Almost like a Medici...

I shipped my wife off to NYC yesterday. Or rather, she shipped herself off. I was in Canada at the time. Still here, for a few more hours. New York City itself is no threat--she lived there for 10 years. The troublesome thing is our marriage. That is 3 years old and has always taken place in Atlanta. Granted, during the final 3 months of our engagement, we had the same arrangement (down to me living in my sisters' basement, as is again the case), so there is precedent. But this time, it's open-ended. There is, as of yet, no return ticket. If things go well and our finances hold up, she could stay for 2 months or more. If she is cast in a show during that time (which is really the point of the trip), that time period could stretch from 3-6 months at least.
The truth is, I see many reasons why I think this could work. I'm a solitary person, and a bit of a workaholic, so staying alone for awhile and working 2 jobs sounds rather appealing. Rachel is a people person who thrives off of performance and interaction, so between auditions, casts and audiences, and the sheer volume of people who are constantly in your face out there, she has much to occupy herself with. It's those reflective times I wonder about, those alone-in-bed-and-can'tsleep-times. It's the Can v. Should debate, which, if I listened to the generations preceding me, would always end convincingly with 'should' victorious. I won't deign to enter the debate here, but I will offer my thoughts on the matter:

Rachel spent many years in New York in a repeated cycle of auditioning for, being cast in, and turning down shows. This happened in part because she belonged to a religious organization that presumed to insert its members into the lives of its other members to the tune of advice, strong advice, coercion and manipulation (you see, when someone has surrendered themselves to God's will, 'God's will' can be stretched to include the reformatting and regulating of a multitude of behaviors). The primary problem with this is that God himself is perhaps the most staunch proponent of the Free Will argument. One of the great things about being able to make up your own mind about things is that you not only get to develop the process by which your entire existence will be appraised, but if things don't turn out great, you have the opportunity to learn and have no one to blame but yourself for the outcomes. But I digress.
I had mentioned 'in part' because I don't fully blame the organization for her choices as they were, after all, made by her. The end result, however, is a deep-rooted bitterness which thrives in her to this day. And so, these are the things I weigh in my mind:
Her talent, which is sizable
Her Drive, which is diluted, but is sterling beneath the years of dross
Her Passion; she is only truly happy when performing
Her Bitterness, which breaks my heart
Her Age; she will not enjoy youth, or at least 'stage' youth, much longer)
Our Means; aside from the random babysitting work she picked up, I am able to work both my job and her job, and am well compensated in both
Our Station; we have yet to start a family or even purchase a home--this may be the least tethered point in our lives for the next 20 years

The reality of it is, it's not 'now or never'. It's 'now or not for a very long time'. And, in the now v. very long time debate, despite what convincing and decisive input might be shared by the preceding generations and religious organizations, I am inclined heavily to fall in favor of the 'now'.

The Last Hand...

This is the title of the eulogy I had planned to write for my grandfather, nearly as far back as I can remember. I think the idea of a eulogy itself came from seeing my father speak at his grandfathers funeral . It was one of the few moments in my young life that I remember being overcome emotionally. My typical reaction to emotional stresses is to suppress them (still is, really). The title itself came from the many games I played with my grandfather: fish, rummy, then later, canasta and hearts (we never played war--perhaps he had gotten his fill of that in France). Underneath it, though, I always wondered when the last hand would be. Probably a healthy appraisal of mortality for a youngster, now that I think about it. To be honest, I don't really remember the 'last hand' we ever played. In his final years, he took to Parcheesi and I took to the road. I was able to visit him a few months before he passed, and we spoke almost daily for weeks on the phone up until his final days.
In preparation for the memorial service, I had jotted down some notes on what to say, but never fully committed myself to text. (The same thing happened with my wedding vows--I had written 5 points on a napkin that I never looked at, and consequently don't really remember what I said). What I write next, then, is a combination of what I said, what I had intended to say, and what I meant about my grandfather:
Theodore J. Berry was the complete man. A man who, unlike his middle initial, stood for many things. The Bible says that the righteous man will be blessed with a long life and will live to see his children's children (or child, in this case--I'm carrying the torch alone for this generation). This is one of the best deals God offers down here, and my grandfather had been given the deluxe addition. In almost 9 decades, he had proven himself to be many things:
A farmer (by birth, not by preference)
A musician (drums, and let me mention, a paid musician)
A soldier (shipped to France, lost, found, injured, repaired, returned)
A devoted husband (63 years, y'all)
A mechanic (the job which got him off the farm, helped him meet his wife, and led him to 37 years of work with GM, who at the time, was still hiring Americans)
A devoted father (2 healthy children, still healthy. The man never took a promotion at work if it meant he couldn't leave work behind at 5pm and go be with his family)
A talented craftsman (stained glass art, whittling, I even saw him turn an apple into a swan once)
A survivor (at least 3 strokes, at least 3 heart attacks, prostate cancer; the man lay in a French foxhole for 24 hours, his legs ribboned by shrapnel, and never used a cane until a few months before he passed; he was in the process of surviving nearly a year of kidney failure and bone marrow cancer when a final stroke took him slowly and painlessly away. I picture God saying 'All right, Ted, point made, you're tough--hey, Jesus and I are starting a 4-hand Euchre league and Moses needs a partner...)

He taught me many things, as I reflect. He taught me faith and conviction. He taught me how to take care of your responsibilities: family, home, work. He taught me to always be willing to learn and try something new, whether it's a craft or a group or a vacation spot. I'd say the most important thing he taught me was how to eat nutty donuts on a paper plate so that when the nuts eventually fall off, you can fold the plate and shoot them into your mouth like a slide. I thought it was revolutionary, considering how much effort could be spent in corralling and collecting the errant nuts. Maybe that stuck in my mind because my mother and grandmother were less than pleased with his sharing that technique with me (something my grandmother would no doubt have called 'ignert'). In many ways, he was a father figure to me--catching me in many of those awkward child lies and behaviors, disapproving and shaming them out of me all at once. Whereas I saw my father every other weekend growing up, I saw my grandfather closer to every other day--you calculate the impact.
Anyway, those are some thoughts on one of my heroes. I can't say I'll thwart career ambition as successfully as he did, or lay my life on the line for some great cause, or prove as artistic and handy as he was. I will, however, should I have a a son, give him the middle name of J, which will stand for nothing. But I can only hope then that he, like his namesake, does.

I figured Elton wasn't going to do it, so...

Primetime TV Slut

Goodbye Vicki Lynn
Though I never knew you well
You had the guts to expose yourself
As the network ratings fell
They crawled out of the woodwork
Men with cameras and bulging eyes
They promised you stardom
And made a fortune from your size

And it seems to me you lived your life
Like a primetime TV slot
You never reached the pinnacle
of being talented and hot
And I would have probably liked you
When I was a kid
Your brain cells burned out long before
Your crack pipe ever did

Loneliness was tough
When your centarian husband died
But you had your son to dote upon
And a fortune was supplied
Even when you died
The press still hounded you
They keep finding fathers
There must be 20 if there are two

Goodbye Vicki Lynn
From the insomniacs who've sold their souls
Who see you as nothing more than sexual
Nothing less than Anna Nicole

Back on the horse with some political discourse...

I don't know who Ann Coulter is, but anyone who can get politicians to cry at their own tea party has my vote. It is unfair, though, that she uses her scope to consistantly make such unfortunate comments. I mean, politicians are by the people, for the people, aren't they? They are such pillars of strength, moral integrity, consistancy, and charity. How dare she carelessly drop comment upon any of these beacons of hope and purity, these avatars of justice and democracy. I would suggest they grow up, but my thought is that an adult politician could figure out a way to do much more damage than an infant one, so let's just keep them in the cradle where they belong.
Just imagine. If we let politicians grew up, they might wreck countries instead of cars. They might cut their teeth on American troops instead of action figures. They might blow the GNP on WMP instead of their allowance on a d-a-t-e. They might go from losing toys in the cellar to losing troops behind enemy lines. I say we take a vote before we allow one more would-be politician to pass through adolescence. Or, we could just take the Herodian approach and kill the children of all ivy-leaguers and be done with it. Just a thought.