David Wayne Reed

Wise Words

2012-01-28T11:38:00.002-06:00

Taking Laps

2012-01-25T18:43:00.002-06:00

My high school friend, Cindy had just shoplifted some clothes from the mall before we pulled off the road to a McDonald’s to apply for jobs.

“Mom and Dad want to start seeing my receipts,” said Cindy eating a McNugget and flashing her newly stolen Swatch. “If I don’t get this job, Davido, I’ll kill myself for real this time.”

I empathized. I’ve got to get off the farm. If Dad thinks I’m going to help castrate the bull calves again, he’s wrong.

Over dinner we filled out our applications. I was worried that I didn’t have any experience to list but luckily the application didn’t ask for too much.

“Don’t worry, Daba. If they’ll hire old people and retards, they’ll totally hire us. Think about it. They even hire clowns.”

Cindy may have been three fries short of a happy meal, but she was right. Seemingly, a social security number and an open schedule were the only criteria to gain employment within.

And so we began our ascent up the fast food chain. First, we were assigned our uniforms. For the first couple of shifts, we sat in the break room for hours just watching training videos. We learned to salt the fries in an M formation. We were ready to be assigned to our duties. Drive-Thru. We shaved minutes off of the TTL (Total Time in Line) setting a new store record. Cindy was really efficient but she was also incredibly vindictive. Cindy didn’t subscribe to the idea that the customer is always right. If a customer back-talked her, or even looked at her funny she got even. Cindy taught me that adding some drops of visine to any drink will cause diarrhea.

Our friends, Heather and Kellie, two large and violent sisters, worked with us, too. After work, we would pile into their Mom’s 79 Thunderbird and cruise around Louisburg before curfew.

Here on the lap people would stop mid-street to talk across cars. Here we would rear end friend’s cars rather than honk or a wave. Endlessly, aimlessly following the same circular drive. This is where life happened for us. We took laps past Hometown Pizza, past Apco and Charlie’s Louisburgers, past the funeral home. We listened to Bon Jovi, Poison, Bel Biv Devoe and sometimes even Pebbles.

One night while cruising, I watch as Kellie and Heather pull a girl out of her moving vehicle and assault her tag-team style. “You mess with my man again and I’ll kill you.” “And if she doesn’t do it, I will.” Meanwhile I’d sit in the back seat of the car tending to Kellie’s newborn baby, Shelby.

On the drive home, Kellie speeds up to chase a train that we narrowly miss.

And baby Shelby sleeps.

At home, Kellie and Heather would pin me down and give me hickies. But they’d also protect me. They may have been volatile but they were fiercely loyal. Their own mother became a second mother to me. While Heather and Kellie would chase each other around the house with scissors or curling irons trying to cut or brand one another, I’d sit with their mom and smoke menthols on her bed help her make angels out of raffia to sell in the craft store she ran out of her garage. They were a shadow family outside of mine own. Here, I felt safe. I felt like I belonged.

I graduated the next year.

I’m listed in my senior yearbook 13 times. Newspaper. Forensics. Band. Teacher’s Aide. School play. Prom. SADD…

I’m voted most talented.

On the cover of the yearbook, there’s an image of a fortune teller clutching a crystal ball. In the ball are written the words ‘How it was…How it is…How it could be…’

It’s a sunny day in May when we walk the pomp and circumstance down to the track to where I sit in a fold-out chair between Jenny Pope and Carrie Renner.

The Wildcat band plays a few songs. The choir sings. We are led in prayer. Steph, who is voted most talented female, sings Friends Forever.

Reverend Lane Bailey steps to the podium to deliver the keynote address.

“Louisburg Class of 1990”

“You are mortal. You will die.”

We snicker in disbelief; we are timeless. We are invincible. We are the high, we are the mighty. We are the Class of 1990.

“The only thing we know in this life is that we will die…” he continued. “Statistically, 5 of you will be killed by drunk drivers.” He pointed over some of us. To others of us, “10 of you will overdose. 4 will be victims of domestic violence. 3 will die of homicide. 2 will die of AIDS…” And so on.

I don’t remember what else he said…just ‘You are mortal. You will die.’ While he bespoke our tragic fates, I read through the graduation program. Below the list of our names was our class quote: ‘Like water I come and like wind I go.’

It was befitting of our moment. Like water, we had all been poured here. Our commonalities determined by time and place rather than common interest or ambition. As through a spigot, we had arrived here furiously as one, pumped through the halls, the classes, the system before blowing into the breeze.

Our 10 year reunion was held on a classmate’s sod farm.

Only 30 of our 80 classmates show up. Had 50 died like Rev. Bailey had predicted? No. They just weren’t interested in coming to the reunion.

The rest of us mingled over barbecue, beer and cigarettes—

Not unlike high school.

We are a polite veneer of our former selves, reunited as memories, as ghosts. As the class of 1990.

We group together after awhile in our old clusters—I hang with Heather and Kellie in the garage. Cindy is managing a Sonic in Arizona and doesn’t come.

I stay for a good while before my allergies flare, I sneeze and my eyes tear up.

On the way out, I see the most popular girl in our class arriving late. She’s driving the same red Mustang her father bought her our senior year. It has been maintained as meticulously as the spiral perm she still sports even now--years later. It’s as if she came dressed as she was then just so we’d all remember.

I remember her—the prettiest, smartest girl in our class. Our Valedictorian who was widely rumored to have been sodomized with a hot dog at a party in junior high. A girl later rumored to have violent relationships, illegitimate children and drug problems.

I tell her I’m leaving and give her a hug. She looks at my irritated eyes and says “Don’t cry, David. I know how you feel. I miss high school, too.”

She hands me a tissue and I dab my eyes but don’t have the heart to tell her that I’m not crying because I miss high school but rather because of hay fever.

Heather and Kellie’s mom, Dee dies somewhere between our 15 and 20 year reunions and I return to Louisburg to attend her service. There is a display of pictures beside her casket—pictures of her, of her children and grandchildren, her second husband, and her 79 gold Thunderbird.

The one we drove to chase trains.

The service is crowded. I spot Heather and Kellie with their now-teenage daughters in the front row. We hug and we cry.

“I’m so glad you came. Mom loved you. You’re family” says Kellie.

During the service, they play the song Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. I close my eyes and can hear the tears.

But time makes you bolder
Children get older
I’m getting older too

I take another lap before I leave town. And the hometown I remember is simply in yore. The grounds where I watched countless truck and tractor pulls have been replaced by the dull suburban sheen of McMansions. There are new stoplights in a town where one flashing red light had sufficed for the last 20 years. Ours is a place where townspeople greeted the expansion with a reluctant pride. "I guess that's the cost of progress."

Our cars are different, we are older, and we have changed.

We're all just taking laps.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Orv_F2HV4gk

Unwrapping Jolly Rancher at the Seaside Repertory Theatre

2012-01-08T12:41:00.000-06:00

http://seasidereptheatre.wordpress.com/2012/01/07/reed-unwraps-jolly-rancher-at-seaside-repertory-theatre/

Pre-Seaside

2011-12-28T19:08:00.003-06:00

So I'm headed to Seaside, FL for a month long residency.

For one warm month in January, I am allowed to write and perform an early preview of my one-man show (working title: Jolly Rancher) that I will debut in Seaside on January 19th at the Seaside Repertory Theatre.

The idea of doing a staged reading of the Mother Trucker cycle had been (smokey and the) bandied about but after a talk with the Artistic Director there we decided that it was simply to large to mount there. (If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that.) I actually felt relieved. So I'm going to work on what I actually proposed to do: completing a collection of short stories for publication which will be used as the basis for a one-man show.

The future really is now. And I'm naturally stoked as fuck to be granted this opportunity.

I received my housing assignment and I'll be living in a cottage called Sunrise Surprise.

So I googled it. This is the second thing that came up in the search:

We'll see.

Then I found the actual website for the cottage where I'm staying.

"Sunrise Surprise" is a two-bedroom cottage nestled in the woods on a sandy road just beyond the paved streets of Seaside. It is a two-bedroom cottage on the second floor over a garage with an open living room and kitchen floor plan. The second story porch looks out into the piney woods. You can hear owls calling at night and with the beach only two blocks away, the sound of the surf is ever present.

I'm so fortunate to have this opportunity and look forward to the creation that will flow.

Christmas Letter 2011

2011-12-25T17:56:00.002-06:00

December 25, 2011

I received a Christmas card the other day by mistake. It was delivered here to the attention of a certain Sue who ostensibly lived here before. I've lived here off and on since 1998 and no Sue has lived here in the last 13 years. So naturally, I opened the envelope. In arthritic scribble, Ruthann from Atchison wrote:

"Our family is not doing well. Margie has osteoporosis and is bent double. She can't walk without a walker and then needs help. Lisa and Larri have to lift her in and out of the car. Skeet has Oldsheimer's and has trouble funcheoning. He does pretty well other than asking you over and over the same thing. They have 24 hour care but are still at home. Vickie comes every other week and stays from Sunday to Tuesday. They won't let me do much because of my shoulders.

Don't get old, Sue--it's HELL. ha

I can't believe your grandkids are the age they are.

(I doubt if you can read my writing.)"

I'm glad to report that life has been better for me this year than Ruthann's but still. It reminds me that we age, we decay. I felt older this year. The only hair I grew this year either came out of my nose or seemed to be gray. My eyesight weakened to the need for bifocals (they call them progressives--what? progressively worse?). My second great-niece was born this year. If I think about it too much, it makes me feel like Methuselah--at age 39. That's the bad news I guess.

Aging as it was/is, I think I will look back on 2011 as one of my favorite years, a year that seemed to contain many years. It was a full and cinematic year rife with lovely weddings, unexpected deaths, births, a handful of accomplishments and a few firsts.

Off the top, The Ripcord at Worlds of Fun was the very best thing I did for myself this year.

Though I have never had the thrill-pang to bunjee jump-anything, I woke up on Father's Day and the first words out of my mouth were "I'm going to do the Ripcord."

According to the WOF website, "the RipCord features a 180-foot tethered free-fall. Guests wear a full body harness that supports the flyer in a prone position. The scale of flight is so dramatic that flyers accelerate to 60 - 80 miles per hour and achieve the sensation of hang gliding."

I paid my $30-some dollars and waited to be called and strapped onto what amounted to a dangling string. I was pulled up hydraulically suspended flat facing the pond below. A girl's electronic voice called out 1-2-3-FLY! On FLY, I've been instructed to pull the cord. My own cord. I do it in a sturdy tug and free fall downward in a sudden exhilirating jerk and then fly across the water. It felt good to let go and simultaneously made me feel powerful and in-control.

The Ripcord

It was metaphor for the year. One of letting go. After the Ripcord, I felt emboldened to throw myself into other carefree pursuits. I sustained a mechanical bull. I rode shotgun next to the pilot in a helicopter perusing the mountainous formations over breathtaking and kindred Sedona, AZ. Taking the bull by the horns, getting a bird's eye view.

I went to Los Angeles in April for my friend, April's birthday even though her birthday is in March. Spent Thanksgiving with friends in New York. Took business trips to Uncasville, CT and Topeka, KS! (What what?!) Spent some time in a friend's condo in Phoenix. I borrowed his convertible and went for a drive into the mountains. On the way up the mountain at dusk, I fist-pumped the sky and said "This. Is. Living!"

It was also a very theatre-y year. I reprised my role of the Schoolmaster in the reprisal of Pink Floyd's The Wall.

And then I spent an obsessive amount of time and the bulk of my year writing, directing, producing Mother Trucker 2: Ride On, the sequel to my 2004 show, Mother Trucker. I was fortunate to receive an Inspiration Grant from the Arts Council of Metropolitan Kansas City to build the set for the show. With additional support from the Charlotte Street Foundation, throng of support from the Kickstarter campaign as well as emotional support from a talented cast/crew, Mother Trucker 2: Ride On drove into La Esquina on July 15 and played for 12 performances.

MT2: Ride On. Photo by Matthew Collins

"Imagine John Waters writing and directing a musical that blends the hiinks of the Smokey and the Bandit movies with parodies of "Hee Haw" and "Dukes of Hazzard" and you'll have an idea of what Reed and his cast are pulling off." --Timothy Finn, KC Star

"Surprisingly touching and every bit as funny as you'd expect."--Grace Suh, Pitch Weekly

I played Slim Jenkins, the Bird Man. In the excerpt below, Slim eulogizes his dead bird, Cletus.

Angel Flyin Too Close To The Ground **Also, I have DVDs for sale. Contact me if you want one.

For the month and a half that I was in rehearsals and performances, I took in a Swedish roommate. Why not? Then, not even two months later, I gained another roommate, this time my friend, Jessie from Spain. Seemingly and without intent, I began operating a hostel for wayward international girls.

My family held a Bean Feed on the farm. It was a gorgeous and unseasonably warm day for open-fire roasted beans and a hayride at sunset.

The Pitch Weekly gave me another kindness in their Best of 2011 issue for White Nose Christmas. "Writer-performers Heidi Van, Bess Wallerstein and David Wayne Reed deserve year-round kudos for this tragicomic hot mess." In November, we created another hot mess with the sequel, Bump. This time working with Heidi's actual pregnancy as the new premise.

"Wallerstein and Reed are very good comic actors, and they are arguably at their best as a team of "spiritual birth guides" who with a series of bizarre rituals prepare Brindsay for motherhood."

--Robert Trussell, KC Star

Good friends were married and their weddings were highlights of the year. Congratulations to Heidi and Dan, Venus and Keenan, and Vanessa and John. Their weddings were beautiful and everything I'd imagine to want for my own.

I'm sad to say that I can't recollect all of the people from our community who passed this year. Death was a dark cloud that sat over our city for too long and took too many too early. At a funeral in the Spring, the service let out and we were handed bubbles to blow outside as we left. I blew a bubble and it floated for a moment before being tamped out by a raindrop from the ongoing thunderstorm. How like life--bubbles in a rainstorm.

As many deaths as there were, there were an infinite amount of new births. My God, the babies this year. Be careful drinking the water.

I spent Christmas Eve with my family and we took up 3 1/2 pews at church. Mom said that other people commented today at church that "we really filled up the pews!" She sounded proud. Gifts dwarfed the Christmas tree and we are fortunate and full.

I have about a week left of work before I leave for the Escape to Create artist residency in Seaside, FL. I'm honored to have been accepted and I'm looking forward to the entire month of January nestled between the forest and sea where I will complete a collection of short stories.

I'm so grateful for this year--for the friends I call family and the family I call friends. For the opportunities, the thrills, the fullness of the human experience.

Hope you're having a wonderful holiday and cheers to an auspicious new year.

With love and tidings of joy,

DWR

“Bump” Brings Faux Celebrity Back to The Fishtank

2011-11-07T10:30:00.000-06:00

http://www.publicbroadcasting.net/kcur/arts.artsmain?action=viewArticle&id=1870145&pid=77&sid=11

by Steve Walker

When President Obama announced two weeks ago that the United States would be withdrawing troops from Iraq by the end of the year, the other top news trending that week was that Lindsay Lohan would be posing for Playboy. The fact that the latter story garnered as much attention as the former didn't escape a trio of local theater artists who are returning to The Fishtank with a new play featuring the fictional troubled celebrity whose Kansas City debut last winter left her desperate for more attention.

Kansas City, Mo. The character's name is Brindsay Kardilton, a creation of Heidi Van, curator of The Fishtank, David Wayne Reed, and Bess Wallerstein. She is modeled after a quarter of young women - Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton – who share a talent for being famous for being famous.

"Brindsay Kardilton is a conglomeration of reality star, celebutant, and burned out child stars," says Van, who plays Kardilton. "With reality shows and what's going on today, with people showing private personal events – weddings, births, things like that – it's not out of the question for a celebrity to expose their pregnancy or to expose their rehab. (Yet) it's really none of our business. So it makes complete sense for Brindsay to share this with the universe, and for her mother to sell it to the universe."

The show is called "Bump," and what Brindsay is hyping is a pregnancy into its 8th month - not coincidentally the same state Van currently finds herself. Last winter's "White Nose Christmas" introduced Brindsey Kardilton to Kansas City audiences, and its trio of creators have toyed for a while with a sequel. When Van got pregnant, they found their narrative for a return visit.

"The truth of the matter is, I needed a job," says Van. "I'm an artist; I do performance art, and the opportunities were limited for me, and so this is something (where) I could be pregnant, and be in, and it's appropriate."

And it's not her coming child's first venture onto the stage.

"This baby has been on tour with me, was in the Fringe Festival, was in photo shoots, and now, she's so ready for this moment," Van says. "Her resume's amazing."

Self-professed pop culture junkie David Wayne Reed, who co-stars in the show, explains how technology and boredom might conspire to create a Brindsay Kardilton.

"Everything is so up to the minute right now," he says. "Everything is being recycled at such a rapid rate that you have to come out with something more and more outrageous, or more intimate, every single...not every day, every minute of every day. If Kim Kardashian puts out a tweet, well, then Paris Hilton needs to come out with a tweet, or you fall to the wayside."

"We want to be a part of that," he adds. "It's the train wreck we can't turn away from."

The play opens with Kardilton's release from a women's correctional facility a month from delivering at full-term. At a recent rehearsal, Reed and Van read through an early scene in the play, with Reed playing a tabloid journalist to Van's Kardilton.

Journalist: "Tonight, we interview Brindsay Kardiltion moments before she's released from the women's correctional facility. This little girl lost; this candle in the wind – Brindsay Kardiltion. Tonight is your last night in jail after 96 days and you're about to be released, Brindsay. This is a new start. How are you?"

Kardilton: "Hey, guys it's me. Brindsay Kardilton. (High-pitched laugh.) So, okay, I've made some mistakes, right? A DUI – actually, the DUIs – possession of narcotics, disorderly conduct, public urination, child endangerment, whatevs. I've had a lot of time to think about things. And when I say a lot of time, I mean a lot of time. I just think a lot of thoughts about a lot of things, a lot of the time."

Co-creator Bess Wallerstein gives her take on why the model celebrities for Kardilton continue to have mass appeal.

"You become involved emotionally and you care, or don't care, or have a reaction to what's happening," she says. "And it's a perfect medium for theater because that's exactly what we're doing; we're presenting all sorts of characters who are current today in television and pop culture, and we're asking the audience: Do you care? Do you not care? And why?"

Even if "Bump" is a huge hit for The Fishtank, there's little chance it will be extended beyond November 14, since its leading lady is due to deliver a baby girl in December.

"Bump" by David Wayne Reed, Bess Wallerstein and Heidi Van

November 4 - 14, 2011

The Fishtank Performance Studio

1715 Wyandotte, Kansas City, Mo.

© Copyright 2011, KCUR

'BUMP' adds note of optimism to savagely funny play

2011-11-07T09:46:00.000-06:00

The Kansas City Star
By ROBERT TRUSSELL

Updated: 2011-11-06T05:41:33Z

Of all the alternative performance spaces in Kansas City, only the Fishtank Performance Studio offers theatergoers something like an Off-Off Broadway experience. Make that Off-Off-Off-Off Broadway.

Shows at the Fishtank, which has a seating capacity of about 50 and a virtually nonexistent backstage area, tend to be about the material and the actors — as opposed to dazzling visual effects.

The current production, “Bump,” is an irreverent follow-up to last year’s acerbic “White Nose Christmas: A Tabloid of Rehab and Rebirth.” Written and performed by Heidi Van, Bess Wallerstein and David Wayne Reed, that show depicted the fall from grace of Brindsay Kardilton, a “celebutante” for whom self-regard is as natural as breathing.

In “Bump,” Brindsay has been released from jail, although she must complete her community service by swabbing the floors and sterilizing surgical instruments at the city morgue. The joke is that Brindsay has emerged from jail an expectant mother, although the father is unknown and the circumstances of her impregnation are unknown.

Van, who is pregnant in real life, again plays Brindsay, and although this show is plenty irreverent, this time the writer/actors have delivered a more humanistic play, one that even concludes on an honest note of optimism.

Not that there isn’t plenty of savage humor.

Wallerstein and Reed, playing multiple roles, deliver a succession of sharply drawn caricatures, and the results are often very funny. Wallerstein plays Brindsay’s mother, who sees Brindsay’s impending motherhood as a marketing opportunity (including selling naming rights for the baby), and she reprises a dreamscape version of Marilyn Monroe.

Wallerstein and Reed also play Kathie Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb of the “Today” show, and Reed makes appearances as Callie, Brindsay’s little sister, as well as her father, Mitch, who explains as he contemplates suicide on the ledge of a building that all of his scandals and jail time were simply an effort to get closer to Brindsay.

Wallerstein and Reed are very good comic actors, and they are arguably at their best as a team of "spiritual birth guides" who with a series of bizarre rituals prepare Brindsay for motherhood. Van’s innate sense of comic timing is on full display in their piece, and many of the show’s most memorable moments are found in her impressive physical performance.

The show begins with a video interview with Van as Brindsay as she prepares to leave jail and other satirical video interviews come into play in the show: Vanessa Severo as Salma Hayek; Ashley Otis as Angelina Jolie; Danielle Metz as Jennifer Aniston and Venus Starr as Courtney Love.

Lighting and project designer Gregory Casparian, working within the severe limitations of the space, gives the show a bit of visual flash.

(###)

Heidi Van’s baby bump has a starring role in Fishtank production - KansasCity.com

2011-11-03T11:54:00.001-05:00

By ROBERT TRUSSELL

The Kansas City Star

Heidi Van in 'Bump'

Brindsay’s back and she’s not alone.

At the Fishtank Performance Studio this week, adventurous theatergoers can encounter a show that sounds a lot like life imitating art.

Or maybe art imitating life imitating art.

Either way, the dividing line between reality and artifice should be rather fluid in “Bump,” a new piece written and performed by Heidi Van, David Wayne Reed and Bess Wallerstein.

“Bump” is a sequel to last year’s “White Nose Christmas: A Tabloid Nativity of Rehab & Rebirth,” which introduced us to Brindsay Kardilton, coke-snorting celebrity famous for being famous. In that show, which was a little like a mutant version of “A Christmas Carol,” Brindsay ends up in the slammer and receives nocturnal visits from an assortment of characters, including Marilyn Monroe and Mr. Cocaine. Van played Brindsay, and Reed and Wallerstein each performed multiple supporting roles.

Now Brindsay’s out of jail but somehow she has become pregnant while behind bars. The script, Van explained recently, coyly avoids explaining just how this came to be.

“She has a revelation, as she always does,” Van said. “She faces the reality of what it’s like to actually have a baby. Will it be part of a cycle of celebrity babies? Or will she try to raise her baby as a normal human being?”

These are relevant questions to Van, because she and her husband, Daniel Quin Shay (who designed sound for the show), are expecting a child of their own. Due date: Dec. 10. So it was important to get the show going before the blessed event.

“I don’t have a big time frame to do it because I’m eight months pregnant,” she said.

Van, Wallerstein and Reed basically directed themselves, Van said, although Ashley Otis is choreographing the show. The set was designed and built by Matt Weiss.

“There’s four musical numbers and they are whoppers,” Van said.

The show, like the first one, comments on an age in which notoriety of any kind allows a person to become a celebrity, and celebrities use actual events in their lives — like having babies — to further enhance their public image.

“It is completely woven out of pop culture,” she said. “I think that’s what makes the play relevant.”

Van and Shay already know their baby is a girl. And they’ve named her Maryanne and she’s already a trouper. Shortly after she became pregnant, Van went on tour with the performance-art band Boom! Toward the middle of her pregnancy she was involved in the Fringe Festival. And now she’s doing Brindsay Kardilton again. That’s a lot of stage experience for someone who hasn’t taken her first breath.

“Now she’s a star,” Van said.

“Bump” opens Friday and continues through Nov. 14 at the Fishtank Performance Studio, 1715 Wyandotte St. Tickets cost $15. Go to brownpapertickets.com/event/205827 or fishtanktheater.com.

Pitch Best of 2011--White Nose Christmas "Best Stocking Stuffer"

2011-10-12T13:38:00.001-05:00

It's an unavoidable fact of holiday entertainment: Christmas went dirty years ago. Come mistletoe time in most big cities, you can't throw a snowball without hitting a supposedly irreverent Christmas-themed staging. But it's equally true that raunchy Santas, drunken family gatherings and turkey-centered mishaps mostly fall flat on the stage. Last winter, though, Kansas Citians got an unexpected present with White Nose Christmas: A Tabloid Nativity of Rehab and Rebirth. The good ideas started with the play's holiday-proof setting: a Hollywood peopled by strung-out former stars, now so calloused and scarred that no Christmas miracle could ever pull its head out of the eggnog bowl. We were hooked from the moment one such jaded former star calls for bail money by saying she's in "the jail by the great Mexican restaurant." Grim! Writer-performers Heidi Van, Bess Wallerstein and David Wayne Reed deserve year-round kudos for this tragicomic hot mess. They also deserve a bigger audience if they revive the thing this year. During one Sunday performance, there were only five people in attendance. The cast killed it anyway, proving that it really is better to give than to receive.

MT2: Ride On--Eulogy for Cletus Levi Jenkins

2011-09-09T08:54:00.000-05:00

Video Snippet of MT2: Ride On

2011-07-30T15:24:00.002-05:00

Mother Trucker 2 rules the road, but Honky Tonk Angels fails to take wing

2011-07-28T15:09:00.000-05:00

By Grace Suh
Pitch Weekly
Tuesday, Jul 19 2011

Before this past weekend, country music was one of those subjects — like airplane mechanics or professional sports — about which I was abysmally ignorant. Consider me schooled, thanks to Mother Trucker 2 (at La Esquina) and Honky Tonk Angels (at the American Heartland Theatre). Both offer crash courses in the soul and guts of country.

Seven years after the original, which was staged at the late Late Night Theatre, Mother Trucker 2: Ride On rumbles into the Charlotte Street Foundation's La Esquina Gallery (part of its Urban Culture Project). The sequel finds Ruby Lee Jenkins (this time played by Kimberely Queen) settled in with Deke (Ron Megee), the bull rider she picked up on the side of the highway. Both dote on teenager Teddy Bear (Gary Campbell), her wheelchair-bound son, who likes to remind everyone that he's "crippled but not blind." As we'll see, another important faculty remains intact.

Times are hard, and Ruby Lee is about to lose her house unless she can come up with $7,776.63 in back taxes. Deke hatches a plot to haul a bull to Las Vegas in Ruby Lee's pink Peterbilt, and the family is off. Along the way, they run into Ruby's brother, Slim Jenkins (David Wayne Reed, also the show's writer, producer and director), traveling with Barbara Mandrell as her opening act.

Camp it is, but with plenty of Kumbaya. The script and production are wildly creative (Venus Starr's astounding costumes are perfect), but more important, Reed grounds the story in heart and good will. Although plot elements fit together cleverly, the performances are what really keep the show trucking.

Mother Trucker 2 is a star vehicle with lots of stars. As the eponymous Mother Trucker, Queen is queen of the show, giving us a heroine whose sincerity and dignity make us root for her at every turn. Ruby Lee has a Dolly Parton-sweet speaking voice and lots of sexy sass, but most of all, she is a mother protecting her Teddy Bear and trying to save their home.

Good thing Teddy Bear is being truck-schooled. He'd be bully fodder in any regular school, with his industrial glasses, wheelchair and borderline-creepy precociousness. Campbell gives his jorts-rocking man-child an unflappable and valorous good nature. When he learns that he has been forgotten by both his uncle and the taker of his virginity, he bravely takes to the road on the only wheels he has.

Megee is brilliant as the most macho man in KC, studly and horny and fatherly. With a full-grown handlebar mustache, cowboy-tight jeans and a hard-on in his heart for Ruby Lee, he plays it straight in all senses of the word. Megee also has one of the best singing voices in the show. (Reed has the other one, great on "Texas Bound and Flyin'" and hilarious on "Angels Flying Too Close to the Ground.") Queen's singing voice is pretty but faint, though her "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden" is one of the show's best numbers, thanks to droll backup from Ashley Otis and Shannon Michalski.

Darryl Jones returns as Sheriff Dick Walker, and Cody Wyoming appears in minor, mostly mulleted roles. But Otis and Michalski get to whoop it up as everything from a champion Mary Kay saleswoman to a gallant highway patrolwoman. Michalski is a fearless performer. She seems to enjoy sending up lesbian and butch types, and her sneer is magnetic.

This being a DIY kind of production, there were several minor mishaps the night I attended (a flapping door, a flapping mustache), and the comic potential of each did not go unfulfilled. Queen has a gift for improvisation, and she nearly rivaled scripted lines in comic precision.

This family story is heartwarming, the characters lovable, the tone exactly right. Played as earnest as rodeo-clown costumes and sister-wife routines allow, Mother Trucker 2 is surprisingly touching and every bit as funny as you'd expect.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What do you do when a man does a woman — or three women — wrong? Me, I want to kick Ted Swindley, nominal author of Honky Tonk Angels, in the head.

Honky Tonk Angels is nothing more than a couple of dozen well-known country and honky-tonk songs Scotch-taped together with a thin story. The show gives each song a literal and undignified interpretation and asks three superb actors (Teri Adams, Colleen Grate and Jessalyn Kincaid) to do things no woman should have to do, let alone onstage.

Tammy Wynette, writer and performer of "Stand By Your Man," stood by no fewer than five husbands. But in this show, Adams must sing the song as a woman ironing her no-good husband's clothes in their double-wide trailer.

Swindley is not only unimaginative but also cynical and condescending. This show's songs celebrate the women of the working class. Swindley just mocks them. He thinks there's something inherently funny about having a truck-driving husband named Bubba. The shame of it is that this show's three stars are phenomenal singers and performers, and they're backed by a kick-ass band — John Wirt, Ry Kincaid, Jay Miller and Russ Weaver — led by the ever peppy Jeremy Watson. Too bad we can't hear them sing and play these wonderful songs without enduring distressingly bad jokes and humiliating stereotypes in between.

If any show can put leaving on your mind, it's this one.

I'm not gonna shit ya, this preview makes my heart sing.

2011-07-14T02:52:00.000-05:00

http://www.kansascity.com/2011/07/13/3010318/late-night-theater-lives.html

David Wayne Reed and Crew Roar Back Onstage for a Sequel

2011-07-01T11:20:00.000-05:00

David Wayne Reed and Crew Roar Back Onstage for a Sequel

At Dear Diary night, folks go onstage to bare their souls - KansasCity.com

2011-06-30T09:47:00.000-05:00

At Dear Diary night, folks go onstage to bare their souls - KansasCity.com

Tickets to Mother Trucker 2: Ride On --ON SALE NOW

2011-06-10T11:21:00.003-05:00

Get Your Tickets NOW!

Mother Trucker 2: Ride On

2011-05-25T08:24:00.000-05:00

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/365940457/mother-trucker-2-ride-on

Pink Floyd's The Wall--The Living Room Spring 2011

2011-05-24T10:57:00.000-05:00

http://backtorockville.typepad.com/back_to_rockville/2011/04/review-a-tribute-to-pink-floyds-the-wall-.html

Put the pedal to the metal.

2011-05-09T08:49:00.002-05:00

Inspiration Grants

2011-04-22T15:49:00.002-05:00

http://kcstage.blogspot.com/2011/04/heidi-van-david-wayne-reed-receive-arts.html

More White Nose Christmas

2010-12-15T20:33:00.000-06:00

http://myemail.constantcontact.com/WHITE-NOSE-CHRISTMAS---Runaway-winner-for-Best-Holiday-Show--.html?soid=1102184412665&aid=4MErCAO4ZyE

I'm dashing and winsome. And proud of this review.

2010-12-14T21:48:00.002-06:00

http://www.pitch.com/2010-12-16/culture/unicorn-very-joan-crawford-christmas-fishtank-white-nose-christmas/

‘White Nose Christmas’ is an anti-holiday show with a positive message - KansasCity.com

2010-12-13T08:34:00.002-06:00

‘White Nose Christmas’ is an anti-holiday show with a positive message - KansasCity.com

O Little Town of Hollywood

2010-12-07T10:26:00.000-06:00

Like a Christmas tale mad-libbed from TMZ entries, White Nose Christmas: A Tabloid Nativity of Rehab and Rebirth is the story of Brindsay Kardilton, a Hollywood It Girl whose taste for nose candy and other vices lands her, à la Lindsay Lohan, in the slammer for DUI. There, Kardilton is visited by ghosts of rehab past, present and future; makes peace with addictions and frenemies; and gets a fresh start on a life as pure as the driven snow on Sunset Boulevard in a freak Los Angeles blizzard. The inspirational satire is written and performed by Late Night Theatre alum David Wayne Reed, Bess Wallerstein of CounterClockwise Comedy, and Heidi Van of Fishtank Performance Studio. It runs through December 23 at the Fishtank (1715 Wyandotte). Tickets cost $10-$20 at the door; they can be purchased in advance at Birdies. Call 816-809-7110 or see fishtanktheater.com.--Grace Suh, The Pitch

"Funny, etc."

2010-10-29T09:02:00.001-05:00

I didn't win the Literary Death Match last night. That honor went to my good friend, Gina Kauffman. I was matched against Cote Smith who won with a story about a man and wife who watch their daughter's sex video online and try to save their own relationship in the process. It was called 'something.'

During my critique, the judge for literary merit noted that it was very hard to create humor on the page and that my piece was "funny, etc." She said "I won't say anything about the post-modern usage of your own name in your piece." Her name was Kristy Somebody. She's won 2 Pushcart Awards and an NEA grant. Whitney Terrell gave me high marks for the performance aspect. He said he liked how I used the word 'stroke.' Scott Wilson, of the Pitch, judged Intangibles. I don't remember what he said.

Nerd Battle Royale

2010-10-28T10:37:00.000-05:00

I finally decided on my story for Literary Death Match tonight. Special nods to Monsanto, kangaroo skin hats, illegal aliens, Don Henley and my retarded cousin, Sue.

http://www.literarydeathmatch.com/upcoming-events/ldm100-october-28-2010.html

Review: PROP 8 ON TRIAL

2010-09-24T11:45:00.000-05:00

Review: PROP 8 ON TRIAL

Hard Reed

2010-08-16T16:47:00.000-05:00

Pitch Music Awards
Rock Local: the Pitch Music Awards Ceremony

Ad Astra Arkestra was missing something.

Blinking under the bright lights of the Uptown, the band accepted its award for Best Experimental Act at the Pitch Music Awards Ceremony last night; but they couldn't find somebody they wanted to thank. Where was she?"She's drunk!" a crowd member volunteered."That's the right answer!" roared Mike Tuley into the mic. "We're all drunk!"
If there's an annual theme to the Pitch Music Awards Ceremony -- besides celebrating Kansas City's local music, that is -- there is only one other contending option: alcohol.
For twenty bucks, Kansas City scored the following: a free Pitch lighter (yes!), lots of drunken band kids, and an open bar. It's like a wedding, without a bride to offend: you can smoke, cuss, show your tattoos and repeatedly scream the names of Lawrence punk bands without consequences. (Weird Wounds, anyone?)

In addition to the dozens of tables of pure, undiluted (and shit-faced) local talent, mayhem was also wrangled by the host of the party, David Wayne Reed, who awarded local artists in 22 categories -- and did so with increasing difficulty. (At one point, Reed insisted that he needed some "goddamned KY jelly to get these envelopes open.") The Uptown's red velvet curtains lifted to reveal four different performing acts at points throughout the night, too: Bleach Bloodz, Mark Lowrey with Diverse and Reach, the Grisly Hand, and the Dead Girls.
Let's start with the music. In a shuddering, shambling shakedown of rock and roll, Howard Iceberg and his guitar player, Gary Paredes (who pulled off an excellent scissor-kick on stage) cut loose next to Les Izmore on tambourine, and the sunglass-clad, bandanna-bearing boys of Bleach Bloodz. (Who knew that Howard Iceberg's tunes could sound like the Stones got stoned and threw down with the Ramones?)

Before Mark Lowrey and Diverse eased into the ensemble's first number, trumpet player Hermon Mahari started the performance on a somber note. The leader of Diverse quietly spoke about the death of local legend Ahmad Alaadeen yesterday, who was "one of our last ties to Charlie Parker." (The jazz saxophonist took lessons from Leo H. Davis, who also taught Parker.) It was an eloquent, graceful gesture to honor Kansas City's musical history, and the jazz legend's memory.

The music lives on: Mahari blasted trumpet over Lowrey's piano grooves and crashing beats from Diverse's drummer, Ryan Lee. When Reach emerged from backstage to rap over the band's grooves, a throng of fans flocked to the front of the stage, bobbing silhouetted palms to the beat.

The Grisly Hand struck a more introspective note with covers of the Rainmakers and Drakkar Sauna. To close out the night, a face-melting fusion of local power-pop emitted from the Dead Girls, who crammed the songs of Vitreous Humor, Ultimate Fakebook, Kill Creek, their own tunes and more into a mammoth medley of scene history.
That's just the music. Here are some highlights from the winners.

Son Venezuela thanked the Pitch for our coverage of immigration issues, and staged an impromptu sing-a-long: I won't play no shows in Arizona, sang the band's leader, inciting the crowd to clap along. (They've won nine awards, and wanted one more - one for each of their ten-piece band.)

Samantha Fish wore her shiny pink prom dress on stage to accept her award for Best Blues Act. "I might be a little overdressed," she admitted shyly.

Dutch Newman accepted an award for local hip-hop hero Stik Figa in his absence, giving shout-outs to all of the nominees, including "that cocksucker, Dutch Newman."

Indie pop champions Cowboy Indian Bear told us that, if we wanted to find them after the awards show, "we'll be partying at the Econolodge."

The rasta hat-clad men of SeedLove accepted their Pitch award by thanking us for the new rolling tray. (Man, you are more than welcome.)

The Noise FM toppled established Kansas City acts The Life and Times and the Appleseed Cast to win the Indie Rock category. They called it a perfect capstone to their Kansas City career: the band is moving to Chicago soon.

After Federation of Horsepower won the Rock category, Gregg Todt told us: "I've been playing music in this town for 32 years, and this is the first time that I've ever received an award."
In a fitting non-sequitur, Margo May let us know that she's not a band, and thanked Led Zeppelin.

The Architects wiped the All-Star category in the final stretches of the night. Afterwards, people stepped outside for a smoke; rockers mussed their hair; winners' palms sweated as they clutched their new plastic plaque, commemorating both promise and success. Booze is booze; but local solidarity? That's something worth celebrating.

Here's the winner's circle. Congratulations, Kansas City. As always: you rock.
Punk: Bent Left; Indie Rock: The Noise FM; Metal: Hammerlord; Blues: Samantha Fish; Jazz Solo Artist: Mark Lowrey; Jazz Ensemble: Snuff Jazz; Garage Rock: Bleach Bloodz; Country/Bluegrass: The Last Call Girls; DJ Hip-Hop: Miles Bonny; DJ Dance: Nomathmatics; Rap: Rich the Factor; Singer Songwriter: Noah Earle; World: Son Venezuela; Folk/Americana: The Grisly Hand; Reggae: SeedLove; Experimental: Ad Astra Arkestra; Indie Pop: Cowboy Indian Bear; Emerging Act: Margo May; Rock: Federation of Horsepower; Pop: Audiovox; All Star: The Architects.

Hide Your Kids, Hide Your Wife

2010-08-13T16:51:00.000-05:00

I'll admit it. This week, I fell in love with a Katy Perry song. It makes me sick to admit that but it's the truth. After listening to Teenage Dream on auto-loop, I realized I had a problem. Just in the nick of time, I discovered a new song that I could really get behind. Watch how news makes music and keeps on giving gift after amazing gift. And with a positive message to boot! Take that, Katy Perry!

Antoine Dodson is the new John Philip Sousa.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJVwfJs8Eqo

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/3afe74b6fd/bed-intruder-autotune-remix?rel=player&playlist=317439

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/b14ee0ef46/bed-intruder-marching-band-remix

GNC will rip you AND lighten your skin

2010-08-04T16:30:00.001-05:00

Did Sammy Sosa use GNC?

Articles | My essentials: Peggy Noland | Ink

2010-07-28T13:03:00.000-05:00

My friend and mother of my imaginary children, Peggy Noland is featured in this week's INK. She lists off her 'Essentials'. I'm her choice for actor.

I love you, Peggy. Let's set a date so I can do a monologue for you...privately.

Articles | My essentials: Peggy Noland | Ink

Suite Ticket to Paul McCartney

2010-07-26T08:37:00.000-05:00

I was in the middle of a rainstorm at the exit to SW Blvd, when my phone rang. Jen called and said that a mutual friend couldn't end up going with her to see Paul McCartney at the Sprint Center. She wanted to know if I wanted to go. ...yeah. We met up at 12th & Baltimore where we drank these fancy $14 Mojitos made with St. Germain (fave drink maybe ever). I toasted her and said "Here's to what is going to be one of our favorite memories together."

It was.

Tim Finn's review below--it was truly stunning.

http://backtorockville.typepad.com/back_to_rockville/2010/07/when-tickets-went-on-sale-for-paul-mccartneys-first-show-in-kansas-city-in-more-then-17-years-the-ticket-prices----as-high-a.html

These Monkeys Gone to Heaven

2010-07-20T13:18:00.000-05:00

Some dickwad from Peru was caught in Mexico City smuggling 18 Titi Monkeys in a girdle he was wearing. 2 monkeys died.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/38316250/

What's the Frequency, DWR?!

2010-07-14T17:19:00.001-05:00

Wednesday MidDay Medley
TEN to NOON Wednesdays - Streaming at KKFI.org
90.1 FM KKFI - Kansas City Community Radio
Produced and Hosted by Mark Manning

Playlist From: Wednesday, July 14, 2010

"What's the Frequency David? "
DWR's Musical Diary of the 90s.

David Wayne Reed has worked as an actor on stages from The KC Rep to Late Night Theatre, where he was one of the core members, appearing in many productions and contributing as a Director and Playwright. Last weekend, David finished his run in the Living Room production of Eric Bogosian's "Talk Radio." David has worked as a columnist for The Liberty Press, Midwest Times and Kansas City Magazine. David has served as host of The Pitch Music Awards and has collaborated The Charlotte Street Foundation in curating musical / performance events celebrating the works of David Bowie, Lou Reed & The Velvet Underground, and Pink Floyd's "The Wall" at La Esquina Gallery. David is a frequent contributor, as a writer and performer, at The Fishtank Performance Studio.

Just two days after his 38th birthday, guest co-host and guest producer, David Wayne Reed, joined us to share music and stories from the 1990s. It was the decade that David graduated from High School, and graduated from College and moved to Kansas City.

1. Iggy Pop & Kate Pierson – “Candy”
from: Brick By Brick / Virgin Records / June 1990

2. World Party - "Way Down Now"
from: Goodbye Jumbo / Fontana / 1990

3. Sinead O'Connor – “Last Day Of Our Acquaintance”
from: I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got / Chrysalis / 1990

4. Sonic Youth – “Dirty Boots”
from: Goo / Geffen Records / June 26, 1990
[formed in 1981 in NYC, Goo is their 6th album, and was their first album released after the band signed to major label Geffen Records. Their albums became more accessible. "Dirty Boots", evokes old blues slang in its declaration that "It's time to rock the road/And tell the story of the jelly rollin'/Dirty boots are on/Hi de ho.]

5. Pixies – “Letter To Memphis”
from: Trompe le Monde / 4AD / 1991
["Trompe le Monde", a French phrase meaning "Fool the World" and is a play on the French phrase "trompe l'oeil" — a painting technique in which the painter fools the viewer into thinking objects presented are real. It was the Pixies fourth and final album.]

6. Cracker – "Low”
from: Kerosene Heat / Virgin / 1993

7. Massive Attack – “Unfinished Sympathy”
from: Blue Lines / Virgin Records / 1991
[features Shara Nelson on lead vocals. It is also one of the group's most successful singles. The percussion loop of the song is based on a "belly break" sampled from a Bob James' cover of Paul Simon's "Take Me to the Mardi Gras" which was also used by Run DMC on "Peter Piper." The voice at the beginning of the song is a sample from John McLaughlin and the Mahavishnu Orchestra's "Planetary Citizen"; McLaughlin's voice was sampled without clearance. Blue Lines is generally considered the first trip hop album, although the term was not coined until years later. The album established Massive Attack as one of the most innovative British bands of the 1990s.]

8. U2 – "Stay (Faraway, So Close!)”
from: Zooropa / Island Records / July 1993
[8th studio album by Irish band U2. Originally intended as an EP,[1] it was recorded between legs of the Zoo TV Tour and Influenced by both tour life and the ideas of media barrage and irony from the tour. Stay (Faraway, So Close!)" was the album's third single. The song was inspired by Frank Sinatra's music - its working title while still in development was actually "Sinatra". The band heard that Wim Wenders was looking for a song for his new movie Faraway, So Close! that they decided to complete the song. The Edge proceeded to play around on the piano improvising some "old-school chord progressions, trying to summon up the spirit of Frank Sinatra."[1] The single's B-side featured the song "I've Got You Under My Skin", as a duet between Bono and Sinatra, which was originally released on Sinatra's Duets album. In a 2005 interview with Rolling Stone, Bono cited "Stay" as one of his personal favorite U2 songs and perhaps their most underrated. ]

9. Lisa Loeb – “Stay”
from: The Soundtrack for Reality Bites / RCA / 1994
[Included on the Reality Bites soundtrack, as well as Lisa's debut album, Tails. The song become a number-one hit on the Billboard Hot 100 chart, earning her the distinction of being the only artist to top the U.S. chart before being signed to any record label. Lisa Loeb was discovered by actor and friend Ethan Hawke, who lived in an apartment across the street from her in NYC. She met Hawke through mutual friends in the NYC theatre community. Hawke gave a tape of Loeb's song to director Ben Stiller during the making of the film Reality Bites who agreed to use the song in the film's soundtrack. The music video was directed by Ethan Hawke, and features Loeb (wearing a black dress and her trademark horn-rimmed glasses) singing the lyrics while walking around in the empty New York City apartment in which she lived at the time. The video can be described as simple as there are no use of any visual or audio effects. According to VH1's Pop-Up Video, the video was filmed in just two separate takes.]

10. The The – “Slow Emotional Replay”
from: Dusk / Sony / 1993
[the 5th album by The The, recorded in 1992 and released by Sony Records in January. Matt Johnson on vocals, guitar, keyboards. Also features Johnny Marr on guitar, harmonica, backing vocals. Johnny joined The The after The Smiths broke up in 1988. He left The The in 1994.]

11. Matthew Sweet – “Sick Of Myself”
from: 100% Fun / Zoo Entertainment Records / 1995
[Sidney Matthew Sweet was born October 6, 1964, in Lincoln, Nebraska. He was part of the burgeoning Athens, Georgia music scene in the early and mid-1980s before gaining commercial success during the early 1990s. He continues to release albums and tour. 100% Fun was matthew's fifth album. The track "Sick of Myself" was a hit single reaching number 2 on the Billboard Modern Rock chart. The title is taken from a line in the suicide note of Kurt Cobain.]

12. Spacehog – “In The Meantime”
from: Resident Alien / Elektra / 1995
[debut of British glam rock band. Recorded live in a barn in Woodstock, NY]

13. P.J. Harvey – “Rid Of Me”
from: Rid Of Me / Island Records / May 4, 1993
[Polly Jean Harvey was born October 9, 1969. She is an English musician and singer-songwriter. This was the second album by PJ Harvey, was largely recorded and produced by engineer Steve Albini, Harvey had admired Albini’s distinctively raw recordings of bands like Pixies, Slint, The Breeders and The Jesus Lizard. he album was recorded mostly live at Pachyderm Studios in Canon Falls, MN over two weeks in December 1992 by Albini. In 2003, the album was ranked number 405 on Rolling Stone magazine's list of the 500 greatest albums of all time.]

14. Liz Phair – “Go West”
from: Whip-Smart / Matador Records / September 20, 1994
[The second album by Liz Phair, the follow-up to Phair's critically acclaimed debut, 1993's Exile In Guyville. The album remains her best-selling album. Elizabeth Clark "Liz" Phair was born April 17, 1967 and began her career in the early 1990s by self-releasing audio cassettes under the moniker Girly Sound, before signing with the independent record label Matador Records. Her latest album, Funstyle, was released on July 3, 2010.]

15. Sandra Bernhard – “The Woman I Could've Been” (edited)
from: Excuses For Bad Behavior Pt. 1 / 5 50 Records / 1994
[Sandra Bernhard was born June 6, 1955, in Flint Michigan. She gained attention in the late 1970s with her stand-up comedy in which she often bitterly critiques celebrity culture and political figures. She has released 12 albums, 3 books, has appeared in 37 films, she made her television debut in 1977 on The Richard Pryor Show. She had a reoccurring role on Roseanne from 1991 through 1997.]

16. Beastie Boys – “I Don't Know”
from: Hello Nasty / Capitol / 1998
[5th studio album, won two Grammys, in 1999 in the categories of Best Alternative Music Album and Best Rap Performance by a Duo or Group for "Intergalactic". "I Don't Know" features Adam Yauch on vocals with Miho Hatori of Cibo Matto.]

11:31 - Interview with Musician Abigail Henderson and Artist, Sonya Andrews

WE ARE SYNAESTHETIC, Friday, July 16, 7:00 PM to 10:30 PM
at The Living Room, 1818 McGee Street, KCMO.

This evening of Art & Music is a benefit for Review Publishing and The Midwest Music Foundation.

Review Publishing was founded in 1998, and produced Review magazine in print monthly through early 2009 and continues to support Midwest artists, galleries, museums, curators, and art lovers with news, reviews, a visual arts calendar, and other articles at ereview.org.

Midwest Music Foundation was formed in 2008, as a non-profit dedicated to promote and support music and musicians in KC and throughout the Midwest. Incorporating a health care initiative, a media component, and community involvement. For More information you can visit: midwestmusicfound.org.

Review Publishing & Midwest Music Foundation have joined forces to present this evening of live music and visual art.

18 visual artists from the Kansas City area will be displaying work that is inspired by, interpretive of, or representational of music. Proceeds from poster sales and a portion of proceeds from the sale of originals will be split evenly to benefit Review and MMF.

PARTICIPATING ARTISTS ARE: Paul Andrews, Andrea Bledsoe, Derrick Breidenthal, Héctor Casanova, Ben Chlapek, Clare Doveton, Lori Raye Erickson, GEAR, Kym Griswold, Jud Kite, Eric Lindquist, Jenni McSpadden, Forester Michael, Molly Murphy, Timothy Rowland, Lou Ruzich, Tyson Schroeder, and Davin Watne.

There will also be a large canvas where all are welcome to paint. The only requirement is that folks must paint in response to the music they are listening to. There will be a raffle at the end of the evening and the winner will receive of the completed piece.

Music will be provided by: The Wires, KC’s own alternative string duo featuring Laurel Morgan (In the Pines) and Sascha Groschang. Dead Voices, the latest collaboration of Dave Regnier (The Afterparty), Jason Beers (The Brannock Device), Mike Stover (Mr. Marco’s V7’s) and Matt Richey. And Atlantic Fadeout, a new band including Chris Meck and Abigail Henderson (The Gaslights), Amy Farrand (American Catastrophe, eio) and Dutch Humphrey (Elkheart). Sound production by CLM Audio and Chad Meise.

The Living Room, is at 1818 McGee, founded by Shawnna Journagan & Rusty Sneary.

For More information you can visit: midwestmusicfound.org or ereview.org.

17. Hole – “Dying”
from: Celebrity Skin / Geffen Records / 1998
[the third studio album. It was Hole's most commercially successful album. In 2002 Hole disbanded, however the reunited in 2009 and recently released Nobody's Daughter their fourth studio album and first album to be released by Hole in twelve years, since 1998's Celebrity Skin..]

18. Guided By Voices – “Teenage F.B.I.”
from: Do The Collapse / TVT Records / 1999
[from Dayton, Ohio, formed in 1983. Band made frequent personnel changes but always maintained the presence of principal songwriter Robert Pollard. Most songs are in the two-minute range, but many are even shorter; often they end abruptly or are intertwined with odd and homemade sound effects. GBV initially disbanded in 2004. In 2010, it was announced that the "classic lineup" of Guided by Voices would reunite to perform at Matador Records 21st Anniversary in Las Vegas. Do the Collapse is their 11th album and was produced by by Ric Ocasek of The Cars. Ocasek demanded that the band not drink whilst recording, making this the only completely sober Guided By Voices recording. "Teenage FBI" was featured on the soundtrack to the Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV-series.]

19. Modest Mouse – “Doin' The Cockroach”
from: The Lonesome Crowded West / Up Records / 1997
[the second full-length album Many consider the album to be one of the best indie rock albums of the 90s. The two towers that adorn the album's cover are The Westin Seattle, the tallest hotel building in the city. Formed in 1993 in the Seattle suburb of Issaquah, Washington by singer/lyricist/guitarist Isaac Brock, drummer Jeremiah Green, and bassist Eric Judy. Since their 1996 debut album, This Is a Long Drive for Someone with Nothing to Think About, their lineup has centered around Brock, Green and Judy. Guitarist Johnny Marr (formerly of The Smiths) joined the band in May 2006 and then left the group in 2009. Their name is derived from a passage from the Virginia Woolf story "The Mark on the Wall" which reads, "I wish I could hit upon a pleasant track of thought, a track indirectly reflecting credit upon myself, for those are the pleasantest thoughts, and very frequent even in the minds of modest, mouse-coloured people, who believe genuinely that they dislike to hear their own praises."]

Sources for Notes: Artist's websites noted above and wikipedia.org

Show #325

For copies of previous playlists email Mark at BigBangBuffet@aol.com

What's the Frequency, David?

2010-07-08T09:49:00.000-05:00

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=111458135569690

Review | ‘Talk Radio,’ the shock jock play from 1987, still feels current - KansasCity.com

2010-07-05T05:39:00.000-05:00

Review | ‘Talk Radio,’ the shock jock play from 1987, still feels current - KansasCity.com

David Wayne Reed IS CONSPIRACY! (A Blue Summer Eclectic Production)

2010-05-13T16:37:00.000-05:00

http://www.pitch.com/events/blue-summer-eclectic-fashion-art-and-music-1378279/

Grunge Beach--

2010-05-05T14:32:00.000-05:00

20 for 20 Fashion Show was a success! I ended up raising almost $300 for AIDSWALK and then came in 2nd place! Not bad considering I was up against other designers (who design for a living!).

Grunge Beach Fashion Preview--Spring/Summer 2010

2010-03-16T11:30:00.000-05:00

This is a sneak peek of my design for the 20 for 20 Fashion Show benefitting AIDSWALK Kansas City. The models will walk on Saturday, March 20, 2010 at Monaco on 39th St. (formerly Mint). Doors open at 6 p.m., runway show at 8 p.m.

Model: April

Babe Tte

2010-03-16T11:06:00.000-05:00

http://www.presentmagazine.com/full_content.php?article_id=2929&full=yes&pbr=1

Vote for Me/My Truck

2010-03-01T11:27:00.000-06:00

Present Magazine Kansas City Arts - Review: Grey Gardens

2010-01-31T22:52:00.000-06:00

Present Magazine Kansas City Arts - Review: Grey Gardens

Holiday Letter 2009

2009-12-12T20:27:00.000-06:00

Dear Friends and Family,

They say that the years go by faster as you get older--well I must be getting younger because this past year has felt like a decade.—like Dickens, the best of times, the worst of times. 2009.

I started off the New Year on a train bound for St. Louis. Old friends, City Museum and it’s 7 story slide, wine and dim sum. It was a superb start to the new year but other than that, I can’t recall anything else about January.

In February, I was chosen to be featured in Ink Magazine for basically what amounted to a full-page singles ad. Each week, they ask people to list their essential items for living and then come to your house and take pictures of you and your stuff. I listed: Indoor grill, designer eyewear, Metro bus pass, books, Blackberry, desk, vintage tuxedo and 50in flatscreen TV (that I won last year in a raffle in Reno!). This is how I get by.

Shortly thereafter, an episode of Check, Please, a local restaurant review show on KCPT aired. I was on a panel that included an HR Director and a Lawyer and me, “Media Darling.” Why not? Naturally, I held a viewing party (what with my 50in and all). It was fun—and I didn’t cringe watching myself. I heard well into the summer that this episode aired multiple times. This reminded me that there were no residuals.

Uncharacteristically and capriciously, I entered the March Madness pool at work. I’ve never followed sports but this year, (with a vested interest) I watched the basketball games fervently, even jumping off the sofa and screaming at the TV at times. I’m not proud of this. I didn’t win the pool but didn’t too that poorly considering how I laid out my brackets. Choosing the teams reminded me of my approach to the math section of the ACT test in high school. Willy-nilly.

I entered a screenwriting competition with a friend. It was a TV pilot called Gravity Falls—a melodrama set in small town Kansas. We didn’t win but honestly the reward was in the journey and the satisfaction in the completion. Eh, better luck next year.

I am lucky in that I get free tickets to a lot of shows in town. I love this. In April, Venus called me because she ended up getting some free tickets to the Britney Spears concert at Sprint Center. I know, I know—Britney Spears? Yes. Britney didn’t sing but she danced her little heart out.

As an added bonus we were given some backstage passes for a meet and greet with the opening act, The Pussycat Dolls. We stood with other teen fans and one by one each of the P. Dolls came out and shook our hands and talked with each of us. The lead singer, Nicole S. spent a lot of time talking to me and not letting go of my hand. Venus later said “She was totally meat-gazing you.” Thereafter, some security guards closed in near us and a golf-cart drove by carrying Britney Spears, incognito in large sunglasses with her hand in a bag of nacho cheese Doritos. She looked Venus and I squarely in the eyes before she bit a chip. It really was like seeing a unicorn.

A week later and I ended up getting 8 free tickets to see Morrissey at the Midland. He was exceptional and I squealed like a teen fan when I happened to get a piece of one of the 5 or 6 shirts he threw out into the audience. Yeah, I smelled it.

Immediately following a business trip to Ocean City, MD, I flew to Paris, France to see a friend there currently in school for fashion design. The bad economy gifted me with a ridiculously low fare ($575 r/t) and I was able to stay with Hadley in her apt. directly across the street from the Louvre! We played ultimate tourists visiting museums, parks, the Eiffel Tower, a river-boat cruise down the Seine, Montmartre, Versailles, et al. Truly unforgettable. J’taime, Hadley.

Shortly after being House Manager for the 18th St. Fashion Show, I was cast in the 30th Anniversary stage adaptation of Bette Midler movie, The Rose. (No, I didn’t play Rose.) I played the ruthless manager and had to grow out my hair—ha, I know, my facial hair. I needed to grow a 70s beard or else face the prospect of spirit gum adhesion. I opted for the former. Who knew I could grow out a beard? I guess all of my hair went south for the summer.

I celebrated my birthday in dental pain! I was supposed to attend Catherine’s wedding but couldn’t go because I needed an emergency root canal. I was/am bummed to miss her wedding but the Vicodin helped assuage the gloom.

The Rose ran for 3 weeks, all to congratulating crowds. Spencer Brown was fantastic as the Rose and to give myself my due, I was pretty fantastic, too. For 2 hours each night, my character preened while berating Rose in every passive/aggressive way imaginable. It was exhausting and kind of therapeutic.
I could’ve shaved off my beard in one fell swoop but instead documented the shearing—all the way down from a goatee to a fu Manchu to the a mustache and soul patch. I looked like a cross between a porn star and a science teacher. And I liked it.

I hosted the Pitch Music Awards for the 2nd year in a row (and though hosting that after an 2 hour-long open bar is like herding cats and hypnotizing chickens), it was fun, mildly out-of-control and an honor. The biggest highlight for me was being serenaded by 93 year old jazz legend, Myra Taylor who accepted the award for Best Jazz Ensemble on behalf of her group, The Wild Women of Kansas City. I beamed like a child at Christmas as she sang directly to me from her wheelchair. I was overwhelmed and joyful.

A week later and I hosted a fashion show for my friend, Jon Fulton Adams and his fashion line Queen’s Rocket. I entered the runway from below with an arising fog. It was very.

I’ve never been a pet person. That is until I met my kitty, Miss Neely O’Hara. My friend, Georgianna posted on Facebook that she had a lynx-point Siamese show up at their house after a neighboring family “abruptly left.” She was fixed, had her shots and was free to a good home. On a whim, I decided to go over and meet her. Well, I left with her and we have been BFFs since. I didn’t know how much I could love a kitty or what I did pre-Neely. I’m a changed man because of this cat. Seriously.

Soon after I got her, I had to go to a conference in Louisville. It was a really great time and I felt right at home there. I was surprised by how much I loved Kentucky, in fact. The regal homes, the greenness, the hospitality, the bourbon—wonderful. From Louisville, I took a small weekend trip to Denver. It’d been ages since I’d been there and was glad to stay with another friend, Anne and her family there. (Thanks, Coates family!) We drove one afternoon to (almost) the top of Mt. Evans, a 14k ft. mountain. Driving up without guardrails gave me heart palpitations and clammy hands but it was worth it for that panorama view and short breaths of clean mountain air.

I shot a scene in a movie starring my co-worker, Aaron. It’s called The Brothers Krong 2 and I play a Swedish Terrorist. Wearing a blond man-wig with a mustache that doesn’t match the drapes +firing off 2 MK47s=Comedy gold. Speaking of comedy gold, I received a couple of free tickets to see David Sedaris (one of my favorite writers) at the Midland. He was hilarious per usual and signed my book while we talked about H1N1. He offered me hand sanitizer while he nibbled on sushi.

I didn’t win anything in the Pitch Best of 2009 like I did last year—but I did get an honorable mention in Kelly Allen’s win for Best Karaoke Host. I was listed as “DWR, a one-man classic rock circus.” I liked this.

(Warning: Heavy) I was set for my annual review at work the afternoon that my boss instead committed suicide. It was as shocking and miserable as it sounds. I celebrated my 4 year anniversary with IAAO a week later.

Her funeral was the first time I’d ever thought of my own funeral— I thought of what I’d want people to say about me,. I thought of what I want my obituary to look like. It made me want to be a better person, a more giving person. It made me acutely thankful for the life I’ve been blessed to lead.

Thankful. Meaningful. These became key words for me—I focused on the joys of living: seeing several friends having babies, other friends becoming engaged, new friends coming into my life, spending meaningful times with age-old friends and family—this is what mattered. This is what I took solace in.

I hosted Thanksgiving at my apt. My family came up and as we dined, I asked my family the following question:

What was the highlight of your year?

I began and said that taking the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower was an amazing flash of exhilaration as I launched above Paris marveling at the city’s awesome landscape. Dad was proud that he no longer needs a walker after healing from his hip surgery. Mom is thankful for family—so is Aunt Orpha. My brother, Steve’s highlight was giving $400 to Toys for Tots sat a fundraiser with other motorcycle enthusiasts. My sister loved spending time with her grandchildren. My great-niece, who’s two and change, just repeated “Shoes, shoes, shoes!” My nephew, Lenny was glad that a friend of his rebounded from Leukemia. Some of us shed tears of joy and in thanks. It was a beautiful moment of mutual emotional philanthropy. For that, I felt bliss.

My final column with KC Magazine appeared in the December issue. After 2 1/2 years as a monthly columnist, I decided to leave and work on other projects; namely, a book.

I’m as excited for 2010 as I was exhausted by 2009.

Hope you have a great holiday season and a wonderful new year.

Much love,

DWR

Delicious Closet Queen

2009-12-04T10:58:00.000-06:00

“As the repressed seducer he is, he belongs to everyone without yielding to anyone.”

–Interior notes from the cologne Delicious Closet Queen by Etat Libre D’Orange.

I decided to go to Paris. By myself. I have a good friend there mid-way through school at Parsons and I'd always wanted to go--for my friend and the opportunity both. Besides, my passport was essentially barren except for the lone Mexico indicia stamped there back in 2007.

To prepare, I purchased some French immersion tapes that I never ended up listening to anyway. Instead, I resigned myself to communicating with the French like I do with my deaf friend, Lester--in overt hand gestures, pronounced lips and reactionary eyebrows. Just like two drag queens playing charades. Besides, I knew the basics-Bonjour (Hello), Merci (Thank you), Merde (shit) and the chorus from Lady Marmalade ‘Voulez vous couche avec mo ice soir?’ (Do you want to go to bed with me?). With that, I knew I could get by.

Once I’d purchased my ticket, people came out of the woodwork to tell me what to do and what to see—basically just reiterating their own past itineraries. Champs Elysées, the Rodin Museum, Jim Morrison’s grave…etc. Some asked me to bring them back presents. Christel wanted an Eiffel Tower key chain, Peregrine wanted stickers, Kelly wanted a pack of Galoises cigarettes and a bottle of perfume.

“It’s called Jasmine et Cigarette.” Said Kelly. “It’s at this little naughty store in the Marais--And while you’re there you have to get some Magnificent Secretions for yourself!”

“Magnificent secretions? What? Gross.”

“No. It’s a cologne—Magnificent Secretions. It smells so good. You have to get it. I guarantee you--Spray it on and you’ll be beating those French men off with a stick…as it were.” She demurred.

In all my conversations leading up to Paris, many friends were like “maybe you’ll find somebody. (wink wink nudge nudge) Maybe you’ll find a French lover.” My friend, Charles, who took me to the airport, hugged me goodbye and say “Hopefully, you’ll get lucky on your trip. Do it for both of us, honey.”

I found this exasperating. It’s not that I had a problem with vacation sex—Denver, San Francisco, DC: Check, check and check. But now I felt pawned off on Paris like an old maid. My friends wanted to live vicariously through me--as if I were supposed to take one for the team.

The thought of a young (ish) singleton in Paris, France, the most noted love capital on earth, was appealing but to be honest, it just wasn’t on my itinerary.

***

I awoke to the smell of warm croissants as we landed at Charles de Gaulle at dawn. I arrived at Hadley’s apartment (directly across the street from the Louvre) and settled in for only a bit. Hadley says “So, hey, girl, what do you want to do in Paris?”

I want to buy some Magnificent Secretions.

Hadley guides me to the store and we sniff. I find the Magnificent Secretions but can’t understand what is so magnificent about it. It smells like blood, mud and butt. No thanks. But since I'm there I keep testing colognes and finally decide upon one called Delicious Closet Queen. I spritz it on and wear it thereafter like a title.

The air is aromatic and amorous. The lust of Paris is palpable. Subway trains penetrate tunnels under the belt of the street above. Bones lay upon bones in The Catacombs. Explicitly endowed statues perch atop the mausoleums in Montemartre. A woman does the can-can outside the Moulin Rouge. Sex shop windows feature x-rated scenes commemorated in ceramic that look like Precious Moments figurines gone wild. The guards bear machine guns and wear uniforms tailored to libidinous perfection. A statue of Hercules manhandles a giant python in a courtyard at the Louvre while two male statues are immortalized nearby in mid-hump.

While ogling this good-looking Mediterranean street food vendor, Hadley and I share a hot dog wrapped in phallic baguette together on a bench below the Eiffel Tower . Hadley say she wants a big guy from England because French guys are too skinny and gay. I say “I like skinny and gay.”

We stare up at the behemoth Tower. Let's go in it. I say. Let's go. Once in the crowded elevator, we shoot to the top of the Eiffel in a flash of exhilaration. At the top we pose for a picture and look out at panorama of the city which is lit up and sprawled out like an eager lover.

In this awe-striking moment, I look at Hadley and say “Give me a kiss, right now, please?” The romance of it all has made me forget about orientation or gender. We kiss and in gay Par-ee, I’ve never felt straighter.

We descend back down the tower and back to the Hadley’s apartment where some friends from KC call out Hadley’s name. They’re on their honeymoon and have traveled from Spain to Paris and want to crash for the night at her place. They say “Oh, hi, David. What are you doing here?” I think the same. What is a married couple doing crashing at a friend’s pad on their honeymoon? As newlyweds, I can almost smell their sex the same way I can still smell the new-day spritz of Delicious Closet Queen. I think Hadley can smell it, too--their wantonness. She benevolently offers up her room to them and sleeps in the fold out couch in the living room next to mine; unlikely bedfellows. I swat mosquitoes in my sleep and wake only when Hadley moans “Roll over. You’re snoring.”

The next night, the four of us go on a river boat cruise down the Seine. We board under the Eiffel lights, while I’ve Had The Time of My Life from Dirty Dancing plays overhead. We sit at the front of the boat like kings of the world. It’s a Saturday in May and the banks are lined with throngs of people dancing, drinking, playing music and waving to us and we to them like we’re on a love parade.

The Captain narrates over the loud speaker. “Coming up is the Wish Bridge. When we cross under this bridge I want all of you to close your eyes and make a wish. Alright, ready” he says as we near the entrance. “Close your eyes. Go ahead and make your wish.”

We close our eyes for a moment before the Captain says “Alright, go ahead and open. Now turn to your neighbor and give them a kiss.

I turn to Hadley and give her a peck.

“So what’d you wish for?”

“Love.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

Going Rogue: Pitch Blog

2009-11-20T13:39:00.000-06:00

Going Rogue at the Fishtank: KC theater folk read and befoul the book of Palin

By Alan Scherstuhl in EntertainmentFri., Nov. 20 2009 @ 10:30AM

The big news this week is that photogenic real American Sarah Palin has kinda/sorta written a Young Adult book about why everybody should quit their jobs. But books are hard and take time to read! Understanding the dilemma Going Rogue presents to non-elitists, local theater people last night performed the public service of reading Palin's book aloud at the Fishtank Performance Studio at 1715 Wyandotte.

There several dozen Crossroads types packed in a tiny room whose aluminum foil wall-paper suggests either '50s sci-fi or what life is like for a baked potato. A two buck donation was good for a can of Hamms. Organizer Lisa Cordes explained the rules: She'd edited the book down some, but promised "We did try to maintain the spirit, flavor and narrative of the tale." Also, we had to drink any time Palin:

Mentions Ronald Reagan

Uses folksy language

Bashes the media

Writes "Dang," "Give me a break" or "Bullcrap."

Refers to any of the following children and/or potpourri flavors: Piper, Trigg,
Track, Tripp, Willow or Bristol

Low comedy and much drunkenness ensued.

David Wayne Reed: Elitist

David Wayne Reed took the first chapter. Fetching with a bit of scruff and his in-character black frames, Reed narrated Palin's account of an Alaska state fair with mounting incredulity. The cutesy, all-American signifiers piled up like chicken shit in a cockfight pit: footlong hotdogs, reindeer sausage, hula hoop contests, Right to Life posters with Palin's own kid's photo on them.

Rush Limbaugh has called Going Rogue the most substantive book on public policy that he's ever read. If by substantive he means "contains the most comparisons of cotton candy to clouds," he's dead on.

Philip Blue Owl Hooser and Heidi Van offered invaluable sound effects, making clear that pretty much everything in the book sounds dirty if you want it to. Of course, with the emphasis Reed slathered on phrases like "fickle polls," he didn't need much help.

Cordes rang a bell each time one of the drinking-game words came up, and such a rowdy good time was had that the chapter's punchline -- the justification for just why she spends page after page recounting a trip to the fair -- somehow surprised me.

You see, as she beamed that day at her kids, state, and cloying examples of rural decency, one of her Blackberries rang. (Yes, one of them, just like in a Rockwell painting.) Come to find out ol' man McCain thinks some of Sarah's gumption is just the thing to shake up Washington, so he asks her to descend to the lower 48 and ruin politics forever!

Gail Bronfman Bunch took over from there. Unlike Reed, Bunch sunk deep into character, reciting Palinisms like "I love meat" in a pinched and wheezy voice worthy of the ex-governor herself. Bunch's chapter contained the night's greatest revelation: Sarah Palin's love affair with the written word. On and on she went about holing up in libraries and poring over C.S. Lewis books. The highlight, for me, was Palin's account of winning a flag-related poetry contest as a young girl: "Mom treated me like the new Emily Dickinson."

Emily Dickinson? Meaning, Sarah's mother locked herself in her room, and nobody heard of her until well after her death?

Hooser, meanwhile, humped the air at every possible double entendre. Also, someone's dog was running around. The woman sitting next to me pointed out that none of this seemed real.

"It's quite an event," I said.

"No, the book. It's insulting. It's written at a seventh grade level. It's --"

She tried to think of what it was, exactly, but sometimes there are no words. Instead, she grabbed a slice of apple pie whipped up by the Fishtankers.

Next up: Ron Megee, dolled up in an ascot and a ballcap reading "Bison Wrestler." He opened with Palin's account of growing up with parents who forbade even as mild a word as "butt." Instead, they insisted on "bottom."

"I'm a bottom," Megee added.

He also covered Palin's youthful habit of sneaking upstairs to watch Saturday Night Live without her parents' knowledge.

"Forehsadowing!" shouted Heidi Van.

Megee indulged in much improvisation, most of it filthy but somehow sweet -- that's one his chief talents.

Finally, up came Janet Henry in full Palin regalia. She sported the glasses, the lipstick, the 'do, the semi-automatic, and the moose-skin skirt. Henry gave the evening's most committed performance, not once breaking character no matter what madness that book made her spew. She worked the pageant queen angle.

"I played my flute, and I won," she chirped.

"Just like Levi!" Megee shouted.

Then Hooser hollered, a propos of nothing, "Keep government out of Medicare!"

Henry found comedy in Going Rogue's irreconcilable contradictions. Palin brags endlessly about her pagaent success, but also takes great pains to justify entering the pagaents in the first place as a purely pragmatic step, and make it sound like they were no big deal, and pretend her wins -- including "Miss Congeniality" -- were just something amusing that happened.

And then she goes and claims they were also providential. During one pagaent interview segment, the judges asked her about Geraldine Ferraro and if a woman could ever become vice president!

This impressed us.

Someone offstage read the judge's next question: "What do you think are Alaska's best attributes?"

Henry tugged at her neckline and jiggled her cleavage.

After two hours, the Fishtank crew had plowed through fifty pages of wisdom. They took a Hamms break, and then did something Palin herself never would: kept on with the job.

Look for video of all this sometime this afternoon. Or don't, because we might not get around to it.

The Brothers Dare

2009-11-20T13:36:00.000-06:00

“In the days of my youth, I was taught what it means to be a man. And now I’ve reached the age I try to do things the best I can.”

-Led Zeppelin, Good Times Bad Times

“Go ahead. Pee on it. I DARE you,” said my older brother, Steve, as we stood next to an electric fence. “Do it.” I unzipped and did it just to show courage, but my aim fell short. I was eight after all. Regardless, my brother said “bzzt!” and instead scared me into peeing on myself.

Like me, my brother likes to joke and goad, but aside from our cookie-cutter bald spots and present-day mustachios, you’d never guess that we’d be brothers. I’m tall and thin; Steve is short and stout like Dad. Steve’s gritty and down-to-earth. I’m fey, sometimes flighty. Our differences have always been visible, but it’s what’s invisible where we’re most alike. We’re proud, unflinchingly honest, and we both love the rock and roll.

Steve was my first intro to rock and roll. He played the drums. He worshiped KISS. He smoked, drank and cussed. He introduced me to George Carlin’s Indecent Exposure album where I learned the seven words that you can’t say in broadcast media. If he had friends over, he’d call me down to his room in the basement and say “I dare you to scream the seven dirty words I taught you.” And just like a parrot, I would.

“Sh*t. P*ss. F*ck. C*nt. C**ks**ker. Motherf**ker. T*ts.”

His friends would laugh, and I basked in the attention. I wanted to impress him, to out-badass him and to become closer.

When I took up the saxophone in middle school, Steve agreed to start taking me to school. Actually, he didn’t volunteer--I threatened him. “Take me to school, or else I’ll tell Mom and Dad you were smoking weed.”

In his ‘79 Olds, we’d listen to KY102—all the classic rock. Boston, Led Zeppelin, the Nuge… To earn favor (and maintain the free chauffeur service), I even learned the opening strains of Smoke on the Water just so I could provide the perfect musical score for driving laps around our burg before finally being dropped off for school. His girlfriend at the time was Pam, and she thought it was cute that I played her favorite song, Eye of the Tiger, in the back seat. Looking back on it, I find it funny that both Pam and I had our mouths on reeds.

Finally, Steve graduated and the rides stopped. He took to Quiet Riot, AC/DC and crazy women. I, on the other hand, quit the saxophone, enrolled in drama class, and turned to Wham.

***

Ten years later and I’ve graduated with a degree in theatre, and Steve is a foreman for the gas company. I’ve discovered local music like Frogpond, Season to Risk and Shiner, and Steve has become a daily listener of Johnny Dare on 98.9 The Rock. Our paths were divergent (I want the Pixies played at my funeral, he wants Godsmack.), but we once again found an intersection. As I had become a fan of rock because of him, Steve became a fan of theatre because of me.

The first time Steve ever saw a play was when I did the all-male stage adaptation of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, in which I played an androgynous Bird Boy. He sat in the front row eating his popcorn with his second wife, and when I entered in full make-up, Steve lifted his hand to his mouth and shouted “You look good, Dave!”

After that, Steve came to most of my shows and became such an awestruck fan. I sometimes lost myself onstage when I’d catch him in the audience looking up with awestruck appreciation. He won raffles, he bought merchandise, he brought Crown Royal backstage and made friends with my friends (men in dresses, all). He didn’t care—his love for me transcended judgment and hemlines.

I wanted to thank him for supporting me and so when I received some VIP passes to the opening of Johnny Dare’s Bar in 2004, I invited him along.

I butched up for the event to fit in--(—a ball cap, a John Bonham t-shirt, ripped up jeans and biker boots (you know—when in Rome…). I was thinking to myself how very straight rocker I looked, when my brother grabbed me and said he wanted to introduce me to someone. Steve says “Hey, Becca! I’ve got someone I want you to meet.” A large blonde turns around and in a sotto voce says “I’m Becca.”

“Hi, Becca, I’m David.” Becca and his/her wife tell me that Becca is a former State Trooper and transvestite who runs a Femme Getaway in Eureka Springs. “Wow, well, nice to meet you,” I say before Steve interrupts and says “Becca, this here’s my brother, Dave Reed. Dude, you should see him…Dave Reed makes one beautiful woman!” I wince, nod and then clarify “I’m an actor, Becca. Sometimes I’ve dressed as a woman.”

Steve interjects “Dude, you don’t have to explain…hell, I dressed as a woman once on Halloween—remember that?”

Becca says “Don’t we all? I’ll bet you that at least half of these guys in here are wearing silk panties. Aren’t you, David?”

“Actually, cotton. It’s the fabric of my life.”

***

Interwoven in the fabric of my life is my brother, who has bailed me out when I’ve gotten in trouble, chewed me out when I’ve deserved it, cheered me on at every turn, and given me unconditional support.

I’m thankful and I’m glad to return the favor. So when I recently ended up getting some tix to Johnny Dare’s sold-out birthday party at the Midland Theatre recently, I called Steve first.

It’s not my crowd, necessarily, but we sit together in the VIP section above the sea of black shirts and outstretched fists and take in the show. We hoist up a beer and bang our heads to the music in unison. We stand together--a band of brothers.

###

The Flush

2009-10-06T12:45:00.000-05:00

“Strange how my heart beats to find myself upon your shore. Strange how I still feel my loss of comfort gone before.”
--Enya, On Your Shore

“David, I think your fish is dead” said Ashley, as we stood gazing at my newly purchase office fish.

“He’s not dead. He’s just acclimating.” I reasoned. But it was true—for the last day and a half he hadn’t done much. It wasn’t as if I expected him to do tricks per se but swimming didn’t seem that much to ask…of a fish. But for the first few days in our office, this fish lazed about skimming the surface, huddled at the water’s edge, listless.

“I don’t know what I should call him. Maybe Tattoo or Erik Estrada?”

“That’s weird. I think you should call him ‘David, I Think Your Fish Is Dead.’ Just look at him.”

Ashley, still seething from his loss at the inter-office chili cook-off where I decimated him, organized a Fish Naming Contest via email. Co-workers emailed name suggestions which we compiled and later voted on.

When it came time to vote on my fish’s name, I read their suggestions aloud. “Wolverine…The Hulk…Nemo…okay, what about Erik Estrada (I announced with an extra vocal nudge since it was my suggestion)…” No hands went up. Finally, Ashley says “You forgot one--‘David, I think your fish is dead’.” With that said--all hands went up in unison.

A-holes, I thought. “I can’t believe you guys” I said to my co-workers who sat giggling. “You guys aren’t even giving him a chance. That’s like giving a baby the name Failure or Diabetes.”

I feared my fish’s future would be shaped by his name—like my own which means beloved (natch). So instead I called him DITY, short for DITYFID; short for ‘David, I Think Your Fish Is Dead’.

The next day DITY began to swim and go deeper under the surface. Sometimes, he would follow my pen as I traced the perimeter of his bowl. I felt him beginning to defy the dire expectations of his moniker.

“You’re a survivor.” I whispered to him.

I had to leave that weekend for a conference in New Orleans so I planned for his care while I’d be gone a week. Another co-worker promised to feed him and change his water and I left on my way.

All was well until Tuesday when another co-worker, Cari laughed and said “DITY’s dead.”

“What? No he’s not.” I was stunned, in denial and finally angry. “Who says that, you insensitive sociopath! You, sadist, you!”

“No really. He’s DEAD.”

I felt sucker-punched, breathless. “Well, what happened to him?”

She confessed that when the staff returned to the office on Monday, he was laying face up in the vase.

“Well, I hope they had the common decency to wrap him in some foil and stick him in the freezer til I get back.”

“Sorry, your boss flushed him.” Cari said, laughing.

“You’re ruthless!” I said and then called another co-worker, Lauren to confirm the news. “I changed the water right before I left” I told her. She said “Oh, I didn’t think you could so I did, too. I’m so sorry but I think the change was too much for him.”

Crestfallen, I went back to my hotel room on the 21st floor near the French Quarter. I opened my window and looked north past the expansive mausoleums that line the I-10. I logged onto Facebook where I set up a memorial with a short, but heartfelt eulogy and embedded music videos of When The Levee Breaks by Led Zeppelin and On Your Shore by Enya. I watched and wept. Sympathizers left well-wishes. Reason told me that he was just a fish--a Beta with a short life-span anyway but still I felt like a failure. He was my pet--that I killed. I sat lamenting when my phone rang and Cari invited me to dine later that night with some colleagues. “Oh, yeah? Where?”

“It’s a seafood restaurant called Red Fish Blue Fish.” She said, snickering. I mournfully declined the offer. It just seemed too soon--like a new widow going on a date.

The next day, I signed up to work as a volunteer in the Hurricane Katrina ravaged 9th ward. I grabbed a weed whacker and went to work in a flushed out lot directly under one of the main breaks in the levee that killed and displaced too many. Though it was a minor comparison, the irony of working where thousands were flushed out due to negligence was not lost on me. Here where over 1000 people were flushed out of their homes—just like DITY.

Upon my return to the office, I found a Precious Moment style figurine of a blue fish upturned next to a sign that reads RIP sitting atop the reception desk where DITY used to reside. I took solace in my co-worker’s remembrance whether it was meant sarcastically or not.

A year later and I’d almost healed from the loss when I ventured to the second floor and saw a blue Beta swimming in a vase atop a filing cabinet near Jean’s desk. I gasped and turned on my heel and returned to my cubicle in a huff before composing an all-staff e-mail.

From:David Reed
Sent: Wednesday, February 11, 2009 2:11 PM
To: Staff
Subject: DITYFID is rolling over in his fishgrave

DITYFID, (David, I Think Your Fish Is Dead) is my former blue Beta that died in a water-changing accident one long year ago. Of course, I think he also died a victim of the manifest-destiny name YOU ALL voted to give him.

But I’m not bitter. In fact, I was almost over it until I saw a new fish sitting by Jean’s desk--A blue Beta that is NOT DITYFID.

I gasped; teary and defensive; my wound reopened.

I wanted to name the new fish ‘Bite Jean’--just to test the cause-and-effect of a prophetic name, but then decided that this Beta fish deserved a better start than DITYFID had.

So, with that said--I’d like to open up the suggestion box for names for this fish--And to give my blessing to this new fish.
I propose calling him DL.

Dity Lives

After a rather short and private discussion of names, this new fish ended up being named “Professional Development or PD” after the department in which he currently swims.

And just like his name, PD seems to be flourishing.

The Secret Ingredient

2009-09-10T12:04:00.000-05:00

“Personal satisfaction is the most important ingredient of success.”
--Denis Waitley, Best-selling author of "Being the Best," and "The Winner's Edge."

I earned a reputation for being a horrible cook some 10 years ago when I showed up to a lake party with a dish comprised of orzo, chipped beef and pickled okra. This dish set a new bar for culinary lows and earned me both ridicule and pity. Upon invitation to dinner parties, I’d ask what I could bring—to which hosts would uniformly answer “Oh, why don’t you just bring a bag of ice?”

I could’ve stopped then, accepted the defeat and turned away from my chef-ly desires the same way I did the violin in the early 80s. I’m not good at it and I’m not going to do it anymore. But this wasn’t the case. Rather, this failure only fueled my ambitions. I WILL COOK. AND YOU WILL TASTE MY SUCCESS.

I began in earnest by first perfecting my mother’s hash brown casserole recipe. I began to take it to parties where friends tasted my casserole with understandable caution but then were so surprised with delight that they even asked me to bring it to future gatherings. I became sought out for my casserole in the same way my sister is for her deviled eggs (which she prefers to call Angel Eggs but I digress...).

Not one to rest on laurels, I wanted to branch out— to really achieve—to earn public accolades. So when Ashley, our Billings Supervisor at work, proposed a chili cook-off, I simply said “Bring it.”

The chili cook-off awakened a competitive nature I had let lay dormant for too long. Like a long distance runner, I began to prepare. I bought a new crock pot just for the event—in the same way one might buy new running shoes thinking the shoes will make you run faster.

That was where preparation stopped though. Besides the basics of meat and beans, I threw ingredients into the new crockpot in the same willy nilly manner I had in my earlier failure of a dish—selection here was based on availability rather than recipe. Bacon, corn, dried cranberries, coffee grounds, OJ, chipotle peppers, maple syrup…
I just hoped for the best—tasting, stirring, simmering, and steeping.

The day of the cook-off, we numbered our chili’s whilst checking out the competition--a white chili, a BBQ bratwurst chili, a jerk chili…A chili that sits in a maroon crockpot circa 1974 has a label that reads: Farter Starter. I write this one off as no competition.

Co-workers gather and sample all of the chili’s before writing down the number of their favorite chili on a piece of recycled copy paper. My boss, a staunch vegetarian even exclaims that she tried my meat-loving chili. “When it’s gourmet, I’ll make the sacrifice” she says.

The votes are counted and my number (Number 2, ironically) comes in with the most votes. I’m awarded a large plastic spoon that has 1st Annual Chili Cook-Off Champion written in paint-pen.

I pull down my fist, say YES and gloat for the rest of the afternoon.

***

Ashley complains intermittently about my cook-off win, making off-handed remarks only when there’s a crowd around. “Who puts cranberries in their chili?” he mocks. “Coffee in chili?—that’s just not right. It’s un-American.” Each time he brings it up, I recognize that my success eats at him. And I like this.

Some months later and we’re both at a work conference in Reno. There’s an annual fundraiser/raffle. This year, you can win a Wii, travel vouchers and a large TV.
I buy some raffle tickets and ask Ashley if he has bought his. “Nah,” he says. “I don’t play lotteries--I’ll save my money.” With that said, I turn around and buy 5 more tickets.

Those last minute tickets ended up winning me a 50” Flat screen TV. That I won. In a raffle. In Reno.

I can tell this bristles my co-workers in the same way as my Chili win but I enthuse regardless. Besides, is it really up to me to feel bad about winning just to save someone else’s feelings? To me the only thing worse than a sore loser is being a humble winner.

In fact, when my winning number was called, I jumped up in the air, hooted and hollered and ran to the stage as if on the Price is Right! It seems ungrateful to not do so. There are smiles and congratulations but I can also sense a change in tide. It’s the whisper of resentment.

***

The next month, the whisper becomes a full-on scream when I win the chili cook-off for the 2nd year in a row. I can see Ashley’s blood boil as his face turns the color of his smoked spare rib chili. I’m enthusiastic about it but still disbelieving. I feel like Sally Field when she accepted her Oscar saying “You like me. You really like me!” I’m awarded another plastic championship spoon for the popular vote even though my margin of winning has come to a win by one vote.
All of a sudden my boss makes a surprise announcement that there will also be a critical vote—given by a guest judge who has stopped by and will declare a winner.

Mohammed is our guest judge; a member of our Board of Directors with no culinary cred whatsoever. Mohammed announces (rather capriciously) that his favorite chili is #1, Aaron’s. For his win, Aaron receives a $25 gift certificate to Dean & Deluca. Sure, I win the popular vote but come up empty-handed. I sit there white-knuckling my plastic spoon and feeling just like Al Gore in 2000.

Co-workers ask me what my secret ingredient was this year. I answer “chocolate.” Some say “mmm, interesting,” others “well, it was good regardless.” (as if it were Mountain Oysters.) Ashley finally says “Come on. Who the hell puts chocolate in chili?”

I say “People who win chili cook-offs!”

This sends Ashley over an edge. Our co-worker, Lauren later confesses that Ashley was pissed. “The second time you won was like opening up an old wound and then pouring salt on it. Ashley tried to play it off but I knew it got to him.

Apparently, it was painful for his whole carpool, too.” I think of him on the ride home to Lee’s Summit, stewing angrily while the lid on his crockpot rattles nervously in the back seat.
Jean, of his carpool, pulls me aside one day and says “Maybe you could just sit the next one out. Please?”

As if. I’m a winner. And winners don’t quit.
(###)

The Cul de Sac

2009-04-03T11:08:00.000-05:00

“Bald as the bare mountain tops are bald, with a baldness full of grandeur.”--Matthew Arnold

I clutched the hand mirror in one hand and looked at the back of my head. In the backwards reflection of the bathroom mirror, I saw it--my first glimpse of Male Pattern Baldness--just a hole, a little clearing in the woods, a sign of what was to come.

I flipped out and immediately called my mother.

“I’m going bald, Mom. This is clearly not good for my career.”

“Oh, you can still be famous and bald.” She reasoned. “Just look at Yul Brynner. Or Telly Savalas.”

“They’re old, Mom. I’m too young to be this bald AND, I might add that this is all your fault. Baldness comes from the mother, you know. YOU did this. Thanks a lot!”
But that wasn’t true. Mom had nothing to do with this. Just looking at prior paternal generations, I knew chances were good that I’d eventually earn the Reed men horseshoe; our balding crown. And I knew it would grow, like the outward growth of concrete in a cul de sac.

I panicked. “Now, I’m gonna look like DAD!”

“Well, I think your father is good looking.”

“Oh, you have to say that.” I said before I heard a click on the line. “What was that?”

“Your Dad was on the other line listening and he hung up. You probably hurt his feelings.”

“Oh, great. First I’m bald and now I’ve upset Dad.”

I later apologized to Dad and then continued to mourn my hair loss. In fact, I went through all of the classic stages of grief. First stop: Denial. Regardless of how much hair would come out in the brush, I would reminisce back to the days when my hair was long enough to be French braided. Back when I had bangs down to my chin. This; when my hair wore a weight-line and Dippity-do. This; when my hair could sustain a banana clip.

I began to get crafty. I’d blow-dry it, fluff it and maneuver hair over trouble spots. ‘If I can’t see my bald spot, neither can anyone else’ I reckoned. I dyed it blonde to make it less noticeable. I wore hats indoors. I could run but I couldn’t hide. Now, my locks were ebbing and the mere thought of ever using a blow-dryer became a hilarious pipe-dream. I fought the bald but the bald won.

What’s next--ear hair and adult diapers?

So I decided to meet my hair loss halfway. I’ll shave it myself. I’ll take back the night. I’ll take matters into my own hands and commit hair suicide. Instead of looking like a victim of heredity, I’ll have made the choice to look like this. I’d do it my way.

The first time I shaved my head, I became hyper-aware of my face. Sans hair, I hid from nothing. I couldn’t. It felt so freeing, nearly heroic. People complimented the shape of my head. I began to feel good about my no-hair. This is me. Here I am. Bald, beautiful.

It wasn’t until a stay a few years later at the Standard in downtown LA, that I became crestfallen over my follicular handicap. A man with shoulder-length hair and gorgeous highlights passed me on the mezzanine and said “Hey look, it’s Moby.” Sure, we were in LA and quite possibly the bald, bespectacled musician Moby could’ve been staying there. But when this man’s girlfriend looked at me and laughed I knew he was making fun of me. Moby?

Screw that guy, I thought and then went back to my room where I sat on my bed and put on my hat. Mad.

***

People go to Mexico and buy prescription drugs all the time. So when I went, I decided to do the same. But instead of getting Vicodin or Darvocet like any reasonable person, I went to la pharmacia asking for Propecia.

“Yo necesito un medicina para mi pelo. Propecia?” (I need a medicine for my hair. Propecia?) I asked, pretty confident in my Spanish.

“Que?” said the shop girl.

“No estoy pelo.” (I am not hair.) I say, removing my cap. “Da me pelo mas grande, por favor?” (Give me more big hair, please?)

Even though I took four semesters of Spanish in college, I looked and sounded like an illiterate playing charades. And that might be giving myself too much credit.
The girl giggles before she goes in the back room to use the phone. Shortly thereafter, she returns brandishing a bottle. It’s a shampoo called “Cre-C” an organic blend of hair growth. “No pill?” I ask.

“Cre-C.” She says firmly before I pay her $10 and leave.

Cre-C worked. I had new buds of hair growing within a month. Friends marveled at my hair. Inspecting it, touching it with a hopeful look in their eye—they looked at me as if I was a tree in spring.

I liked this attention for awhile but I could never grow it out to my previous styles or even catch up with current ones. Besides, it became a chore, an attention-whore, this hair. I felt like not only was I creating this patchy monster, I was also competing against it--nurturing that which clearly and naturally did not want to be. Even with constant attention and Cre-C caress, it simply reminded me that the salad years of my hair had already passed and that my vanity was in vain.

Besides, it was out-and-out false advertising.

I felt, in fact, like a padded bra.

Maybe it was impatience, but I took the clippers to my head once again. It’s my shine. It’s my dome. It’s where I hang my hat. If hair doesn’t want to grow there, I’m not going to fight it. I have better things to think about.

After all ‘Grass doesn’t grow on a busy street.’

Phone Convo with my brother, Steve

2009-03-06T17:53:00.000-06:00

Called my brother, Steve. He asked what I was doing tomorrow. I said, "I'm going to t fundraiser."
"Yeah, what's the fundraiser for?" he asked.
"It's for AIDS Walk. It's putt putt golf."
"Oh, yeah? What are you doing for it--are you manning a hole?"
I laughed so hard I had to hang up.

Wildcats

2009-03-05T11:12:00.000-06:00

“I come like Water, and like Wind I go.”
--Edward Fitzgerald

I’m listed in my senior yearbook 13 times (yeah, I counted). Newspaper staff. Forensics medalist. Teacher’s Aide. School play. Prom. SADD…

I’m voted most talented.

On the cover of the yearbook, a fortune teller clutches a crystal ball. In the ball are written the words ‘How it was…How it is…How it could be…’

My future was so bright I decided to wear shades the day I graduated high school. Most of us did as we walked the pomp and circumstance down the track to where I finally sat in a fold-out chair between Pope and Renner.

The Wildcat band played a few songs. The choir sang. We are led in prayer. Steph, who is voted most talented female, sings Forever Friends. We stand and applaud her. And then Rev. Bailey steps to the podium to deliver the keynote address.

“Louisburg Class of 1990” he begins amid classmate’s cheers.

“You are mortal. You will die.”

We snicker in disbelief; timeless, invincible.

“The only thing we know in this life is that we will die…” he continued. “Statistically, 5 of you will be killed by drunk drivers.” He pointed over some of us. To others of us, “10 of you will overdose. 4 will be victims of domestic violence. 3 will die of homicide. 2 will die of AIDS…” And so on.

I don’t remember what else he said…just ‘You are mortal. You will die.’ While he bespoke our tragic fates, I read through the graduation program. Below the list of our names was our class quote: ‘Like water I come and like wind I go.’
It was befitting of our moment. Like water, we had all been poured here. Our commonalities determined by time and place rather than common interest or ambition. As through a spigot, we had arrived here furiously as one, pumped through the halls, the classes, the system before leaving into the breeze--blown out like a dead dandelion.

***

Our 10 year reunion was held on a classmate’s sod farm. Our hostess was as amiable and beautiful as you would expect of a former cheerleading captain. Now a mother of 3, she kept a welcoming home and made sure our beverages had ice and our paper plates full.

Her co-hostess, in dire contrast, took heroic strides to disengage from everyone. She huddled by the drink cooler and wore a flat-faced scowl. She talked to no one.

Only 30 of our 80 classmates show up. Had 50 died like Rev. Bailey had predicted? No. They just weren’t interested in coming to the reunion.
The rest of us mingled over barbecue, beer and cigarettes-- Not unlike high school.
Even still, we walked the tightrope of being not quite strangers and not completely friends. We are a polite sheen of ourselves, reunited as memories, as ghosts.
We group together after awhile in our old clusters—I hang with the wild kids and the forensics kids in the garage. The jocks, farmers and others gather by the lower-deck. These divisions are mildly comforting.

I stay for a good while before my allergies flare, I sneeze and my eyes tear up. On the way out, I see the most popular girl in our class arriving late. She’s driving the same red Mustang her father bought her our senior year. It has been maintained as meticulously as the spiral perm she still sports even now--years later. It’s as if she came dressed as she was then just so we’d all remember. I tell her I’m leaving and give her a hug. She looks at my irritated eyes and says “Don’t cry, David. I know how you feel. I miss high school, too.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that it’s hay fever.

***

It used to be the yearbook, now it’s Facebook. It started innocently enough with Heidi, Heather, Kyle, Cindy…and then they all came. Like water they came. Former classmates appear en masse. We’re the class of 1990! They appear under the header: People You Might Know.

I accept some requests and ignore others. It’s a passive/aggressive bait and switch. It’s all so very high school. There are people I’m glad to reconnect with, others I’ve completely forgotten about and others I don’t care to remember. Sometimes I wait for them to request me first, others I add merely out of curiosity so I can see their pictures and profiles.

We comment. We IM. We update. Photos are tagged. Kellie hopes she doesn’t get the flu from her sons. Jason became a fan of Sarah Palin. Ricky is looking forward to watching Nip/Tuck tonight. Kristi is the 44,516th person to join the cause FIREPROOF YOUR MARRIAGE. Ryan loves to mountain bike with his wife. Cindy is so happy about landing a job in this economy! Heather’s relationship is complicated. Photos are tagged, insights are gained and judgments are made.

It’s a way of showing who you have become but it also works conversely—reminding us of who we used to be. After a bit, I feel like the show is over. Okay, guys, move along, there’s nothing more to see here. Little Edie from Grey Gardens said it best “It’s a fine line between the past and the present.”

For me, Facebook has almost rendered the high school reunion archaic and unnecessary. All the standard reasons to go are made moot by Facebook. I can see what you look like now. I can see what you do, what you’ve accomplished and what you like--from a distance. Good for me. Good for you. In fact, we learn more about one another here than you could in a few polite moments of small talk at a reunion. It’s controlled voyeurism and we’re able to sit on both sides of the one-way mirror.

Facebook is high school reunion on-demand. And we all get to hold the remote.

###

Elfin Boots

2009-02-06T15:25:00.001-06:00

Elfin Boots

By David Wayne Reed

“They’re here.”

--Carol Anne, Poltergeist

Helena had shown up at the restaurant to run the juicer for the new organic drinks we were debuting. She kept her head down and worked diligently as she pureed the organics. Her work ethic alone proved that she different. She didn’t lean, she cleaned.

She was polite, but stand-offish; definitely not there for friends; seemingly only tasks. Also, she was quiet.

I find quiet people suspicious.

Helena just wasn't like the rest of us. For starters, she dressed so blandly that she became a fashion affront. Her hair lacked a conditioner and she dressed vaguely Amish.

Maybe Helena was on Rumspringa? Nah, after I watched her plug in the electric juicer I could tell this girl knew the working end of an electric cord. As her leg strained tip-toed while feeding a carrot into the juicer, I noted a prison-grade tattoo of a clothes-line spanning up her leg…from her elfin boot.

Mennonite?

The next week, Helena didn’t show up. Instead, a girl named Margaret arrived to run the juicer. She was dressed similarly; brown, black and off-white--elfin boots all. Unlike Helena, she smiled often and had an infectious laugh. I liked her. It wasn’t until she handed me a smoothie that her outstretched arm revealed another tattoo illustrating a wooden rocking chair.

Curious.

For the next few weeks, other new employees began filling-in; all of them similar in their awkward dress—as if they were fresh from the Dust Bowl. Working with them was like working alongside an anachronism. They came as cooks, bussers, dishwashers; young men and women both--all with rudimentary tattoos—a windmill, a tornado, a washboard, a swingset. Their tattoos bore a malevolent whisper “We are a group.”

But a group of what? Were they a group of Steinbeck devotees? Where did they come from? Beyond the Thunderdome?

They sat by and among themselves as we ate after our daily shift. Then they would leave with box upon box of leftovers. Another waitress, Jenn said “They just don’t like outsiders. It’s not just you…or me. It’s anybody.”

This made me want to get to know them even more. “So, how did they all know each other?” Are you part of a singing group—you know--with your little outfits?” I was trying to be hard-line and jovial at once.

Naturally, that didn’t work so I began to barter. I’ll give you a cigarette if you tell me how you know Helena. “Well, I used to pick apples at an orchard in Maine and after that I met up with Helena just outside Minneapolis.” Hey, Emmett—you want a cold beer? Okay--how’d you meet Jess?

A 12 pack of PBRs and a ½ pack of Camel Lights and I had found out that they had come from all over the country and squatted together in a abandoned mansion in the Northeast--a live music venue they called the Charles Mansion. This still wasn’t enough. But what’s your common link—How do you all know each other? “Fawn” they said. Several noted that Fawn had one day awoken in a ditch and had a vision to come to Kansas City. “So we all came here.”

***

Jenn gives me a ride home one day. On the drive, I turn to Jenn and say “So they’re in a cult, right?”

“RIGHT?!” she says. “I don’t get them. They’re quiet, they won’t talk about their sex lives…they wear weird clothes. It just doesn’t make sense—I mean, we work in a restaurant for Christ’s sake. They’re just not like us.”

It’s true that I didn’t have much in common with them—that is except theatre. They had asked me a few weeks earlier if I wanted to be in their original play with music called ‘Time Does Not Emit.’ Oh, what’s it about? Helena fixed me with a look and said “It’s a palindrome.” I didn’t want to participate, but I certainly wanted to be a spectator.

“I want to go to their little play.” I said to Jen. “But you have to go with me.”

We arrived at the theatre—a musty old walk-up on Troost next to an anarchist’s bookstore. We congregated outside; Jen and I imagining the worst, the hyperbole. Which one is Fawn? We wondered and then heard the name exclaimed by a group of 4 young women, all dressed simpatico with hairdos so reprehensible that even the mullet would find offense. These hairdos mimicked Fawn’s own awkward ‘do. One person having this hairdo was one thing; a gaggle donning the same was just out-and-out crazy. Did vanity never once cross their minds?

Jenn said “Let’s go get some refreshments.” We ordered a couple cans of coke and then Jenn asks for a bag of popcorn. I grab her arm and whisper “DON’T EAT THE POPCORN! You don't know what's in that butter." This is fanatical paranoia, I know, but in this state, I’d rather err on the side of safety. Remember Jonestown?

The show begins and cast outnumbers the audience. There is a dry water-ballet before Helena bounds out in a little Minnie Mouse get-up doing a sarcastic little dance. Another performer bangs metal objects hung from a make-shift stand. Another is painted blue and doing backbends; crab-walking the perimeter of the stage. One woman, painted silver enters with a puppet of a dog—reconstructed out of actual dog bones. They sing and howl. They say their lines but I can’t grasp what is said. The lines are delivered nonsensically and intermittently when remembered. We sit transfixed by this pioneer spirit, fearful that it’s verging on Donner Party.

The show doesn’t end with a mass suicide like I’d imagined. I’m relieved, though a bit disappointed. I shake my head; disillusioned. Jenn and I leave and head to her car. “What the hell was that?” she asks. “I don’t know. I just want to leave.” Both of us are scared--so much so that we check the back seats of her car before getting in. We fear Helena jumping up from behind calling “Join us! Join us.” But she doesn’t.

I take off the next few weekends from the restaurant and when I return none of the group is working there any longer. Like water they came and like wind they go.

A few months later and I see Fawn out at a bar--alone. I ask if I can buy her a shot of whiskey and chat. Sure. We down the shot.

“So are you a cult-leader or what?”

She looked up and said. “I wish.”

(###)

The Tao of Bailey

2009-01-06T11:08:00.000-06:00

“When I get to the bottom, I go back to the top of the slide and I stop and turn and I go for a ride then I get to the bottom and I see you again.”
-Helter Skelter, The Beatles.

I have a window seat on the Amtrak headed eastbound and down to St. Louis. It’s a long weekend and I’m retreating, introspective. The solitude of the 5 hour train ride offers up the chance to hunker down for some quality and uninterrupted me-time. After the holidays, I’m desperate for this. And because it’s New Year’s Day, I decide to make some resolutions.

1. Write more.
2. Smoke only when I write.

The windows on the train are dirty but luckily the route doesn’t look very scenic anyway as we traverse through Independence, Lee’s Summit, Warrensburg, Sedalia, and Jeff City before arriving at Kirkwood Station. There, my childhood friend, C picks me up for a long weekend at her and her hubby’s new home.

While they work, I have a day all to myself--to write. It’s not turning out as quickly or as great as I’d envisioned so I stop and break Resolution #2 instead. I puff out on the porch and reason that ‘If it’s not working out, don’t force it, just move on.’ My face goes off in a light bulb epiphany and I write the aforementioned mantra down as the new Resolution #2. I feel confident that I can keep that resolution. Quitting smoking will just have to wait.

C returns from her 12 hour shift at the hospital where she tends to cancer patients (some with Down’s Syndrome and Bi-Polar Disorder) and laments that one patient even, uh, soiled the recliner in his room early in her shift. She says “I just don’t know how long I can keep wiping people.” My occupational hazard of writer’s block seems a blessing in comparison.

***

The next day the weather is unseasonably warm and so we go to City Museum downtown. I can't even find the words to describe this place so I'll let the museum's brochure speak for me. Housed in the 600,000 square-foot former International Shoe Company, the museum is an eclectic mixture of children's playground, funhouse, surrealistic pavilion, and architectural marvel made out of unique, found objects.

In short, City Museum is like Chutes and Ladders on methamphetamines. The outside is full of jutting angles and rungs of sky-bound encasements where children crawl through and from airplane exoskeletons to castles to slides. Most of it seems precariously welded together though I do note a small placard noting that it has met structural inspection. Even so, it seems like a lawsuit waiting to happen. It’s as ridiculous, scary and wonderful as it seems.

C’s friend, Lora arrives with her kindergarten daughter, Bailey. This place has to be a dream for any child. As an added bonus, it’s a fantastic place to see through the eyes of a child.

Bailey, C’s hubby and I set off wandering through this side-winding scaffolding despite our age or weight. If it’s true that the first cut is the deepest, the first step is indeed the most difficult. Bailey reaches for my hand even though she ends up leading the way and commanding us around. ”Go slower, now go faster.” She’s charming even when she’s bossy. I envy that about her and wonder if I’m as effervescent when I’m being demanding and then I think “Don’t kid your self, Reed.”

We climb through the intricately welded found objects that construct this massive 100foot tall outdoor jungle gym. We climb through this upward jutting structure taking it one rung at a time, never looking back, and never looking down. Important life lessons, all three.

After being outside, we come in and go into an adult-sized hamster wheel where Lora, C’s hubby and I push and walk the circle around. Bailey gives it a try, before determining that it’s not for her. She proclaims “I hate going in circles. I’m done here.” It seems that everything that comes out of her mouth today is like parable. I admire this as much as I envy it.

Lastly, we climb darkened stairs to the 7-story slide that has recently opened. The walk to the top is the most arduous. Once on top, an older boy, maybe 8 or 9 tells us about the slide and how he’s done the slide 5 times now. I ask him questions until Bailey tugs my shirt and tells me to “zip it.” Why? She fixes me with a stern look and a foot stamp and says “Just zip it.” I wonder if she’s jealous and just needs attention or if she simply needs the silence to prepare for the 7 story drop. When I’m nervous I talk but perhaps Bailey’s nerves require silence. I give her the benefit of the doubt thinking ‘What a little Buddha she is’ and make a mental note to adopt her strategy instead.

So I perch myself into position on the slide and await the green light go of the operator’s walkie talkie. I push off and plummet into dark and side-winding abyss. Once you’re on, there’s no chicken exit; no stopping. You just have to let go.
At the bottom, I wait for Bailey to come down—instead a dreadlocked man comes out the spout. He sees me and my confusion and says “She got scared but I think she’s coming down next.” Minutes later and Bailey abounds. I congratulate her on her bravery and she says “Well, there was only one way to go.”

I marvel at her and am reminded of all of the lessons of youth and of life here with the help of a child and a slide. Here I find what I didn’t even know I was looking for. I went away to write one story and instead found a bigger story in the sage awareness of a five-year-old.

I guess I had to take the train so I could learn to fly.

The Frontier Twirlers

2008-12-16T09:47:00.000-06:00

The Frontier Twirlers
By David Wayne Reed

"Are we human--or are we dancer?"
-The Killers

After the Tanglefoot Square Dance Club disbanded, my parents joined the Frontier Twirlers who met the 2nd Saturdays of the month in an auditorium/gymnasium in Osawatomie, Kansas. On the wooden floor marked up in basketball tape, they’d doh-si-doh in and out of one another and the other couples like a honky-tonk crochet.
On other Saturday nights during the month, they’d head over to the Pla-Mart in Paola where they’d 2-step in circles around the floor to the live music of either The Odds and Ends or The Country CBers. I always went with them and so it was that I never had a babysitter. Instead, I had a bartender.
Dad gave me a dollar for the night so that I could either play pool or the Dolly Parton pinball machine. Naturally, I gravitated to the pinball machine where Dolly’s hair flowed down to her iconic boobs perched atop the underwire of the playing table beneath. I stood before it as if it were a shrine. With only four quarters, I had to play fast and hard. Oh, how I fingered those side-board flippers.
Sometimes I’d hang out in the booth sneaking sips off surrounding cocktails, sometimes I’d dance and sometimes I’d simply deny an old widow’s request to dance.
Seriously, how does one dance to Teddy Bear by Red Sovine?
Instead, I liked the free-style, uncoupled dances—one’s where I could properly show off my own moves. I lived for the moment when The Odds and Ends played Wipe Out. That drum solo made me dance like I was mocking an epileptic. God, I loved that song.
I also liked the Orange Blossom Special-the famed train tune with built in bravura for any fiddler. Since I was usually the only child there at the bar, I was always chosen to lead the dance train of people connected hand-to-hip 20 people deep around the dance floor. I’d toot my imaginary horn just like a train conductor.
Once the song ended, I’d rush to grab my coat and beg my parents to leave. They wouldn't so I would take my choo-choo right on out to the car where I’d fall asleep and pray I wouldn’t get kidnapped.
Inside they would just dance and dance.
*
The Pla-Mart closed down in 1990. So Mom and Dad then danced at the Olathe Trailriders through the 90s. Then they started frequenting community buildings in Cadmus and Garden City dancing with other seniors so old that they made my parents looked like teens.
We celebrated their 40th anniversary by having a dance/potluck at the community building in Garden City. We arrived early to begin decorating. I take my friend, Babette, as she’s my good friend and go-to gal for family functions. My family adores her and she really is a great dance partner.
My brother-in-law, Bill says “Hey, Dave Reed! Here’s the streamers. Why don’t you get up on the chair and hang these up over there?” He calls me Dave Reed as if I own a Buick dealership. I grimace and hand him the tape dispenser and say “Why don’t you do it?” He says “No, I like being the supervisor.” As it turns out, his version of supervising is standing around looking like he’s got a butterfly on his nose.
We finish decorating and setting up the tables and chairs as the other elder dancers enter with Pyrex dishes filled with their best recipes for the potluck. After we eat, the people are raring to dance. All of the sudden—and by rote, the elderly disable the tables and chairs in what seems like a quick swipe. While they tear down, my brother-in-law, Bill is outside smoking and, uh, supervising. I marvel to Babette that I’ve never seen old people move so fast. She agrees. “It is impressive.”
The Cross County Country Band arrives directly from playing a bowling tournament down in Springfield. I’ve spoken with Beverly, the fiddle player…asking if she knows Luckenbach, TX or Houston by the Gatlin Brothers. She says she does and so I emcee and sing. I warm up the crowd by saying “We’ve got a lot of hot dishes here tonight…and I’m not talking about the food!” Hoowah! Then the band commences with Houston and I sing and watch as the dancers scoot and spin across the floor. It’s incredibly beautiful and inspiring to witness from my bird’s eye view from the microphone. Luckenbach doesn’t go so well. Without a prior rehearsal, I feel thrown under the bus and I end up warbling like Nico flipping the bird to Waylon, Willie AND the boys.
Babette and I dance a few dances and then our dance cards become very full. In this crowd, we're like new meat. As Babette gets swirled around by men in their 80s, I dance with a woman in her 90s who is as pale as a ghost save for her gaudy blue eye shadow and whore-red lipstick. Dancing with her, I can’t help but wonder if her make-up is the doing of a vindictive gay son. I dance with another woman who when I ask Dad what her name is, he simply replies “Uh, I can’t remember. She’s the one with the shakes, right?” These elders won’t let anything keep them from dancing. One man, when asked by Babette to dance, just unplugs his oxygen tank and takes to the floor. Presumably, if he was going to die, wouldn’t dancing with a young blonde be the way to go?
Nothing will keep these people down--Least of all, not my Dad who had to go in for hip surgery just months later. This laid him out for 3 months--in which time, my Mom dutifully tended to him and even joined him at the gym where he has been "doing aquatics" to strengthen and heal.
Sure, time heals all wounds but so does love. Dad healed up quickly and went out dancing just a couple of months later. He says "I didn’t do any fast ones but did twirl Mom a time to too—but not on the first time out.”
I'm pretty sure they’re just getting warmed up.
(###)

The Apron Strings

2008-11-13T09:55:00.000-06:00

With a Bachelor of Arts degree in Theatre, I graduated on little more than talent, good looks and sexual favors. Which, as it turned out was actually better ‘actor training’ than I initially gave my university credit for…”Thanks, K-State!”
Sure, I was cum laude when it came to crying on cue. And yes, it was me who delighted audiences in Manhattan (Kansas) in roles ranging from hero to Hamlet and villain to vixen. But aside from my eager 8x10s and a few monologues, I was fresh out of college with no practical skills. And no job.
And so I moved to Kansas City to gain experience as an actor. Now, I realize that moving to Kansas City to become an actor is kind of like going to Sioux City to become a ballerina--but here I had arrived and here I decided I would flourish.
I hit the ground running and auditioned for anything, everything.
At this time, my audition repertoire consisted of shouting Troilus and Cressida, emasculating Eric Bogosian and singing songs like Nice Work If You Can Get It and No Man Left For Me. (Talk about manifest destiny!) But audition I did. The successes were fleeting and intermittent at best. I landed a melodrama here, a Toyota commercial there but that was certainly nowhere enough to make rent. Shortly after I lost out on the role of thug in the Willie Ames-produced cartoon series, Bible Man, I broke down and got a job-job. A job in order to afford my theatrical habit—and audition outfits. A job I could quit as soon as something better came along.
I became a waiter.
Sure, the only restaurant experience I had prior to working in one was playing the Maitre’d, Rudolph in a college production of Hello Dolly. But like any other job at the time, I’d simply act in place of actual skill set.
When in doubt, act. In fact, my impersonation of Judy Bernly in 9 to 5 got me through countless temp jobs.
Being a waiter was a natural complement to my own moonlit career ambitions. The dining experience paralleled the dramatic structure I’d studied for years. By example of exposition, I’d introduce myself and narrate the night’s specials just like an audition. I’d deliver the daily specials with Shakespearean nuance and diction. James Earl Jones himself would envy my impassioned narrative arc when I spoke of the food. “Good evening, folks. I’m David and tonight, we have a Kansas City Strip topped with a rich and tangy peppercorn burgundy sauce. That’s nestled on a bed of fried baby potato hay. Mmm, delicious” I’d coo. I used words like lush and herbaceous. Often. I’d tease them with the denoument of dessert.
But like the stage, the real action was backstage. Behind the scenes the restaurant became utter Sturm and Drang. The restaurant is a buffet of chock full of high drama, loose cannons and tantrum-like reproach. In short, it’s a hotbed of theatrical inspiration.
I had learned studying the Sanford Meisner approach to acting that I would only act as a matter of in-the-moment reaction. And react I did. If I am the protagonist of the play that is my life, my antagonist was a nub-armed sous chef named Jason. For what he lacked in arm, he made up for with the chip on his shoulder.
Jason was born with a deformed arm; one that ended at the elbow and proffered spore-like finger spuds. One day when I caught him pegging a sandwich unsheathed, I suggested (as a friend, mind you) that he put a plastic glove on his, uh, hand. I said “Can you please get a plastic glove or condom or something on your hand. Something between you and you know--the food!
He countered. “I’m not wearing (expletive)gloves--I was born this way, (homosexual)!”
I responded that I was born this way, too, but even so, I guess that’s the point when we became enemies--here when I was just trying to be pro-active and sanitary.
As it turned out Jason really hated homosexuals and he sure let me know it! I’d say “Order in, I have 4 salads, two house, two ceasar. Hold the croutons, Jason!”
He’d say “I’ll do it when I feel like it, Butt Jouster!”
He’d withhold my food, not fulfilling my orders thus making my food late and my tips less. Each time I’d check in and say “How’s my food coming?” he’d answer in some version of “(homosexual), I hate you.”
I had to approach our manager. I ratted him out saying “Jason’s not doing his job and he’s not allowing me to do mine, either.” Our manager (in a grand show of anything but) said “You two need to work this out on your own.” Amidst dinner rush, I blew up. “Okay, Jason. I need my (expletive) salads and I need them (expletive) now. And don’t leave me hanging. By a limb.” I said pointedly.
To which he raised his middle finger and said “(expletive) you.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said, raising my elbow up, clucking. “(expletive) you.”
Jason was later fired for not showing up and I left shortly after I awoke to another co-worker’s advances after he slipped me a Rohypnol.
****
About this time, I landed the role of Ichabod Crane in a touring musical production of Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I toured the bi-state area for a month and a half before returning to waiting tables at a tony restaurant on the Plaza--during the holiday season; this, which would make even the nicest people- person misanthropic.
One day, after serving dessert to Kirstie Alley, a young boy and his mother approached me. “You were Ichabod Crane, right?” the mother said. The boy asked “Can I get your autograph?” I was so flattered that, I gave him a complimentary crème brulee and autographed his napkin—even if it was cloth.
Like the tables I waited, I had waited for this moment, this validation--a perfect resolution to the on-going play of my life.
If only for a moment I felt like a star...in an apron.
(###)

Hypertension

2008-10-06T11:01:00.001-05:00

“As I’m lying in my bed, I think about life and death. And neither one particularly appeals to me.”
-Nowhere Fast, The Smiths

I had just gotten hypnotized to quit smoking for the second time and like any other addict I replaced one addiction with another: I gave up cigarettes and instead I joined a gym. This, after years of no disciplined exercise routine and, ergo, I returned from my first class at the gym a jelly-legged cripple. Even though it hurt, I continued the workout because otherwise, I'd break down and smoke. So instead I stretched.
At yoga class, our instructor was a man in his 40’s. He was undoubtedly limber, yet emaciated—in fact, he looked like he had full-blown AIDS. He led our poses and in the span of our stretch, his pants rode up to reveal purplish lesions poking out at the ankle of his gym pants. The lesions caught my attention; glaring up at me like they were saying “Downward facing dog, you’ve got AIDS.” This, in retrospect, was the first moment that began a terrifying hypochondriac episode that laid me out; physically, emotionally, spiritually.
Admittedly, my risk for HIV was relatively low (I’m a safety boy) but the image of him got a serious foot-hold in my mind. He struck me like viewing myself in a mirror. Could this be me someday? The thought grew greater with each passing day. I’d look at a billboard and see AIDS, I’d see an ad on TV, a person in a magazine. AIDS, AIDS, AIDS. Like the old Tootsie Roll jingle-“Whatever it is I think I see becomes a Tootsie Roll to me.” In this case, however, the Tootsie Rolls became HIV/AIDS.
Perhaps it was giving up nicotine or perhaps it was taking up the gym—but my body began to change in ways I didn’t expect. I began to get hot flashes, suffered migraines, woke up with night sweats. These fairly traditional maladies were expounded upon when I made the huge mistake of Googling said symptoms. My addiction to cigarettes then transposed to an addiction to fear.
As I scrolled through symptoms, I convinced myself that I had everything; Parkinson’s, Diabetes, Cancer of my brain, Cancer of my lungs, Cancer of my ass, and yes, even AIDS. My neurotic imagination got the better of me. Not only was I a hypochondriac, I also quickly became a cyber-chondriac.
I suppose that my response was kind of like being a “cutter.” Fear became a private pain that I inflicted on myself by the minute. Each time I googled a symptom, I became increasingly convinced that I had a disease. Headache? Diaharrea? Must be AIDS. But instead of going to the doctor and getting results and ending my self-inflicted torture, I spent nearly three months staring at myself in the mirror examining my body for any new abnormality, self-prescribing and listening to copious amounts of depressing music. My fear of a positive outcome put me in a negative place.
Finally, I scheduled an appointment with my doctor. She doctor took my blood pressure and asked if I was stressed. I said, maybe a little bit. My blood pressure revealed a towering 160 over 100. You have hypertension, my Doctor said.
Hyper? Tense? Well, no shit, Sherlock. Hell, I could tell you that. Regardless, I didn’t ask for an HIV test at the hospital—having learned that it’s best to get tested anonymously. So instead of getting tested, I continued to search for answers on my own which only yielded more fear. Finally, I shared my fears with a friend. He suggested that I go with him for a test. “It’ll clear your mind. Either you have it or you don’t. Wouldn’t you want to know so that you could begin treatments immediately?” He asked. Yes.
And so we went to the test together. He picked me up at work and we sped to the free-testing center. Actually, sped might be a hyperbole. Even on the interstate, it was the longest ride I’ve endured. For all intensive purposes, I could’ve just as easily been on a train to Krakau. I was nauseous with fear and guilt.
We arrived and the phlebotomist took my blood in order to run the rapid-result test before I went to the counselor to discuss options should options indeed be needed.
I returned to the waiting room with the handful of other men who had come for their own walking papers. One left quickly in tears, others smiled, grabbed complimentary condoms and walked out renewed.
My name was called at last and I entered the room with a deep breath. The phlebotomist complimented my outfit and then said “Ready for your results, Supermodel?”
I smiled because even while I was in fear-inducing trauma, I dressed up in the face of infirmary. I would take the news knowing that at the very least I looked really good. I sat there awaiting my results feeling like a shiny bow on a steaming turd.
“You’re negative” she said. I hugged her; smiling through tears before returning to the waiting room. I mouthed the word “negative” to my friend before he was called in for his results.
Moments later and he returned negative, too. We left and he asked if I wanted to get something to eat. “How about HY-VEE?”
I said “Anywhere but HI-V.”
***
A week later and I checked my blood pressure at the local Walgreens. It had returned to the normal levels of 120 over 80. My stress, blood pressure, over-zealous assumptions were quelled within one 30 minute visit to get tested.
I celebrated my negative status (and new lease on life) by going to the gym. For the first time in months, I breathed easily and began to lift some weights--fear being a weight that I no longer had to lift.
###

Best Actor OR Actress

2008-10-02T10:16:00.000-05:00

I was at KCPT getting ready to tape "Check, Please" a new restaurant review show. The make-up artist was doing her thing on my face when I rec'd the vibratory notice that I'd received a new message on my blackberry. After she powdered me off, I checked my message and heard that readers of The Pitch had voted me "Best Actor or Actress" for the 2008 Best of issue.

Funny, since I only acted once this year in a 3-night only re-staging of Pink Floyd's The Wall. Perhaps it was a memory award; a decade achievement award--not sure. Officially, I retired from the acting biz back in 2006. If I weren't me, I might think that I had lobbied for the award directing friends to the ballot to, well, stuff. It's true that's what I had done in 2000 when I last won this award--but not this time. Honest. It feels great to be lauded by your peers--even moreso than the critic's choices--that's one vote against a multitude of votes. And me--I'll take the popular vote over the electorate anyday.

Thanks to the readers of The Pitch.

I guess I should do the decent thing and at least act again--somewhere, sometime.

Nothing But Flowers by the Talking Heads

2008-09-29T20:28:00.000-05:00

In Remembrance of Me

2008-09-28T12:32:00.000-05:00

“Jesus loves you but I’m his favorite.”

Recently at a family reunion, my half-sister confirmed her Pentecostal faith. “So you, like, um, speak in tongues?” I joked. “OF COURSE I DO!” My sister added, charismatic and indignant. “WHY?!” “So that Satan won’t hear my prayers.” “Well whisper for Christ’s sake!” I said, wagging my tongue, adding ‘Hooky Too Witchy Poo Koo Koo Poo.”

“Very funny, very funny! And what are you, Mr. Blasphemer?” I lied and told her that I was agnostic—just for fun. “What does that mean? Agnostic?” I gave her my spiritual summary before she grabbed my hand, squeezing it like an exclamation to each of her next words. “YOU….ARE…LOST, DAVID. LOST!!”

Actually, I was lost, then was found, then got lost again. From my earliest days of Vacation Bible School, I was told I was an original sinner. Even as a toddler, I recognized the powerful freedom of this ‘original sin.’ “I can do anything.” I thought. And did. And do. “Do this in remembrance of me.” I dared all.

My first religious rebellion was at age 5. My Mom was a part of a Ladies Evening Circle prayer group that met at members homes in rotation. On Reed prayer night, I disrupted their hand-locked prayer chain with a question. “HEY! If God’s up in Heaven, like you say, why do look down when you pray?! Pretty dumb, HUH?!” (Silence) (Then more silence.) None of the ladies even tried to answer my spiritual call. Mom, of course, sent me right to bed.

Well, I wasn’t done with them quite yet. Jesus was getting more attention than I was and I wouldn’t have it! So I found some pink rag-tag remnants of Mom’s old nightgown and tucked them strategically into the elastic of my tightie whities. I started the record player, turned up the volume and ran smack dab into the middle of the prayer group and did a strip off to David MacNaugton’s disco classic ‘Makin’ It.’ (Doo! Doo!) I remember saying “The devil made me do it” before Mom had Dad whip my ass.

As an early teen, I found the more human element of religion. Sex. After the service let out, my friend, Ryan said “Reed, come here.” I thought he was going to take me to the bathroom to show me his hernia again, but instead we went into our minister’s office. Right behind the King James was a rubber band bound stack of PORN! Hustler, OUI, Hoots and Cock Cravin’ Cunts. I WAS APPALLED! But Ryan really said it best. “Preachers need puss, too.”

Well that sounded just fun enough to accept Jesus Christ, the lord and savior, into my heart. At 15, my minister, Lem, stood me before the congregation of our church before dunking me into the kiddy pool of a baptism bath. I don’t know what was more strange: the fact that he held my nose for me before, during and after dunking me or the fact that he blessed me by saying ‘shalom’ when we were Protestant.

Cleansed and born again, I dedicated myself to my church. Acolyte, Choir boy, Church Camp regular, Junior Deacon, Youth Minister, President of Christian Youth Fellowship, Star of “Something’s Up Down In Bethlehem”-the Christmas musical. I was more Christian than Christian.

Until I came home from college and walked into an impassioned congregation. I couldn’t tell what they were talking about, but somebody had obviously pissed in the communion. I slid into the pew next to Tanya, the preacher’s daughter and my co-star in “Something’s Up Down In Bethlehem.” I asked her what was up. She whispered that “A ("sh") gay guy is applying to be the President of Disciples of Christ.” “And?” “Well, I think it’s okay if we let them come to church, but when they start to want to lead, that’s where we draw the line.”

And that was just one toe over the line Sweet Jesus.

(###)

Leatherella

2008-09-28T12:29:00.000-05:00

“And if I want to have an affair, play sex games or do M&M’s, you can’t stop me!”

-Judy Bernly, 9 to 5

I was sitting in the big chair upstairs at the Dixie Belle getting my beloved biker boots shined by my favorite bootblack, Adam, when he said “You should come to Leather University.”

“Leather University?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Adam continued. “You know classes on leather, S&M, fetish, whatever you like-explore your limits.” He added, licking my boot.

“Huh.” It was true that I had been thinking of going back to school and though it wasn’t Ivy League like I had imagined, Leather University was a start. “Baby steps, David, baby steps,” I thought to myself.

I have never had any real inclination to get involved in S&M or leather. Honestly, that boot shine was my sole experimentation with the leather community and to be honest, I didn’t consider it kinky behavior as much as I considered it princess behavior. Besides, nothing about me spoke of leather except maybe my leather shoes and if that meant I was into S&M, I guessed that wearing a ring made me a trannie.

Regardless, I thought. I’m open, I’m progressive. And I like to know how the other 2% lives.

To rehearse for Leather University, I forced my roommate, Wm. to go with me. In my first show of domination, I grabbed Wm. and barked “Do it, boy!” Then he laughed and we left.

We arrived at the University and were greeted by a couple of harnessed men, who eyed our ID’s then eyed us like they might punch us or pee on us-or both. Instead, they handed us our class schedule. Shoo.

Wm. and I reviewed our class options. “How about Sensory Deprivation?” asked Wm.-somewhat blindly, if you ask me. I said “No. I’m already hard of hearing.” “Well what about Electrical Play?” said Wm. I just winced, thinking of how my brother made me pee on an electrical fence once when I was little. “Bzzt.” As freshmen, we concluded that it was best for us to start with S&M 101.

Wm. and I took our seats at the front of the class. Our facilitator, Mistress Margaret introduced herself. In a devilish corset, tall boots and uncompromising red hair, she dressed like a vixen and purred like a kitten. She spoke with the timbre of a Sunday school teacher with a little secret.

She asked us to each introduce ourselves and tell how long we had been interested in leather, bondage, fetish, etc. Wm. said “Umm, today. I’ve been interested since today.” Then it was my turn. “I’m David and...I bought a pair of leather pants at the Gap a couple of seasons ago.” “Good. You know, that’s how it starts.” said Mistress Margaret with a nod and a knowing wink.

The introductions went on endlessly, with some S&M show-offs answering more than the question posed.

“FYI, wrap your handcuffs in terry cloth.”

“And remember...no Crisco for fisting!”

Just as I was thinking that I was in way over my head Mistress Margaret divided us into teams to play a vocabulary game. “It will be good for you, please split up.” she said.

“Yes, mistress.”

The consequent vocabulary game acquainted us with such terms such as “water sports,” “humiliation,” “flogging,” and “doctor,” “Duh”, I thought. With a little imagination and a little common sense, who couldn’t figure out those terms?

The next card over-turned was “edge play.” “Edge Play? What is “edge play? Rimming?” I proposed. “No, like knives!” said the spiky haired dominatrix. “And guns!” said the Dungeon Master giving me a two-gun mimed salute. “And don’t you dare forget about ‘blood sports!’” said a very average straight woman in a very average straight woman outfit. “How could I forget?”

“Knives and guns and blood...oh my!” I thought. My sexual recipe of liquor, lube and Led Zeppelin seemed not only incredibly vanilla, but also incredibly archaic.

Class ended shortly after one couple began to brag and banter about who wears the red bandana in their family and Wm. and I left to process all we’d learned.

“Instead of S&M 101,” Wm. said “They should’ve called it ‘Vocab for Perverts.’”

“Pervert is subjective, Wm. We embrace this.” I said, but couldn’t help but agree him.

***

Though S&M 101 was informative, facts are facts, and I came for less talk and more demonstration. The second session on the schedule boasted such classes as S&M 102, Impact Play, or Puppy Play. One leather insider tipped me off that Puppy Play was the class to attend-so off I went; easy as that.

I got to class right in time as a man-dog was led into the middle of the classroom. His owner, wearing a t-shirt that read “Bad Dog” took center stage and introduced his doggy, Daniel, adding “It’s not bestiality, its brotherhood!”

Doggy Daniel was a fit 30-something man (which makes him approximately 4.2 in dog years) who was paraded in front of the crowd on all fours and into his awaiting cage complete with cushion and water bowl. In a “fetching” ensemble of leather hot shorts, a spiked collar, knee pads and black leather boxing gloves for mitts, Doggy Daniel was a randy little pup. In his ‘pup-space,’ he panted, fetched and even wiggled his tail when he was happy-just like a debauched stage adaptation of Lassie.

I had just lost myself in the surrealism of the moment when the woman next to me presumably found her puppy within and miraculously lifted herself from her wheelchair and crouched on the floor by her lover’s thigh for a nuzzle and a sniff. Amidst the pop and crackle of her knees, I heard her say “Grrr.”

Of all the things I’d seen and learned from Leather University, I left because I recognized my limits.

I’m afraid of dogs.

(###)

Turncoat

2008-09-28T12:27:00.000-05:00

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

It was the summer of 2000 and I was living out of my deceased Aunt’s car, surfing couches and collecting my mail from a PO Box; essentially homeless and jobless. I was registered with multiple temp agencies and finally one day I received a call with an offer. “It’s for a special events/fundraising company. You’re a perfect fit.”

I turned them down saying that I didn’t have the requisite experience in Microsoft Access. In fact, I had just deleted an entire Access database on a prior temp job so I wasn’t going to lie—I seriously wasn’t the best candidate for the job. Even homeless, I was a beggar AND a chooser.

The third time they called, though, I accepted. You can only mooch off friends and subsist on a diet of Doritos, Camels and Mountain Dew for so long.

I arrived to the assignment the next day. The administrative assistant, Amanda greeted me and said Our Boss (hereon called OB) would be in a half-hour. Amanda was sexy, but seemed fragile; down-trodden. The office looked makeshift and somewhat abandoned as if the office had lately sustained a larger workforce—but no more. It was just me, Amanda and OB.
Our Boss, OB arrived. We exchanged pleasantries before I settled into my cubicle. OB eagerly called us together some moments later to lay out the work-plan. I found out that she had just returned from Texas, working as a Field Organizer for the George W. campaign. “GW is going be our next POTUS” she said with a gleam in her eye. “When he’s elected I’m going to get my own island!” I didn’t understand how one equaled the other but was more thrown by all this Republican business. The temp agency didn’t mention any of that. OB asked “So, D-Dubya, what’s on your docket?” I didn’t know who she was referring to for a moment and then got it. Oh, that’s me. I am D. Dubya. “My docket? Uh, I’m voting for Gore.”

On my second day, OB and Amanda surprised me with cupcakes and candles and sang Happy Birthday to me. It was sweet, but on the 2nd day of a temp job it seemed a little too welcoming; desperate even. We enjoyed our cake before OB sent Amanda out on an errand. OB asked me if there was anything about this job I would like. I told OB that I previously worked in fundraising and special events. I didn’t mention that I was homeless.

I added that I had just left my theatrical career and wanted a job that I could tackle with the same passion I employed in my dramatic pursuits. “Well, how does Account Executive sound?” OB said before writing a figure on an envelope and pushing it over to me facedown—even though we were the only two in the room. I noted the figure. Wow. This was easy. “I accept” I said, pushing the envelope back.
“Great. Thanks D-Dubya. Oh and hey--I’m leaving tomorrow for the Republican National Convention. I’ll be out for a couple of weeks. If you could housesit that would be great. You can use my car, too. I totally trust you.”

On my third day, OB left for the Convention and I settled into the daily routine; this which would consist of coordinating mailings, managing databases and talking Amanda down after OB made her cry--daily. OB would say “Eh, she just can’t handle it. She’s not like you and me, D-Dubya.” This was my workday before retiring to OB’s house for the night.

Journal Entry August 2000

"The goddamned Republican National Convention is keeping me hopping. My boss is at the convention now (God I pray for riots) and I'm in charge of the office here. Note: I started as a temp exactly a week ago. Now I'm managing the office, housesitting, driving the company SUV and running the fundraising efforts for what I consider to be the white devil. I'm so confused. I feel kidnapped, watched. eg. Last night I tripped the alarm at my boss’s house and who shows up but the cops. Six cops actually. I answered the door. "I’m sorry but I must’ve accidentally tripped the alarm. Anyway, no problem here. I’m just watching the house while my boss is at the Republican National Convention (wink wink nudge nudge)." I hoped that would stave them off—like saying, “Hey guys, I'm down, it’s cool.” I even added that Bo Derek was at the convention—as if she were some sort of bargaining chip. They took my info and then all six walked in cadence (seriously) back to their cars and sat there for another 10 minutes before taking off.”
**

In the next three weeks, I met an unprecedented number of politicos. I escorted Colin Powell and Governor Mel Carnahan to the America’s Promise for Children event.

I worked a luncheon with Dick and Lynn Cheney at the Carriage Club. I rebelled by shaving my head, only to have Mrs. Cheney compliment me saying she wished more men would wear their hair that way. Note to self: I should have worn a blue armband and face-paint.

At the club, I saw a waiter that I used to work with at Fedora--we caught each other's eye briefly before I turned my head away in shame. Don't look at me, I thought. Not now, not like this.

When Dick Cheney began to speak, I skipped out and went outside. There I met his lesbian daughter, Mary Cheney. OB picked up a copy of the gay magazine, The Advocate and had me gift-wrap it and give it to Mary. In fact, I was the one that personally informed her that she made the cover of this new issue. She didn’t even know. There we stood; two gays together--literally and metaphorically on the outside.

My final event with the company was a $5,000 per plate dinner honoring George and Barbara Bush. The money was unbelievably easy to come by. Invitations went out and checks came back quickly. Voila!

In the Mission Hills kitchen, George Bush, Sr. himself looked at my badge and gave me a hearty handshake saying “David Wayne, we’re glad to have you on the team." I shuddered and said “My pleasure, Sir.”

How the hell did this happen? I was a Young Democrat in high school. I voted for Clinton twice. I’m gay for God’s sake. Why would I ever vote against myself? Here I was rallying for a candidate I didn’t believe in. OB would say “GW will finally restore dignity to the White House!” Dignity—that was the catch-phrase of the time; referring to the Big Lewinsky.

Yet, as I worked to restore ‘dignity’ here I lost my own.

(###)

The Last Breath

2008-09-17T11:30:00.000-05:00

“For death begins with life’s first breath
And life begins at touch of death.”
--John Oxenham

Life is too short to not follow your dreams.

This was my first waking thought on the morning before I decided to quit my job. Though I loved my job working in public relations for Truman Medical Center, my moonlit career of acting was really taking off. I was currently in a show and had shows lined up into the next year. Being young and fearless, I decided to throw caution to the wind and follow my dreams of becoming a full-time actor. “Life is too short not to do it” I affirmed to my mirror and then readied and left for work.

At our weekly staff meeting, I deliver the announcement of departure. After the meeting, my co-worker, Jennifer tells me that she is finishing the final written test that will allow her to marry her Catholic fiancé. She says that one question on the test was particularly troubling her—what is your favorite scripture and why? I say the first thing that comes to mind. “How about ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh. Or what about John 3:16? People LOVE that one.”

Moments later and I’m in the mailroom when I’m paged to call my department. Jennifer says “Your Dad just called. Your Aunt is in the hospital and you need to come home right away.” Aunt Patty--my beloved Aunt Patty. After suffering from asthma for nearly 20 years, I find out that she woke to a severe asthma attack, had a consequent five heart attacks in the ambulance before ending up at the hospital--brain dead. On this day in mid-December; a day cold enough to see my own breath before me is the same day her breathing ceased.

I leave work and drive through tears down to the hospital one county south thinking of my earlier thoughts of ‘Life is too short’ and how quickly this mantra manifested itself into a devastating and personal example. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh, indeed.

I arrive at the hospital and the nurse allows us to see her; two at a time. I go in with my Aunt Orpha and am not prepared for what I see. Her eyes are rolled back in her head and she shakes in cadence with the EKG. My Aunt Orpha winces, cries and clutches Aunt Patty’s hands in pleading desperation. “Come on, Partner, you can do it. You can make it.” Then she begins to sing “O Happy Day Oh Happy Day.” I join her in this last ditch effort for resuscitation. “Fight and Pray Fight and Pray.”

Shortly thereafter, Aunt Patty is life-flighted to Research Hospital where things just don’t get better.

The next day, my parents, their minister, and our entire family sob in a conference room adjacent to the ICU that now bears Aunt Patty’s unflinching body. The doctor greets us with the grave message that if she continues to live she will live brain dead—as a vegetable. We pray as we mull over the decision to pull life support. Our agreement, despite the scrupulous decision at hand, is unanimous. The least we can give her is release. Concluded, we encircle her bed with wet eyes cast downward. We share and choke on memories, hold hands, sing Amazing Grace and say goodbye. Thereafter, the doctors come in and remove life support.

And we wait.

***

Aunt Patty passed away on December 15, 1999 at 4:35 p.m. at the age of 55. I arrive at the hospital just moments after her passing. Mom, Aunt Orpha and my brother sit there silently—just being with her in this sacred after-moment. Mom tells me that in the moment before her passing she opened her eyes “wide as saucers” and smiled for but a fleeting moment before acquiescing to what my family calls Heaven. My brother says “She looked right up above me like she saw something. Something way beyond me.”

I regret not being there for that moment. Like a slow-emotional replay; I am constantly rewinding this moment seeking a logical reason for her sudden spring to life and then immediate, consequent death. After days of no cognizance, what made her open her eyes? What did she see just over my brother’s shoulder? What was the only thing to lift her out of her coma for one fleeting, precious moment? For me, a recovering fundamentalist in the throes of defiant agnosticism, I decided that what she saw was God.

***

In the small country church wherein she began life, hereto is she also laid to rest in an open-casket just beneath the pulpit. Our immediate family stand casket-side greeting the mourning who had come in visitation. What can you say in this parade of teary-eyed hugs and awkward niceties? One woman told me “I know your Aunt Patty would’ve loved your blonde hair.” Another girl that I remembered from Vacation Bible School in the 70s took the opportunity to say “I remember you. You were such a mean little boy.” I said “I’m sorry. I really am. But I don’t even remember.” “Well I remember.” Even though I tell her I’m sorry all I think is ‘What a bitch.’ Also, in a shameless display of ‘Carpe Diem’, my former drama teacher asks if I’d return to my old high school to speak to his drama class. Why not?

The receiving line then fills the pews and the funeral begins. The pastor speaks from the pulpit over her casket to the at-capacity church. My brother writes a poem which he, my sister and I read. I guilt myself about not writing my own testament but I couldn’t even shake the shock to even grasp a pen, let alone an articulate thought. Aunt Patty’s life slid into death in the instant of one tragic morning’s awakening and all I could do was cry.

After the wintry afternoon burial, I return home from the funeral only long enough to change and go to the theatre. Life, like a show, must go on. Backstage, I put on make-up as quickly as possible just to escape.

The Stage Manager calls “Places.”

I stand behind the curtain, close my eyes and take a big breath.

For me and Aunt Patty.

Pitch Music Awards 2008--Live at the Uptown Theatre

2008-09-03T16:38:00.000-05:00

“Is there a Reach here? Is there a Reach … around?”
A firm clasp of brotherly love was given to the Kansas City and Lawrence music scenes this past Sunday night at the 2008 Pitch Music Awards. Hosted by the charming, ambidextrous David Wayne Reed — mastermind behind the above quotation — DJ’d by Bobby Keys, and attended by some 700 musicians and their friends and family, the event was an overall joyous, positive and acceptably rambunctious experience, not at all like last year’s hilariously perverse debauch.
For many, the lingering image of last year’s fête was Ryan Mattes of the Last of the V8s bloodied from a self-inflicted bottle wound, with a belt around his neck and his dick hanging out. This year, the audience may remember instead the sight of Kim Anderson — who has become a stone-cold fox all of a sudden — lashing her strawberry-blond hair in the limelight at the Uptown Theater as her band, Flee the Seen, closed the show with a gut-punching performance.
I’ll reveal more memories of the night as they trickle through the haze of my near-devastating hangover. In the meantime, here’s a partly annotated list of the winners.
Avant/Experimental: Bacon Shoe (Overheard later at the bar: “Hey, there’s the guy from Bacon Foot.”); Blues/Soul: Ida McBeth; Country/Bluegrass: The Last Call Girls; DJ: Dance: Nomathmatics; DJ: Hip-Hop: DJ Sku (“DJ Fresh, this goes out to you.”); Folk/Americana: Pendergast; Hip-Hop: Reach (Was not around.); Indie Rock/Pop: The Republic Tigers (“We’re going to tour the UK with Travis!”); Jazz: Snuff Jazz; Live Act: It’s Over; Metal: Hundred Years War (“If we won this, the rest of the bands in the metal category must be pussies.”); New Act: Expassionates (By the way, these guys have been around for like 10 years. But they, um, revamped themselves this past year.); Pop: Dead Girls Ruin Everything (These boys tore the dance floor up at the afterparty); Punk: We’re Fucked; Rock: Roman Numerals; All-Star Award: Tech N9ne (Travis O’Guin: “If Tech weren’t on tour, he’d be right here at this podium”).
In addition to Flee the Seen, Josephine Collective, Pendergast and CES Cru all slayed their short sets. I got held up in conversation during most of Pendergast’s set, but a friend reported that “It was like Neil Young at the MTV awards” and added that the men of Heet Mob, sitting at a nearby table, enjoyed it.
Mr. Reed’s performance as host was wickedly delightful and included an opening monologue in which he rhetorically led out the Power & Light district and the smoking ban like lambs to be slaughtered by boos from the crowd.
He roasted last year’s host, “that little moose knuckle Brodie Rush,” then awarded Rush with a brick for his portrayal of Pink in the Urban Culture Project’s Reed-directed rendition of The Wall. Rush appeared and reciprocated by giving Reed the red-and-gold briefs he wore onstage last year as the self-proclaimed king of Kansas City. (I was afraid of what might become of these objects, but as of this writing, no reports have come in of any brick- or underwear-related violence.) There were dirty punks, disheveled emo kids, badly behaved wannabe rock stars, hip-hop heroes and a finely dressed contingent of classy-looking older gentlemen from bands such as the Pedaljets, Mr. Marco’s V7, Federation of Horsepower and In the Pines. Indeed, our local culture was represented royally.
And with that, we put to bed our most rockin’ awards season in the 12 years The Pitch has been saluting local musicians with this increasingly massive undertaking.
And to all Kansas City music makers, we wish you fame, groupies and millions in record sales. But in the meantime, you can crash on our couch.
-- Jason Harper

The 47

2008-09-02T13:03:00.000-05:00

“I was up above it. Now I’m down in it.”

-Nine Inch Nails

Outside of the insulation of my truck, off the moat of the interstate, I stand at the bus stop, downing my morning constitutional of Starbucks and a cig while waiting for the bus. My bus. The 47.

As one of the 50,000 daily riders, I’d like to say that I ride it as a symbol of my commitment to the environment or in reaction to escalating gas prices but that’s simply not the truth.

The fact is I prefer to be driven and the bus affords me a poor man’s luxury of having a chauffeur; kind of like Driving Miss David.

Riding allows me the daily habit of getting out into the neighborhood and seeing the parade of commuters who I don’t know personally but share camaraderie with nonetheless. Good morning, dread-headed Black woman walking her dogs. Howdy, White tattooed drummer sipping a morning beer. Hola, developmentally-challenged Latina in a wig. Hello, Cuban muscle-hunk with a gym bag.

“Man. Hey, man.” says a man approaching me in his best George Jefferson strut.

“Hey, can you break a five?” I say; this being my pre-emptive retort to panhandlers. “No.” He says then asks for a cig. “And a light?” Damnit, I think before obliging him. “Thanks, Man. Mmm, Camel-those are good.” He says, inhaling.

“Listen, you look like a man of author-i-tie. You know of any jobs. I needs a job, man.” I tell him of a couple of temp agencies I know of to appease him then shoe-gaze hoping he’ll take the cigarette AND the hint AND leave. He doesn’t.

As he sermonizes to me (and anyone in earshot) about al Qaeda, Mexicans, Iraq and the Rapture, I notice his shoes. They’re identical to my own Clark black loafers. I comment on this and ask him where he got his but (suspiciously) he doesn’t remember.

Soon enough, my bus friend, April comes up and says hi. Seeing her, the man ogles her chest and adds “Another thing, (and this is true if we’re all going to survive) it’s time the black man and the white woman copulate and populate.”

April says “You need to get the hell out of my way. NOW.”

He ambles off, but not before pointing at me.

“I know you know what I’m talking about.” He says.

***

I board the bus and greet the driver with a nod, a swipe of my monthly bus pass (a bargain at $40) and a “good morning.” Sometimes the driver reciprocates my greeting, but mostly not.

“Need a transfer?”

“I don’t transfer.”

Directly behind the Driver’s seat, is a seat commemorating Rosa Parks. Even if it’s the only remaining seat, I still won’t sit there. I have too much white guilt for that. I sit at the back of the bus anyway.

The bus usually takes off with a punch prompting riders to stammer, scramble and grab at the closest handle before falling into seats. It’s like pinball but no one’s a wizard. Watching people fall, to me, is always hilarious; juvenile, but hilarious-kind of like a fart. That said I should take the opportunity to suggest standing with your feet in a T shape—one facing your travel direction with the other opposed to gain/regain balance. I’m just saying.

Hopefully and usually April & I get our favored seat: the forward-facing two-seater near the rear exit. In the fifteen minutes it takes to get to work on the bus we cut through the city like a socio-economic continuum; like the movie Baraka on diesel. The bus affords us some of the best people-watching; better and infinitely more diverse than some god-forsaken mall. Ugh.

Traveling eastbound on 39^th Street, we arrive at the Laretto (next incarnation: hotel) and pick up Gay White Male Goth and a woman who regularly dons a purple cape. From here, we pass by the tax mascots wearing Captain America and Statue of Liberty drag proselytizing for Liberty Tax Service. You know the ones. They are always out on the street and they are always waving. They’re so desperate that I can’t help but think that get paid by commission. Why else be so unabashedly shameless?

Quickly, we turn on Southwest Trafficway before traveling north to the Valentine stop where we pick up a pay-less-dressed secretary as well as our favorite rider, Ginnie whom we call Bus Mom. Bus Mom knows everyone and if smiles are votes, she is easily the most popular rider. She even brought the whole bus cupcakes last year. For her birthday! April and I adore her; still blushing when she waves us good morning.

From Penn Valley Community College, where we drop off a couple of backpacking youth, we roll by Fox News where the KC Star people are hawking special issues which begs the question: If we’re so hell-bent on legislating the panhandlers and street performers off the street, can we add these folks to the mix as well, please?

We pick up speed past 31^st & SW Trafficway down into the left lane and hurdle down into the undergrowth of I-35 before yanking to a stop at 24^th & Summit. We pass La Bodega (easily one the best restaurants in town) and April comments that her boss thought the job-seeking immigrants across the street were gang members. “I’m so sure.” She adds.

We turn left at Broadway and cruise past the Crossroads (ground zero of hip KC) cresting up the hill to the Performing Arts Center (Thanks, Julia Irene!) past Bartle Hall to my stop. I pull the wire with a ding and bid adieu to April.

“Have a great day.”

“You, too.”

As I wait to cross the street in the middle of the burgeoning Downtown, I think about the cigarette-mooching loon earlier at the bus stop and have a moment of uncomfortable clarity.

He and I may be on different routes, but we still walk in the same shoes.

Re-Do

2008-09-02T13:01:00.001-05:00

Art is coming face to face with yourself.

-Jackson Pollock

Not to put the cart before the horse or anything but I used to think that getting a portrait drawn was a standard prerequisite to becoming a noted writer, like becoming a Scientologist is a springboard for movie stardom.

Like an ancestor above a fireplace, my editorial portrait would sit regally above the mantle of my words like a signature, a tattoo or my Mom’s decades old hairdo.

Something that says, “THIS is who I am.”

So when I decided to have my portrait drawn, I honestly thought it would be fairly effortless. How hard could it be? I wondered, staring into my mirror. Look at my jutting jaw line, my aristocratic forehead…my prominent nose… God, you’re good-looking. I cooed at my reflection. My face would be a wonderland to any un-mused artist. Easy.

Anyway, I don’t mean to brag, but I just so happen to know a major caricature artist on the county fair circuit. Let’s call him “Ramon.”

“Ramon” I called him. Boy do I have a great job for you! Ramon came over pretty soon thereafter and we rummaged through my scrapbooks for some inspiration and settled on some ten favorite photos. The photos ran the spectrum from no-nonsense to kittenish. Yes, kittenish.

I discussed my desires for the portrait with Ramon so we’d be on the same creative page. “It’s like this. I want to look bold but friendly, smart but not imposing. You know, like usual.”

“Got it.” Said Ramon, grabbing the photos. “I’ll bring by your sketches on Friday. As planned, Friday came with a knock on the door. Ramon explained that he had brought three versions for me to choose from, and then said, “You can tell me anything, too. I’m an artist. I can take criticism.” Looking back, I don’t know what was stranger, the portraits themselves or the fact that someone said, “I’m an artist. I can take criticism.”

Well, Ramon’s three versions consisted of bad, worse and plain offensive. I wasn’t pleased. Suffice it to say, I looked like a bobble-head version of a “before” picture in a Rogaine ad. He also gave me a limp wrist to boot. Sometimes, I reasoned, bad art happens to good people.

“Well?” Said Ramon, smiling.

I took a dramatic breath and a ten-count then said, “Look Ramon, I know that you and I both know that I understand parody, but don’t you think my hair is absurdly thin? It’s like an exercise in pointillism.” I said uncapping my sharpie. “I mean, okay, sure, maybe I’m growing a cul de sac up top, but can we just connect some of these dots? POR FAVOR?!”

Though I’d never heard Ramon speak in Spanish, I said “please” in his native language just so he’d know that I was trying to be sensitive. Even though I was pissed off, it seemed the least I could do.

“While we’re at it, Ramon. What about the scale?
My engorged head atop a fey wrist made me look like Jim J. Bullock. Maybe making my head big was a clever stab at my ego. Maybe the limp wrist was, well, you know what the limp wrist is for. Regardless, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt thinking that maybe he was being metaphorical—which I can appreciate. But this metaphor was odious, really.

“I look like a Picasso.” I said. “And don’t you dare take that as a compliment!”

We both stood there in an awkward moment. Thinking it through, maybe I had hurt Ramon’s feelings in retaliation so I threw him a proverbial bone--just to be encouraging. “You really captured my glasses, though! Nice. Really nice!” I was still smiling to myself, thinking that was a really nice thing to say when I heard Ramon say “Wow! You used to be cross-eyed?” I turned, startled like a cross-eyed deer caught in headlights. Ramon had rummaged through some photographs of myself I had out on the table. He had found an elementary school photo.

“Whoa!” Ramon said, leaning in close to look at my eyes like he expected them to do a cross-eyed floorshow for him at any moment.

They didn’t. “I had surgery for it a long time ago,” I said. But they do cross occasionally…like when I’m sick, drunk, stoned or mad. I’ll call you if they should get googly.” I offered. Because I’m a giver.

“Interesting, very interesting.” Said Ramon.

Ramon returned a few days later saying that he’d had a “vision” (he used air-quotes) and had totally reconceived my caricature. He made me sit and stood before me like Vanna White ready to unveil four consonants. He beamed as he uncurled the new drawings. I looked at them in increasing horror and for a moment I thought I was actually living out The Picture of Dorian Gray.

In defense of the new draft, I admit I did have more hair, but did Ramon really have to draw me with a crazy, lazy eye? I mean why not just draw on some crow’s feet, a spare tire and a big nest of nose hair while we’re at it?!

Obviously, Ramon and I had artistic differences. To say the very, very least. Ramon took his drawings and left his business card behind. “Big Grin Caricatures.” Big Grin? More like Big Laugh At My Expense. I was so mad my eye crossed.

My eye began to refocus a few hours later when the phone rang. Ramon was on the ID so I let the machine pick up the message. “Hey, pinch it off and answer the phone.” Said Ramon. “Hey, no hard feelings, man. None at all. I’ll just put your pictures in the mail to you. But I want you to know that I’d love to take another whack at your face. Seriously. Call me.”

Allspice

2008-09-02T12:56:00.000-05:00

“Love and joy come to you,

And to you your wassail too;

And God bless you and send you

A Happy New Year.”

-Olde Wassailing Song

My Grandma Prettyman made the most superb potato salad you would’ve ever tasted. Sweet with self-canned pickle juice and the unmeasured tang of mayo, her potato salad was the crown jewel of any family dinner. When she died in 1996, she took her unwritten recipe with her. Left without a family recipe to carry forth, my mother perfected her hash-brown casserole mindful to pass on a written recipe so that this culinary tradition would be progress in a triumphing “We are the Reeds, this is OUR casserole” kind of way.

Not only do we enjoy this casserole at family dinners, but the hash brown casserole is the comfort food my mom dutifully delivers to local families mourning their recently departed. Like a healing salve in Pyrex.

Amidst the great existential crisis of 9/11, I made said casserole to both commemorate the deceased and to console myself out of numbing paranoia and stunning fear. As I spooned down the crispy deliciousness, I questioned my life, my ambitions and my legacy (if even I had one). What would I leave behind if this were indeed the end, as I knew it? In a quick retrospective of myself, my achievements upon the stage as an actor seemed unimportant, intangible and fleeting like a sandcastle under a crushing wave. Looking back then, I saw only loss. This depressed the hell out of me.

Not knowing what to do, I finished off the remainder of the casserole, shaved my head, cleaned the cabinets and rearranged all of the furniture-this being my own obsessive-compulsive way to ritualize a new start.

While cleaning out the long-neglected kitchen cabinets there at 3440 Jefferson, I found a dry wassail mix abandoned by a former housemate, this that would become the beginning of my annual tradition.

The Wassail.

***

Like Google, Wassail is both a noun and a verb. So I “Googled” “Wassail.”

Translated from the Anglo-Saxon toast waes pu hael it means ‘to be in good health.’ If there was ever a more collectively needed time of healing, these days and months following 9/11 were it.

As a noun, Wassail is a cider-based drink spiked with rum. If tradition sprouts from whence you grew, the Wassail was a natural choice for me-having grown up in a town reputed for its cider.

“Louisburg Apple Cider.”

“Louisburg, Kansas.”

“Salute!”

As a verb, Wassailing is the tradition characterized as a riotous festivity marked with much revelry, drinking and song. In addition to the good health, I simply consider this an added bonus.

***

Twelfth Night (Or What You Will) is based on this festivity and like any of Shakespeare’s comedies it is littered with subplots and character devices not unlike my own traditional Wassail itself. In fact, the similarities between the play and the Wassail itself are uncanny.

The Play begins with a shipwreck (read: 9/11). Feste, the clown narrator (me) sings of the briefness of youth and the uncertainty of the future.

Additional parallels of my Wassail to the themes of Twelfth Night amount to a comedy of errors that I look forward to each year.

Mistaken Identities- For parties, I like to have old movies playing on mute as a visual background and last year, I chose All That Jazz (the movie about dance legend, Bob Fosse. When asked what my buddies were watching, Jen and Eric responded with sassy ‘jazz hands’ to which their couch compatriot assumed that they were deaf. Why else speak in jazz hands? When they finally spoke (with words not spastic finger-play) the guest apologized to them adding that deaf people applaud by raising their hands in the air shaking their hands and twinkling their fingers. Lesson: Don’t assume deafness when guests break out Fosse-esque gesticulations.

(Liquored) Love- Many of the characters are love-struck and desperate including the heroine, Viola who sighs in wanton melancholy “my state is desperate for my Master’s love.” My Wassail, too, becomes a liquored-up knock-off Viagra. Served to the single-women of the Wassail only increased their longing for my downstairs neighbor, friend and handyman, Ray. Just like the lyric from an olde-wassailing standard “We won’t leave until we get some.” Indeed. Poor Ray.

Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aquecheek-These are secondary characters whose primary attributes are ‘drunken’ and ‘rowdy.’ Like them, each party comes with the inevitable party foul. I always know its coming but I never know when or who. Perennially, though, "The Sloppy Drunk" has become an annual mascot of the Wassail with a new one anointed each year since the inception. “I’m a raging alcoholic! I ever tell you that? Don’t worry, my Mom knows.”

Thank God for the holiday care cabs. However, before the drunken departs DO have some fun with them. Break out the cameras and some magic markers. The picture makes for a great holiday keepsake.

The Surprise Mystery Guest-Sometimes I forget who I’ve invited and sometimes invitees send strangers in their place. Last year, two NYC performance artists showed up to the Wassail. “We’re performance artists. Peregrine Honig sent us.” I shudder when I hear the word performance art but I do adore Peregrine and so I allowed them to stay…also based on their good looks. In doe-eyed sincerity, they requested that I help gather my guests (one at a time) to go outside with them and “sit and just be” with a large rock they had been coddling across country. “For like an hour or so” they said. Right! Although their premise was ridiculous and a diverting affront to the party at hand, I let them stay to solicit other guests. No one took them up on their offer but it was fun to watch them ask. Says the character, Malvolio to Feste: “you’re an ordinary fool that has no more brain than a stone.”

GQ (Gender Questioning)- Twelfth Night is one of Shakespeare’s ‘transvestite comedies.” The same applies here. Just ask anyone of my friends from Late Night Theatre who come to the party. In wigs and heels.

***

Together, my guests are the allspice (see recipe below) that warmly circulates through my home like the sweet-liquored punch in their hands.

Sure, maybe life is full of sadness but happiness is our choice and our duty. To that, let us all drink a cup.

***

Gritty City Cider Wassail

1 Gallon Louisburg Apple Cider

1 Gallon of your favorite white wine

2 (or 3!) cups of your favorite rum

1 Gallon of Mango Juice

Allspice

Stir. Serve. Delicious warm or chilled.

Hash-Brown Casserole

2 lbs. Frozen Hash Browns

½ cup Melted Butter

1 can Cream of Chicken Soup

2 cups Shredded cheddar

¼ cup Diced onion

1 tsp. Salt

1 pint Sour Cream

MIX. Top with corn flakes. Bake at 350 for 45 minutes.

Serve. Heal.

(###)

The Luck of Ryan

2008-09-02T12:54:00.001-05:00

“I’m a great believer in luck and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it.” –Thomas Jefferson

I’m the kind of person who only buys a lottery ticket when the Power Ball exceeds $100 million. I hold out until the stakes are the highest and the chance of winning is the absolute lowest. Ergo, I haven’t won. Though I should note that as a child I did win of a toy combine in a children’s raffle at a John Deere dealership. But I should also note that there were a total of six children present. Since, however, I have only ever scratched off loser tickets or have possessed the wrong number for the raffle.

I have yet to say “Bingo.”

I have yet to say “Uno!”

We’ve all heard stories of people that enter any and all contests making it an all-consuming hobby or in some cases a full-time job. My friend, Ryan is exactly this person. Ryan is a big winner.

He dutifully supports his wife and three children as a cable salesman in Wichita. Not only does he tirelessly and obsessively exceed his monthly quotas, he goes above and beyond working overtime hours closing deals. This lands him in the winner’s circle time and time again.

This last year was a banner year for him. In just two days in May, he won a trip to New York City to attend the official viewing of the Sopranos series finale on HBO with the cast and spending money as well as hotel accommodations.

The very next day, he received word that won a flat screen television from Showtime. “It’s 46 inches wide and 4.2 inches thick.” He says. “That’s longer than my d&*k, Dave!”

Summer came and Ryan earned an all expense paid trip to KC to watch as HBO filmed the KC Chiefs training practice for the series Hard Knocks.

In a welcome turn of good fortune (for me), his wife couldn’t make the trip so he invited me along to be his date to Morton’s Steakhouse. He warned me, though. “Listen, you should know that even though I can eat and drink whatever I want--YOU, you ONLY get $150 for food and $50 for liquor. That’s all you get. So you have to make do.”

I promised him that’d I’d try.

At dinner with some 6 other regional winners, we gorged ourselves silly and finished it off with twin snifters of 150 year Grand Marnier.

The waiter prepped our glasses and we watched as the liquored snifter began to steam from the hot water in the snifter below. After the citrus released the GrandMa goodness, the waiter poured Ryan a taste and stood by awaiting his approval. Ryan took a hearty sniff, tossed his shot back with a nimble flip, took a deep thoughtful breath and said “This is APPROPRIATE.”

***

I hadn’t talked to Ryan in a while and then my work phone rang.

“Hello?”

“HOLY SHIT, Reed! You’re NEVER gonna believe this. HBO just brought in one of those vacuum tubes…you know the ones—you get in and they turn on the air and you grab around for prizes, right?

“Right.”

“Well, they brought the tube into my CUBE. THE TUBE INTO MY CUBE, DUDE. I grabbed $184 cash, some HBO shit- nice shit, though--AND a 42 inch plasma TV.”

“Again?!”

“I know. I only won two this year. 88 inches of flat screen TV”

***

It’s more or less been this way since I met Ryan in the 4^th On our very first play date, he was sure he’d discovered caviar in a creek bed on our farm. Sure that he had found caviar he dove headfirst into the shallow creek no matter what the muddy cost. He grabbed up the ‘caviar’ in his new white tennis shoes to carry back to the house. No matter that the caviar turned out to be a clump of marble-sized sheep turds--the point is the value he attached to it and the optimism with which he chased his caviar dreams. He felt rich. He felt lucky. And that’s what mattered most. grade.

From this moment onward, Ryan always found luck in the most unexpected places. Like finding the prince in the frog. Or, actually, like the time he found porn in our preacher’s office at our church. He also won the role of the Monotone Angel in our Christmas concert (something I haven’t quite forgiven). He won tickets to a Loverboy concert from the radio. He won a backyard barbecue party in a pod from Marlboro. I could go on ad nauseum.

***

I believed that my proximity to Ryan would also earn me a similar good fortune. So I tried my luck.

Ryan called. “Listen, Reed, you write, right? I need your help.”

“Yeah, I write.” I said, hooked.

“Okay, WRITE this down. Go to kudzu.com. I need you to write reviews for stores you like—anything like restaurants, churches, tanning salons in KC, please?!! Just log-in as me and just write AT LEAST 25 words each.”

He explained that the person who wrote the most reviews would win a 46 inch flat screen TV. I said I’d do it—on the condition that if he won I was getting the TV.

“Seriously, what are you going to do with 134 inches, Ryan?!

Well, I still don’t have a flat screen. My flat screen was awarded to some Cable Rep in Ohio for completing 293 reviews. Even though Ryan (and I) had lost, Ryan wasn’t having it. He searched the winner’s reviews and counted each word—finding a disqualifying amount of less than 25 word reviews. He called corporate and after his proving this technicality, he won a sympathy gift of an iPOD.

You know, winner takes all.

(###)

Addendum: I just called Ryan to read him this story. Before I could say anything he said “Dave, I can’t talk. I just won a ski trip to Keystone.”

A Storied Tux

2008-09-02T12:51:00.000-05:00

"The thing about a tuxedo is that it is virile and feminine at the same time."

-Catherine Deneuve

For my brother’s first wedding, my Dad rented his first tuxedo. Not one to waste a single opportunity, Dad hired a professional photographer the very next day to come to the farm and photograph him doing daily farm chores--in formalwear. One photo shows Dad bow-tied atop the tractor replete with mud boots. Another shows him, tuxedoed, tossing grain to surrounding cattle. From the church to the feedlot, Dad certainly maximized his rental.

Recently, he asked me where he could get a tuxedo? “What for” I asked.

“Well, see, me and Joe (his septuagenarian ski buddy) want to get some pictures skiing down moguls and playing around in the half-pipe in our tuxes. That’d be real ‘cool’, huh?” he says.

For men in their 70’s, I say “Why not?”

“And why not?” I, too, asked myself when I bought my tuxedo so I could attend the Starlight Theatre gala a few year’s back.

I found it at the vintage shop, Boomerang. This black After-Six tuxedo, previously owned by Gingiss Formalwear, symbolized the store’s name. Just like a boomerang, the tux had presumably gone out to many other galas, proms and weddings before always returning to the rack to await someone else’s usage.

They say that a bride knows her wedding dress when she sees it—“It spoke to me” they say. Likewise, when I tried on my tux, I knew, too.

In the full-length mirror, I examined the glove-like fit and traced my fingers across the black velvet lapels and snapped them across the sateen finish. Standing there I felt both rico AND suave.

Just like Ricardo Montalban.

Muy guapo.

By buying the tux, I celebrated a new male-stone (milestone for men), and entered into an inherent commitment with the tux. Like the tux, I had grown accustomed to a dutiful social itinerary. So it was an understood that it was my duty to keep up appearances for both of us. Like the tux saying, “If you’re going to be out of closet, then so am I!”

And so the tux and I went making our debut to both compliments and flashbulbs at the gala.

From that night on, that tux and I became like best friends, partners in crime and brothers. Inseparably together, we emceed events, we hosted karaoke, we danced with the Marching Cobras, we drank Manhattans up and smoked cigars, we made out, and we awoke in the morning wondering what the hell happened the night before. We laughed together. We even cried for joy. I tell you, my tux and I are tight.

***

The tux and I even went to weddings--as guests. I know this is kind of like wearing a wedding dress to someone else’s wedding. (“Oh! I thought bridal was just the theme!) And yes, I understand that it can be viewed as presumptuous and as tacky as a groom’s cake to wear a tux to a ceremony that you’re not a part of, but to be fair, I was ‘kind of’ in both weddings.

Now I’m generous with the “air-quotes” when I say I wasn’t “officially” in the bridal party however I did read a Pablo Neruda poem from the outdoor pulpit at one ceremony and I did sing ‘Heroes’ by David Bowie at the other.

I admit that wearing a tux to a wedding you’re not in does push the proverbial envelope. But like wearing leather pants to the office, I simply think it works if you work it.

***

Like any relationship there are certainly bound to be hurdles to overcome. The tux and I were not immune. The tux and I had our only spat at my childhood friend Caroline’s June wedding in the St. Louis Botanical Garden. Under a chardonnay haze, I thought it would be a great idea to round up the entire groom’s party and myself to make a run for a naked nighttime fountain photo-op. Why not?

Surprisingly, the groomsmen and ushers were all too willing. That’s one great thing about straight guys, call it “male-bonding” and add liquor and they’ll do just about anything. Besides, there really is no other answer than “YES!” when you have an entire botanical garden to yourselves at 11:30 on a warm summer night.

And so we raced to the center of the garden leaving formalwear strewn across the lawn and stood fountain-side in our own Full-Monty. Our naked butts reflected like Narcissus in the Dale Chilhouly glass sculptures in the backdrop. It was magical. The picture depicts as much.

We re-dressed and re-joined the reception inside. After dancing to the now obligatory wedding songs ‘Thriller’ and ‘Jump Around’, we began the exit to the wedding’s after-party. That’s when my tux jacket came up missing.

Not on back of my dinner chair, not at the fountain or any point in-between: my tux jacket had split. Presumably, it left while I jumped around and thrilled.

I felt guilty. But then repeated the mantra "Set it free, if it's meant to be it will return to you.” My kinship with the tux had become a sacred one and I trusted that despite this temporary loss, the jacket would one day find it’s way back to me.

A week later, a groomsman, Frank called to say he picked it up by mistake and would have it sent to me. The jacket and tie returned from a trip from St. Louis to Charleston, and then on to Pittsburgh before making it back home to KC.

It was meant to be.

***

Since St. Louis, the tux and I continue to attend more events though not always together. In fact, my bus friend, April asked if her boyfriend, Nate could borrow the tux for an event. “Sure” I said. “Which event?”

“Oh, I just won tickets to the Starlight Theatre gala and Nate needs a tux to attend.”

My tux went all too willingly. Like going back to the place from whence it came.

Just like a boomerang.

Corn Sprout

2008-09-02T12:15:00.000-05:00

“Life ain’t nothing but a funny funny riddle. Thank God I’m a country boy.”
-John Denver

My Dad is a farmer whose business card includes a full-aerial shot of our family farm as well as logos of all the farm implements he owns-John Deere being the most prevalent. Under his name sits the title, Agri-Businessman. Even his name, George, proves redundant, as it is derived from the Greek term, Georgos, which translated means ‘A tiller of soil or farmer.’ George Reed is a man who lives up to his name. Well, more than I do anyway. David means ‘beloved’ though I certainly have had moments that would suggest some other meaning entirely. Ask any of my friends.

I come from a long line of farmers dating back to the late 1800s when the Reeds settled in the fertile land of Louisburg, Kansas. However, contrary to my lineage, I am living proof that a disposition to farming is not genetic. (I can barely keep a cactus.) As for carrying the fruit-bearing legacy of the family farm forward, I think it was Harry Truman who said, “the buck stops here.”
Dad had hopes for me that one day I would sow the same proverbial oats he spent a lifetime cultivating. In my youth, he even went as far as stenciling Reed & Son on the back of his seed-drill. His stencil-job manifesting a future I had no plans of following.

See, even as a toddler I was notably his most unlikely harvest. Plant and cultivate as you might, some things are just inherent in nature. Sitting on his lap while he drove the tractor, I dashed his dreams. When asked if I wanted to grow up to be a farmer, ‘Just like Dad’ I said “No. I want to be a back-up singer, an artist or a stripper.” While Dad toiled and tilled, I followed my calling as an entertainer.

Whereas Dad would suffer droughts, the only droughts I suffered were for lack of an attentive audience. Living land-locked with the nearest neighbor miles away, I would ambush visitors to the farm with guerilla-style performances. Upon seeing a gas truck or feed truck spinning a shadow of dust up the gravel road to our home on the hill, I’d rush into costume ready to delight the unsuspecting guest my prodigious showmanship.

Dressing up in a cinched-up shirt of Mom’s complete with wig and heels, I’d spot the unsuspecting seed-salesman before sneaking down to the barn for a quick performance. My favorite visitor was our Golden Harvest seed dealer, Bob. Bob was an older gent from Chanute who whistled and called me his “little co-ed cutie.” That Bob. He sure knew how to flatter a little guy…in heels. At the end of the 1979 wheat season, he surprised me with a present.

“A violin!?” I exclaimed.

“It’s a fiddle, David” said my Dad.

“Doralee, Dad! My name is Doralee.”

“Well, Doralee, what do you tell the nice man?” “Thank you, Bob. I love your seed.”

I gave up the fiddle after a summer band camp and took up dance as my primary creative expression. Sure, maybe I wasn’t strong enough to buck hay bales, but I did perform elaborately choreographed dance routines for the hay crew. They were captive audience comprised of my older brother’s friends and a couple of illegal aliens. I was like a USO Tour of one on a wagon. Like Johnny Cash at Folsom.

“Clap” I commanded them. “Or else I’m telling Dad that you’re smoking El Dopo on el job-o.”

Their applause was thunderous. My interpretation of Dirty Laundry by Don Henley even earned a reprise later that harvest.

As I grew into a corn-fed teen, my muscles proved useful even if my common sense failed. My talents just weren’t of any benefit to the labors of the farm. Dad and I were just coming from completely different points of view. For instance, Dad read Soybean Digest and National Pig Farmer and I opted for Boy’s Life and GQ.

For Dad’s sake (and for my shame and guilt), I tried. Like fitting a square into a circle, I joined the Future Farmer’s of America (instead of Journalism, mind you). I learned to weld, I raised some sheep, I went to public speaking competitions where I orated the future of farming even though I saw no future in it for myself. I was a phony.
At the FFA convention at Bartle Hall in 1987, I can attest that I was the only attendee not wearing the uniform blue-jacket. At the time, my closet had no room for this farm regalia hanging amongst the ranks of Perry Ellis, Guess and Benetton. Gah!

The very least I could do was honor the color-scheme. I matched my colleagues donning a crisp blue-linen jacket and a goldenrod tie. Standing in a sea farm youth, we stood united to recite the abnormally long creed.

“I believe in the future of agriculture…” spoke tens of thousands of us but that’s as far as I got before mouthing and making up words as we pledged our allegiance. I stammered through the rest inserting my own mumbling words so as to not be called out for not having the damn thing memorized earlier in the semester.

“I believe…watermelon kangaroo ha ha nachos…live and work on a good farm…buttermilk Iowa chicken chicken pig pig…agricultural pursuits…I’d rather be at the mall…”

Like a tourist in a foreign land, I was lost in translation.

***

Years later and I’ve just come out of the closet to my father. We’re standing on a frozen pond, with pick-axes in hand chopping holes in the ice so that the cattle can drink. Literally standing on thin ice, my Dad says “You hear the one about the queer bear? He laid his paw (pa) on the table.” I think he was just trying to break the, uh, proverbial ice before he continued.

“So you’re gay, huh? You become a vegetarian, too, while you were at it?”

“No, Dad.”

“Well, good, cause you best be supporting beef because beef supported you.”