Super Hero Spandex and the Ordinary Folly of Love

Hello. My name is Krissi Reeves.

From the looks of it, it may just rain today. The thick soft shades of gray hanging in the sky look just like the precious belly of my silver tabbied cat, Rufus.

I am currently wearing a pink v-neck t-shirt, painted on black jeans and grey velvet super-boots. Super, I say, because I could easily, in one swift swoop, tug off my civilian clothes, reveal nothing but a fancy leotard, a heroic cape and these boots and I would certainly pass all costume expectations of a super hero. Of course I'm not wearing a leotard beneath my clothes and super heroes probably prefer their tailored, stretchy attire referred to as a uniform. "Costume" seems so frivolous. Which is fine, no one is knocking frivolity, it's just that super heroes are to be taken very seriously, yes? They do in fact jeopardize their lives and normal everyday personas to stand against the chaos, injustices and cruelty of the world. I want to be super. In the superhero kind of way. I feel super in a lot of ways, but standing tall in the face of crisis or conflict ain't my best attribute.

I'd be a selfish superhero, however. I would want to use my powers to stand up against my own worst enemies. At first, anyways. I'd need to battle my own weaknesses and fears before I could stage battles against the most villainous forces of the universe. Or, I suppose, I could do both simultaneously, right? Isn't that how it usually goes: in battling external adversaries, we learn to overcome our own terrors and demons?

Yes, that is how it goes. Yes, yes. Ok. So, maybe it wouldn't be selfish.

Well, then. Consider me spandex-ed and ready for action. I'm going to make a list of internal / external forces of evil and furiously spin in circles until I get dizzy and collapse. Then, I will gracefully stand up and shout with conviction, "Ignite effective solutions!" (Effective solutions delivered with aerial gymnastics, pyrotechnics and undeniable sexual allure, of course. I don't want to be a boring superhero. Effective solutions + pizazz = me.) Then I will peruse over the list and choose my first battle.

Ok. Let's get this list started.

First and Most Importantly: Speak Up.

Over the last two years, I have silenced myself more than anytime in my adult life. Internalizing and quietly tip-toeing off the radar. Prior to my vocal hiatus, however, exposing my thoughts, truths, strengths, vulnerabilities, failures, absurdities and dumb jokes was a vital modus operandi that kept me sane and connected.

But, then my life changed.

In a very short period of time, I became overwhelmed - practically defined - by love, loss, stress and death - simultaneously experiencing the most visceral heartaches and the most profound personal connections I have ever encountered. I experienced numerous deaths in a matter of days, began an affair, started a business and .....I shed skins until I bled from my bones. I dug holes deeper than the earth's crust until I descended into a territory terrifyingly unknown. I both haphazardly and relentlessly discovered the most heinous the and most extraordinary elements of me, Krissi. I built an impossible cage of circumstance around me and swallowed the key into the deepest pit of my gut without ever as much as a whisper or a whimper. Slowly unfettered myself from a self-imposed sentence of solitary confinement and, then took a long deep breath. I kept my chin up, my mouth shut and sludged forward to the best of my ability while I conjured the strength to find my way back to me.

I've taken a lot in over the past two years. Ingested. Digested. Consumed. Contemplated. Mummed my very own words so as to let my personal experiences whirl around in my brain until I was ready to speak. Meanwhile, allowing my silence to create a forum for others to interpret my experiences and tell my story.

Today, I am ready.

Mine is not a story of woe, however. Nor is it shameful, blameful or told with a talon-tongue. My story is about how even when we are buried in the cruelest of life's moments, how even when our hearts our shattered and we have failed ourselves and others more than we ever thought imaginable, we can always find our way back to peace. And with a little compassion, we can always learn from both our extraordinary super-powers and the quite ordinary follies of love.

Leonard Earl and His Magic Toupee

Leonard Earl has worn a toupee the entire 27 years he’s been married to my mother. My friends and I always had a suspicion. Perplexed by the absence of a barber. Curious about his graying mustache, his aging face and yet the permanent jet-black sheen of his lacquered “do.” He never admitted it. Until the cancer.

The myth goes, as told by my mother to my sister to me, that while serving as a marine in Viet Nam, he somehow contracted a strange, obscure blood disorder of no specific name and the treatment for the mysterious illness caused his hair to fall out. And it never grew back. So, he bought a man-wig, attached it and never, not once, over three decades changed it. I mean never. It is 2009, his body and face have been withered and wrecked from the three-year battle with terminal cancer and, yet, he still rocks his super-suave 1971 Monty Hall “Let’s Make a Deal” toupee.

Go, Len. Leonard Earl. Leonard Earl Massena the Third, my stepdad.

The eternal toupee says everything that means anything about Leonard. He is the essence of a decade that birthed tacky-cool. Winged-hair, nut-hugging bellbottoms, stadium rock and custom paint kits on fast cars. He loves his cars, he loves his cool. He currently owns two Cadillacs, two custom GMC “touring” vans and one 1981 red Corvette with t-tops and black leather interior. But, he cannot drive. Driving on morphine might be considered cool. Driving with an oxygen tank and a colostomy bag, not so much.

Len has multiple myeloma, a rare form of cancer that runs through the blood in your bones. The cancer is no longer treatable and, more so than ever, flaunting the affliction of its final ugly stages.

Cancer is a vicious and insatiable thief. Over time, the disease robs you of your favorite things. Steals your masculinity, shrinks your spine, siphons your breath, rusts your automobiles crumbles your bones and replaces “cool” with “it’s not important.” Everything that means something is different now. What is important is waking up. Not getting pneumonia. Smiling. At least once a day, even if you don’t feel like it. Because everyone that means something is watching you. Every second.

So we’ve all worked hard to cope…as a family…the best we know how…which isn’t always dignified. But, when faced with cancer, dignity isn’t always an option.

There is a candy store of pharmaceuticals sprawled across my parents’ kitchen counter. Pink. Blue. Yellow. Orange. In the 70’s this would have been very, very cool. I can tell you that the blue ones and the teeny white ones are the best. I always read the labels carefully so as to not accidently take the steroids or the stool softener. I like the candy. It has become a beloved part of my parent-visiting ritual: straight to the kitchen counter and swallow. My dad eats the pills because he has to. My mom eats the pills because he has to and she can’t deal. I eat them for recreational-coping and family bonding. I figure its best to all be dysfunctioning on the same level.

Watching my stepdad suffer has been one of the most challenging and heartbreaking experiences of my life. Self-medicating, denial, anger and alcohol have all been friend to my aching heart at one time or another. I know these methods of coping are unhealthy and counterproductive to the healing process. But, sometimes, it’s easier to checkout than to be present with the tragedy at hand.

Other times, however, I tackle the whole cancer debacle with a conjured strength that surprises me. I call upon resilience, fond memories and hope to barrel through another day of a war that I’m helpless to fight. I’m not the one with the disease, after all. I have to buck up. I have to be strong. I have to be cool.

I remember an afternoon in high school, before I had earned my own driver’s license, accompanying Len for a Sunday afternoon drive through East Dallas. Cruising around town in one of his custom cars was his favorite weekend activity. This particular afternoon, we were sporting “Gold Digger,” a hand-painted, custom Chevy truck complete with ground effects, shiny rims and pitch black tinted windows. As we sat at the stoplight at Buckner Boulevard, Len cranked up the stereo. He loves music. Every room in his house and every custom car is carefully equipped with “perfect sound.” I learned at a very young age to never, ever touch the equalizer.

An ambulance siren subtly invaded Gold Digger’s polished and private interior, becoming louder and louder as if it were coming up behind us. I twisted my neck left, and then right to spot the emergency vehicle. But there was no ambulance in sight. The swoon of the siren effortlessly seamed into the slow, haunting piano prelude of the classic rock song cranking from the speakers. “Take the Long Way Home,” by Supertramp. I had never heard that song. I had never heard the album. Breakfast in America. I was immediately entranced by the harrowing vocals, rich, tugging layers of progressive rock instrumentation, but mostly the story this song told.

This song is Len’s story, I thought. If a man were a song, he would be this one. These days, it seems truer than ever.

“When you look through the years and you see what you could have been, oh, what might have been, if you had more time. Take the long way home. Take the long way home.”

I never figured out where the siren came from that afternoon. I’ve decided that it is meant to be left a mystery. Leonard Earl is a mystery to me, always has been. So, it is no surprise that an invisible ambulance siren flawlessly crafted its way into the prelude of that beautiful song, transcending a seemingly idle moment into something of invaluable sentiment. There, in his custom truck. Sitting at the longest light in the entire world. Just my stepdad and me. And his coal black, perfectly combed hair. And Supertramp, my new favorite band.

Time redefined itself that afternoon. If only Len could compose those long, lingering moments of ease and escape now. But every flinch is excruciating, every breath a battle.

I spent last Thanksgiving in the Intensive Care Unit at Medical City Hospital in Dallas watching my sleeping stepfather struggle for breath. And cry. We all cried. We all often cry. Sirens from the adjacent emergency room crooned all night, my skin covered in goosebumps recalling over and over the invisible ambulance siren that I imagined he orchestrated into his speakers that treasured Sunday afternoon.

I wasn’t sure that Len would see 2009. But, he did. He’s still here.

When I go home to Dallas to visit, I try my best to help him still feel, not only like a man, but also a cool motherfucker. I help him dig through his old records and we talk about music, mostly classic rock. We both love Queen, Zeppelin and Bob Dylan. I show him again and again how to use his new iPhone, so not only was he cool back then, he’s cool now too.

I sometimes still catch myself staring in awe and wonder at his tenacious toupee. I have decided that it hoards super-secret magical powers. It must. For, it has stood the test of time, fashion, cancer and cool. And my heart finds comfort in the theory that as long as that wig of synthetic, sable, suave hair stays stuck to his head, he will always have time to take the long way home.

****
Leonard Earl Massena III
June 4, 1946 ~ September 18,2010

"Spinning the Bottle" Returns to Frontera Fest

Hi.

So, I'm bringing back my one-woman show, Spinning the Bottle, for Frontera Fest this year and I would love for you to come!

Spinning the Bottle is a curious comedy about bed-wetting, mammal mating rituals and the delightful philosophy of Beaudelaire that one should always remain drunk. Stringing together poetic prose, self exploitation and suggestive humor, I attempt a deeper understanding of the quandaries of love and sex.

And guess what? People LOVE Spinning the Bottle. Thus far it has won Staff Pick at 2007 Frontera Fest, 1st Place PRODUCER PICK and 3rd PLACE AUDIENCE AWARD at 2008 DFW Fringe Festival.

It was recently reviewed by The Examiner... and sure, the reviewer misquotes pretty much every line of my play, but the writer was very gracious and a super-nice fella. Check out the Examiner.com review of "Spinning the Bottle."


And here is what Tim Shane, the Director and owner of Dallas Hub Theater had to say about my show: "Of all the solo performances at the DFW Fringe for the past 5 years, “Spinning The Bottle” is among my personal favorites. It is an audience favorite as well, and took home both the Audience Favorite and the Producer Pick award. It’s a perfect blend of cynicism and romance and proves that you can still be both simultaneously. "

Frontera Fest is the premiere Fringe event of the Southwest and I am thrilled to get my show back into Hyde Park Theater! Buy your tickets early and I'll see you there!

"Spinning the Bottle"
Written & Performed By:
Krissi Reeves
Tuesday Evening, January 26th
Hyde Park Theater
(Visit FF's website for time and pricing!)
Frontera Fest Information
Frontera and Spinning the Bottle on KUT

Up and out I go.

Berkeley. Berkeley. Berkeley.

I have a window seat, 17 F to be exact. Getting on the plane, however, was certainly not exact. My mind was a mess. Splattered into a million tiny specks of circumstance and what ifs and why comes and such. So, I left my boarding pass at check in - as it was pointed out to me at baggage check. Whoops. Not a very efficient use of time, Krissi. Then I dropped my wallet and my roughly 40 one dollar bar bills spilled across the busy airport floor. One of the busy passerbys surely assumed I earned those on the pole. I would have assumed such.

Geez.

One should be clearheaded and focused to travel. Or not. I choose not. My lunch, the triple V of V8, vodka and valium created just enough fuzz to remind me how I stay up. I feel no shame towards my efforts to self medicate. This is a mad world and travel is a jabbing reminder of that truth. We have to imagine, contemplate and prepare for the worst case scenario. So as to prevent it. It: the crash. It: the terrorist. It: the turbulence. It: the Bermuda Triangle. (I may be the only traveler in the continental United State to worry about this phenomenon.)

When at airports, I follow the rules. Wait patiently. Smile. I understand the dark parts of the human psyche. And gravity. What goes up, must come down. I understand that it is these factors that make traveling such a drawn-out chore. I understand that traveling is not always polite and seamless. How could millions of travelers each day maintain calm and good and pure at heart? People fall from grace, just as planes fall from the sky; it is simply the nature of this existence.

What I do not understand is how such a weighted ton of steel and energy and explosive gasses stays afloat. Or how we as humans manage to raise up when, we feel the knees of circumstance pressing into the backs of our necks. Miraculous engineering of brains & planes.

There are numerous external and internal factors to examine and encounter when flying. Enough contemplation to make the ears smoke. So, I cocktail. (I shall use that as a verb.) To take the edge off the seemingly inevitable possibility that we shall fall. From the sky, from grace. Whatever. So, yes, cocktailing is a necessary travel companion. This notion was cemented by others as I sat in an ABIA sports bar amongst many weary-eyed cocktailers. They were scribbling on napkins - adding Boeing 747 + sky + safe and it never quite equaled up. Seems more like magic than science. So, they guzzled $8 Heineken and called upon their faith.

Now, here I sit. Mashing my heavy head into the thick pane and studying the earth through the window of a Shrinky Drink Oven. Treetops turn to broccoli crowns and buildings to Tetris blocks. The clouds make skeleton knuckles. Wisps, whispers, wishes, waves. Swooshes, dollops, dances, frolics. And, if we are lucky, when weaved together, they form a buoyant safety net just below. Just in case. Just because. Behind me: the grind. Ahead: bridges and bays and stiff white bed sheets. Cool air that I am not accustomed to.

Oh, and it is Fleet Week in SF. An army of men working only to do one thing: stay up. Up, Up, Up. No fallen soldiers in this parade. Just jets and ships and j.a.g.s. All upright. Defying the odds. Defying the gravity. Standing tall. Up and out. Together, we go.