"EXHIBITIONIST AT THE PICTURE SHOW" & "TONGUE": POST-RELEASE THOUGHTS

As of this time, for those of you who have taken the time to read the stories "Exhibitionist At The Picture Show," "Tongue" and "Fourteen" from last month, you have now officially read about half of the entire Tales From Memorial Union novel...and I sincerely thank you.

I thank you for taking this journey with me as I open myself up in ways that I just have not been brave enough to attempt before this time. I thank you for every kind word you have said to me about the stories and furthermore, just for taking any time out of your busy lives to spend inside of mine.

As I have expressed to you in the past, these three released stories have been the only ones to have been completed and therefore, fully ready to be released to you. Where "Exhibitionist At The Picture Show" and "Fourteen" felt to be very natural to write and hopefully for you to read, "Tongue" still perplexes me and I was truly expecting you to not care for that one at all. But, even though I hadn't heard any specific words about the story from any readers, some of you have expressed to me that you are just happy to be reading it at all, which I will assume to mean that even a story this odd to me had some value.

The greatest value from this experience is that I have been re-inspired and have begun forging ahead with the remainder of the novel. My plan is to present the story "Paul Westerberg" next, even thought that one is still being written inside of my Moleskine and it is also being typed up. I will expand upon that story even further next month but I do want to try and type up more of it so I can at least have something considerable to share when I release it.

But until then, I never thought that this day would actually arrive when I would share something this personal and creative with you. Thank you so much for being here for me.

"TONGUE" PART TWO

     "TONGUE" (part two)

     In the middle of a blizzard, she felt her blood cease to circulate. Somewhere, she knew this wasn’t true but it sure felt like that. Desperately wishing to catch a snowflake on her awaiting tongue, she entered Der Rathskeller hoping to find a familiar face. There he was. Sitting by the amplifiers, as always, tugging at the “Doctor Who” scarf that hung delicately from him black trench coat.

     “Mind Release is playing,” said Moonman, feigning boredom. Mind Release was the rage and the brainchild of some student musical genius, wunderkind, or some other superlative music critics trip over themselves to use as praise for a promising youthful talent. Moonman followed all of the band’s shows, beginning his ritual by seating himself by various amplifiers trying to catch a glimpse of the band’s constantly changing set list which was made up of almost entirely original material. And there he sat, on his musical perch like a lost puppy who just found his way back home. God...did she want him...    

     “You know,” she started tentatively. “I think that someone told me...or maybe I read it somewhere...like in the Cardinal, possibly...that they actually have a single coming out.” If she could connect with him, really connect, on any level...

     “Careerists!” Moonman snorted, not even looking at her.

    ...well, maybe not on this level...

     “I mean–what’s the fucking point?!” he continued without provocation. “Just write songs and make the music! Why openly court the musically homogenous big leagues and end up sounding like every Pixies reject?”

     “Then...um...why are you...ummm...here?” she asked.

     With a simultaneous sincerity and a hint of unmistakable annoyance at her question, Daryl Moon barely gave her a glance and wearily replied, “They ROCK!”

     She shrugged. And then, sat next to him anyway.

     She never intended this to be her life

     And it didn’t have to be...

     The apartment, located in the student ghetto of West Washington Avenue was filled wall to wall with people and sounds. It was like an unearthly pinball machine, everything and everyone bouncing from one to another. Maybe nothing was actually moving at all. Who really knew anyhow? Crunched in a corner by the deafening stereo blasting Love And Rockets, she wondered that very question about movement and inertia as snowflakes danced across her field of vision while she gazed out at the partygoers. Were these people three to four years her junior or right alongside her in a pre-graduation final blast of collegiate existence? Why on Earth was she gracing yet even one more house party?

     It always seemed to follow the same pattern: Against better judgment, she would decide to make a voyage to Der Rathskeller, trying to again hook up with Moonman, while falsely convincing herself of a completely different (and fully imaginary) reason for entering the Union in the first place. 

     She would decide to dress down tonight. He hated makeup, perfume and any of the remotely resembling glamour. “I like the earthy type, “Moonman once said when no one even asked for his personal taste in attractiveness. So, aside from a quick shower, that was it with grooming. With her most faded pair of blue jeans, an ancient Vicious Hippies t-shirt (Moonman’s last favorite college band before their demise), a “fashionable” flannel shirt and her own pair of cracked cowboy boots, she was almost ready. The final article was her older brother’s Army jacket which he had a peace symbol emblazoned on its back. All jewelry was left aside. No styling of the hair. Nothing else. She was ready and as if being pulled by some invisible force, she was off to Memorial Union.

     Thinking of her association with Daryl Moon, she couldn’t exactly remember how it all began with him. Surprising how memories can grow to be so unformed, so malleable, so murky in such a relatively short period of time. She remembered wanting to one day meet him after staring a hole through him three times a week during a full semester of Comparative Literature sophomore year. She remembered staring at how he hardly ever looked up from his notebook in which there was rarely any note-taking. She remembered wanting to desperately see what his eyes looked like. She remembered how his lips formed as he said her name when piggybacking upon one of her in-class responses. She remembered how he had a slight slouch as he walked. That trench coat. His seemingly natural scent of caffeine–just like in the coffee aisle in grocery stores.

     Their first time was unexpected, amateurish and anti-climactic yet it was with him. That’s all she needed as pathetic as she knew it sounded, as pathetic as she now knew it was. Wasted emotions and years over a young man who was always somewhere else when he was right in front of her.

     She was sick to death of feeling her stomach drop at the sight of him and she never understood that after all of these years (and just knowing better) why she felt that same bottoming out. And here she sat, just as she had countless times at other college house parties, her once razor sharp mind clouded with thoughts of him, which in turn, clouded her thoughts about school, her failures, her writing, her now-departed friends, her now-disappearing future..

     She never intended this to be her life...

     When she awoke in the glaringly sterile room with strange faces hovering and strange voices phasing through her brain, she tried to piece it all together. After she fell, she saw red and that was pretty much it.

     Despite the fact her arm was bandaged, her evening meal was now liquidized and hearing about her unusually non-existent good luck since the glass narrowly missed her vital veins, all she could really think about was if her parents had been notified. For the last few years, she kept her parents at roughly three states lengths. “I’m better at a distance,” she reasoned to herself. She felt that she and her parents seemed to function more harmoniously while apart. Once together, during a visit to campus one year ago, she nearly walked out of their dinner after an especially heated argument concerning her grades. Yet, on the very next afternoon, all was forgotten and she received a much needed (and unasked for) monetary reprieve from the anguish of monthly efficiency bills.

     Even so, what would her parents think now that their middle, troublesome daughter, nearly done in by falling face first into a glass table while under the snowflake haze? How could she ever explain herself? How could they even bother to listen to an explanation pulled out of the air? How could they pick up the pieces for someone not worth the trouble?

     What am I worth?

     Will they even come this time?

     Do they even know what happened to me?

     How did I end up here?

     For no provoked reason, she began to cry silently, tears slowly sliding down her cheeks, the taste of salt reaching her tongue. While she sadly lost herself in thought, she took a fleeting glance out of her window to see the sunlight melting the claws of ice which surrounded the building.

     And soon, she saw a reflection of her Mother in the window, staring at her, sadly, silently mouthing the name, “Alice.”

Copyright 2014 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

"TONGUE" PART ONE

    "TONGUE" (part one) 

     She never intended this to be her life
    But it was…

     “That is why¼” she wrote but never found herself able to complete the thought. Who would believe that this was her life unless she wrote about it? 

     None of this seemed to matter when she set pen to paper, words flowing so quickly as she could think them. They spilled from her like water from an overturned glass. This was her home. Her solace. Yet, in the back of her mind–so far back that it didn’t even seem to be real anymore–there was this nagging reality.

     She never intended this to be her life
    But it was...

“I’m sinking,” she often thought.

     A shame to be just 22 years old and feeling this kind and level of weight. Leaving home for school is never easy but returning is almost impossible when one has seemingly nothing to show for all of the time being away.

     Lost pride. Emotions of failure. Being resolved to the fact that she wasn’t an adult–no matter what society continued to insist based upon her age. “That is not me,” she protested like a mantra. She wore that statement as if it were a coat of arms. The so-called and now meaningless “individuality badge of honor.”  As she sat in the coffee tin sized room of her efficiency, sipping her ritualistic cup of jasmine tea, she pondered her current state. But, sometimes that was almost too much to ask of her. This was indeed one of those times. So, she continued to drift.

     She itched her arm. She thought that it was a mosquito until she remembered the fact that it was the middle of February. Setting down her tea, she gazed two feet in front of her at the wall and imagined herself trapped inside. She imagined the concrete dust filling her lungs as she awaited the rescue team and obligatory news crew. Tiring of the morbid fantasy, she sat and contemplated grabbing her coat, burrowing herself in her scarf and trudging through the freshly fallen snow on her way to Ilyce’s apartment.

     “Ilyce is the smartest person I know,” she reasoned with herself. And with a wherewithal that arrived from some unknown location, she rose, dressed and off she went...

     “Let me out!!” she screamed internally.

     She never intended this to be her life   
    But it was...

     She never made it to Ilyce’s.

     Daryl Moon, known to all who knew him as “Moonman,” was one of her many weaknesses. In fact, and without question, he was indeed her Kryptonite. In her eyes, he was beautiful in a helpless sort of way. In love with his own misery, whether it was earned, invented, suffered or completely prefabricated. God, he is so beautiful, she thought to herself every time she saw him. Don’t let him have this hold over me. No. That’s wrong...

     For months she attended sessions with a therapist at the behest of her parents, who, from a distance, attempted to discover the source of their middle child’s malaise. Or more truthfully, she felt, they just tossed some money at the problem they weren’t willing to confront themselves. Her therapist, a bookishly attractive woman somewhere within her 40s, with an impenetrable owl-like visage and deathly serious demeanor yet who bore a penchant for always wearing a pair of fire red cowboy boots despite her otherwise conservative appearance,  told her consistently that only she was responsible for her own actions. That she is entirely responsible for any supposed hold the Moonman has over her, as well as anything else she feels is operating her mind and body like a squadron of internal tiny demons. That the desire for any change she wants rests with her and she is unable to control anything or anyone other than herself.

     She pondered this rarely delivered basket of adult wisdom for mere moments before staring daggers back at her therapist and severely exclaiming, “That’s bullshit.”

     “‘Bullshit’?” questioned the therapist, completely unblinking her owlish stare. “In what way?”

     “It sounds to me that what you’re saying is that I am the only one who has to change anything while everyone one else around me just gets to stay the same assholes they’ve always been.”

     “Well...,” the therapist began, offering the rare yet minuscule crack of a grin, obviously entertained by her young client’s volley. “Yes...I suppose it is ‘bullshit’, as you say. But, even so, it is true.”

     “So, no one ever has to change for me?” she asked. Yet it was considerably uttered as less of a challenge and more through the slow realization of life’s unfairness.

     “As I said before,” her therapist began kindly but unwaveringly. “You’re not in control.”

     Why couldn’t someone else take the blame once in a while? She thought this question over and again but now it simply did not matter as there he was, Daryl Moon, cradling his cigarette in the falling snow. She had promised herself to make it to Ilyce’s apartment hours ago as she sat in the tiny bathtub finishing what she desperately hoped would be her last joint. But, here she was, transfixed once again by the Moonman’s beautiful hollow eyes, arched brown, and crooked grin. “Don’t go,” she told herself, a message that apparently did not make its way from her brain to her feet. Maybe he was simply too much like what they say about the full moon itself and the strange behaviors it inflicts upon people...supposedly. It didn’t matter anymore and she blankly followed him to the alley, just as she’s done before, and finds herself succumbing to her desires while catching snowflakes on her tongue.

     “I have a friend at Brown And Benchmark,” said Ilyce at a State Street café last week. It was balmy. At one time, this weather at this time of year would have been unusual but with the ozone layer fading, it was much more common. “If you want, I could talk to him and at least find out what sort of channels to go through or people to possibly talk to. You’re too talented to waste your life doing something you don’t care about.”

     Ilyce was right. She was always right. Maybe that’s why she’s the smartest person I know, she thought. She’s so focused. She’s so formed.  What can’t I just be like that? Why can’t I just know things like she does?

     She never thought of herself as the type of person to have a role model but if she had to have one, then Ilyce September was it, whether she knew it or not, and whether she even liked, appreciated or even wanted it or not. Ilyce September was in grad school for English, she was a highly sought after T.A., and consistently appeared upon the Dean’s List for her academic excellence. “Ilyce is a person who really has it together,” her Mother once expressed with a hearty sigh. 

     She stared at Ilyce’s lips for a moment as she gingerly sipped her coffee. She couldn’t help but to wonder fleetingly what it would be like to kiss those lips but figuring that Ilyce would never go for such a thing, the thought faded forever.

     She never intended this to be her life
     But it was...

     The Moonman’s head bobbed up and down between her legs as she lay motionless on the floor. Strangely enough, especially considering her obsession, the Moonman never seemed as interesting to her in times like these. But, she didn’t care. She was with him. In the snowflake haze, that’s all that mattered.

     It wasn’t always like this. For so much of her life, she did everything correctly. Everything she did followed “The Plan,” as her Mother would consistently proclaim. She received all of the right grades. Read the right books. Knew the right people. Dated proper young gentlemen. She served on various high school committees until she up and found herself not doing any of those things at all anymore and there was nothing to drag her back. The only thing that really made her feel alive were the times she lived inside of her head and transformed those limitless inner adventures to artistic realities on paper. It’s what she did. It’s what she knew.  But, never would she admit to anyone in her family that writing was all she loved and wished to pursue. If she had her druthers, maybe she would not have pursued college, either right away or at all. But, what of her parents and “The Plan”?

     “How did I ever end up here”

     Time passed and Ilyce has vanished. “Life beckons!!” she announced happily and was all she bothered to say but more truthfully, was all she actually chose to remember. Ilyce September escaped to who knows where. Everyone leaves. They always do.
Copyright 2014 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

INTRODUCTION TO "TONGUE"

This one will have to take some explaining.

"Tongue," titled after the R.E.M. song of the same name, was the very first story written for Tales From Memorial Union back in 1997 and to this day, I am not entirely certain if it should be a part of the whole collection or not.

As I mentioned at the start of this month, I feel the story possesses a quality that is more "ghostly" or foggy or somewhat dreamlike in a way, even though I am presenting everything in the story as real. It is the one story that is unlike every other story of the book in terms of tone, presentation and even the shortness of its length, as it is only about 10 typed double spaced pages, making it the shortest story in the collection that I am envisioning. As I was re-visiting it, it confused me as much as it did when I first wrote it and as I have thought about it over and again over these many years. Even so, I feel compelled to include it as it was the seed that began this entire ride and most importantly because...it all came to me in a dream. Honest!

Here's the story. In the middle of the night on September 2, 1996 (according to my first journal), I woke up with the following words spinning inside of my head...

"She never intended this to be her life
But it was..."

I remember getting out of bed, heading to the couch in the living room, picking up my journal and I just began writing whatever popped into my head and the words just flowed from there until I was just too tired to think (which wasn't very long at all). That night and the remainder of "Tongue" was written during three occasions between that night and January 6, 1997 and to this day, I am baffled as to where it could have come from. But, I do have some answers...

The story is told by an omniscient narrator, just like in "Fourteen" and the future "December Boys" and the novel's final story. Our leading heroine is nameless until the very last line of the story, not for any real significance with the name itself but at the time I wrote it, I was reading quite a bit of Jay McInerney (famous for the usage of the second person narration in his Bright Lights, Big City) as well as the pitch black novels of Bret Easton Ellis. (For the record, I prefer McInerney's writing as it feels more humane to me.)

She is not based upon anyone I knew, either real or imagined...at least not directly. I thought of how the character of Zooey Glass from J.D. Salinger's Franny And Zooey made me feel when I first read her. I thought of a girl named Christine that was a friend of my wife's (then college girlfriend) back then--but even so, I never really knew her well. But this girl is essentially a lost soul, a quality that contributes to the "ghostliness" of the story, I think, as we are spending time with a person whose life has unraveled and she cannot even begin to figure out the hows or whys, so she just...exists. .

Thematically, and in retrospect, I can see how some residual elements from my "Bailey Undertow" screenplay informed some of the emotions contained in "Tongue," combined with a person I did know briefly, a story which will appear inside of the "Paul Westerberg" story, so I won't recount it in full now. But I will say that essentially, what the character in "Tongue" is experiencing is anxiety abut college nearing its natural end and furthermore...perhaps, she was not built for the experience of college in the first place, as college is not designed for everybody.

Well, my plan is to publish it in two parts and all I can say is that I tried, it's different and I hope that it does effect you somehow (and positively), that it weaves a certain sad, dark spell but one with empathy. Think of it like a moody folk song with those lines that arrived in my dream as some sort of repeated refrain.

Or also, please listen to the R.E.M. song to get a feel for the mood I wanted to capture. Maybe that will help too.

"EXHIBITIONIST AT THE PICTURE SHOW"-PART FOUR

"EXHIBITIONIST AT THE PICTURE SHOW" (part four)

“You gave her a ride home?!?!”

Theresa was understandably dumbfounded when I gave that bit of information. Yet, she decided not to kill me when I reminded her that up was down and it was completely innocent. I explained to her that Lauren caught me as I was leaving the Barrymore and asked for a ride home because it was raining and it was after 2:00 a.m. I suppose it was against better judgment but I didn’t want some girl walking alone in the dark down Willy Street. So, I took her home.

“She could’ve been a serial killer, Sean!”

As I put her into Theresa’s car, that was indeed my very thought. Yet, I didn’t have to fight for my life and it was a short ride. Lauren told me how much fun she had and that if I was ever poking around the Union, that I should look for her because she worked in the Travel Center, to which Theresa exclaimed, “Well, I have got to see who this woman is!”

The next day Theresa was in full “secret agent” mode with her mirrored sunglasses and black beret and there I was, grudgingly following her throughout the entire Union, her hoping, myself not hoping, to catch a glimpse of Lauren. Fortunately, after two hours of this, Theresa tired of the pursuit and we shared some popcorn in the ‘Rat.

“I just don’t get it,” I started, “I mean—I know these things happen but she looked so…normal. She could’ve been anybody.”

“You know what they say about the ‘normal’ ones.”

“Theresa, it just doesn’t make sense. She said she had a girlfriend. Why would she do that to me?!”

“That has nothing to do with it, Sean. It could just be something she does. A way to get her kicks. To find some unsuspecting guy in a dark place and freak them out. You still don’t even know if she ever really did anything.”

“But, that’s not the point. I was just trying to watch my movie. That’s all I wanted.”

It struck me later how much that night disturbed me. I have this friend, a Com Arts major named Edye. She always likes to go on and on about the nature of art and how art is never a finished thing. How as we connect with a painting, or book, or song or, in this case, a movie, it changes every time we see it because we, as people, are constantly evolving and each re-introduction is a fresh experience. It didn’t really make much sense all those times she said that but now, I understood. “Tommy” had changed for me. It changed for me every time I saw it. Now, I couldn’t even watch it anymore without thinking of that night and Lauren’s proposition. I became angry and then hurt that someone could take something that was so purely mine and stain it. And for some reason, it made me think of some forgotten (or repressed) details of when I saw “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” most notably, the behavior of my Dad.

For much of that night, my Dad had left me in the theater alone. I remember that he complained of stomach trouble due to something he ate at the family reunion. He always told me how much he liked the movie, whenever I asked him. But, he saw barely half of it and now, I wonder if that movie was truly as bad as everyone said. That my Dad hated it so much that his absence had nothing to do with being in a bathroom but everything to do with the movie being so painfully unwatchable that he had to wait it out in the lobby. Maybe he did hate it that much and never had the heart to tell me that just because I loved it so much. Maybe the audience applauded at the end because the damn thing was over!  Without any hyperbole, real or imagined, part of me felt a tad violated. Something was missing that I could never get back and it crushed me.

Believe it or not, you would not believe what I happened to catch on TV late one night, while sitting in my dorm’s lounge. “Sgt. Pepper”!! Its’ flaws were shockingly apparent. The re-makes of treasured Beatles’ songs were, at times, ghastly. The humor was cheap and cartoonish and the spectacle was filled to the brim with relentless and downright inexcusable 1970’s excess.

And I still loved it.
Copyright 2014 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

"EXHIBITIONIST AT THE PICTURE SHOW"-PART THREE

"EXHIBITIONIST AT THE PICTURE SHOW" (part three)

Now I had to tell you all of that just to get to what I really wanted to talk to you about. The whole cycle of “Tommy” never felt complete to me because I had only seen it on various televisions and not ever inside of a movie theater. I don’t care what anyone says. Movies at home are fine for re-visiting and re-examining and all that but movies are designed for and meant to be experienced in a movie theater! With the BIG SCREEN and the BIG SOUND! That’s why movies are movies and TV is TV. There is no substitute. I had always imagined just what it may have been like to enter a movie theater in 1975 and see “Tommy” in 70 mm Dolby or better yet, with the Quintophonic sound system specially designed for that film. Now, of course, I realized that I would never get to see the movie in that fashion but I had hoped that maybe at some point, I would have a chance, especially once I arrived here in Madison for school. There were Midnight Movies all over the place and there would just bound to be a showing of it at some point. I tried requesting it to various student film societies to no avail and the managers of U Square 4 weren’t receptive to my requests either. Come on! I mean—they show that ratty print of “The Wall” every weekend and from what I hear, it tends to consistently draw a crowd. Why not “Tommy?” If anything, people could really trip out to “Tommy” if they weren’t interested in anything spiritual.

Well, I finally found my chance while paging through the Isthmus before English 215. Perhaps it was some sort of rock star divine intervention or something but I just about flipped when I saw that the Barrymore would be having a one time only Midnight showing of “Tommy” that weekend!! Oh my God! As my girlfriend, Theresa said to me during our Philosophy lecture, “I saw that ad and knew that somewhere on campus there was a scream of absolute delight.”

That night, I was laying in Theresa’s cigar-box shaped bed in her equally cigar-box shaped apartment, watching her put her bra back on. No need to go any further there for you prurient listeners. Theresa was kind enough to let me use her typewriter to finish a Philosophy paper and we got…interrupted. I slowly got out of her bed and continued watching her get dressed, when I asked her if she wanted to go see “Tommy” that weekend.

“No thanks. I’ve already seen it,” she said sweetly. (I showed it to her when we first got together.) “But, you can go ahead.”

“Oh, come on. You haven’t really seen it…,” I began to protest.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. The BIG SCREEN and the BIG SOUND. Really, I’m not interested. But, go ahead. I know how much it means to you.”

Isn’t she great?

“You know,” Theresa started. “I’ll even let you take my car. That way, you won’t have to navigate the bus schedule or survive yet another Badger Cab death ride.”

Didn’t I just say she was great?

I got out of her bed, walked over to her, and wrapped my arms around her waist to thank her. Then, she turned around and gave me such a sweet kiss that I wanted to postpone typing that paper just a little bit longer.

Saturday night finally arrived and I was so psyched! I had spent much of the day getting a few major details out of the way so I could enjoy “Tommy” homework-guilt-free. I finished my Philosophy paper and spent most of my afternoon in the Rathskeller, with my study group. It was a sink or swim class in Deconstructionism and we had flailed away over the eternal questions concerning high and low art. After a most disgustingly scrumptious dorm-food meal, I headed over to Theresa’s. She was finishing her own English paper while some Chevy Chase madness flopped around on the TV in the background and I paced around with anticipation. Finally, around 11:00 p.m. I got Theresa’s car and split for the Barrymore. Yeah, yeah, it wasn’t for an hour but I just wanted to be sure and get a good parking space and most importantly, a good seat. Frankly, I think Theresa was anxious to get rid of me since she was so busy.

I arrived at the Barrymore with a full thirty minutes to myself. I spent perhaps ten minutes checking the seats out and finding the perfect spot for me to take in this experience. I finally staked and claimed my spot and began to walk around the theater and gaze at the myriad of kiosk ready posters for upcoming shows and events. I contemplated getting some popcorn or even a beer but decided against it. I didn’t want to miss a second by going to relieve myself. By about 11:47, I went back to my seat and stared at the twinkling stars on the Barrymore ceiling as if expecting some sort of laser light show to commence. I was practically dancing while seated awaiting the BIG SCREEN and the BIG SOUND. I watched a few people file in and take their seats and smiled to myself, as if we were part of a secret society about to witness something only a chosen few would even care to know about in the late ‘80s. And as I was gazing around, I felt someone sit directly behind me. I heard the typical fumbling around one does in order to get themselves situated and I turned around and took a quick peek. It was some girl, with curly dark hair, and glasses in a leather jacket. Surprisingly, she looked right into my eyes and spoke to me.

“Excuse me. But do you know what time it is?”

“11:51.”

“Cool! I am so excited to see this. This is one of my favorite movies.”

“Really? It’s one of my favorites too!”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope. I first saw it when I was 15 and I’ve been a convert ever since,” I explained.

“I saw it in high school too!” she exclaimed. “You know, I have been pestering my friends and new people I’ve met for years with this movie. I make people watch it with me and if they hate it, I just figure that it’s not meant to be. Love me, love ‘Tommy’.”

Then, she let loose a self-deprecating laugh which diffused any sense that she was nuts and included me further in our parallel obsession.

“You know,” I began, “I tried to get my girlfriend to come with me but she wasn’t interested. I told her that it’s never the same on a TV.”

“You are so right! I couldn’t get my girlfriend to come with me either. She’s like, ‘I’ve already seen it’. But, I said, ‘You haven’t seen it until you see it in a movie theater’! You need the BIG SCREEN and the BIG SOUND!”

Oh my God! A true confidant. Someone who really gets it! She then leaned forward and rested her elbows on the seat in front of her.

“I don’t mean to sound forward, but may I sit with you? Two “Tommy” enthusiasts enjoying this night.”

“Uh…sure. Come on up.”

She climbed over into the seat next to mine.

“My name’s Lauren. What’s yours?”

“Sean,” I answered and we shook hands.

“Thank you,” she said. “I do appreciate this and I apologize if I sound geeky or weird. I’m just excited because I’ve never seen this in a movie theater before and I’ve always wanted to.”

“It’s fine. I totally understand.”

At that moment, the house lights went down, the curtain opened and I swear the hairs on the back of my neck sprouted upright. As the first lights from the screen filled the auditorium, Lauren tapped my shoulder and stared right into my eyes again.

“Sean, let’s sit back and enjoy this experience for we are about to take an amazing journey!”

I smiled at her cleverly placed “Tommy” song reference and the serendipitous nature of our meeting.

The movie began and I was enraptured. Yeah, the print was a bit scratchy and the audio could’ve been better but I didn’t care. It was the BIG SCREEN with the BIG SOUND! Every once in a while, either Lauren or I would look at the other and grin with pleasure. And then, during Tina Turner’s great “Acid Queen” sequence, Lauren tapped my shoulder.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah,” I answered not taking my eyes off the screen.

“Look…umm…if this offends you, let me know and please accept my apologies.”

If something offends me?! What the hell is she talking about?

“Are you sure I can ask you this?”

“Yeah, what is it?” I asked, growing a little irritated and increasingly confused.

Before I go any further, I just want to prepare you for what you are about to hear. Now aside from the obvious shock of her question due to its’ content, it is as much for the tone. Try to imagine someone asking you for a pen, or to pass the salt during dinner. Or better yet, imagine when a stranger asks you for the time or a light for a cigarette. Try to keep that tone in your head as I reveal to you what Lauren then asked me. Brace yourselves.

“Would you mind if I masturbated right now?”

Up until that moment, I was completely inside that movie. At that moment, I was so outside of it I may as well have been sitting in the Barrymore’s parking lot, trying to watch the film through a crack in the door. I mean—what does one do? I guess as I look back on it. I could’ve moved or told her to leave. But, up was down and black was white and I answered her with the first words that came out of my mouth. Once again, brace yourselves.

“Sure go ahead. I’m watching the movie.”

I never looked at her again. And if she did indeed perform what she asked permission to do, I never knew. All I know is that she got quiet for a few minutes, sighed, excused herself, returned, said, “Thank you,” and ceased to speak or look at me for the rest of the movie. Not that it mattered. I really wasn’t in the mood anymore.
Copyright 2014 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

"EXHIBITIONIST AT THE PICTURE SHOW"-PART TWO

EXHIBITIONIST AT THE PICTURE SHOW (part two)

Years passed before I had my second run-in with “Tommy.” My Dad had taken me to a comic book convention in downtown Chicago. I was just getting into “X-Men” and I was searching for older issues including the classic issue #94. I strolled through the large auditorium taking in the multi-colored sights of the memorabilia and the musty smells of the patrons, exhumed from their basements for the afternoon and I stopped for a minute to peruse some movie one-sheet posters. After going through many “Star Wars” posters from around the world, I was greeted with the surreal mirror image of a golden-haired man, wearing dark glasses, ear pieces and a cork stuffed into his mouth. So, this was “Tommy.” Underneath the photo read the tag line, “Your Senses Will Never Be The Same.” The image was so striking, I was transfixed, then a little unnerved. I placed the poster back and continued on through the room. I stopped at another table to look at old issues of “Starlog,” when underneath a pile was a book, The Story Of “Tommy.” Instinctively, I picked it up, paged through and was again greeted with and unnerved by surreal images that were worlds away from the fairly tale landscape of “Sgt. Pepper.” I quickly returned the book to the table and went back to the comics and wondered just what was Louise thinking when she passed along this message to me. I was to find out sooner than I had anticipated.

That winter, my parents joined the home video revolution by purchasing a VCR! A monumental evening if there ever was, I should say. And my Dad inaugurated the machine by renting three movies, “Flashdance,” “Blue Thunder” and “Tommy.” I’ll bet you could just imagine my shock when I saw that title in this stack. How would he have ever even known or thought to rent that movie? It was as if it willed itself into my life and that slight sense of paranoia stopped me from watching it right away. I certainly didn’t want this new VCR to go to waste so I spent that Friday night watching movies, delaying my official meeting with “Tommy” for as long as I could. Around 11:00 p.m., there was no more avoiding to be done and I took a deep breath as I placed “Tommy” into our new machine.

After the brief Columbia Pictures logo, and a shockingly brief title sequence, an ocean of ARP synthesizers filled the room married to an image of some man staring at a setting sun. And that ocean of sound and vision flowed into my room, wave after wave for nearly two hours and I just barely hung on. “Tommy” was based on the classic rock-opera by The Who and told the story of a little boy who retreats into an aural/visual/vocal silence after witnessing the traumatic murder of his father (thought to have been killed in the war) by his mother and her lover. After being subjected to one tortuous event after another, from cruel cousins (maybe my cousin took notes from this movie) and child-molesting uncles, to cure attempts varying from the mildly sinister to downright nightmarish, Tommy somehow becomes the pinball champion of the world, and gains wealth, fame and fortune. He eventually regains his senses, making him a modern day messiah. The purity of his words becomes tainted and commercialized which forces his subjects to turn on him, destroy his temple and murder his mother and step-father. Despite all of the tragedy, the film ends with Tommy climbing a mountain triumphantly and staring into the brightness of a rising sun, while valiantly singing, “Listening To You (See Me, Feel Me).”

 Part of it was fatigue from the lateness. Or maybe it was staring at a TV for almost six hours. But watching “Tommy” was an undeniably overwhelming experience. Even so, that weekend, I watched it three more times. Not because I liked it (I still wasn’t sure what I thought of it) but to just take it all in again.

I took it in alright. After that weekend, I couldn’t get it out of my head! “Tommy” became a part of my conscious and sub-conscious much like a dream that you’re unable to shake. This thing lived in me and I just had to get to the bottom of this. I went to my library at school and began with the obvious: I checked out the original album as well as the film’s soundtrack and began to compare the two. (I must say that I was slightly disappointed with the film soundtrack’s edited down versions of several selections, but I digress.) I then went to check out old film review guides which provided no real raves or pans. Finally, I did some deep digging through our microfiche collection of the New York Times and Chicago Tribune. While I did discover fascinating material--like for instance, did you know that Ann-Margaret was actually nominated for Best Actress in 1975 for this movie? And that she injured herself on set during the infamous baked beans sequence? Or that Pete Townshend’s hair began falling out due to the stressful nature of the production? Or that one theater in New York had sold out, round the clock showings of it? And that even Stevie Wonder had been approached for the role of the Pinball Wizard?--there wasn’t anything I found that could pinpoint the heart and meaning of it all. So I rented it again. And again. And again. I would watch it between two and four times during each rental period, going deeper inside and emerging slightly more enthralled than the previous viewing. Before I knew it, I was so in love with this movie that discovering some set-in-stone meaning didn’t matter. I knew what it meant to me. It was almost a spiritual conversion. Like if you went to church all of your life, every Sunday and heard the same message over and over and finally, it sank in and you just…got it. That what it was like when “Tommy” showed it’s clarity to me. It just made sense and there was no way to explain it at all. It simply was and I realized just what Louise may have meant. I silently thanked her, wherever she was, for ever suggesting it to me. 
Copyright 2014 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

"EXHIBITIONIST AT THE PICTURE SHOW"-PART ONE

EXHIBITIONIST AT THE PICTURE SHOW (part one)

From the moment it was placed into movie theaters (or maybe even before), the fate of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” was sealed. Released in the summer of 1978, “Sgt. Pepper” has long been regarded as not only a tremendous box office flop which nearly killed the careers of everyone involved with it, it has also been noted as one of the worst films ever made. And I loved it. Let me say that again…I loved that movie. I know that I am probably the only one. But, so what?! It had it all. Sight. Sound. Great visuals. It was truly unique and it was a helluva lot better than “Grease,” I’ll tell you. Let’s be real, folks! It was bad enough that my parents teased me with the promise of seeing a movie that night and then driving directly past the theater showing “Sgt. Pepper” and ending up at the one showing “Grease.” Then, there was the unending hell of sitting through this half-baked, sub-“Happy Days,” ‘50s nostalgia piece set to ‘70s era disco tunes and starring the oldest high school senior class ever witnessed on celluloid! (But, there was Olivia Newton-John, and seeing her for two hours received no complaints from me!) 

But, let’s get back to business here. “Sgt. Pepper” was basically a live-action version of “Yellow Submarine.” It was a fairy-tale set to the best music there ever was so what’s not to love? To be fair, I loved it at the time. I actually haven’t seen it since I was maybe twelve years old, when they finally showed it on television. I loved it so much that I audio-recorded the whole thing because we didn’t have a VCR yet. This labored process consisted of sitting in front of the television speaker with a standard tape recorder. You edit out the commercials by controlling the pause button. Much more difficult to undertake during this process would be the consistent praying that no external noise (from ringing telephones to your own breathing) would ruin an otherwise pristine recording. I realize that this may sound obsessive. But, there was something about “Sgt. Pepper” that spoke to me. From the second I saw that commercial with that revolving, glowing cornet with an announcer bellowing the names of the biggest rock stars of the day (“PETER FRAMPTON!! THE BEE GEES!! AEROSMITH!! ALICE COOPER!! EARTH, WIND AND FIRE!!”), I just had to see that movie.

I eventually did see the movie while at a family reunion in Detroit. Very unusual for me to attend seeing as the only family members I knew were the ones I attended the reunion with! I mean—what was really the point for me to be there? All of these hefty adults, drunk with imagined memories of family experiences fawning over me because I had the good fortune to spring forth from the loins of forgotten cousins or whatever. It just made me want to do anything to get away from them all. I was nine years old! What would I have to say to any of those people?! I spent one afternoon on some unknown Uncle’s boat, which was tied to a nearby dock, constantly casting a line into the lake. Unknowingly, some future member of the Detroit penal colony, who also happened to be a cousin, snuck up behind me and released a wasp which was trapped underneath a plastic cup. Needless to say, I was stung and the humiliation increased on an exponential level as I shrieked with the tone of a three-year-old female, while simultaneously jumping up and down like said three-year-old female and for the coup de grace, I dropped my Uncle’s fishing pole into the lake, where it predictably sank. It takes an embarrassing moment of that magnitude to allow parents to offer their child some sort of reward for surviving the latest in a life-long series of embarrassing moments. So, of course, my parents offered to take my hedonistic cousin and myself to the movies that night. He wanted to see “Jaws 2” and I wanted absolutely nothing to do with man-eating sharks, so my Mother suggested that she would take him to the killer-shark carnage freak show and my Dad would take me to “Sgt. Pepper.” At last! I would finally get to see this dialogue free, ‘70s rock star extravaganza!

      Seeing that movie set me off on a road I could have never anticipated. I was so enthralled and entranced by its’ visual/aural splendor that I needed to obtain every possible souvenir I could find. Of course, there was the soundtrack album, which I listened to “constantly”-my older sister’s word, which she spat at me with supreme annoyance and despite the fact that she swiped my Peter Frampton poster, she still wailed her irritations to me as I sat blissfully in her room listening to the soundtrack on her 8-track player.

But, there were other “Sgt. Pepper” artifacts I stumbled across that made the experience last longer in my brain. I purchased a book, a self-described scrapbook really, about the making of the film and surprisingly, I found, of all things, the novelization, which I feverishly read in one night and re-read the next day. I even found a trading card series and spent the remainder of that summer collecting every single card containing still photos from the film! I would arrange and re-arrange them numerically or chronologically of when I bought them or re-told the film’s story with them. Nothing would deter my love for this movie and the experience of seeing it. Not its’ box office failure or the critical slaughter. I just figured that they didn’t get it because the audience I saw it with applauded it, just as I did. As I said earlier, I realize that this may sound obsessive. But, that’s just how I am when I get into something. I’ve gotta know it all and take in every corner of it. Take me or leave me, that’s just how I am.

The air was let out of my balloon slightly when I returned to school that fall for fourth grade and many of my friends had also seen it and despised it. That made it difficult for me to voice my love for it, fearing I would be immediately cast out and branded forever as a total loser. So, in that respect I kept this passion to myself save for a few choice friends that wouldn’t think less of me. This included Amaan, a new friend who had transferred to my school and began to ride the bus with me. We talked about everything and got along well yet somehow, many conversations led to the movie and me telling him about it. He actually seemed quite fascinated and I certainly didn’t mind having an audience. I never realized how audible my voicings were until one morning, as we were getting off of the bus at school, Louise, the husky-voiced, shaggy haired and deceptively sultry bus driver took hold of my jacket, pulled me close to her ear and whispered to me, “If you dug ‘Sgt. Pepper’ that much, you’re gonna love ‘Tommy.’” Those words lingered in the air for a second. I could almost see them travel from her mouth to my ear as I took in this cigarette breath laced secret. “Tommy?” I had no idea what she was talking about but the seed had been planted.

Copyright 2014 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

INTRODUCTION TO "EXHIBITIONIST AT THE PICTURE SHOW"

Welcome to the second month of what I hope will be some productive activity, especially as I will soon release the second story from Tales From Memorial Union, one that is now placed firmly on the University Of Wisconsin-Madison campus. But first a little backstory...

Many years ago, I actually entered into a writing contest. I honestly do not know what possessed me to even attempt such a feat, especially considering my trepidation with displaying my writing publicly. But perhaps, I reasoned to myself, that since no one reading anything that I may chose to write and submit into the contest would know me at all, the story could almost be seen as having been written anonymously and therefore, the exercise of the writing could be paramount to me rather than any potential response to it.

So, I had an idea and began diligently hammering it out into what you will soon be able to read for yourselves. With this writing contest, there were indeed a series of rules, most notably a word count, something that really forced me to remain on target and not head down into any diversions, side stories or anything one might regard as superfluous. It was me at my most streamlined as the story itself runs about 13 typed, double spaced pages, a mere fraction of what "Fourteen" runs (and what "December Boys" and "Paul Westerberg" will ultimately run).

Now, I present to you "Exhibitionist At The Picture Show," originally written in 2002, the third story written for Tales From Memorial Union, but might possibly position itself as what would follow "Fourteen" as I am envisioning something lighter in tone after being enveloped by a healthy dose of teen angst. This story features a first person narrative, and essentially three main characters, named, Sean (the narrator), Theresa (his girlfriend) and a third named Lauren, who serves a crucial element. This material, as I look at it now, also carries some of the seeds for my Savage Cinema site--in fact, I previously published just a tiny portion of this story on that site in an appreciation of the Ken Russell film adaptation of The Who's "Tommy" (1975). I hope to break the story into four short parts and release it over the course of this month to spread things out a bit Intrigued? I hope so!

Oh yes...the title is a play upon Mussorgsky's "Pictures At An Exhibition" and as for the story itself, yes, it all really happened...

As for the writing contest,  I didn't win and wasn't even recognized in an conceivable ways for the attempt. But that's OK. I just wanted to see if I could write something. I did and that's good enough for me.

Stay tuned...