Roger Fallihee's Open Salon Blog

Plenty Of Turkey, Pumpkin Pie, And Anxiety To Go Around.

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 12:11:14 -0500

(Originally posted last Thanksgiving, and revised today)

Thanksgiving, 1986, Oakland, California.

My wife (now ex-wife) and I, along with my daughter, mother-in-law, and brother-in-law, sat around the dining room table, enjoying a delicious Thanksgiving dinner, while we quietly waited for something bad to happen.

None of us wanted to be there, but we were all willing to give this "Happy Thanksgiving concept" another try.

Platters of great food. Plenty of wine and Martinelli's. Baskets full of rolls. Butter, gravy, pumpkin pie, and tension. Lots of tension.

My father-in-law had tragically, and without warning, passed away several years before. I had only known him for a year, but during that time I rarely saw him and his wife together when they weren't bickering. And this was not the cute, funny, "Tracy/Hepburn" kind of bickering, but more like the "you ruined my life" bickering.

But, as is often the case, the revisionist history began immediately upon his death.

My mother-in-law acted as if her pensive and morose (only when she was there) husband had been Alan Alda all along. In death he became a witty, smart, and handsome guy who was a better dancer than Gene Kelly and funnier than Mel Brooks.

Before he died he was usually described as a disappointing, inattentive, husband and a detached father, who preferred the Los Angeles Dodgers over his family (In his defense the Dodgers were pretty damn good back then).

She became emphatic at dinner, almost pleading her case, as to how much she grieved for her husband, especially during the holidays.

Her seething son, who clearly knew the truth of the matter, blurted out, "I don't know why you claim to miss him so much. You two had a loveless marriage."

In a warped, twisted kind of way this was a great moment in family dinner history. In less than two seconds the ugly truth was laid out on the table, right between the cranberry sauce and the green bean casserole.

My ex brother-in-law, who was emotionally abused by his mother, finally let her have it, and he couldn't have chosen a more opportune and entertaining time to do so.

The in-laws did appear to have a loveless marriage. If not loveless, certainly miserable. Who knows, maybe they were blissful, but if they were they did an amazing job of keeping that to themselves.

My mother-in-law had no verbal reaction to her son's ill-timed remark. She sat in silence. We all did. She may have teared up... she could do that on command. My wife and I exchanged a look of, "Should we say or do anything or just sit back and see where this goes?"

Finally I broke the silence with, "How 'bout them 49'ers?"

More awkward silence. More mashed potatoes. One more glass of wine, or two... or three.

"Could I have some more stuffing and another layer of scar tissue please? Oh, we're out of scar tissue? No worries, we'll all bring plenty more next year."

Comments Are Now Closed

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 12:11:39 -0500

Are you as fond as I am of reading an interesting, compelling, controversial, or idiotic post, then thinking up the perfect remark, only to find that the post has been closed to comments?

What the fuck is that all about?

Isn't this a forum where we post our thoughts, exchange comments, learn from each other, become disgusted with each other, and decide that Blogger A is a genius while Blogger B is a moron?

Is closing comments just another way to make sure that you get the last word?

Is it a way to keep a flame war going without having to personally take the heat?

Or are the posts self-perceived to be so fucking brilliant that any comment would lessen the fucking brilliance of both the fucking brilliant post and the fucking brilliant poster?

When I started writing this I was truly interested in this subject, but now I'm bored and I realize that this post could not possibly be enhanced by the random comments of the OS community members, so it is with great sadness, along with a touch of narcissism, that I must now close this post to comments.

Knowing me, I'll probably forget that I closed comments, get pissed that nobody is commenting, delete the post in a state of rage, and question why I waste my time with people that don't understand my gift.

After Forty-Four Years, Chrissie Lamar Is Finally My Friend.

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 09:11:33 -0500

All the angelic Chrissie Lamar had to do was glance in my general direction, and I'd become a short-circuited, gangly mess of geekness that would have made Napoleon Dynamite look like Warren Beatty.

I shudder to think of what would have happened if she had actually spoken to me, but I didn't have to worry about that, because girls like Chrissy didn't talk to boys like me.

1965

My journey from boyhood to manhood was fraught with uncertainty, anxiety, and extreme awkwardness, not to mention crooked teeth, pimples, a contrived deep voice, an overflowing reservoir of testosterone... and girls like Chrissie Lamar.

I say girls like Chrissie Lamar, but the truth is there were no other girls like her, at least not at Catherine Blaine Junior High School, in 1965.

Blaine Junior High had plenty of pretty girls, but in my adolescent mind, Chrissie was a goddess. Surfer-girl blonde hair, beautiful face, perfect smile... and as absolutely unapproachable as a spewing lava flow.

If my body chemistry was telling my brain to stop thinking about Little League Baseball and start thinking about girls, Chrissie was the perfect muse. Her mere appearance in the classroom or on the playground made Mickey Mantle's late inning heroics from the day before seem a distant memory.

* * * *

I was a nice kid with a lot of close pals, but when it came to girls I had the confidence of a snowman on the first day of spring. Approaching any girl, much less Chrissie, was a ridiculous notion to me. Why would I set myself up for the inevitable, "Surely you must have mistaken me for someone who finds you interesting, witty, and attractive."

Did Chrissie ever actually say anything like that to me? Of course not. She was a sweet, nice, and well-mannered young woman who would never have been so cruel.

No, any nastiness thrown at me by Chrissie was all in my tortured imagination, fueled by low self esteem, raging hormones, and a rock-solid belief that the hand that I was dealt did not include romance.

If the impossible had ever happened, and she had said to me, "Roger, where have you been all of my life," I would have no doubt blurted out something hopelessly lame like, "Well for the first six years, I was still living in Portland."

There were plenty of boys who had the nerve and confidence to talk to Chrissie, but I wasn't one of them.

Not for another thirty-six years anyway.

2001

A month before the attacks of 9/11, I flew from San Francisco to Seattle for my 30th class reunion. My closest friend picked me up at the airport and off we went to the gathering of the class of 1971, from Seattle's Queen Anne High School.

Between 1971 and 2001 I managed to get married, have a wonderful daughter, take business trips all over the world, and build a successful cable TV equipment company.

I still had my share of demons, but I was no longer the cowering twelve year old, pimple-faced kid, terrified of the fairer sex. And I hadn't thought about Chrissie Lamar in years.

We made our way into a banquet room, registered, and right after I stuck my name tag on my shirt I turned, and there she was, a forty-eight year old mom, flashing the familiar radiant smile that was once a fixture in my youthful fantasies.

Was Chrissy Lamar smiling at me? She must have been. Nobody else was standing there. I felt like I was twelve years old all over again. I think I even touched my face to see if I had any zits.

She walked up with her arms extended. Holy shit, was she going to hug me? My stomach was churning, my face was flushed, and my mind was going a mile a minute.

What do I do now? Should I prepare for the inevitable humiliation that will crush me when she calls me by someone else's name? She must have me confused with Don, Rick, Jerry or any number of guys who weren't named Roger.

She hugged me, smiled, stepped back and said, "Guess what Roger?" (Okay, she did say "Roger"). I walked by your old house a few weeks ago, and it looks just like it did when we were kids. Isn't that amazing?"

After I recovered from the shock, I replied, "What's amazing to me is that you know where I lived."

Chrissie looked puzzled.

"Of course I know where you lived, silly. We grew up together."

Okay, technically we did grow up together. We were the same age, went to the same schools for twelve years, and lived only a couple of blocks apart, but as far as I was concerned I could have been on the moon... or at least back in Portland. We were neighbors on the map but strangers in life.

She knew where I lived? She knew that I was an actual person? She remembered me after thirty-six years? She didn't hate me? She may have even liked me? I could have actually talked to her in 1965? (Okay, I know that I've gone too far now).

But Chrissie Lamar remembered me, was nice to me, smiled at me, hugged me, and that's all that mattered. At that point you could have knocked me over with a feather.

2005

By 2005 my life had taken some unexpected twists and turns.

My once thriving business was bankrupt. My wife and I were getting a divorce after twenty-five years of marriage. I survived throat cancer. And I was dating and soon to be engaged to the love of my life, my best friend's ex-wife, the future "lovely Mrs. Fallihee."

I have been fortunate to have several very long-term friendships in my life. I have known my two closest friends, Brent and Ed, since 1959, when I began first grade at Magnolia Elementary School.

One winter evening in 2005, the three of us, along with Allen, another close friend from high school, got together for an evening of excessive drinking, music, and reminiscing.

Right around the time that we opened the third (or fourth) bottle of wine, a debate began as to who the coolest kids were from Magnolia Elementary School. My friend Ed argued that the true cool kids, like he and Brent, walked north after school and the less cool kids, like me, walked south.

I thought about this for a moment, smiled, and simply stated, "Yeah, well Chrissie Lamar walked south." I could see the look of panic and defeat on Ed's face. He knew that no matter how hard he tried, he had just lost the argument.

Chrissie Lamar did in fact walk south. Case closed.

2008

By this time in my life I had finished several screenplays and was outlining a two act play based on the evening I had spent with my life-long friends. The working title was "Chrissie Lamar Walked South." I had posted this title on a website that I was using to promote a different screenplay.

One day my phone rang, and it was my friend Brent, who informed me that Chrissie wanted me to call her. He gave me her phone number, and I gave her a ring. While the phone was ringing I pondered the bizarre notion that I was, in fact, calling Chrissie Lamar.

I had an idea what this was about, and I was right. One evening she "Googled" her own name and came up with a link to the play, and became understandably nervous.

"Was I mean to you when we were kids," she asked with a detectable amount of fear in her voice? Is this something terrible about me?"

"No, of course not," I replied.

I explained the origin of the story and assured her that my reference to her was based strictly on fondness, for both my childhood memories and for her.

She loved the story. She also was shocked to find out that all of the twelve year old boys thought that she was the cat's meow. That surprised me, but maybe that's the point. While we worshipped her from afar, she was consumed with the same kinds of doubts and fears that every other kid had. Could that be true? Yes.

We had a nice chat, talked about a few mutual friends, then wrapped it up. I hung up with a smile on my face. I was struck, but not surprised, at how kind, friendly, and funny she was to talk to. I wondered if she always like that? She probably was. After all, it's hard to find out if someone is nice or not when all of your conversations with her were make-believe.

Yesterday

Yesterday morning I opened my gmail to find this: "Chrissie Lamar added you as a friend on Facebook."

How about that?

I looked at the email for a second, then clicked over to Facebook and quickly accepted her invitation.

After forty-four years I can finally boast to my friends, "Oh yeah, I'm friends with Chrissie Lamar. Oh, you're not friends with her? I didn't know that. I don't know what to say. Sorry dude. Sucks to be you I guess."

* * * *

Teen angst was an integral and important part of my life... so much so that I made sure that it continued well into adulthood. In fact, I'm hoping that my "adult angst" will one day dovetail nicely into "grandpa angst."

Every awkward and painful moment of my life (as well as the good moments) led me to where I am today.

I've survived cancer, divorce, financial chaos, and the death of my parents. I've struggled with alcohol, and happily, I'm winning that battle.

I'm married to the finest and most beautiful woman on the planet, my true soul mate, and the love of my life.

Ironically, I never would have approached her either when I was a kid, for the same reasons that I was terrified of Chrissie Lamar.

Without the benefit of actually having a conversation, I would have decided that I simply wasn't in her league. But now she's the lovely Mrs. Fallihee, and I'm a very lucky man. So much for the usefulness of imaginary conversations.

* * * *

Life is great for me and I hope that it's great for Chrissie too. Our 40th (holy shit, that's not possible) reunion will be held in 2011.

I hope to see her there, and I'm reasonable confident that I can have a conversation with her and avoid the stammering, stuttering, and blushing moments of my early years.

But maybe I won't be able to avoid those boyhood foibles. After all, no matter how old we get, she'll always be Chrissie Lamar.

I Want To Become A Conservative, But I Might Be Too Stupid

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 14:11:16 -0500

I freely admit that I have the attention span of a gnat, and that I'm already getting bored with Barack Obama. I'm still glad that I voted for him, I suppose, but the thrill of "change that I can believe in," has definitely waned.

Obama has Herculean tasks ahead of him and I thought, apparently erroneously, that his problems were mostly caused by his shit-for-brains predecessor. Now, after listening to Sean Hannity and Glenn Beck, I'm not so sure. Maybe they're right. Maybe the mess that we're in is 100% the fault of Barack Hussien Obama. Maybe right wing conservatism is the way to go.

So I've decided to at least explore the possibility of dropping my liberal views and switching over to the "dark side."

However, there are some things that I need to learn about conservatism, particularly about conservative rhetoric, so I'm hoping that some of my right wing pals on OS, Facebook, Twitter, as well as real life, can help me with this complex transition.

Health Care

Okay, so I have a comprehensive and affordable health care plan. The problem is that others, many of whom work just as hard or harder than I do, are not so fortunate. So here's my question; How do I take joy in the fact that if I get sick I'm covered, and ignore the needs of my uninsured neighbors, friends and relatives?

I need to get the, "I have insurance, so fuck you, you lazy piece of shit, illegal immigrant, welfare cheating sloth" mentality firmly implanted in my brain. Could someone please help me out with that?

Obama's A Socialist

By the way, while you're at it, could you also explain to me how lining the pockets of both drug companies and insurance companies makes Obama a socialist. I know that "Obama is a Marxist/socialist," is an important talking point, so I just need to know how to explain away his consistently pro-business, non-Marxist policies. Shouldn't be a problem though, right?

Afghanistan and Iraq

With over 4,000 of our brave men and women dead, and tens of thousands more injured, and no end in sight, I need something to cling to. Throw me a frickin' bone here. Convince me that these wars have kept us safe, and that it isn't all about oil and gas and/or Bush's need to "one-up" his daddy.

Teach me how to believe that Mr. and Mrs. Smith's son or daughter or husband or wife died for a good cause, because right now I'm not feeling it, and if I can't feel it, I can't deal it.

Abortion

This is a tough one. If we are truly supposed to believe that abortion is murder, how can we justify any exceptions? If the baby was conceived during a rape, it's suddenly okay to murder him/her?

I've never heard a good explanation as to why aborting the "rape baby" isn't murder, but aborting a baby that was conceived during consensual sex is murder. I look forward to hearing possible answers for this inconsistency because I'll be damned if I can come up with one on my own. (Maybe I'm stupid after all.)

Gay Marriage

Okay, our conservative beliefs are firmly rooted in the idea that the government needs to stay out of our private lives, right? So why don't they stay out of Adam and Steve's life too?

Are we really worried about the sanctity of marriage? How about the sanctity of adultery? Or the sanctity of spousal abuse? Or the sanctity of divorce? Or the sanctity of spending the rent money at the racetrack?

When I'm at a party, and someone talks about gay marriage, I need to be comfortable in expressing my views as to why Adam and Steve shouldn't get the same rights that Mrs. Fallihee and I have.

Oh, and by the way, don't tell me how gay marriage will lead to "man/dog" or "man/coffee maker" marriages. I already tried that one, and was informed that, in the end, marriage is a legal contract and dogs and coffee makers can't sign legal contracts. (By the way, I could have used a snappy comeback for that one.)

This is the kind of non-stop barrage that I fear I'll be up against, so I'd appreciate it if you could provide me with both intellectual arguments, and witty retorts.

Voting Against My Own Best Interests

This argument might be the hardest one of all for me to overcome. Take Glenn Beck for example. He makes in the neighborhood of $22,000,000.00 per year, or roughly 440 times the national average, yet he presents himself as a populist, a regular guy, a guy just like you and me, yet (this is the best part) he gets us to vote for his best interests and ignore our own... every time.

In fact, most of my conservative friends vote against their own best interests and throw their support behind Beck and Hannity's needs. That has always blown my mind.

Wait, I know, does it have something to do with how a rising tide raises all boats? (See, you can teach an old dog new tricks).

Dependency On Foreign Oil

Drill baby drill! I'm down with that one. If we want to quit buying oil from countries that hate us, like Saudi Arabia, we need to further develop our own resources. I get that.

In the meantime though, we can drive more fuel efficient cars, which will result in an immediate decrease in foreigh oil consumption. So, when Hannity mocks the hybrid crowd as tree-hugging liberals, he must know something that I don't know. What exactly is that?

(Mrs. Fallihee and I just bought a Prius, but we still have a '95 Cadillac that I will use for tea parties and anti-Obama rallies.)

Summary

I'm excited about converting to conservatism and developing my new, "It's all about me, so fuck you" attitude. At first I felt a little guilty, but now it's kind of fun.

Change happens slowly though. Yesterday I almost handed a homeless guy a buck, until I caught myself and scolded him for not having a job. (By the way, if you know anyone who wants to hire an incoherent, schizophrenic alcoholic, with rotten teeth and smelly-ass clothes, I know a guy.)

If I find myself feeling compassion for someone less fortunate than myself, please cut me some slack.

If I find myself frustrated about the disastrous G.W. Bush years, please remind me, gently, that all of our nation's problems are the fault of Franklin Roosevelt, Lyndon Johnson, Bill Clinton, and Barack Obama.

Trying to understand and embrace some of the conservative rhetoric makes me feel stupid and unfeeling, and I know that I'm neither, so if you're willing to teach, I'm willing to learn.

See you at the next tea party!

"Death By Stoning" Ritual Increases Local Clothing Sales.

Sat, 7 Nov 2009 12:11:48 -0500

Abas Hussein Abdirahman, 33, was stoned to death in his home town of Merka, Somalia, for the crime of adultery. His pregnant girlfriend's life was spared, until she gives birth to her baby, whereupon she will be murdered in the same fashion.

These kinds of tragic stories are not new, but Somalian President Sheikh Sharif Sheikh Ahmed, has put forth an explanati0n that may very well be unique in the annals of political spin.

From BBC News:

"Their actions have nothing to do with Islam," said the moderate Islamist during a ceremony at which he nominated a new administration for the capital, Mogadishu.

"They are forcing women to wear very heavy clothes, saying they want them to properly cover their bodies but we know they have economic interests behind - they sell these kinds of clothes and want to force people to buy them."

Overeager Salesman

So, perhaps this horrific incident is simply the result of an overeager salesman trying to come up with new ways to generate business at his struggling clothing store?

Of course, his manager should teach the ambitious salesman that if you murder too many of your potential customers, you run the risk of damaging the good will that you've built up over the years. Banana Republic should jump all over this business opportunity.

"Shop at Banana Republic. When we say that we'll kill for your business, we don't really mean it."

"Shop at Banana Republic. We want you back next week, next month, and next year."

Maybe the new President didn't actually believe what he said, but was merely practicing the ancient art of political spin.

He's off to a good start. If he keeps it up and sharpens his oratory skills, he may one day end up with a lucrative Fox News gig, explaining why the Republican loss in NY23 was actually a win.