 a month would never be able to cover even a simple plane ticket–let alone an 8-day excursion extending from Jackson Hole, Wyoming to Whitefish, Montana–one rife with (allegedly) fun outings, scenic hikes, and swanky hotels (even a night of glamping!) along the way! It is a gift to be offered this opportunity & I want to accept it, but I can’t. My family is kind, beyond generous, incredibly patient & eternally encouraging. They want me to have these experiences. They want me to come along. I don’t burden them, but bless them with my presence (wild, but true).

But, this is who I am. It’s who I have been for a long, long time. I struggle with the simple things. I see these extensions of generosity as the wonderful gestures that they are, but also as obligations to fulfill. My brain will not allow me to view a vacation as an enjoyable event to look forward to, but as an exercise in endurance…an obstacle meant to push me, test me, tax me. These adventures don’t relieve my stress, but create it. And I know that with every trip, even regular people experience stress about certain aspects, but for them the pros outweigh the cons….for me, that’s not always the case, and I only remember the negative emotions. Those haunt me. I can look back at photographs from past trips–my beaming visage planted in front of the most beautiful vistas you’ll ever see– and only recall the uncomfortable feelings & anxious moments. I am more successful when I simply visualize the sights & sounds, rather than revisit snapshots in a scrapbook. I’m good at mentally transporting without attaching my former worries to the memory…. but seeing myself in those pictures just reminds me of how much I struggled to get through each minute.

It starts with the journey itself: the packing is probably where you think it all begins, but surprisingly that’s not difficult for me because, at that point, it still feels hypothetical. I view that step as an extension of the “planning” phase, which I do not find wholly torturous–in fact, simply thinking about a trip is pleasing to me….nothing but promise and possibility No, I mean the actual act of being transported from one place to another–the act of getting into a car, driving to the airport, parking, riding the bus, hauling bags, going through the security line (the waiting, the removing items, the stern TSA agents) wandering through a bustling terminal where everyone’s in a rush, sitting at the gate, waiting in a line to board a plane where you’ll be sealed in for several hours…packed like sardines in a tin can….hoping beyond hope that you don’t crash, explode or get hijacked. I also don’t allow myself to drink anything before or during our skyward journey because of my anxiety surrounding the toilet situation–not just using the little tiny restroom, but having to get up and shuffle down the aisle….lest I be perceived as a nuisance or bother! All of this in a pandemic, by the way, so add the fear of catching COVID-19 into the mix…just for fun. Nothing more enticing than marinating in one another’s hot contagious breath for the entire flight (not to mention that I anticipate mask-theatrics/drama). And then you land (if all goes well!) and the disembarking is almost as stressful as the boarding! Just so many unfamiliar sights, so many maps and directions, so much confusion (have you heard about the rental car madness??). I also absorb other people’s energy, so if they’re feeling flustered, frustrated or frenzied–rest assured that I am, too.

and so it goes.

on and on

until we are home

What else? Oh, yeah, just my being out in public is a challenge. My insecurities runneth over–I feel like I’m constantly being judged, evaluated, analyzed. I think I’m being laughed at or looked down upon for any number of reasons (take your pick!)–I never feel like I belong….like I’m just completely out of place in every room I enter & everybody else can sense it, too. It’s an itchy, uncomfortable sensation that leaves me feeling emotionally exposed, naked and on display for all to examine. It drains & exhausts. Although, admittedly, the mandated mask actually helps protect me from perceived scrutiny. But, even if my face is obscured, I still think they’re focusing on my body, my clothes, my weight, etc. (because I sure as shit am fixating on those matters in my own mind). I think I generally take up too much space, in all the ways someone can. I just want to make myself smaller…invisible would be ideal, but I haven’t mastered that yet. A girl can dream! Words fail me when I attempt to accurately describe how awkward it is to just exist in my own skin. I can never slip into a state of contentedness, never settle, never breathe easily. I’m always just….worried. about something, about everything.

To touch upon some other things I find tough:

-sleeping in beds that aren’t my own. in fact, the entire hotel situation overwhelms me: i.e. using travel-sized bottles and shampoo/soaps/toothpastes that aren’t what I’m accustomed to, not having my own room with my typical nighttime television shows, worrying about bed-bugs, living out of a suitcase, germ-y comforters, floors and facilities.

-eating foods that I’m not used to, at times that I’m not used to, with people I’m not used to. Now, granted, I know my family members, of course, but I have battled eating disorders for the bulk of my life and even if I look recovered on the outside…psychologically speaking, I haven’t been able to overcome myriad related issues. For instance, I eat virtually the same thing every day (if not EXACTLY the same thing) and none of it is what they serve at a restaurant or fast-food chain. I also only eat in the middle of the night–one meal. And always alone. So, eight days of having to pretend that I’m a normal, healthily functioning adult is… a disaster in the making. I don’t know HOW to do that–what will inevitably happen is that I’ll under-eat at every meal and end up tired, weak and faint by the departure date. I’ve been through this before on shorter trips. Four days is different than eight. I will internally panic at every single meal. I know this from experience! Whereas most people gleefully anticipate the epicurean delights a new destination has to offer….that notion sparks fear within me. Similarly, while most can’t wait to try out a new, fancy hotel–I am just as terrified and put-off by The Plaza as I am of a Motel 6. I can’t help it, that’s who I am.

Putting on clothes every morning is an exercise in bravery. I think I look terrible in everything I own. And when I am forced to eat throughout the day, my stomach won’t be as flat as I’m used to…thus, more self-loathing sets in. I mean, if *I* notice this about myself, then I naturally assume everyone else does, too. So, I try to avoid getting up & showing my figure off…preferring to just curl up in the car, melt into the back-seat, and hope I disappear completely. All that negativity and fear sucks up any stray trace of enthusiasm….dampening or dissolving my spirit (depending on the day). When I get like this, I instinctively protect my more more vulnerable parts….turning inward and stowing the squishy, sensitive bits away. My outer layer becomes a shell; lifeless, dimmed, empty. It’s an autopilot mechanism where I can still move, but all the joy is fully drained. If you don’t know me, you won’t notice that I’ve completely checked out. If you do, it’s quite obvious. I can’t help it. And I can’t really explain it in rational terms. Everything ABOUT ME is irrational. Trust me, I know.

I’ve never been away this long before. Not once, not ever. I’ve never had to leave my bed, my routines, my comforts, my safe-space, my work-out regimen, my foods, my, well, everything…..but especially….ESPECIALLY my dog, for such an extended period of time. It’s that last bit that is perhaps the most pertinent to my hesitancy. When I’m gone, I miss her as much as she misses me. We are a codependent nightmare duo. And she’s old now–12.5 years–and the reality is that I’m simply uncomfortable being away from her for eight days. I’m fucking protective. Now, I’m sure you all will say that it’s a cop-out, that I’m merely looking for an exit strategy, for an excuse to bail–and maybe, on some subconscious level, that’s true. But, it’s also a little more complicated than that. Our plan was to hire two neighborhood girls to come twice-a-day (morning & night)and provide the most basic, rudimentary care for them. Raleigh would be outdoors most of the day (she’s a purely indoor dog and HATES being outside) and sleep inside overnight. For simplicity’s sake, we had nixed the supplements that are typically added to her meal (salmon oil, arthritis pill) and instead of the usual breakfast & dinner…she’d be getting one big evening meal. Why? Well, because these are not professional pet-sitters and we didn’t want to over-do it with the job requirements. If Raleigh & Harper are going to be outside together starting in the morning, then feeding a AM course to only one dog would prove difficult. And the other dog is not used to two meals and thus would be unlikely to eat quickly enough–Raleigh downs her food VERY quickly and Harper is, generally speaking, a dainty eater. If you have any experience with pups then you will understand how they are creatures of routine, who don’t do well with abrupt alterations. Add on to that the possibility that they get a) jealous and possessive or b) one dog eats both bowls of food–and that’s a lot for two teen girls to have to contend with. It’s prudent to streamline, but it weighs me down with worry. And I’m not even done explaining the dilemma! So, there’d be a lot of changes to their typical day-to-day, but ALSO we’ve been having an exceptionally rainy month (historically so). Rain has been in the forecast 19 of the past 23 days and isn’t letting up any time soon. With rain comes thunder and with thunder comes a panicking, phobic outdoor-only, old dog, who gets VERY distressed during noisy storms–even if it’s just rumbling in the distance. We used to simply put her in the laundry room during those periods, but she no longer has the ability to control her bladder well enough to leave her in for hours (thanks to old age and a steroid she takes). I mean, do I mind having to clean up after her if she has an accident? I mean, I’d prefer not to, but it’s just part of owning a senior dog. But, do I think it’s something that 2 kids should have to do for $140? No. So, the alternative is coming back to the house and letting her out every two hours or so, drying her off, wiping the floor down, washing the towel. And a lot of the time, storms come at night. What then? There isn’t a good solution. There is no good solution. And yes, I do stress about this shit because they’re my dogs and it’s my responsibility to care for them. If I’m not sure it’s going to go smoothly, then I’ll just be fretting constantly about how they are. That’s what I do. I know they’re not my kids, but they’re pretty fucking close. And the thing with kids is that when you have to leave them, you have someone watching over them every moment of every day. I am not going to be offered that same peace of mind. Raleigh is my animal soulmate….my support system. And I need her to be ok. If she was beside me on this trip, each step of the way, virtually ever single issue or concern I listed above would be rendered moot and meaningless. I do not have these same problems when I’m holding her, I just don’t. But, that’s not possible.

Oh, and to wrap it up: the idea of having to find things to talk about with other people for eight days straight is overwhelming nauseating. I am petrified of uncomfortable silences and will do anything to avoid them (including simply avoiding people entirely!). But, I will run out of ideas at some point and then what? I also have the propensity to clam up the moment I feel someone growing bored with me. This is why I prefer the company of dogs.

So, here we are. I don’t expect you to understand, but I did want to explain.

ARTPOP.

I know that this isn’t the first time I’ve mentioned the very personal relationship I have with this album, but now that’s it’s back on the pop-culture radar, I’ll reiterate why it’s so important to me:
It’s two-fold, but both parts have to do with my sobriety journey. ARTPOP is the record that re-ignited my fandom of Lady Gaga & that Christmas, a month after it’s release, my Dad surprised my then girlfriend & I with two tickets to her upcoming tour. And by upcoming, I mean seven months in the future.
I had seven months to prepare.

Seven months to plan.

Seven months to adjust my alcoholic schedule so that I was upright and sober for a single fucking day.

just one day.

I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t.

I had known for years that I was an alcoholic. I wasn’t in denial about it. I wasn’t hiding from reality. I knew it. We all knew it. I’d already suffered greatly by that point: I’d developed permanent medical afflictions, I’d cost my family financially and emotionally, I’d self-destructed a million-times over, and there was no end in sight. I wasn’t in control and hadn’t been for some time. I accepted that. I did the bidding of the beast within. It called the shots and I took them…one right after the other, down the hatch, every waking moment. bleary eyed, boozed-up and blacked out. But, acceptance is only a small part of the larger puzzle. I slapped the label of “broken and busted” on my chest to quiet the crowds, letting them know that I was aware of the problem, but I had no intention of fixing it.

I wasn’t there yet.

Not even close.

Failure was always an option. It was the only option. I was fine with that. No point in fighting it. I wore it like a badge of honor, rather than the mark of shame. I pretended. The point was to beat others to the punch, to get there before they could. I knew what was coming, so I stepped out in front…. letting the train of judgment slam into me.

And I took it.

While I rejected their pity.

I dreaded their disappointment.

the headshakes

the tsks tsks

the murmurs

That hurt.

But, I hurt myself more.

That stung.

But, I dug into my flesh with my own hand.

Their gasps and glances left a temporary mark.

But, I disfigured myself. I made scars that they’ll bury me with.

“My biggest enemy is me.”

Blame it on the alcohol

I did.

The alcohol made me do it.

My brain chemistry proposed the idea

the liquor got engaged to it.

What a dysfunctional pair

The damage they caused

the destruction they created.

It all made sense at the time.

It all felt right at the time.

at the time

But, now we’re in July, 2014. My parents planned a fireworks-centric trip to DC for the 4th and it’s hard to turn down a free excursion when you’re broke as shit. So, I went. Sober for a string of days, one, two, three, four? Not a drop. Not a drip. Miraculously withdrawal free. Inexplicably, but gratefully. Undoubtedly the first time I’d managed that in over a year. And by managed, I mean, I had no choice. Admittedly, it’s not nearly as hard to abstain when you’re removed from your comfort cave, your drug den… when you’ve been plucked and re-placed into another setting without the triggering people, environment, rituals and routines, etc. It’s a literal vacation. Of course, I still dreamt of that first gulp of paint-thinner quality vodka, but I wasn’t obsessively focused on it. I enjoyed my family. I enjoyed myself. I enjoyed my trip. I enjoyed it.

Then it was over & I was home.

I was drunk.

It was a bender.

I can’t remember it.

I can’t remember.

The 14th came.

The drinking stopped.

why?

I wish it hadn’t.

Buzzed was better.

optimal even

If I could just make it to the concert….

Fuck, the concert.

two days, the concert.

The sickness took over.

The spiral began

downward decline

Out of my hands

Even now, looking back, I can’t understand why a withdrawal was only a sometimes thing and not an every time thing. how I’d always drink to excess, always have liquor in my system, and most always fared well in that maintenance mode, but occasionally the window of opportunity for hair-of-the-dogging my way out of a detox would pass and several drying-out days of misery would commence. Keeping myself from getting to that point was always the goal, but it was an inexact science and I often mismeasured.

But, that was then….

that was the past

I left those days there

haven’t been back since

haven’t been ill since

not physically

but, I was then,

boy was I then.

Withdrawals vary in length, but rarely in severity. They become fairly consistent, fairly routine, though never any easier to endure. All awful. Buckets of bile. BUCKETS. Gallons upon gallons coming up, nothing going in. Where did it come from? I always wondered. The tremors, the trembles, the spasms, the sweats, the chills, the broken blood vessels, the cuts, the bruises, the pain, the whimpering, the liquid out of both ends, the hallucinations, the seizures, the insomnia, the emptiness, the seeming eternality of it….

I mean, I knew they’d eventually end.

But, would this be the time I’d end, too?

Each one stole something from me. If you’ve been there, you know. It’s simply not possible to escape unscathed. Torture. Torment. Relentless battery. I earned it, but damn. Dreamt of the death penalty: a punishment less cruel and unusual. End the misery. Felt like a cat with nine lives. But, then nine turned to ten and ten turned into well, I lost track. I was surely living on borrowed time. I feel like there must be a clear, finite number of withdrawals a human body can withstand. Perhaps, it’s not set in stone, but there’s a limit, a certain allotment to use up before that’s it. No more chances. No more free passes. This isn’t a hangover. It’s not synonymous. It’s not that. It’s not. t’s a dance with the Devil. It’s straddling that line between here and there. It’s a fucking exorcism and no matter how many times that demon is expelled, us addicts keep inviting him back.

Each time, we’re ravaged.

empty shell

hollow carcass

buzzards circling overhead.

ready to pick bones clean

the poison repels

we’re granted reprieve

until another day

our day

of reckoning

coming soon

?

Day 1 was bad. Day 2 was worse. Day 3 was typically an upward swing. A day I could move again–shakily, sweatily, but bipedally. I had a specific post-withdrawal meal: angel-hair pasta w/butter and salt. It nourished a recently evacuated soul. It comforted a body run ragged. It fueled a stomach drained dry. Those first few bites were precious moments, now cherished memories. It meant I was ok, that I’d cheated death.

Again.

But, this time was different. I had no meal, no day to rebound, recover, recoup what I’d lost. No time.

A date on the calendar

Circled in red

Underlined

not once but twice

ALL CAPS

Bold print

7 months set

an obligation to fulfill

immovable

now or never

big event

can’t miss

SEVEN MONTHS SET

the show would go on

the show must go on

I wanted to cancel. I wanted to call-it-off. I wasn’t well. I’d spent the day with my head in a trash-bin, hurling up the tattered remains of my insides, lying prostrate on the floor. I needed help to walk. It wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t pretty. But, I soldiered on. Scratch that, I wasn’t brave at all. I crawled on, dragging my feet from room-to-room, trying to make myself presentable for the night ahead. Quite the task. I was unkempt and unclean. I’d worn the same clothes for days, my uniform. They clung to my quivering frame, caked-on and crusted, and it felt good to peel them off, to symbolically extricate myself from the filth of withdrawal. I slipped into jeans & a tank-top, my unsteady hand painting a mess of makeup on my clammy, tear-stained face. I looked as wretched as I felt. But, I tried. I did try.

I was in no shape to go

but I had to.

Every step a mountain to climb.

but, I had to.

standing wasn’t safe

but I had to.

This was bigger than me.

This was everything.

so I did it

I went

because I had to

no one made me

but I had to

The whole drive there was rough. My head tucked in-between my knees, my mouth aimed at the bottom of my puke bucket. The car was a boat, the highway an ocean. Bobbing up and down, salivating and dry-heaving. I didn’t have my sea-legs yet.

45 minutes.

I counted down.

we arrived

I arose.

I could do this.

I had my girlfriend.

I had Gaga.

I could do this.

This was one of those moments that I’ll never forget, even if every detail wasn’t perfectly preserved. Brain fog and mental haze obscure bits and pieces, but it’s the ambience, the energy, the mood, the FEELING that I hold onto, that I return to. If life is a book, then this was the start of a new chapter….

the best one yet.

the brightest.

the boldest.

It wasn’t just a concert.

It was an experience.

that shaped

and shifted

stirred something within me

shook me to my core

and started my sobriety

paved a road for my recovery

it’s only dramatic

if you weren’t there

if you aren’t me

it doesn’t have to make sense

for it to be true

and the point is

the fact remains

that I never drank again.

I want to note how much I smiled at that show, how free I felt, how high I soared. It wasn’t just the performance, but the audience. I unknowingly had walked into something magical, mystical, marvelous and so brilliantly alive. An LGBT haven, a queer kid heaven. These were my people. I’d somehow missed what I’d never known. And I found it here. I found them. And I found myself, too. A kaleidoscopic tapestry of rainbows, glow-sticks, and feather boas. It was everything I’d ever wanted, but never knew I needed. For the first time, perhaps ever, I felt like I belonged…and even in that feverish, depleted state, I’ve never been happier. It was the best night of my 35 years, my favorite night.

and I never drank again.

I still don’t know why

or how

but, I didn’t

and I haven’t

and I hope I won’t

It’s a mystery

But, that night

oh that night

It woke me up

and so much more

I’d been asleep

I’d been lost

I’d been down

But she fixed me

Through a rave

Through an invite

to a party with my peers

my queers

a party with my kind

my kind of party

My heart revived

My spirit lifted

and here we are

seven years later

we’re still here.

i’m still here

seven months on the calendar to prepare.

seven years to prove I could do this.

I could

I can

but, not without her

not without Gaga

you cannot argue

with the results

that night.

Cravings didn’t quit simply because the drinking stopped. My mind cleared, but the urges continued. They’d quiet, grow calm, lull into complacency, and then make a boisterous return at the least optimal moments: guns blazing, sirens blaring, speakers blasting,….SCREAMING at me to take a sip. And I could have. Alcohol was always present. I was surrounded by it, left alone with it. I wanted it. But, I fought back. I was determined. Grit & Guts. I refused to lose. Of course, it’s not that simple. This battle never lets up and even strong people break. We’re hardened, but we’re human and it’s an insatiable hunger. Addiction is hell.

But, minutes turned into hours, hours into days, days into weeks…I felt empowered. I earned that. It became important to me to stay dry, to stay sober. A serious goal, rather than a passing phase. It was no longer a novelty, but a need. So I found ways to cope when the hankerings hit.

I’d hook up my hound.

I’d pop in my headphones.

I’d turn on the iPod.

head out the door.

And I’d walk.

far.

fast.

without direction

but never directionless

I’d just walk

until it passed

The album at the heart of this essay, Lady Gaga’s ARTPOP, was always my soundtrack. It never wavered. It served a purpose. Sometimes it’d be from start to finish, but more frequently I’d have the song, “Dope,” on repeat.

Lyrics:

Cork’s off, it’s on
The party’s just begun
I promise
This drink is my last one
I know I fucked up again
Because I lost my only friend
God forgive my sins
Don’t leave me, I
Oh I will hate myself until I die

My heart would break without you
Might not awake without you
Been hurting low, from living high for so long
I’m sorry, and I love you
Sing with me, “Bell Bottom Blue”
I’ll keep on searching for an answer cause I need you more than dope

I need you more than dope

Toast one last puff
And two last regrets
Three spirits and
Twelve lonely steps
Up heaven’s stairway to gold
Mine myself like coal
A mountain of a soul
Each day, I cry
Oh, I feel so low from living high

My heart would break without you
Might not awake without you
Been hurting low, from living high for so long
I’m sorry, and I love you
Sing with me, “Bell Bottom Blue”
I’ll keep searching for an answer cause I need you more than dope

I need you more
Need you more
I need you more than dope

That song recharged me. It provided me with the strength & resolve I needed to keep fighting, to keep taking steps, to keep working the steps, to keep going, to keep at it. And in a world where I didn’t actually know anyone else struggling with addiction, those lyrics kept me company. I wasn’t alone because Gaga was always right there with me. She got it. She understood what no one else could. And that mattered. It still matters.

I owe her.

Everything.

the artRAVE got me sober.

ARTPOP kept me sober.

She saved me.

Why her?

Unsure.

But, it happened.

This happened.

It’s all real.

It’s all true.

2,471 days

dry

and counting

thanks to Gaga

and the Little Monsters

who put their paws up

on the 16th of July

you changed the course

of my life

and brought me back

to where I belong

to be continued…

I’ve written enough, really. I could continue. I really could. I want to. But, you get the point. This album means more to me than any other and I’ve always been supportive of it…the aforementioned only scratches the surface.

Pop culture was in art, now art’s in pop culture, in me