70's porn star

One of my other recent obsessions is a porn star. Now I know what you're thinking but I swear it's more complicated than that.

First, he was a porn star in the 70's, which in and of itself is fascinating. Perhaps it's because during the 70's I had very little of what I would call conscious thought, but I tend to think of everyone in the 70's having very little of what I would call conscious thought. That makes everything seem so sunny and carefree. I mean rollerblading, disco, short shorts, just how serious could everyone have been?

So porn in the 70's seems like just some people getting together and having fun with a super8. 70's Gay porn also has this subversive element to it (well, I suppose in many places it still does), this underground railroad of man-on-man love spreading the word that you're not a freak and all different types of men like to touch eachother. Amen.

Second, he managed to get out of porn and into business. He bought a gym and wrote several books on weight training. That in and of itself isn't too exciting, but wait, it's all connected.

Third, he married (a woman - so strange to have to add this qualifier, but I guess it's necessary nowadays. Yay.). This is where I think it starts getting interesting. Do you explain all the porn to your wife? Do you think think to yourself, hey, it was the 70's everyone was crazy and besides I'm sure the films will disintegrate in a couple of years (and if so, when do you start to freak out about digital data storage and the incredible spread of the internet)?

Fourth he had children (at least one I know of - don't worry, I'm not stalking him, it'll become clear in a second). How on earth do you explain a former career as a gay porn star to your children? I mean I know it's not the end of the world, but I think it's an interesting logistical problem. When's a good time? How do you know when they're ready? And with the internet, how do you know they won't find it first? Or a friend at school tells them. The mind boggles. Or at least mine does.

Fifth, he helped train his son to become one of America's best shot putters (and wrote a book with him about weight training and kids, which is how I know this part). So you see how complex it is. His son is an althlete, he's still involved in athletics and yet there's this gay porn past looming. How does he handle this? Walk tall with pride and screw them all, or worry constantly that it's going to come out in the open? I'd love to know.

Sixth, he was totally hot.

I think this is all terrific documentary material.

Lobes

On the way home tonight, I walked behind someone who had made the unfortunate decision to pierce his ears with something the diameter of a beer can. To accentuate the droopy state of his lobes, he wore metal earrings which were about the size of a stack of five quarters. Similar in weight too, by the looks of things.

As I followed his swaying earlobes, I was forced to think about my reaction which, to be honest, wasn't particularly appreciative. Why should it be so upsetting? All I could think about was how he would look at 60 and all the jobs he wouldn't get. But more than anything, all I could think was: how gross. But why would three inch long bifurcated dangling earlobes be so upsetting? There's nothing inherently more aestetically pleasing about an intact, firm earlobe surely.

I hate it when moments like this make it clear just how good a job society does of brainwashing you to the point that your visceral reactions are merely a manifestation of what you've been told, predominantly, by your parents. Damn it. I want my own visceral reactions back.

I don't get it

At work today, in a moment of boredom, I googled Lucy Grealy. I came across this web site. It's given me a new perspective on memoirs and the people who read them (i.e me - well, isn't it really all about me, deep down?). So much energy devoted to building someone up or tearing her down. Why the need to judge? Can't she just have been a person who felt and struggled and wrote beautifully about it? Can't that be enough?

Do people read memoirs for lessons? In case they came across a 7 year old girl with cancer of the face? It's not a how-to guide.

Do they read them so they can armchair quarterback someone's life? She never should have touched heroin. Her family and friends were enablers.

And nor, by the way, will anyone's autobiography be irrefutably accurate. That's the point. How the events changed the perspective. You'll never know exactly and why would you need to? Surely the details aren't the important part. Is it me?

What it boils down to is that there are two camps: The Lucy Grealy Is My Hero camp and the Lucy Grealy Was A Selfish Bitch camp. Which one you join depends on which book held the Truth: her autobiography or Ann Patchett's book.

Me, I just thought that Lucy Grealy was funny, entertaining, a great writer and someone who had to fight a tough battle all her life. I thought that came through in both books. I don't see a contradiction at all.

Therapy

I have this habit of overidentifying. Perhaps overidentifying isn't right. Overinvesting? Maybe it's simply obsessing. About seemingly dissimlar things.

Recently it was Lucy Grealy. Author of Autobiography of a Face. I remember when I first read a story of hers, about a summer job she had taking horses to rich peoples' parties. It had that effortless writing I love. Seems so easy and superficial and yet teeming with insight and observations I thought were uniquely mine only expressed better. Anyway, the story always stayed with me but her name did not. Until I heard on the radio that she had died. Lucy's writing (at least that story and her most famous book) is autobiographical and having lost part of lower face to bone cancer when she was a girl makes her stand out. So then I had her name and I went to find her books.

Unfortunately there aren't many. She's a poet too, but I much prefer novels or short stories. For a while she was all I would talk about. My friends found it morbid (her cancer, her disfigurement, her early death), but it wasn't to me. I can't really explain what it was that drew me to her and her story. One thing she wrote that still rings in my mind however. She talks about trying to find love and says that she never really expected it. Knowing how she looked, and how she was treated as a child at school, she just never expected it so it wasn't really something to obsess over. Yes, she obsessed over being found attractive and loved even, but no real expectation of a long, lasting relationship. And it hit me then - wow, me too. And yet, I'd never, ever consciously formed that thought before, but obviously somewhere, somehow, I had.

Is it me, or is good literature like good therapy?

Peonies and Pamela

I have to say I'm intrigued by this format. Like putting a note in an empty wine bottle and hucking it from the beach. Probably will sink as soon as my back is turned. And yet...

Ever read a book that just made it seem so easy? I'm in the middle of one at the moment. A memoir. So not only is the writing breezy and effortless, but the author's life is fascinating too (required for a memoir, no?). And who doesn't look good in an inch squared professional black and white photograph? So I feel as though I'm reading propelled by envy. For the life and the talent. I hate envy.

My most vivid recollection of reading a book that made writing seem just so obvious and natural (like taking a picture with a camera - I mean it's all there in front of you all you have to do is press that button and click I mean duh) was the Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence. There's one section in particular where she's describing peonies and all I could think was shoot, I've seen those peonies, I could write that.

The prairies are a hard place to grow things for something as firivolous as colour. I don't think it dislikes colour, but it's just too busy being practical with wheat and canola. But its peonies are amazing. So large and ripe with petals that they droop with the embarrasment that accompanies the bounty. I imagine that it's like a girl first realizing she does have the breasts she always wanted. Probably more like Pamela Anderson after having bought the breasts she always wanted. Except a Pamela Anderson who loved her breasts but didn't really want to show them off all that much. Oh, I normally wouldn't but if you insist. Just this once.