I would be more excited to quote the Hairspray song if I had not been in the original. The musical and the recent remake are fun, but the beauty of what John waters did with the original...well, it was threefold. First, he went to the most shocking place left to him filmmaking: sweetness and heartfelt nostalgia. We had to add lines with the word shit to make sure it wouldn't be a G movie.
Second, that film is the most quiet roar of social conscience heard in this country in years. Through the camp and the dance and the rose-colored memories of high hair and dirty boogies, the injustice heaped upon blacks at the hands of whites runs riot over every frame. This is white shame delivered in the sly way only a huge-hearted miscreant can deliver it.
And third, there was no updating in the original. We used Aquanet. We used so much friggin Aquanet that actors and hairstylists alike were often seen sprinting out of the hair room, low to the ground like they taught you in fire safety class, because the fumes were just too much. I wore John's actual suede wingtips from 1963, and begged him every few days to let me have them, to no avail. We were surrounded by versions of the people we were playing: we could ask Mink what it was like when the Madison swept the scene, we could ask John what getting kicked off the Buddy Dean show felt like. I learned the dance moves that helped get me the part from my stepfather in our kitchen right here, in Baltimore.
My home town. I am the only living member of my family born here. My dad moved away when I was leaving for college. Mom and Jim are still here, although looking to sell the house I spent from 6 to 18 in, which is fine; I have gotten over the roughest patches of my own nostalgia and can move on as they have.
Baltimore either grabs you or throws you away. My high school classmates either couldn't friggin wait to get out, or never left. Professionally I couldn't stay, but leaving was unpleasant, and returning is always a joy.
Which is a very very long way of getting to the fact that I cried as we crossed the Mason Dixon into Maryland, and that these past seven or so months trapped in New York represent almost the longest stretch I have ever spent away from home.
My wife is my home. We live in our apartment and it is our home. There are moments acting when three of four pieces lock together and just come out right, and that is a kind of home. And the finish line to a marathon well run is the threshold to a home of self-knowledge and achievement.
But I'm from Baltimore. Me, Frank Zappa, Captain Kangaroo, John Waters, Divine, Joan Jett, Barry Levinson, David Simon--if you don't know that he created Homicide, The Wire, and Treme, then please take your left hand, close it into a fist, and repeatedly hit yourself in the face, because you are a dumbass.
Baltimore puts out oddballs, oddballs deeply proud of every wart and wonder our town has to offer.
And I am back. Granted, we came here because next week starts with four days of the new uber-chemo and then the three weeks at home dealing with whatever effects that creates in my system.
We a here because N has three book-related events. She speaks to an American Studies class in College Park tomorrow, then gives a reading there as well, followed by a reading at the Enoch Pratt Library tomorrow night, the library that just unveiled a huge bust of Frank Zappa out front donated by a Lithuanian organization who took Zappa as a prodigal son and anti-establishment mascot for their creeping emergence from behind the Iron Curtain.
See, Baltimore's interesting.
Beyond the readings, I will do a little VO work, but mainly we will sit around, trying to actively to nothing. We will eat crabs--I am allowed now. We will eat hibachi steak--I am allowed now if I'm careful. We will even go sailing on the Chesapeake on Saturday and watch the Ravens hopefully beat the piss out of the Browns on Sunday.
Then we will drive back to New York and see how much methotrexate I can put in my veins without either shutting down my liver or throwing up hospital soup. Everything's a cycle, right? You go, you come back. You leave home, you return. You get chemo, your blood turns into lard, you stop eating, you start eating, you don't relapse, you go home again. Spin the prayer wheel, as it all keeps coming round. Om mani padme ohm.
Oh ,and you run.
I ran! I runned! I have ranned? I rin? Whatever.
Three days ago I went to the safe little tenth of a mile track at the Y and I ran. A mile. It took me ten minutes and fifteen seconds, almost twice what my fastest mile ever is. But that doesn't matter. My feet were rarely more than half an inch off the ground--I would not have passed the credit card test mentioned many moons ago in this blog. But that doesn't matter. I was pursued by the sound of my sneakers shuffling along, and I was passed by an effeminate man with a bleached crew cut and wrist weights who was speed walking with what can only qualify as 'aplomb.'
And none of that matters. I ran my mile. I was sore the next day, but it was a sore I knew. A sore I have missed. It is extraordinary to go through the pains I have gone through and to miss a pain that is familiar, to actually want to add to your pain because there is a comfort, a coming-home, to a pain you know you made yourself through your effort. Remember Mellencamp? Hurts so good.
Then I ran again this morning, and took thirty five seconds off my time. I will probably find a mile to run outdoors here in the next couple of days, and then I will have to stop for likely quite a while. During the chemo rounds I can still ride the bike on the trainer and I can still swim. Which I will do.
But to run, to run again in at least a semblance of how I used to run and how I will again run when the chemo round has ended. That is a wondrous thing, indeed.
