Rules of the Road

   When I was little, my mother said teasingly when traffic blocked up, “Go home, people!”  She would wink at me when I would suggest that possibly they were going home. She never gets angry on the road; she just drives around everyone else like a bat out of hell. Mama got three speeding tickets in one day while driving through Texas; a tale that she still proudly relates to this day. My father, on the other hand, has a different approach to driving. He does everything extremely conscientiously and gets very offended at fellow drivers’ lack of manners and knowledge of the Rules of the Road. I learned my sailor’s vocabulary when I was five, driving with my dad.

   And then there is me…the best of both worlds. I drive like a bat out of hell with my middle finger prominently displayed out of the car window to alert you to your many and varied traffic miscalculations and outright misdemeanors. I have inherited the speed and fearlessness of my mother and the discernment of what is right and just from my father. I will tell you to go home, just not very sweetly because you are driving wrong.

   My driving instructor was an ex-cop who’s first lesson was to teach me how to kill a man with my bare hands (with freedom comes responsibility.) He taught me to look on the horizon of traffic so that I know when traffic is stopping before the car ahead of me does. He taught me how to parallel park. But most importantly, he taught me to drive confidently so that the drivers around me are confident that they know what I am doing. (Or was that my father who taught me that last one? Anyway, I learned it.) I aced my drivers test and after driving for 20 years now, I am confident that people know what I am doing, while I have no earthly clue what it is that they are doing. Even talking on the phone and putting on make-up while driving 80 miles an hour down the road cannot explain their behavior: I drive that way all the time and I am still cognizant. It’s called The Force, people. I can stare in the rearview mirror and put on all of my make-up while never looking at the road once for five minutes because I am tuned in to The Force. (Not the Georgia Force hockey team but the actual Force of the Universe.)

   So, in the spirit of the Holidays, Heroine is pleased to deliver this public service refresher course for all of you drivers out there who may have forgotten a rule or two on the road. From the Georgia Department of Driver Services’ Georgia Drivers Manual for 2007:

 

Veterans License

●To qualify, one must have served in active duty in one of the following “conflicts”: The Spanish-American War, the “Mexican Border”(1916-1917), World War I and II, Korea, the “Lebanon Conflict”(July-Nov 1958), the “Vietnam Conflict”(1958-1964), the “Berlin Conflict”(1961-1963), Vietnam(1964-1975), the “Dominican Republic Conflict”(1965-1966), the “Grenada Conflict”(Oct. 23-Nov. 21, 1983), the “Panama Liberation”(1989-1990), “Saudi Arabia/Iraq/Kuwait/Persian Gulf”(1990-“ending date unknown at this time”)

 

●Right of Way

The left lane on the freeway is the FAST LANE. If you do not believe me on this one then you can refer to your official state Driving Manual or one of the many signs on the freeway that tells slower traffic to keep right. Actually, scratch that. Don’t get over. If everybody starts driving correctly then I will lose my perfectly good fast lane called the slow lane. That’s right, you heard me. Nobody ever drives in the slow lane so it has become my own personal fast lane. If people aren’t in the fast lane, they have their blinkers on to get over into it. It is an ego thing I’m convinced, not a speed one. The person who will not move out of your way in the fast lane does not want to admit to himself that you are faster than him; it may be quite obvious to you, but he is convinced that he is the fastest person on the planet. He’s not, and neither is the guy in the fancy sports car that is too afraid to (in a whiny voice) dent his car, jack up his insurance, or get a speeding ticket. No, I am the fastest person on the planet.

●Driving too slowly

Driving too slowly causes accidents too, Slowpoke Gonzales (Speedy’s cousin) and is against the law! “Don’t delay traffic behind you – take your turn when it comes.”

●Drag Racing

It is against the law for you to try to prevent me from passing you by “acceleration or maneuver”. This is considered drag racing. Again, I am faster than you and I am going to pass you whether you like it or not. Don’t race me, you are going to lose! And I do call 911 to report your license plate number, color and make of your car and the direction you are heading. Don’t fuck with me. I’ve been sitting behind you long enough to memorize this information.

●Bicycles and Motorcycles

Uh, they are allowed on the road even if you can kill them…and seem to want to, the way you follow too closely. Give them some room. There are two chapters devoted to this alone, along with another chapter that reiterates over and over again that you cannot slam on your brakes in front of a semi and think he has room to stop. I have been in the backseat of a car that belonged to an idiot who slammed on her brakes to make a turn she saw at the last minute. I looked behind me to watch the semi jackknifing across the road. The driver thought I was joking and never even bothered to look in her rearview mirror. Which is another rule – Don’t make last minute turns!

●Don’t litter, dumbass. I mean, really, how dumb can you be?!

 

There are more rules but I have only included a synopsis of what irritates me the most. I hope that your driving experiences this holiday season are pleasant and peaceful and if you see me on the road sometime – I’m the one ahead, on the horizon, out by myself and going 100 miles an hour – give me a honk!

 

 

From Heroine’s December 2007 “Road Rage!” issue

Happy, Damnit!

            When one approaches an opportunity for expression, one ponders the message that one sends out into the world. (At least this one does.) In this journal entry, I set out to put on a happy face. I have received so many complaints about my “gloomy” outlook that I have decided to join the rest of the world and be happy. Besides, what is there to really be that sad about anyway? We are in a war while our economy is tanking but what’s the point of complaining about it? Capitalism fosters a severe case of ennui but we won so…(Suck it, Commies!) I’m starting to think the world is as it has always been. I am going to wipe away the gothic cobwebs from my mind and let the sun shine in. Forget stewing in a mood for month that might foster a deep and thoughtful perspective, from now on I’m not thinking anymore. If we really cared about the world then we would all shut the fuck up – like the world needs another opinion – as Bob Dylan said, if no one ever wrote another song we would still be able to listen to music forever without hearing the same song twice. (Very convenient, Bob, after you’ve already gotten yours.)

 

[a voice from off-screen: Why are you so sad anyway?]

 

Ah, good question, my friend. Why not be sad?? I’ve made my career out of being laughed at – no really, I’m a clown. I’m single so I can do whatever I want whenever I want to…

 

[off-screen voice interrupts: No, I said, what makes you so rad anyway?]

 

Oh.

You mean, why listen to what I have to say as opposed to the other 3 million other blogs on this website alone?

 

[off-screen voice replies: Yes.]

 

Um.

(silence)

Because I said so, Goddamnit!

Big Top Life

My life is fodder for your amusement. I am the example of what not to be one when grows up. I have wasted the bloom of my youth so that I could entertain you and yet I am lower than the celebrity garbage that you worship in the gutter. Children either laugh and point or cry when I arrive. Who am I? I am a clown.

I used to be a regular girl; I came from an upper middle class family, but was born with a deviant gene predisposing me to the theatre. In olden days, actors and entertainers were a step above prostitutes. Even further back in feudal times, the clown was the literal fool of the town – retarded, misshapen, or just plain ugly. Even now, I sometimes get the sense of being the servant not good enough for the front door, but this life was my choosing. I had all the opportunities to either marry well or be a secretary. To my parents chagrin, I chose neither. I am an attractive, well-educated, clever and rebellious girl with a strong streak of deviousness. I chose to be an entertainer when I was young and had no concept of failure, money, death, social status, or healthcare. But these are all just the dark shadows of my job. To me, being subjugated to a man as his wife or secretary seems darker than the obvious shadow of the Big Top. I like to be upfront and I appreciate when someone or something displays its dark side prominently alongside its good graces. Most everyone else I know wants to hide what makes them human. The dark side of the circus can be overpowering but most of the time I revel in the magic of my work.

I have become the star of the show, using my intelligence and cunning to poke fun at those who would distrust me for the mask that I wear, the same mask that has been fashioned in their image. I have the biggest dressing room. I have had my affairs with the other circus folk, finally settling into the real romance of my life which is the one with my audience. They have made me the star because I have given of myself completely with every joke, gesture or pratfall. I feed their souls out of the palm of my hand which is also where I hold them while they are mine under the tent at night. It has been a tumultuous relationship at times where I have had to reach into the depths of my soul to find the morsel of laughter that would tempt them out of their shell of monotony. But I always accomplished my mission even if I fell exhausted behind the curtain as it closed. I crave their attention while pretending that I don’t know what they think of me. I am content to let them go at the end of each night and wait patiently until I see them again when I step into their spotlight.

Today, I am sitting in a café in another nameless town, enjoying a latte and writing my thoughts. I feel as if everyone has the sense that I am different. I wonder if my “plain clothes” are somehow off and give me away. Maybe it is the ease with which I feel in my own body – one is never more in one’s body than standing in the spotlight with a tent full of people looking at you. I used to think that being a clown was temporary – the job that one got right out of college, an easy way to see the world; or even now, something I can discard when I step out of my clown costume. But somehow the lifestyle has swallowed me and I have finally accepted that there is nothing greater for me out there than this. I still long for prominence, for a life where I am taken seriously, but most of us are simply spectators of greatness. I walked around for a couple of years, downtrodden with this detail, and I drank too much. But then I got to the fork in the road where I would have to choose to either continue to hate my fate and drown myself in alcohol or meet my destiny head on and enjoy the little things here in my little life. So, I chose life and the myriad little things. I enjoy my meditation, my yoga practice, my lattes. Later this afternoon, I will train the elite clowns of tomorrow, though I know most of them can’t hack the life and will be out in six months. Even my clown co-workers automatically hold back. People would rather be the dangerous trapeze artist or the respected Master of Ceremonies. Who wants to be the best clown? That is like being the biggest fool.

The secret that nobody knows is that besides the few little things you have to give up (like a steady relationship or respect from your peers) it is quite the swanky little life. I don’t make a lot of money but I have all the time in the world. And the little time that my job does take is cake. Everybody else works for the machine and I live my life with lots and lots of time. In my youth, I spent my time frivolously, thinking the point was total immersion in enjoyment which meant celebrating the show at the inevitable after-party. I would drink to remember the applause as if it was love wrapping me up in its warmth; get drunk to forget that they will remember me fondly – like a kiss from a stranger, the guilty pleasure or the toy one takes out of the closet to play with occasionally.  It took some time to climb out of the hazy stupor, and to figure out what enjoying life really means if not the instant gratification of wine, or a corona and lime, or any fine time that liquor provides. But the aging clown receives less fun per drink along with a proportional increase of cynicism and frustration. Besides which, I began to realize that my drinking was being encouraged because it was fun to laugh at me, not with me as I mistakenly and drunkenly thought. It was a sad fact to figure out that I was not only a clown in my professional life but in my personal life as well.

I wonder at the paradox of life; the absurdity of my profession and the luxury with which I conduct my private life. I enjoy the finer things that time, not money, can afford. It is a luxury to simply take one’s time while studying life. People who meet me outside of my job do not believe that I am a clown because I present a cultured and well-traveled human being. My insistence at their disbelief is always tiring and I wonder what paradox they live in on a daily basis. Do royalty like to spend their leisure time slouching around? The child plays the adult, the actor plays a human being…which side of me am I? Am I the person in the middle, balanced by both ends? I must pursue the higher ideals when confronted with the inevitable lows of my job. And then I bring elevation, inevitably lifting my lows higher. Am I a clown or the trickster who has escaped the mundane? Am I the cultured individual or the clown who points out the cultural in discrepancies that I find of those who I look down on while they are looking down on me? Because that is the crux of it: I chose a profession I know is looked down on by people I consider myself smarter than. I could have chosen to judge the proverbial You self-righteously from the ivory tower neighboring yours but instead I chose to judge you from the low point that you think you are above. My trickery is all-encompassing and further evidence of my superiority. I will judge you silently while in your face from a place that you don’t expect that you should have to protect yourself from and then unleash my fury upon you more harshly for every backhanded compliment, derogatory comment and humiliation that I have suffered as the clown that will redeem you by pretending to be you. Honestly, when the curtain raises and everybody is watching, how far can you go? Can you be the butt of the joke? Can you get the raw end of the stick; can you get screwed, and then fucked? You have to be willing to show yourself completely, to be completely vulnerable in the spotlight. You speak for everyone then. You then become their savior – Saving them from the spotlight. Though I hate your baser instinct, I love you enough to commit my life to making you better by putting a mirror up to your face so that you might evolve. You consider me your pet, your diversion. I consider my art the highest calling in the masquerade of life.

from the January “Circus Freaks” issue of Heroine

Make-up

   I have heard that a French woman never leaves the house without mascara. Alternately, an American woman is advised in The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right (co-authored by Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider) to never leave the house without lipstick. I ponder the cultural differences and wonder if I don’t belong in France as I am definitley an eye-emphasizing kind of gal. Makeup and its uses as a social costume has come into question as I have been reading the fascinating book Self-Made Man: My Year Disguised as a Man by lesbian journalist Norah Vincent. I care less about the obvious gender conflicts which I myself have discovered as I have gotten older, without dressing like a man I might add; more intriguing is the author’s discovery of disguise changing everything around her. I am first and foremost an actress, my talent discovered early by my mother and teachers, and I have understood forever that costume is everything in acting because how we appear is tantamount to people’s perception of us. As an actress, this actuality is ridiculous as I seem to see everything from the other side of the mirror. How can this piece of clothing be me, define me if it is so easy to put on and take off? The same applies to makeup, a topic that has always riveted me for its same potent effects. The question becomes when getting dressed in the morning, Who do I want to be today? If you want a major life change, change your wardrobe. I have done this over the span of my life, morphing into different people but tiring of it after awhile because while everyone else might, in the end I don’t buy it. I can pretend for awhile, for a decade even, but then I search for my next character. I’ve had so many that I wonder where to go next, I also question the point. I am no smarter when I wear my glasses than when I don’t, yet I couldn’t count the number of times that people have referred to me as such because I am wearing them. I have to think that I too fall for these preconceptions, these stereotypes…I suppose that my assumption is that you don’t recognize the senselessness of it all too.

An Anthropological Study of Habits

 Modern man (or woman as the case may be) is awash in a daily grind of maintenance that masquerades as comfort and security. This daily maintenance becomes mindless as the actions one performs become habits. After several years, the human being is lost in the habit whereas the actual need for action disappeared long ago. Man may have changed his action out of necessity to maintain a new habit, and yet still practices the old habit out of his necessity for comfort. Small unnoticeable habits define a human being and become more pronounced as the years go by. Examples of such can be found in habits of speech ( rhythm, cadence, or choice of vocabulary), physicality (the way a woman plays with her hair, the way a man tries to secretly adjust himself in public¼or not so secretly as the case may be), or even belief systems ( I am [blank] because my family has always told me so).

            One habit, interesting in its uselessness, is smoking cigarettes. Usually tried early in life, the person who has been caught in nicotine addiction has not yet conceived of his own death. So when confronted with the myriad benefits of smoking, he only finds himself smarter than the rest. Smoking in conversation can hide brief pauses that allow the speaker/smoker to be more thoughtful with his responses and so appear more intelligent than his non-smoking friend who has no such tool to help him think before he speaks. Also, smoking is highly advantageous when one wants space from the unintelligent-sounding non-smoker who will inevitably begin to list all of the drawbacks of smoking cigarettes at the first sign of a cigarette being lit which makes him seem even the more unintelligent to the smoker who has already heard it all before. A non-smoker cannot pierce the wall of smoke (or stench) that surrounds the quick-thinking young smoker. But then, in a reversal of fortune, the smoker is left behind where there is smoke-related paraphernalia such as (chairs and ashtrays) while the dumber non-smoker is off on non-smoking adventures, using their lungs to full capacity. The smoker has forgotten such fun and so makes fun of the dumb non-smoker for being just that: dumb. The smoker, in a perfect illustration of the cementation of habit, does not relate his disinterest to his need to smoke; nay, he has convinced himself that he does not like biking, roller skating, swimming, or the outdoors. As the smoker ages, his list of dislikes grows to include sex, showers or any other activity that does not include cigarettes. The smoker blames his apathy on his superior and cynical intellect. Or he can cite age as a scapegoat which is partially true as he is aging himself double the rate of his fellow non-smoker. It is once the smoker is brought abruptly into a confrontation with his own demise (that he is hastening forward to faster) that he becomes truly addicted. He must smoke to distract himself from this vision and so seals his own fate thinking, “What’s the big deal? Everybody dies in the end.”  The increasing mucous that his body expels in an attempt to fight the increasing level of toxins in the body only becomes the smoker’s reminder that it is time for another cigarette.

 

from the December ”Road Rage” issue of Heroine

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Hi there.

I am excited to join the ranks of bloggers out there with my daily blog. Look for a new post daily during the weekdays.

Tifany Lee