Month: December 2008

In seven days I celebrate the forty-fourth anniversary of my birth.

Counting down to that day, I am posting birthday memories.

As a kid in America grows up, there are certain milestone birthdays to look forward to. Reaching the age when a driver’s license is possible, or the age when one can vote, or the age when one can drink, legally.

Lost in the midst of all those, however, is the age imposed on people who love movies: the age when one can see R-rated movies.

Seventeen years of age.

That was the age at which a person could see an R-rated movie without having their parent or guardian there. So when I turned 17, I wanted, more than pineapple upside-down cake, more than presents, I wanted to see an R-rated movie.

And my first “legal” R-rated movie was “Sharky’s Machine”, a Burt Reynolds cops-and-robbers thriller.

I picked it because most people in my family liked Burt Reynolds. This is not surprising. Lots of people liked Burt Reynolds. He was a huge star back in the 70s.

I wanted a movie that promised lots of action. A “boy movie”. I remember reading about the showpiece stunt in the film prior to it’s release: a 220-foot stunt fall that has never been surpassed even today.

But I have to admit that, mostly, I picked that movie because, to me, an R rating meant one thing and one thing only: nudity. I knew that Rachel Ward, the starlet playing a mob boss’s girlfriend in the flick, would probably, very likely, show her boobies.

So, after my birthday dinner at home, after some delicious pineapple upside-down cake, me, my sister, and my parents drove down to the Southgate Theater, a cinder block warehouse of a theater, and bought tickets for “Sharky’s Machine”.

…wait, what? I was 17. I did not have to have my parents’ permission. I did not need to be accompanied by my legal guardian. As long as I could prove I was 17, I could see any R-rated movie I wanted to.

And yet, my parents did, in fact, go to see it with me.

Now I look back and am a bit embarrassed by that. Details are fuzzy, but I’m certain that the reason mom and dad came with me was because I had no job of my own, therefore no spending money of my own. But maybe mom and dad just wanted to see that movie themselves?

In fact, waaaaaaaaay back when I was 7, I remember my parents taking me and my sister to a drive-in theater (remember those? Also, GET OFF MY LAWN) to see the R-rated “Fuzz”, staring Burt Reynolds. My parents made us kids hide in the back seat because they could not find a babysitter. I remember peeking up over the top of the front seat and seeing Burt Reynolds and his partner dressed up as Catholic nuns; Burt had a line complaining about his balls. Even at that young age, I knew what balls were and I thought that line was hilarious, a fact which scandalized my mom.

At 17, ten years later, watching a movie with much profanity, a tiny bit of nudity (there’s a quick scene where Rachel Ward is getting dressed while talking to Burt and we get a glimpse of boob), and lots of fake action (of the 220′ fall, only a brief moment of it was used in the movie; the rest was obviously a dummy), I had come full circle and, perhaps, made my parents a bit uncomfortable watching that movie with me.

Probably not dad. But probably mom, at least.

Harsh weather brings out the good and the bad in people.

The Good:

• Earlier in the, the #70 bus driver stopped for me even though I was a block away from the stop. Then when I realized I had forgotten my wallet (and bus pass), he waved me on, anyway. That rocks! (Sadly, I needed my money at my destination so I had to decline. But I thanked him profusely!)
• This afternoon, while waiting at SE Milwaukie and Powell St., a bus driver who wasn’t on a regular route (his sign said “Center Garage” – funny story, for the longest time, as in, for all the years I’ve been riding the bus I thought that meant “the central, or main, garage” but only realized recently that it means “The garage at SE 17th and Center Street”) stopped to let me and several others on, after warning us that he was only crossing the bridge and going downtown, which is all I needed. That rocks!

The Bad:

• On my way home from a movie tonight, the driver of the #19 Woodstock got to SE Milwaukie and Powell and told his passengers that he’d broken a chain and that he had to return to the Center Garage, and that we could not stay with him while he got the chain fixed, stranding us. The next #19 wasn’t due (according to Transit Tracker, which isn’t that accurate during the Snowpocalypse!) for another 45 minutes! That’s not rockin’.
• Since I was stranded near an AM/PM Mini Mart, I decided to wait inside. After about five minutes, the guy behind the counter asked me what I was doing there, and told me I could not stay there, kicking me back out into the snow on the snowiest day in Portland in my lifetime. I told him he was awesome and wished him a Merry Christmas. Motherfucker. That’s about as far from rockin’ as it’s possible to get.

Got any stories of the weather bringing out the best or the worst in people?

Three days ago:

Today:

I am about sick of all this fuckin’ snow.

THAT IS ALL. FOR NOW.

In eight days I celebrate the forty-fourth anniversary of my birth.

Counting down to that day, I am posting birthday memories.

…Then there was the year a plane crashed in Portland on my birthday.

1978. It was a Thursday, according to the calendar. It was cold and rainy, and I was 14. Just 14. I don’t remember what presents I got that year, but I do remember that the family, dad, mom, my sister and I, all went out to the Cattle Company restaurant on McLoughlin Blvd. for dinner. Or maybe it was the Sizzler?

Steaks, anyway.

No, now that I think about it, it was Cattle Company. I’m pretty sure.

I got my presents and unwrapped them at the restaurant, and after dinner we all piled into the Datsun 810 to drive the couple miles back home. Dad turned on the radio, and I remember him shushing everyone in the car so he could listen to the news report.

United Flight 178, a DC-8 with 181 passengers and 8 crew, had run out of fuel while flying from DEN to PDX. The crew was apparently trying to solve a problem with the landing gear.

It crashed at 6:15 PM in the Parkrose neighborhood. There were 10 fatalities – 2 of them, crew. I can’t find information on whether or not anyone on the ground was injured or killed in the crash.

We didn’t know most of that at the time. We drove home and immediately turned on the news to see a reporter standing in the dark holding a microphone.

I can’t distinguish, now, 30 years later, between my memories of seeing fictional plane crashes in movies and on TV, or my actual memories of watching the news that night. I don’t remember how much is true. I don’t even remember how I felt, other than, “how strange that a plane would crash on my birthday”.

Thinking about it now, though… surely most of those people were either flying to, or flying from, family for the holidays. Death is perhaps the most unfair thing about the universe we live in.

Which makes life itself the best part, I suppose.

In my review of “Milk” I drew a line from gay activism and their growing acceptance in society, and the atheist community:

“Harvey Milk’s idea of making the fight personal by putting a face on what is otherwise an abstract idea is a good one. And the goal of getting more atheists elected into office is also a great route to take. The atheist community is only now beginning to organize and speak as one group. It’s going to be a long fight, but studies show that, as education rises, so does non-belief. Education doesn’t just mean advanced degrees; it can also mean just talking to your neighbor or friend.”

Over on Open Left Chris Bowers notes that Pastor Warren has explicitly said he hates atheists, as well, to absolutely no one’s surprise.

Bowers, who normally writes strictly about politics, is apparently a private atheist. He has internalized the social pressure, the privileged status that our society has given to religious belief.
Bowers says he rarely discusses his atheism:

“Now, atheists, like the LGBT community, are not as numerous as evangelicals. The most recent poll I could find on the subject showed 78% believed in “God,” 14% believed in a “universal higher power,” and only 7% believed in “neither” (1% was “unsure”). When you are an atheist, it is pretty obvious to you that you are in a small minority. Further, since many people, not only Rick Warren but often members your own family, consider your atheism as somehow an affront rather than just a personal lack of belief, to make life easier you do your best to never bring up religion as a topic at all. Just being left alone about it becomes both the short-term and long-term goal. I don’t even like writing about it on Open Left, because I know that some members of my family read it.”

I have never met Chris Bowers, but I have read his posts for the past 4 years or more. Based on his words, I do not take him to be bashful about voicing his opinion. He is passionate about getting involved and speaking up; and he does it in a thoughtful and well-reasoned way. That’s why I found his submission in regards to religion a bit of a shock.

That a man who has gone from being a student to being one of the leading lights of the progressive political blogosphere would suppress a significant part of his identity just shows me how marginalized atheists are.

That someone I admire would then draw the same conclusion as I is immensely satisfying; because Bowers goes on to draw the same parallel between gays coming out of the closet and finally beginning to be accepted by society (though unevenly and with still so much struggle ahead) and the fact that most atheists yield to the social pressure that says stating our non-belief in gods is, somehow, an attack on those who believe:

“However, as atheists, it is probably time that we stopped being withdrawn about our beliefs. Our public image is lower than even that of homosexuals, for example. The reason it is lower is because they fight for their rights and they fight for inclusion. We atheists don’t. If we are all working together to try and end homophobia as a tolerated, mainstream position worthy of the inaugural benediction for a Democratic President, then we should probably work to make intolerance of atheists unacceptable, too. When we start excluding certain groups, it has the potential to spill out over into all groups, as Natasha wrote yesterday at MyDD.

If I am not speaking up for my owns rights to tolerance and inclusion, how can I speak up for others? A lot of the problem is probably my own damn fault, because I have never bothered to even ask for inclusion and tolerance of my beliefs. So, let me start with this: I am an atheist, there is nothing wrong with my beliefs, you are not going to convert me, and so you are going to have to live with it.”

Absolutely right. The more of us that speak out and identify ourselves, the more people will realize that we are everywhere. Everyone knows an atheist.

When we talk about what we believe (or don’t believe), it does not mean it’s an attack on what others believe.

It is not OK to hate us or marginalize us. It has never been and it never will be, for us or any other group of humans.

And pointing out that others hate us is not equivalent to intolerance.

In nine days I celebrate the forty-fourth anniversary of my birth.

Counting down to that day, I am posting birthday memories.

When mom would ask me what kind of birthday cake I wanted, early on, I remember being very impressed with the pineapple upside-down cake.

So sweet and decorated without frosting. Yum. And the sugary, sort-of crust that formed on top around the rings of pineapple… delicious.

Mom would make it in a rectangular Pyrex baking… thing. Pan? It was Pyrex and see-through, the kind of thing you’d bake a lasagna in (which was another item on my mom’s small menu of recipes). Not a traditional layer cake. I would always request a corner piece – I don’t know why, because it’s not like it had extra frosting. The candles would go in the middle of the pineapple rings – or maybe mom filled those holes with cherries? I remember it both ways.

I don’t remember how or when I first heard or tasted the pineapple upside-down cake. I imagine that my mom must have made one during the year, and it so impressed me that I had to have one when the opportunity came up for me to choose one special cake for my birthday.

Everyone in my family had their favorite cakes for their own birthdays. My dad’s was white cake with cherry bits, and cherry-flavored frosting. My sister loved chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.

Sadly, I don’t remember what kind of cake my mom wanted for her birthday. Was it just that she never requested one because she was the one who had to make it? Or did she have a favorite and I have just lost that memory? Alas, she is gone and has been for over 7 years so I’ll be unable to ask her.

As I grew up, though, my tastes changed, and my requested cake was simple: white cake, chocolate frosting. This cake was made as a layer cake and slathered in frosting. And to this day, that’s what I choose when I have to choose a favorite kind of cake.

Mmmm… birthday cake. Why am I hungry now?

In ten days I will celebrate the 44th anniversary of my birth.

Until that day, I will post one birthday memory a day. Hey, it’s my blog; I’ll talk about myself if I want. Isn’t that the point of blogging?

Today I will talk about the general calendrical position of my birthday.

It kinda sucks.

Oh, you wanted more than that? OK…

I remember being very young when I realized that, date-wise, I got screwed on the whole birthday thing. It only took a month or two of kindergarten, and having classmates get to celebrate their own birthdays in class, with cake and presents, to show me that I would likely never get to share in that experience. My birthday, for all the years I went to school, fell exactly three days after Christmas Day, and three days before New Year’s Eve – smack-dab in the midst of Christmas Break.

And, of course, with Christmas being the 800-pound gorilla of holidays and gift-giving, I’m sure that my parents felt some pressure to not celebrate my birthday as much as, say, my sister’s birthday, which was in November. We’re already socialized to give lots and lots of presents for Christmas; my parents must have faced the pressure to just hold back some for me and save them for three days later. In fact, when I tell people when my birthday is, that’s a common reaction: “Oh, you probably got fewer presents for your birthday, right?”

As common as that idea is, I scour my memory and, other than the hole caused by a lack of social sharing by having a party with friends, I did not lack for birthday presents. My dad said once to me, as an adult, that they both saw the potential unfairness and worked to avoid it.

I have sometimes joked that I should celebrate my half-birthday, on June 28th. A summer time birthday would be easier to ’round up folks to celebrate with me, and people might be more likely to purchase gifts.

But after forty-four years, old habits are hard to break. My birthday is the 28th day of the 12th month of the year, and will always be.

(Hat tip and huge thanks to Tracy, my best friend in the world, for this idea!)