Timeslip: Mary Ann Got Busted

Have you ever noticed that little button on your DVD remote that seems gadgetry’s equivalent to the appendix, that thing called Timeslip button? I have no freaking clue how to work it, but it has a use…I looked it up; Timeslip: The ability to playback and record at the same time.

That’s just great. But I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to apply said definition. I thumbed through the manual, I looked on the internet, but each and every bulleted list of instructions was just about as counter-intuitive as…well, a VCR instruction manual.

But, god, the term is so very cool, and when you say the phrase, Timeslip, all kinds of cool science-fictional and fantastically speculative images tumble about in your mind…well, my mind, anyway.

Let’s play with the idea—Are we, as human beings, not subject to Timeslip? Sure. Think about the flesh-and-blood counterparts to the characters that populate our popular culture and personal myth. We all know beings that play back and forth in time through our consciousness…

If the above was just a bit too obtuse, please forgive me; I’m referring to actors. Specifically, those who devoted a greater part of their careers (if not their lives) to playing characters that, intentionally or not, became part of our interior audience, our personal chorus, our popular (if not personal myth).

Take, for example, Mary Ann Summers. As a pre-adolescent young male, I don’t think I even knew if she had a last name until I did a Google search this afternoon. As a matter of fact, I don’t think a great many of us knew she, nor any of the seven fellow-castaways of Gilligan’s Island had last names (or first names in some cases) because those details didn’t matter to us. She was just Mary Ann, when her name was uttered among my chums on the playground, they all knew to whom you referred. She was an icon, a crucial element, and a fixture in the pantheon. What really mattered, initially, was how Mary Ann and her compatriots made us feel—and they usually made us feel pretty good; they tickled our insides, they made us grin, but when the credits rolled at the episode’s close, we didn’t think much more on them until the next day the show aired; Timeslip. That is, until we (well, those like myself in the heterosexually inclined strata of the viewing audience) began to suffer the slow-creeping of hormonal change of preadolescence and Mary Ann’s presence became more persistent. She didn’t go away at the flip of the dial. Desire does not fade like the ancient glow from the cathode ray generator.

We had three potential objects of desire women in the Gilligan’s Island pantheon—well, two, really, as Mrs. Howell couldn’t possibly fit into the equation. Mrs. Howell was about as sexually appealing as Grandma, and sadly, for many of us, she was the equivalent surrogate.

Ginger was just too dangerous. Ginger was best defined by a term I learned a lifetime later, in college; Ginger was Sex on a Stick. Ginger was a train-wreck of glamour and neon-lit eroticism; she was glitter, she was tinsel and gold, and to a small-town boy like me, she was the absolute pinnacle of that which was unattainable. Ginger came with a hefty price tag. Not a price tag in a pejorative sense; I’m not talking hustler-ship or harlotry—I’m simply saying to woo her, wed her, and possibly bed her, you had to have a healthy pocket book to keep in Ginger Grant’s good graces.

Mary Ann’s character was brilliant in design; she was simple and just a little bit insidious. Obviously Mary Ann was constructed to be the Girl Next Door. She’s the gal you’re supposed want. She’s the gal you could bring home to Mom, because if you were to bring home Ginger, you may never be allowed through that door again. No, with Mary Ann you were given a rare combination of sincerity, simplicity, a touch of serenity and maybe, just maybe, a pinch of something spicy—something sexy, though you’d never actually call it that. And that was okay—for some reason it was okay to harbor these feelings for Mary Ann. Maybe it was the ponytails, maybe it was the plaid, the calico, the bobby socks, the maryjanes…because Mary Ann was an erotic safe-zone. You didn’t have to feel guilty for feeling something naughty about Mary Ann, and for that reason your gradual march into sexual awareness was softer, gentler, and when you thrummed with that first vibration of soft erotic tickle for Mary Ann it was something you were supposed to do. You wanted her, yet you felt a certain chaste protectiveness of her. In your mind’s eye, you never saw her in lascivious poses and you’d probably whither up and die to see her in a two-piece. No, Mary Ann, as a presence, was something to be protected, protected in the same safe place you kept those very early feelings, when the rough mechanics of sex began to take over and propel you toward adulthood.

And on October 18th, 2007, Dawn Wells was busted out in the toolies of Idaho for reckless driving and possession of drug paraphernalia.

“Mary Ann: Busted!” the headlines ran.

That really rattled me.

But the image attached to the police blotter brought home to us by CNN, MSN, and E! was not the winsome object of novice-love, but someone bearing closer resemblance to a certain melon-mugged and wizened Jedi master. And this, this moment, this is where we must step back from the flow of the Timeslip and shake ourselves a bit. Dawn Wells, actor, aged 69, founder of the Idaho Film and Television Institute and organizer of the region's annual family movie festival (known to all as the Spud Fest) was sentenced to five days in jail, fined $410.50 and placed on probation after pleading guilty to one count of reckless driving, was the one got busted—not Mary Ann Summers.

Mary Ann lives on a perfectly pleasant desert island, somewhere in the Pacific, with all those loveable characters. And she’ll exist, in the Timeslip, where we view, playback, and record her over and over again.

Dawn Wells will go on with her life, and hopefully not get busted for reckless driving, or drug paraphernalia because, you know, that’s not the best example to be setting for the youth of America.

Regarding (a Certain) Sunday...

Once upon a time I worked at this godawful customer service job at an equally godawful student loan guarantor. I worked nights, the only benefit being I usually had no sociopath supervisor staring over my shoulder. In between calls I had too much time to think, but just enough time to write. I wrote a whole series of biographical snippets...this was in the days before blogging was in vogue (at least, I think it was). Many of those witty little missives are long gone, held in the silicon grip of one or more of my former, virally corrupt, PCs.

This story has been in my yahoo email draft file for years. I passed it around to friends via email. Many of them laughed. It became a key element of a novel I have been working on (on and off, now mostly off) for the last 6 years. Funny, I have yet to reach this story's point in my novel.

Mary was a woman I met when I was a freshman in college at the Univeristy of Oregon. I was smitten beyond words. That was in 1985. In 2001, through the magic of the internet, I tracked Mary down. At the time she was living in Portland, but eventually moved to Seattle. We had coffee, we had a great talk, and she invited me to dinner.

I'll post the piece below

***************************************************************************

THIS IS A TRUE STORY.

So. I left my apartment at about 5:15pm to beat the traffic and the rain and make it to Mary's house by 6:00pm. I had downloaded the street directions from the internet and called to verify I had accurate directions. Needed finer details; her apartment was around the backside of a two-story house, brick with blue trim. Brick, with Blue Trim. Did I need to dodge dog poop? No, theres a path.

I made it to 83rd Ave North with time to spare. Raining VERY hard. I pulled up to house number 543 at 5:30pm. Way early. Best to sit tight. Breath deep. Have a smoke and listen to the rain. Did that, for 15 minutes. At 5:55pm I put my club on the Duck Truck steering wheel, slung my satchel bearing two bottles of whine over my shoulder, and hefted a cardboard box holding three freshly painted figurines (one for Mary, the other two to simply show-off) and marched up to the house. 543. It was white and the lights were out. I wandered up the driveway. Yeah. There's an apartment back there. But it is dark as well. Brick house, blue trim. I wondered if I had not had a moment of dislexia, inverted the house numbers. I pulled my phone book from my bag, water dripping off my baseball hat...No...It says 543...I wander down the street, looking for, perhaps 543...533...I see a medium sized dog standing in a driveway...533...Mary has a dog...Could THAT be it? I wander up the driveway, the dog barking at my heels.

I have a bag with two bottles of whine slug over my shoulder and a cardboard box with three sculpted and painted figurines in my arms. The next thing I know, the dog has leapt up and bitten into my right arm. Had I not been wearing my leather motorcycle jacket, the bite would have gone clean through and broken the skin. I keep moving and suddely realize I cannot move my leg...I am dragging a dog that has now locked it's jaws around my right calf. I look to my left, and mounted to a mail box post reads a sign...BEWARE OF DOG. Shit. Shit. Shit. I get back in the Duck Truck and start giggling like a madman. What the hell is this? Who is responsible? Is it HORNADAY LUCK? Is it ANDERSON LUCK? TURNER? CHENOWITH? Who is accountable for this freaking Sorry Pass?

Don't panic, Ace, shit happens.

It dawns on me I must call Mary. I do not even LOOK at my watch. I didn't bring any cash, not even a spare quarter. But I remember that my Mother, several months ago, in her infinite kindness and charitability and foresight gave me a calling card from Verizon with 30 free minutes. Please God, let it still be in my wallet. My leg is starting to throb. Do I feel blood dripping into my boot? Or is it just rainwater?

I pull out onto the main drag of Fremont Ave and find a payphone. I dig through old business cards and outdated coupons. There it IS. I dial her number,

"Uh. Hi. Mary. It's Me, um, I think I wrote your address down wrong...543?"
"Yes..."
"Um. North 83rd Avenue?"
"Oh. No, Cole, 84th..."
"urrrr. Okay. I'm Okay now. I'll be right there..."

Brick House, Blue Trim.
Brick House, Blue Trim.
Am I bleeding?

Brick House, Blue Trim and a little black dog-face peeking at me through the doggy-door. CHRIST ON A FUCKING CRUUUUUTTTTCCCCHHHH!!!

The dog barks, sniffs. I reach up and ring the bell, my arm still throbbing.

...and a pause in which all the Great Blue Whales of the Oceans give birth...And Mary opens the door into the dark and Claire, her Lab-And-Something mix rubs up against my leg and wags her tail and says, "Hello."

And I cannot TELL you how badly I had to pee.

I told Mary what happened. I re-introduced myself to her not as Cole Hornaday, but as the Crown Prince of Goobs. Nice to meet you.

We talked lots. I played "kick-the-ball" with Claire while Mary cooked and we finally got down to the nitty-gritty of swapping some stories. She made Salmon and rice with ochra and dessert was some sort of shortcake with peaches, flambe. And Mary was grateful because I got Claire tuckered out enough that she fell asleep at our feet while we ate..And we put away both the bottles of Reisling AND the Chardonnay and I got her to tell me more of her story and I freaked her out (again) with my stainless-steel memory because I recognized an antique globe in an alcove as being the same her Mother had had in the window of her living-room in Salem, circa 1987. And at about 10:30pm I said, "You look really beat, I'm gonna get out of your way."

And I said, "I have really enjoyed spending time with you and I hope you feel the same..." I made some suggestions.

"I will give you a call week after next."

And I got two hugs and I walked back into the night feeling just fine. Feeling like, "Yeah, I AM okay." And today I am really proud of who I am and who I represent and how I was raised and what I believe in and even if she doesn't feel the same way about me, which she most likely does not, that's okay too, Because I got more than I had ever hoped. I got to finally hear her story. I want to hear more chapters...But I also am wise enough to not be greedy. I made her laugh and I made her nodd her head at my insights and I did a good job. I gave her the deer sculpture I had made and I think she liked it. I did a good job of just being me.

This morning I found I was sporting a bruise the size of my nephew's fist on my left calf. No blood.

Brick House, Blue Trim.

THIS IS A TRUE STORY.
By cole hornaday, age 36.
the end.
***************************************************************************

Epiloque. 2006

Nothing really happened with Mary and I. We went out to dinner a few weeks later. She was distant and distracted. Clearly uncomfortable with what I was willing to pay for our meal. Several days later, she sent me a terse email saying, basically, "Thanks, but no thanks." That was okay. It wasn't entirely unexpected.

Making contact with her, again, was the equivalent of fantasy come to life, but the reality was, we really had very little in common. I don't know how I thought we ever did. I was young. Really young.

But one thing that has always kind of bothered me, and maybe this is all simply my ego at work; Mary had no recollection of me. She didn't remember the time we spent together in school, she didn't remember our talks over coffee, nothing. Even with my efforts to reach back in time, to find this woman again, she is now, as she was to me over 20 years ago, a mystery.

Sometimes mystery's never get solved. And that's okay.

I keep a picture of her framed on my bathroom wall. I look at it every day. It is there to remind me of some things, and to keep other things in perspective. And, sometimes, to simply remember to let go.

Addendum. May, 15, 2009

It was a hurried afternoon. I'd been out of town all weekend covering the McMinnville UFO Festival for a potential freelance project. My cat was sick and not eating. I was rushing around trying to catch up on all the things I didn't get done over the weekend, like buying canned cat food instead of dry in a desperate attempt to get her to eat. I stopped in at the QFC on Holman Drive on the way to several other errands. While pushing my cart past the check-out stands I saw a familiar flash of gold and blue.

"Naw. That couldn't be...she's long-gone from here. Grad school or some such."

I half-heartedly piloted the cart down the spice aisle, all the while taking delicate glances over my shoulder.

"Geez, girl, lift up your head from your pocket book so I can be sure..."

I decided not to bother. This was old ground that I'd passed from long ago. I finished my shopping and trundled into the checkout line. Good God if she wasn't still there. I looked her up and down. It was Mary. How old was she now? She looked amazing. And her frame was as lithe and compact as I remember. I tried not to stare. I was close enough to smell her. She didn't look up or see me.

Usually a steady stare laid on a person unbeknownst will kick in at least some kind of sixth sense and they will look up at you...not this time.

She rebuffed the bagboy's offer to help her out with her groceries and pushed her cart away. I heard her voice. I check the music against those engrams, deeply buried. It was the same. I numbly paid for groceries and let my eyes follow her out of the store.

While stuffing the sales receipt into my wallet I looked up to see her returning her cart.
What the hell. I'll head out that way and see if I don't intercept her. I did.

"Hi. Mary. Do you remember me this time?" There came that inevitable bland look someone gives you while there brain flips through file cabinets and dusty rollodex.

Pause. "Oh-YES! How are you..."
"Cole."
"Yes--Cole, I knew that..."

And we talked a little. She'd gone to graduate school in Switzerland. Switzerland--wow. And was now back at Harborview Medical working on AIDS research.

"Wasn't that what you were doing before? Or something like it?" No. It wasn't.

For some reason I felt I SHOULD have felt as though I'd put my foot in my mouth, but this time I did not.

She had problems fitting into the culture of Switzerland, felt out of place. I commented on how I discovered fitting in somewhere is not about the established culture's resistance to you, but your need to simply build yourself an island of like-minded people. When you're young, that takes little time at all because we are all so many blank slates and so very malleable. As adults it is a struggle and something I live with daily. But once you've built that island, you have to work very hard to keep it 'shored up.' Pun failed. Moving on.

She asked what I'd been up to and there I was unwashed, graying and portly--never expecting to ever see her again--I took a deep breath, found my light, my pitch of voice...and stopped myself. There never was nor ever would be a need to put on a show for this woman. There was no point.

The needles came down, the dials twisted counter clockwise.

I told her about quitting my job, going back to school, lucking in to becoming a professional writer, radio theatre, and my efforts to get involved with Seattle fringe theatre. I gave her my card saying, "You can visit my website to get an idea of what all I've been working on." And then I broke it off and said I needed to get moving.

But I did say that to her that I was probably happier now than I have been in a long time. I had to throw in the obligatory, "Granted, I live alone with my cat..." comment. I couldn't help it. I've got to create those Checkovian 'Laughter Through the Tears,' moments or I simply don't feel fulfilled.

She said, "It's good to see you, Cole. I'm so glad to hear you are doing well." Pleasant, clinical. She owes me nothing.

But her eyes are still that very spring-glacial blue and her hair is still of molten honey, and though I saw a little more age peering back from the wells of her eyes, I still cannot help but feel there is a pantheon out there missing a goddess.

But that's just me.

Interview: Marjane Satrapi

Hey All,
The work I did for the Boxoffice.com website has been archived within the site, but each time I brag about having interviewed So-And-So and I attempt to forward the link to the victim of said bragging, the link never works. I am dubious that my contributions will be preserved for posterity, so, at the risk of breaching some contract and facing legal repercussions, I'm going to cut and paste at least one of those previously published pieces here; my interview with Marjane Satrapi. I conducted this interview about a month prior to the release of Satrapi's film, PERSEPOLIS, in the states. A much, much longer version version exists on my hard drive, but I think this (heavily edited) version a much more enjoyable read...

So, enjoy already...

Marjane Satrapi

December 18, 2007

Illustrator and storyteller Marjane Satrapi has found an audience with young and old all over the world. She is a regular contributor to The New Yorker and The New York Times, and has produced such graphic works as Chicken with Plums and Embroideries; but it is Persepolis, her four-part series of illustrated biographical novels recounting her childhood in Iran during the rise of fundamentalist Islam, that has earned her international attention. Now an animated feature directed by Satrapi and Vincent Paronnaud, Persepolis has garnered accolades from Toronto International, Telluride, and New York film festivals. Released through Sony Pictures, Persepolis arrives in New York and Los Angeles on Christmas Day.

Q: Where does the title “Persepolis,” come from?

MJ: Persepolis is the ancient capital of Persia. It is the name the Greeks gave to it. “Persepolis” in Greek means the city of the Iranian….It…helps people to not forget that this is a country with 4,000 years of history. Plus, its one word, its easy to remember—a beautiful word. When titles are too long, you never remember them. Once you hear the name “Persepolis,” you remember it.

Q: In reading Persepolis, one is struck by your parents very liberal intellectual depiction, especially against the dominant fundamentalist culture of the time…

MJ: You have liberal parents and crazy fanatic parents—you have them everywhere. I have a friend who lives in Salt Lake City. All of her neighbors are Mormon. Jesus Christ, thank God I was born in Iran and not in Salt Lake City with those kinds of parents, that would be just Hell.

I am much happier to have been born in Iran—a challenge though it was. But having the parents surrounding me that I had, unlike being born into these Born Again Christian families—I’m ten times happier. I am very happy to have not been born into a fanatical family. It doesn’t matter if you are born into the freest country in the world; if you are born into a fanatical family…if you are stuck with them in your childhood, you are stuck with them….

Q: Were people of your parent’s mindset very commonplace in Iran, or do you feel your parents were the exception to the rule?

MJ: I don’t know if I can say “common.” If I say that about the whole if Iran, it’s definitely not true, but I come from Tehran, and I came from a middle-class family and we had enough money to travel to Europe, to go to movies, etc—and not to have major problems….All of my friends had similar situations as my parents did; very educated, very open-minded,

Q: In your preface to Persepolis you characterize Iran as being a strong nation, a nation whose language and culture stood up to repeated invasions for centuries. And yet, the most detrimental alteration of that culture ultimately came not from without, but from within. Why was this?

MJ: Let’s remember there is 5,000 years of history here. The Persian Empire was the biggest in the world—ever—until that point in time. The first words of the world were written in this country, the first Federal System was established in this country. It is a strong identity that is there. But this condescension with which the western world looks upon this region of the world can be unbearable. Changes in a country, of course, have to come from within the country. From the second you say, “I will go and bring peace to this country,” from the second you invade this country you are an enemy of this country, whether you wanted to be or not. If you love your own country and you think it belongs to you, you need to remember other people share exactly the same feelings. So how is it that we can determine that pride for here is good, but the pride there is not? How can we determine if people in another place have great pride for their own country and that other people don’t have any pride?

In making Persepolis--if there was a goal to it as an artistic project—it was to show that a human being is a human being no matter where in the world they come from. I wanted to show what it was like to grow up in a place where the individual is repressed and what you do to grow up in that and what you do when it comes time to leave. For the living, it is not just enough to be alive, as individuals we need more. This is a story about things that have happened and are still happening and will continue to happen in many countries of the world. Once in a while those changes come from your government, once in a while it comes from your family, from your school friends, but that’s why some many people can identify with the story.

Q: In the latter half of Persepolis, your boyfriend, Markus’ character says, “ Culture and education are the lethal weapons against all kinds of fundamentalism,” and yet it was a group of Iranian student revolutionaries who seized the American Embassy in 1979, holding them captives for nearly three years…

MJ: You need to understand something--the Shah originally took power in Iran by a coup d’etat supported by the American government in 1953. Memories carry from one generation to another. Imagine that in 1951 we nationalize our oil, Egypt nationalizes the Suez Canal, and whole wave of democracy comes into this region. Suddenly this coup d’etat happened. President Truman didn’t want the coup, but it happened and after we didn’t have any trust for the American government. You have to understand that the secret service of the Shah was very much helped by the CIA—they kidnapped people and tortured them. So, the people are not very friendly toward the US government. When the hostage situation happened, it was a big deal for you, but for us not so much because these were not nice people to us. Also, let’s face it, nobody was killed and nobody was tortured. They spent 444 days there and then they came back to their country and that was it.

I grew up with the idea that Americans were the worst people in the world… because of what I was taught in school. But I come to America for the first time, looking for other reasons to hate them, and I got this slap in my face because they were all so fucking nice. During the last election—me, the Axis of Evil— here I am defending Americans in France, declaiming what was being said about Americans—Why? Because I know who Americans are, they are not pro war either, they are nice people and they want peace in the world. Why did I feel this way? Because I had been instructed to do so? No, it was because I went and I saw and I tried to understand who the American Person is…Being very much constricted by your ignorance is where the problem lies…I make an effort and make discoveries and suddenly things are not the way I thought.

If we understand that we have different points of view, how can we hate each other?

Q: In the publishing realm there does exist an effort to maintain a distinction between the graphic novel and the comic book, at least in the West. Case in point, Alan Moore (creator of V, For Vendetta, The Watchmen, and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen) has referred to comics as being predominantly superhero stories, or more precisely, “thirteen-year-old power fantasies.”

MJ: All of that is Comics. It’s just the medium of Comics and I like Comics. I always say that I am a cartoonist and I make comics. I have never said that I was a “Graphic Novelist.” What is a Graphic Novel…? “Graphic Novel,” is really a term that the publishers created to save the bourgeois from being scared or ashamed to read comics in front of their friends. I’m a cartoonist and I make comics and I don’t care for this “Graphic Novel” stuff.

Making comics is just a medium--it’s just an arrangement…It’s like animation, people ask, “Why did you make your movie an animated movie instead of using real people?” It was the choice that seemed the most logical. Animation, really, is not a style of storytelling, its not a genre, it’s a storytelling technique.

Q: Were there any particular challenges in seeking support for adapting Persepolis to film?

MJ: The biggest challenge for people…was getting them to understand that a comic book is not a storyboard for a movie. There was this initial feeling that if you are adapting Comics, all you have to do is take the book and film the frame one after the other and you have your movie, which is not true. A movie is a completely different narration and you don’t have the same relationship to it. They’re two different media and two different kinds of narration. We kept many of the main elements from the comics, like the characters, but a whole new framework around it had to be created. The two works, the book and the film, are very similar, but at the same time they are very, very different and that is the whole paradox of the project.


Q: In adapting Persepolis into an animated film, were there moments that stood out as being particularly challenging?

MJ: No, we really tried to proceed with the story and forget about the book. We just pulled the comics apart and started to develop the narration. If there was dialogue that would be good for the movie, we kept it—but just some of it—for the most part we had to recreate the whole thing.

Q: While watching Persepolis evolve into a feature-length film, did you make any new discoveries about your story?

MJ: Absolutely. In a book, for example, it’s very easy to cover sixteen years of someone’s life, but it’s not so easy in a movie because then you would have five movies in one. You have to choose an axis; you have to choose a turning point. When we began making the movie, I was in a very nostalgic time of my life, so we decided to structure the whole film a flashback. Setting it up this way is all part of the decisions you have to make for film but not for a book. In a book your audience can take their time, in a film, your time is limited.

Q: You made the conscious decision in 1994 to leave Iran indefinitely, and yet you still refer to it as “my country.”

MJ: Of course I do. It was not an actual decision. I can go back, the problem is, if I may leave once I go back—that is the question! Of course I see Iran as my country, but France is also my country. The situation is not exactly the way I want it to be, but it will never stop being my country.

Q: What is the one thing you hope your audience retains from viewing Persepolis?

MJ: That they find themselves saying, “These people are just like us.”