Well, it’s official.  I’m a girl who craves a happy ending.  Not that I ever really doubted it.  But, Sunday afternoon, as I was lounging on my red couch (that severely needs to be replaced), I switched over to the AMC channel.  A list of upcoming movies flashed on the screen.  It was a day of Paul Newman movies…a tribute to the recently lost - and incredibly handsome actor.  The next showing?  Hud.  One of my father’s favorite movies.  I’d never seen the classic, and in an attempt to dive into my father’s early adult head, I decided to continue my couch-lazing and take it all in.

The movie began.  Hud’s teenage nephew, Lonnie, disembarked from an ancient bus onto the streets of the small Texas town in which he lived.  He was on a quest to find his uncle, who had apparently left a path of destruction behind him after a night of partying in the tiny town outside his father’s ranch.  It was clear that Hud was a force to be reckoned with.  His well-deserved reputation seemed both revered and hated by the townspeople, and as his nephew tracked him down in the light of early morning - pulling on his boots as he exited the home of a local married woman - my stomach turned a flip, then a flop.  Because even in the poor lighting of an old black and white film, this man was breathtakingly beautiful.  With a cocky smile and crystal clear eyes, he expertly sidestepped the wrath of the just-arrived-home husband, blamed his presence on his unsuspecting nephew, and screeched off with the confused boy in tow.

Without the luxury of a commercial to take it all in (something meant to be a “plus” on this channel), I lay there wondering, what was it about this man, this character, that so captivated my father?  I suspect my father was, as a young man, much like he is today. Unrelentingly moral, balanced with just the right mix of bone dry humor and a hint of mischievousness.  Nothing like Hud really, who was anything but moral…but maybe that was the appeal.  There’s something about a man, any person really, who doesn’t give a damn how his actions affect the people and the world around him.  We witness their outlandish antics with judgment and sometimes disgust…but we watch, don’t we?  We give them power.  Because there’s something incredibly interesting about the train wreck.  We wonder how they got there…to this place where empathy and foresight are nonexistent.  Was it a tough childhood? In Hud’s case, he lost his mother at a young age.  He killed his brother in a car accident.  We have empathy, even though they may not.  Through our outward mask of disgust, we root for them to climb into the cacoon a slimy worm, and reemerge a beautiful butterfly.

“What is it about Hud that you liked so much?” I finally asked my father, tired of formulating my own baseless opinion.

“It was the setting.”

“Really?” I asked.  “What do you mean?”

“It was so much like where I grew up.  A small, sometimes lifeless town.  Not much going on.  The landscape not horrible, but somewhat barren and sad.  And the people…Hud’s father…a quiet moral man.  A farmer…rancher.  I knew a hundred men like that.  I still remember where I was when I saw that movie,” he said.

“Where?”

“In Lubbock, Texas, at a drive-in movie theatre.  It was 1963.”

“Who were you there with?” I asked, always digging for dirt.

“No one,” he said.  “I was by myself.  I wanted to see it…so I went.  I thought it was the most amazing movie I’d ever seen.  Still do.”

“Why?”

“It was so expertly cast.  You hated Hud, but Newman played him so perfectly…you wanted him to succeed…you wanted him to finally ‘get it’.”

“But he didn’t,” I said.  “I hated that ending.  I wanted him to get it.”

“But that’s life, kiddo.  Some folks never do.”

“I think you’re like Lonnie,” I said.  “He looked up to Hud in a way…he, like everyone else, was drawn to his ‘bad boy’ ways. He wanted to hang with him, thought he wanted to live that exciting life.  But in the end, he was more like his grandfather…a moral man, and he finally realized that Hud was just pathetic…not someone to be revered or to emulate.  Someone to pity.”

I thought of my dad watching that movie - alone at that Lubbock drive-in.  He must have been months, or possibly weeks away from marrying my mother.  He must’ve seen that movie as his past, and wondered what would happen as he looked toward the future - much like Lonnie did as he walked away from his old life, and Hud.  Just a young man, hoping to do better, scared that he may not be able to.  But with that youthful confidence we all wish we could regain.  The confidence which stems from inexperience…naivete.

If I think about where Lonnie’s life may have taken him…I see success.  Because he would likely take with him the best of all those from his past…even Hud.  Just a little bit of arrogance and that certain twinkle, but balanced by his grandfather’s goodness and hope and a responsibility to do right.  I think that’s why, in the end, I liked Lonnie so much.  He reminded me of my father.  And if I followed Lonnie’s life in my mind…one that may have taken a very similar path to my dad’s, I see a happy ending.  I get my happy ending.

“Can you be in love with an inanimate object?” I asked.

“In love with said object? Or just love it?” imaginary friend replied.

“In love. Like giddy. Lovesick. I miss them when I’m away.”

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, can you procreate with this thing?”

“God, I wish I could. We need more of them in the world.”

“Alright, enough of the elusive banter. What the hell is it?” (Even imaginary friends lose their patience).

And so I describe them. In all their full, beautiful glory. The perfect height…not too high, not too low. The way they hug (but not too tightly) my chicken calves. The soft, supple skin…the perfect shade of dark bronze. The subtle curves, dressy, but not too. Sexy, but in a naive, teasing manner. Engaging and alluring to men and women alike. They are, quite possibly, the most perfect pair of boots ever created. And they are mine. In brown suede…and black (I’m no dummy).

First, let me thank the Academy. And then Michael Kors for his expert design insight and ability to sell in bulk to DSW (so that I can afford said perfect foot ornamentation).

“I’m intrigued. Can I see them? I must see them,” imaginary friend coos.

“I can’t.”

“What?  Why?”

“I’m afraid you’ll go out and buy them. And I can’t have that.”

“Because…”

“Because last weekend…when I wore the boots with my new cute knit dress…”

“That is a cute dress. Where’d you get that?” she interrupts.

“Not telling. So, as I was saying…last weekend, when I wore the boots, I was told - by a married man…a respectable one…one who doesn’t cheat…”

“Does that exist?”

“Quit interrupting. Yes, they do exist. And he told me that I needed to walk away. That the combo of the knit dress and the amazing boots was ‘dangerous’.”

“Oooooh!”

“Uh huh.  Dangerous.  Because they’re so…well, perfect.  I saw people staring at them. A big guy…looked like an oafy football player - you know, the kind who wouldn’t know fashion from fiddle playing?”

“Yeah, I know him. I think I used to date him.”

“Well, he yelled across a patio full of people.”

“What’d he say? Did he wanna know the score of the Texas game?”

“No, this was Friday night.”

“Oh.”

“He said, ‘Hey - kick ass boots!’…and he was with a table of girls. And they started ogling them, too. There were high-pitched squeals involved.”

“And now you don’t want anyone else to have these magic boots…because you’re drunk on their power.”

“Yes.”

“You would be an awful monarch.”

“I know. I like the attention too much. I’d come to expect it. Maybe even demand it.”

“But you’re a kind person. You’re an amazing friend. You’ve always put others before yourself.”

“I’m not showing you the boots.”

“Bitch.”

“Yes.  Now, where did I put that damn crown?”

So I was watching Dancing With the Stars tonight, and because of a minor personality affliction of mine, I spent more time changing the channel than actually watching the full dances.  What is this affliction?  Well, the thing is, I hate to be embarrassed. I can’t even handle watching someone else’s embarrassing moment.  Case in point:  Rocco DiSpirito’s awkward movements and goofy grin (channel changed); Cloris Leachman freakishly spinning around on a cape on the floor (couldn’t handle it or the possibility that one wrong turn would snap one of her 83-year-old brittle bones - channel changed); and Lance Bass making out with his (female) partner at the end of their Paso Doble (now that’s acting…but still embarrassing - channel changed).

I can’t quite put my finger on the reason for my extreme discomfort when witnessing such moments.  Maybe it’s an overcharged empathy chip (I did grow up with a Psychotherapist mother), or some sort of weird transferrence thing (wait, I think that’s empathy, too)…or maybe it’s just that there are enough real-life uncomfortable moments, that I don’t need to be subjected to more when I sit down to lose myself in mindless entertainment.

With the explosion of reality TV, it’s near impossible to escape those channel changing moments (or at least a bury-your-head-in-the-couch-pillow moment). I’m surprised I don’t have calluses on the pads of my fingers…really.  Think about it. The girl singing opera to The Bachelor on the initial meet-and-greet night (it makes my stomach hurt - channel changed); the early episodes of American Idol…the William Hung moments (kill me before I die of embarrassment - or hand over the remote); and let’s get away from reality for a moment.  I saw a snippet tonight (because I quickly changed the channel) based on the premise of Meet the Fockers. To me, this is like the perfect storm. One hideously embarrassing moment after another. I lasted 45 seconds.

The odd thing is, I’m no wilting flower…don’t think I’ve ever been accused of that. I’m not afraid of public speaking, or defending a position I feel strongly about, learning a new skill, or dreaming up new ways to keep life from becoming stale or boring.  But if you force me to watch some horrible Fear Factor moment, or witness a star stumbling on the dancefloor, or watch someone get his “goods” stuck in a zipper…do that, and you’ll see a woman writhing in emotional agony. It’s on par with tossing a roach in my path, or putting a deadly virus on my computer (ok…maybe not that bad, but you get the point).

For those of you wondering - “How does this girl ever find anything to watch?” The truth is, I do change the channel…but I don’t stay away.  I allow a sufficient amount of time to pass (usually about 30 seconds - during which - in the specific case of Dancing With the Stars - the cringe-worthy dance has completed and the bad comments from judges have been doled out) and then I switch back - hoping the next dance will be inspiring and tear-worthy. But, oh no! Oh, God, it’s Cloris Leachman…where’s that damn remote!

This odd trait must be linked in some way to my inability to see anyone, or anything in pain. Historically, I’ve taken in the wounded birds (literally - and figuratively). Momma: remember the crippled blue jay that shit all over the chair in my bedroom? But I healed that mean little bastard and he flew away…that’s gotta count for something. Or the countless stray puppies and kittens.  A few “wounded” boyfriends as well.  The woman of steel with the mushy heart.

I fear I may soon be the butt of one of life’s ironic little jokes. Like I’ll meet Johnny Knoxville, we’ll fall in love, and I’ll be forced to witness his antics for years to come. A life full of stomach-churning, nail-biting moments. Or I’ll become a well-known author…well-known enough to be asked to be a contestant on DWTS. And then I’ll be personally living the weekly embarrassments.  Oh, well…at least the rigorous dance schedule will help me sculpt a great ass.

I’m thirty-hmm-hmm years old, and I have a curfew.  Yes, you heard me right.  A curfew.  Of midnight. 

Did I lose my job?  Am I living with my parents again?  Did I get caught sneaking out to meet up with the cute senior at that abandoned cul-de-sac in Colony Creek?  Nope. None of the above, folks.  This city-enforced torture is another result of our lingering friend, Hurricane Ike.

Ike has caused countless problems…those around the country, and possibly the world, have no doubt seen the devastation on Galveston Island - specifically the east end and Bolivar Island areas.  Where countless beach homes stood tall, only barren land and piles of debris now exist.  Inland, as far as Huntsville, TX (a good 100 miles north of Galveston) strong winds and torrential rains wiped out power, slammed trees on homes, ripped off shingles, tore down fences, etc…causing billions - if not more - in damage.  The day after his wrath, Ike had wiped out power to 99 percent of Houston and its surrounding area residents and businesses. 99 percent!!  As of the writing of this blog - two weeks after landfall - a good 30 percent are still without.  That’s somewhere around 700,000 customers!  Thank beJesus I am no longer one of them.  But my parents are…and many other friends.  I, personally, was without power for a week…and as the temperatures rose…as every last bit of food was tossed from my refrigerator…as the mosquitos hatched and attached to every patch of exposed skin…violent thoughts did occasionally enter my brain.  Ok, they were there 24/7.  If I had been subjected to another week without?  Well, let’s just say it wouldn’t have been pretty.  So, kudos to those still hangin’ on.  Humidity has increased.  Temps have risen.  And still you wait - sometimes even patiently - for that elusive Centerpoint truck to putter down your street and return you to civilized living.

It is strange to think that a Category 2 (almost Cat. 3) hurricane could cause such widespread damage, and I think in “normal” circumstances (if there is such a thing when it comes to Mother Nature), the consequences would have been less dire.  The difference?  This thing was a monster.  Huge.  It took up most of the Gulf as it barrelled toward the Texas coast.  That created an unexpectedly forceful and early  storm surge.  The water had nowhere to go but straight ahead…shoved along by the enormity of this beast, and strong winds reached far north - even before landfall when weakening usually occurs.  It was a strange phenomenon, caused by a tireless bastard who had already ripped his way through the still-recovering Cuba and Carribean islands.  If my power was still out, I’d probably track the remnants of this bully down and show him what a Texas whoopin’ feels like. I’m just sayin’…

So, okay…back to the curfew.  I do understand the reasoning behind it.  Many are still without power.  Looters do exist and law enforcement needs a legitimate reason to get them off the streets…before they wreak havoc.  But if you can, just for a moment, imagine being cooped up in your home…for days on end, even weeks.  No one is working.  For many, power is still out.  The term “stir crazy” doesn’t even begin to describe one’s state of mind.  Social interaction is necessary, and so we gather at our favorite restaurant or watering hole (preferably one with air conditioning).  We rehash recent events, offer comforts to those still without, and just as relaxation begins to creep into our bones…”LAST CALL, FOLKS! CURFEW STRICTLY ENFORCED! TIME TO GO HOME!”

What? But, I’ve just…I can’t go home.  But you have no choice.  A horrible memory from high school returns. You’re at that great party…the really hot guy’s house…the one with the long hair and guitar (or the letterman jacket…pick your poison). You’re playing quarters…he keeps glancing your way…and then your Mom walks in and drags you out.  And you’re humiliated to the point of death.  It was midnight.  And today, almost 20 years later, it’s also midnight.  And the city is ripping you away from your friends…and the drummer, or the basketball player (again, pick your poison)…and you wonder, does anything ever really change?

I’m going to see one of my favorite musicians on Friday night…and he’s scheduled to go on about 11:00 or 11:30.  I need this outing now more than ever…an escape from the constant reminders of Ike, the constant press conferences, the constant pictures and video and now rushed work deadlines. I need this.  But the curfew has still not been lifted, and I worry that the show will be cancelled, or that I’ll only get a precious 30 minutes to listen to the sweet music.  Maybe Daddy (Mayor) White will come through…maybe he’ll see that we’ve been responsible children and tack on an hour or two.  Or maybe Centerpoint will get a fire under their butts and save the remaining 30 percent from darkness.  If not, I may return to my teenage persona and risk punishment.  The adrenaline’s already pumping…

Apparently my warning to Ike fell on deaf ears.  He bore down on us like a programmed dart to the bullseye…and we are now suffering the aftereffects.  The family is all okay and intact…thank God.  No major damage to homes - just lots of little stuff caused by the gazillions of trees down from Galveston to Huntsville.  It really is an unbelievable sight.

As luck would have it, I am still without power - and will likely continue to be so through the weekend and possibly into next week.  Only about half of the 2.2 million homes/businesses, etc. are back up and I haven’t seen a Centerpoint truck in the vicinity…not a good sign.  The normally stifling heat of Houston in September has been suprisingly mild.  A “cool” front came through the day after the hurricane and is hanging on, which is good.  When the temp starts climbing and millions of folks are still without power…that’s when we’ll start to see tempers flaring.  Let’s hope the weather cooperates for a few more days - or, dare I ask, a week.

At a local coffee shop now…one that is normally about 1/4 full, but packed today…Ike victims desperate to leave their deafeningly quiet homes and reconnect with the outside world.  Might explain my all day/night “happy hour” yesterday…packed with a hyper / loopy crowd of eclectic folks.  Natural disasters bring out the goofballs in us all, and show even the most hermit-like that we truly are social creatures, and can only handle chatting with ourselves for so long.

Gotta cut this short…there are others looking to use the highly coveted electrical outlet. Keep your fingers crossed that power will soon be restored.  I’ll provide a bit more detail on this past week in my next post, and try to take some pics so you can see the craziness of the aftermath.