Smokeout!

She was very cheerful, and I knew this was going to be a positive experience. She said she knew what I was going through because she too had been a smoker for years and had to also go through quitting.  She knew that it wasn’t going to be easy, and she would be there for me every step of the way.

I was at the Smoking Cessation Clinic in St. Lukes-Roosevelt Hospital, and she was the nurse who was going to change my life.

She gave me some brief counseling and then introduced me to the nicotine patch.  She was going to start me off on a moderate dosage and then change it as we went along, according to my needs.  She asked me when I wanted to start.  From some faraway place I seemed to hear my voice say, “Today!”

What? No. That can’t be right.  That couldn’t be me saying that. I needed my cigarettes.  These were stressful times.  What was I going to do without them? We needed to take a more gradual approach to this situation.

This nurse was too gleeful as she showed me how to apply the patch.  Suddenly, I didn’t like this woman. If I put on that tiny white patch, there was no going back. Everyone knows it’s deadly if you make the mistake of smoking a cigarette while wearing one of those things.  I didn’t want my heart to explode or to turn into ash or any of those other urban legends.  She assured me nothing like that would happen if I slipped up and smoked one cigarette while wearing the patch, but I didn’t fully trust her.  Hadn’t she also been the one to tell me she was there to help? Now she was taking away my precious.

Ironically, I had one cigarette left in my pack. I ran from the hospital, and found a serene place to smoke it. I inhaled slowly, knowing this love affair was at an end.  Ah, precious. I had been smoking for fifteen years.  How did I think I was going to be able to stop?

I was able to get through the rest of the day but it was difficult.  Late that night, I broke.  I tore off the patch and ran from my apartment to the store downstairs.  There, I threw myself on the counter, and I purchased my favorite brand of cigarettes.

Back at home, I put on some soft music, and I lit up.  I inhaled deeply as the theme song to Titanic swelled.  It was heavenly, but I had vowed to stop smoking.  Disgusted with myself, I grabbed the pack and held it to the sky.  “Why can’t I quit you?” I said in my best Jack Twist voice.  I fell on the bed and cried like a thirteen year old girl who just found out the truth about Clay Aiken. 

Okay, so it probably didn’t go down quite as grandly as all that. I tend to have a pretty dramatic memory. 

The next day, I did recommit to quitting. I kept what was left of that pack after my chain-smoking session the night before.  I said it was for emergencies, but it turned out I never lit another one of them. I was getting all the nicotine I needed from my trusty old patch, but I found that the physical act of smoking was just as hard to quit as the inhale itself. I needed that hand to mouth motion. I needed to suck on a filter. So, I walked around with unlit cigarettes dangling from my lips until I no longer needed them.

I was horrified as I began to realize how often a day I used to light up. I reached for my cigarettes first thing in the morning.  I lit up after every meal. When shopping, I wanted to smoke after every store and I smoked en route to every single destination.  I was an addict, but people used to look at me and say, “I didn’t peg you for a smoker.” Well, I had been.  Now, I was proudly joining the ranks on non-smoker.

After a while, I started forgetting to put on the patch.  When I’d realize, I’d panic and run to retrieve one.  Eventually, I forgot to put on the patch, and I forgot to panic.  I had successfully quit smoking.  As time passed it became a challenge to me, a personal contest, to accrue as much non-smoking time as possible.  I’ve heard that it’s harder to quick cigarettes than heroine.  I’d done it, and I’m not the person with the strongest resolve.

When I pass by a smoker and it’s either intoxicating and tempting, or the most disgusting thing in the world to me.  Go figure.  My senses of taste and smell have returned and my smile is white again.  When I stand next to a heavy smoker I think, Oh my God! Did I used to smell like that?  Yes.  Yes, I did.

The American Cancer Society’s Great American Smokeout was a few days ago.  For two years in a row, I didn’t have to feel guilty about not quitting. 

The craving never completely goes away.  It will rise up out of nowhere and for no apparent reason.  It turns out I will never be a non-smoker again.  What I am is a successful former smoker, and that’s far better than a pack a day habit at $13 a pack.

I guess they’re not so precious after all.

Ms. Irene

The television at Galaxy Diner was left on. I’m guessing that no one had ever been assigned the duty of turning it off, since Galaxy never closes.  It’s the 24 hour go to spot for a late night, after hours nosh.  But, it was closed.  In fact, up and down 9^th Avenue, restaurants and shops had shuttered up and taped their windows in preparation for Hurricane Irene.

“Oh law!  I heard Irene is about to whup up on New York.  Do you have a place to go?” My friend JL was texting me from the Carolinas.

“Yes,” I answered, “my favorite bar.”

“Be careful,” he warned.

I realized that my out of state friends were concerned about what they were seeing on the news, so I put aside the jovial remarks to assure them that the storm would probably do the most damage on the other side of town, and in low laying areas that were already being evacuated. 

JL was relieved.

“Oh no!  Don’t mess with Ms. Irene,” he texted, “she was one of our neighbors in the projects.  Nobody walked in her yard or bothered her after she had her gin. She chewed tobacco too. She wasn’t like my great grandmother or the other ladies who chewed snuff.”

Point taken.  Ms. Irene was on her way, and she was in a mood.

One by one, the businesses had begun to close, to allow employees to get home to their families before the weather worsened.  The owner of one local store was offering the services of his own car to get his workers home. The MTA had stopped running at noon that day. New York City was shutting down.

Well, almost. Being the city that never sleeps, there was the deli on the corner of 9^th and 46^th that remained open, and bars and restaurants that kept regular hours.  Hurricane parties sprung up around the neighborhood where, of course, they were serving Hurricane cocktails.

We ended up at House of Brews on 46^th Street, a regular hang out. There was a group of us from the neighborhood.  Most of us lived there, while the rest worked in the neighborhood, but had no easy way to get home.  They would be staying with friends in the area, or at the hotel across the street.  We drank, we danced and we sang, as the rain began to run from the sky and the water gathered on the sidewalk.

I was the first to leave the festivities.  I was tired, and I was hungry.  I wasn’t in the mood to prepare anything myself.  So, I decided to walk to Galaxy Diner, where I found no one but the tiny people in the television that had been left on.  Undaunted, I walked on.  This was 9^th Avenue.  Surely someone was serving something, somewhere.

Smiler’s 24 hour Deli was also closing. I didn’t even know Smiler’s had a gate. Although my beloved Galaxy was out of commission, Westway Diner was a trouper. I quickly texted my compadres back at the bar that they had a food option, before ordering up some comfort food –Cheeseburger and fries.  Vacations and natural disasters cancel diets every time.  Once again, I put my head down, and shoulder to the rain and made it home with my treasure.  In such a downpour, an umbrella was sometimes a mere gesture.  I popped in a DVD and settled in for the night.  In the morning, I awakened to a very wet city, but one that was, for the most part, still intact.



9th Avenue NYC after the storm

I sent JL a message, “Although I had much fun at the hurricane party, this side of town didn’t get much hurricane.”

“Ms. Irene was drunk!” He answered. “She got lost.”

I took a walk around the quiet neighborhood.   The usual Sunday Brunchers were missing.  Today, businesses were still closed and only a few stragglers, like me, roamed the empty streets.  Most New Yorkers depended on the MTA, which would not be up and running until the next day, following inspection of the rails and equipment.  This meant that workers living in the outer boroughs would find transportation difficult.

Plans for urban search and rescue were put into play. According to early field reports, some areas indeed suffered extreme flooding and wash outs.  Travel was impossible in some places. 

Although Ms. Irene had downgraded to a tropical storm by the time she hit New York City, she’d still left some major damage to the tri state area.  Ms. Irene had transitioned into what the New Jersey mayor called a “major flooding incident.”

By the time the water dried, there would be over 45 estimated casualties, and about 9 million people left in the dark. Damages reached an estimated $1 billion in the state of New York alone. Irene was declared a federal disaster.

Citizens debated about the amount of precaution the city had taken.  Some said it was too much.  To most of us, we were better off being safe, than sorry.

Cheers,

-Ceddy

9th Avenue NYC the morning after

The Pow Wow

The sun beat down like the tum-tum of the nearby drum, and as incessant, earnest and ancient.  “It’s amazing how something millions of miles away can do something like this,” Marc later said of Kim’s resultant sunburn. 

It’s amazing to me how an indigenous people can, for thousands of years, hold on to the traditions, culture and values of their ancient civilization, despite the blistering trials, changing landscape and brutal exploitation that threatened to rip it from their grasp.

The singers and drummers

I am referring to the more than forty Native American tribes who gathered this past weekend for the 33^rd Annual Thunderbird American Indian Mid-Summer Pow Wow to celebrate and share what they have preserved for generations. 

It was Sunday, the culmination of a three day intertribal festival, which included both traditional and modern food, vendor booths filled with artifacts, crafts and traditional garb, and dance competitions.  Marc, Kim and I took a scenic bus ride that led us away from the urban maze of Manhattan to the lush green of the Queens County Farm Museum in Floral Park where, in a clearing, we watched as representatives from the different tribes dance the traditional powwow dances of their people.

For the past three decades, the Thunderbird Native American Dancers has hosted the event which boasts representation from such tribes as the Cherokee, Aztec, Hopi, Navajo, and many more, arriving from all over the nation and as far away as the Caribbean. It has become New York’s largest, and longest running. The organization is well known in the New York area for offering ongoing services, such as monthly pow wows, craft and language workshops, and the Thunderbird American Indian Dancers Scholarship, to which proceeds from this event are contributed. 

Like the sun, these are a resilient and steadfast people. Their beauty and majesty brought to mind the vague memories of my great-grandmother, who was Cherokee. It made me wonder of my own heritage, as our time together had been brief.  This festival made me wish I’d had a stronger connection.  I admired the joy and enthusiasm of the young people who paraded and danced before me.  I was humbled by the pride and the determination of their guardians who teach generation after generation what had been taught to them by their guardians, and their guardians before, thus making it possible for us to share in these traditions today.

While the festivities had begun with the raising of the American flag, and a song honoring our veterans and soldiers, we were left with the profound words of the Director of the Thunderbird American Indian Dancers and the MC, Louis Mofsie (aka Green Rainbow of Hope Tribe of Arizona, and the Winnebago Tribe of Wisconsin):

“We’ve had the chance to go down to Chinatown and to see the parade and all the Chinese people in their traditional dress and the dragons and the lines … we got to go to the German festival and see them in their traditional German dress…Well, this is our festival.  This is where we get together to sing our traditional songs and to wear our traditional garb.  The only difference is we didn’t come here from another country.  This is our country, and we’ve been here for thousands of year.”

As far as I can tell, we’ll be here thousands more.

Cheers,

-Ceddy

This is how to keep a heritage alive!

Heritage of Pride: March of the Misfits!

This past week was Gay Pride Week in New York City and many other cities across the nation. It's history stretches back to that fateful night in June 1969 when a group of gays, lesbians, drag queens, and other so-called “misfits” had enough of social injustice and police brutality and decided to stand up for themselves at the Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street.

From there, has grown an annual march, and a week of education and celebration that has spread to every major city in the country, and to the world.  But, I knew nothing of the Stonewall, or of equality when I was a little boy in my small, traditional Southern town. I only knew that I was a misfit, and that misfits were easy targets.

It is not easy for a child to endure the confusing metamorphosis that is puberty. It is made even more difficult by the taunting and bullying that may accompany it. I was teased as a child. I was teased a lot. I was called “the slickster” because my hair wasn’t cool enough, and “sophisticated lady” because I was quiet and effeminate, and a slew of other derogatory terms (sissy, queer, faggot, among others) designed to tear down my self esteem and keep me in my misfit place. I was shoved, threatened, and even beaten up once or twice. There were times when it became so cruel and personal, it seemed unbearable.

I wasn’t alone. It was happening in schools all across the nation, just like mine, to children just like me.

I thought about this as I stood on Sunday, across the street from the legendary Stonewall Inn, watching the Gay Pride Parade. There was an extra electric charge in the air because just a couple of days before, New York had just become the sixth state to allow gay marriage. Couples marched with signs declaring their engagements and people dressed as brides and grooms, danced in the street and posed for photographs.It was magical.

Heritage of Pride 2011

But, what resonates with me most at these events are organizations such as Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG) who march with their signs declaring, “I Love My Gay Son/Daughter,” and the organizations who promise to look after and protect the young people, such as the It Gets Better Project and The Trevor Project.  These organizations exist because our society still has much to learn, even after all these decades.  This year, I was especially thrilled to see a group of proud children wearing t-shirts with slogans such as “Turkey Baster Baby,” marching with their misfit moms and dads.

These are the images and messages that give hope to those who are still living a life they believe will never be anything but oppressed. I love knowing that most of the people watching and marching proudly have once felt the sting of being an outsider or a misfit. There is solidarity in coming together, and in there is pride in that solidarity.

Not only are they delivering the statement that they are proud. They are sending a message to those watching that it is okay to be proud. Be proud of what makes you different, because all of us are different in some way.  Be proud of the people who have come before you, paving the way to a time that is now more accepting than their own had been. Be proud of where you’ve been, so that you may be proud of where you’re going.

Part of my personal pride lies in reality that I was able to survive that frightening period of childhood that I thought would last forever. One day, I looked in the mirror and realized that I am all the things they said I was.  My hair is slick sometimes. I am sophisticated. Sometimes, like in the show I just finished, I am a lady. So what? As I watched the colorful revelry of the Heritage of Pride parade, I thought how fortunate I am to belong to such a dynamic, versatile and resilient population. We are misfits, and we are proud.  Today, if a bully walks up to me, I’ll spit in his eye. Well, perhaps I won’t spit. That’s a bit unrefined. But, I will hit back.

Manila Luzon of Rupaul's Drag Race at Heritage of Pride 2011

Still, it saddens me that not all of the misfits are able to share in a Pride celebration. You see, there are many children who do not get to make the journey to adulthood to find that it does get better. They become victims of  our bigoted society, often at the hands of other children, like themselves. Being a certain type of person still has such a stigma in some areas that individuals are forced to either live in silence, or suffer the cruel treatment that is born of ignorance.

We should be proud of our accomplishments both socially and politically. But, we should not forget that there are still many miles to go, and so many of us to save along the way. So, whether you’re in combat boots, or running shoes, ballerina slippers or six inch sequined high heels, march on brave misfits, march on.

 Officer Livingston (NYPD) was there to serve and protect, but quickly became a crowd favorite.

Do...Re...Mi

America’s got glee, talent, idols and a special “X” factor. Everybody loves or wants to be a singing sensation. Why not? It’s fun. There seems to be an onslaught of reality contests, shows and movies geared toward music.  That’s because we’re interested again.

In the last decade, the shift in supply and demand for musical entertainment is evidenced by the popularity of such shows as Glee and American Idol.  Even those who scorn pop music have an outlet in television shows like Rock Star, and country fans can root for or aspire to become a Nashville Star.

While the popularity of karaoke declined in previous years, the recent resurgence suggests that people once again have something to sing about. Those who prefer to rock out in anonymity have the option of becoming a Guitar Hero in the privacy of their very own home arenas.

All this singing and dancing is good for us.  Scientists are studying the effect music has on mental health and immunity (http://www.sciencedaily.com/), while we are searching for ways to satisfy our inner Gleeks.  I’m not suggesting that you break into a musical number in the steam room at your gym or at the elevator at work (oh, golly gee but that would be swell), but wasn’t it a kinder, gentler world that clamored for new cinematic releases filled with stars singing and dancing through story lines?  Yes, the movie musical is also making a not so stealthy comeback with hearty receptions for films like Chicago, Rent and Hairspray.  This year, movie makers made a pointe of appealing to dance enthusiasts with Black Swan.

As we spill out of the sheet music closet and into the streets, it becomes contagious.  Groups actually do break into song in unexpected places around New York City like museums, shopping centers and even Time Square (http://www.breakintosong.com/). Maybe that steam room number isn’t such a bad idea after all.

(Promo shot for Plan 9 From Outer Space by Frank Cwiklik www.dm-theatrics.com)

When I was a little boy, I dreamed of being on Star Search.  Alas, that dream never came true.  But I still have a song in my heart and a spring in my step because I know I can be a rock star at a neighborhood karaoke bar any day of the week. I hope I see you there.

Cheers,

Ceddy



The Bright, Optimistic Young Man

There was once a bright, optimistic young man who lived a life of excitement in a grand metropolis. One morning, he stood on the vibrant platform of a subway station, awaiting the train that would speed him onward to the adventures of the day. Suddenly, as the speeding train approached, he felt himself heave forward, onto the perilous rails of the train track. He reached desperately for the friend that had been standing beside him on the platform, but to no avail.  He simply could not reach.

At the last possible moment he hoisted himself onto the platform.  “This is a dangerous situation,” he thought to himself. “I’m going to have to leave this city if I want to survive.” And he did.

One afternoon, the bright, optimistic young man was enjoying a walk through a quiet village town.  He came upon a bridge built above a rapidly rolling river. Crossing the bridge, he enjoyed the sound of the surging water. Suddenly, he lost his balance and sailed over the railing of the bridge into the water below.  As he fought against being swallowed by the waves, he reached for his friend, who still stood on the bridge above, but to no avail.  He simply could not reach.

Finally, he grabbed on to a nearby branch and pulled himself to the safety of the shore. As he struggled to regain his breath, he thought, “This situation is as dangerous as the last.  I’m going to have to leave this village if I want to survive.” And he did.

Determined to survive, the bright, optimistic young man climbed high into the serene mountains. Early in the evening, he stood on the edge of a cliff to take in the awesome view that spread before him. As suddenly as before, he lost his footing and slipped from the edge of the cliff.  He caught himself before falling to the jagged rocks below. As he hung helplessly, high above the world, he reached for the friend who had been standing on the cliff beside him, but to no avail. He simply could not reach. 

“Why doesn’t my friend reach out to me?” He thought to himself desperately.  He remembered that each time he had fallen he had pulled himself to safety while his friend stood idly by. The dazzling city, the bucolic village and the majestic mountains had not betrayed him.  They had been constant and true to their natures…but the friend had not. He realized that, each time he had fallen, he had been pushed.

You see, not all relationships and situations are beneficial to our well being. Some are destructive. We must be able to recognize when we are being taken advantage of and when we are being abused. Too often we allow this behavior to happen because we are blinded by friendship and love. We try to justify the other person’s behavior because, in our hearts, we truly believe the situation will change. In our minds, however, we know that it will not. We all have the ability to accept, to love and to forgive. We forget that we also have the ability to walk away.

Finally, the bright, optimistic young man mustered enough strength to pull himself back onto the cliff.  He dusted himself off and he walked away, leaving his friend behind. 

“I’m going to have to find some new friends if I want to survive,” he thought to himself. And he did.

Cheers,

Ceddy

Take Me To Your Leader

NASA/courtesy of nasaimages.org

I finally got around to watching Avatar and I can see what the hype was about.  James Cameron accomplished what he set out to do in terms of action, special effects and theme.  By the closing credits, I found myself entertained, exhilarated …and totally ticked off. This wasn’t just a foray into the world of science fiction and mythology. It was too accurate a portrayal of mankind’s historical tendency to destroy in the guise of progress.

Astronomers have recently announced the discovery of yet another cluster of planets orbiting a sun like star.  It is inconclusive whether or not any of these planets, including a small earth like orb, are life sustainable. The quest continues.

We are one step closer to actually making the fantasy of discovering life on other planets a reality. This may not be a good thing.  I suppose it depends on how we choose to explore the Final Frontier.  I wonder if we’ll play nice.  But, as history shows, just because we play nice doesn’t mean we don’t take a few toys that don’t belong to us at the end of the day.  After all, humankind has mistreated a few playmates right here on Third Rock.

In real life, many indigenous people did not rise to conquer as the Na'vi tribe of Avatar.  The indigenous tribes of the Americas, for example, did not welcome the new settlers, nor make a willing gift of their ancestral lands. In real life, they did not live long, and they did not prosper.  We have enslaved millions, and attempted to eradicate entire races and cultures, using religion, science and prejudice to fuel mass hysteria to legitimize and justify our behavior. At the end of the day, the actors in our science fiction fantasies have a chance to go home. The people in our history books did not.

Human beings have long had a nasty habit of discovering places that are already long inhabited and destroying others in favor of our own gain.  In our quest for greatness, we just Manifest Destiny all over the place.  Survival of the fittest long ago disintegrated into ruthless aggression and greed.  We are a smart species, and have learned appreciation of the varying cultures of our world, and to respect and treat ethically our fellow human beings.  Meanwhile, as someone recently reminded me, ongoing skirmishes and military activity across the globe indicate that we have simply learned how to mask our intentions, but the intentions remain the same. Like children, jealous of a neighbor’s toys, the ruthlessness prevails. 

But, I subscribe to optimism. It is sometimes our greatest weapon against repeating the sins of the past.  We must maintain the hope that, as we move toward exploring Terra Incognita, we boldly go as we have not gone before—with genuine peace and reverence.

How will we approach our new neighbors? Will we board the Enterprise bearing welcome baskets and home baked pies; or will they arrive first in a shiny Trojan horse filled with shiny beads, pretty blankets and promises of brotherhood.  Whose destiny will manifest first. Will life imitate art imitate life?  

Maybe Avatar is a veiled warning against repeating one’s history. Maybe it’s just entertainment. The questions linger, and we are still light years away from knowing.

Cheers,
-Ceddy

Beam Me Up...

My friend Magen and I are excited about the invention of 3D TV. Actually, I’m slightly nervous about inadvertently creating a Nightmare on Ninth Avenue by switching on a Freddy Krueger movie and Magen’s excited at the thought of how amazing 3D porn must be on 3D TV. Let’s face it, it’s probably very amazing!

Doesn’t the new invention usually trump the predecessor?  We lost interest in centerfolds when we discovered video.  We stopped stashing video when we discovered we could log on to get off.  Naturally, 3D would be the bigger, better, autostereoscopic deal. Right? Such is the evolution of technology.

Each day, ruins of ancient civilizations are newly uncovered to reveal how they lived and what tools and technology were at their disposal.  It’s a constant reminder of how we were able to drag ourselves up from our primitive beginnings to walk, to run, to drive, to fly.  From the crank of a Victrola to the download of an mp3, each new invention piggybacks off of an older, less sophisticated one.  I might not be typing this article today without the development of the typewriter in the 1800s.

CREDIT: "Alexander Graham Bell at the opening of the long-distance line from New York to Chicago," 1892. Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress. Reproduction Number LC-G9-Z2-28608-B.

I’m lucky enough to have witnessed the launch of a few of our civilization’s most recent great inventions.  I was born in the 70s, raised in the 80s and entered adulthood in the 90s. Thus, I lived in a world without cell phones, DVD players and home computers. The only tablet was my Etch-A-Sketch, and I found hours of enjoyment listening to radio mix tapes on my cassette Walkman.

I fondly remember the flashing green letters against the infinite darkness of the computer screen , the exciting beep of my pager and, despite having been there from the beginning, I’m still a terrible video game player.

The twenty year old Assistant at my day job has never seen a real, live answering machine.  In her, such things may as well belong to a lost civilization, like eight track players, rotary phones and, soon to be (deep sigh of regret) books.

I fully embrace advancement. I do.  Some things, however, are irreplaceable.  Searching the World Wide Web from the palm of my hand is truly amazing. But, the crackle of a needle placed into the groove of a record, and the musty smell of pages that have been on a book shelf for far too long, make me melt.

Another unsettling realization is that while our technological advancements enhance our lives, they also increase our capacity to destroy.  The same types of inventions that allow us to reach out to one another in social camaraderie across vast distances, also make it possible to eliminate entire nations with the press of a button. We must be wise in our knowledge.  The future, if we’re careful, could be an amazing place to live.

I’m excited to see what the techno geniuses will come up with next.  I’m actually waiting for someone to fully develop Holodeck technology.  In the meantime, I’m off to find someone with a 3D TV to watch 3D porn with.

Cheers,

-Ceddy



Uniforms

A few weeks ago, while doing background work for the film Tower Heist, quite a few of us were caught in the trap of constantly forgetting that the NYPD officers in charge of crowd control were not actually officers in charge of crowd control.  They were actors.  Not only were they extras like ourselves, but admittedly, we were more dependent on them than common sense dictates.  Why would police officers have answers to questions like, “when are we breaking for lunch?”

It was the uniform.  We were subconsciously drawn to it, and we gave them more responsibility. In the spirit of make-believe, they accepted. We do this everyday.

A businessman walks into a board room wearing a business suit because that is universally recognized as professional attire.  Immediately the people around him know that he means business.  It is up to him to continue that impression once the meeting is in session.  Were he to attend in a clown suit, it would be a different type of meeting altogether. 

How we present ourselves to the world, is how we are accepted.  Let’s face it, if you dress like a slob, you will be treated like a slob. Many people subscribe to the belief that “what you see is what you get.” Like those actors, you may be mistaken for something you’re not, and assigned a role you do not wish to play.   

For all of our virtuous insistence about judging what’s inside vs. judging what’s outside, we are constantly judging books by their covers- on the subway, in the grocery store, as we’re walking down the street. We first respond to what we see.

Despite the pressure, be true to yourself. What you put on will not change who you are.  Dressing up like a lion will not make you a lion when you’re really an armadillo at heart. Wearing that tiara to Duane Reade will not make you royalty, no matter how shiny. Trust me on that one. It’s not about designer labels or sewing your paycheck to your bum. But a neat and clean appearance– whatever your personal style, will make a better impression when you present yourself to the world. If you’re an armadillo, be a well groomed armadillo.

Our police friends were acting; playing dress up. We must play dress up everyday.  We wear uniforms to work, and black tie to the opera; sweats to the gym, and jerseys to games. We dress up for occasions, and we dress down for leisure.

No matter what you wear on it, be comfortable in your own skin. That’s the most important uniform of all, because being who you are is the most important role you’ll play.

Cheers!

-Ceddy

Weekend in Savannah

In the season of barren trees, coming from snow laden New York City to a land filled with pockets of greenery in manicured squares, streets lined with palm trees and dripping with Spanish moss was a January delight.  That’s what we found over MLK weekend when my friend Jermaine and I decided to visit The Coastal Empire, the Garden City: Savannah, Georgia.

She was founded in the 1700s, out of the marsh and wilderness of rural Georgia by a British General (James Oglethorpe) and an Indian Chief (Tomochichi, leader of the Yamacraw tribe) – a diamond in the rough.  The Downtown Landmark Historic District is made up of twenty two squares, each named for historical figures and contributors to the development of Georgia and Savannah. We decided to take them in the day after our arrival, when the temperature reached fifty three degrees, a vacation in itself.

One attraction of interest to Jermaine was The Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, so we turned our steps in that direction.  Along the way, we came across Colonial park, Savannah’s original cemetery, containing markers dating from 1750 to 1853, when it closed as a cemetery due to overcrowding.

In later years, the city would remove most of the walls surrounding the cemetery and convert it into a park commemorating those buried there – Savannah’s original citizens. I found the tombstones that were attached to remaining wall interesting.  I learned that these orphan stones were displaced during renovations and now, to me, seemed to hold a special place in the park. We continued on down walkways with sea shells mixed into the concrete like nuts into brownies and eventually reached our destination.

The Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, the oldest Roman Catholic Church in Georgia, was established in the late 1700s by Catholic French settlers and has been built and rebuilt over the centuries into the wonderfully ornate landmark it is today. I was particularly drawn to the elaborate statues depicting the Stations of the Cross, beginning with the condemnation of Jesus Christ at the hands of Pontius Pilate, and ending with his being laid to rest in a tomb.  Here, Jermaine discovered the panoramic feature of his camera, which allowed him to better capture the scope of the church’s majesty.  Was it divine intervention? Perhaps.

Cathedral photograph by Jermaine Evans

We continued our exploration of the historic district, pausing in this square or that to listen to the chatter of squirrels, and the occasional wail of a Jazz musician on saxophone.

“What are you folks trying to find?” a helpful native stopped to ask.  “A little of everything,” I answered.  “Well,” he said, “Don’t miss Forsyth Park. Go up one more square and make a left.  Careful, if you go too far up, you’ll miss it.  Have a good day!”

The people there were as charming as the architecture.  There was something deeply genuine about their helpfulness and concern that extended far beyond the hospitality of people like Jennifer at the hotel front desk. You could argue that she was paid to be courteous.  But everyone else seemed to also say, “Welcome to my town. Let me show it off for you.”

Jermaine and I separated for a while, and I headed toward the Park. When I veered away from my path into an even more residential area, I was struck by the serenity. Where were the people who lived in these beautiful homes? Where was the bustle? From far away, I could hear the tinkling of wind chimes and, what could only be, the steady up and down creaking of a seesaw. Although the buildings became less ornate, there was still neatness to the structures and their relationship to one another that made them belong.

Under the warmth of the sun, the cold melted into what seemed like a beautiful spring day in January as I reached the park. In a city devoted to memorial parks, Forsyth Park is Savannah’s Grand Dame, spreading from the Victorian District all the way to the Historic District.  Forsyth Park was originally named Forsyth Place for former Governor John Forsyth, the 33^rd Governor of Georgia in the 1840s. 

I entered at the north entrance, and was greeted by the popular Forsyth Fountain.  People and pets peppered the great lawn of the park. I came across a wedding party, taking post nuptial photographs around the fountain.  They’d chosen a perfect day. The sunlight played in the folds of the bridesmaid’s bright canary wraps. They were abuzz with excitement.  I wanted to get close enough to snap photos of my own, but I wasn’t brave enough to intrude. Instead, I took shots of the fountain itself, and my other surroundings.

While I am a loyal subject of New York City’s much larger Central Park, I am respectful of Forsyth’s place in the city’s history.  Many of the areas that make up the park were once military training grounds. It is one of the more popular attractions for Savannah tourists.  I was very grateful to that native for sharing with me his pride and joy.  After a few more photographs of the beautiful surroundings, I retired to the hotel while Jermaine attended evening Mass at St. John’s.

We were blessed with a glorious view overlooking the Savannah River. We had arrived the evening before and, after checking in, headed down the rough cobblestone walkways to nearby River Street.

Our main objective was to catch the show at Club One, famous for its regular performer, and star of the film Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, the Lady Chablis. Although we were aware that she wouldn’t be performing this weekend, we were sure the cabaret show would be top notch.  We had time to kill, and we made a brief stop at Wet Willies, before we came across Chuck’s Bar, partially tucked into an alley on River Street.

The crowd was a mix of different ages and races, straight and gay alike.  It was divey in that good way a place can be divey –comfortable, neighborly and lived-in, without pretension. 

The bartender was lively and talkative. “Honey, that show is tired,” she confided to us when asked what time the cabaret at Club One started. She dished about the decline in local nightlife entertainment, and shared that she didn’t understand the fuss over “that falling down coke whore” that was the main attraction. Priceless. Furthermore, she’d had an altercation at the door years ago, and refused to go back.  She said we were welcome to waste our time if we wanted to.  Show time was at Midnight. Once again, we made our way over the cobblestone and up the very steep stone stairs to find our way to Jefferson Street and Club One. 

I was with Kitty LeClaw’s Road Kill Tour the last time I visited Savannah.  We performed at Club One during that visit to a crowd eager for outside entertainment. When we arrived this time, it was suspiciously quiet for a Friday night.  What was even more disappointing was that it stayed that way.

True to the earlier review, the show was a bit lackluster.  It offered nothing new in drag entertainment.  Those were the same routines I’d been seeing for years.  In the Kitty Le Claw show, years before, one of the drag queens would strip off most of her costume while lip syncing to “Man I Feel Like a Woman.”  By the end of the number, she looked like something from mythology – a man/drag amalgamation. So, it didn’t impress me when one of the drag queens in Friday night’s show did the exact same thing to a different country song.  Had she caught our act all those years ago?

The show ended just as we decided to check out the dance floor.  Downstairs, two tragic go-go boys were slung atop boxes, grinding for all their worth in their disco Underoos.  Bless their hearts. The crowd was so sparse; they were trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents.  We didn’t stay long. 

Saturday night was different.  Jermaine and I ran into friends of his from Charlotte, NC and we ducked into Venus de Milo’s, where they were having their Trailer Trash Party. We passed boys in mullet wigs and girls in plaid as we headed to the upstairs lounge area.  Being a New Yorker during a bed bug epidemic, I was a bit wary of the comfy sofas that awaited us in the dimly lit area. But, I relaxed and remembered that I wasn’t in New York, and I settled in to converse with two graphic artists, a couple, visiting from Florida.  He’d once lived in Williamsburg, and she’d once lived in Atlanta, so we made an instant connection. Later, we returned to River Street to say our good-byes to Chuck’s Bar before retiring to rest up for the long journey home.

They say that when General Sherman destroyed Georgia during the Civil War, he spared Savannah for her intoxicating beauty. Others say it’s simply because the city surrendered.  Whatever the answer to the debate, the city has been able to maintain so much of its historical beauty and structure. It was a charming place to visit, and a much needed respite from my snowy everyday life.  Next time, I’ll have to take in a tour of the haunted places and mansions.

Oh! Did I mention there are no open container laws on River Street?  I’ll come back y’all, ya hear?

Cheers!

-Ceddy

Remembering Dr. King

When I was a boy, my mother told me that my Junior High School was once called Eastside High School. Eastside High had been the all black high school in Bennettsville, South Carolina during the days of racial segregation. 

I couldn't imagine being subjected to such a practice! I attended school with my friend Billy, who was white. Who would I have lunch with?  One day, while learning about the Civil Rights Movement in class, it dawned on me that it had only been twenty two years since segregation had ended.  A generation ago, Billy and I would probably have not been friends.  Life would have been quite different.

Today, we celebrate the life and legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., a driving force in the American Civil Rights Movement.  Using civil disobedience and his brilliant oratory skills, he became a leading figure in the nation’s struggle for equality. His iconic “I Have a Dream” address was delivered to 250,000 gatherers and is a lasting inspiration. He remains the youngest male recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize, granted in 1964, and is a role model to countless individuals who strive to make the world a better place.

He was one of the leaders whose efforts inspired the passing of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which was designed to bring an end to discrimination in the United States, and protect the rights of all Americans.  Jim Crow’s segregation policies were abolished. In the years to come, black children (like me) would receive the same education in the same classrooms as white children.

My friend Jermaine says he gets to live Dr. King’s dream each day. He is a highly educated teacher and department chair in a racially diverse school district where he is respected for his professionalism and talent. He also happens to be African American.    Things certainly have come a long way since Eastside High School.

Yet, almost fifty years later, our society still has wounds to heal and behaviors to unlearn.  We are almost free, at last.

The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee on April 4, 1968.  He left behind a legacy of hope.

Thank you, Dr. King, for working so tirelessly toward equality in a world that couldn’t see past black and white. May your legacy live on. Because of people like you, I am able to be the man that I am.

I am judged by the content of my character, not the color of my skin.

Cheers!

-Ceddy
Image appears courtesy of the Open Clip Art Library (www.openclipart.org)

The Fuerza Bruta Experience



Last night, I had the fortune of being invited to experience Fuerza Bruta: Look Up, the energetic performance art piece by Argentinean creator Diqui James.

The event took place in a large space in the downstairs area of the Daryl Roth Theatre on East 15^th Street.  Thick, steamy fog rolled across the floor to greet us, filling the space like a night club. Lighting fixtures loomed above, and an open tech booth jutted from a side wall for all to see before darkness engulfed the room. 

It began with instructions: “Touch set pieces gently with the palm of your hand.” From the darkness, the lone figure of a man in white appeared.  He walked, slowly at first, the music keeping pace with his pulsing stroll.  He moved faster and faster, before bolting into a frantic run.  With him, we raced forward into a circus of movement and imagination that segued from one spectacle to another.  Aerial acrobats raced like Atalanta and Hippomenes against a billowy silver backdrop.  Dancers attempted to resist the seduction of dance before succumbing to its pleasure. Party goers literally tear the room off the place while celebrating.

At one point, the troupe entered the audience for a Carnivale communion of sorts, ceremoniously charging the crowd with the spirit of dance, engulfing us in a swirl of white confetti and movement inducing dance beats. A DJ in a powdered wig and ruffled shirt delivered intoxicating rhythms from a high, distant booth. The music demanded attention, and the crowd gave it, jumping and dancing with the performers.

For me, the highlight of the experience was the aquatic ballet that began in a tank suspended high above the audience. One, then two, and finally four figures appeared in the shallow pool of water in the sky.  Like underwear clad school girls at a mermaid slumber party, they alternated between sliding and wildly slamming into the water, simulating graceful swimming and then fiercely crashing waves.



Slowly, the pool descended to a position inches above our heads.  The mermaid closest to us made eye contact with the man to my left.  She smiled and pressed her hand against the transparent bottom of the tank.  Slowly, the man reached up and pressed his hand to hers.  She smiled again, and “swam” away.  Throughout the room, this special moment was shared as the mermaids glided silently above the awestruck observers.  

Fuerza Bruta means Brute Force.   The kinetic energy of choreographed dance, the forceful wash of white light and the demanding blasts of air from the fans high above gave way to the tenderness of the water dance.  It was the calm before the storm of music and excitement filled the space once again.

Finally, three figures emerged, and seemed to race against, from, and to life, time and space itself, before being faced with a tall foreboding staircase.  Their frenzy gained momentum as they climbed up…up…up to be confronted by a daunting drop on the other side of a door.  As expected, they jumped …and continued to run!

Appropriately, the evening ended in revelry as the performers once again joined their audience to dance in an indoor rain storm.

I never knew such an amazing experience was tucked away on 15^th Street, far away from the bright lights of the theatre district - shining brightly on its own. If art stimulates, and amazes, encourages and inspires, then Fuerza Bruta is definitely art.

Actor/comedian Jim Carey, in town to tape Saturday Night Live, was also in attendance, and seemed to enjoy the show as well.  His smile was a broad as my own.

Sincerely,

-Ceddy