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These Are Things I Think About
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Greetings from Brownsville, Tennessee! Short post today, friends - covered a lot of ground today, and I didn't sleep very well last night on account of being excited because, you know, I'm moving to freakin' LA! So it's a quick post with my random thoughts for the day, and then off to bed!
Greetings from rain-soaked Wytheville, Virginia! Day 1 of #krissyscaliforniaadventure is on the books, and all things considered, it was pretty uneventful. That means I had a lot of time to think about things (always a favorite past-time of mine). One of the things I thought about was the concept of bravery.
Throughout this process of moving to California, many people, both loved ones and random people, have told me how brave I am. Not that I want to be an obnoxious contradictory twat, but I have to be honest, I don't really feel like "brave" is accurate adjective here. I'll take the praise, to be sure. I'm just not really sure I deserve it. Personally, I don't think I'm brave; I'm just stubborn. It's always been a dream of mine to live in California; now is the time in my life to do it. Once I made the decision, and made my intentions known, there was very little that could have stopped me because, as you may remember from two sentences ago, I'm stubborn AF. I suppose I understand how my actions can be interpreted as brave; although it's hard for me to apply that term to myself when this decision came easily, almost naturally. Not that it hasn't been difficult, emotionally, mentally, even physically. But even pushing through in the face of the challenges doesn't make me feel brave, because they're the natural consequences of the decision that I made. When I think about the bravest thing a person can do, I always come back to being a parent. That's something I'll never have the courage to do, because the stakes are so fucking high. (Also, I have no interest in trying to explain to a tiny dictator who sits in their shit why they need to eat their chicken fingers.) Packing up and moving to a new state? Sure, it's a risk, but a calculated one. Cooking a human, birthing it, and then keeping it alive day after day? That's courage. Other thoughts from the road...
For the last few days, I've debated with myself about whether I wanted to write something about Louie C.K. and his continued descent into awfulness. Tonight I decided I do not. I do not want to give my space or my energy to clearly sick individual who preyed on his female peers and thinks that now that his "life is over" (spoiler alert: it's not) he is justified in going full asshole. I would much rather use this platform to celebrate some of my comedic idols, women who always inspire me to be bolder and better, and, more importantly, never fail to have me laughing until water leaks from my eyes (and maybe my vagina). Please note, this list in by no means comprehensive or authoritative. I could write a hundred lists about funny women, and still inadvertently miss someone. And comedy, like every other art form, is subjective. I'm not trying to start any arguments here. I'm simply trying to share the laughter that these comedians bring into the world, and shine a light on some funny-ass women who actually deserve our attention. Ali Wong There's a moment around minute 54 of Ali Wong's 2018 Netflix stand-up special, Hard Knock Wife, when the comedian chases after an imaginary boyfriend, flashing her zebra-print panties as she tries to entice him into performing oral sex on her. "Come on, Gary. Just lie down on your back, Gary. Come on, like you're gonna change oil," Wong hisses in a decidedly unseductive voice, popping a full squat, her skintight leopard-print riding up over her thighs. That's the moment Wong became my new comedic idol. Not only was the bit, about how the exchange of oral sex between teenagers heavily favors sucking dick over eating pussy, spot-on, her execution of it blatantly disregarded one of the cardinal rules of polite femininity, which is to never flash your underwear at an auditorium full of people. I've heard women comedians, including Wong herself, make tons of raunchy jokes, but never had I seen someone give no fucks about showing off her crotch to anyone with a Netflix subscription. It was bold, brash, and a level of fearlessness I continually aspire to achieve. Ilana Glazer & Abbi Jacobson I can't talk about fearlessness or giving no fucks without mentioning Ilana Glazer and Abbi Jacobson, the creators of Broad City, which is (sniff, sniff) entering its final season January 24. These two queens own being bad-asses, and although they have their own unique talents and individual projects, thus far they've made their mark in comedy by being the female Laurel & Hardy to the Millennial generation. Let's be real, they live out our wildest fantasies of ballin' at the bank, getting wasted with Kelly Ripa, and responding appropriately to street harassment. Besides their balls-to-the-walls attitude, what I love most about Abbi and Ilana and Broad City is the way the show portrays and celebrates female friendship. Sure, Abbi and Ilana have their conflicts, but their relationship is built on the foundation of building each other up, not tearing each other down, and that is something to which I will always say, "Yasss, queen!" Amy Poehler With her wide eyes, delightful cackle and boundless energy, Amy Poehler strikes me as modern-day Lucille Ball. I remember watching her, before I knew she was Amy Poehler, on the Upright Citizens Brigade on Comedy Central. I was only 13 at the time, so a lot of jokes went over my head, but I remember digging the show's absurdist tone and Colby, the lone female member of the chaos-creating brigade. It wasn't until years later that I connected that character to the Saturday Night Live cast member; a few years later, I started watching Parks and Recreation, and my girl-crush on Amy Poehler was complete. There are Parks and Rec scenes I watch over and over again just to try and understand the brilliance of her comedic timing. And how can we ever forget this spectacular moment, possibly the highlight of her SNL career? Tina Fey They say representation matters, and I know this to be true because the first time I saw Tina Fey, brown-haired, brown-eyed and bespectacled, slinging satire behind the SNL Weekend Update desk in 2000, 15-year-old me thought, "Huh. She looks like me. She's sarcastic like me. Maybe there's hope for me yet." Flash-forward to adulthood, where Fey's ingenious creation, Liz Lemon, continues to be a beacon for me as an cynical, often-irritated, occasionally socially awkward thirty-something who would rather work on her night cheese than her love life. Fey's show 30 Rock is the gift that keeps on giving; you can watch it over and over (and I have) and still find brilliant hidden joke-nuggets that you didn't notice before. It's a master class in writing a smart TV sitcom that blends high- and lowbrow humor (at least that's the excuse I use for watching it on a constant loop). And it also contains the most accurate assessment of dating in your thirties that I've ever seen:  Mindy Kaling I'd been aware of Mindy Kaling since her run as Kelly Kapoor on The Office, but it wasn't until this past summer, when I finally got around to reading her book, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me (And Other Concerns) that I developed a full-on comedy crush on her. Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me is the kind of memoir that makes you want to be best friends with the author, because you know she would just get you (after all, we share the same thoughts on random hook-ups and ladies going commando). But the real reason I want to be her friend is because I want to be her. Not in a weird, I'm going to Talented Mr. Ripley her, but because she has the kind of career I aspire to - primarily a writer, with some great occasional on-screen credits, famous but not a paparazzi-frenzy-inducing celebrity. Oh, and a killer sense of style. Melissa McCarthy Two words: Sean Spicer. Do I really need to say more than that? I mean, good riddance to bad rubbish, but I was the teensiest bit sad when that guy resigned because it meant no more bravura performances from the comedic wunderkind. McCarthy's another performer I watch and see nothing but a willingness to commit and go as far as necessary to maximize the funniness in a joke. I will never not be impressed by her gum-chewing, podium-driving, high heel-wearing stints as Spicer, and am including the link mainly so I have an excuse to watch it again. Kate McKinnon Kate McKinnon is a goddamn national treasure, and I will fight anyone who disagrees. I can (and probably should) make a whole separate list of her best SNL sketches, but how would I decide what to include? From her spot-on impersonations of Hillary Clinton, KellyAnne Conway and Jeff Sessions to her delightfully demented creations like "Close Encounters'" Ms. Rafferty or Ghostbusters' Jillian Holtzman, McKinnon does everything with 100% commitment, 0% fear, and a sly twinkle in her eye. But if I had to choose, it's McKinnon's gangster interpretation of the Notorious RBG herself that really brings all of her formidable comedic skills to bear. Leslie Jones I know this is an SNL-heavy list, but do you really expect me not to include Leslie Jones? Like the other ladies on this list, Leslie Jones gives no fucks - ok, maybe one, but that's just about being as hilarious as possible. Sure, she can do restrained, as Michelle Obama or Donna Brazille, but as someone who got her start in stand-up, Jones' take-no-prisoners Weekend Update spots are where she really shines. I will gladly listen to her share her wisdom on anything from her perfect man to crazy bitches with "dollop of Miracle Whip" Colin Jost. But it was her ability to survive the completely off-the-rails "Gift Wrap" sketch in a 2017 SNL episode that made her a true MVP in my eyes. So there you have it. Nine ladies who are kicking ass at comedy, Hope they brought a smile to your face (although smiling should be a completely voluntary act on your part, and if you don't want to smile, I completely support that). I've written about the barometers for measuring adulthood before, but there's another hallmark of which I've recently become cognizant that I want to mention - when you can return to your childhood home, free of feelings of oppression and resentment, and appreciate it once more as the comfortable, safe haven it was in your youth.
Like most benchmarks of adulthood, this is not a one-size-fits-all deal. First, your childhood home had to be a place of safety and comfort to begin with, which unfortunately is not the case for everyone. Secondly, you have to be able to return to your home as an adult. Lastly, you need to work your way through any negative emotions associated with the home or people therein, which might be the hardest part of all. However, if all of these conditions exist, you might find yourself, like me, sitting in your childhood bedroom, stranded at your childhood home for the longest period of time since you graduated college, and strangely not all that fussed about it. In fact, maybe you're even a little bit happy. This is the latest odd turn of events in what has become something of an odyssey to get to my soon-to-be home of Los Angeles, CA. Having moved out of my Philadelphia apartment in November, but without a car to take me to LA for another week, and in the midst of the holiday season, there is no more logical place to be than the house in Hazleton, PA where I grew up. The fact that I'm grateful to be marooned in what I generally refer to as the armpit of the universe speaks volumes about how the wisdom that comes with experience can dramatically shift your perspective. First of all, I am finally able to appreciate how lucky and privileged I am to have the safety net of a familial home to return to in my time of need. Growing up in my middle-class, white privilege bubble, I took for granted that everyone had a supportive family they could count on, a comfortable place they could call home, and the security that that home would always be there. Ten years of living on my own, meeting people from all different backgrounds, and generally expanding my worldview taught me that this is not always the case, and I am extremely lucky. And that my luck is predicated on the luck, privilege, and planning of past generations of my family. To throw another literary reference in this post, no man (or woman or non-binary individual, thank you very much) is an island. Returning to my childhood home also means confronting and re-contextualizing the feelings of oppression, rebellion, hopelessness and insecurity that marked my teenage and young adult years. From about age 13 until I moved out for good at age 23, there was nothing I desired more than to leave Hazleton and never look back. My feelings about the town itself have not changed much; the prevailing political, cultural and social mileux in Hazleton are essentially the antithesis of every belief I hold. There will never be any love lost between me and a city known as "the town that hates Mexicans." But there was nothing objectively wrong with any aspect of my life - I had a loving family; all of my basic needs met, plus a variety of privileges; close friends; a decent education. And yet, to a strong-willed, independent, adventuresome, idealistic teenager like myself, all of these things seemed horribly restraining. I didn't want my parents' concern or guidance; it just felt like they were trying to tell me what to do. I didn't want their discipline; I could do whatever I wanted because I knew better than them. I didn't want their caution; they may have been afraid of everything, but I was brave and bold. I look at my bedroom's pale purple walls and remember when this room felt like a prison. There's the door that my father once threatened to remove if I slammed it one more time because, according to him, "There's no law that says you have to have a door." (I did not challenge him on that, because I knew he would do it. Mike Scatton did not fuck around.) There are all the Broadway and New York wall decorations, because that was where I was headed ASAP (the irony now being that I would lose my damn mind if I had to live in New York City. Eight million people in a little over 300 square miles is absurd, and I will fight all the New Yorkers who crawl out of their shoebox apartments to disagree with me). Of course you can go home again; just don't expect it to feel the same. That's not always a bad thing. As I prepare to embark on a 3,000 mile journey to a new home across the country, there's something apropos about being able to sit in "my bedroom" - a space me and my belongings have occupied for almost 34 years - and feel a sense of peace and closure within the walls. I can still feel that restless, ambitious, angsty teenager pacing the pink-carpeted floors - I honor her now by taking this leap and living out her wildest fantasies (well, some of them - her wildest fantasies typically involved being naked with Backstreet Boys). But I know this adventure wouldn't be possible without the support and security of the place and people she calls home, and for that, I'm grateful. If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.
I've been thinking of that phrase a lot in the last month or so, as one by one, my carefully-made plans for my cross-country move from Philadelphia to Los Angeles have unraveled or been derailed by unexpected obstacles. Make no mistake - I'm still going to LA. I signed a lease and put a deposit on an apartment, but more importantly, I visited LA a few weeks ago, and the diagnosis was irrefutable. I've got a fever, and the only cure is endless sunshine, taco trucks, legal cannabis, and sitting in traffic on the 405 for three hours. Tony Bennett can keep San Francisco - my heart is in the City of Angels, and I will do whatever it takes to reunite with it there. I'll just have to wait at least one more week to do so, as Peggy, my car and means of transportation to LA, is in the garage getting her power steering fluid line fixed. It's the latest joke in this comedy of errors, that after having my car inspected not once but twice since September in preparation for this move, less than a week before I was scheduled to depart, Peggy decided to spring a leak that would require major repairs to fix. Now, I don't believe in God in the way that my Roman Catholic-raised ass is supposed to, but I have to admit, at times like these, God makes a damn good foil. Clearly something in the universe wants me to learn that no matter how much I try to plan and prepare, there will always be things that are out of my control. The universe has been trying to teach me this lesson my whole life, but it might just be sticking this time. As my good friend noted when I was relating this newest twist in my saga to her, "You seem strangely calm about all this." And I am, because after 33 years and thousands of dollars in therapy, there's really no other way to react when you're hit with these kind of curveballs. Maybe that's obvious to some of you reading this, but for me, this is a hard-learned lesson. Does it mean I'm happy this happened? Of course not. I've been planning this move for almost a year now; I've now had to reschedule my departure date twice. Patience is not a virtue I possess in abundance. The negative voice that hangs out in the back of my head keeps whispering that this is proof that I'm making a mistake, and I should call off this whole crazy adventure. Limbo is not my ideal state in which to live, and yet here I am. But just because I'm not happy about it, doesn't mean being stressed or miserable will improve the situation. Instead, I'm choosing to find the silver linings in the situation: 1. At least I discovered the problem with my car before I was on my way to California, not while I was driving through bumblefuck Texas. 2. I get to spend more time with my East Coast family and friends, who I will miss very much when I'm gone. 3. I'm giving God a good chuckle, and as a comedian, isn't my whole job to make people laugh? I've realized that, while this move is absolutely a geographical journey, it's an emotional and intellectual journey as well, and I've arrived at a key outpost - the place of accepting and rolling with the unexpected, where you can remain undeterred and focused while laughing right along with God because after all, wouldn't you rather laugh than cry? November 6, 2018. A lot of Americans began counting down to this date in the wee hours of November 9, 2016, when it became clear that a seismic shift happened in American government with Donald Trump's election as President. In those dark, early hours, as millions of us were stunned, scared, horrified, angry, November 6, 2018 became the beacon of light on which we would hang our hopes for salvation from this twisted, raging storm of hatred, fear, and insanity. We would organize, mobilize and vote, and ride a Blue Wave back to the shores of rationality and stability. Well, November 6, 2018 has come and gone, and the Blue Wave was...more of a ripple than the straight-up surge many Democrats and progressives were hoping for. There were victories, to be sure. Democrats regained control of the House of Representatives, which also now boasts a record number of women representatives, including the first-ever Muslim, Indigenous and Korean-American women elected to Congress. Seven states flipped from Republican to Democrat governors. Florida voted "yes" on Amendment 4, which automatically restores voting rights to over a million ex-felons. In the Senate, meanwhile, the Republicans maintain their majority, with breakout Democrat star Beto O'Rourke falling to Ted Cruz by less than 250,000 votes. Likewise, in Florida's governor race, another Democrat newcomer, Andrew Gillum, was edged out by his Republican opponent, Ron DeSantis (although there is speculation that a recount might be possible). In Georgia's governor race, Democrat Stacey Abrams, who would become the first African-American woman elected as governor in the U.S., has yet to concede to her Republican opponent, Brian Kemp, although as of this writing he leads her by 62,880 votes. Abrams refusal to concede has much to do with reports of attempted voter suppression in Georgia, where Kemp himself, as the state's current Secretary of State, oversees elections. All of this has me feeling, on November 7, a bit like Ben Wyatt when he and Leslie Knope find out they're having triplets:  The Blue Wave was supposed to wash Trumpians (if not Trump himself) right out of Washington. Clearly there is still a disturbing number of people in this country for whom outright racism, sexism, lying and corruption is not an issue when it comes to their elected officials. As Vox reports, "The preliminary results reveal the divides that determined the 2016 election are intensifying and strengthening." The article goes on to say a lot of stuff that isn't really news, at least to anyone who has been paying attention to American politics for the last several years. The current American political divide is based on several factors, including voters' race, education and income levels, and geographic location, all of which has led to what writer Zack Beauchamp calls a "cold civil war." While it feels great to finally the name the thing we've been increasingly struggling with for the last two years, the question still remains - what do we do with that?
We can turn our sights to November 3, 2020, the next Presidential election, but does that mean we are falling into a cycle of waiting and hoping that every two years we can possibly gain some ground in moving the country in a more progressive direction? And is it even really wise to continue to pin our hopes on elections when they remain so vulnerable to interference, both foreign and domestic? It's becoming more and more clear (to me at least) that the GOP will do whatever it takes to gain and maintain power, including lying, disenfranchising and suppressing voters, and letting elections remain vulnerable to hacking and interference. Forgive me for sounding like I'm wearing a tinfoil hat, but I think a little dose of cynicism might do the Democrats some good right about now. Yes, Tuesday's victories are exciting and game-changing, but is anyone actually concerned that the game is really rigged? A democracy in which citizens cannot exercise their voting rights freely and with confidence is not much of a democracy. We can (and should) look ahead to 2020, but can we be confident enough in our election system that, even with voter support, we can overcome and correct the many troubling issues in our government and society? And even if Americans do feel they can place their faith in the structures and practices of our democracy, the fact remains that the cold civil war is intensifying and will likely continue to do so over the next two years. How do we overcome this? Can we overcome this? Or is an actual civil war the only end game here? I have a very active imagination, but with the country so fundamentally divided on so many issues, even I struggle to imagine how this is all going to shake out. I'm not a political analyst, nor am I trying to incite a rebellion. But there are 727 days until the 2020 election. A lot can happen in 727 days. We need to use them wisely. Yes, that means remaining politically active, and finding new candidates to run and support. But it also means reflecting on some hard truths about where our country is, where we want it to go, and what we will need to do to take it there. I came to this conclusion recently while I was trying to dig up the roots of my greatest fear, which is not leaving any kind of legacy, and being forgotten once I'm dead, and everyone I know is dead. This fervent desire to leave behind some kind of tangible evidence that I once existed on this planet has been a major fuel source for my creative endeavors, which is good, but it's also filled me with fear and anxiety about running out of time, and not possessing the talent or creativity to leave behind something meaningful enough to outlive me.
For the record, I know that my life, as it is currently, is meaningful. I know I have a lot of strong, significant relationships with many people about whom I care very much, and who care very much about me. I know that I've done well in my jobs, and that through my work, I have helped others achieve their ambitions. I know that people have seen my plays and comedy, and been touched by it. I'm not discounting any of that. But, friends, I'm a planner. I need to know that, in 100 years, if civilization hasn't succumbed to nuclear war/climate change/inter-species mating with Gritty, someone somewhere will know that Kristen Scatton existed. And I blame all that on Titanic. Since Titanic came out 20 years ago, I'm going to go ahead and assume that you've seen it. If you haven't - seriously, stop being that person who hates pop culture, fucking watch it already, and come back in 3 1/2 hours. If you don't have 3 1/2 hours, go here and come back in 10 minutes. All caught up? Great. I was 13 when Titanic came out, just a small-town girl living in an ass-backwards, culturally empty, suburban world, although I didn't really know that yet. I was still relatively happy in my rainbow sticker and glitter lip gloss bubble. I went to see Titanic with my girlfriends on a wintry Friday night, because we went to the movies every Friday night. Movies were one of the few non-drug-related forms of entertainment available to teenagers in my hometown, and at $3.50 a pop, tickets were actually something I could afford on my weekly allowance. There was a lot of buzz about Titanic, and we all knew Leonardo DiCaprio was a hottie because of Romeo + Juliet, so it was more exciting that going to see, say, Mousehunt (poor Nathan Lane. He really must have needed a paycheck.) Still, I had no idea that when the lights went down in the Church Hill Cinema that night, a seismic shift was about to take place in my young life. "I figure life's a gift, and I don't intend on wasting it. You don't know what hand you're gonna get dealt next. You learn to take life as it comes at you...to make each day count." So says Jack Dawson (DiCaprio), completely owning a bunch of stuffy first-class d-bags who try to humiliate him for committing the horrible crime of being poor. It's an important character development moment for both Jack and Rose (Kate Winslet), who recognizes something of herself in Jack's desire to squeeze every drop of juice out of life. A short time later, it becomes utterly devastating (at least to a 13-year-old girl who has never been confronted with the concept of mortality) when Jack's bobbing like a cork in the middle of the North Atlantic, frozen to death. When the film's present-day Rose (Gloria Stuart) concludes her tale of doomed romance by saying, "He exists now, only in my memory," I was shattered. I didn't know why; I don't even think I really knew that something new and big had broken open inside me. I was sobbing because it was just so sad, they were so in love, it isn't fair, are we SURE they both couldn't have fit on that slab of wood??? I was obsessed with the movie because it's such an amazing love story and Leonardo DiCaprio is so hot! and the special effects are incredible and saw it 8 times in the movie theater (remember, tickets were THREE FUCKING FIFTY, so this was entirely possible). But it was more than that. I see that now. Titanic dug into my psyche, and evenly though my obsession abated after a time, it never fully disappeared. There it was, bobbing back to the surface like a popsicle-ified Jack Dawson, as I reflected on my deeply embedded fear of my existence being lost to the ravages of memory and time. Before I saw Titanic, death had not really touched my charmed world. Once or twice a distant relative whom I had met once would pass away, but these were people who I wouldn't have been able to pick out of a lineup. There deaths meant little more to me than a baby-sitter while my parents went to the wake. (Which, sidebar, wakes are one of the worst social functions human beings ever created. Like, I get before modern medicine, it was necessary to wait and make sure the person was really dead. We're beyond that now. We have stethoscopes and coroners. There is absolutely no reason for all of the dead person's relatives to stand in a line and stare at the corpse of their loved one for three hours, It's a downright macabre tradition, and I refuse to be a party to it, especially at my own funeral. You want to honor me? Crack open a good bottle of Scotch, crank up "I Want It That Way," and tell the funniest stories you can remember about me until the sun rises. Those are my instructions. This blog is basically as legally binding as a will, right?) Aaaanyway...therefore, when I first saw Titanic as a teenager, it hit me with a triple-whammy truth bomb: 1.) I would die. 2.) It could happen at any time. 3.) Once I died, eventually, everyone would forget about me, and it would be like i never existed at all. That's a lot to take in when all you wanted to do was spend a night out with friends and stare at a beautiful, blue-eyed boy who makes you feel kind of tingly and weird in your bathing suit area. Seeded by this revelatory information, my desire to "make each day count" was born fully-formed on the Church Hill Cinema's sticky, popcorned floor. Suddenly my school was too small, my town was too small, by life was too small. I had to do something big, something memorable, lest my time on this earth be cut short abruptly. Much of the drama of my teenage years was fueled by this burning desire to live, coupled with the unnameable anxiety that I was wasting so much of my precious, limited time. These desires and anxieties morphed over the years, ebbed and flowed, but to this day, they are present. They are what forces me to write, even just for 15 minutes, even if I'm exhausted. They are pushing me to pick up my life, move across the county, and try to make it in one of the most competitive industries in the world. They keep me sitting here, finishing this blog, even though it's 9:25 pm and I haven't eaten dinner yet. For 20 goddamn years, the mantra has been imprinted in my mind: Make it count. Make it count. Make it count. Why is this so important to me? Why can't I simply be content to live a good life, make a positive impact on the people I know, and accept that one day I will just be a name on a tombstone, like so many others? I don't know have an answer for that right now. A lyric from Hamilton, another pop-culture phenomenon about untimely death with which I became obsessed (although unlike Leo, I only want to fuck Lin-Manuel Miranda's brain) comes to mind. As Hamilton stares down the bullet that will end his life, he says, "Legacy. What is a legacy? It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see." Now, if you're half as bad a gardener as I am, you know that a lot of flowers never bloom. But you'll never have any hope for a garden at all if you don't at least plant the seeds. And so I plant, in hopes that something, somewhere along the way, will outlive me. A few nights ago, I was hanging out with my friend Al, discussing my impending move from Philadelphia to LA to pursue my dreams of TV writing and stand-up comedy. Al was praising my dedication to making these dreams a reality.
"I was thinking about it today," he said. "I don't have what you have." "You mean a vagina?" I said, because I'm physically incapable of having a conversation without saying something sarcastic every other sentence. "No," said Al. "I couldn't think of the word for it, but it's like, when you want something and you put in the work to get it. Like, when you just make yourself do something, even if it's hard or you don't really want to." "...Discipline?" I ventured. "Yeah! That's the word I couldn't think of! Discipline!" "Thank you," I gasped when I finally scraped myself up off the sidewalk, because I had fallen down from laughing so hard, "but honestly, I'm not that disciplined. Not as much as I should be." "No, no, no, you are," Al insisted. "Look at what you do, you go to open mics all the time, you're always writing and trying out new stuff, you built a website, you're moving to LA because that's where you need to be to do what you want to do. What do I do? I don't do shit. I'm fucking lazy." I pointed out that I, too, can be lazy, and actually would love to give in to that laziness more, were it not for the constant, nagging voice in my head that tells me I'm a piece-of-shit loser who is doomed to failure because I'd rather lay in bed watching Seinfeld reruns I've seen 85 times before than write a blog, work on a script or apply for jobs. I argued that, for someone like me who, to quote Angelica Schuyler by way of Lin Manual Miranda, has never been satisfied, the thought of being free from the constant stress of ambition seems pretty goddamn delightful, and should not be dismissed so easily. The conversation did put some things into perspective for me, namely that everything is relative. Although I try very hard not to compare myself to others, but it's inevitable. I look at my friends who hustle the fuck out of their artistic endeavors, and have the successes and opportunities to show for it, and I feel like a total sloth, except more useless because I'm not even as cute as a sloth. And yet, there are many people in my life who, like Al, admire my initiative and discipline. Their support means the world to me, but also makes me feel like a bit of a fraud, because I can guarantee that 99% of the time, I would rather be sleeping. I love sleeping. I am the Beyonce of sleeping. I slay slumber like Bey slays Coachella, and I'm pretty sure if I found a way to monetize sleeping, I'd change my name to Rip Van Winkle and peace out for twenty years. So why fight it? Surely the world wouldn't care if I hung up my mic, closed down my blog, and became one with my couch. Because the 1% of me that doesn't want to go on a permanent vacation is a stubborn motherfucker who insists that I do something more with the limited time I've been given on this Earth, and loudly reminds me that, after all of the whining, agonizing and suffering of actually doing work, the outcome is usually worth it. If that's discipline, she's got her work cut out for her, but she's putting up a hell of a fight. Maybe now she has another tool in her arsenal, as I realize that discipline, like so many other things in this world, is relative. To the world, I may be a lazy fuck, but to a lazy fuck, I may be an ambitious, overachieving rock star. And that's encouragement I'll take any day. I'm the kind of person who enjoys revisiting books, movies, TV shows and other media over and over. Re-reading a favorite book can feel like catching up with an old friend - it's familiar and comforting, something you can count on in an ever-uncertain world. Re-watching a movie or TV show means I can catch subtle clues I may have missed the first time. And it's always interesting and enlightening to experience media from a more evolved, educated point of view.
I say all this as explanation for why I was so excited this weekend when I discovered that Pearl Harbor is available on Netflix. Pearl Harbor, for those of you who were not 16-year-old white suburban girls in 2001, is director Michael Bay's take on the December 7, 1941 surprise attack on the U.S. naval base in Pearl Harbor that led to the United States' entry into World War II. I don't embarrass easily, so I have no shame in admitting that I was obsessed with this movie, although not as obsessed as 13-year-old Kristen was with Titanic. Apparently I'm a real sucker for melodramatic love triangles set against the backdrop of nautical disasters. A quick refresher: The love triangle at the center of Pearl Harbor is between Rafe (Ben Affleck) and Danny (Josh Hartnett), who are lifelong best friends and U.S. Army Air Force pilots, and Evelyn (Kate Beckinsale), a Navy nurse. Rafe and Evelyn have been dating for a few weeks when Rafe volunteers to go to England to fight in the Battle of Britain. Evelyn and Danny are stationed in Pearl Harbor when they receive word that Rafe's plan was shot down and he's presumed dead. In their grief, Danny and Evelyn start hooking up, but then - surprise! - Rafe returns, having been stuck in Nazi-occupied France for several months. Then - bigger surprise! - the Imperial Japanese Navy Air Service shows up and bombs the bejeezus out of Pearl Harbor. In the aftermath of the attack, Danny and Rafe volunteer for a dangerous retaliation mission to Tokyo, but before they leave, Evelyn confesses to Rafe that she's pregnant with Danny's child. The mission goes awry, and Danny ends up getting killed. Rafe returns and (after presumably serving in the Air Force during WWII) marries Evelyn, raises Danny's son as his own, and they live happily ever after. Before this weekend, I hadn't watched Pearl Harbor in at least 15 years, which apparently is enough time to forget what a hot mess this movie actually is. Over the course of the film's three-hour running time, I had a lot of strong reactions, which inspired this "Re-visit Review" blog post. Maybe it'll become a regular feature of "These Are Things I Think About." Or maybe I'll never do it again. I can do whatever I want - it's my blog! Let's jump in! Hot Takes
In-Depth Analysis
Are you on Facebook? Are you or someone you love between the ages of 29-39? If so, it's likely that this week, in between National Coming Out Day stories (yay!) and reports out of Georgia about the possible disenfranchisement of roughly 53,000 mostly Black voters (are you fucking kidding me???), you saw the following Twitter thread: Several of my Facebook friends reposted this thread, with their own affirmations about how they related to the sentiments in these posts. Curious, I read the Tweets, and, unsurprisingly, I have some thoughts. Full disclosure: although the phrase has kind of been wiped from contemporary terminology, I consider myself more of a "Xennial" than a "Millennial." I was born in 1985; I very clearly remember life before the Internet, cell phones, and 800 TV channels which are somehow all showing commercials at the same time. I think this coming-of-age in an analog world is a key line of demarcation between true Millennials and whatever the hell my generation is called, but I'm not here to debate that. I just wanted to be honest that I don't necessarily identify with the terminology that this poster used. However, I did identify with several other things in these Tweets. Time is both stretched and collapsed. Hell yeah. Somehow it's October, even though yesterday it was March, and yet last week might have been a year or two ago. Is there an age when I can no longer where skinny jeans? I wonder that too, even though I'm wearing skinny jeans right now, and the button digging into my lower belly makes me question why I'm so keen to keep wearing them. It really doesn't help that we're approaching middle age in an (sic) deeply toxic economic system, with a global future very much in doubt, and our parents won't stop fucking us over. Have truer words ever been spoken? But even that's not what I really want to write about here. These posts posit that people my age, and the poster's age, feel unmoored and in a state of arrested development because so many of us are not hitting the socially constructed benchmarks that signify adulthood - marriage, parenting, home ownership, job stability. And that may be true. I've had many conversations with many friends about this very topic. If we haven't hit X, Y, and Z benchmarks, can we be considered adults? we ask. Until I buy a house, get married and have a kid, my parents won't really see me as an adult, we lament. But this Twitter thread made me consider a new question - what if we just need new benchmarks? After all, who decided on these benchmarks in the first place? Who gets to say what makes someone an adult? People older than we are? I'm not about to demonize an entire generation, but I think we can all agree that the Baby Boomers have screwed the pooch on a lot of issues, so I'm inclined to say "fuck 'em" when they try to define adulthood and decide whether or not that label applies to me. Psychology Today offers several definitions of the world "adult," including the one that seems to form the basis for the Tweets: "There is the post-World War II definition: someone who is married, has children, and, if male, supporting his family, and, if female, caring for her family." Well, a lot has changed since World War II (hell, a lot has changed since 2015, when that article was written). The American Dream has started to look more and more like the American Nightmare to my generation, largely through no fault of our own, and we have every right to be angry, frustrated, anxious and sad about the present and the future. Those feelings are palpable in these posts, and I can empathize with people whose life goals include being married, having kids, and owning a home, and feel like that is not possible or advisable in our current climate. Feeling like a goal remains constantly out of reach, or letting go of a goal altogether, is a difficult experience. But this post makes me wonder - there are many good reasons why someone would want to be married, have kids, and own a home, but is "feeling validated as an adult" one of them? What about those of us who don't have, or ever aspire to have, those things? I know many people (myself included) who are personally not interested in those things for many reasons, one of which is that they never really seemed to make our parents that happy. A job was something to be endured for a paycheck and a pension, the house always needed to be repaired, and kids - sure, the sun shines out of our asses, but we're also a huge sacrifice, emotionally, physically, and financially. Many of us saw these realities of our parents' lives, and said, "No thanks, not for me." So are we automatically excluded from ever claiming our status as adults? I know many people who don't have a steady 40-hour-a-week job, but who work as educators, teaching hundreds of children and adolescents in outreach and after-school programs, or as artists, creating all sorts of amazing original work. I know people who don't have children of their own, but are wonderful nurturers who are the nexus of safe, supportive communities for friends and colleagues. I know people who have dealt with intense trauma, overcome illnesses, lived all over the world, started their own business, earned advanced degrees - are they not adults? At what point do we stop waiting for the Adulthood Authority to show up and give us a trophy that says, "Congratulations, you're an adult," and own the fact that the Millennials (if you must call me that) are going to make adulthood look like whatever the hell we want it to look like? I'm not here to minimize anyone's feelings or experiences - as I said, these are questions and concerns I've felt myself. But reading this awakened in me the sense that, like any obstacle, we have to find a way through or around this. Isn't part of being adult having the autonomy to define who you are? If we can do it individually, we can do it collectively, and maybe in the process shed some of the existential dread of not living up to the standards of previous generations. If we want to the world to see us adults, we have to start owning our adulthood, in all its messy, contradictory complexity. Stop waiting for someone else to define us. Let's define ourselves. |
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