And Will It Be Worth It, After All?

I am not myself.
Of course, that's the easy part of the problem.
The harder bit: who am I, then?
And why?

It's not like I've changed. I just feel different. Not myself. It's really quite distressing. Especially because I don't know why. It just happened. Like a camera shutter. Or the drop of a pen in a silent hospital ward.

Click.

It's not even depression. God knows I can recognize that feeling. This is different. Better. And worse.

I've spent the last hour and a half mulling this over. This feeling. This state of being. And I finally landed on a good medium of definition. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."

There's nothing particularly wrong with Prufrock, he's just unhappy. And why shouldn't he be? What does he have to be happy about?

What does anyone have to be happy about?

I know that I should be thankful. I'm at college, getting my shot at a better life than my parents have. I don't want for much. I have food and a warm place to sleep. I have clothes, a phone, an iPod, and a nice MacBook with which I can complain for the reading pleasure of the world--should they choose to read it. I'm hopelessly in love with the girl of my dreams, and although we aren't physically together, we talk all the time and see each other every weekend. My family supports me 110%, and I'm getting AMAZING grades. Better than I ever got in high school.

So why am I so restless?

I think it's because I hate predictability. I hate a routine. Even though all the things on my to-do list are wonderful, the fact that I'm stuck in this rut kills me.

Monday-Friday: Go to class. Do homework. Eat. Sleep.
Friday-Sunday:Spend time with my girlfriend. Maybe do homework.

I like college, I do. It's certainly better than high school. And I love my girlfriend with all my heart. We both know that we're about two years and the cost of a ring from being engaged.

I just want more. I want to see more. I want to do more. I want to be more.

I see it coming for me, and it scares me. I see the middle-class existence. I see the white picket fence. It's around a house that's nice, but not anything spectacular.

The hardest part is that there's nothing wrong with that scenario. A large part of me wants it. It's just that little Prufrock in my ear, whispering. "What then? What will drive you once you have these things? Why will you be?"

I don't know.

Is it possible to have all that one needs? We talk about that in my Classics class. The Greeks thought that a constant state of want was a defining characteristic of humanity itself. In other words, our desire for more is what makes us human.

I'm not sure that I believe that. After all, that's why Penelope and Odysseus are kept apart for twenty years: the gods couldn't allow them to be too happy. And I certainly don't want to spend two decades away from Emily.

Maybe the Greeks meant to say that we are defined by our dissatisfaction. That, after all, could lead us to want more. It also takes into account Prufrock. He doesn't really want anything, he's just saddened at the limitations and length of his, a human, life.

And so, I resign myself to my own death, whenever it shall come for me. And until then, I will cherish every moment with those that I love, and revel in my dislike for those I do not love (for that is human, too). I will just live. After all, what else is there to do. I have a small part to play. Not many lines, and very little stage time. In the words of T.S. Eliot (once T. Stearns, like J. Alfred):

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Roky Horror Picture Show...Without the Rose-Tint

I was originally going to put this up immediately, but I decided to wait for a bit, and let my ideas stew. They've stewed. But before I begin, I would like to make it clear that I am not, I repeat, I AM NOT attempting to make generalizations about all Rocky Horror fans. I'm merely commenting on the group of people that I met at the showing I attended. Since this incident, I have seen the film by myself, and found it very funny. I would even like one day to go to another, better, live show. So, without any more disclaimers...

DEVIANCE AND DESPERATION AT THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW

On my very first Halloween at the University of Oregon, a friend of mine, Shona, insisted that I go to the showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Since she was paying, I consented. So, after giving her about fifteen minutes to get into her costume--she was a nurse, no one from the movie--off we went, in the cold, to the student union.

Now, several friends of mine are Rocky Horror enthusiasts, so it was always shameful to admit that I had never seen this apparent landmark of film. This association also made me privy to many stories, namely the "de-virging" ones. For those unfamiliar, all attendees who have never seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show are all but forced to take part in a ritualistic ceremony to induct them into the cult. First, they are all marked with a "v" for virgin--usually with red lipstick. Then, before the start of the show, they are humiliated in some sexually suggestive way.

Shona had been to see a live show during her summer in Berlin, but that did not stop the doorman from marking us both with V's--Shona's on her chest, mine on both my cheeks. We took our seats and made small talk for a while, looking around for any familiar faces. Actually, we sat there for far longer than "a while." It was nearly half an hour before the show started.

Honestly, I would rather it have never started at all. The performing group hosting the screening was called "Forbidden Fruits." I believe they were alluding to something sexual, but I would they were forbidden for the greater good. Out on to the stage came a panoply of scantily dressed "animals" trying their best to be sexy. Their best, as I'm sure is obvious, was pretty damn bad. The dog was cute, but not dressed like a whore, and also not particularly ugly. My personal favorite was the goat. She was a great mound of a girl, with thin blonde hair. She had a goatee and slight mustache, although I'm not sure they were fake.

After their introduction, the "animals" traipsed out into the audience and proceeded to give people lap dances. Mine was from a huge, fat, smelly, male angel (which is not even an animal). After that came the de-virging.

At this particular showing, a slight majority of the people in attendance were "virgins". So we were all called up, all hundred of us. Then they pulled us down in groups of ten or twenty to be humiliated. The first group received spankings from a man with a dildo. The second group was divided. One half had to hold Ho-Ho's in front of themselves as pastry penises while the other half raced to devour them. Next came animal sex impersonations, followed by cartoon character orgasms. Then, Shona and I were called up, though in separate groups.

Once lined up, the emcees took cans of whipped cream and sprayed it across the chests of the ladies in Shona's line. The people in my line then had to put their hands behind their backs and lick the whipped cream off. The chest I stuck my face in was rather flat--pun completely intended. To top it off, it was chocolate whipped cream, which made for a sticky mess.

After being "de-virged" (a phrase which drastically overplays the momentousness of the occasion), Shona and I took our seats. Shortly thereafter, the movie finally started, after a whopping TWO HOUR "de-virging". At this point, I was actually looking forward to finally seeing the film. In keeping with the theme of the evening, I was sorely disappointed.

I knew that in these live showings, there were "shout-outs" that the emcee did during the movie, much like Mystery Science Theatre. At least, that was the theory. In action, however, it was far less entertaining. The first problem was the pantomime. In front of the screen, members of Forbidden Fruits acted out the film. The film that was playing right behind them. The film that they were blocking, as a matter of fact. Often, though, the acting attempted to steal the attention. For example, the opening number, "Science Fiction/Double Feature", is performed by lips on an otherwise black screen. Staging problems apparently insurmountable, two performers decided to perform a striptease in front of the screen. They were not attractive. Also, there were minors in the room. Silly me, I thought that was illegal.

The second, and perhaps more pervasive, problem were the shout-outs. Perhaps a better term would be "interjections". They are designed to augment the movie, but at this particular showing all cast members not naked SHOUTED OVER THE TOP OF THE DIALOGUE. THE ENTIRE TIME. It was absolutely infuriating, especially when I had never seen the film, and when NONE OF THE COMMENTS WERE FUNNY! I speak only for myself, but the words "slut" and "asshole" never make me laugh by virtue of their own existence. Perhaps the most obnoxious instance was after the "Sweet Transvestite" number. As Tim Curry rides back to the lab in his elevator, the cast chanted, "Oral sex, anal sex, whips, and chains." I still don't understand why. Absolutely NOTHING was happening on-screen. Apparently it was funny. I guess I just didn't get the joke. Then.

It was after Shona and I left--just after that incident--that I began to understand it all. I was under the impression that this performing group was made up of people who really liked the movie, and wanted to augment the viewing experience for others. That, however, could not have been less the truth. The Forbidden Fruits people are, for the most part (as far as I could tell), social misfits trying desperately to find a social scene to which they can belong. Perhaps that was the allure of the RHPS crowd. They seem so accepting. However, they aren't. It's a group made up of inadequate asses being as outlandish and abnormal as possible. It's ingenious, really, because anyone that's repulsed by this behavior can't really say so. If they do, then they are called "prudish", "conservative", "fascist", or "repressed". These labels are the natural defense of these "Forbidden Fruits" types. They are insecure, so they retreat into the only social group that comes with it's own defense mechanism.

The whole experience was terribly depressing. I watched as a girl of no older than sixteen strutted around in a teddy and ballet shoes. Try as she might, though, she couldn't hide from reality. She showed her true self the whole time: an awkward girl at an awkward age trying desperately to escape her stringy, brace-faced reality. These people are no more deviant than I am (and, between you and I, sexual adventurism is a better discussion topic than practice in my book). They merely put on that facade to hide from the fact that they don't know who they are, or that they don't like the way other people view them. Personal freedom is something I support whole-heartedly, but these people aren't themselves. They show it every step of the way. Very few of them were comfortable; they exuded self-consciousness the entire time they performed. To that girl: you didn't fool me. And you didn't fool yourself, either. We could all tell. You'll lose the braces one day, and you'll get that last growth spurt, and you'll look like an adult.

And to the rest of the "deviants" performing that evening: You should be positively ashamed of yourselves. This behavior is real, not a joke. And whether or not it's healthy is irrelevant, because that's not what you're doing. You're self-denying. And that is far, far worse than liking kinky sex. So please, grow up. The Rocky Horror Picture Show is entertaining, sure. But it's a movie. Real people aren't really like that. Ever. So do yourselves a favor, and actually try to find who you are. Because we all know that this isn't it.