Entry #58

Entry #58

 Tuesday, April 17

9:30 a.m. What is it about Texas that makes for the juiciest real-life stories? In this past Sunday’s New York Times, there was a feature about a forthcoming film, Bernie, about “a small town funeral director beloved by nearly everyone in Carthage, Texas, sweet-natured and gregarious, a lover of show tunes and Jesus—who ends up murdering an ornery wealthy widow...” No one would believe that this incredibly genteel, generous man could kill this widow, despite Bernie’s outright confession of shooting her four times in the back and stuffing her into a freezer, so the trial had to be moved “two miles south just to find a jury [who was] willing to convict him.”

The article is written by the real-life nephew of the widow, “my Aunt Marge, Mrs. Marjorie Nugent, my mother’s sister and, depending on whom you ask, the meanest woman in Texas.”

What’s really funny about this article is that even the author is dumbfounded by all the odd details of this Texas story that seem like stereotypes contrived by the movie makers, but are actually completely true:

“There are little things in ‘Bernie’ that aren’t exactly true, bits of dialogue, a changed name here and there. But the big things, the weirdest things, the things you’d assume would have to be made up, happened exactly as the movie says they did. The trial lawyers really did wear Stetsons and cowboy boots and really were named Danny Buck Davidson and Scrappy Holmes. Daddy Sam’s barbecue and bail bonds, just a few blocs from the courthhouse in Carthage really does have a sign that says, ‘You Kill It, I’ll Cook It!’ And they really did find my Aunt Marge on top of the flounder and under the Marie Callender’s chicken potpies, wrapped in a Lands’ End sheet. They had to wait two days to do the autopsy. it took her that long to thaw.”

Ironically, the author was living in California when his Aunt Marge was murdered. Seems Texans are drawn more to Southern California than Northern, but still...there’s the Texas-California thing going once again.

“I was living in Los Angeles when Aunt Marge was murdered in 1996 and hadn’t been to Carthage, where I was born, in quite a few years. I went back for the trial in 1998, because, let’s face it, it’s not often that someone in your family becomes the focus on a sensational murder case...And there was someting about Aunt Marge’s ending up in a freezer that seemed appropriate. She’s always been kind of coldhearted. It was not an unfitting end.”

Another Texas resident with the surname Nugent, namely Ted, has also been making headlines. Unlike Aunt Marge, however, Ted Nugent is very much alive and hot under the collar, making such “provocative comments” at last week’s NRA convention that he is now under surveillance by the Secret Service:

“Ted Nugent...doubled down on his recent political provocation, telling the Dana Loesch radio show that the Obama administration is full of ‘corrupt monsters’ and ‘communist czars’ and that House minority leader Nancy Pelosi is a ‘varmint’ and ‘subhuman scoundrel.’...Mr. Nugent did not take back the assertion he made at last weekend’s National Rifle Association convention that if President Obama is reelected, ‘I will either be dead or in jail by this time next year.’ The Secret Service has already confirmed that it will be visiting the aging shock rocker to determine if that phrase is an actual threat.” —Christian Science Monitor

When Rick Perry was running in the Republican presidental race, Ted Nugent was among his endorsers. Nugent is now a vocal endorser of Romney, earning this headline by the Christian Science Monitor: “Ted Nugent: Worst political endorser ever?”

Wednesday, April 18

10:30 a.m. The mosquitoes have been out in droves of late, which is why David suggested we wear sweatshirts last night when we took Izzie for an evening stroll. Little did I realize it was still about 80 degrees and humid, so we looked pretty ridiculous.

We ran into some neighbors who were also walking their dogs, two Miniature Doberman Pinschers. The husband, a financial consultant who works from home, was wearing his usual pressed long-sleeved dress shirt, khaki shorts and boat shoes. His wife was wearing a breezy, short-sleeved Tommy Bahamas-style dress. “Looks like you’re dressed to be back in San Francisco,” said the husband. “Well, we didn’t want to get bitten up by mosquitoes,” I said, realizing I sounded like the sort of person who goes to the beach covered from head to toe in gauzy SPF garments and clownish zinc oxide. I pushed up my sleeves, only to have a mosquito land on my forearm. “You see what I mean?” I said, slapping myself.

This couple looked at us like we were dressed for the Arctic, gave us a pained grin, then said, “Okay, then. Have a good night,” and walked away. I said goodnight, took off my jacket, then slapped off another mosquito.

Thursday, April 18

7:00 p.m. Aidan had his first 7x7 (i.e., touch football) practice today. We didn’t have time to go home before practice, so Aidan looked rather out of place in his long, dark jeans amid a sea of shorts-clad kids. Still, he seemed to be doing really well, catching the ball, running in all sorts of plays. When he was told to go really far out, I was impressed at how fast he ran, only one of his shoes fell off Cinderella-style, and he missed the catch. “I fell into about a million invisible prickers,” he later said.

After sitting directly on the grass, I ended up with a rump full of prickers, not knowing that the seemingly lush, grassy field was more like a carpet of cacti. Plus, I was wearing yoga capris, which seemed to beckon them. 

A woman sitting on a portable folding chair there apparently saw me trying to sit on my purse and offered me her zippered chair case—a welcome relief. Next time I’ll definitely bring something to sit on.

There are signs posted all around that say “Positively No Pets.” I've never seen a no-pets sign phrased quite that way—seems very Texan: polite yet resolute. 

Friday, April 19

10:00 a.m. After school yesterday, we overheard an old man talking to a much younger one just outside Starbuck's café. “I’ve learned that finances are finances and God is God,” he said. I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, but I could easily imagine it.

While checking out at the grocery store, the cashier asked me, “So whatcha makin’ for dinner?” I said I was probably going to make “vegetarian Mexican lasagna.” “Sounds pretty strange,” he said. “It’s pretty good actually," I said, then explained “My older son is a vegetarian.” “What exactly IS a vegetarian?” interjected the bagger. “Does that just mean he doesn’t eat meat?”

The man in line behind me had a pile of Swanson’s pot pies and TV dinners. As I was leaving, I heard the cashier say, “So you like frozen dinners, huh?” The man purchasing them responded, “Yup. This way I don’t have to cook.”

You can learn a lot about people by seeing their groceries. Cashiers rarely comment on them, though. Seems it's an unspoken code of cashier conduct. It would be funny to plant an “Inappropriate Grocery Clerk” character at the HEB and see how people react—something akin to Kristin Wiig’s Target Lady. “Your old deodorant failed ya, huh?” “Why Super Plus?” "You actually eat that?" At least my cashier was socially appropriate.

Sunday, April 22

12: 45 p.m. Just when I think I have nothing more to write about, I attend an event with the former President George Bush Sr. and Barbara Bush—Houston’s local heroes. Okay, I wasn’t with them per se, but I was in attendance with them, specifically at Neil Berg’s 100 Years of Broadway. Mrs. Bush cast a striking presence with her shock of white hair and royal blue suit, while Mr. Bush was less visible seated in his wheelchair. 

The fact that a two-term president and his wife were in our midst was kind of surreal, mainly because the Bush family’s influence here is ubiquitous. Houston's Intercontinental Airport is named after George H. W. Bush; there’s even a full-size bronze statue of him inside.

There are Bush landmarks everywhere in Texas: the George Bush Presidential Library and Museum in College Station, George Bush High School in Richmond and the Barbara Bush Library in Harris County, just to name a few. The Bush family and their offspring are without a doubt the First Family of Texas.

I was struck by the fact that this elderly man in a wheelchair watching 100 Years of Broadway with us once held the most powerful position in America, if not the world. Seems he's taken a liking to brightly colored socks in his old age.

Our friend Adam Friedson is the producer 100 Years of Broadway, which has been successfully touring for eight years thus far—quite a feat. Neil Berg, the show’s creative force, is a multi-talented composer and pianist who interspersed entertaining stories, both personal and historical, throughout the performance.

The five singers are all bona fide professional Broadway performers, and their singing was incredible. Plus, they shared poignant stories about their lives off-stage, which always seems to draw in the audience. I'm a total sucker for stuff like that. 

Erick Buckley, one of the five performers that night, said that he used to sing 'Bring 'em Home' from Les Miserables to his infant son at bedtime, then ended up landing the part of Jean Valjean on Broadway. When his son turned ten, he appeared on Broadway with his dad, who sang him this very song. Buckley then sang 'Bring 'em Home' to us, which, of course, brought the house down (and made me cry).

While waiting for the kids near the VIP Green Room, I happened to be standing next to someone who was evidently someone, because when a woman with a coral-colored blazer exited the elevator, she greeted the woman next to me, then extended her hand and introduced herself to me. Little did I know she was the CEO/President of the Houston Society of Performing Arts (SPA). I discovered this when I opened up the SPA Magazine and saw a photo of her, along with a “Thank You” from her to the audience, then saw her walk onstage to introduce the event.

We had great seats, though I must say I’m quite thankful we weren’t right in front. A couple sitting in the front row was treated to a love song by one of the actors, a leonine man who starred as the beast in Broadway's Beauty and the Beast, among other roles. “Because my wife isn't here,” he sang to a woman in the front row, kneeling so close that I’m sure the poor woman could smell his breath, and was probably pelted with spittle as he projected to the audience. Noah was cringing during this song. The object of the actor's faux affections sat stone-still while her husband smiled broadly and clapped.

After the performance, our friend Adam took us to meet some of the performers, who were out in front signing autographs and CDs. “I’ve never seen a line like this,” said Adam. Rather than waiting in line, we walked over to meet Roger Cohen, the show's drummer. Aidan had a chance to chat directly with Mr. Cohen, who told him, “Wear earplugs. You can break your arm and fix it, but you can’t fix your ears.” On the way back to the car, Aidan was walking tall. First thing this morning, he was playing the drums. Good thing it’s an electric kit, or he’d have awoken the entire neighborhood.