Not a great anniversary present...R.I.P., Frank

Today, my wife and I are celebrating 12 years of marriage. It's great that we've been doing so well, but quite frankly, that's not really the focus of what I'm writing about today.

When we picked April 19 as the day we'd get married, we did so with the knowledge that it was the anniversary of the day that the Murrow building was bombed in Oklahoma City. My best friend's birthday is April 20, and he always lamented sharing his special day with...Hitler. Not to mention the whole 4-20 thing...the drug reference. And then, the day after our second wedding anniversary, came Columbine. Being a teacher, I have never been so accutely aware as I am now of this stretch of couple of days and the doomed history that it brings. It feels sometimes like death thickens the air every year at this time. As my friend with the April 20 birthday said on the phone today, "you kind of lay low and keep your eyes open, looking around to make sure everyone is still there." It really feels this way.

And, inevitably, everyone is NOT still there when the dust of mid-April settles. And this year, the loss has an ironic anniversary-related twist, as my wife discovered for us.

I was in the bathroom downstairs helping my 7 year-old daughter pull a tooth in a highly-dramatic and bloody moment of parental chaos. My wife had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with pulling teeth and blood, and I hate to say it, but I think it's kind of fun. But just as we yanked the little sucker, she entered in with the obituary section of the Chicago Tribune. Apparently, she had thought it fitting to celebrate our wedding anniversary by perusing the death notices. She will do this from time to time, betraying our mid-30s existence by behaving like an 80 year-old looking for friends. But this time, I'm glad she did. Had she not, I would never have known.

As strange as the coincidence is, the death notice was for a guy named Frank Lauro. He had passed away "suddenly, at his residence" on the 16th. And when that's all you get, your mind goes crazy. The odd connection? Frank was a groomsman at my wedding 12 years ago today.

I met Frank when I took an "I can't get a job with this freaking degree" job with Borders. Only a few years older than me, Frank was a manager. We hit it off right away, though, and his "managing" of me was a store-space facade. He was my first close friend that I met outside of a school setting, my first "work buddy." He loved movies as much as I did, and music, too -- though our tastes didn't line up perfectly, we respected the passion in each other's loves. Frank loved The Police, and it was Prince for me.

It wasn't long before Frank and I developed a weekly routine. We worked the closing shift on Sundays and had Mondays off, so we would close the store Sunday night and then head to his apartment, where we would ceremoniously drink an entire bottle of Jim Beam. Every single Sunday night. I'm not proud of it, but that's what we did. I can say right here that I have never had more alcohol to drink before or after my Sunday nights with Frank. Shit-faced is an understatement. Rarely did I make it back to my own apartment (and thank God!). We'd pour the Beam in huge, plastic tumblers filled with ice and top it off with Coke. And then we'd sit and watch bad movies from the 70s and have our own Mystery Science Theatre.

Here's where I feel inclined to yell: "MITCHELL!!!" Frank would get it...

Frank's roommate, Gregg, looked like a drummer in a metal band but was insanely soft-spoken and kind. He was often gone...out with his girlfriend. The guy had a pet boa constrictor (or python...hell, it was a big snake) named Cliff, and there was always incentive to maintain sobriety because if I didn't, Cliff would often be lurking around in the room somewhere, often appearing over my shoulder. Frank knew that Cliff made me nervous. Only now, stone cold sober, do I think to myself that I would have been terrified had I known what I was doing.

We also had these deep conversations that only two guys have when they are both crazy drunk. And when moments appeared to border on the homoerotic, we'd rely on the word "cake," as in: "you are being so CAKE right now, dude." Hearing "that's so gay" as much as I do working in a high school, I miss the cake, let me tell you.

I fear that I'm too long-winded for blog writing and am not sure how far I should test the length limits and still expect people to read, so I'll tell you one more story about Frank. One of my strongest memories of Frank will always be a conversation born out of one of those Sunday night drunken stupors. The subject turned to God and religion. Frank was an atheist, and I have been a believer my whole life. We had one of those classic debates: faith vs. science, evidence vs. the unseen, the whole nine. It was a civil converation (thanks to the mellowing effects of burbon), and it was, academically and logically, one of the single most mind-blowing conversations I think I've ever had. And after Frank had beaten me down with the most polished logic possible in his argument that God does not exist, he stared me dead in the eyes, glassy-eyed himself, grabbed my shoulders, and told me that the thing he admired most about me was my unwavering faith in the existence of God. It drove him nuts, he said, that I could so firmly believe despite the evidence that he felt was to the contrary. "You are much stronger than I am," he told me.

What I learned from Frank is too big for this posting, and I sadly lost touch with him withing six months of us leaving our Borders jobs. I had also, by this time, gotten married, and any guy reading this post knows damn well how well an every-Sunday-night-getting-ridiculously-drunk-with-my-bud appointment goes over with the Mrs. But I will always remember him, even if he had me too drunk to remember everything we talked about. Only now, as I'm remembering back, am I starting to realize just how very quality he was -- just how much I did learn from him. And I've got a stack of Harlan Ellison books he forced me to buy that I've never read. I'm looking right at them. Maybe there's something to learn from those as well.

How sad I am today, Frank. Fat bastard. Cake boy. Mitchell. I know I have to work tomorrow, but I'm hoisting a Jim for you tonight. I'll miss you, man.

Blogger: (noun) white male between 16-45 who has no life

So I decided that THIS blog is my blog as a writer. I've got to get working on that book, and there will be some amazing post made here one day and I will say: "YES! There's the book idea."
In the meantime, it dawned on me that the one thing I had NOT planned to do here is post film reviews. Which is rather stupid in the sense that this is something I do compulsively: write film reviews. Since I've joined Facebook, I have reviewed every film I've seen. I decided that the smart thing to do, then, is start a film review blog. After all, my original career goal when I graduated college was to be a film critic.

I spent over an hour this morning trying out different clever names for my film review blog and every damn thing I tried was taken. I hopped on Google to see if this was really possible or if the blogspot people were just rejecting my lame puns. "Cinemaniac"? Taken. "The Moviegoer"? Taken. "Caught on Film"? Taken. Just before I desperately attempted "I like to Movie, Movie," I threw "On the Movie" out there. Taken. But at this point, I was spent. I threw my initials in front of it and now you can go to kconthemovie.blogspot.com and you'll find "...On the Movie." Sort of a bad pun, but I had had enough. If I spent any more time coming up with stupid blog names, I'd never get started.

Even worse, I am now disgusted by what appears to be far too many 16-45 year old white guys out there who have no lives and see themselves to be movie experts. Being "one of them," let me tell you, is no sought after thrill.

You can't blame me for wanting something clever. I imagined myself on Oprah one day, somehow cutting through the thick soup of online movie critics and rising to the top where when, one day, Oprah would need an expert opinion on some film and think of nobody better to call upon than...the "cinemaniac." (Cough!) The name had to be in some way catchy, just in case.

I'm not sure anyone's going to find "...On the Movie." Maybe I should have called it "Elements of Composition." Had I done that, I can vouch for the fact that at least 860 former students of mine would have had at least a vague idea of what to type in to find me. But for now, I'm "on the move...eee." Ugh. It's starting to sound lame.

If you want to read my movie reviews, you know where to look now. For everything else, I'll continue to be the Suburban Acrobat right here. "Suburban Acrobat." Suddenly, "...On the Movie" sounds okay.

A suburban acrobat steps onto the high wire

How do you summarize what your blog will be about in one catchy title?
How do you project yourself far enough into the future to know what you'll be writing about in blog form?
Why are you writing a blog in the first place? Don't you have enough digital distractions?

These are great questions. And the quick answers are: "I'm complicated and I don't know a quick and catchy way to summarize myself," "I have no idea what I'll be writing about and even less of an idea about who would possible read it," and "I don't know. Yes!"

Regardless, here I am, "stepping onto the high wire" of a new chapter in my life as "one who blogs," for whatever that's worth. And so, not knowing exactly what my purpose here will become and where to start, I'll begin Suburban Acrobat with an explanation of how I did-under the pressure of coming up with a title-settle on this and what it means.

My gut reaction when thinking of a title took me immediately to two things: the film Citizen Kane and the U2 song, "Acrobat."

Citizen Kane is a movie that I believe is rich in philosophy and gets at the core of human needs and relationships. It's about how people view each other in addition to being about the American Dream. And it's about newspapers and the media. In short, it encapsulates most of what interests me in life: film, stories, relationships and the media. I almost called this blog "Citizen Keith," and I wouldn't be surprised if I someday change it to this title from the far more esoteric, and, let's face it, clunky title I settled on.

But I kept going back to the U2 song, "Acrobat." Music is my other passion, and U2 is one of my top five favorite musical acts of all time (you'll hear more on music later, don't worry). And in addition to being a music lover and a U2 lover, I am a Christian. I love the song "Acrobat" (from Achtung Baby) because I think it poetically hints at the nature of the difficulty of maintaining a Christian identity and perspective in the world. As Bono writes and sings:
"And I must be an acrobat
To talk like this and act like that
And you can dream so dream out loud
And you can find your own way out...
And dreams begin responsibilities"
An analysis of the song on Wikipedia states that the song is very personal and addresses "personal weakness, contradiction and inadequacy." And I thought, well hey -- that's me. And thanks to the grace of God, I get a life better than what I deserve.

When you take the idea of an acrobat as a tight rope walker and ball it up with the U2 song, the idea of my life being a circus (read: chaotic, crazy) and even a film reference (to the fantastic documentary Man on Wire), you have a cryptic explanation of who I am. And you have "Suburban Acrobat: The View from a High Wire." I don't know why you are reading, but I thank you. And I know that I need to be writing. For someone. For myself.