Category: Ms. Parker

"Another boring romantic, that’s me."

Ms. Parker has often joked that in the game of our friendship, when points are scored for visits to the other’s home, I have thus far beaten her by a score of 5-0. Not one to be shutout, though, last month, Ms. Parker made the score 5-1 when she led off the third inning of our lives with a solo blast to left-center. For my baseball-challenged readers (read: reader) out there, that means she hit a homerun; and for those of you who are figuratively challenged by metaphors (or is that metaphorically-challenged, figuratively speaking?), that means she visited me in Vermont. Inspired by my close proximity to Ben and Jerry’s (or was it the other way around?), Ms. Parker and her cousin, Cousin J, drove up north to the land of cheese, maple syrup, gay marriages, and me (listed, of course, not necessarily in order of preference).

After a day spent sampling Vermont’s finest, the three of us settled into an American Flatbread restaurant booth where Sarah the L joined us, marking the first time those two Round Table friends had ever met. We ordered salads, a few drinks, and four different types of flatbreads split between two pies from our waitress who happened to be a friend of Sarah the L and proved as much with a hug. At some point during our meal, The Heinous Shrew walked by our booth on her way to crash her friend’s date. Later that night, Ms. Parker commented on how small our small city was and that she would hate to live in such a place where encounters like these were the norm. I think she’d probably go so far as to suggest that this is the same personality trait that makes her, in her opinion, a person whom the homeless find “unapproachable,” which, incidentally, recent trends would seem to suggest is a trait I don’t possess (but that’s a comment on my city’s homeless situation, which is best set aside for another blogging day).

Ms. Parker’s remark made me question my own reality: do I enjoy a city small enough that the aforementioned random encounters occur on an almost daily basis? Or would I rather live in a town with so many bars that hardly anyone knows my name? What’s my perfect balance of community and privacy? This is a question I’ve pondered on many occasions and quite often in the three weeks since I started this blog entry. And until four days ago, I didn’t have an answer. You see, I never know when I’m going to find the inspiration to write a blog entry, and when I finally start one, I never know how it’s going to end. My creative process resembles that of a junior high school metal shop class: countless bold ideas, quite a few stops and starts, and a finished project that never resembles the original plans. (That I’m even capable of producing a complete and coherent sentence is a sort of miracle in and of itself.)

Typically, most of my blog entries begin on my walk to work, an 8-minute jaunt filled with sounds of school children (if I’m on time), school bells (if I’m not), construction workers beginning their day spent fixing up a recently burned house, cars accelerating a little too fast for a side street, and the city busses idling as they wait for their respective passengers. Like that metal shop class, this walk doesn’t exactly overflow with inspiration. Thankfully, it’s what I learned in elementary school (how to be creative) and college (how to tell a story) that lets me utilize this time. And so, I spend my time daydreaming about my life, finding patterns and themes within that life, figuring out if they’re interesting to me, and then slowly attempting to make them sound interesting to you. Sometimes I end up with a finely crafted metal basketball hoop, and sometimes I end up with a pointless piece of scrap metal with no ending in sight. Whatever I end up with, though, you can rest assured it wasn’t what I originally planned to make.

My continuing struggle with the writing process was on my mind recently when I heard the claim that writers are a great source of wisdom because they spend their lives observing human nature in an attempt to accurately reproduce it on the page. The theory is that anyone who studies humans to the point when they know exactly what a fictional character would do in a hypothetical situation must understand nonfictional people in realistic settings. I hardly ever feel bold enough to offer a dissenting view in someone else’s house (especially this particular house), so I chose to keep my opinion to myself and instead share it here: I don’t agree.

I think writers only know what their characters would do in a situation simply because said characters reside in the imaginations of said writers. Claiming that an understanding of their character implies an understanding of society is not unlike claiming to know what another person is craving for lunch simply because you’re craving corned beef. And besides, to believe that this is proof that writers know the answers to most of life’s questions is to ignore how imperfect the lives of these writers are. We can’t answer most of our own questions, so how could we possibly answer yours?

In an effort to have some of my questions answered, and for reasons maybe Ms. Parker, Sarah the L, and Robin Williams would understand, last Sunday afternoon I found myself sitting next to Mary (nicknamed for various reasons) in a church she and her friends had started a few years ago. This is where I heard the theory about writers having answers, and this is where I met an assortment of characters whose (nick)names will have to wait for another day. And through these characters, I Ultimately found myself sitting side-by-side Mary in a Wednesday night discussion group, in front of a coffee table on which the homeowner had placed a coffee mug that had printed on it the name of Papa Benchly’s church. After quick Sherlock-Holmes-like detective work, I discovered that my father was a mentor to the homeowner. A small town, indeed.

The group’s discussion centered on the question, “What is church?” and at one point, a debate broke out regarding how many people were needed for a church to exist. Some claimed you needed a community to help your faith grow; I posited that only one person was needed “to go to church.” Mary’s view was that a person can only evolve (spiritually or otherwise) so much through the lessons he/she learns from personal mistakes; that to evolve to his/her full potential, a person needs to learn from others as well. I won’t say that I changed my opinion, but I will confess that Mary and the others convinced me that it does, in fact, take a village to evolve.

And that’s when I realized how much I loved feeling part of a community and the random encounters that accompany such a relationship. I don’t think I ever feel as alive as I do when one of my trees falls in the forest and my friends are around to hear it. Through these moments, I find joy, the answers to my questions, the inspiration to write, and sometimes even the perfect ending for my blog.

The rain’s turned into snow…

Four years ago, Mia Wallace and I joined Sarah the L, Smoochie Poo, Peace Corp Girl, and Head in Hinesburg to mourn the end of yet another year while simultaneously celebrating the beginning of the next one. After Mia Wallace shared with me her belief that how you celebrate New Year’s Eve impacts how you spend the rest of the year, I made sure to do my part in helping to plan a great evening. I even went so far as to create the first of what has now been five straight Mr. Benchly’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve Super Mixes. I made a copy for each partygoer. And though I did my best to make the CD a soundtrack for the evening, what I was actually doing was attempting to create a soundtrack for my life.

I know I’m not alone when I say that I’m intrigued at the thought of having a movie soundtrack play in the background of my everyday life. Whether it’s an inspirational Explosions in the Sky song for the walk to the Election Day voting booths; or a heartbreaking Bright Eyes song playing on the drive home from a break-up; or the upbeat Belle & Sebastian song that makes the stroll down Church Street that much more entertaining; or the hopeful Beatles song seemingly inspired by that first kiss; I’ve often dreamed of my life being set to music. As Caden Cotard said, every person in the world is a lead in his or her story. If that’s true, don’t we all deserve a musical accompaniment?

One song that has never made its way onto one of my Super Mixes despite its rightful claim to be there is the late great Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Auld Lang Syne.” The song tells the tale of two old lovers running into each other in their hometown and then spending the snowy evening drinking and reminiscing of days gone by. They toast their past and their present, and they attempt a conversation riddled with “emptiness.” In one of my favorite lines, Fogelberg says that the two were “living in our eloquence.”

I can’t think of a better way to describe a conversation between two old flames than how Fogelberg paints the picture in his song. Anyone who has ever experienced such an encounter firsthand knows that interacting with an ex is a complicated dance: there’s the obvious connection that drew you to each other in the first place, but it’s been marred by whatever drama that inspired your break-up; depending on how much time has passed, feelings are either confused or gone altogether and with them has gone the love-is-blindness that helped you overlook your ex’s flaws. What remains and the only thing capable of sustaining the conversation is the eloquence of your words. But your relationship has already ended for good reason and it’s inevitable that you’ll “run out of things to say.” Such is your fate as exes.

Despite “Same Auld Lang Syne”’s especially relevant subject matter this past holiday season (considering my break-up with Ms. Darling in the rainy autumn), it failed once more to make the final cut for my most recent Super Mix. Instead, I tried yet again to create a soundtrack for my life and, as embarrassing as this is to admit, like a documentarian trying to rewrite history, my song choices reflected my hope at reconciliation with Ms. Darling. A few of you received copies of the Super Mix before, predictably, I realized how unhealthy such a compilation was; I suppose that these copies will now be considered collector’s items. The lesson learned here is that though we each are leads in our own stories, we can’t act out our lives; we can only live them. Since that day, I’ve done my best to live my life to the fullest.

What’s so sad about Fogelberg’s song is that it’s autobiographical; it’s a genuine soundtrack to his life because these are words he actually lived. And it’s a song that will never be mistaken for a hopeful one. At the end of the night, the old flames kiss and go their separate ways back to their separate lives. Fogelberg sings, “Just for a moment, I was back at school and felt that old familiar pain. As I turned to make my way back home, the snow turned into rain.” Ms. Parker and I have debated the meaning of these lines and I’m not sure that we ever settled on an ultimate interpretation, but I don’t think that it’s much of a stretch to say that Fogelberg was going for symbolism with his words. My belief is that the snow represented joy or hope, and the rain, sadness or realism.

This song and my interpretation of its symbolic lyrics were on my mind late last year on an unseasonably warm and rainy December day when, on my walk to work, I heard a woman say to her friend, “well, at least it’s better than snow.” As timing would have it (and you know how this blog and its author love timing), this depressing, global-warming-loving comment happened two days after I met Cherry on Top, and inspired me to write her an email to tell her about it. I told her that though I may not ski, and though I’ll most likely feel differently in April, even I will admit that in the winter, I prefer snow to rain. And later that day, as I typed another email to her, adding yet another page to this new chapter in my life, the rain outside turned into snow.

"…still my guitar gently weeps."

Contrary to popular belief, when I think back to my time spent at the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said, my memories are primarily positive: the PFLAG skit with Little Amie, the road trips with Ms. Parker, downhill skiing in jeans and sweaters with True, etc. Included among the countless memories is the long-overdue day on which I mastered the world of irony. And in an ironic twist, this triumph occurred not in the classroom for which I was paying (and still am paying) for my education, but rather in the viewing of the film Reality Bites in which a character explains that irony happens when the actual result differs from the expected result. These thoughts were on my mind last night as I reached for the last rock of a rock-climbing route (the white one for the one of you keeping score at home) that had, in previous attempts, proven too difficult for my amateur (read: not-exactly-in-shape) skills. But since irony considers the sequence of events leading up to the result, first let me back up a bit.



When it comes to dating, I wouldn’t exactly place myself in the same league as a Casanova, but I have had my fair share of girlfriends and thanks to the wonderful Internet, most of them have had the pleasure (or pain) of finding their (nick)name in my blog’s print. For the most part, I’ve never considered this a bad thing. However, thanks to said wonderful Internet’s ability to archive everything, I worry that my past is going to start coming back to haunt me. I saw it when one girlfriend became jealous of the Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, and I saw it again when another future girlfriend questioned the sincerity of my words.

It’s an honest question: how sincere could a guy be when his written words from relationships long gone are similar to the words coming out of his mouth in the present? I’m sure you’ll agree when I say that things said in current relationships are almost always unintended carbon copies of past relationship sweet nothings (who can go 15 years of dating without repeating some feelings along the way?). But only the fools stupid enough to blog their feelings get caught duplicating love and heartache. The closed-off souls who don’t share their feelings never suffer this fate. (I suppose an alternative solution is to date someone who shows no interest in your blog whatsoever, but what fun is that?) My most recent relationship, built on a blogging foundation, had to deal with this question of sincerity in the beginning before grabbing the next rock and pulling itself up to bigger and more relevant topics (read: when life gets in the way and love becomes complicated).

It’s hard to imagine what life would have been like had I not walked down Church Street that fateful summer day, and some would argue that it’s not worth the time and energy spent wondering. You can’t change the past; you can only deal with its consequences, make the most of the present, and put yourself in a position to enjoy the future. So regardless of why it happened, what happened happened and, through a series of mostly-related (emphasis on related) events, led me to join a local rock climbing gym to go climbing with my new friend, Mr. Extracurricular. Two weeks ago, I nearly backed out of a planned climb but I didn’t and the rock climbing walls kicked my butt for it by letting me complete only one route. Last week, against my instincts to stay home and not exercise, I went back and completed two routes and vowed to come back to do better. Last night, I found inspiration in the unlikeliest of people and completed six routes and found myself halfway up a route set at the next level.

As is often the case, in between climbs while giving our arms (and for me, my fingers) a rest, Mr. Extracurricular and I talked about the different challenges we face while climbing. I always feel a little embarrassed having a discussion like this with someone whose challenges are tackled on routes that are 3 or 4 levels more difficult than the ones I attempt, but Mr. Extracurricular humors me nonetheless. Now that I’ve learned to use my lower body more and my upper body less, for me, aside from building up strength and endurance, my biggest challenge is simply staying on course. Because multiple colored routes are entwined together on the wall, I often find myself skipping a challenging handhold on my route and instead opting for an easier one not intended for me. And so, if/when I reach the top, I’ve inevitably taken an unintended route. With this in mind, as I grabbed that final white rock, I wondered if I was being ironic. (I think because the outcome and the expected outcome were the same, I wasn’t.)

Although there’s no irony to be found in the rock climbing walls, it could be argued that the last four months of my life have been ironic simply because the expected outcome was never realized. While climbing to the top, I stumbled, the rocks moved on me, I reached for the wrong holds, and now I find myself perched high on the wall on a different course, looking up at a final rock I can no longer see. But I know it’s there and I’m not going to quit climbing simply because my instincts tell me to let go.

It’s hard to imagine how my life will change because I chose to join the rock climbing gym, but as always, I look forward to the climb.

Benchly’sleeve

As Papa Benchly’s and my checkbook will confirm, nine years ago, I purchased four years of education at the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said. And though I was paying for the classes, I found most of my education outside the classroom. While a student there, I wrote a newspaper column that often critiqued the university, its people, its departments, and its policies. And though I admit that the column was borne out of contempt for the university, I gradually found myself writing words that I hoped would help positively change the university (while maintaining my often sarcastic tone, of course). In a sense, I was seeking change I could believe in. But as President-Elect Obama and his supporters know far too well, when you criticize something, even if it’s something you love, often times the response is essentially, “if you don’t like it here, leave,” and criticism is most certainly what I received, even in the form of threats (unless, of course, those five fraternity brothers who showed up at my apartment were telling the truth when they claimed they only wanted to talk).

It was in dealing with negative responses to my newspaper column that I learned a valuable lesson in journalism: a journalist should respond to criticism only when there’s a gross misstatement of fact, when questions have been asked of the publication, or when the criticism needs some sort of clarification, lest the journalist risk alienating his/her readers with a most-likely never-ending argument/contest of who can have the last word. Most importantly, the very same freedom of speech that allows journalists and bloggers the opportunity to speak their mind must provide the same blanket of protection and opportunity for those who raise their voice in disagreement. And so, nine years later, these are the thoughts that are on my mind as I sit here and contemplate what, if anything, to do about the recent feedback hand I’ve been dealt on this very blog.

As my reader(s) most likely know, my last blog entry had the honor of receiving not one, but three comments from my fans (just about doubling my fan base), two of which from “Anonymous” could be classified as “Constructive Feedback.” (The other, authored by Ms. Darling, I’ve filed under “Obligatory Adoration.”) For the technologically savvy (read: those who can operate a mouse), I’ve included a link to these comments so that Anonymous’s words can speak for themselves.

For the technologically challenged, I’ll briefly summarize them here: Anonymous was concerned that my written words might be harmful; that good communication required listening, which became difficult when communicating in writing; that if I wasn’t open to stepping out of my comfort zone to listen to what others had to say, it would be because I was afraid to hear criticism or I was simply self-centered; and that if I stopped hiding behind my words, I’d be better off for it. A few days later, Ms. Darling’s sweet (pun intended) blog entry about me received another Anonymous posting, which seemed to be related (pun not quite unintended): “Be kind, and remember that while a second or third life can be lived online, you are still left with the first.”

I have no way of knowing if the comments from Anonymous #1 and Anonymous #2 are related, but for the purpose of this blog, I’m going to pretend that they are. And though I have a hunch that Anonymous #1 wasn’t responding to my blog but rather to my actions and/or inactions in my “first life,” since she claimed to be “offering a response to some of [my] musings,” I’ll treat her comments as such. With that in mind, it seems to me that the argument being made here is that there is a time and a place for a blog, and that maybe Ms. Darling and I have crossed that fine line by speaking openly about our recent dating adventure/challenge, which has occurred fairly close (some would consider too close) in time to our previous relationships. I’m going to resist the temptation to debate who is right and who is wrong; with such an ever-changing technological world, I think even Emily Post would have trouble finding her social etiquette footing. What I will do instead is offer up for your consideration and clarification my brief (read: non-Benchly-like) philosophy on blogging:

When I first started blogging back at the obviously-trademark-infringed,-though-cleverly-named-nonetheless The Continuing Story of Bungalow Benchly, I had a discussion with Ms. Parker about how personal one’s blog entries should be. I don’t remember her opinion on the matter (I think she said if it was meant for your journal under your bed, it shouldn’t be in your blog), but I remember mine as it’s one I’ve tried to maintain to this day: I want to write only about what I would feel comfortable discussing face-to-face with anyone tomorrow. My aim has been to express the same respectful honesty in my happy-ever-after blogs as can be found in my heart-broken-again ones. And though, admittedly, a few of my blog tirades crossed a line (the snoring banishment episode comes to mind), I think for the most part I’ve done a great job. I may be a screenname as I post this, but as Anonymous #2 pointed out, I’m human first and foremost, and so it’s no surprise that I’ve made some blogging mistakes. At the very least, I can say that they’ve been genuine ones with honest intentions.

So to Anonymous #1 and Anonymous #2, thank you for your feedback. I appreciate that you’ve taken the time to read my blog and to consider all that I have to say. And I hope that you continue to do so. If you do, I promise you that what you will find is what you’ve always found: an honest, sensitive, and respectful portrayal of my feelings about my life and the world and people around me. Like my wet sleeves in my “first life,” I wear my emotions in my second life here on my blog. If I’m happy, if I’m sad, if I’m heartbroken, or if I’ve met an amazing woman and am hopeful that things will work out for us in the end, you can rest asssured that you’ll read it here, either boldly stated, or somewhere between the lines.

"With every mistake, we must surely be learning…"

Thanks to the Photo Album Project of 2003–2008, the majority of my photographs since 1992 are now filed chronologically in no less than 10 albums, each with its own decorative cover carefully selected to suggest a maturity void of any effeminate qualities (see also my dark red, manly-patterned Martha Stewart comforter). Buried deep within one of these albums is a photograph taken at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC in 1994; a picture whose purpose is actually expressed in the biblical quote contained within its frame: “Only guard yourself and guard your soul carefully lest you forget the things your eyes saw, and lest these things depart your heart all the days of your life. And you shall make them known to your children, and to your children’s children” (Deuteronomy 4:9). In simpler (read: more John-McCain/Sarah-Palin-friendly) terms, the heart of this message is clear: honor history by learning from it and ensuring it isn’t repeated.

In an unintended bit of poignancy, this photograph is surrounded in these 10 albums by photographs of the various serious, semi-serious, and not-so-serious girlfriends/dates/girl-space-friends in my life, each of whom has been responsible for at least one valuable lesson about life, love, my flaws, my strengths, what I’m capable of in relationships, what I need to improve, what I want out of a relationship, what I shouldn’t put up with, etc. Whether it’s the woman who first called to attention my caretaker personality trait, or the ones who made me realize my susceptibility to dependency, or the ones who forced me to take responsibility for my role in our relationships, or the ones who helped me understand that disagreements can be healthy, I’ve learned a lot in the 15 years that I’ve been dating. And although I feel a tad shameful applying the lesson from a Holocaust-related-quote to a 30-something’s love life (I find my solace and justification in another lesson learned from the Holocaust: that each life is valuable and worth discussing), I think it goes without saying (though when has that ever stopped me from saying it anyway?) that if I ever want to find myself in a healthy relationship capable of sustaining the Long Haul, I need to protect these lessons learned from being erased in my memory like out-of-focus digital photos taken one-too-many-glasses-of-wine into a Friday night.


Now that I’ve started seeing a therapist, my past relationships have taken center stage in my memory’s playhouse. Although quite a bit of our 50-minute hours have been spent discussing the Benchlys who, in the last two and a half months, have started to resemble an overly dramatic and meddling family straight out of a bad 80s nighttime serial drama, we have also taken the time to figure out why my past relationships have failed, in hopes that my next one won’t. And though I finally caved at Mama Benchly’s twentieth suggestion that I seek therapy simply because I wanted to vent about my family, I’ll be the first one to admit how nice it has been to discuss my ideas/fears/questions about relationships with an educated, soft-spoken professional, affectionately nicknamed The Trash Heap (I can’t take credit for this one; this was Sarah the L’s idea). For although I pay her and so we’re naturally at risk for the “customer is right” mentality creeping in, her brutal honesty thus far has assured me that I can consider her opinion to be unbiased and caring.

The Trash Heap has been invaluable lately for a reason I’m sure my reader(s) won’t be surprised to hear simply because today I’m about as transparent as a political ad or election running-mate choice: I’ve started dating someone new. Her name is Ms. Darling (Ms. Parker: I have faith that you’ll figure this one out) and a darling she is. In the grand scheme of things, “what it is we’re doing” is fairly fresh and still carries with it that new car smell called Confidence that excitedly says, “This is the greatest car to ever be driven off the lot. I can’t believe it only has 2 miles on it! And look at the cup holders!” In other words, we’re still in that stage when you’re blown away by the refreshing and exciting new addition to your life, and you spend your time together discovering that second glove compartment or whether or not two bikes can fit in the back. But we’re not kidding ourselves. We’re hopeful that this is going in the direction of the Long Haul (and there are certainly days when I’m convinced that it is), but we expect road bumps. We expect headlights and taillights to go out, and maintenance required lights to go on. We expect them because that’s what our respective pasts have taught us, among many other lessons, and to remember and learn from these pasts is to honor them.

(I must admit, this time around I feel an overwhelming sense of comfortable calmness. Ms. Darling excites me and makes me feel relaxed at the same time. This is new for me and most definitely worthy of The Trash Heap’s input.)

I realized recently that the time has come to purchase an 11th photo album. I’m starting to feel overloaded with developed pictures awaiting their appropriate place in my chronologically documented history. Included in those pictures are new ones of Ms. Darling from the hikes we’ve been on, one of our marathon dates, the night we got lost under the stars, and a recent bike ride. These are moments I already know I don’t want to forget, lest these things depart my heart all the days of my life.

The (Life) Choices We Make

I slept in this morning, which is a luxury my new “home” now allows me to afford. My walk to work, though shorter, is still long enough to justify listening to my iPod and, with my carefully selected songs in hand and ear, I can feel, at least for five minutes of the day, like I’m caught in a movie’s musical interlude that suggests both whimsy and the promise of things to come. I’m getting ahead of myself here.

This morning’s walk to work was serenaded by Dar Williams’ “As Cool As I Am,” a song, which, embarrassingly, I still don’t think I quite understand (maybe Ms. Parker could help me out here?), and yet which feels relevant nonetheless. But as I turned each corner on my way to my office home, my thoughts were not of her lyrics or the joys one feels when a short walking commute to work means saving gas money, but rather of how and why I came to be spending my work day mornings alone.

As all four of you know, it’s been over three years since I was first introduced to Freckles and subsequently introduced her to you. I did so in a carefully crafted entry on carpooling, which I’m not entirely sure even the most faithful readers of mine would recall if I didn’t link to it here.

I think it’s safe to say that my readers quickly caught on to my love for Freckles. Maybe it was the sudden lack of blogging on my part (as Sarah the L knows, writer’s block is the consequence of happiness and falling in love), or maybe it was the fact that I beat my readers over the head with our whirlwind romance. Whatever the case, I was happy and everyone knew it.

But as is sadly the case in life, people change, things change, relationships change, love changes, and Freckles and I found ourselves on opposite ends of our relationship’s spectrum. One of us believed in us, and the other didn’t anymore. One of us felt heartache for hurting a loved one, the other for being hurt. Both of us were terrified of losing a loved one. And so it was last week that I found myself with packed boxes, bags, and Othello in hand, failing miserably at settling into my parents’ guest bedroom.

The day that I officially moved out of the apartment that Freckles and I had turned into a home, the rains poured harder than they had all summer. With no end in sight, I was forced to load the final items into my car while unable to dodge the raindrops. Three years ago, I described such a rainstorm as something “placed perfectly between miserable and pretty.” This past week, it felt more like melancholy drowning in heartache.

A day later, as the rains stopped, the sun came out, and the inevitable rainbow appeared in the sky. We’re shedding tears of sorrow, but at least the world is still hopeful. And I think of all the great times Freckles and I had together, and the love that we had, and the sadness we felt the last time we saw each other. But that I’ll save just for me.

Parker, Benchly, and True

Near the end of the underrated motion picture Starship Troopers (which you should see not only for its eye-candy cast and unapologetically corny story but most importantly for its seemingly-psychic pre-9/11 commentary on the War on Terror), in a scene that shows a rare reunion of the three main characters after yet another gruesome and deadly military battle, one of the characters hugs the other two and says, “I don’t know why, but every time the three of us are together I feel like everything’s going to be alright.”

For the first two years of college, Ms. Parker, True, and I shared nearly every waking moment together on the campus of the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said. We cracked jokes, told stories, wrote songs, and believed ourselves to be the modern day Algonquin Round Table (as evidenced by two of our nicknames). Sadly, in the ten years since we parted ways, I can count on one hand the number of times the three of us have been together. When we are together, though, as was the case 6 weeks ago for Ms. Parker’s 30th birthday, I find myself identifying with the Starship Troopers character’s optimism.

Torn and Restored

“Would you like paper or plastic?” “Would you like fries with that?” “Who can spot the dangling modifier?” English majors are familiar with these questions because, in their loved one’s collective opinion, these questions accurately reflect the only possible postgraduate avenues down which someone with an English degree can travel. After the laughter from these career punch lines has died down, what everyone fails to explain to the English major is that variations of these jokes exist for other fields of study (philosophy, history, art, music, etc) and that hundreds of thousands of students around the world have been victims of these living-room/kitchen table verbal firing squads. In essence, as we venture off to the world of academia, our first lesson is that we are about to waste the next four years of our lives; that unless we choose science, or medicine, or technology, or education, we are wasting ours and our parents’ money.

As I sit back and watch Freckles’ brother (a recent college grad with a history degree) attempt to shield himself from the barrage of “do you want to teach history?” questions, I find myself yet again struggling with my own English-degree identity in this English-degree-fearing world. Yes, I’m an editor, but the qualifications for my job have slowly but surely begun to mirror those of a McDonald’s manager and, though a respectable job, that’s not the career path I envisioned the day I declared my major. The path I convinced myself I was choosing was that of a storyteller.

Although I’ve never felt emotionally or intellectually qualified to teach English, I can say without a doubt that I chose this path for myself because of the influence of two English teachers: my 7th grade English teacher, Mr. Gagnon; and Professor Hudnall in college. In his class, Mr. Gagnon once told a story from his childhood and after building up the suspense for 10 minutes, every eye was focused on him as he delivered the climactic ending that left every student in the room as full as a compulsive eater on Thanksgiving. If Ms. Parker’s memory is as capable as I think it is, she’ll swear that I’m confusing Mr. Gagnon with Professor Hudnall. I’m not, but to her credit, I easily could have interchanged the names because Professor Hudnall accomplished the same feat 9 years later. Though unique in every possible way, in my mind, Mr. Gagnon and Professor Hudnall will forever be linked by their ability to bring their students to the edge of their seats. They were teachers, of course, but like every English major before and after them, they were storytellers first and foremost.

After graduating college and entering the classroom-less real world, and while fine-tuning my own craft, I found myself starved for the good story that had been lacking for the first time since I was old enough to know a good story from a bad one. Consequently, I ate up all of the books a postgrad guy is supposed to (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance; Catch-22; On the Road; etc) and with my book clubs, that trend hasn’t really stopped. I also watched as many movies as possible. Unfortunately, it seemed like I graduated college around the same time the majority of stories told in movies were dumbed down to reach a broader audience. But then, something wonderful happened. Either the film industry experienced an explosion of creative talent or I got better at finding the good stories. And so it was in 2001 that I found myself on the edge of my theatre seat on three consecutive occasions: Memento, Moulin Rouge, and Amelie. All three movies captured my imagination but as the first of the three released that year, Memento was the film that made me believe in storytelling again. (If you haven’t seen it yet, I highly recommend it.)

Like a born-again Christian desperate to share his faith with anyone who will listen, I made all of my loved ones watch Memento; and like that very same born-again desperate to consume anything that tastes like the crack that is his newfound love of Christ, I have since made a point of watching all of the films by Memento’s director, Christopher Nolan (Following, Insomnia, and most recently, The Prestige). Because Freckles was desperate to consume the crack that is her love of Christian Bale, she accompanied me to see The Prestige this past weekend. Like Memento, The Prestige had a symphonic feel to it; each scene was arranged and interwoven in a seemingly random way with a hint of purpose. The scenes began to harmonize near the end as a twisting crescendo built to a climax comparable to The Beatles’ “A Day in the Life” or the movie Requiem for a Dream. And yet again, I left the theatre satisfied with and inspired by Nolan’s work, as well as invigorated by a renewed faith in storytelling.

And so it was with great pride that I recently discovered that Christopher Nolan was once a student of English in London who had most likely shielded himself from the same barrage of “do you want to teach English?” questions that were fired in my direction 7 years ago. Now I don’t pretend to believe that this common denominator means that I’ll ever be as successful as Nolan has been, but I’ve also never been naive enough to think the size or reaction of an audience is proof of a good story. All that matters to me is that Nolan’s success brings with it further recognition that there is a place in this world for storytellers and that we should stand as proudly as doctors and teachers. My only hope is that when my time has come to pass, and I’m asked what I’ve done with my English degree, I can say with confidence that I wove a few good stories.

Big News

I learned something today. That’s not the big news. The big news comes later. I know you can hardly wait but you’ll have to deal because I want to share with you what I learned. And this is what I learned: I learned the difference between first, second, third, etc. cousins, as well as when to apply the term “removed.” You’re jealous; you’re thinking, “I want to know the difference!” But don’t be jealous. I’m going to share my knowledge with you right now.

The first, second, third, etc title for your cousins is directly related to your grandparents. Cousins who share two grandparents are considered first cousins. Cousins who have different grandparents, but who share great-grandparents are second cousins. Therefore, your children are second cousins to the children of your first cousins because they all share the same great-grandparents.

When the word “removed” is applied, it indicates that the two people described are from different generations. You and your aforementioned first cousins are from the same generation so there’s no removal; but you are from a different generation than your first cousin’s children. Therefore, they are your first cousins, once removed. If the children of your first cousins, once removed have children, those children are your first cousins, twice removed. And so on, and so forth. Make sense? Good. Now, onto the big news…

As all of you know, New Year’s Eve is quickly approaching, carrying with it the brand new year 2006. To celebrate the event, I’ll be traveling south to Freckles’ aunt and uncle’s house in Pennsylvania. These are the same all-too-generous extended family members who shared their lake home with me this past summer. Freckles and I found out last night that their latest gift is to bring us and the rest of the family to New York City tomorrow evening for the 8 o’clock show of Spamalot on Broadway. So before we ring in the new year, we’ll have an opportunity to witness one of the best entertainment accomplishments of the current year. As Mama and Papa Benchly, as well as Sarah the L and Head will tell you, this is a truly awesome gift! But that’s not the big news either.

When I told my father about these tickets, the following conversation ensued (with some poetic license on my part, including an inside joke that, I’m guessing, only Ms. Parker will get):

Papa Benchly: You should have your mother email Lauren to see if she can get you backstage!
Mr. Benchly: Lauren?
Papa Benchly: Lauren Kennedy.
Mr. Benchly: (blank stare)
Papa Benchly: Your COUSIN, Lauren Kennedy.
Mr. Benchly: (blank stare)
Papa Benchly: You know, your mother’s mother’s brother’s son’s daughter.
Mr. Benchly: (blank stare)
Papa Benchly: Mr. Benchly, are you listening to me?
Mr. Benchly: Shove it.
Papa Benchly: Did you just say “shove it”?

Anyway, evidently, the daughter of Grandma Benchly’s nephew; aka, the daughter of Mama Benchly’s first cousin; aka, the granddaughter of Grandma Benchly’s brother; aka, Mama Benchly’s first cousin, once removed; aka, Mr. Benchly’s great-uncle’s granddaughter; aka, my second cousin; is currently starring as the Lady of the Lake in the Broadway hit show Spamalot!

And my mother emailed her, and she responded to say that if I let her know when I’ll be attending, she’d love to stick around after the show to meet me. Of course, Benchly family historians will remind us that we have, in fact, met once before: at an extended family reunion gathering in the Carolinas back in the early 80s, when I was ~7 and she was ~10. If it wasn’t so tacky, I’d bring a picture from that reunion to have her autograph. I’m so excited and oddly proud of a woman I’ve met only once in my life. Hopefully, tomorrow, she doesn’t sing like I do!

Now that I’ve revealed the big news (and yes, in fact, that was the big news), I hope that all of my loyal and, consequently, bored-out-their-mind readers have a wonderful and safe New Year’s Eve and I hope that, for all of you, the new year brings with it health, love, happiness, and an ultra-talented, famous second cousin (or third cousin, or fourth cousin, or 3rd cousin twice removed…)! I’ll see you in the new year…

"Get Up, Everybody, and Sing!"

I spent yesterday trying to shake a migraine that has, unfortunately, carried over into today. The headache was the result of a combination of events and nonevents from this weekend:

1. My acceptance of an invitation by some friends to a local bar’s karaoke night Saturday;
2. My consumption of a handful of alcoholic drinks; and
3. My foolishness, before bed, in forgetting to take the “Anti-Hangover Medicine”: two Advils and a tall glass of water.

But I’ll be the first one to admit that my hangover was well worth the sight and slightly worth the sound of my friend singing a rousing rendition of “We Are Family.” For future reference, this friend will be known as Jay Peak, for his tongue-in-cheek desire to climb said mountain. Jay Peak nailed the first two lines of the chorus that everyone knows (“We are family. I got all my sisters with me”) and then resorted to a sad but, albeit high-quality, spoken-word delivery of the verses.

Sitting there listening to Jay Peak perform, with CAT on one side of me, and Montana Girl on the other, I was reminded of a conversation I had with Montana Girl a few months ago, in which she introduced me to the idea of an Urban Tribe, a concept she learned of in a book she had just finished (Urban Tribes: A Generation Redefines Friendship, Family, and Commitment” by Ethan Watters). Stated far too simply, the book analyzes the “white, upper-middle class, post-college, yet-to-be-married (ages 25-39) residents of bohemian garrets who host great New Year’s Eve parties and travel en masse to the New Orleans Jazz Festival.” At its heart, the book describes our generation’s establishment of the “Urban Tribe,” a “rotating network of friends and acquaintances that covers all functions formerly served by the traditional family, thus eliminating the need for marriage and intimacy.”

At first, I didn’t put much stock in this book and its core theory because I viewed the book as just another lame attempt by a member of my generation to turn a profit by trying to explain my increasingly inexplicable generation. But then I thought about it and my life and realized that like it or not, the author’s on to something.

While I often complain that all of my friends are falling victim to the desperation of a married life, truth be told, with few exceptions, the great majority of my friends are in their late 20s and unmarried. Whether by choice or heartache, here we are, legally unattached and desperately seeking Susan…or that all elusive boy named “Sue.” We’re constantly using our get-togethers to define who we are by not only the things we do, but also by the people with whom we do these things. Because if we know who we are, we are more apt to know what we want, and if we know what we want, maybe one day we’ll find it, and until we find it, we’ll have our fun. And what are these things we do?:

1. Game Nights – My Urban Tribe has started to resemble an advertisement for Hasbro. And believe me, I’m not complaining.
2. TV/Movie Nights – Honestly, who here in the last year, hasn’t spent at least one night a week, every week or month with friends, devoted to watching SOMETHING on TV?
3. Book Clubs – We love to read, yes, but it’s the monthly meetings we crave.
4. Knitting/Cooking/Wine/etc. clubs – see explanation for #3.
5. Holiday/birthday parties – I used to think the only parties ever thrown were the Chucky Cheese ones for kids; the slumber party ones for teenagers; the “we really want to be wife-swapping but I guess we’ll have these boring PTA and babysitting horror story conversations instead” parties for our parents; and the birthday cake-card-and-hug ones for our immediate families. And then I hit my mid-20s and suddenly, everyone’s throwing a party for everyone else. It’s just a guess, but I think all of the world’s major problems would have been solved in the last 5 years if my generation had devoted as much attention to the problems as it did to celebrating everything else.
6. Other – Just the other day, I was invited by Montana Girl’s Urban Tribe to participate in Christmas caroling up and down Burlington’s Church Street. Evidently, this is an annual thing for them, as is their viewing of A Charlie Brown Christmas (see also #2).

Did you notice something? A theme maybe? Aside from the fact that they’re all designed in order to make us feel included in the world, if there’s one other trait all of these activities have in common, it’s got to be their recurring nature. We leave each activity assuming there will be a next. And it seems, that is where the genius of this Urban Tribe idea can be found. In the absence of the security and comfort that was handed to us in our childhood by our traditional family, we’ve created these new families that are as stable and loving as can possibly be.

And so, while attempting to plan a February URT to New Orleans with Ms. Parker, True, and Ms. Scharf (though not for the Jazz Festival) and while simultaneously planning this year’s New Year’s Eve festivities (which will be spent with, at the very least, Mia Wallace; and at the very most, Mia, Sarah the L, Mr. Mikes, and a few more unnicknamed friends; but not with my immediate family, who, incidentally, will all be in town), I’ve come to the realization that although my traditional family still has an important place in my life and always will, my Urban Tribe has taken on a much larger role as of late. And I’m OK with that. Because, in the karaoked words of Jay Peak, “we are family!”