Deadly drink

I have to start by saying I feel like kind of a hypocrite writing this post. I drank in college. I continue to enjoy wine and beer and the occasional mixed drink, and sometimes I get a little carried away and pay for it the next morning.

But this morning I'm writing about a young man who didn't have the luxury of paying for it the next morning. Because he died.

Just before I left the office yesterday, I learned that my coworker's nephew had been found dead of alcohol poisoning. He was in college, pledging a fraternity.

So many words come to mind.... horrible, tragic, heartbreaking............... preventable.

So often we hear news reports of situations just like this, where college frat parties quickly turn into alcohol binge fests where the goal is to out-do one another to see who can down the most booze in the shortest amount of time. Drinking games like the "power hour," "century club" and others often can -- and do -- result in DEATH.

"Alcohol poisoning occurs when a person consumes an excessive amount of alcohol. Alcohol can depress or stop nerve signals that control breathing and the gag reflex that prevents choking. As drinking increases, the person will become sleepy, or fall into a stupor. Ultimately, the respiratory system becomes depressed, and the person can stop breathing, causing death. Commonly, comatose patients aspirate their vomit, resulting in vomitus in the lungs, which can cause asphyxiation and death." (WebMD & Wikipedia)

The story told to my coworker's sister-in-law by one of her son's roommates is that his soon-to-be fraternity brothers set a case of beer in front of him and said, "drink." And he did. And he died.

The really sad and angering part is, there is nothing that can be done to change this. Even with all the preaching and lecturing and fact-presenting and awareness campaigning and M.A.D.D. and S.A.D.D. demonstrating, fraternities and sororities will continue with their drinking rituals, college students will continue to drink to excess, and young men and women will continue to die.

Scary.

Scary that alcohol can have such power. And even scarier that we let it.

My heart breaks for this family. There is now a mother without her son, a sister without her brother, an uncle without his nephew. And now, the "if only's" and "should have's" will begin. Because that is human nature. We punish ourselves in situations like this because our feelings of helplessness and guilt force us to. But nothing can bring him back, and that fact alone is punishment enough.

There is no happy ending, no silver lining. This kid is dead. A senseless waste of a precious human life.

That is all there is to say.

10-10

Today is Sunday, October 10th.

We had a 2:00 p.m. matinee of Smoke on the Mountain Homecoming at Hanover Tavern this afternoon, where there also were not one, but two wedding receptions happening. The weather in Richmond, VA today is uncharacteristically warm for fall. The maple leaves are starting to turn orange and gold. There is not a cloud in the sky. It's a perfect day for a beautiful wedding.

Of course, those who know me probably know where I'm going with this. I had a beautiful wedding on an uncharacter-
istically warm fall day in St. Paul, MN on Sunday, October 10th, six years ago. The leaves were at their glorious peak and the cloudless sky was an expanse of bright blue.

It was fun to catch a glimpse of the bridal parties today, donning ear-to-ear grins, the perfect accessory to their formalwear. So much happiness and expectation.

I couldn't help but feel a little pang of sadness.

Because no one gets married thinking they'll get a divorce. I was just like the brides I saw today: happy, excited and full of hope. How it should be.

It's just a shame that sometimes, the hope fades and is replaced with something else. I had no idea on that day six years ago that the years to follow would be far less than ideal. My expectations were dashed quite soon after, and the brilliant blue sky of my wedding day became dark and stormy with no sign of clearing.

Even though getting a divorce was the right, smart, and healthy choice, it still weighed heavily on me. The feeling of failure was overwhelming. I was ashamed to tell my family and friends. I felt guilty about the wedding they had all attended, apparently for nothing.

But someone reminded me that at the time, on that day six years ago, it was a happy occasion. A beautiful day where family and friends could come together, visit, eat good food and celebrate the future with each other. Every good intention was brought forward on that day, and everyone left with a happy heart.

Jamie and I rode from the church to our reception in a white Rolls Royce. Today, on my way home after the show, a white Rolls Royce drove by. Coincidence? Or was it God's little wink to tell me he knows what's on my heart?

No good can come out of regret. If those who end up getting divorced knew on their wedding day that would be the outcome, no one would ever get married. There are all kinds of cliches about life's lessons: "life is a journey," "life is meant to be lived," "in life, you take the good with the bad," etc. However, they are all true. All our experiences -- successes, failures and everything in between -- make us who we are.

I firmly believe that the future is bright -- not just for the newlyweds I saw today, but for all of us. It boils down to a matter of perspective and attitude. Life is too short and too precious to believe otherwise!

Analog vs. digital

Ever since the technology world flipped the digital switch, the debate of analog versus digital has been circling 'round and 'round, with no sign of stopping anytime soon.

I had a discussion with Robb recently about film photography versus digital photography and a similar discussion on the topic of artistic talent, whether innate or manufactured.

B&W film photo. Grain Belt © 2000 www.emilyjcole.com

It used to be that to take good photos, one had to have a keen eye for value, color and composition. Photos shot on film involved either processing them oneself in a darkroom, or rolling the dice with a commercial developer. Either way, it was easy to tell a good photograph from the not-so-good ones.

Now, with digital technology, virtually anyone can be a talented photographer. Photo editing programs like Photoshop, Lightroom and even freebies like Google's Picasa mean that tasks like cropping, straightening, adjusting brightness/contrast/saturation, etc. can be achieved with a mouse-click and can make any old photo look like a masterful composition. All that is required of the eye is to see.

This is not necessarily a bad thing! It opens up a world of creativity to people who may never have dipped their toe in the creative waters otherwise. It does raise the bar, however, for anyone wanting to pursue a career in photography. Talented photogs either need to step it up a notch and produce great photographs, or get lost in the shuffle with the myriad of good ones. 

I used to think of myself as a decent photographer and briefly considered delving into it as a sideline profession. But not anymore. The sheer cost of keeping up with the latest and greatest technology that is required to produce great vs. good photos has, I dare say, permanently relegated me to that of a hobbyist. 

Digital sketch. Lil Wayne © 2010 SEILER

 

The same analog vs. digital conundrum holds true for painting and drawing too. I follow an über-talented art blogger named Seiler who is a successful caricaturist and artist in Chicago. He does everything digitally and can turn around a painting in a couple days and a drawing in even less time. 

Graphite drawing. Muhammad Ali © 2001 www.emilyjcole.com

When I think of the amount of time I spend drawing a portrait, I get irritated at the notion that someone else can do the same thing, minus the eraser crumbs and frustration, in half the time using a stylus and tablet with their Mac. It feels like cheating to me. And a little bit elitist. Forget about trying to compete with techno-savvy artists who can turn around multiple pieces in the time it takes to complete one portrait the old-school way. [Maybe I'm just jealous that he can afford the technology and I can't...!?]

I'm sounding like a crotchety old woman here! Perhaps the issue is less about the technology and more about finding one's niche in the market. There has been a resurgence of interest in vinyl records, tube amps, knitting, and pretty much anything "vintage" or hand-made. I suppose the same could hold true for art.

Until I win the lottery and buy all the fancy equip-

ment my heart desires, I will satisfy myself with that conclusion. At least I can rest assured that stained glass will never become digital!  

Or will it...?

Send it up

Every actor's worst nightmare, second to being naked on stage (except if dreaming of roles in Hair, The Full Monty or Equus): forgetting lines.

I'm in Barksdale Theatre's production of Smoke on the Mountain Homecoming now running at Hanover Tavern. We opened last Friday.

I forgot my lines on opening night. 

NIGHTMARE!

Mid-monologue (which I had nailed in dress rehearsal), I got a nice laugh after a line. And then, my brain froze. Nothing. Silence. Pins and needles in my throat, all the way down to my stomach. Fumbling. Sweating. Blinding lights. Slow motion. An out-of-body experience. "This isn't happening. Yes, it is. Oh #%$@! Line, line, line, line.... Help! I need help! $#@%!"

An eternity.

(About four seconds.)

I skipped ahead and got back on track, finished the monologue and got some more laughs.

I was devastated. I cried at intermission.

I was certain Bruce (the director) and others would comment on it at the post-show reception. A couple of my castmates said, "don't say anything, no one will even remember" and reassured me it wasn't as bad as I felt it was. So once the celebratory opening night party commenced with the cast, crew, my coworkers, friends, critics and other theatre-goers, I downplayed it pretty well. Kind of. Ok, not really.

I felt like I had to own up to it, because I did forget. I worried that I brought the show down with my four seconds of silence and deer-in-headlights staring. I cringed at the thought of my stammering ending up in a review and casting a bad light on everyone else.

But then another cast member reminded me of three words:

SEND IT UP. 

Let it go. Don't worry about it. It's over, in the past, the rest of the show went (relatively) well so forget it, get over yourself and move on. Hallelujah for those three little words.

Now that I have had two successful recollections of my lines after the catastrophe, read a very positive review of the show (John Porter for WCVE-FM), and confessed this boo-boo to my vast blog readership (ha), I feel much better about it.

Amusingly, in theatre jargon, the phrase that actors use when they forget lines is, "I went up on my lines."

So, I went up. And now, I have sent it up.

And I'm looking forward to a very successful rest-of-the-run.

A crime of crab legs

Only a couple times in my life have I been a victim of theft. The first time was over ten years ago when my car was stolen from in front of my friend's apartment building in a quiet, residential neighborhood in St. Paul, MN.

The second time was on Tuesday of this week, my 5th Anniversary working at Theatre IV.

♪ Happy Anniversary to me! ♫

Theatre IV hired our usual contractor to install new windows in our administrative offices. The contractor had done other jobs for Theatre IV and was friendly, efficient and did good work. Long story short, one of the contractor's employees had a window of opportunity (forgive the pun) to steal my Wachovia check card out of my messenger bag in my office while I was working in an office down the hall as my new window was being installed. After he left for the day, he went on a mini-spending spree with my card, first stopping at a BP station for gas and other items and then on to Kroger, where he attempted to buy over $200 worth of crab legs.

Not a cart-full of groceries to feed his wife and children.

CRAB LEGS.

This is what was revealed by the surveillance video at Kroger.

I have spent several hours over the last few days talking to the police and Wachovia in order to provide as much information as possible about the theft. An investigator has now been assigned to the case and as of this morning, was in the process of obtaining an arrest warrant. I imagine in the coming weeks there will be affidavits and court appearances involved.

Everyone has been asking how I'm doing -- I'm just fine. But I can't help but think about the guy who stole my card, and more importantly, his family. I feel bad for his wife and kids. It would have been one thing if he had, out of desperation, tried to buy groceries or clothes or some other necessities for his family. But a case of crab legs? That doesn't elicit much sympathy from me. What on earth was he thinking?! Clearly, he wasn't thinking. He will likely go to jail for a time, leaving his family to fend for themselves.

According to the contractor, this guy is (was) an upstanding member of society, "a good Christian man with a lovely wife and seven kids." But as we all know, even the preacher is capable of stealing coins from the offering plate.

Or in this instance, crab legs.

2010 Progress

I like the way Brits say the word "progress." Not PRAH-gress, but PRO-gress. It adds a certain weight and air of authority when pronounced that way. In fact, I generally like the way they pronounce everything (except, perhaps, "aluminum" and "schedule"). Thus, I invite you to read the rest of this post in a British accent.  

[NOTE: I watched an episode of Red Dwarf earlier this evening, which may or may not have had something to do with this particular whim.]

Admittedly, as far back as I can remember, every January I have made resolutions for the New Year. Then a few months into the year, I lapse by doing one or both of the following:

1) Forgetting what they are; or
2) Ignoring them altogether.

I think this is because year after year, I resolved to accomplish things that were either cliché or absurd. In short, I was a complete and total git about it.

For example, "lose weight" has been on the list every year since I was 14. I think two of the years since then I actually did lose weight, but not because of my commitment to my New Year's goals. It was just a handy coincidence.

That particular goal did not make the 2010 list.

This January, I once again made some resolutions. However this time, I actually put quite a lot of thought into the five goals I conceived for myself. A few were a bit challenging and a couple were not. The difference this year is that I wrote them down and have referred back to them on several occasions over the past six months.

Now that 2010 is half over (*GASP!*), it's time to assess PROgress.

I must admit that I am quite pleased with myself. To date, I can check two things off the list. A third involves a test of will against a particular culinary temptation, which I won't be able to check off until midnight on 1 January 2011. But so far, I haven't given in. The other two are relatively attainable and I am confident I can "git 'er done," as the Americans say at wrestling matches and the like.

What a splendid feeling this is! How refreshing! I did not set myself up for failure, nor did I get namby-pamby with my goals.

Now, as I proGRESS toward the remainder of my goals, I can do so with the satisfaction that I have already exceeded any and all accomplishments I have set for myself in prior years.

And that, dear friends, is PROgress.

That'll learn me

It seems I have received my comeuppance. See, in my last blog post, I commented on how Robb & I would have to get our fill of nature during our weekend at Philpott Lake because we'd be spending the following weekend at Shenandoah National Park with three little kids who were sure to scare away any and all signs of wildlife with their rowdiness.

HA!

Reality couldn't have been any more blatantly ironic. After winding through random rural roads, over the river and through the woods, Robb & I finally arrived at the Salthouse Branch campground at Philpott Lake (near Fairy Stone State Park). It was indeed beautiful; the campsites were arranged on terraced loops overlooking the lake and the woods were thick and green.

And then, there were the rebel flags. And rebel yells.

Ah yes, it seems that Philpott Lake is a haven for redneck weekenders. (And I'm only using this term because the people there proudly proclaimed themselves as such.) Noisy trucks, mullets, grubby chubby children, confederate flags, cigarettes, beer bottles, hootin' & hollerin' filled our weekend. The only thing missing were gunshots.

Robb and I were lulled to sleep our first night by the sound of our neighbors --
a father and son spending some quality time together for Father's Day weekend. This invovled drinking, cussing, guffawing, and then wretching until 2 a.m. What better way to say, "I love you," then to holler "DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!" at your dear ol' dad as he is bent over puking his guts out.

I won't elaborate on the rest of our weekend there, but suffice it to say everything was beautiful, except the people. We saw no deer, no birds, no wild animals at all, except for squirrels chasing each other through the treetops and vultures circling overhead. Appropriate.

Our next weekend at Loft Mountain, however, couldn't have been more pleasant. The boys were eager to help and learn and the baby was a happy camper (sorry, couldn't resist). Deer, rabbits, birds and butterflies were plentiful, as were the black raspberries. The weather was warm but comfortable and our mostly-secluded campsites backed up to the woods.

We went on a nature discovery hike with Ranger Georgette (with whom Caleb, the future biologist, instantly bonded) and Nathan was busy helping build campfires and naming boulders (here he is at right, standing on "Kid Mountain"). Eleanor toddled and giggled and picked raspberries. At the risk of speaking for Bill and Jennifer, I think they had a pretty good time themselves. Robbie & I definitely did.

All this to say, touché! Lesson learned! 

The Pattersons at Loft Mountain