Hedwig and Shitlette: hate and where I am from (or not)
Ok. First post. This thing seems efficient. Or something. SHort story build: I moved (ran) away from Charlotte (A.K.A. Shitlette) North Carolina in 1989 to New York f*cking city. A confused, scared, depressed little faggot who had not ONE CLUE how to live. At All. Period. I can fill in the New York stories later. Hell maybe you'll even pay for those...
Right now I've been back in Shitlette for about a month, a sebatacle before my first Atlantic crossing. I sold my apartment lease back to the greedy NY landlord for 10 grand. Cheap I know. 'Coulda got more'. I know I know. Shut up. Upon getting here, and in the midst of a "what the hell am I doin' major anxiety attack, my sister handed me the paper. "Hedwig takes 2nd Run in Charlotte", Shitlette. Hrmmm. I can't resist. Hedwig started at my club, Squeezebox. (Mine because I ran part of it. As much mine as it is the rest of the motley crew who it belongs to. Love 'em all). Love Squeezebox. I grew up there. Learned from Michael Schmidt and others how to do it. Love Hedwig. Love ALL the faboos from Squeeze (WHERE'S JUSTIN these days???), but one of the reasons I ran part of that loveable shitbag of a club was to see something happen out of it. Schmidt used to call us leather-wearing, eyeliner loving, pansy assed rock & roll bunch the "outcasts among the outcasts". Hedwig happened. It happened big. Pat, a love I'll speak of later, almost broke over with Psychotica - but his world got in the way. John, Stephen and all made art, and Hedwig made history. After seeing it hundreds of times: It was my inspiration to do more with my life, and I went back and got my BA in Creative Writing and theatre crap and and other smart stuff. (Hi Rose, Happy Birthday Dear!). Honor student I am.
So still not resisting, looking at the paper my sis' handed me - I hid in my mom's extra guest bedroom. I knew I had to deal with this: confronting myself, the queer (in the classic and modern sense of the word) outkast freak who left here so angry - with himself, his family, his everything. A part of leaving was absolutely healthy...a big ole' world was out there and I needed to see it. I needed to be queer, where queers were less vulnerable (and simple) than Shitlette. So, on this particular Saturday afternoon 2 weeks ago, I was completely confronted with my most excrutiating fear: 'where I am going' running full blast into 'where I've been'.
I could EASILY have ignored the fact that finally - where Jesus adorns just about everything, and picketing has historically been the activity du jour when something credible in theatre ever came to town - they were successfully putting on a play that in my own miniscule (very miniscule, by facilitating a part of the venue) way I helped give life to, in a town that gave birth to me. Talk about Hed-on collisions. (wah-wah)
SO, I did the only thing that any anxiety-ridden, recent graduate on his way to post-graduate school in Scotland, staying with his Mom to get his life together gave up his apartment, risk taking mother fucker could possibly be expected to do:
1. Wrote local paper as a big shit originally from Shitlette, now from New York F*cking city:
"I co-produced the club where Hedwig...:" i said
"Nice to see in a town known for picketing..." i replied
"Maybe to be free we don't, in fact, have to give up a little part of ourselves..." i recanted
Gush Gush, Kum Bay Ya. i closed.
2. Faxed letter to the owner/producer of the Shitlette theatre having the balls to put on a transgendered identity story in the middle of Jesus-land (a person, who, would probably like the play too, in my humble opinion). http://www.actorstheatrecharlotte.org/
3. Called said producer man. Dropped a sligfht name "Kudos Kudos, Applause" "Thank You!" warm fuzzy moment.
4. Paper prints paraphrased letter. http://www.kentucky.com/mld/observer/news/opinion/9306507.htm
5. More warm emails. "Come to the show."
6. Tonight I went to the show. I faced my demon. I went alone (a nono in most NY scenes). The demon, a.k.a. Daimon in greek culture, wasn;t so ugly. In fact, she showed me a new way. This was my catharsis, along withthe kid palying Hedwig onstage. I, too, had a gnosis. I like Gnostic Christianity. I like Plato's myth of Aristophanes in 'Republic'. The house people were wonderful to me. A comp, in you hometown, where you know no one, says something. Nothing to do with money. Watching a crowd full of conservative 30, 40, 50+ something's 'lift up their hands' to a tranny in front of a rock band in Shitlette says something. Hands waving and singing better than a chuirch tent revival. I shed one tear during the climax. Earlier, I'd held one back when the women behind me, both physical therapists I'd later learn, went out of their way to chat me up. We exchanged numbers, even though I stuck out in my leather pants, Michael Schmidt jewerly (see Cher) and disheveled, plastered hair.
During the show Hedwig, me obviously sticking out in the front row, paid me a lot of attention: singing, smiling and whatnot. Just like in New York years ago at the Jane Street theatre. Hedwig loves me. I love me more. Hedwig gets what being a two-spirtied individual is all about, at whatever degree. Hedwig inspired me to go back to school, now to not hate Shitlette anymore. From now on I'll at least smirk with a thawed humor when I refer to the town where I started out.
Now, on to Scotland.
Right now I've been back in Shitlette for about a month, a sebatacle before my first Atlantic crossing. I sold my apartment lease back to the greedy NY landlord for 10 grand. Cheap I know. 'Coulda got more'. I know I know. Shut up. Upon getting here, and in the midst of a "what the hell am I doin' major anxiety attack, my sister handed me the paper. "Hedwig takes 2nd Run in Charlotte", Shitlette. Hrmmm. I can't resist. Hedwig started at my club, Squeezebox. (Mine because I ran part of it. As much mine as it is the rest of the motley crew who it belongs to. Love 'em all). Love Squeezebox. I grew up there. Learned from Michael Schmidt and others how to do it. Love Hedwig. Love ALL the faboos from Squeeze (WHERE'S JUSTIN these days???), but one of the reasons I ran part of that loveable shitbag of a club was to see something happen out of it. Schmidt used to call us leather-wearing, eyeliner loving, pansy assed rock & roll bunch the "outcasts among the outcasts". Hedwig happened. It happened big. Pat, a love I'll speak of later, almost broke over with Psychotica - but his world got in the way. John, Stephen and all made art, and Hedwig made history. After seeing it hundreds of times: It was my inspiration to do more with my life, and I went back and got my BA in Creative Writing and theatre crap and and other smart stuff. (Hi Rose, Happy Birthday Dear!). Honor student I am.
So still not resisting, looking at the paper my sis' handed me - I hid in my mom's extra guest bedroom. I knew I had to deal with this: confronting myself, the queer (in the classic and modern sense of the word) outkast freak who left here so angry - with himself, his family, his everything. A part of leaving was absolutely healthy...a big ole' world was out there and I needed to see it. I needed to be queer, where queers were less vulnerable (and simple) than Shitlette. So, on this particular Saturday afternoon 2 weeks ago, I was completely confronted with my most excrutiating fear: 'where I am going' running full blast into 'where I've been'.
I could EASILY have ignored the fact that finally - where Jesus adorns just about everything, and picketing has historically been the activity du jour when something credible in theatre ever came to town - they were successfully putting on a play that in my own miniscule (very miniscule, by facilitating a part of the venue) way I helped give life to, in a town that gave birth to me. Talk about Hed-on collisions. (wah-wah)
SO, I did the only thing that any anxiety-ridden, recent graduate on his way to post-graduate school in Scotland, staying with his Mom to get his life together gave up his apartment, risk taking mother fucker could possibly be expected to do:
1. Wrote local paper as a big shit originally from Shitlette, now from New York F*cking city:
"I co-produced the club where Hedwig...:" i said
"Nice to see in a town known for picketing..." i replied
"Maybe to be free we don't, in fact, have to give up a little part of ourselves..." i recanted
Gush Gush, Kum Bay Ya. i closed.
2. Faxed letter to the owner/producer of the Shitlette theatre having the balls to put on a transgendered identity story in the middle of Jesus-land (a person, who, would probably like the play too, in my humble opinion). http://www.actorstheatrecharlotte.org/
3. Called said producer man. Dropped a sligfht name "Kudos Kudos, Applause" "Thank You!" warm fuzzy moment.
4. Paper prints paraphrased letter. http://www.kentucky.com/mld/observer/news/opinion/9306507.htm
5. More warm emails. "Come to the show."
6. Tonight I went to the show. I faced my demon. I went alone (a nono in most NY scenes). The demon, a.k.a. Daimon in greek culture, wasn;t so ugly. In fact, she showed me a new way. This was my catharsis, along withthe kid palying Hedwig onstage. I, too, had a gnosis. I like Gnostic Christianity. I like Plato's myth of Aristophanes in 'Republic'. The house people were wonderful to me. A comp, in you hometown, where you know no one, says something. Nothing to do with money. Watching a crowd full of conservative 30, 40, 50+ something's 'lift up their hands' to a tranny in front of a rock band in Shitlette says something. Hands waving and singing better than a chuirch tent revival. I shed one tear during the climax. Earlier, I'd held one back when the women behind me, both physical therapists I'd later learn, went out of their way to chat me up. We exchanged numbers, even though I stuck out in my leather pants, Michael Schmidt jewerly (see Cher) and disheveled, plastered hair.
During the show Hedwig, me obviously sticking out in the front row, paid me a lot of attention: singing, smiling and whatnot. Just like in New York years ago at the Jane Street theatre. Hedwig loves me. I love me more. Hedwig gets what being a two-spirtied individual is all about, at whatever degree. Hedwig inspired me to go back to school, now to not hate Shitlette anymore. From now on I'll at least smirk with a thawed humor when I refer to the town where I started out.
Now, on to Scotland.
posted by Martin B at 3:35 AM
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