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Origin of Species

There are some things that have been so much a part of me for so long that I usually don’t think to bring them up to new people I meet. Like my years as a relatively serious classical musician, my vegetarianism, or my long-term obsession with The Monkees.

That’s right. The Monkees. The 1960s rock group.

Usually the first remark out of someone’s mouth when I mention this is a comment about how they “didn’t play their own instruments” or they’ll just start singing one of the well-known tunes like The Monkees theme song (“Hey, hey, we’re the Monkees, people say we monkey around, but we’re too busy singin’ to put anybody down…” Actually, most people don’t even know past the “monkey around” line). Besides being extremely annoying, it proves of course, that this person has no knowledge of The Monkees at all. So maybe it’s not terribly surprising after all that I don’t bring it up with new friends.

My fandom goes back to the summer of 1989, when I was flipping through television channels one afternoon during summer vacation. I happened upon a goofy man riding a wooden sawhorse, saying “The British are coming! The British are coming!” The man standing next to him, wearing a British Revolutionary War uniform, eyed the man on the sawhorse sternly. Their eyes met, and after a brief pause, the man on the wooden sawhorse said, “….over to my house for a party tonight.” (Hear the scene here.)

That was just the beginning.

Nearly 20 years later, I have met all four of The Monkees at least once. I have a fairly large collection of memorabilia spanning from pre-Monkees solo albums to their recently-published novels. I have Monkees friends across the United States that I have known and communicated with for a very long time (holla, Jen!), including some who do awesome covers and post them on YouTube (holla, Geoff and Joe!). A couple of years ago, I even had a group of around 20 people squeeze into my teeny house to look at my sizeable collection and laugh at clips from the infamous television special 33 1/3 Revolutions Per Monkee. (Photos from that visit here.)

FAQ

How pervasive was/is this fandom?
I want to avoid embarrassing myself here. Let’s just say that my entire sophomore honors English class was well aware of my obsession, as were many others. Although I am way less obsessive these days, about a week ago I told my mother how I knew about something through association. After explaining, she sighed and retorted, “only you would know something like that because of how it relates to The Monkees!”

Why do you like The Monkees, even as an adult?
The zany television show that originally hooked me when I was younger is a bit tiring to watch today, mostly because of the use of the overly loud laugh track. The second season is much less tiring, as you can see here.

Today, the reason I like The Monkees so much is that Peter, Mike, Micky, and Davy came from such different backgrounds and brought a diversity of musical styles to the group. Coming into the group, Davy was a Tony-nominated musical theater professional, Micky had roots in grittier rock ‘n’ roll, Peter was a classically trained musician who was mostly performing folk music, and Mike had mostly done country but was starting to evolve musically into country-infused rock.

If I listen to music the four made as The Monkees, I can listen to soul, twangy rock, classical, traditional folk music, slightly psychedelic music, and more, including songs that defy description.

Modern offerings (which I mostly listen to these days) include blues, tropical-infused rock, accoustic folk rock (holla JLS!), and more awesome stuff that defies description. And humor. Such humor from the guy who was always called “the serious one!”

In other words, there’s something Monkees-related to go with almost any mood, musical style, or time period. I won’t say I listen to something Monkees-related every single day, but I might. Certainly several times a week.

Which of The Monkees is your favorite?
This is a really tough question.  Originally Micky Dolenz was my favorite, as he was the clown, sang most of the best songs, and had an unusual look. When my peers were gaga about New Kids on the Block, I was swooning over someone 33 years older than me.

The warm and squishy feelings in my heart these days are shared by Peter Tork and Michael Nesmith. Both of them are complete human beings, and have involved themselves in a variety of interesting projects. I’ve enjoyed seeing how they’ve evolved as musicians and as people.

Peter is extremely down to earth and a love for humanity oozes out of his pores, especially when in the small folk clubs I think he’s most at ease performing in. He continues to involve himself with interesting new projects to share his excellent musicianship–and while he acknowledges his Monkees past in his new work, he doesn’t limit himself by being bound to it, as other ex-Monkees seem to be. Recently he has written a couple of insightful newspaper pieces (here and here), discussing his cancer battle and thoughtfully relating his experience with fame to the Michael Jackson issue. He’s a really  lovely man.

Nez is a constant experimenter. He produced the awesome cult movie Repo Man, won the first video Grammy, started a company that exclusively released PBS shows onto video for years, created a new age-y album/book meant to be experienced together, has written a couple of full-length novels, developed a highly interactive website using experimental technologies and ideas, developed an organ for his church, oversees the Council on Ideas, and more. Any other person with such a large inheritance might just spend the rest of their lives living on a tropical island–but Nez continues to produce new work in all media. Musically, he has evolved from a straight-up twangy country musician to a guy who can deliver a smooth, tropical interpretation of Cole Porter. Nez is about reinvention, although I also love his brainyness and his humor.

My favorite has NEVER, EVER been Davy Jones. Perhaps it’s because I’m almost always a contrarian about those seen as “the cute one.” I do appreciate his musical theater ability, although on camera it comes off looking cheesy as hell.

Which piece in your collection are you proudest of?
An original poster of The Monkees’ 1968 movie Head, which I bought in 1996 at a collector show. At the time of release the movie fared poorly because the circular plot and psychedelic execution confused all the teenyboppers who came to see their pop rock idols, but the movie has since achieved cult classic status.  I snatched the poster up and eventually saved enough money to have it framed in archival-quality materials. It hangs in my living room and regularly incites great conversation.

Did Charles Manson audition for The Monkees?
No. Not only because he was in jail at the time, but he was also well above the age range they were looking for.

Did The Monkees really not play their own instruments?
Yes, and no. Each member of The Monkees did play instrument(s) and have a background in some sort of music upon being hired. Micky had played guitar, and did need to quickly learn how to play drums. Three of the four guys had even released records before being part of The Monkees.

Studio musicians were commonly used by other bands at the time, even for groups like the Beach Boys. The Monkees record executives decided to use studio musicians on the first two albums, The Monkees and More of The Monkees.

Circumstances around the release of the second album made the four guys rise up against their studio boss Don Kirschner (including an incident where Nez allegedly put his fist through the wall and said “that could have been your face!”). Subsequently, the guys played on all following albums.

Any questions I can answer for you about The Monkees or my fandom thereof?

Uh…are you still awake?
Hello? Is this thing on?

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Dog Sees God: GO SEE IT.

College made me pretty cynical about theater.

It was all about heady dissection of the theatrical elements. What worked? What didn’t work? What did you think of the director’s interpretation of X, Y, and Z? Were the actors effective in creating an effective show arc? And so on. Whenever we theater students would see a professional production (okay, most often just with Portland Center Stage, and mostly with Liz Huddle-directed shows), we would always analyze it as coming up way short by our beautiful, perfect, theoretical, academic standards. Ah, to be young and cocky!

Something that was rarely discussed between us theater majors was how it made an audience feel. If Peter Brook defines theater (The Empty Space) as anything with a performer and an audience, isn’t the audience’s role just as key as the performance? But in college, a thought-provoking piece was considered way cooler than an emotional one. 

Which is just one part of the reason college put the hard wax seal on the bottle I had stuffed all the feelings into.

Since graduating from college, I’ve been slowly recovering from all the damage. And the wax seal has shown increasing signs of near-failure the last few months.

A month ago I went to see Grey Gardens at Portland Center Stage. Essentially a story about the complexities of mother-daughter relationships, the last moment in the show features a Brechtian moment when the daughter decides to stay living with her mother despite her personal best interests. I related heavily, and a few days ago when telling someone about that moment in the show, tears came to my eyes (crap!), although I was mostly still able to hold it together.

DSG.Final.Draft_Small

Then tonight, I went to see a piece directed by my friend Brian Allard, called Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead. The show assumes common knowledge of the “Peanuts” canon as a springboard to a more modern, realistic plot.

At first I was really pissed off. How dare this production make me get all verklempt in the very first scene, as the death of Snoopy–er, I mean “anonymous dog of main character named C.B.”–by rabies is described in graphic detail. How dare they kill the dog! In the first scene! How dare they kill Snoopy!

After this initial scene, we start meeting the rest of the characters in their teenaged state, as C.B. questions them about death. Pig Pen (now Matt) is now a rather scary dude with OCD, Schroeder (now Beethoven) is a loner whose father was very publicly arrested for sexually molesting him and who now carries stigma among his peers, and Tricia and Marcie are catty cheerleaders who talk about how Frieda is just enormously fat. I consider myself a significant fan of “Peanuts,” and have even been faithfully re-reading The Complete Peanuts as it has been released over the past several years. So while most audience members laughed at these modern interpretations of pop culture icons, I was just shocked: How dare they defile Peanuts this way!

Then, two characters consistently had scenes taking place within hitting distance of me, and I was really tempted as they made fun of “fat” Frieda. They were not only the least empathetic characters I’ve seen in a show in recent memory, but who evoked primal feelings of hatred I haven’t experienced since 1996 when I graduated high school. How dare they not have any redeeming qualities!

It was around that time the plot around the school’s homophobia started congealing. And if you know me, I have some pretty seriously strong feelings about homophobia. Mostly based on (you guessed it!) how I saw many of my suburban high school classmates dealing with it–the football players in physics class calling each other “queers” and goofily laughing and punching each other, as my closest friends silently struggled to accept themselves in the writing class next door. How dare they go all Brokeback on me and start tugging on one of my most sensitive heartstrings!

THEN! The play that had started as a bit of a gimmick started saying some pretty big things about high school, and life, and becoming seriously elegant. C.B., ever the “everyman,” starts wrapping up the show with the close of his letter to his pen pal. But this time, the pen pal writes back, offering reflection and caring to C.B. on his situation. In the final moments I was struggling hard to keep from crying, while listening to sniffles all around me. When the lights came up, I slunk out to the safety of the street, where I took a deep breath of fresh air and retreated in safety to start processing all I had just seen.

Stupid emotional truth in theater! Stupid awesome director! Stupid perfect casting and really-well-acted show by young actors!

Those frakkers! They almost made me cry!

The point is, unless your heart is two sizes too small like The Grinch, you will be moved by this show. So go see it, will you?

Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead

July 10-August 1
Thurs-Sun at 7:30pm, Sun at 2pm
Show Blog
Buy Tickets Here

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And Justice for All?

This morning an NPR headline on Twitter caught my eye: “‘Reverse Discrimination’ Ruling Due.” It was followed shortly thereafter on the New York Times website by the news article “Justices Rule for White Firefighters in Bias Case.”

Not having heard about this case before, I briefly filled myself in on the details. The city of New Haven, Connecticut, decided not to take into consideration test scores when it came to handing out promotions, as white firefighters had done better on that test than latino or black firefighters. The city decided to throw out everyone’s test scores and figure out another way to do promotions. And the white firefighters claimed this was “reverse discrimination,” with the appeals slowly working the case up through the judicial food chain.

It’s not landmark news that standardized testing is culturally problematic. Not only were some of the first standardized tests used for the purposes of eugenics, but to this day there is an increasing awareness at many universities that SAT and ACT scores do not equal merit, and many universities are no longer requiring these standardized tests for admission.

The Supreme Court ultimately ruled in favor of the white firefighters. And–would you expect anything less?–the majority opinion on this ruling came from Justices Roberts, Kennedy, Thomas, Scalia, and Alito. Dissenting opinion led of course by superstar justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. It’s a scary time on the Supreme Court.

What is particularly disturbing to me about this outcome is just how cookie cutter it all went down. “Reverse discrimination” is a concept popular with those who don’t really understand how American society is constructed in a hierarchy of race, class, and gender. (A great starter read is “The Gender Knot” by Allan Johnson.) In a society that is wholly constructed to mostly value and benefit straight, white middle- to upper-class males, the idea of “reverse discrimination” is absurd! 

As an armchair political commentator, my official opinion on what’s really going on here has more to do with generally powerless people grappling for whatever power they could get through an overly-litigious and otherwise messed-up system. When you’re living in a hierarchical society, your instinct is to claw your way to the top, one way or another.

That is to say, the white firefighters were denied something they wanted, when they became aware of the relatively easy path to push back and still get what they want, they took it.

Dear white firefighters, wouldn’t it be better to have received a promotion based solely on your merits, instead of your ability to pay a lawyer? Do you think your non-white brethren have thrown such a public hissy fit for such a minor denial of their desires? To most everyone else, this is considered part of the challenge of everyday life.

However…have you ever needed to worry about being relocated to the desert because of your race? Do you fear for being sexually assaulted and/or murdered for your gender identity or sexual preference? Publicly reviled for your religious beliefs and attempts to create a community outside the status quo? Been beaten or otherwise denigrated by your significant other? Shall I go on?

It seems to me that if this is what these white firefighters are choosing to take to the Supreme Court, they don’t have a lot of worries in the world.

What do you think about this Supreme Court decision? What are your thoughts on race, class, and gender? Any experiences you care to share?

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MJ Died?

Um….wow.

His music got me through this past winter, as I fended off the stressed-out, winter blues with upbeat selections from “Off the Wall” and of course “Thriller.” His “Bad” album was huge when I was in sixth grade (as was Weird Al’s parody of it, “Fat”). Additionally, I have memories of eagerly waiting to watch the world debut of the “Black or White” video after “The Simpsons” many years ago, and watching Moonwalker and marveling over the “Smooth Criminal” video, which eventually spawned his patented shoes!

Here’s one of my favorite songs that has a decent music video:

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Eschewing the Beasties

It was 15 years ago today on June 21, 1994, I made a decision that, while seemingly innocuous at the time, has become one of my proudest moments as a human being.

My orchestra had just come back from a ten day tour in Japan–a tour that was mostly funded by the Japanese government, meaning there was a bit of pomp and circumstance around our visit. As soon as we arrived in Tokyo and started bussing across the country, I discovered that Japanese cuisine was mysterious and thus not very appetizing.

A few days into our tour at a fancy hotel in western Japan, the main course of our luncheon banquet included a skewer that had four super-fresh baby octopuses on them. The horror! The horror! As my table was being served, my friend Bonnie was paralyzed with fear because one of her octopuses was still twitching a little from being freshly skewered. When another tablemate took a bite, he found the suction-cup octopus legs were sticking to his tongue and hard to swallow.

I requested a vegetarian plate.

The rest of the tour wasn’t nearly as culinarily traumatic. I was lucky enough to be surrounded by people who could explain what was in each dish, enabling me to avoid anything that was beyond my threshold. Like the soup with the fish head in it at a host family’s house.

When I landed back in Portland on June 21st, 1994, I decided to conduct a little experiment and try not eating meat. Months before the trip to Japan, I had been on a Paul McCartney kick and had been introduced to the idea that you can choose what you eat based on your personal belief system. The seed had been planted, and as time wore on there grew a little voice in the back of my head starting to point out the discrepancies between my love of animals and eating hamburgers. The trip to Japan had just planted that seed in some Super Miracle Grow, where it developed and blossomed over the course of ten short days.

At home, I kept my meatless experiment to myself. Our family has never dined formally, so I could take my dinner in stealth and eat alone. Because I was on summer vacation, I was the only one home for two meals a day. It was easy to be in the closet as a vegetarian. At first.

One fateful day, though, 24 days into my meatless experiment, the dinner of the day was to be steak and baked potatoes. My mother had called upstairs to me, “Heather! Come get your food!” but when I came down, my parents were still in the kitchen. Eventually I attempted to gingerly put a baked potato on my plate and scurry away when my dad said, “Have some steak!”

When I didn’t reply, he innocently pressed, “Don’t you want any steak?”

“No…”

“What’s the matter? Are you vegetarian now or something?”

My 16-year-old brain couldn’t take that kind of pressure. I emoted, “I haven’t been eating meat for 24 days! And I like it! And I don’t want steak!” I was panicked. Perhaps my dad was joking, but this was the first time ever I was making a clear departure from my family’s value system.

And that, dear reader, is how I “came out” as a vegetarian. : )

It all ended up fine–in fact, my mother decided to go vegetarian for a while as well. In those first few years, together we navigated the world of health food stores, TVP, Stripples, and the like. Linda McCartney’s Home Cooking was our bible. Gardenburgers, then still made in Portland, were a staple, but tofu was a taste I would not acquire for about ten years.

During that summer, I read The Jungle as required for my honors program, cementing my belief that I had made the right choice.

In the time since, as my personal beliefs have departed more from the value system I was raised in, I look back on the moment I “came out” as a vegetarian and see the first step in a series of choices that make me very proud of who I am.

Today, I count myself beyond lucky to live in a city that has grown from mere vegetarian friendliness to a mecca which includes a vegan mini-mall, a vegetarian/vegan internet cafe a block from (ex-)work, and for a period even a vegan strip club. When a group meal order happens, the presence of vegetarians and vegans is assumed–no drama, no tears, no hungry people. Being vegetarian in Portland is a complete non-issue: it’s just what I am, and I don’t usually think about it day-to-day.

There are a few exceptions. When I order from certain restaurants, I usually ask questions to make sure there are no “hidden” animals, like rice made with chicken broth or pulverized bacon bits on the cheese bread. My closest call was when I stopped into a vegan bakery on my way out of town in March and ordered the turkey sandwich. My brain apparently thought I was at Backspace, and I’d get a sandwich of the finest soy turkey available. It wasn’t until I had my mouth open, poised to take the first bite, that I realized the turkey was real. I traveled about 20 minutes out of my way to give it to a coworker, then silently grumbled during my whole six hour trip to Canada, asking myself what kind of vegan bakery would sell real turkey sandwiches!

Additionally, when I have taken trips outside of my little utopian bubble, I have been faced with a bit of culture friction as well. A friend who lives in a ranching town regularly quizzes me about my choice and exclaims that he just needs meat, and you just couldn’t survive in his town as a vegetarian. As if my personal choices were threatening him in some way.

Dear reader, it’s not my concern if you eat meat. If you want to become vegetarian I’d be more than happy to lend encouragement and assistance, but if you’re a fan of Voodoo’s bacon maple bar, you won’t hear any lectures from me. 

I’ll be too busy enjoying a cupcake from Sweetpea Baking.

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Fun with Hormones!

It came on suddenly, like a flash flood. Then just as fast as the tears started, ten minutes later everything was calm again. One thing quickly became clear–it’s going to be a long three months.

The Female Brain
The Female Brain

Last fall when I read The Female Brain, the biggest lesson learned was about just how influential hormones are on a person, from fetus to senior citizen. Your brain gets regularly bathed in hormones–as a fetus the hormones are important in your development in utero, then as an adolescent puberty is set forth by hormonal changes. A woman’s menstrual cycle and childbearing are both characterized by waves of various hormones surging through her body, impacting her body’s physiological changes in very specific ways, along with some interesting emotional side-effects.

In the past, I’ve had issues with headaches and extreme nausea associated with my menstrual cycle, and more recently I’ve even started drifting into PMDD territory. Two months ago was particularly bad–I spent a full two weeks withdrawing from everyone (making my job even more difficult for me to slog through than it already is), and am pretty sure I did lasting damage to what was formerly a friendly work relationship, just by losing my cool a little one morning. During these two weeks I’d steal into the restroom two or three times a day, finding temporary relief in being alone, and crying in stealth.

That experience was a big wake-up call, so after some research I decided I wanted to try using birth control pills to regulate my hormonal activity. This past week I visited the doctor and after a couple of unpleasantries (a blood draw and a procedure that rhymes with map schmear–AWKward!), I was given the all-clear to start my hormonal experiment.

So at 8am this morning, I took my first birth control pill. Then at 10:30, just after telling a friend that I was nearly paralyzed with nervous energy, easy tears starting welling in my eyes for no apparent reason. And ten minutes later, just as surprisingly as it started, it was gone, and a wave of calm enveloped me.

The literature says that it takes between one and three months for your body to get acclimated to a particular type of birth control pill, making me curious if I’m going to have this sort of reaction at random moments for the next few months. Not even having a chance to steal away to cry, because I don’t even know it’s coming on.

It will be interesting to see how this all plays out.

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I Bake Because I Love

One of my favorite things to do is bake. There is a deep satisfaction that stems from choosing a new recipe, turning on some great music to listen and sing to, and entering a zen state until recipe completion–all while getting to hang out with Atticus!

Blackberry Muffins

Unfortunately, doing a lot of baking usually means eating a lot…unless you give away the fruits of your labor! Like a cat who brings its owner a dead mouse, I enjoy gifting baked goods to friends to express gladness that I know them. (Well, okay, there’s a little bit of ego involved too…I want people to know about my mad skillz.) 

My future goals are to start tackling crusted breads, improve my pizza dough shaping, find a tasty yet simple pie dough recipe that doesn’t use shortening, and continue to find ways to distribute the goods to make the highest number of people see hearts when they look at me. Any takers?

See some more photos of my kitchen adventures here.

Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies

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A Post for Mom

I asked Mr. T to sing you a song for Mother’s Day, and here’s what he came up with. (The camo hot pants were his idea, not mine!)

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A Day Called X

An article appeared today on The Oregonian’s website about a cool video from the Cold War era, starring the City of Portland and its residents! There are cameos from Mayor Terry Schrunk, Harvey Scott School, and even Station 1 of what was then called the Portland Fire Bureau. Check it out!

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Finding the Fun

Courtesy of myklroventine (Flickr)

It occurred to me today that I have had a serious dearth of fun for the last couple of years, and I think it’s time for a return to the days of yore.

Of course, I am pretty particular when it comes to fun-having. Other people are rarely involved. Sometimes there is a sense of adventure involved, like exploring a foreign city alone, or doing something completely new and kinda crazy, like Zoobombing. I think crosswords are pretty awesome fun, especially the New York Times Crossword, Monday through Wednesday. Or watching Marx Brothers movies or the like.

These days though, I have to keep to a schedule so much that my mind is turning to mush. No time for crosswords or movies. In my spare time, I’m trying to slowly chip away at larger goals, like getting rid of a bunch of the stuff cluttering up my house, and working on my publishing portfolio. Of course there are all of the things necessary to perpetuate the drudgery of every day living: grocery shopping and laundry-tending on Sundays, my job (including the two hour daily round trip), taking Atticus to the park every morning, and so on. And a couple of budding friendships seem to have turned sour.

Have you been in this situation? What have you done to reintroduce fun into your life? Got any ideas to share?

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