Green with Envy

This past week, a good friend of the Angry White Loner's got engaged to be married. It is one of those inevitable things, I've been told, to occur after you've been dating someone for a while and you find out that you like each other a whole bunch. More than a whole bunch, actually.

This will be this particular friend's second marriage. The Angry White Loner has other friends who have been married more than once, including a few currently on a third marriage and even one who has been hitched four times.

The Angry White Loner, however, has not even been engaged once, let alone married once.

What's my point in bringing up this little tidbit? Because anything and everything I know about marriage is certainly limited and is from the point-of-view of one who is, to this point, merely an observer. That is acknowledged.

Another tidbit: All of the Angry White Loner's siblings are now married, including his four younger siblings. Years ago, when the first of these younger siblings announced his engagement, the parents approached the Angry White Loner, somewhat as if they were walking on eggshells, and asked: "Are you mad?"

Having been put into this situation for the first time, I was certainly caught off guard by the question. I wasn't aware I was supposed to be anything but happy for my brother—certainly anything but mad. He and his fiancée were very happy together. Fortunately, I could honestly answer that no, I wasn't in the least bit mad. In fact, in the years since then, I would say that my relationship with this sibling has only improved.

Have chick flicks, as well as such plays as Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew, taught us that siblings are supposed to get married in a certain order? Perhaps that is what factored into the parents' view of it all.

In writing this post, I am also reminded of the moment, years ago, when a female friend of mine mentioned that a friend of hers was getting married for the third time and—whether this was in gest or not, I'll never know—uttered:

Why can't I get married just once?!

Another way of saying it might be: When is it my turn?

It's a rhetorical question—I didn't dare attempt an answer—and one with, to be sure, no simple answer(s). I have also found that it is a query that is very present in the minds of many of the mid-singles I associate with on a weekly basis but is not often one that is discussed out loud. In fact, I wished we discussed it more often at our class.

The best answer I have come up with to that $64,000 Question is this: I don't know. I don't know why things work out the way they do. I don't know why, to borrow a couple of musical metaphors, Rod Stewart once sang that "some guys have all the luck," while others "still haven't found what (they're) looking for," going well into their 30s and 40s and beyond—or not at all in this lifetime—without finding someone else with whom to share this mortal journey.

There are a few simple lessons, however, that I have learned—again, stated as an outsider and an observer. Principally: Envy, whomever or whatever it is directed at, is not a healthy emotion to have. It can fester and infect the soul like a foul disease does to the body. It is also not an attractive characteristic in someone anyone would want in a spouse. Neither is moping or being caught up in your singleness.

In addition: You stand a much better chance at meeting new people, ones who want the same thing you do, if you put yourself in situations or places where these people congregate rather than playing hard to get, Osama bin Laden style. Kindness is attractive, as is knowing how to say "please" and "thank you." If I knew what the Young Women values were, I would list them here, because they are all attractive qualities, too.

Along this same line, an encouraging piece of information was shared with me today at church by my home teacher: His 50-something sister just got married for the eighth—eighth!—time. The difference between this marriage and the other seven? It was her first temple marriage. What he conveyed, in a Sunday School lesson about Rebekah and the importance of marriage in the covenant, is that you have a better chance at attaining a temple marriage if you date temple-worthy people, or those who are working to become such. Also, some things are worth waiting and sacrificing for.

Romeo and Juliet, Unchained

Last night, I found myself watching William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, which had arrived earlier in the day via Netflix. Why Romeo and Juliet? It's still better than watching "2 Broke Girls," for example. In some foreign countries, in fact, people are strapped into chairs and forced to watch a marathon of "2 Broke Girls." So far, no one has made it through more than three episodes in one sitting. The last I heard, the United Nations considers this to be an even worse form of torture than waterboarding.

When I mention Romeo and Juliet, I do not refer to the 1968 version, which I saw in eighth grade and which had to be censored by my English teacher. Nor do I mean the math-friendly Romeo + Juliet 1996 remake, which starred future drowning victim Leonardo di Caprio as Romeo. No, the particular version of the film I refer to, scripted by Julian Fellowes of "Downton Abbey" fame, came out last fall and was just released on DVD. It stars Hailee Steinfeld, who was also in the 2010 remake of True Grit, as Juliet.

Girl appears in a lot of remakes a lot of movies, apparently! Am I right?

At any rate, the film, in case you were wondering, is a pretty decent effort, in spite of some extra dialogue added in there by Mr. Fellowes that, I'm sure, the Bard did not mean to be there. It has all of the elements that a Romeo and Juliet movie ought to have: a whirlwind courtship, eloping, family feuds, fighting, murder, and the like. So, in many ways, it is much like a "2 Broke Girls" episode, only with likeable characters, a coherent plot, clever dialogue, and none of that annoying laugh track.

As I watched the movie, I found myself going off on a tangent and thinking about an idea I hadn't previously considered: What if Romeo and Juliet hadn't died so young? What if the friar's note explaining Juliet's "death" had reached Romeo like it was meant to and they, in fact, had survived the whole nasty ordeal? What would the rest of their lives together have been like?

Hollywood would have demanded a sequel, for one thing. And this follow-up effort might show some good times but also depict the two star-crossed lovers growing distant and apart after actually getting to know each other for longer than, say, the two or three infatuated, twitterpated days they spent as a couple in the film. Romeo would eventually grow tired of Juliet's incessant nagging to stop leaving his dirty tights lying all over the cottage and would be annoyed at the Capulet family's many attempts to get her to divorce him and marry someone of a higher social standing, while Juliet would get unnerved each time Romeo murdered yet another member of her family over some petty argument as, say, the proper scoring method in a game of Scattergories.

Would it have lasted even a whole year? A month? A week?

This sequel would, unfortunately, also have a tragic ending. Because if there's one thing movies and TV have taught us, it's that you can't tempt fate, nor can you change it! Juliet, now in her late 30s and sick and tired of the whole sordid affair, confronts Romeo for one last time to see if he really loves her or not before she leaves him forever and runs off with some other guy, probably played by either Mark Ruffalo or Paul Rudd—whoever's cheaper. Unshaven and unkempt, wearing a wife beater, with a beer gut hanging out, and sitting in front of the TV, pretending not to hear her as she pours out her soul, he instead is intently focused on what's on TV.

Naturally, he is watching "2 Broke Girls."

What's in a Name?

Approximately 500 years ago, William Shakespeare wrote the immortal question: "What's in a name?" At least, I am pretty sure it was Shakespeare, and I believe it was asked by Juliet in Romeo and Juliet. Or Romeo.

I didn't pay too much attention to that play when I studied it in school, or at least it wasn't that memorable for me, because I was in eighth grade at the time. I didn't have the appreciation for Shakespeare in those days that I do now. Also, we watched the '60s movie version in class, and it showed Romeo's bare bum, which made a junior high student like me squirm in his seat, look up at the ceiling tiles, and begin to whistle the "Think" music from "Jeopardy!"


The answer to Shakespeare's question, of course, as another British author, Douglas Adams, wrote somewhat more recently, is: "42."

My point, and I do have one, is that names and "what's in them" can - and should - mean a really big deal to a lot of people. Among that number of people, though, I do not include couples who have a child and then appear to either spend only five minutes choosing a name for that child or appear to have lost a bet when they make the name official on a birth certificate.

Examples of these kinds of names include, but may not be limited to: Banjo, Haven'T, J'Adore, Navaryous, Shoog, Twisha, and so on.

All of these, I promise, are real and can be found by conducting a simple Google search. Many of them also sound like rejected names for characters in Dr. Seuss stories.

The moral of the story: Think about it for longer than five minutes, people. Or at least picture your child's future fourth-grade teacher reading the class roll aloud, and if the name would make the other students giggle, don't do it. Don't make your kids grow up and resent you.

Then, picture that child squirming in his/her seat when he/she has to watch Romeo and Juliet in the eighth grade.

You'll certainly be grateful when . . . I don't know . . . when that child is, many more years from now, deciding whether or not to put you into a nursing home.

Road Trip Music, Past and Present

Earlier this week, many of the members of the Angry White Loner's clan, including the Angry White Parents, the Angry White Siblings, and the AWL himself, made our annual August pilgrimage down to southern Utah to attend the Shakespearean Festival in Cedar City. It's a tradition that we've had for several years now and one that Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof would sing an epic song about. 'Cause it's all about acting and theater and musicals and getting more cultured and all of that good stuff.

Occasionally, we will even catch a play written by William Shakespeare himself. Which stands to reason, as he is the namesake for the whole shebang in the first place.

An important part of road trips such as these, or of any road trip, really, is the music that we listen to in the car along the way.

As the AWSs and I were growing up, the music for these road trips was always the AWPs' choosing. We were forced to listen to things like Olivia Newton-John (from her pre-"Physical" and pre-Grease country music days), Roger Whittaker, the Kingston Trio, and an assortment of folk music from the '60s, among other choices.

The siblings and I also delivered a paper route growing up, and, naturally, the AWPs were also in charge of picking the radio station that we listened to in the car. If it wasn't BBC news, then it was usually FM100, which had a "soft sounds" format in those days before it became all modern and hip like it is now. And before they added the "point-three" to the station's jingle. As a result, we became all-too-familiar with such timeless hitmakers as England Dan and John Ford Coley, Dan Fogelberg, the Carpenters, and so forth.

If you haven't heard of most or any of these artists, then you're not alone. The AWPs certainly have had some eclectic tastes in music over the years.

Fast forward to this week's road trip, during which the he-who-shall-not-be-named sibling I carpooled with chose to play country music for four consecutive hours on the road. Don't get me wrong; I don't mind country music if it is taken in small doses. Four straight hours of country music, though, and I would have been more than happy to roll down my window and jump head-first under a semi truck traveling in the next lane.

Thank goodness I brought my iPod with me. I shuffled through my playlists and discovered that - what do you know? - I have a lot of songs on that iPod that are performed by none other than Olivia Newton-John, England Dan and John Ford Coley, the Carpenters, etc.

Of course, I have other tastes. The AWP won't be joining me at a "Weird Al" concert anytime soon. I guess the prevailing thought is that . . . well, history tends to repeat itself.

Or, like the Manchurian Candidate, I have been brainwashed.

Shuffling Off the Mortal Coil

For those who have followed my blogging through my older blog, Disconcertingly Choppy - and, let's face it, that may be as many as a dozen people - as well as those who know my family and extended family personally, then you may remember that my nine-year-old niece McKenna got a hamster, which she named Hammy, for Christmas. She was very excited about getting Hammy as a pet and has taken good care of him in the four months since that time. Around the house, it was not unusual to see Hammy rolling around in his hamster ball or just being held and cared for in McKenna's hands.

Well, a couple of days ago, Hammy left us. Someone, and I won't say whom, squeezed Hammy a little too tightly, and in an instant he became Peruvian food. (I've tried hamster twice - both times in Peru, in those "when in Rome" situations - and, incidentally, and it tastes like chicken. I don't recommend it.) McKenna, surprisingly, wasn't upset at the person who did this (accidentally, I might add), but was she was rather grief stricken by it and was somewhat inconsolable throughout the day.

Rather than have the traditional family home evening that night, we instead held a graveside service for Hammy, who was laid to rest in the backyard. McKenna talked about what a great pet Hammy had been, and we all bowed our heads in a moment of silence. As you may recall, this was on the same day as the explosions at the Boston marathon, and feelings were tender all around.

A wise person once said something along the lines of: "Death is an important tool. It teaches us to tell each other that we love each other."

I'm paraphrasing here, but I appreciate the sentiment. When tragedy strikes, and it will affect us all to one degree or another, it's often the only thing we can do. I believe it applies to all instances when we're affected by death - be it terrorism that takes human lives untimely, or unintentionally enthusiastic hugs, or everything else between and beyond.

And so, my friends, let me take advantage of this opportunity to tell you that I love you, collectively and individually. I realize that a blog is not the ideal means for doing this, so take it for whatever you may think it's worth. I'm not great at expressing it vocally, as my "love language" tends to be either spending quality time or performing acts of service, but please know that I am truly grateful for the relationships I feel the Lord has blessed me with in my life, be they family, friends, co-workers, or even acquaintances who may yet become lifelong friends.

Hammy would want it that way.

Hopes and Dreams

In improv, we play a game called "Musical" in which we create - you guessed it - a musical. However, instead of having the three hours' length of a Les Misérables or a My Fair Lady with which to make Broadway magic happen live, one of the challenges of this game is to condense (cram?) the plot and songs for a musical into an eight- or 10-minute short-form delivery.

Impossible? You might think so. But somehow, we make it happen time and again.

Anyway, one of the key elements of putting together this kind of "Musical" is the inclusion of a protagonist, who sings what we call a "Hopes and Dreams" song to state what he/she wants out of life. Lo and behold, we spend the next seven minutes or so making those hopes and dreams become a reality.

Real life, unfortunately, does not always turn out this way. What we hope, dream, and, quite often, yearn and pray for does not come to pass, or at least it does not transpire in the way we expect it would.

One of the best examples of someone's expectations not being fulfilled, at least in my mind, is illustrated by a rather poignant - and heartbreaking - scene in the movie (500) Days of Summer. The protagonist, Tom, played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt, is desperately in love with Summer, played by Zooey Deschanel. In the scene I refer to, the screen shows a side-by-side comparison of Tom's expectations - I daresay his hopes and dreams - of an encounter with Summer, with the other half of the screen showing what really takes place. The problem is that the "Principle of Least Interest" (something I actually remember from college; you can Google it if you want), which states that the person who cares the least about a relationship has all of the power, is at work here. Summer is not as interested in Tom as Tom is interested in Summer, and, in the side of the scene depicting reality, he is disappointed time and again as his expectations of her loving him back are unmet.

I identify with this scene because the same sort of "great expecations" (if I can borrow a phrase from Dickens) scenarios have played out in my head multiple times only to be crushed and destroyed by reality. I'm sure that many of you could say the same of some of your own experiences. The Principle of Least Interest can be a harsh teacher but a teacher nonetheless.

However, I don't think the answer is to stop hoping and dreaming, for, as Shakespeare wrote in The Tempest, "we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep." To also borrow a line from Ryan Shupe and the Rubberband: "When you dream, dream big; as big as the ocean blue. 'Cause when you dream, it might come true." Anyone who ever accomplished anything worthwhile has followed this train of thought and see it to its fruition.

Something Tom learns at the end of (500) Days of Summer - and this is a SPOILER ALERT for those who still want to see the film - is that summer is followed by autumn. In Tom's case, his relationship with Summer is very literally followed by meeting a girl named Autumn.

The application, as I take it, is that one unmet expectation does not necessarily mean another unmet expectation. In other words, it's still good and worthwhile to hope and dream, even though some people come into our lives to wake us from those dreams or even serve as nightmares of a sort. Granted, we have to wake up from those dreams and go to work and be patient as we try and try again, but there is a happy song waiting at the end of your show. Or my next improv show.