The Sadness of Insomnia

I suffer from frequent bouts of insomnia (another trait I share with Groucho, for those of you keeping score) that can be quite debilitating. I rarely, if ever, get the recommended eight hours of sleep. I was raised to be a night owl, which in many ways is depressing considering how I am at my most creative during the morning. My folks were anything but firm when it came to an established bedtime … and I am paying the price for it now in my thirties.

Sometimes the insomnia is brought about by an over-active mind … sure, you’ve been there. Your mind is running a million miles per hour when all you really want to do (or should do) is go to sleep. Sometimes I spend hours replaying the day’s events, sometimes its worry about various and sundry things, sometimes I find myself lost in memories … replaying random moments from my history.

Frequently (at least, over the course of the last several weeks) I have been in bed running through a nearly-forgotten memory. It’s a memory of a time long ago and I can’t help but wonder why these thoughts consume my mind late, late at night. If you had asked me two months ago about this particular set of memories, I don’t know that I could have recalled them.

But for some reason they have weighed heavily on my mind the last few weeks. So, what the heck … I’ll share them with my two or three moderately loyal readers. They are memories of when I became accustomed to being disappointed in others …

It was the summer of 1987 (dear God, was it really that long ago) and I was a rebellious and cocky teenager. I will be using made-up names for all of the other characters in this story … not to protect the innocent, but because I honestly can’t quite remember any of their names. That summer I met Dave (I’m 99% certain that his name did start with a “D”) and Joe … Dave was a few months younger than me, Joe was about to turn 16. The three of us struck up a quick and instant friendship based on nothing other than being fairly intelligent, rebellious kids trying to grow up too damn fast.

For weeks the three of us practically lived together. We spent our days cruising the streets and smoking cigarettes. We spent our nights drinking beer and, if and when it was available, smoking a little pot. We played pool and stole car stereos. We tossed a baseball back and forth and listened to the “album-oriented” rock station. In retrospect, the three of us really hadn’t much of any substance in common … but at the time, we were inseparable.

One night we threw a small party at Dave’s house (if memory serves, his parents were out of town practically the entire summer!) with about a dozen people invited. An attractive young girl (who we’ll call Claire) arrived and took everybody by surprise. You see, none of us really knew her. I knew of her … we had attended the same school since the 7th grade, but had never had a class together. Our relationship was no closer than some friends of my friends were friends with her friends … we were the same age, but knew next-to-nothing about each other.

As the evening progressed, I grew quite fond of her. She was smart, sassy and had a quick and biting tongue. She dropped hilarious insults and was outgoing and a little loud. I found out she had only come because a girlfriend of hers (who we had invited) couldn’t make it. We played cards, drank bourbon and traded jokes and barbs. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous or anything, but had a cute little body to go with her flashing eyes. For a few hours I was really enjoying this girl … she was perfect … everything I was attracted to (which, I admit, was most everything at the time) and still am attracted to: funny, smart as a whip, confident, hilarious, brash … ah, she was something else.

The night continued and the good-natured insults we traded back and forth became dirtier and dirtier (as will happen between a man and a woman, particularly when bourbon is involved) and by one o’clock in the morning I was smitten … I was going to fall for this girl … there was no doubt. I would have to see Claire again.

Then she dropped the bombshell …

“I’m horny and I wanna f**k. Any and all of you. Except for him.” She was pointing at me! In an instant I became the group leper … a pariah among a group of people who, in a loose sense at least, looked to me as some kind of leader. To the guys, I was a laughing stock. To the girls … well, I was the guy least likely to get laid. In that instant, the dynamic of my friendship with Dave and Joe shifted. I was the “least cool” guy in the room.

It made me sad. Profoundly sad.

Not for myself … not at all … and not really for Claire … but for the loss that I (and the world) had just experienced. I felt misled by this bright, shining light of a person who I had just met. It wasn’t jealousy … the emotion didn’t even necessarily involve any feelings about myself. It just felt like a waste. I actually fought back tears, I was so taken aback.

As the night went on she did exactly as she had promised … she screwed every guy there but me (there were probably five or six of us) … while I sat at the table sipping a Jack & Coke trying to make small talk with … well, with whoever wasn’t busy either losing their virginity to or getting some much needed experience from Claire.

Now, let’s set the record straight (although I don’t feel I have to) … I am certainly not a prude and I certainly wasn’t one back in ’87. I’ve had my fair share of one-night-stands, flings and casual encounters. But maybe I look at it differently than others do … because they all meant (and still mean!) something to me. Whatever the situation and whatever label we put on it, that event (as “casual” as it might have been) was special … because we chose to have it with one another.

But the story doesn’t quite end there.

As the sun rose the following morning, the only people left in the house were Dave, Joe and myself … and Claire, who had commandeered Dave’s bed for the evening. The four of us decided that morning that we would do battle with the hang-over-to-come by heading to the apartment complex that Claire lived in with her mother (who also was out of town … why is that my parents were the only ones who never went out of town?) and hang out by the pool.

So the next hour or two was spent lounging in a chair poolside with the Texas sun beating down on me while I sipped on a large glass of iced tea. The clouds rolled in around noon and it began to rain. We all felt like hell, so we went in and decided that we should all take a little nap. Dave and Joe grabbed some throw pillows from the couch and settled down on the floor while I stretched out on the couch itself. I had assumed that Claire had gone to her own bedroom to sleep it off and was surprised to find her settling in next to me.

She wrapped her arms around my neck and settled her face onto my chest and after a few moments fell off to sleep. Had it happened twelve hours earlier I would have been overjoyed. Now I was simply confused and disappointed. This girl, so comfortable and gently breathing on my shoulder, so resembled the one I had been enamored with the night before …

It made me sad. Profoundly sad.

A Journey of Self Discovery … with Groucho Marx

Ask anyone who knows me at all and they will be able to tell you of my love and fascination with Groucho Marx. I am a Marx Brothers enthusiast and would rather spend half an hour watching an episode of You Bet Your Life than just about anything that’s on TV today. Much of my humor stems from that enchantment. Much of my character (good and bad), conscious or not, owes a debt of gratitude to Julius Marx. He has been more than an influence … in some ways he has been an authority.

How is it that I, a fellow who was born and raised as a Protestant in Texas, would feel such a kindred spirit to a Jewish comedian from New York who passed away when I was only seven years old? How is it that a legend whose mother called him “the jealous one” would, in many ways, be the progenitor to an unsuccessful actor living alone in North Carolina?

It all started, like so many things, in childhood. Many of my happiest memories with my father were watching re-runs of You Bet Your Life. It was a show we both enjoyed. We both relished the intelligent, witty banter and even had fun playing the quiz right along with the contestants. I learned most of what little geography I know from the show (geography, for some reason, was a popular category) and from my father telling me what had changed in the years since the show first aired. You Bet Your Life was one of the few things that really bonded us … it was something that only we shared.

And I became curious about this little mustached man who smoked the cigars.

When, in the sixth grade, we were assigned the task of writing a book report on an autobiography and presenting it to the class as the historical figure, my choice would be both obvious and novel. While other student gave presentations as George Washington, Abe Lincoln, Benjamin Franklin and Napoleon … I would take on the mantle of my hero. At the library I found two books listed as autobiographies on Groucho Marx. “Wow! He wrote two himself?” The books were titled Groucho & Me and Memoirs of a Mangy Lover. I chose the latter … how could I not?

Little did I realize (and apparently, neither did the library) that Memoirs of a Mangy Lover is not an autobiography at all, but rather a collection of humorous essays he wrote … the majority of which are about his escapades with the fairer sex. Since I wouldn’t have time to paint on a greasepaint mustache, I used some of Dad’s shoe polish to blacken two stretched out cotton balls that I would tape to my upper lip. I found Granny’s old horn-rimmed glasses (just frames really, the lenses long since lost) and taped two more cotton balls on top of them to resemble the eyebrows.

With my outfit complete, I marched in front of that class with a small cigar in one hand and my copy of Memoirs of a Mangy Lover in the other. Needless to say, I gave the most amusing (and in retrospect, shocking) book report any sixth grader at Bowie Elementary had ever given. I got laughs and I got an A … and I got invited to return to an all-school assembly (this time with greasepaint mustache painted on) a few months later to do it all again. I was a hit. I was a comedian. I was Groucho Marx.

I mentioned how Groucho had been part of a bond with my father, but he was also part of a bond with my mother. A year or so after my Mangy Lover presentation, a small restaurant opened on 50th Street called … Groucho’s. It had a wonderful mustache, eyebrows, glasses and cigar logo and served these delicious burritos the size of my head. The restaurant only lasted a couple of years (and I never figured out what burritos had to do with Groucho) but for a time it was a favorite place for my mother and I. We had our own little private lunch there on many joyous occasions.

I didn’t don the greasepaint for another fifteen years or so, but Groucho was constantly with me. As I began to pursue a theatrical career I would often turn to old Marx Brothers movies for inspiration … especially when doing comedy. I recognized that, on stage at least, I took myself way too seriously and I would need the sweet release of a Monkey Business or Horsefeathers to bring me back to reality … or lack of reality, as the case may be.

Then, in my late twenties, I began to toy with the idea of writing a play about Groucho. I had been inspired by Arthur Marx’s play about his father (I had seen Gabe Kaplan perform it on cable as a teenager) but thought it lacking in terms of his relationships. Sure, it featured lots of fun Groucho moments, but the love of his brothers and particularly (and perhaps with good reason) his love of his children seemed to have been glossed over.

So I set about jotting down ideas that might one day become a script. For a while I toyed with the idea of having Groucho and T.S. Eliot stuck on an ocean liner. Then, having read about how Groucho and Laurence Olivier (another inspiration) had once shared a dressing room at a performance honoring T.S. Eliot’s memory (Eliot had recently passed), I toyed with the idea of having these two very different performers share their anxieties and insecurities with each other in that setting.

In time I had a very rudimentary script that I called Why A Duck? (and if I have to explain Why A Duck? the only answer you’re getting is “because it’s deep water, that’s why a duck.”) that was filled with bits and pieces of famous Marx Brothers routines but was, in essence, a one-man show. Determined to give this script of mine a whirl, I submitted it to the Livestock Second Stage community theater in Greensboro, NC for consideration. They liked it and gave me some dates. I would have three performances in downtown Greensboro … and we set to work.

That brief run was a great deal of fun and opened my eyes to what the show could be. My script, much like Arthur’s, was missing the love and camaraderie (and envy and difficulty) between the brothers because, well, the other brothers were missing. So I sat about to re-working the script to focus on Groucho but to feature all five (yes, I said five … initially Gummo would be there too) of the brothers.

It was back to work less than a year later as I lined up a performance as a fund raiser for the annual “5 by O. Henry” presentations at the Greensboro Historical Museum. We would perform first in the ballroom at the O. Henry Hotel and then give a couple of additional performances at the museum’s theater itself. Now with actors playing Chico, Harpo, Zeppo and Gummo we had a more well-balanced show.

That is until the actor playing Gummo flaked on us and dropped out. So in our show, like in life, Gummo became dispensable. The show was a highlight in my career … at least on a personal note … because of my love of the subject matter and the joy I had working with Joe Ritorto (Chico), Vance Weatherly (Harpo), Chris Laney (Zeppo) and the lovely and supportive Renee Ashcroft. Underwritten by Quaintance-Weaver Hotels and Restaurants, that first performance found us in a standing-room only ballroom filled with smiling and laughing patrons.

Leslie Mizell, in the News & Record, wrote that I was “very good as Groucho, aging 50 years or so and doing a fine impression rather than an imitation.” To this day it is one of my favorite reviews because I didn’t want to be a caricature but rather show a real man behind the greasepaint. I am proud of Why A Duck? and always will be. It was my first venture as playwright, director and star. I proved that I could do it … and I had Groucho to thank.

A half-dozen or so years later, while I was writing The Broken Jump, I felt the influence of Groucho again. Julius McGowen (the name wasn’t chosen at random) was an extension of me and the inspiration of old vaudevillian Julius Marx helped me find a home for him. In fact, one of the comedy skits performed in The Broken Jump was originally written to be in Why A Duck? (it was something that I fancied Groucho & Gummo doing long before there were “Marx Brothers”) but was shelved (although I did perform it along with James Langer as part of the aforementioned "5 by O. Henry") because it neither fit nor was historically accurate in the least.

It hasn’t been just as a performer that Groucho has had influence in my life. In fact, that is what this entry was supposed to be about originally. I keep finding characteristics (both good and ill) that we share. Some I am proud of and others … well, the others, less so. Groucho was married three times and drove them all away (and to drink) because as much as he loved them (and I do believe he truly did love each of them) he was a terrible husband. I could be accused of the same. He loved and doted on his children when they were young, but seemed unable to express himself to them as they grew older … another fault I keep finding myself guilty of. He suffered from insomnia … and I should really be in bed right now. He was more proud of his written works than any of his performances and so am I. He was frequently shallow, petty and rude … and I’ve been … jeez, maybe we should just stop there.

Its true folks … I worked myself up from nothing to a state of extreme poverty … because I am a descendant of Groucho Marx.

Woe Mule, Woe

Tee hee.

Sorry. I was just giggling at that clever little title. I think it’s kinda funny. Gimme a second here, won’t you?

Sigh.

Alright. All better now. Let’s get down to business now, shall we? Now, I know that way back when I wrote my first entry in this blog I promised I wouldn’t write any political editorials … but I’m about to go back on that promise. I apologize in advance and I’ll endeavor to do my best to prevent it from happening again. But with Super Tuesday now behind us, I just have to say one thing:

“Democrats are stupid!”

There. I said it. Now let me just qualify that a bit. I am a lifelong registered Democrat. I have almost always voted along party lines, much to the disappointment of my mother. In fact, to this day I remember well being ten years old and telling my mother that I was a Democrat and that I supported President Jimmy Carter. She was aghast … and that might’ve been the first time I ever disappointed my mother. I have donated money to liberal causes and campaigned for liberal candidates. I am a Democrat … there you go. But even knowing that, I must reiterate:

“Democrats are stupid!”

I can hear you now. “Wait a minute, King. If you’re a Democrat, how can you say that?” Well, I don’t mean that all Democrats are stupid. Many of us are very intelligent people. But the party itself? Stupid.

The Democratic Party has long been the party of idealists. It is one of the true beauties of our party. The problem comes in election season … we put idealism ahead of pragmatism every four years … and we’ve done it for decades. You always hear arguments on television about the Democrats trying to find a “viable” candidate during primary season. That’s why Bill Clinton was such a revelation … for the first time since JFK the Democrats had a candidate who could actually win. (Yes, I know Carter won as well, but everybody must know that was more of a reaction to Nixon and Ford’s pardoning of Nixon … any well spoken Democrat would have won that election).

This year we have two extremely interesting and powerful candidates who are neck in neck in terms of winning the nomination, Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama. They are articulate, well-meaning, well-funded and wonderful candidates.

And neither has a chance of winning in November.

This election was supposed to a “gimme.” With the increased disapproval of President Bush and the war in Iraq, everybody has assumed that having a Democrat in the Oval Office come January was a foregone conclusion. And then the Democratic Party (and all of us, mind you) blew it.

“But King, it’ll be history,” I hear you say. “We’ll either have the first black President or the first woman President.” Well, if you believe that, then you need to get in your car and drive east or west, depending on which coast you live on (and chances are that, if you do believe that, you live on one coast or the other) and get out in that middle part of the country. You know, that place they call “middle America.” That place filled with cows, blue collar workers and Republicans.

Instead of selecting a “viable” candidate, once again we are pinning our hopes on the shirt of an ideal. We need to get over ourselves. We just can’t seem to pick a candidate that can really win in November. “That’s not true,” you say? Oh … let me just double check with President Al Gore. Oh yeah … he didn’t win either.

Folks, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but the country just isn’t ready for a female President and it just isn’t ready for a black President either. And don’t you dare call me racist. I’ll have you know that the first election I ever cast a vote in was the ’88 Presidential primary … and that vote was cast for Rev. Jesse Jackson. This isn’t about my racism (or sexism), but about the general pulse of this nation. Yes, I agree we’ve made great strides in terms of equality and Civil Rights … but what makes you think we’ve come all the way ‘round? And why should we gamble the highest office in the land in trying to prove how far we've come?

Hey, I hope we have a woman President one day (just not Hillary) in my lifetime. I would love to see our country led by an African American, if for no other reason than to show the world that our country has evolved. But I just don’t see it happening. Not this year. Not yet.

Do you even realize why Mitt Romney’s numbers have just taken a nose dive and he’s suspended his campaign? Why wouldn’t the Republican Party support the one candidate that is truly a conservative through and through? I hate to say this … but because of his religious beliefs. C’mon, do you honestly think that a Mormon can carry states in the Bible belt? The Republicans, as they always do, are narrowing the search down to candidates that can win.

And win they will.

So don’t be shocked, idealist Democrats, when we’re watching the swearing in ceremony of John McCain. We had our chance. We had great candidates who we just didn’t support … Biden, Edwards, Richardson. We had candidates that could actually win. We just didn’t support them. We jumped on bandwagons, just like we do every four years, that are determined to collapse (see: Dean, Howard and/or Kerry, John) and now we have to ride them to the bitter end.

Hey, I would love to be proven wrong. I just don’t see it happening. Again. Oh, woe!

Tee hee.

Woe, instead of Whoa. Clever, huh? The mule is a donkey … get it? Donkey, Democrats. Whoa! Ahh … I kill myself.

Nobody asked you if you thought it was funny.