Vincent Truman's Blog, page 9

“Where the hell am I?” – Helen Keller

Occasionally, in the land of Facebook, very strange, unpredictable and hysterical exchanges suddenly appear out of nowhere.  Similarly, also in the land of Facebook, very strange, unpredictable and fucking crazy exchanges suddenly appear out of nowhere.  The below is an interesting hybrid of both of these phenomena.  Starting first with a random back-and-forth with a friend named Sky – about Helen Keller jokes, of all things – the appearance of a third party, seeking to correct our errant behavior, spun the conversation in wild ways.  And wait for the when the crazy comes out…

 

Sky Palma: status update: “Where the hell am I?”  – Helen Keller

Vincent Truman:  Reminds me of one of my favorite jokes. Q. What happened when Helen Keller fell down the well? A. She screamed her fingers off.

Sky Palma: How come Helen Keller didn’t scream when she fell off the cliff? She was wearing mittens.

Vincent Truman:  How does Helen Keller read porn? She reads with one hand, she moans with the other.

Elsie Bandages: i daresay that Helen Keller could beat you up. but she’s better than that…

Sky Palma: What’s easiest way to beat Helen Keller in a fist fight? They’re all easy. She’s blind, duh.

Vincent Truman:  How did Helen Keller’s parents punish her? They left the plunger in the toilet.

Elsie Bandages: even Patty Duke PLAYING Helen Keller could .

Sky Palma: What do you call a tennis match between Helen Keller and Stevie Wonder? Endless Love.

Vincent Truman:  Why can’t Helen Keller drive? Because she’s a woman.

Sky Palma: Why does Helen Keller hate metaphors? Because she can’t see the writing on the wall.

Vincent Truman:  What is Helen Keller’s favorite color? Corduroy.

Sky Palma: Why can’t Helen Keller have kids? Because she’s dead.

Vincent Truman:  Hey, did you know Helen Keller had a birthday party in her backyard? Neither did she.

Sky Palma: What is Helen Keller’s favorite color? Black.

Vincent Truman:  Why did Helen Keller’s dog commit suicide? You would, too, if your name was ‘Urghrrghrghr’.

Elsie Bandages: Hey! Who graduated cum laude from college, was friends with Mark Twain, wrote a book by the age of 24, and co-founded the ACLU, and yet has to endure- from the grave- angry frustrated no-lifes making fun of her disabilities? Helen Keller!

Sky Palma: Who’s most offended by Helen Keller jokes? Not Helen Keller because she’s dead.

Vincent Truman:  Fair enough point, Ms. B. Reality is key and should be respected. Next time my nephew starts a knock-knock joke with me, I will correct him and point out he is not actually at my door.

Elsie Bandages: so , your goal is for you to be on the same level of humor -sophistication as a kid telling knock knock jokes? ok, go for it. Ok- I’ll treat it as I do when my kid tells a totally lame kid-joke and patronize you with a simple “heh”. Congratulations- You will soon have a popular half-hour special on comedy central. Also- the old “It was a joooke! ” excuse only works if it’s FUNNY. fyi. See, if it’s funny, people cant help but laugh and easily get past any offensiveness, and they dont even get to the point of needing the “it was a joke” excuse. The not- funniness was as offensive as the actual “jokes”.

Vincent Truman:  Humor is pretty subjective, yo. Two guys riffing on obscure and silly Helen Keller jokes was funny to Sky and it was funny to me. Get off your fuckin’ high horse and let others find shit funny.  Further, the knock-knock analogy was apparently not explained well on my part. What I am inferring is that I could suck the funny out of someone else’s joke too – but what do I gain? Moral superiority? The joy at making something less enjoyable for someone else, however fleetingly? That’s not my thing; I wouldn’t do it. Hope I’m clear on this point now.

Elsie Bandages: Again, congratulations on having attained the level of humor of a 4 yr old. I love it when people say whatever they want to say, and then are incredulous and/or pissy when others do the same. How hypocritical. Here’s how it works- you can say whatever you want –and so can I! And it doesnt really make sense to be amazed when someone responds. Amazing, i know..If you would rather not anyone make any kind of response to anything you say, ever, you and Sky might want to save you HILARIOUS jokes for your double date with Helen Keller’s also-deaf twin grandaughters, the Olsen twins, yo.

Vincent Truman:  I hate to clue you in here, but expressing contrary points of view does not hypocrisy make. That, more than any dialogue, is sub-juvenile. You win.

Elsie Bandages: I didnt say that expressing contrary views is hypocritical. I said that it is hypocritical of you to expect to be able to say whatever you want to , but not allow/expect anyone to respond. It’s you who has a problem with someone expressing a view different from your own. Not me.  Rest assured- there was no “funny’ to be sucked out of anything you guys said.

Vincent Truman:  How am I not allowing you to express yourself? What power am I exerting over your free will?  And again, humor is subjective, unless you deem yourself the judge of all things funny.

Elsie Bandages: Did it ever occur to you that your dickish jokes might make someone’s visit to a site such as this “less enjoyable ” , or maybe even way more depressing, for others? No? Oh- but you two are exclusivley the two who are deserving of not having your little reverie interrupted..sorry. You two should use all the copious free time you seem to have on yr hands to create a website devoted to the ridicule of Helen Keller-if there’s not one already- so you can make your jokes about being deaf and highly accomplished, in a bubble of people who all agree with you!

Vincent Truman:  I did not know Sky’s page was equivalent to a “site”! I did not know, either, that you did not have the ability to hide this particular post. I’m sorry for your apparent loss of freedom and enjoyment and my overwhelming ability to limit your expression. But unlimited kudos to you for sidestepping every question I put to you! Go grrrrl!

…

And then… at 3am the next day… out came the crazy…

Elsie Bandages: Facebook is a “site”. jeez- semantics.. come on now…

And what questions have i sidestepped on? You claimed i was incorrect in calling you hypocritical. I addressed. You asked if I gain a sense of moral superiority out of pointing out the idiocy of yr “views”–I dont. I read Sartre in high school– I know morality is relative, it’s totally arbitrary, etc etc…it doesnt exist..I know. Im not trying to dictate morality to you, or speak on behalf of the whole population, or say that because most people think its wrong, that makes it wrong. At all. Im just sayin, just because most people think its wrong, doesnt make it right either, y know? There’s gotta be a better reason to say it than “ooohhh..now, that’ll piss em off…..” I know its trendy to try to say shit no one else would say, just to try to be shocking, or different. but at this point, like i say, its trendy- its the very same conventionality that it was supposed to be fighting against! i think ive discussed this with sky- well, not “discussed” bc i think he left the conversation prematurely. I think i said “There might be a very good reason no one’s ever said it before- it might simply be a real dumb thing to say. People disagreeing or agreeing with shit isnt what makes it good or bad. I mean, we know this, right?

I wonder if you and Sky both like to push peoples’ buttons (not in a good way), so you can sit back and feel relatively controlled and composed. Like, laugh at the fools who are stupid enough to take something seriously, you know? Im not on a high horse because i used to do the same thing- i would hold a coveted toy up over my head while my mom’s friend’s shorter daughter would flail around me shreiking, just so she would lose it and id keep it. But..that was when I was, like, 7 years old. You say “It’s not (your) thing” to take the enjoyment out of shit for people, but I wonder if that’s EXACTLY what you and Sky thrive on- saying shit OBVIOUSLY to bate SOMEONE, and then getting some sense of control by sitting back and watching people shit. When in reality, im not feeling strong emotional reaction to any of this- to me, its just dialogue. You guys ,on the other hand, might very well be having a more emotional reaction than I am- you might be those people who feel joy at causing others discomfort, which is what u said u DONT do. So i dont know..maybe im reading too much in but…i just have a real hard time believing u really were saying that baloney with the sole purpose of “it’s soooooooo funny!”

And dont be obtuse- Obviously you havent made it physically imossible for me to express my thought. Obviously.

And, yes, of course, the fact that someone has made a FACEBOOK PAGE about something AUTOMATICALLY means it’s a great thing to endorse. Absolutely. I wonder what else you can find that is GREAT, and also has 7000 idiots who agree?? Please understand that is a rhetorical question.

Great. Now I have that cheesy 80′s song, “Too much time on my hands” in my head now, thanks.

But, what DO i get out of it? Not pleasure at taking way all yr yuks, believe me. Probably just the knowledge that life’s too short and im too old not to say what i think. I just dont give a shit . Also probably a little bit of interrupting yr little bubble of co-congratulatory agreement I was describing. it’s healthy for you. Maybe causing you to think “do i have a good reason to say this?” in future?

 

Fourplays: Produced Works, 2006-2012

In an effort to get my creative ducks in a row, I have compiled and self-published a collection of my first four plays to be produced, under the dubious and ham-fisted title of “Fourplays.”  Adding in synopses, character descriptions, commentaries and an array of photographs from each show’s inaugural performances, I have created a nice 355-page snapshot of the creative years of 2006-2012.

The book starts with “Remote”, my second produced play (the first, a satire of the improv comedy world called “Ensemble” was well-intentioned but absymal) and first to be written solo following four years as head writer for a sketch comedy group called Suspicious Clowns.  ”Remote” follows a team of indie filmmakers as they attempt to capture a normal American family – but when they prove to be too normal, the director and assistant director start creating havoc, from encouraging the daughter to experiment in cutting to severing the brake lines of the father’s truck, in order to get good television.  The source material for this play can be found in ABC-TV’s short-lived “The Beast”, with Elizabeth Mitchell, CBC-TV’s bitter “The Newsroom”, with Ken Finkleman and a dose of BBC’s “Fawlty Towers.”  It was a good piece, and stands as a good character study of the increasingly ADD-addled and fame-hungry public.

The second piece, “The Tearful Assassin”, was to be a sequel, following the same director and assistant director as they made entertaining fodder out of a teenaged girl’s kidnapping.  Finding the idea of a sequel boring, I stripped out the comedy and instead created three parallel mini-plays: that of the parents’ reactions, which lead to a book deal for the mother, the detectives’ examination of the case, and the teenaged girl’s own personal hell at the hands of a sociopath.

“The Observatory”, which followed in 2010, was an altogether different beast.  Instead of taking reality and shoehorning into a play, I took a play and shoehorned it into reality.  In this play, a good teacher is offered a mass amount of money in order to watch a “person of interest” for a year, in the form of a hologram projected in the teacher’s (and his wife’s) attic.  The teacher’s growing obsession with this “virtual world” eventually strips him of his marriage and dignity, leading him to compromise his own personal beliefs and vows.  That the play horrifically foretold the end of my own marriage, two years before my divorce, is rather painful and fascinating to me.  I often find that my writing allows my subconscious to slip through and try and tell me what’s going on in my conscious mind, but I can never tell until after the fact.

The final piece is much more of a character study.  2012′s “Venus Envy”, dabbled with but not written until after my divorce, tracks three women in a world in which women are the “dominant” sex.  In the piece, I make it a strong point to not only mirror some of the idiotic assumptions that men learn but also to expand on those assumptions from a female perspective.  The end result – that finding common language is an often brutal and untenable mountain to climb – made for a very satisfactory play.  During the rehearsal process, I am still taken aback with how much discussion the play inspired between the actors.  For that reason, I staged numerous “talk back sessions” during the show’s run and was equally impressed with how much thought the piece inspired to those who came to see it.

Each of the plays, in their own way, are my favorite.  ”Remote” and its offensive comedy; “Assassin” with its journalistic and nonjudgmental reading; “Observatory” with its imaginative peek into fear and ambition; “Venus” with its leveling of the sexual playing field.  Little niggles aside, I would love to see these productions live again.

Link

Farewells No. 3: Friends

When strangers see you kicked to the curb, their indifference is understandable. When friends do the same thing, it is slightly more impactful.

The hardest part of 2012 was the loss of a few long-term friends. But perhaps that’s not quite right. Perhaps I perceived having certain friendships and, when push came to nudge, that perception was corrected.

My first inkling that something was a more askew than I thought was in a 2011 thread in a Facebook group to which I belong. I had made a joke aimed at a friend named Heidi, and another friend named Shaina thought I was joking about her, and went off on me. When both Heidi and I independently tried to correct this perception, Shaina dismissed both explanations and unfriended/blocked me and left the group. I publicly called bullshit and was promptly told to “not make it worse than it [was]” and the matter was dropped. Months later, I saw a photo of Shaina and asked the poster of the picture to tell Shaina I said hi. The response: “I’m not that kind of messenger.” Even as recently as this month, I received an email saying, “I know you have issues with Shaina but…”

This would be a minor online fracas in most cases, but the hurt lay in the fact that I knew all of these folks for at least six or seven years and their take on the matter was either indifference or ignorance (not stupidity, it is worth pointing out). Shaina’s mistake has evolved from a simple misunderstanding to some idea that Shaina and I now have “issues.” And my attempts to re-build that bridge, despite it not being my fault for it being broken, have been met with even more indifference and ignorance. As a result, I felt punished for doing absolutely nothing wrong.

And then there’s a friend I’ll call Carmen. Carmen, a single British lady, and I were also friends for many years and was in New York when my wife and I were visiting. The wife had zero interest in these friends of mine and, thus, we never got together. Because my allegiance was with the missus, I wrote to Carmen and made up some line about her and I being “booked solid” or some other thing. However, a year or so later, when the wife decided to become an ex-wife and had her eye set on visiting Britain, the two of them suddenly became best buds. I wrote to Carmen about my discomfort in her – being one of my longer friends – hosting my nearly-ex-wife, Carmen wrote back and said she doesn’t get involved with things like that, that she loves all of her friends equally, and, most amazing of all, “break-ups are hard.”

Heady words coming from someone who has never married.

What I find most staggering is that I actually had a friend who, with pride, stated that she had no interest in anything that wasn’t sunny and happy. In my experience, friendships have plenty of days with neither sun nor happy, so to exclude darker days from a friendship is, in my opinion, no friendship whatsoever. I suspect that Carmen is just an attention lush, and when the ex provided her with that attention, there was no space left for me.

I really don’t mind that these two wanted to be pals, for whatever reasons.  I just wish they hadn’t been such cunts about it.

There were a few other such experiences throughout 2012, which was already my saddest on record without them. But, like I found with dealing with my divorce, love and forgiveness still outrank any resentment or depression.

And so I let go and go on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Farewells No. 2: Family

In 2012, I had to bid adieu to my family of seven years. Aunts, uncles, cousins, mothers and nephews were swept away as if by a cataclysmic tsunami in slow motion, which came in the form of my former wife’s displeasure with our life together. Perhaps the best representation of this unwanted transformation can be found in various emails shared with my former sister-in-law: in April 2012, she claimed to still see my as family and we were planning to have dinner sometime; in September 2012, she declined an invitation to meet some people I had introduced her online to because she didn’t wish to “cause trouble”; in December 2012, she snapped at me in an email, indicating she didn’t care if we were friends any longer since “real friendships don’t exist online.” Whatever was being said about me appears to have been very effective.

The pain, which continues is a slightly subdued form to this day, was so great that I had taken to writing a daily journal of my experiences, starting when my former spouse announced one day, in early November 2011, that we should separate. The journal continued for a year; sometime around August 2012, three months after I obtained our divorce (I carried the weight of appearing in court for a divorce I didn’t want), I thought it might make a good book. It was like putting all of my hurt into a box and putting it out into the real world and far away from my personal one. Despite changing all of the names, focusing a high-powered microscope on my own failings and limiting the experiences to my own, my former wife immediately took me to court over the book. Her original complaint was that, because I had started the journal when we were still married, she felt entitled to the proceeds. Of course, being a self-published book, she was more than aware that the proceeds would be minimal (at the time of the action brought, they were firmly fixed at $0). In our eventual Agreed Order on the topic, she let fly her greatest concern – that I had used an avatar of hers from the virtual game Second Life on the cover of my book, a horrific little game that had done so much in tearing us apart. The book was pulled from circulation. Another thing that was covered in the Agreed Order was that I would not be allowed to use her likeness (something I didn’t do) in the book or any derivation of the book in question. So that leaves her name: Jennifer.

As I saw it, she got everything she wanted when she wanted it. The separation. A very generous payout from her investment in our home (at cash value, not at market value). The divorce. Cutting me out of her life (effectively making her, as the Gotye song goes, someone that I used to know). I gave her all of that. All I wanted was my book. And she strongarmed me into giving that up as well. If the sexes were reversed, I’d be seen as nothing short of a verbal and emotional abuser intent on controlling a former love interest. However, since the sexes are what they are, I have not been very supported and have done my best to “take it like a man.” It’s been nothing short of horrific. Thinking on the days following her moving out and lasting until the divorce itself, I could probably count on one hand the days I didn’t cry.

I’d like to say what it was that inspired our divorce, but to this day, I don’t really know. Jennifer never told me. I have been able to piece together some puzzle pieces involving both her history and her over-the-top use of Second Life, but I have not been able to find anything I did that was worth being abandoned over. Certainly I was not perfect in the marriage, but I don’t know anyone who is. She certainly wasn’t. But our primary difference was that I loved her imperfections and loved her both because of and in spite of same. As for Jennifer, I’ve no idea why she snapped one day (sometime between late October 2011 and early November 2011, the idea of our lifelong commitment was something she did not want to endure).

I owe her a great gratitude on a lot of levels. When we first got together, I was very much like her father – lying, cheating, all that good stuff. But by the time we got married in 2009, I had embraced therapy and I had embraced trust. I admit that I was iffy about the marriage idea – having seen so many that were hollow rings with people attached to them – but my trust in her saw me through. I admit to being quietly proud of the fact that no other person, male or female, could get between her and me. And it is because of Jennifer’s faith in me that I sought to make myself a good man. Both for me and for us.

We were married in August 2009 and bought our house in May 2010. That only 18 months transpired between the house and the introduction of separation still feels like a broadside of epic proportions. It is only made tolerable – barely, I should point out – when I trace the history to her involvement in Second Life, which took on a life of its own around August 2011. From then on, I felt secondary to the various virtual parties, dance club nights, weddings and various other events that seemed to clog our marital arteries.

I did reach out to various mutual friends and family members, but nobody turned a hair. Months later, when Jennifer returned to Facebook, blocking me immediately, several of these folks engaged her in various video distractions – Songpop, Farmville, etc. etc. – despite my warnings and expressed fears of her addictive personality. So at the end of the day, I am viewed as either a Bad Guy or Irrelevant Guy, and Jennifer continues to be enabled.

I miss my seven-year family so much that, even when silence comes in moments, I am aware of their absence. With respect to my sister-in-law, it wasn’t that long ago that I got her an autographed copy of a book entitled “Seeing Ezra” by Kerry Cohen, because I thought it might be beneficial with respect to her son, and encouraged her to pursue her photography. Then the landscape switched and she (the sister-in-law, not Ms. Cohen) had no interest in being friends whatsoever. As with Jennifer, I have no clue what I did to deserve such outright scorn.

And, for the record, I do continue to miss Jennifer. Not the Jennifer who, when I suggested she get off Second Life so we could go have brunch, would snap at me, “Ugh, you’re just like my mother!” Not the Jennifer who told her friends she was done with me in December 2011 but made nice-nice to my face to get what she wanted. Not the Jennifer who would not pay attention when I called because she was busy buying a virtual dress on Second Life in advance of the next virtual hoedown. That Jennifer can go off and become a crazy cat lady and knit beard hats for her nephews. No, my Jennifer was vibrant, brilliant, artistic, beautiful, adventurous and, more than all of that, compassionate.

As were they all. And I love them all still. But my love is the kind that overlooks a grave, but does not hug and kiss. Divorce is like a death, a friend of mine recently told me, only far, far worse.

If only it was that easy.

Farewells No. 2: Family

In 2012, I had to bid adieu to my family of seven years. Aunts, uncles, cousins, mothers and nephews were swept away as if by a cataclysmic tsunami in slow motion, which came in the form of my former wife’s displeasure with our life together. Perhaps the best representation of this unwanted transformation can be found in various emails shared with my former sister-in-law: in April 2012, she claimed to still see my as family and we were planning to have dinner sometime; in September 2012, she declined an invitation to meet some people I had introduced her online to because she didn’t wish to “cause trouble”; in December 2012, she snapped at me in an email, indicating she didn’t care if we were friends any longer since “real friendships don’t exist online.” Whatever was being said about me appears to have been very effective.

The pain, which continues is a slightly subdued form to this day, was so great that I had taken to writing a daily journal of my experiences, starting when my former spouse announced one day, in early November 2011, that we should separate. The journal continued for a year; sometime around August 2012, three months after I obtained our divorce (I carried the weight of appearing in court for a divorce I didn’t want), I thought it might make a good book. It was like putting all of my hurt into a box and putting it out into the real world and far away from my personal one. Despite changing all of the names, focusing a high-powered microscope on my own failings and limiting the experiences to my own, my former wife immediately took me to court over the book. Her original complaint was that, because I had started the journal when we were still married, she felt entitled to the proceeds. Of course, being a self-published book, she was more than aware that the proceeds would be minimal (at the time of the action brought, they were firmly fixed at $0). In our eventual Agreed Order on the topic, she let fly her greatest concern – that I had used an avatar of hers from the virtual game Second Life on the cover of my book, a horrific little game that had done so much in tearing us apart. The book was pulled from circulation. Another thing that was covered in the Agreed Order was that I would not be allowed to use her likeness (something I didn’t do) in the book or any derivation of the book in question. So that leaves her name: Jennifer.

As I saw it, she got everything she wanted when she wanted it. The separation. A very generous payout from her investment in our home (at cash value, not at market value). The divorce. Cutting me out of her life (effectively making her, as the Gotye song goes, someone that I used to know). I gave her all of that. All I wanted was my book. And she strongarmed me into giving that up as well. If the sexes were reversed, I’d be seen as nothing short of a verbal and emotional abuser intent on controlling a former love interest. However, since the sexes are what they are, I have not been very supported and have done my best to “take it like a man.” It’s been nothing short of horrific. Thinking on the days following her moving out and lasting until the divorce itself, I could probably count on one hand the days I didn’t cry.

I’d like to say what it was that inspired our divorce, but to this day, I don’t really know. Jennifer never told me. I have been able to piece together some puzzle pieces involving both her history and her over-the-top use of Second Life, but I have not been able to find anything I did that was worth being abandoned over. Certainly I was not perfect in the marriage, but I don’t know anyone who is. She certainly wasn’t. But our primary difference was that I loved her imperfections and loved her both because of and in spite of same. As for Jennifer, I’ve no idea why she snapped one day (sometime between late October 2011 and early November 2011, the idea of our lifelong commitment was something she did not want to endure).

I owe her a great gratitude on a lot of levels. When we first got together, I was very much like her father – lying, cheating, all that good stuff. But by the time we got married in 2009, I had embraced therapy and I had embraced trust. I admit that I was iffy about the marriage idea – having seen so many that were hollow rings with people attached to them – but my trust in her saw me through. I admit to being quietly proud of the fact that no other person, male or female, could get between her and me. And it is because of Jennifer’s faith in me that I sought to make myself a good man. Both for me and for us.

We were married in August 2009 and bought our house in May 2010. That only 18 months transpired between the house and the introduction of separation still feels like a broadside of epic proportions. It is only made tolerable – barely, I should point out – when I trace the history to her involvement in Second Life, which took on a life of its own around August 2011. From then on, I felt secondary to the various virtual parties, dance club nights, weddings and various other events that seemed to clog our marital arteries.

I did reach out to various mutual friends and family members, but nobody turned a hair. Months later, when Jennifer returned to Facebook, blocking me immediately, several of these folks engaged her in various video distractions – Songpop, Farmville, etc. etc. – despite my warnings and expressed fears of her addictive personality. So at the end of the day, I am viewed as either a Bad Guy or Irrelevant Guy, and Jennifer continues to be enabled.

I miss my seven-year family so much that, even when silence comes in moments, I am aware of their absence. With respect to my sister-in-law, it wasn’t that long ago that I got her an autographed copy of a book entitled “Seeing Ezra” by Kerry Cohen, because I thought it might be beneficial with respect to her son, and encouraged her to pursue her photography. Then the landscape switched and she (the sister-in-law, not Ms. Cohen) had no interest in being friends whatsoever. As with Jennifer, I have no clue what I did to deserve such outright scorn.

And, for the record, I do continue to miss Jennifer. Not the Jennifer who, when I suggested she get off Second Life so we could go have brunch, would snap at me, “Ugh, you’re just like my mother!” Not the Jennifer who told her friends she was done with me in December 2011 but made nice-nice to my face to get what she wanted.  Not the Jennifer who would not pay attention when I called because she was busy buying a virtual dress on Second Life in advance of the next virtual hoedown.  That Jennifer can go off and become a crazy cat lady and knit beard hats for her nephews. No, my Jennifer was vibrant, brilliant, artistic, beautiful, adventurous and, more than all of that, compassionate.

As were they all. And I love them all still. But my love is the kind that overlooks a grave, but does not hug and kiss. Divorce is like a death, a friend of mine recently told me, only far, far worse.

If only it was that easy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Farewells No. 1: Feminism

Farewells No 1

I have joked to my close friends that our Mayan friends did not have the world in mind when contemplating the end of the world; rather, as a staunch Leo, they were thinking merely of me. 2012 brought with it the most tremendous losses I have experienced, short of a loved one's demise, in my short or prolonged presence on this planet. This piece reviews the easiest loss: feminism.

* * *

The first hero I was aware of that was neither in movies nor animated for Saturday morning viewing over a bowl of Count Chocula was the tennis player Billie Jean King. I was eight years old at the time when the Battle of the Sexes – a 1973 tennis match between King and the arrogant showman Bobbie Riggs – took place. King, as history shows, pulverized Riggs 6-4, 6-3 and 6-3. I recall vividly how my home responded to the game. My mother and sister were thrilled, my father was disinterested. But beyond yells of victory and the harrumph of defeat, I sensed there was much more at play that merely a rare tennis match between a woman and a man.

My next few heroes were Gloria Steinem, Helen Reddy and, when she graduated top of her class from college, my own mother. I learned about the 1970s wave of feminism and how, to me, it made perfect sense and was so logical as to defy any criticism.

Flash forward several years to when I embarked on being a producer for improvisational and sketch comedy shows in Chicago. I was always disappointed by the female artists who auditioned for me; my ideal cast of four men and four women was never met. I would be lucky to find two women who could do the job. And then I would be hard pressed not to permit the female artists to be lumbered with the roles that comedy often bequeaths to women by default: wife, girlfriend, mother. Appendices to comedy.

As I grew from writing mere comedy to more substantial work as a playwright, I didn't even have to make it a point to write strong female characters, but rather focused on all characters maintaining a full set of strengths, weaknesses, motives and desires. There is that moderately famous meme in which an individual allegedly asked Joss Whedon: “So, why do you write these strong female characters?”, to which Mr. Whedon replied, “Because you're still asking me that question.” To me, this cute answer misses the mark slightly. If I myself was asked this question, my reply would be, “What other kind are there?” My dedication to feminism – which Webster's, and I, define as a journey towards equality – remained undeterred throughout my life.

Sometime in 2012, after over a decade of being the most knowledgeable feminist I knew personally – illustrated briefly by the fact that I, alone amongst those who held feminism up as a good and right thing, seemed to know anything about women's history, including when they finally got the right to vote in 1920 - there seemed to be a new wave of feminism coming to life and to light. I was delighted. Until I started to talking to them.

In one exchange, I was told that, no, feminism could not possibly mean to me what it meant to women. While on one hand I was momentarily baffled – again citing Webster's and my agreement on what feminism was – and on the other I was offended that an individual – female or male – could dare to dictate to me what something meant to me. In very simplistic terms, it was like purchasing a green car and being advised by a friend that I didn't like green. Or cars.

In another exchange, the word 'privilege' was brought out and lobbed at me repeatedly like a brick. “You cannot understand feminism,” I was advised, “because you are white and a male and thus speaking from privilege.” So now feminism, a mainstay of my philosophy and a key tenet of my very being since 1973, could not only mean what it meant to me but it was apparently well beyond my comprehension. When I pointed out that male privilege included not only voting but fighting in wars, working what today might be considered “double shifts” performing manual labor, providing for a family and the holiest of holies – dying at a considerably early age – these facts were discounted outright.

In yet another exchange, the topic was online dating and a very vocal female associate was writing dismissively of a potential suitor whose online preference was “straight girls.” My friend, who is bisexual, ridiculed this potential suitor for being homophobic. I thought this was a bit of a bridge too far, so I chimed in, attempting a light-hearted approach, “I personally prefer women who are about 5'0” to 5'8” - would this suggest that I am phobic to dwarves?” The response: “No, it says you don't have the confidence to date women who are taller than you.” Now, for any man in the hell known as online dating, it is commonplace for a taller woman to write in their profiles, “I am very tall and like to wear heels. So I'd prefer to date someone [my height + 3 inches].” I have always respected that preference; at no point did I think such a woman to be phobic of men who might be their height or shorter.

Trying to hold onto the conversational thread, I tried to make a comparison between dating and dining. “What about steaks?” I asked. “I prefer medium rare. Could it be suggested that I am welldoneaphobic?” Although I was attempting to up the ante on the absurd notion that preference equals phobia, what followed was an attack on multiple fronts, citing that I was in fact comparing women to food. When I tried to point out that my intention and their interpretation were not in harmony, I was rebuffed. “No, you are comparing women to food!” came the collective cry. One individual pointed out that, “There is no comparison. Food is supposed to be judged by how it appears, how it smells and how it tastes!” I quickly excused myself from the discourse; if the new voice of womanhood is ignorant of the makeup industry, the clothing industry, pheramones and even proper hygiene, I knew I wasn't going to make any inroads to my original point.

Other exchanges abounded throughout the year; recalling more of them would only be redundant to the point: the latest wave of feminism can discount anyone based on genitalia, even 30+ year proponents of the movement. Since this new feminism seems to put women on a pedestal, a notion that would be abhorrent to the young boy who marveled at Billie Jean King, I have regrettably had to say goodbye to the movement.

In its place I have taken up the mantle of humanism. For me, it's the same thing. But the advantages are that no one can decide for me what it means for me, no one can discount my opinion based on the color of my skin and no one can dismiss me for having a penis. That this new wave of feminism would be able – and anxious – to chuck its own allies in favor of a we-win-you-lose matrix is disheartening at best and self-defeating at worst.

I do not wish the new feminism ill or well. I simply prefer to go on my own route, working and writing for equality and individuality of all people, without the need to subjugate myself in the process.

Farewells No. 1: Feminism

Farewells No 1

I have joked to my close friends that our Mayan friends did not have the world in mind when contemplating the end of the world; rather, as a staunch Leo, they were thinking merely of me. 2012 brought with it the most tremendous losses I have experienced, short of a loved one’s demise, in my short or prolonged presence on this planet. This piece reviews the easiest loss: feminism.

The first hero I was aware of that was neither in movies nor animated for Saturday morning viewing over a bowl of Count Chocula was the tennis player Billie Jean King. I was eight years old at the time when the Battle of the Sexes – a 1973 tennis match between King and the arrogant showman Bobbie Riggs – took place. King, as history shows, pulverized Riggs 6-4, 6-3 and 6-3. I recall vividly how my home responded to the game. My mother and sister were thrilled, my father was disinterested. But beyond yells of victory and the harrumph of defeat, I sensed there was much more at play that merely a rare tennis match between a woman and a man.

My next few heroes were Gloria Steinem, Helen Reddy and, when she graduated top of her class from college, my own mother. I learned about the 1970s wave of feminism and how, to me, it made perfect sense and was so logical as to defy any criticism.

Flash forward several years to when I embarked on being a producer for improvisational and sketch comedy shows in Chicago. I was always disappointed by the female artists who auditioned for me; my ideal cast of four men and four women was never met. I would be lucky to find two women who could do the job. And then I would be hard pressed not to permit the female artists to be lumbered with the roles that comedy often bequeaths to women by default: wife, girlfriend, mother. Appendices to comedy.

As I grew from writing mere comedy to more substantial work as a playwright, I didn’t even have to make it a point to write strong female characters, but rather focused on all characters maintaining a full set of strengths, weaknesses, motives and desires. There is that moderately famous meme in which an individual allegedly asked Joss Whedon: “So, why do you write these strong female characters?”, to which Mr. Whedon replied, “Because you’re still asking me that question.” To me, this cute answer misses the mark slightly. If I myself was asked this question, my reply would be, “What other kind are there?” My dedication to feminism – which Webster’s, and I, define as a journey towards equality – remained undeterred throughout my life.

Sometime in 2012, after over a decade of being the most knowledgeable feminist I knew personally – illustrated briefly by the fact that I, alone amongst those who held feminism up as a good and right thing, seemed to know anything about women’s history, including when they finally got the right to vote in 1920 – there seemed to be a new wave of feminism coming to life and to light. I was delighted. Until I started to talking to them.

In one exchange, I was told that, no, feminism could not possibly mean to me what it meant to women. While on one hand I was momentarily baffled – again citing Webster’s and my agreement on what feminism was – and on the other I was offended that an individual – female or male – could dare to dictate to me what something meant to me. In very simplistic terms, it was like purchasing a green car and being advised by a friend that I didn’t like green. Or cars.

In another exchange, the word ‘privilege’ was brought out and lobbed at me repeatedly like a brick. “You cannot understand feminism,” I was advised, “because you are white and a male and thus speaking from privilege.” So now feminism, a mainstay of my philosophy and a key tenet of my very being since 1973, could not only mean what it meant to me but it was apparently well beyond my comprehension. When I pointed out that male privilege included not only voting but fighting in wars, working what today might be considered “double shifts” performing manual labor, providing for a family and the holiest of holies – dying at a considerably early age – these facts were discounted outright.

In yet another exchange, the topic was online dating and a very vocal female associate was writing dismissively of a potential suitor whose online preference was “straight girls.” My friend, who is bisexual, ridiculed this potential suitor for being homophobic. I thought this was a bit of a bridge too far, so I chimed in, attempting a light-hearted approach, “I personally prefer women who are about 5’0” to 5’8” – would this suggest that I am phobic to dwarves?” The response: “No, it says you don’t have the confidence to date women who are taller than you.” Now, for any man in the hell known as online dating, it is commonplace for a taller woman to write in their profiles, “I am very tall and like to wear heels. So I’d prefer to date someone [my height + 3 inches].” I have always respected that preference; at no point did I think such a woman to be phobic of men who might be their height or shorter.

Trying to hold onto the conversational thread, I tried to make a comparison between dating and dining. “What about steaks?” I asked. “I prefer medium rare. Could it be suggested that I am welldoneaphobic?” Although I was attempting to up the ante on the absurd notion that preference equals phobia, what followed was an attack on multiple fronts, citing that I was in fact comparing women to food. When I tried to point out that my intention and their interpretation were not in harmony, I was rebuffed. “No, you are comparing women to food!” came the collective cry. One individual pointed out that, “There is no comparison. Food is supposed to be judged by how it appears, how it smells and how it tastes!” I quickly excused myself from the discourse; if the new voice of womanhood is ignorant of the makeup industry, the clothing industry, pheramones and even proper hygiene, I knew I wasn’t going to make any inroads to my original point.

Other exchanges abounded throughout the year; recalling more of them would only be redundant to the point: the latest wave of feminism can discount anyone based on genitalia, even 30+ year proponents of the movement. Since this new feminism seems to put women on a pedestal, a notion that would be abhorrent to the young boy who marveled at Billie Jean King, I have regrettably had to say goodbye to the movement

In its place I have taken up the mantle of humanism. For me, it’s the same thing. But the advantages are that no one can decide for me what it means for me, no one can discount my opinion based on the color of my skin and no one can dismiss me for having a penis. That this new wave of feminism would be able – and anxious – to chuck its own allies in favor of a we-win-you-lose matrix is disheartening at best and self-defeating at worst.

I do not wish the new feminism ill or well. I simply prefer to go on my own route, working and writing for equality and individuality of all people, without the need to subjugate myself in the process.

 

 

 

 

Part Three

As the run of my play, ‘Venus Envy’, winds down, I am facing Part 3 of 3 of my own attempts at recovering and reviving the man I have been.  Part 1 had been the film I had written entitled ‘Ceremony’ and Part 2 had been ‘Venus Envy.’

2012 has been a gruesome year full of multiple stages of self-analysis and panic, to say nothing of the ones attributable to grief.  My marriage snapped in two like a turkey’s wishbone, and I was largely left to my own devices to figure out why and how and when and who and where it fell apart.  I did most of my barbaric yawps in public and online, as bellowing outwards seemed more therapeutic  than just listening to the sound of my own voice.  My ex-wife was of no help, save for the occasional caustic text she would send: “I am getting emails from people on Facebook again.  I hope you’re not saying anything too tacky.”

This sick isolationism led me to start writing a journal, which, at last edit, appears to be around 250 pages in length.  The journal, in which I have changed all the names to protect the profound lack of innocence, is harrowing reading.   Watching this fellow – me – reach for every thread of hope just to have it snap is horrific.   However, it was a necessary exercise; as I have suggested, I was left on my own to find out the reasons.  I found most of them out, or at least enough for me to finally understand how it all happened, and have come to a certain level of peace.  But getting there has been a series of more heartbreaks than a movie marathon on the Lifetime Channel.

A few excerpts follow.

December 7, 2011

After a long weekend with my mom and extended family, and after a three- or four-day cross-country road trip to bring to our home my childhood bedroom set, things grew quickly sour.  I had noticed problems in the summer of 2011 and tried to address them with my usual barrage of ‘let’s do this’ or ‘let’s do that’, thinking as I do that shared activity leads to other shared things, but they were increasingly rebuffed.  On the weekends, Beth would stay in bed until noon or after.  Some days, I would try and rouse her with the idea of brunch or shopping.  On other days, I would let her sleep, trying not to be resentful that she would give her time to anything and anyone except me.

But it was in November that Beth hit me with the idea that she wanted a separation, mentioned casually over a couple of steak burritos and horchata.  Even with things not being perfect and steady, I was beyond surprised to hear this.  Looking back on the trip to visit my mother, we hung out almost all the time.  It was fun.  We took pictures and laughed.  So how it got from there to here in a few weeks, I couldn’t fathom.

December 29, 2011

Loving Beth is like having a life preserver made out of equal parts air, rubber and concrete.  It buoys me up but also risks drowning me.

January 26, 2012

As of today, Beth and I haven’t spoken in six days; a couple of texts and emails here and there, that’s it.  I find it hard to believe she cares or even wants to reconcile.  Could she have lied that blatantly when we drew up and signed the separation agreement, complete with four witnesses?  When she agreed in writing that she wanted to work on the marriage, was she just …kidding?

I’m fighting to prevent that from sinking in.

February 19, 2012

The conversation started ok but quickly went south.  ”I miss you,” I said.  ”I was going to call you tonight,” she said, “but there was a party in secondlife.  And then I took a nap.”

February 24, 2012

We discussed Beth’s dropping off the grid – her removal of FB, twitter, pinterest, etc.  She said she wanted to clear the decks of all social media altogether.  I was very encouraging (as I am truthfully pretty encouraged by and impressed by anyone who could chuck the 24-second news cycle we find ourselves in as a species).

It did strike me, though… if she dropped off social media because presumably people who know her and care for her could contact her… why keep secondlife?  Isn’t that like dropping gummy bears but keeping crack?

March 20, 2012

After therapy, I called Beth back.  We exchanged small talk – more inane small talk about how she hates her work or how hot her apartment is, and of course secondlife (one cannot have a chat, I guess, without mention of that fucking video game) – until I pulled out, ‘what do you want?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We have shit to deal with.  Even if you want to be pals and talk like two passing colleagues at work – how are you? fine. bye – we have shit to deal with.’  I went on to stress that I had been fair in the separation – no argument – and had given her space – no argument – and had been kind – no argument.

She asked where I was, dodging my line of inquiry.  I told her I was pretty disappointed.  I have held up my end of every deal we have made to simply see her give up.  And have been told I was not loved.  Not missed.  That the relationship was a mistake.  Etc.  So, yes, I was pretty disappointed.  I returned the favor, asking where she was.

She said she was ok.  What does that mean, I said.

She said things were ok, she felt relaxed.  What does that mean, I said.

She said she was fine.  What does that mean, I said.  In simple language, what does that mean?

‘I want to proceed with the divorce.’

‘Fine,’ I said, ‘have fun on your video game.’

And hung up.

 

Putting The High Heel on the Other Foot: Writing "Venus Envy"

[image error]

“Never trust an animal that doesn’t know how to bleed.”

This was the first line I wrote for “Venus Envy.” That must have been 2009 or 2010 and was an off-hand comment I had made while playing a character in a game/virtual world called Second Life. In that game, I had taken on the persona of an English woman by the name of Madelyn Writer. She was far more witty than I am.

Started as a lark (my wife at the time enjoyed herself being herself in Second Life, while I preferred to play a character), I was soon fascinated by being a woman. Not because of the attention that would be lavished on me by male avatars (although that did net me some brilliant jewelry and designer dresses), but because of the friendships I struck up with (what I believed to be) other women. An early experience had a profound impact on me: while at a virtual coffee shop with three other virtual women, we were discussing our various outfits. The woman to my left remarked to the woman on my right: “Nice dress!” Moments later, the woman on my left instant-messaged me: “I bet it was a freebie. Yuck!”

The idea occurred to me then: what if women had been dominant since before the advent of the three monotheisms that we now have in our midst? What if hunter/gatherers were kept on a lower rung of society, with keepers of the home retaining their higher status?

From there, I embarked on a half-dozen rivers of research, from the sociological to the metaphysical to the sexual. I researched how make-up became so readily acceptable, how rights of one sex could be limited by other, how religion informed the strengths and weaknesses based on gender, how both halves of the species equated strength with power but how each viewed both strength and power differently.

Fused with this research, which went on for over two years, was an odd memory I had of a television show developed by Norman Lear entitled “All That Glitters”, which envisioned a woman-dominated society. The actual show itself I cannot remember, as I was too young and it was on too late, so the idea presented itself to me to create my own vision of such a world.

The first thing I dismissed was the notion that a female-led world would be just like the male-led world we find ourselves in. While certain attributes would easily be grafted (for example, the suppression of those not in charge, a trait that can be found in every “strong” culture, from England to Portugal to Israel), several others couldn’t. For instance, the desperate competitiveness of men didn’t quite fit in “Venus Envy.” In my version of a female-led society, there are only fifty kinds of cheese. There’s really no need for more than that. And there’s only been one global war in all of history, the downside being that half of the planet remains uninhabitable. For this latter example, my character Madelyn explains it thusly: “Just goes to my point. Women don’t fuck about. Especially in war. Can you imagine if men ruled the world? We’d probably have a war every few years because someone hurt someone else’s feelings.” My experience as a man, and a feminist, suggests that this could quite likely be the case if men hadn’t asserted themselves so ruthlessly thousands of years ago.

I found a great deal of information about theology, which I had to insert into the script. Combining pagan rituals and Christianity for this world, I created a female god who, quite logically, created a creature who herself could create life – woman. Truly, “in her own image.” Men were created by the removal of a vertebrae from the woman, thus explaining for all generations to come why men were always slightly taller. The story, much like the story of any of the three monotheisms we have today, was edited and massaged to explain the world the best it could at the time.

Finally, I wanted to write “Venus Envy” because of what I view to be the dire state of feminism in this day and age. I find most women I know, almost all of which are younger than me admittedly, are not aware of when women were granted the right to vote. While I find the homosexual, Latino and black cultures to be keenly aware of their history, I find myself appalled that women have a limited awareness of their own roots. It is no wonder that, of the four groups mentioned above, that women’s rights are the ones, in 2012, are the victim of mass legislative erosion.

I find it abhorrent that, in the Chicago theater scene, women seem to link being “empowered” with performing lazy burlesque. Firstly, the idea of “being empowered” misses the mark by miles. Women have power; they needn’t be “empowered.” Further, of the shows I am familiar with, there is usually a man making the most money. This I find to be nothing short of outrageous, but many female artists I know will defend the practice until they’re red in the face. This, to me, is neither an empowered nor powerful stance to take.

“Venus Envy”, although the most fantastical, is my most personal statement I’ve publicly made about my view of the world as it is. There is a long road for all of us to go, and, viewing the planet and its people as journalistically as I can, this is my attempt to nudge it the right way. Not from arrogance or superiority, but from kindness.


* * *

Venus Envy Script

Venus Envy Facebook Page

Venus Envy Tickets for September 2012 Performances

Putting The High Heel On The Other Foot

[image error]Putting the High Heel on the Other Foot

My Journey to “Venus Envy”

by Vincent Truman

“Never trust an animal that doesn’t know how to bleed.”

This was the first line I wrote for “Venus Envy.”  That must have been 2009 or 2010 and was an off-hand comment I had made while playing a character in a game/virtual world called Second Life.  In that game, I had taken on the persona of an English woman by the name of Madelyn Writer.  She was far more witty than I am.

Started as a lark (my wife at the time enjoyed herself being herself in Second Life, while I preferred to play a character), I was soon fascinated by being a woman.  Not because of the attention that would be lavished on me by male avatars (although that did net me some brilliant jewelry and designer dresses), but because of the friendships I struck up with (what I believed to be) other women.  An early experience had a profound impact on me: while at a virtual coffee shop  with three other virtual women, we were discussing our various outfits.  The woman to my left remarked to the woman on my right: “Nice dress!”  Moments later, the woman on my left instant-messaged me: “I bet it was a freebie.  Yuck!”

The idea occurred to me then: what if women had been dominant since before the advent of the three monotheisms that we now have in our midst?  What if hunter/gatherers were kept on a lower rung of society, with keepers of the home retaining their higher status?

From there, I embarked on a half-dozen rivers of research, from the sociological to the metaphysical to the sexual.  I researched how make-up became so readily acceptable, how rights of one sex could be limited by other, how religion informed the strengths and weaknesses based on gender, how both halves of the species equated strength with power but how each viewed both strength and power differently.

Fused with this research, which went on for over two years, was an odd memory I had of a television show developed by Norman Lear entitled “All That Glitters”, which envisioned a woman-dominated society.  The actual show itself I cannot remember, as I was too young and it was on too late, so the idea presented itself to me to create my own vision of such a world.

The first thing I dismissed was the notion that a female-led world would be just like the male-led world we find ourselves in.  While certain attributes would easily be grafted (for example, the suppression of those not in charge, a trait that can be found in every “strong” culture, from England to Portugal to Israel), several others couldn’t.  For instance, the desperate competitiveness of men didn’t quite fit in “Venus Envy.”  In my version of a female-led society, there are only fifty kinds of cheese.  There’s really no need for more than that.  And there’s only been one global war in all of history, the downside being that half of the planet remains uninhabitable.  For this latter example, my character Madelyn explains it thusly: “Just goes to my point.  Women don’t fuck about.  Especially in war.  Can you imagine if men ruled the world?  We’d probably have a war every few years because someone hurt someone else’s feelings.”  My experience as a man, and a feminist, suggests that this could quite likely be the case if men hadn’t asserted themselves so ruthlessly thousands of years ago.

I found a great deal of information about theology, which I had to insert into the script.  Combining pagan rituals and Christianity for this world, I created a female god who, quite logically, created a creature who herself could create life – woman.  Truly, “in her own image.”  Men were created by the removal of a vertebrae from the woman, thus explaining for all generations to come why men were always slightly taller.  The story, much like the story of any of the three monotheisms we have today, was edited and massaged to explain the world the best it could at the time.

Finally, I wanted to write “Venus Envy” because of what I view to be the dire state of feminism in this day and age.  I find most women I know, almost all of which are younger than me admittedly, are not aware of when women were granted the right to vote.  While I find the homosexual, Latino and black cultures to be keenly aware of their history, I find myself appalled that women have a limited awareness of their own roots.  It is no wonder that, of the four groups mentioned above, that women’s rights are the ones, in 2012, are the victim of mass legislative erosion.

I find it abhorrent that, in the Chicago theater scene, women seem to link being “empowered” with performing lazy burlesque.  Firstly, the idea of “being empowered” misses the mark by miles.  Women have power; they needn’t be “empowered.”  Further, of the shows I am familiar with, there is usually a man making the most money.  This I find to be nothing short of outrageous, but many female artists I know will defend the practice until they’re red in the face.  This, to me, is neither an empowered nor powerful stance to take.

“Venus Envy”, although the most fantastical, is my most personal statement I’ve publicly made about my view of the world as it is.  There is a long road for all of us to go, and, viewing the planet and its people as journalistically as I can, this is my attempt to nudge it the right way.  Not from arrogance or superiority, but from kindness.

 

Venus Envy script: http://www.lulu.com/shop/vincent-truman/venus-envy-never-trust-an-animal-that-doesnt-know-how-to-bleed/paperback/product-20067935.html

 

Venus Envy Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/venusenvy2012

Venue Envy tickets for September 2012 performances in Chicago:  http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/262557