Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

memories

No More Wire Hangers

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What to say about my mother that is suitable to print in a public forum?

She and my father got married when she was the same age as I am. When she became pregnant just a few months later she decided that she had to learn everything about creating the best environment for a baby. And, I mean everything.

Think about it. It is nineteen eighty one. We are talking about a woman who David Bowie could have had arrested for stalking on more than one occasion. A woman who changed into a white pantsuit at her wedding reciption so she could fly across the ceiling of the club on a trapeeze. She and my father were both professional, fulltime bartenders. She was the only-child of lower-middle class parents, one of whom didn’t even finish grade school. She herself had barely found the interest to get through high school.

All of that just makes my mother’s baby initiative – and really my whole childhood – all the more amazing.

She did not take any aspect of her young motherhood for granted – she questioned everything. And, my mother discovered very quickly that just because something was socially accepted, or scholastically average, or even medically recommended, didn’t mean it was beneficial for a baby Peter.

Example #1 – I was not allowed to eat hotdogs or drink soda, and my father’s side of the family was determined to give me both. One one occasion I was convinced to eat half of a hot dog and – predictably – became sick. I have never seen my mother come so close as to devouring someone’s very soul as I did that night. SHE was the mother, and SHE said NO hotdogs, so THERE WOULD BE NO HOTDOGS.

To this day I don’t drink soda.

Example #2 – In first grade one of my classmates got placed into a mentally gifted program because he was smart. My mother pointed out that I was also smart, but got fed some sort of B.S. in reply about how I didn’t carry my numbers when I did addition in long columns. So, she had me tested in a controlled environment. When they checked my test they informed her that I hadn’t answered a tough word problem correctly. She pointed out that I had, but that I had just skipped showing my work because I used multiplication to solve the problem.

Example #3 – When I started visiting orthodontists to consult over my impending braces, one offhandedly told her he would have to pull out several teeth to make things work. I think she physically picked me up out of his chair to leave the office. I wound up without a single tooth pulled and a perfect smile.

Also, my mother never once patronized me just because I was a child – as soon as I was old enough to carry a conversation was expected to do so in all circumstances, and to make change for myself when we played Monopoly. And, so I did. I used to eschew naptime in kindergarten in favor of chatting about current events with the teachers. I watched the nightly news and Johnny Carson almost every night of my childhood.

In my anecdotes my mother is usually painted as comic relief, sometimes as a foil, and often as as a too-patronizing voice of reason. However, She will still devour your soul if you fuck with her, me, or her cat. She still has frighteningly good taste in music (David Bowie included).

And, much to my continual exasperation, she still questions just about everything.

She Said “If”

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Elise and I have been dating since Valentine’s Day, 2002 with no interruption. We are so evenly matched in every aspect from pastimes to taste in movies to scholastic aptitude – that it’s hard to believe that we were meant to wind up with anyone but each other.

Our relationship has been full of many stories, but today’s is actually about an earlier encounter. Our first, actually.

Half a year before we started dating, on Elise’s first or second day of college, the theatre produced two brief shows to introduce the program to incoming freshman. Elise, having performed and produced theatre in high school, attended with her roommate Kat.

I was in both shows, starring – however improbably – as the romantic lead in each. They were my last time acting onstage in college.

In one show I was moody and dark, but in the other show (a farce) my character was essentially me – effervescent, flamboyant, and terrible with women. Elise might have first seen me on stage, but the character she saw was me.

At some point in the evening – maybe during the show, or maybe after, I’ve never gotten it right when i tell this story – Elise leaned over to a friend and whispered, “If he’s not gay, I’ll marry him.”

A lot has ensued in the five years since that sentence but, so far as I know, it’s still true.

(For the record, I believe my first comment may have been, “I don’t know who’s cuter, her or her roommate,” which leads to other, even more amusing stories.)

It’s hard to believe that our relationship has now stretched to envelop the entirety of Elise’s collegiate career, and my entire professional life, and has followed us into our first (rented) house as adults, but that’s how time works.

My Secret Rock Star Life

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I suppose that last post bears some explanation of my secret rock star identity.

It is so secret that hardly anyone is aware of it. Hopefully that will soon change.

I started writing original music in high school as a hobby – not something I defined myself by. In college i was a part of a group of extremely talented actors, singers, and musicians. But, though i could rightfully identify myself in all three categories, i never felt as though what i was bringing to the stage was as valid as what other people did. After every audition or performance I was my own harshest critic, and as a result I slowly disappeared from performances, relegating myself to a off-stage role.

However, there was still one thing at which I was better – maybe best – than everyone I knew: writing songs.

It wasn’t a matter of pride or self-confidence – it was just something i knew. My best five or ten or twenty songs stood up against the songs of my friends, and even the songs on albums I bought every week. I could remain a performer as long as I had my songs, so I labeled myself a singer-songwriter. I played at parties. I recorded songs for my webpage. I walked from my apartment to campus, playing guitar and singing the whole way. As long as i had a song to stand behind i was fearless.

As college wore on, some of the more multi-talented friends in our extended group gained an amount of local notoriety as singer-songwriters fronting bands. I finally had people – peers – to compare myself to, and it was immediately clear that I didn’t sing as well, or play guitar as well, or record as well, or work the stage as well.

This was especially demoralizing because my songs were still great – it was just me that wasn’t good enough. I let it get to me – right down to the very core of me, and as a resultI graduated having not played an original front of people for over a year (with one exception – poorly received), and I had even stopped recording – frustrated that my voice never came out how I heard it in my head.

I decided that for my first year of professional life i was leaving my creative side behind – i had to focus on working hard, and on being a good boyfriend to Elise, because that’s what was important. Creativity, music especially, was a lark I could afford to ignore.

My resolve was strong, and even after the year was over and I starred in a successful bit of post-collegiate theatre i was still holding out on music. I still hadn’t performed anywhere, and even my once-prolific writing had ground to a halt.

I can pinpoint the exact moment when everything changed.

Last December I made my yearly appearance at the Shubin Theatre Holiday Revue. I appear not because of any great talent, but because I am friends of the Shubin family, which includes Gina, my sometimes co-writer. In 2005 I was performing on relatively short notice, and so instead of my typical cover or collaboration I decided to play an original – Seams – a song all about my imperfection, my lack of confidence, my reticence to perform anywhere outside of my own bedroom.

In that tiny theatre with forty or fifty people watching I rediscovered me as a musician. I was singing words I had written, words I still very much meant, and as they left my mouth I could feel – even see – them connecting with members of the audience. At the after party people asked where they could see or hear me perform and, slightly embarrassed, I told them that they couldn’t.

As I said it I realized the ridiculousness of it. I had these great songs – catchy songs, witty songs, meaningful songs – and here I was refusing to play them because I didn’t deem myself to be good enough. It seemed rational to me for years, but that night I realized how unfair it was to the songs.

I am no longer a part of that disproportionately talented college friends – I’m a part of the world at large. And, in that world I am unique in my ability to sing and play at all, let alone with some amount of skill, and I am unique in my ability and willingness to document my life through song.

In this much wider world I am done with hiding my songs in my bedroom, and with that newfound confidence i find that my singing, playing, and performing are suddenly not so bad as i thought they were. I can play in front of friends or strangers knowing i deserve their attention as much as anyone else, and sometimes i even win it.

Today, and tonight at The Sidecar Bar, I am a singer-songwriter. And, it’s not a secret anymore.

Streets of Philadelphia

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As a lifetime Philadelphian, I’m often asked (or just expected to know) what people should do while they’re here. Honestly, i’m often flummoxed – so much of what Philadelphia is to me is just scenery that passes by that i hardly know how to single out anything special. By the same token, i often flounder to suggest a day’s activity within walking distance other than the habitual trip to South Street.

Today proved that there is a little something more to be found, and it was the sort of day that bears recapping.

It all started out because we wanted to visit a sidewalk sale at Hello World that we noticed while driving by with Amanda the day before. Eleventh is one of the more pleasant walks up from South Philly to the city, so we made our way there and headed north.

The sidewalk sale wasn’t much – the store had a motley collection of many nice yuppy things, but each collection was too slim for there to be many pickings. We didn’t feel like walking straight home after such a small excursion. We walked up Pine to 13th (Last Drop and a new(er) sushi place on facing corners) to peek into a guitar store i’m always passing. They had some nice electrics and a finely weathered mandolin, but nothing unusual (which is what i’m looking for – primarily a baritone).

Walking backwards (east) we browsed by a few shops before Elise stopped to ogle Soul of the Artist – something i always do on my walk down Antique Row. I had never been inside – mostly because i assume that everything on Pine Street is out of my price range, but Elise decided we should venture in.

I’m happy we did, because SOTA is one of the most fantastic owner-operated stores i’ve ever been to, in Philly or elsewhere. Frank gave us a friendly greeting, and let us know that everything he sold was made by an artist he knows and appreciates (a nice change from yuppy giftshops), and while we browsed he invited us to touch and explore his merchandise. Elise was entranced by a series of intricate puzzle-boxes (the best was almost a thousand dollars), while i walked away with a beautiful starred wooden keychain from this collection. The thing that will probably motivate me to return were a series of polished wooden clipboards and business card holders, all of which were eminently afforable.

Frank sent us packing with as many oblong business cards as we cared to have. (PS – the store on the corner of 10th has some good beers). We peeked into Ethnics Furniture, but it was disgustingly (and predictably) expensive. Must be nice to work in a store where one sale covers a whole day of operating costs.

We aimed ourselves towards South Street via 9th, and stumbled (literally) into the spectacular Broadcast Guitars, a new(ish) store owned by former BlueBond salesguy (and cousin of Anastasia) Rocco Renzetti. Though they didn’t have the selection of BlueBond, the store has a cozy atmosphere. And a cat. I thought i’d just take a quick browse for an unlikely baritone, but in my browse i found a solid and affordable Cort 12-string. I played it on a pure lark (what Bowie fan doesn’t love 12-strings?), but I actually really liked it. Rocco said he’d put fresh strings on it later this week so i could give it a better try.

(Don’t get me wrong, i LOVE BlueBond, where i bought my beautiful green workhorse. I just don’t feel comfortable browsing there anymore (even though they finally recognize me) with all of their various rock-school kids roaming around and trying guitars they don’t plan to buy. Right now they have a beautiful white Hofner bass, and a 12-String Taylor (3x as much as the Cort) that i haven’t even dared to touch because i (frighteningly) do actually have that much credit available to me.)

We wound down our shopping with a peek into American Pie / Abode, another store i had passed but never entered. They had a killer collection of Yelena Designs (including this wardrobe) – i think they’d hand over the whole set for an offer of $10k. However, i was a bigger fan of this hanging (sortof) armoire. I almost walked out with some nifty placards (one with a weathered “P,” the other with guilded sheet music) but for my reluctance to put holes in walls. We were helped the adorable Mandy.

Afterwards we wandered our way back for a quick stop home before swinging back out and encountering (to my unmitigated delight) “O,” an awesome sandwich shop WITH EFFING BUBBLE TEA splitting 9th and Passyunk with Geno’s (blech). They open early enough that i could probably snag a bubble tea every day on my way to work. And they’re only $3. I think i can keep them in business single-handedly.

(This is a wonderful place to eat after you’ve hit Pat’s or Geno’s for a picture and a less-than-appetizing cheesesteak. Any Philadelphian with a stomach that isn’t made of cast iron would much rather eat at Jim’s on 4th and South, though the best ones in the city are acknowledged to reside @ Tony Luke’s @ 39 East Oregon Ave).

In any event, that was our adventure, and now i’m home dreaming of the 12-string and pounding out way-too-hard-for-me Tori songs on the piano eight note by eight note. It was a good day to be in Philly, and now perhaps i’ve given you a few ideas of where to visit when i may have before been lax.