Now we need one of these (or, Have I Ever Been This Happy Ever?)
« March 2006 | Main | May 2006 »
Everybody, this is Issue #73 of Punk Planet, currently on sale at a very hip and possibly subversive non-major corporative store near you (near me, it’s Quimby’s on North Avenue, but I’m sure we all have our own very hip and possibly subversive non-major corporative stores). Issue #73, besides being very beautiful, has a little story I wrote about birth control and looting free clinics. Which is fiction. So far.
I was seven, and I asked the Sunday School teacher (my memory gives her knee-high nude pantyhose and a polyester skirt-suit), “How come everybody has their eyes closed?”
“They’re praying,” she told me.
“What’s praying?” I asked. We lived next door to a creek and I knew what Praying Mantises were.
“It’s when people connect with God,” I was told.
I think about that a lot: it’s one of those childhood moments forever seared on my memory where now, in my adulthood, I try to piece together why I now feel as I do about certain things. I know that, usually, when I’m feeling connected to Whatever Awesomeness is out there, it has something to do with privacy, and maybe immensity of space. Like, being out on my dad’s boat in the Gulf of Alaska, just miles and miles of ocean, sky and mountain on all sides. Or, driving through a thunderstorm, huge spears of lightning splicing the road in front of me. Or, laying on my back in a sunflower field between Siena and Florence. The cliffs at Gayhead on Martha’s Vineyard. It’s easy to see, in those moments, that there’s something so much bigger than me.
Last weekend, though, Christopher and I went to see Sweet Honey in the Rock (give a listen to their tune I Remember, I Believe) at Hill Auditorium in Ann Arbor. And it was amazing. And, maybe like church. Like a congregation. Six women on stage making music with just their voices, rocking a room with some thousand people of all ages and colors, talkin’ ‘bout their spirituality, and the women sitting next to me kept saying “Praise Jesus,” but she meant it in the kind, Love thy neighbor, make a joyful friggin’ noise kind of way, and I felt connected to something that was waaaay bigger than myself and it was certainly awesome, not in an Eighties Awesome, Dude! sort of way but awesome like full of awe. They’re coming to Ravinia in July, and you should check them out is all I’m saying. ‘Cause we all want to be connected to something. And at Ravinia, you can drink wine while you connect.
When I first moved to Chicago, I went to see Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind at the Neo-Futurarium. When you walk into the theater, there’s a cast member there writing out nametags for the audience. That person may decide to name you Spanky. Or Cleopatra. I’ve seen that show dozens of times over the past ten years, and it’s eerie how the names chosen for me always reflect my mood. Once, I was Molly Ringwald. Lost Cause. Pretty Smiley Blonde Girl. Mrs. Holmes (the guy had named the entire audience after teachers from his high school, apparently. Funny thing was, I had a Mrs. Holmes at my high school, too. My AP English teacher). That first time, though, I was named Superstar, and from that moment, I was hooked. TMLMTBGB was it. The Neo-Futurarium was the place. The Neo-Futurists were the cool kids who sat at the cool kid’s lunch table, and I would forever sit with the pigtail-having, nose-blowing, glasses-wearing AP English students, buying my ticket at the door and watching writer/performers challenge my perceptions night after night for ten fucking years.
Until now. Now I am totally Reese Witherspoon accepting the Oscar, saying “I never thought this would happen to me, being a little girl from Tennessee.” Except, of course, I’m from Michigan. And I have no Southern accent or really expensive dresses (although, I aspire towards both).
I’ll be performing at the Neo-Futurarium as part of their Neo-Solo Performance Festival. The show runs eight weeks and the line-up changes every two: I’ll be up at the end, May 25, 26, 27 and June 1, 2 and 3. Also on the bill that night is the wonderful Dina Connolly with “Bernadine and Dina.” “In December 1977, fourteen-year-old Bernadine "Dina" O'Neill died in a fatal auto accident. Eight months later her niece, Dina Connolly, was born. How do you get to know your namesake when she's already gone? Mail her letters, and wait to see if you get a response … ”
I’ll be doing “I’m Fine and I’m Happy,” with Julie Korman, she of the achingly beautiful voice and rock-star style. I first saw Julie sing at Schuba’s, and I went up to her after the show. “I was wondering if you’d help me with a story,” I asked.
JULIE: So, you want me to sing at a reading?
MEGAN: Not exactly.
JULIE: Is this performance art? ‘Cause I don’t—
MEGAN: It’s not performance art.
JULIE: So what is it exactly?
“’I’m Fine and I’m Happy’ is collaborative storytelling between a writer and rock singer about a time when a writer and a rock singer found out they were both in love with the same guy. Megan Stielstra’s story and Julie Korman’s music come together to show the explosive, beautiful, and awkward moments in relationships, and the struggle between expressing what we feel and hiding it behind an ‘I’m fine.’"
So, the show runs now until the beginning of June. Check out as much as you can—they have a great deal where if you bring your program back you get discounted tickets—and there’s some amazing stuff to see. I caught the opening on Thursday with Chloe Johnston and Lusia Strus’ and left thinking, laughing, bitching and dreading. All the makings of great theatre. My opening night is Thursday, May 25, and I’d love to see you all there for my very first honest-to-goodness performance in a real honest-to-goodness theater, which is very much NOT in a bar (FYI to all my under 21ers!).
Yesterday, driving through Humboldt Park on North Avenue, traffic was at a stand-still and there were all sorts of roadblocks: unmarked police cars parked diagonally across entire lanes, flashing lights, bike cops and mostly, people. Moms and dads and little kids, girlfriends and boyfriends holding hands, grammas and grandpas and everybody walking. “It’s not Puerto Rican Independence yet, is it?” Christopher asked. We’ve lived in Humboldt for years and, all I’ve got to say is, DAMN what a party. The neighborhood is alive with music, fireworks, carnivals in the park, barbeques, singing, cruising bumper-to-bumper with giant flags hanging out the window. The only celebration that can even come close is Gay Pride. One of my favorite things about both those parties is how everybody is welcome at both. Doesn’t matter if I’m gay or straight, Caucasian or Latina or whatever, somebody’s gonna hand me a Fruity Booty (FYI: two or more of those drinks in the Chicago heat can make a mess out of a girl) or some mardi gras beads and we’re all gonna have ourselves some FUN! Today is not that day, though; Puerto Rican Independence is not ‘til June, and while the crowds passing our cars are smiling, calm and chatty and waving, there’s a solemnity here that you just don’t see during a party. I immediately assumed it was a protest march of immigration policy (if you’ve been living in a barn the past few weeks and don’t know what’s going on with that, you can get some information here and here, and there’s some interesting commentary here), but then Christopher said, “Hey, there’s Jesus.”
He was driving, and whatever he could see up ahead on the left was out of my line of vision. “Did you say Jesus?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, very matter-of-fact, as through pointing out a Jiffy Lube.
I scooted to the left, but all I could see were marching people. “What’s Jesus doing?” I asked.
“He’s carrying the cross,” he said. “And there’s some Romans whipping him. Wait, wait—and … he’s down.”
Finally, the wave of the crowd passed our car, and I saw him: Jesus, in orange robes all smeared with orange goo, cross on his back, crown of thorns, look of exhaustion, the whole nine yards. Behind him were two more battered guys carrying crosses, and surrounding them were very mean-looking guys in red tunics and fake armor, frowning under their fake helmets, brandishing their fake swords, and pushing Jesus and those two thieves around in very nasty ways. A couple of them were up on horses, carrying long spears. Behind them were twenty or so women in long robes, and they were crying, and screaming, arms reached out towards Jesus. This whole scene was topped off with a couple of police on horses (their blue-and-blue uniforms, boots, and guns made an interesting contrast to the guys in fake armor, helmets and swords) and five or six bike cops riding in slow circles around everybody. Pull back a little bit and you’ll see a couple hundred people marching with them—some leading, some following, others walking level with Jesus, calmly, silently watching the performance. It made me think of last year’s march down Milwaukee Avenue the day after the Pope passed away. And the protests last week of Immigration reform. And every protest I’ve ever marched in, actually, and Pride, and 4th of July and Puerto Rican Independence and Mardi Gras and Carnivale: all of it just people coming together in solidarity or celebration. A beautiful thing, whatever your religion or color or sexuality.
Christopher: I watered the plants this afternoon.
Me: That’s good.
Christopher: I was going to water the plants in your office but I didn’t because there’s so much shit piled everywhere I couldn’t even make it through the door. In fact, I was sort of afraid to even go in there ‘cause I might’ve knocked something over and created a massive avalanche of papers and folders and books, making it more of an unorganized mess than it already is, if that’s even possible.
Me: …
Christopher: I’m just saying is all.