Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

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We were going to be late for class. I woke up at six thirty, did all of my laundry, read my email, drafted a post, washed the dishes, folded the blankets in the parlor … and i was still going to be late for class, along with a freshly out of bed Lindsay. She brushed her teeth as she made corrections on my bow-tying abilities. I dashed back upstairs to frantically look for my favourite belt while Lindsay was frantically trying to pull her hair back tight enough to her head that she could muster a tiny “nubbin” of a ponytail. It was at this point that Erika emerged from her room practically still in a state of sleep, glibly relating her dream of being Heart from Captain Planet to us as if she was unaware of our need to be a mile and a half away in the next thirty minutes. Lindsay switched from a clip to a rubber-band and off-handedly asked which of our friends played the part of the blonde russian girl in the Captain Power team as i frantically arranged and rearranged flowers.

Erika couldn’t remember, so she started talking about the wonders of Olympic Downhill Skiing, which she had been watching just before three.

I turned to Lindsay. “We’re going to be late, aren’t we?” She replied through teeth clenched around a hair-tie. “Don’t worry; we’re taking the bus.”

Back up the stairs i went, this time to collect bus money (since my wallet was empty save for a single quarter) from my change jar. Erika’s voice wafted up behind me as she idly teased her pet frog. She, apparently, has the day off from work. Next came Lindsay’s voice, not nearly as calm: “Bus at quarter of, are you coming?”

“Yes!” was both my reply and an exclamation at having found the twenty-some coins i would need to get onto the bus. Leather jacket got thrown on, scarf was wrapped around neck, but Blistex was stupidly left behind on my desk. Downstairs again Lindsay was clawing through her desktop clutter to find her cell-phone and i was screaming down the hall about whether or not i should defrost my chicken in the refrigerator. Poultry was subsequently relocated, flowers were primped a final time, and then Lindsay practically threw me down our entry stairs. Out the door we went in a chattering stumbling tangle of her long denim jacket and my felt-like gloves as i fumbled for keys. Door locked tightly, we were down the steps of our porch and heading north to the Chestnut bus stop.

Lindsay stopped dead twenty-five feet under Walnut. “Wait.”


“What?”


She was clawing through her backpack now; “I need to make copies of my paper.”


“Yes?”


“But i only have bus fare.”


“Hmmm.”


“I need a quarter. I’m going to fail if i don’t have another quarter. Oh my god, Peter, we have to go back.”

Out came my wallet, out came the last quarter i had to my name, and all was well. Well until we arrived at Chestnut street to find the bus a half a block ahead of us; about as far as a bus can get in the time it takes for one roommate to paw through her bookbag while the other similarly examines his wallet.

“I am not running after it.”

I offered no argument at all.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9721902/

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And the play is over.

Striking the set of a play is always a strangely emotional exercise — like tearing down the house you grew up in. Though a set is really just an artifice built to house the illusion of theatre, it’s also the place where you became a part of the company of actors and crew that you’ve spent the last weeks or months with. These people are your adopted family for that time… you work beside them, go out together after rehearsals, confide in them… and then you come together with power drills and crowbars and crescent wrenches to tear it all apart. And, though you always hope that you’ll see everyone again, it never works out that way. There are people you might never see again, people that might never get into another play. On the other hand, there are people you’re destined to live, work, and play with — though you hardly suspect it at the time.

The first time i struck a set at Drexel it didn’t seem like such a big deal. I didn’t know what it really meant; it was just artifice, just an illusion. Months later i helped strike Hair… tearing up the floor panels and repainting walls. It was then that it hit me — that we were really destroying our home as a family, and it would never physically exist again. Seeing the stage bare black tonight i just wanted to go back to the bare kitchen and parlor we had been living in and around all week. Back to the magic that came with it. But, before that feeling could even crystallize we were all downstairs, merrily chowing away on our deli spread, laughing about the mistakes we had made and whispering about the auditions that await us in nine short days.

Even if all nine of our cast, all four of our running crew, and all six of our booth crew wound up involved in the next production, it couldn’t be the same. The energy we had as a family was dissipated as we rollered flat black over the vibrant colors we had painted onto the floor barely a week before. Hugs goodbye were long and meaningful, even though some of us see each other in class every day; it wasn’t really a goodbye to each other, but a goodbye to the place where we had become as one.

Nine days until i stand alone on that same flat black stage and open my mouth wide enough for all to hear. Nine more days until our next surrogate clan begins to form.

I’m not sure if i just want to sit here and rest, or not set foot back in my room until then.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9600110/

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Top five reasons having a lesbian roommate rocks:

1. Unlimited free passage of Ani DiFranco and Indigo Girls cds from her bedroom to yours.

2. Accurate consultation in romantic issues, from the side of the suitor and the suited.

3. Without prompting, asks if you’ve ever heard of her favourite girl-on-girl porn sites and then offers to show them to you.

4. Absolutely no chance of romantic entanglement. None.

5. Potential hints, corrections, and suggestions about your interactions with the female erogenous zones, if you’re brave enough to ask.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9466816/

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My whole life has been about crushing.


In first grade i had a crush on a girl named Jamie. Even with fifteen years of retrospect it still seems as real as any other crush i’ve had since then, despite my tender age at the time: they were the same butterflies. The only difference was that at the time i didn’t have many people to confide in (and, lamentably, no blog), so my mother was the person i turned to with all of my feelings. Yes, she agreed that Jamie was pretty. No, it wasn’t fair the she didn’t like me back. Yes, she knew that i only pulled the drawstring out of her jacket at recess because i was flustered and didn’t know what else to say to her.


Sometime in the winter of first grade was Jamie’s birthday, and our entire class was invited to her birthday bowling party, which i have entirely no recollection of whatsoever. What i do remember is her present. My mother and i had just finished wrapping it, and we were sitting at our creaky kitchen table together in silence when we both noticed we were staring at the same thing.

The toaster.


“Do you want to?”

“I’ll get the shrinky-dink paper, you get the colored pencils!”

Yes, shrinky-dinks… art you could make and then cook until it became entirely indestructible. After a few failed creations, my mother and i settled upon an apple tree, because Jamie liked green. Or red. Or apples. I don’t remember. Anyway, we had finished rendering it in all of its colored-pencil beauty, and i was about to stick it in the toaster.

“Are you done?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh…”

“Why, what do i need to do?”

“Well, i was thinking that you could turn one of the apples into a heart!”

As soon as she said it she knew she had me hooked, despite my feeble protests to the contrary. Out came the red colored pencil, and we meticulously rounded up the curves of one of the apples until it was a heart, stemmed and leafed. Away went the pencils. On went the toaster. In went the tree. The two of us sat with our chins cupped in our hands, watching the edges up it turn up in the heat.

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

“I think so.”

It was a few days after her party that Jamie came up to me before recess, bookbag in hand. Dangling from one tiny black zipper was my tree, on a shiny gold dog tag.

“Peter?”

“Yes?”

“Why is there a heart on my apple tree?”

I learned some important lessons early in life. Say what you mean. Mean what you say. Never take romantic advice from your mother.


But, really, wouldn’t you love to read a blog from when i was six?

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9443486/

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Does everyone remember my essay? You know, the painfully embarrassing one that i seem to find entirely more hilarious than i should find it? Well, my Journalism instructor just emailed me some copious commentary on it, which was headed off with the following glowing review:

Assuming you’re not gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that!), I’m left with the feeling that your approach to romance is more like sabotage than flirtation. Like Lenny in Of Mice and Men, you crush rather than stroke. Unlike Lenny, you know exactly what you’re doing. My advice: STOP doing that. I heard a great line from a forgettable movie once. The Matthew Modine character turns to his mouthy cohort and says, “Never miss a good opportunity to shut up.” Those awkward silences you mentioned may have existed more in your mind than the moment. Either way, you’ve acknowledged your inability to trust silence.


I’ll bill you later for the romantic counselling.

Wow, apparently i did manage to summarize my entire romantic existence in 1200 words, and he just thinks i was trying to be witty. I mean… “crush” rather than stroke? Little does he know…

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9389436/