Fantasy Interview With My Bully

OS editor Emily has suggested we try to contact our childhood bullies for an interview.  Not gonna happen, dear Emily. I wouldn’t give that woman the time of day, nor would I give her the satisfaction of knowing I still entertain thoughts of her cruelty in my old age.  I will, however, conduct such an interview in the confines of my wicked imagination:

L:  Hello, Shirley.  I’m sure you remember me, since I occupied so much of your time in high school.  You seemed to be able to spot me in those maze-like hallways amidst all 4,000 of the students milling about between classes.  Although we never exchanged so much as an introduction to each other – ever—you made it your business to actively hate my teenaged guts for reasons I can only surmise.

Shirley:  That was a long time ago, L.  We were just kids.  I was mad at you because I thought Aaron was my boyfriend until he met you and dumped me.  I knew it was because I am dark and you aren’t.  Boys in those days never preferred us dark-skinned girls if they could get a light-skinned one to pay attention to them.

L:  Okay, let’s say I get that.  Wouldn’t it have made more sense for you to be angry with Aaron?  He was the one who did the dumping.  I didn’t even know you existed, so I couldn’t have known you had claimed Aaron for your one and only.  Why hate me?

Shirley:  That’s a good point, but we are in our sixties now.  Like I said, we were just kids.  I was jealous and didn’t have the sense I have now.

L:  So how long did it take you to realize I had absolutely nothing to do with the color of my skin…or yours, for that matter?

Shirley:  Look, L. I am still the same dark and you are still the same light.  Nothing has changed.  Black men still gravitate to you high-yella bitches, especially when they get a little success.  It gets old.

L:  I know you were the one behind all the plots to ambush me in the park after school.  Someone would tell me about it every time.  “They are going to kick your ass,” she’d say.  It must have really pissed you off when I would show up in the park with my posse of boys to protect me from your violence.

Shirley:  It sure did.  It made me feel like your were just rubbing it in.  Those boys would protect you as if you were their sister or something.  I could never understand why.  They wouldn’t have done that for me.

L:  That had nothing to do with my skin, Shirley.  I was just nice to them.  I tried to be nice to everyone, trying to compensate for all the nastiness you and your girls were sending my way, I suppose.  And I never threatened to kick anybody’s ass.  It just wasn’t my way.

Shirley:  You thought you were so smart.

L:  How would you know what I thought, Shirley?  You never once even spoke to me.

Shirley:  Are you going to deny that your name was on the honor roll every time we got report cards? Are you going to deny you were elected to the National Honor Society?  Weren’t you in the Plus Thirty?

L:  That’s all true, but how is that evidence of the fact that I “thought I was so smart?” 

Shirley:  I guess it’s not.  But no other African American in school was doing those things.  It just wasn’t cool.

L:  Did you have kids, Shirley?

Shirley:  Yes, I have three.  A boy and two girls.

L:  And are they cool?

Shirley: (laughing) I don’t know how “cool” they are.  They all went to private schools, so they were probably considered geeks in the neighborhood.

L:  Exactly.

 

Photo credit:

http://www.blackradionetwork.com

This Red Carpet Was White (Photos Added)

The phone in my hotel room rings just as my friend Beverly was trying to adjust my bra strap to keep it hidden under my dress.  Like a bridesmaid assists a bride, my friend of well-over twenty years had spent a little too much time arranging my coif and time got away from us.
Meanwhile, The Actor has instructed his limo driver to swing by the hotel to collect his manager and his mother and the phone call, which we failed to answer in time, was followed by a knock at the door from a bellhop sent to announce “my ride.”

We were finally headed to the much-anticipated premiere of Moneyball.  No one prepared me for what would happen next.  The limo stopped at the designated “star drop-off point,” and a Sony operative opened the back door.  The Actor asked for a minute to put his jacket on, while his manager Margie and I exited the limo on the street side.  There, on the opposite side of the street, was a block-long crowd of fans constrained behind the typical barricades used at premieres.  As soon as The Actor exited the curbside door, a chorus of girlish screams and boisterous cheering erupted from the fans across the street.  The Actor trotted to the other side and signed autographs for ten minutes while I took video of the scene with his Flip camera.

Next came the press gauntlet. The Actor grabs my hand and we walk to the first “station” –a mob of credentialed paparazzi, each in turn yelling “Stephen, look this way. Stephen, over here.”  That’s how this happened:

This is the dress.  Mine is midnight blue.





You can see from the background that this premiere had an authentic ball-field décor.  The carpet we walked was not red at all, but the color of the baselines surrounding an astro-turf infield.  It was extremely well done.

It took us about an hour to run the gauntlet.  The broadcast media were next to the photogs.  Several of the on-camera reporters turned the microphone on me.  Although I haven’t yet seen it myself, my aforementioned lady-in-waiting Bev tells me I showed up on the San Francisco evening news –  close up, IN HIGH DEF!!!!!  Now I’m not sure I even want to see it.

The rest of the surreal evening unfolded as follows:

- I shook hands on the red carpet with Captain “Sully” Sullenberger, the airline pilot who landed that jetliner on the Hudson River. He and his family live in the San Francisco Bay Area.

- One of the young ballplayers who appeared in the film rushed over to tell me that The Actor was a real leader on the set whom he regards as a mentor.

- The great Aaron Sorkin walked up behind Stephen calling his name.  He introduced himself in order to compliment The Actor on his “compelling” performance and to say “ I am a fan.” 

- Philip Seymour Hoffman shook my hand while telling me that my son was the hardest worker on the set of Moneyball and that the hard work showed up on the screen -- big time.  Moneyball Director Bennett Miller, who was standing next to Hoffman, shook his head in agreement and told me what a pleasure it was to work with my boy

- David Justice and Mrs. Justice greeted me with warm hugs.

- The American Legion coach who convinced Steve as a teen that he had the goods, but had to believe in himself was outside the theater entrance waiting to congratulate The Actor.  And he bought a number of the limited $100 tickets that were sold to the general public for this charity benefit.

- Brad Pitt touched me!  For the first time in ages and ages I was giddy in the presence of a celebrity.  As he held court at the lavish after-party for the cast and their friends, he greeted me warmly and said, “Your son has serious skills.”  Guess what?  Brad is right!  I can honestly tell you that this is one handsome man, people.  In person, he is even better looking than he is on screen.  And he is totally unaffected.  He acts like one of the guys – normal, everyday guys.

Oh, and when I emerged from the elevator at the hotel my son was standing in the lobby bar sipping a drink. His eyes lit up and he said “Damn, Mom, you look hot!”  Mission accomplished.

I am not aware of any pictures taken of me with any of these celebrities.  I will be getting additional photos, however, which I will post on my Facebook page as they come in. See newer ones below:

The party's over but we are still beaming

Stephen with Mike Isola, his best friend since 1983

 

Where’s My Tuxedo When I Need It?

Even if I were to tell you I am a basket case right about now, you would have no idea how completely rattled I am.  In case you have been deliberately avoiding my posts for the past, oh, six or seven months:  I am leaving Saturday morning for San Francisco in order to accompany my son The Actor on the red carpet, of all things.

Stephen Bishop, the actor who was fortunate (and talented) enough to land the role of baseball slugger David Justice in the new, book-based movie Moneyball is my one and only child.  The U.S, premiere of the movie, which will be in a theater near you on September 23, 2011, will be held Monday (9/19) at the historic Paramount Theater in Oakland.

Exactly ten years ago, Stephen walked a red carpet for the first time at the LA premiere of The Rundown, which starred Dwayne Johnson, aka pro-wrestler The Rock.  He asked me to be his date so we could share the thrill, since I have supported him unconditionally throughout his life, no matter how far-fetched his dreams might have seemed.  I was a basket case then, too.

Here’s the thing.  I am a girly-girl of the highest order.  For event days such as this one, I get up in the morning getting ready for the evening.  No.  That’s only half-true.  The whole truth is I had been getting ready for the previous week – at least!

What shall I wear that is age-appropriate yet sexy…ish?  What can I do to my hair that will allow me to stop worrying about the thinning top or the tendency to frizz in Atlanta’s relentless humidity or the San Francisco Bay Area’s morning fog?  Will I be able to sit through a movie wearing my Spanx AND my Spanx camisole, both required mesodermal contraptions to rearrange my zaftig torso into more comely curves? Which shoes will give me enough height to lift the hem of my floor-length gown enough to prevent tripping klutz-like in front of God and everybody, but will still allow me to walk with the grace and dignity I hope to exude?  And, most important of all, will all my efforts make The Actor proud to have me with him?

I thought I was way ahead of the game this time, because I knew for months the premiere would be some time in September.  Although I asked my sweet son for guidance about the attire for an Oakland premiere (as opposed to one in LA), his response was to tell me what HE planned to wear.  Apparently, he thought that was all anyone would need to know, male or female.  No wonder the man is still single!


Left to my own usually clever devices, I proceeded to assemble an ensemble.  I chose a daytime short dress with sophisticated but chunky jewelry, the fashionable nude-colored shoe and a small, but decidedly informal handbag.   Smug about my brilliance and my superb time management, I was ready far in advance.  I could relax, at least until the time came to start obsessing about my hair.
Then I saw the women on the red carpet at the Toronto International Film Festival last week.  Angelina Jolie glided down the gauntlet of press and screaming fans in an elegant and beautifully accessorized black satin floor-length Vivienne Westwood original with her fiancé Brad Pitt as the main accessory.  I panicked and started frantically Googling other women attending the Toronto event to see what they wore.

OMG!  A 911 text to The Actor followed.  He confirmed what I feared.  I needed to step up my game – by a lot!  That was last Sunday.  Since then I have been a whirling dervish of shopping frenzy.  I stayed up until 3 a.m. Monday morning shopping for appropriate dresses online.  I ordered several and had them sent via overnight transit.  Some I ordered in two sizes, just in case.  My credit card heated up so fast, my bank started denying transactions until I could let them know it was I who was in possession of my card, and not some criminal suffering from insomnia.  I finally drifted off to slip, secure in the knowledge there would be at least one dress out of those I ordered that would work.


The first email arrived Monday morning as I was working on a Power Point presentation for my job (Yes, I have had to squeeze my work in!)  It was a “I-know-our-website-said-the-dress-is-in-stock-but…” message.  “Sorry, but it’s not. “  No problem.  I have backup.

One by one, the emails arrived.  They were all from different stores, but they all meant the same thing:  no stock.  Panic returned.  Visions set in of L slithering down the red carpet hiding behind her 6’3” son praying to go unnoticed.  And then it happened.  I just then realized the shoes I had purchased were all wrong, no matter which, if any,of the dresses actually showed up.

By now you should have figured out that I don’t shop in brick and mortar stores.  After decades of facing my averageness in retail environments, I have given up on finding my sizes still available unless I camp out on the loading docks of Saks Fifth Avenue or Macy’s to be there when the items are actually unloaded.  Apparently, every woman in the country wears exactly my size in everything.  So, I let my fingers do the schlepping and pay the extra shipping and handling, if I’m in a pickle.

I found some shoes that would work with just about anything except gym shorts and took my chances on UPS.  According to the tracking report, they won’t arrive until FRIDAY!  That’s fine, assuming they come without flaws or unique sizing issues.  But there is another problem.

Here’s the first dress.  It actually arrived yesterday and it is gorgeous, even on my matronly bod.  But it is really long.  It is supposed to brush the floor because it has a slight train, but until I get the shoes, I cannot be sure if it needs altering. 

A second dress arrived today and it, too, is stunning. It won't need any work and it's a lot more comfortable.  (Sigh)

I cannot wait until I have assembled myself, probably after about six straight hours of fretting, pulling and tugging, and am in the limo with no place to retreat.  I will be fine. I will not embarrass my son.  I will be fine.  I will be fine.

Note to self:  Don’t forget your meds!

Crimes of Opportunity Abound

 

Crime in Atlanta is as routine as ants at a picnic.  Atlantans who live within the extended city limits defined by its infamous circular I-285, or the city by-pass highway known as The Perimeter, develop living habits designed to thwart the purse-snatches, the daylight burglaries, and the all-too-many armed robberies on their walks from night-life sanctuaries to their cars.

Atlanta has become a hot new location for the motion picture industry.  My neighborhood of Inman Park is a favorite choice because of its carefully restored inventory of 19th century Victorian mansions and thick, leafy canopy of centenarian oaks.  Recently a crew set up a front porch for external shots and wrapped for the night.  When they returned the next morning, they had been relieved of the porch furniture – all of it.

Since the bottom fell out of the world economy, the bad guys have sunk to new lows.  Where once it was de rigueur to awaken to the sound of glass shattering as skilled thieves break into parked cars attempting to steal pricey portable GPS systems, laptops, wallets and anything else the unenlightened owners left in plain sight.  Residents know better.  Some even leave their doors deliberately unlocked to avoid the trip to the glass replacement guy, something the cops frown upon.  Those same cops, however, treat a report of a car break-in with a huge yawn.

Now the gangs have made themselves a lot more comfortable.  Instead of risking detection out in the open, they have started invading parking decks attached to apartment complexes in the middle of the night where they can “shop” the cars unmolested.  One morning some 35 cars in one deck had been vandalized.

This latest opportunistic crime, however, is too much.  The owner of one of the local businesses was standing in front of his establishment talking on his cell phone.  A man on a bicycle pedaled by, slowed and circled back.  The shopkeeper, engrossed in his conversation, saw the biker but assumed he was circling to wait for a companion to catch up or some similar scenario.  Suddenly, the biker rolled by the shop owner and snatched the cell phone right out of his hand.  Before the victim could figure out what had just happened, the biker had sped down the hill and out of sight.

I am one of the gazillion people who walk around talking on my mobile phone.  When I walk the dog I usually use the time to make a call to my mother or my sister to both check in and kill time.  This latest assault in the ‘hood has me afraid to carry my phone.  The problem is I am afraid NOT to carry it, in case I fall (as I am apt to do) or witness some kind of emergency and need to summon help.

I deeply resent the fact that these soulless urban thugs have gained the power to have me alter my lifestyle.  If asked why they do these things, some will say it is part of a gang initiation requirement – to prove they are “down” with the program.  Others simply say they do it because they don’t have the money to buy their own and they need one.

Before anyone is tempted to suggest I move into the suburbs or out in the boondocks, let me quickly admit that it is my choice to live in the city.  I love the vibrancy, the city sounds and sights, the access to cultural and entertainment facilities.  I am not a fan of the sameness of suburban neighborhoods with their tract houses, rolling lawns and emphasis on conformity.  And I would perish in the isolation of a country setting.  No, my chosen living environment is what I prefer and I, like all my neighbors, simply rant, rave and learn to cope with the negatives.

September Mourn

Re-posted in memory of all who were lost.

Image from Sal2009.c0m 

This was the one day I regretted my gift of empathy.   I didn't want to feel what I knew they were feeling.

 I had just been fingerprinted at the headquarters of the Atlanta Public Schools.  It was the last step to becoming a member of the long roster of substitute teachers who stepped in when full-time teachers needed to step out.  The much ballyhooed azure blue canopy gleamed above a picture-perfect September morning, gleefully absent of Atlanta's legendary humidity.

On my always-on radio, Tom Joyner's usual goofy patter was interrupted by his news reader.  "An incomplete report has just come in from New York City.  It appears that one of the Twin Towers has been struck by a plane."  I remember slowly shaking my head in the way that means "what a shame.  Somebody's day has gone horribly wrong."  My eyes glanced briefly at the dashboard clock.  8:49 a.m.

As I navigated the short trip to my home, I imagined the wife of the plane's pilot going about her business at home.  She had just dropped the kids off at school and was settling down at last to sip her tea and watch The Today Show.  She listened as Ann Curry made a similar announcement about the plane mishap.  She assumed, as I had, it was a small, probably private plane that had somehow lost its bearing and slammed into the tower.  Her heart skipped a beat in fear for her mate.

When I had closed the garage door and entered my kitchen, I went straight for the remote.  It's a habit I've developed to stave off the blaring silence in the house since my son had left the nest.   And there it was.

I was stricken by a terror I had only felt once before, when I struggled to stay on my feet at the 1989 World Series during the catastrophic earthquake in San Francisco.  I backed my way onto the sofa.  I watched as a jetliner flew itself, with great purpose, into the second tower. 
My stomach lurched at the same time a scream bubbled up from the depths of my being.  "This is no accident.  What the hell is happening?" I had said it out loud.

A camera trained on the plume of jet black smoke pouring from Tower 1 stayed there for minutes at a time.   At first I thought I was seeing parts of the plane and/or the building falling to the ground.  It wasn't. When I realized I was witnessing the suicide of desperate office workers, I nearly vomited.

Now I'm imagining myself being on the 96th floor of the first tower.  Terrified.  Coughing and gagging from the smoke and fumes from spilled jet fuel.  Concluding that I was to die that day and scrambling to find a working phone.  Attempting to dial my son's number and not being able to remember his number because it's programmed into all the phones I use. 

Feeling the heat, hearing the screaming, smelling the stench of burning human flesh.  I call my mother, who I know is watching TV and try to make her stop screaming so I can tell her I love her and goodbye.  And finally running to the gaping hole in the wall where the windows used to be and deciding in an instant to save myself from the flames.

I imagine the point at which I am filled with an inexplicable sense of peace.  I even smile.  And I jump.

Rest in peace.  We will never forget.

…On the Radio

The Actor woke me from a sound sleep to alert me to his early morning radio interview with some guy named Joshua Estrin on 810 AM (KGO) in San Francisco.  Apparently Josh is a fabulously famous pop culture journalist and broadcast personality.

When I tuned in online to listen to Stephen talk about his role as David Justice in the upcoming movie Moneyball (opens September 23,) I realized it was a call-in show.  Naturally, I was having one of those what-if-you-have-a-call-in-and-nobody-calls moments, so I looked for the number and placed the call.  Can’t have my baby boy embarrassed.

I just gave my first name so the producer wouldn’t guess who I was.  As I waited to be connected to the host, I listened as his first caller checked in.  A girl named Gail started by saying “Hi, Bish.”  That meant this Gail was someone Stephen went to high school or college with, because all his friends called him Bish.

“So, Bish, I’ve noticed from the movie ads that you have managed to keep that cute butt of yours in shape.  What’s your secret?”

I could just “see” Steve’s face in my mind.  Flushed red, a cheesy grin crawling across his handsome face.  Flustered, he said, “I’m sorry.  Would you mind repeating that?'”  And, of course, she did.
Recovering quickly, The Actor decided to answer the question straightforwardly and described his rigorous training regimen under the tutelage of Beverly Hills trainer Gunnar Peterson,  Then:

“You know, Josh, I remember Gail quite well.  In fact, I had a crush on her in high school.  I never dreamed she even knew I existed, much less checked out my butt!”

Nice, Bish.  Way to schmooze the caller.  I’m wondering if he really knows who this girl Gail is.
Next on the line we have Lezlie.  Do you have a question, Lezlie?

In my sunniest morning voice I sing “Good morning. I’d like to ask Stephen if he remembers who got him started in baseball?”

Stephen starts chuckling.  “Ooooooh, man.  I have to tell you, everybody.  This is my mother.  Hi, Mom!”

The female co-host, caught off-guard by my trickery, said she felt she needed to apologize for my having to listen to the previous discussion of my child’s derriere.  I assured her I was actually in total agreement with Gail – he does have a cute tush.

Of course, we eventually talked about how I was the one who taught Stephen to play baseball.  I pitched his plastic whiffle balls to his yellow plastic bat for the first time when he was around two. He made me cry by telling the listeners how that childhood play event was the beginning of his life-long journey to where he is this morning; i.e., being interviewed for playing a ballplayer in a movie.

To borrow a line from a song, “.. ain’t it funny how time just slips away?”

Stephen C. Bishop as David Justice in Moneyball