Carole King Nightmares
There's a great Whit Stillman quote at the end of "Barcelona." A guy's friend is visiting him in the hospital, and he says something about the human respone to tragedy being inherently narcissitic. Just something to suck on...
My weekend was spent praying and waiting, shaking in terror and generally freaking out. I couldn't focus on anything, and when I tried to talk, my lips curled around my teeth and snapped together like the legs of a virgin. Thankfully I was able to lean on my old pal, the nap. When I slept, I could stop shaking. See, I have a darling little tremor that's normally undetectable, save for when I'm exceptionally nervous, hurried or excited. But from Saturday morning until late afternoon yesterday, the darling tremor morphed into a fugitive Tilt A' Whirl, jerking my arms and legs and head. It felt like I had been struck by lightening. The tired and over-used deer in the headlights metaphor certainly applies in this instance. However, I am the deer and it's all happening in SLOW MOTION. Ah, I haven't explained the oncoming car or its blinding headlights.
Last week was a busy and rough week. And I'll leave it at that. Well, I should also mention that I'm not easily overwhelmed or upset. I cry maybe 5 times a year. I'm impervious to Kleenex commercials, the part of "My Girl" when Macaulay Culkin dies, anything like that. I laugh in the face of the trite and saccharin. You have to seriously fuck with my shit to fuck with my shit. Clear enough? I had a point here. Oh, yes, I completely lost my shit on Friday night, cried like a wuss, couldn't catch my breath, and the aforementioned 'shakes' made a guest appearance on the curb of Elizabeth St. between Houston and Bleecker. Someone must have seriously fucked with my shit. I knew it was coming, too, kind of like when you know you're gonna hork. But I was sure I could get to the subway and make it home without offering random passers-by Orchestra seats to my breakdown. But noooooooo. Weepy, weepy show for everyone to see.
When I finally got home, I shut my phone off, put on my softies (PJs/loungewear) and limped into bed. I'd been beaten to a pulp, ridden hard and put away wet. Breakdowns are exhausting. I blew all adrenaline stored in my tiny frame. There was no reserve, nothing. The Shan went out like a light. That was my Friday night.
Saturday morning, I turn the ol' phone back on and I've got 7 voice mails. I thought that maybe my cell phone is a stinking, dirty liar, trying to screw with me, so he/she/it can go live somewhere else. I never have more than 2 voice mails. I am not that cool, don't have that many friends, and almost everyone knows that I hate the phone. What the hell? My worry was warming up and I had regained a bit of adrenaline over night. If I had elf ears, they'd have been raised nano-inches, sensing danger ahead. Anything out of the ordinary, in my experience, is bound to be BAD, disaster in the mist. I dial and enter my stupid password: corn muffin or baby dingo. I change it a lot. The first message is from my friend Laren, who probably thinks I'm a flake. And he's right. Delete. Next…it's Mom. Here it comes. Prepare. I am a keen, danger-sensing elf. "Hello, Shannon. This is your mother. I need you to call me." Beep. Oh, shit! I know that that message. It’s familiar and isn’t good. Based on her brevity, someone has died. I've asked her to humor me with a smattering of chit chat before she goes full-on Bad News Joan on me. 'Oh, Shannon, I don't want to upset you, but _________ passed away.' I've earned the small talk. How's the weather, Shanie? Fake it, for Chrissake. Next message is also Mom. Shit. Shit. Two in a row. Fuck. This is definitely bad. At this point, I perform a time-honored ritual, and I run through the Death Watch list. Not to be cruel, but there are relatives ranked higher on that list than others. So I am ready, if necessary, to hear Death Watch names 1 thru 5. "Shannon, this is your mother. I'm on my way to 8 o’clock mass. I'll try you again when I get back." Beep. Definitely Death Watch action. Has to be. She’s already at church. Please, God, open your loving God Arms to the Death Lister on his/her way to life everlasting. May their souls be welcomed into heaven. I love them, I really do. But they are on their way out. Take that to the bank. There's nothing I can do but accept the harsh reality. Hmm. Maybe DL#2 was driving with DL#5? BOOM! Car wreck. That’s a two-in-one combo. Never done that before. Dual funerals. Does that mean there’s only one luncheon, because I say one luncheon per stiff. It’s insulting to do a joint thing. See this neurosis? It takes is 2 voice mails for me to be willing to accept that 5 pre-selected relatives get knocked off. In less than 5 minutes, I've lined up two funeral luncheons. I don’t even get to drink for free at those anymore. I suffer family sober. What do I care if there’s just one luncheon? OK, on to Mom's voice mail, Episode III: "Shannon, this is Mom. I hate to tell you this over the phone...Little Billy is in West Suburban hospital. Call me as soon as you can." Shock hits. It's really bad. Her voice was soft, nurturing and quivering. I could practically feel her rubbing my back to console and calm me. Little Billy? She called him Little Billy. He’s been ‘Just Bill’ for years. She’s flashing back. Unspeakably horrific. Shit. Oh, shit! Fuck. Fuck! Billy, my cousin, a perfectly healthy 32 year old dude is in the hospital. I proceed directly to dire thoughts. He's been vicious pile up on the Eisenhower. One of his students shot him! Kids shoot people all the time. (If you're ever looking for someone to asses a situation then give you the worst possible scenario, keep me in mind. I'm good, fast and cheap.)
Frantic, I dial Mom. No answer. You know when you're trying to reach someone during a crisis and you get their regular message? I hate that message. I loathe it. The sound of their everyday 'normal situation' voice goes searing through my ears. She’s also refused to get a cell phone so there is no other way to snag her. I could kill her. Dogs have cell phones, but not my Mom. Next up: M.J. (the brother). His voice mail message is worse. Ugh. It's so Guy. "You know the drill. Leave a message." No mention of his name, no have a nice day, no warmth whatsoever. I mutter 'dick' under my breath as I hang up. I surmise that I have to venture outside of my inner circle to get information. At this point I’m restless and agitated in a “I’ll never get to the bathroom in time” kind of way. My head is throbbing. Apparently someone planted a Sequoia at the base of my vertebrae. It grew all the way up to my ears. Who's in my phone contacts list? Paydirt! Bingo! Bill's sister and my cousin, Kathy. Kathy is cool. This is good. I love her. I can take hearing whatever it is from her. It'll be fine. No answer, machine picks up. Aw, c'mon! Give a kid a break! Another outgoing message! My last resort, is Mary Rose, Bill's sister and my cousin, too. She’ll know what’s up. In fact, she’ll be in the thick of it, telling who to sit where in the waiting room. Calling her when I know she’s in shit stew reminds me of opening credit card statements. I hate, hate, hate to do it, but I've got to know what's in there, for my own good. I call Mary. I get Mary. She coolly and calmly gives me the details. (Mary Rose has become my new hero. She deserves a damn parade for being so solid, for trying to keep this whacked family together and for walking through her fear time and again so that others can have an easier time walking through theirs. Mary gets it done.)
A shortened series of events follows: Bill walked into the ER Friday afternoon. He'd had weird symptoms, of what he didn't know. But it was getting worse fast. Bill’s wife Andrea is a nurse and thank God for her, b/c if it was up to Bill, his arm would fall off and he'd take an aspirin. This is a guy who won't even get himself new socks, and he can wear a pair of shoes down to the insole. Not that he's this totally self-sacrificing martyr, but he's unaware of stuff, basic things he needs. Anyhow, by Friday night the doctors at West Suburban diagnosed an infection in a valve in his heart. Again, Bill is a perfectly healthy, 32 year-old man. Mother. Fucker. (From this point forward I will NOT be using accurate medical terminology. I could have been a Doctor, it's just the science part I had a problem with.) Overnight, they tried to fight the infection, or at least contain it, with antibiotics, but no dice. His fever went up. There was no choice. They'd have to operate as soon as possible. When I hung up, I kept hearing Mary tell me, "He's so sick, Shan. He's just so sick. You wouldn’t believe it if you saw him now."
I'm going to skip over the whole Operation part. It’s gross. But I must say that it was a fuck of a lot harder than they thought it would be. Complications, anyone? And it took a long ass time. How can a surgeon cut and paste for 8+ hours? How? Maybe it's all animation and special effects.
We assembled a family phone tree, kept in touch, and gave each other updates whenever they were available. I prayed a lot. I had nothing else to do. God must have been sick of all of us begging for Billy's life. Here's my impression of God listening to my umpteenth round of prayers, "Yeah. Uh-huh. OK. Yeah. Got it. Cousin Bill. Heart something. Cracked him open. Newly married, great teacher, blah, blah. I got it already!" He did. Nothing short of a miracle occurred when Bill was off the ventilator and sitting up late Sunday afternoon. He's totally doped up and when he tries to talk, all he spits out is, "Good? We good?" Yes, Bill, we’re very good. For now.
THE CAROLE KING PART
The night before they went to the ER, Andrea said that he had a helluva time trying to get to sleep. Staying asleep was even harder. And when he'd wake, he was restless and alarmed. So, Andrea asked him what was going on. He said, "I keep having these Carole King nightmares. I'm at Carole King's parties and there are all these people there and it keeps getting out of hand and she doesn't care." The funny thing is that Bill would have a Carole King dream even if his ticker wasn't jacked up. But I'll bet if he felt better, the parties would be fabulous and he'd enjoy himself immensely. Carole and company would be lucky to have him.
Mine is a ginormous family. But the 4 of us cousins, Mary, Billy, M.J. and I, are an extremely tight group. We're all close in age and we've all got compatible, undiagnosed ADD. I feel sorry for any outsider who tries to keep up with us. Entry into our club is a bitch. It’s been said that twins often develop their own language. Sometimes they speak in a vernacular only they know. We’re like that, but funny. When we were kids, we’d hang out and play games we'd invent. Our games were nothing like Connect Four or Hide and Go Seek. Left to our devices, we'd collaborate and come up with some inspired activities. I liked Spa where Bill and I lay down on towels, with unplugged phones in front of us. Mary and M.J. walked on our backs while we pretended to be movie agents, putting deals together during a professional massage. We played Band a lot, too. Naturally, Bill and I cast ourselves as lead vocals (depending on the gender of the person singing on the radio. There was a huge ruckus over who’d be Boy George. ) M.J. and Mary were always the supporting players. “Mary, I need you to really sell the air guitar. I want to feel it. Have fun!” Every time Bill sensed an uprising was in the works, he and I sat the down and gave our “We couldn’t do what we do without you. We need you. You’re the heart and soul of this band,” speech. We also performed several plays for friends of my aunt and uncle, who had agreed to a New Year's Eve party invite. If they only know that they'd be trapped in the house with no other choice than to attend The McGlynn 'New Year’s Rockin’ Eve' Theater. Then there's the legendary ‘Fame’ show, performed during Kathy's graduation party. We choreographed a tumbling routine to the first side of the Fame Soundtrack. But every time one of us landed too hard, the needle would skip and we'd have to "take it" from "the top." 'Hot Lunch' on repeat. I think we even asked people to pay to see us, which is cool because, technically, I've been a working actor since I was 7. The guests at the party lit their lighters hoping we’d do an encore, but we had to retire. It was bedtime.
I can't remember willingly leaving their house after our parents determined that the visit was over and vice versa. One time we hid in our crawl space for an hour hoping they wouldn't find us. Praying for a snowstorm to strike, our cover was blown. No sleep-over! My personal favorite ridiculous method of passing time was when we'd pose ourselves in various positions, with various expressions—sexy, confused, angry, lost—in front of the huge mirrors on my Mom's double walk-in closet. For hours, we'd summon the spirit of Meneudo, Duran Duran, Huey Lewis and the News and Corey Heart. We were working on our album cover. Really focused and commited to getting the best shot. I mean, practice makes perfect. And in the 80s, nothing could make an aspiring supergroup of future drug addicts look cooler than a spray bottle. Wet = hot. That spray bottle worked harder those afternoons than the entire Reagan administration did in 8 years. Pssshhhht, Pssssshht! Pssshhhhht! "OK, Shannon you're on top of the pyramid this time. Don't touch your hair!"
Without Bill's influence, I'd never have set foot on a stage. He also give me the last bit of convincing I needed about where I'd spend my college years. Bill encouraged me, said I belonged at Boston University with him. Incidientally, if you’re ever in Boston and you need a tour guide to point out key spots on the the Freedom Trail walk, call Bill! Nary a Revolutionary War bullet hole is skipped. He throws in some Catholic history factoids, too. I proudly know precisely where Rose Kennedy was born.
Bill works like a dog. He runs the theater program at Julian Jr. High, called C.A.S.T. Every year, Bill exposes his kids to the awe inspiring magic of live theater. (And he loses some more hair in the process.) He and his wife, by example, have the kind of marriage that I aspire to have one day, when hell is frozen over, and monkeys fly out of G.W.’s ass.
Billy got me to listen to James Taylor, to seriously listen to James Taylor, over and over. As a result, JT reminds me of love and peace and wisdom when I feel like I’ll never have them again. JT's voice is kind and soothing. If ever there was a man who could put me in a trance, it's Sweet Baby James.
When you're with Bill, you'll be struck by his intensity. He looks right at you, but with a marked absence of intimidation. You never sense boredom on his part. He can engage others by virtue of being engaged himself. Bill's got this Rodin’s 'The Thinker' habit of sitting a particular way when he's really into something. He'll lean forward, rest his chin in his palm and squint. I'm not sure if he thinks he can hear or see better when he does this. It's a joy to watch him do it.
Lastly, Bill's approval of my comedic endeavors is more important to me than any booker, agent, friend or potential stalker. He's always called me Shan, which I hate, but not when he says it. When I'm writing a joke or a new bit, I keep him in mind because he insists that I am as smart as I am funny. Some jokes are cheap, the best ones are clever. And onstage, I practice the economy of movement which he taught me. "Every motion is intentional. No wild gesturing. Don't distract the audience. Your presence is enough. Slow down. You know what you're doing." No, I really don't, but thanks for saying so.
I trust Bill implicitly. I love him even more.
posted by Shannon E. Ennis at
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
My weekend was spent praying and waiting, shaking in terror and generally freaking out. I couldn't focus on anything, and when I tried to talk, my lips curled around my teeth and snapped together like the legs of a virgin. Thankfully I was able to lean on my old pal, the nap. When I slept, I could stop shaking. See, I have a darling little tremor that's normally undetectable, save for when I'm exceptionally nervous, hurried or excited. But from Saturday morning until late afternoon yesterday, the darling tremor morphed into a fugitive Tilt A' Whirl, jerking my arms and legs and head. It felt like I had been struck by lightening. The tired and over-used deer in the headlights metaphor certainly applies in this instance. However, I am the deer and it's all happening in SLOW MOTION. Ah, I haven't explained the oncoming car or its blinding headlights.
Last week was a busy and rough week. And I'll leave it at that. Well, I should also mention that I'm not easily overwhelmed or upset. I cry maybe 5 times a year. I'm impervious to Kleenex commercials, the part of "My Girl" when Macaulay Culkin dies, anything like that. I laugh in the face of the trite and saccharin. You have to seriously fuck with my shit to fuck with my shit. Clear enough? I had a point here. Oh, yes, I completely lost my shit on Friday night, cried like a wuss, couldn't catch my breath, and the aforementioned 'shakes' made a guest appearance on the curb of Elizabeth St. between Houston and Bleecker. Someone must have seriously fucked with my shit. I knew it was coming, too, kind of like when you know you're gonna hork. But I was sure I could get to the subway and make it home without offering random passers-by Orchestra seats to my breakdown. But noooooooo. Weepy, weepy show for everyone to see.
When I finally got home, I shut my phone off, put on my softies (PJs/loungewear) and limped into bed. I'd been beaten to a pulp, ridden hard and put away wet. Breakdowns are exhausting. I blew all adrenaline stored in my tiny frame. There was no reserve, nothing. The Shan went out like a light. That was my Friday night.
Saturday morning, I turn the ol' phone back on and I've got 7 voice mails. I thought that maybe my cell phone is a stinking, dirty liar, trying to screw with me, so he/she/it can go live somewhere else. I never have more than 2 voice mails. I am not that cool, don't have that many friends, and almost everyone knows that I hate the phone. What the hell? My worry was warming up and I had regained a bit of adrenaline over night. If I had elf ears, they'd have been raised nano-inches, sensing danger ahead. Anything out of the ordinary, in my experience, is bound to be BAD, disaster in the mist. I dial and enter my stupid password: corn muffin or baby dingo. I change it a lot. The first message is from my friend Laren, who probably thinks I'm a flake. And he's right. Delete. Next…it's Mom. Here it comes. Prepare. I am a keen, danger-sensing elf. "Hello, Shannon. This is your mother. I need you to call me." Beep. Oh, shit! I know that that message. It’s familiar and isn’t good. Based on her brevity, someone has died. I've asked her to humor me with a smattering of chit chat before she goes full-on Bad News Joan on me. 'Oh, Shannon, I don't want to upset you, but _________ passed away.' I've earned the small talk. How's the weather, Shanie? Fake it, for Chrissake. Next message is also Mom. Shit. Shit. Two in a row. Fuck. This is definitely bad. At this point, I perform a time-honored ritual, and I run through the Death Watch list. Not to be cruel, but there are relatives ranked higher on that list than others. So I am ready, if necessary, to hear Death Watch names 1 thru 5. "Shannon, this is your mother. I'm on my way to 8 o’clock mass. I'll try you again when I get back." Beep. Definitely Death Watch action. Has to be. She’s already at church. Please, God, open your loving God Arms to the Death Lister on his/her way to life everlasting. May their souls be welcomed into heaven. I love them, I really do. But they are on their way out. Take that to the bank. There's nothing I can do but accept the harsh reality. Hmm. Maybe DL#2 was driving with DL#5? BOOM! Car wreck. That’s a two-in-one combo. Never done that before. Dual funerals. Does that mean there’s only one luncheon, because I say one luncheon per stiff. It’s insulting to do a joint thing. See this neurosis? It takes is 2 voice mails for me to be willing to accept that 5 pre-selected relatives get knocked off. In less than 5 minutes, I've lined up two funeral luncheons. I don’t even get to drink for free at those anymore. I suffer family sober. What do I care if there’s just one luncheon? OK, on to Mom's voice mail, Episode III: "Shannon, this is Mom. I hate to tell you this over the phone...Little Billy is in West Suburban hospital. Call me as soon as you can." Shock hits. It's really bad. Her voice was soft, nurturing and quivering. I could practically feel her rubbing my back to console and calm me. Little Billy? She called him Little Billy. He’s been ‘Just Bill’ for years. She’s flashing back. Unspeakably horrific. Shit. Oh, shit! Fuck. Fuck! Billy, my cousin, a perfectly healthy 32 year old dude is in the hospital. I proceed directly to dire thoughts. He's been vicious pile up on the Eisenhower. One of his students shot him! Kids shoot people all the time. (If you're ever looking for someone to asses a situation then give you the worst possible scenario, keep me in mind. I'm good, fast and cheap.)
Frantic, I dial Mom. No answer. You know when you're trying to reach someone during a crisis and you get their regular message? I hate that message. I loathe it. The sound of their everyday 'normal situation' voice goes searing through my ears. She’s also refused to get a cell phone so there is no other way to snag her. I could kill her. Dogs have cell phones, but not my Mom. Next up: M.J. (the brother). His voice mail message is worse. Ugh. It's so Guy. "You know the drill. Leave a message." No mention of his name, no have a nice day, no warmth whatsoever. I mutter 'dick' under my breath as I hang up. I surmise that I have to venture outside of my inner circle to get information. At this point I’m restless and agitated in a “I’ll never get to the bathroom in time” kind of way. My head is throbbing. Apparently someone planted a Sequoia at the base of my vertebrae. It grew all the way up to my ears. Who's in my phone contacts list? Paydirt! Bingo! Bill's sister and my cousin, Kathy. Kathy is cool. This is good. I love her. I can take hearing whatever it is from her. It'll be fine. No answer, machine picks up. Aw, c'mon! Give a kid a break! Another outgoing message! My last resort, is Mary Rose, Bill's sister and my cousin, too. She’ll know what’s up. In fact, she’ll be in the thick of it, telling who to sit where in the waiting room. Calling her when I know she’s in shit stew reminds me of opening credit card statements. I hate, hate, hate to do it, but I've got to know what's in there, for my own good. I call Mary. I get Mary. She coolly and calmly gives me the details. (Mary Rose has become my new hero. She deserves a damn parade for being so solid, for trying to keep this whacked family together and for walking through her fear time and again so that others can have an easier time walking through theirs. Mary gets it done.)
A shortened series of events follows: Bill walked into the ER Friday afternoon. He'd had weird symptoms, of what he didn't know. But it was getting worse fast. Bill’s wife Andrea is a nurse and thank God for her, b/c if it was up to Bill, his arm would fall off and he'd take an aspirin. This is a guy who won't even get himself new socks, and he can wear a pair of shoes down to the insole. Not that he's this totally self-sacrificing martyr, but he's unaware of stuff, basic things he needs. Anyhow, by Friday night the doctors at West Suburban diagnosed an infection in a valve in his heart. Again, Bill is a perfectly healthy, 32 year-old man. Mother. Fucker. (From this point forward I will NOT be using accurate medical terminology. I could have been a Doctor, it's just the science part I had a problem with.) Overnight, they tried to fight the infection, or at least contain it, with antibiotics, but no dice. His fever went up. There was no choice. They'd have to operate as soon as possible. When I hung up, I kept hearing Mary tell me, "He's so sick, Shan. He's just so sick. You wouldn’t believe it if you saw him now."
I'm going to skip over the whole Operation part. It’s gross. But I must say that it was a fuck of a lot harder than they thought it would be. Complications, anyone? And it took a long ass time. How can a surgeon cut and paste for 8+ hours? How? Maybe it's all animation and special effects.
We assembled a family phone tree, kept in touch, and gave each other updates whenever they were available. I prayed a lot. I had nothing else to do. God must have been sick of all of us begging for Billy's life. Here's my impression of God listening to my umpteenth round of prayers, "Yeah. Uh-huh. OK. Yeah. Got it. Cousin Bill. Heart something. Cracked him open. Newly married, great teacher, blah, blah. I got it already!" He did. Nothing short of a miracle occurred when Bill was off the ventilator and sitting up late Sunday afternoon. He's totally doped up and when he tries to talk, all he spits out is, "Good? We good?" Yes, Bill, we’re very good. For now.
THE CAROLE KING PART
The night before they went to the ER, Andrea said that he had a helluva time trying to get to sleep. Staying asleep was even harder. And when he'd wake, he was restless and alarmed. So, Andrea asked him what was going on. He said, "I keep having these Carole King nightmares. I'm at Carole King's parties and there are all these people there and it keeps getting out of hand and she doesn't care." The funny thing is that Bill would have a Carole King dream even if his ticker wasn't jacked up. But I'll bet if he felt better, the parties would be fabulous and he'd enjoy himself immensely. Carole and company would be lucky to have him.
Mine is a ginormous family. But the 4 of us cousins, Mary, Billy, M.J. and I, are an extremely tight group. We're all close in age and we've all got compatible, undiagnosed ADD. I feel sorry for any outsider who tries to keep up with us. Entry into our club is a bitch. It’s been said that twins often develop their own language. Sometimes they speak in a vernacular only they know. We’re like that, but funny. When we were kids, we’d hang out and play games we'd invent. Our games were nothing like Connect Four or Hide and Go Seek. Left to our devices, we'd collaborate and come up with some inspired activities. I liked Spa where Bill and I lay down on towels, with unplugged phones in front of us. Mary and M.J. walked on our backs while we pretended to be movie agents, putting deals together during a professional massage. We played Band a lot, too. Naturally, Bill and I cast ourselves as lead vocals (depending on the gender of the person singing on the radio. There was a huge ruckus over who’d be Boy George. ) M.J. and Mary were always the supporting players. “Mary, I need you to really sell the air guitar. I want to feel it. Have fun!” Every time Bill sensed an uprising was in the works, he and I sat the down and gave our “We couldn’t do what we do without you. We need you. You’re the heart and soul of this band,” speech. We also performed several plays for friends of my aunt and uncle, who had agreed to a New Year's Eve party invite. If they only know that they'd be trapped in the house with no other choice than to attend The McGlynn 'New Year’s Rockin’ Eve' Theater. Then there's the legendary ‘Fame’ show, performed during Kathy's graduation party. We choreographed a tumbling routine to the first side of the Fame Soundtrack. But every time one of us landed too hard, the needle would skip and we'd have to "take it" from "the top." 'Hot Lunch' on repeat. I think we even asked people to pay to see us, which is cool because, technically, I've been a working actor since I was 7. The guests at the party lit their lighters hoping we’d do an encore, but we had to retire. It was bedtime.
I can't remember willingly leaving their house after our parents determined that the visit was over and vice versa. One time we hid in our crawl space for an hour hoping they wouldn't find us. Praying for a snowstorm to strike, our cover was blown. No sleep-over! My personal favorite ridiculous method of passing time was when we'd pose ourselves in various positions, with various expressions—sexy, confused, angry, lost—in front of the huge mirrors on my Mom's double walk-in closet. For hours, we'd summon the spirit of Meneudo, Duran Duran, Huey Lewis and the News and Corey Heart. We were working on our album cover. Really focused and commited to getting the best shot. I mean, practice makes perfect. And in the 80s, nothing could make an aspiring supergroup of future drug addicts look cooler than a spray bottle. Wet = hot. That spray bottle worked harder those afternoons than the entire Reagan administration did in 8 years. Pssshhhht, Pssssshht! Pssshhhhht! "OK, Shannon you're on top of the pyramid this time. Don't touch your hair!"
Without Bill's influence, I'd never have set foot on a stage. He also give me the last bit of convincing I needed about where I'd spend my college years. Bill encouraged me, said I belonged at Boston University with him. Incidientally, if you’re ever in Boston and you need a tour guide to point out key spots on the the Freedom Trail walk, call Bill! Nary a Revolutionary War bullet hole is skipped. He throws in some Catholic history factoids, too. I proudly know precisely where Rose Kennedy was born.
Bill works like a dog. He runs the theater program at Julian Jr. High, called C.A.S.T. Every year, Bill exposes his kids to the awe inspiring magic of live theater. (And he loses some more hair in the process.) He and his wife, by example, have the kind of marriage that I aspire to have one day, when hell is frozen over, and monkeys fly out of G.W.’s ass.
Billy got me to listen to James Taylor, to seriously listen to James Taylor, over and over. As a result, JT reminds me of love and peace and wisdom when I feel like I’ll never have them again. JT's voice is kind and soothing. If ever there was a man who could put me in a trance, it's Sweet Baby James.
When you're with Bill, you'll be struck by his intensity. He looks right at you, but with a marked absence of intimidation. You never sense boredom on his part. He can engage others by virtue of being engaged himself. Bill's got this Rodin’s 'The Thinker' habit of sitting a particular way when he's really into something. He'll lean forward, rest his chin in his palm and squint. I'm not sure if he thinks he can hear or see better when he does this. It's a joy to watch him do it.
Lastly, Bill's approval of my comedic endeavors is more important to me than any booker, agent, friend or potential stalker. He's always called me Shan, which I hate, but not when he says it. When I'm writing a joke or a new bit, I keep him in mind because he insists that I am as smart as I am funny. Some jokes are cheap, the best ones are clever. And onstage, I practice the economy of movement which he taught me. "Every motion is intentional. No wild gesturing. Don't distract the audience. Your presence is enough. Slow down. You know what you're doing." No, I really don't, but thanks for saying so.
I trust Bill implicitly. I love him even more.
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