well here’s what i think…

*This is the article that I’m gonna submit to the Reflector for Tuesday’s edition*

Six.  That’s the number of young, gay men who have committed suicide over the past few weeks following numerous instances of being told they were odd, unwelcome and wrong for being gay.

One.  That’s the number of gay men who wrote this article.  I am gay, and other than an irrational distaste for broccoli, there is nothing wrong with me.  (Let’s face it though; liking broccoli is a choice.)

Before I get into this, let’s all take off our political hats and our religious sunglasses.  They have no place in this article.  This is not about who is right, who is wrong or who is, according to a Friday edition opinion piece, leading America in a “downward spiral.”

I don’t know when this happened, but at some point people were told that being gay was a terrible thing.  They were told that being gay was “unnatural” and “gross.”  This became people’s attitude.  Unfortunately, this attitude began to grow into a belief.  People started to believe that gay people were “less than.”  They believed that they were better off than gay people and began to believe that they had every right to say or do whatever they wanted to gay people to communicate their disdain.  Sadly, people began to act on this belief. “Faggot” got turned from a bundle of sticks or British cigarette into a hate-filled word that (trust me) cuts to the core.  People began to physically abuse others (again, trust me) based simply on the fact that they were gay.

Six young men are dead.  They are no longer here, because their peers acted on their beliefs, which stemmed from their attitudes.

Suicide in young, gay adults is not something that’s just happening now.  It’s been going on for some time.  In each of the six cases over the past few weeks, there were people in the background who acted and made each of these boys feel unwanted and looked down upon.  At some point, the isolation and the embarrassment were too much and they felt that the only way out was to take their lives in their hands and seemingly do something about it.

My heart is broken for the families of these guys, and for the countless others who followed a similar road.  So you know what?  It’s time for me to act.

To any young, scared gay person who reads this:

“You are loved.  Repeat this in your head as many times as it takes to stick.  You are loved, because I, and countless others who are both gay and straight, love you.  It doesn’t matter that we don’t know you.  What matters is that there are people in this world who care that you exist.  We care that you wake up every morning and live.  The words and actions that some people might use against you are hard to handle at times.  They are hard to process, and they are designed to confuse you.  They are meant to stifle the love that is out there.  When it happens, you will be hurt.  You will be sad.  You will want to run away from it all because it feels like the only people that are out there are the ones who want to hurt you and make you feel like less of a person.  But remember, I love you.  And if you are from a religious background, don’t give up.  God loves you.  Every single one of his creations is fearfully and wonderfully made.  He loves you.  He cares that you wake up every morning and live, and I don’t think there is anyone who could dispute that.  You have talents and ambitions just like the rest of the world, and the world is waiting.  It is waiting to see who you are and what you can do.  Don’t deny the world of your light.  You shine too brightly to dim yourself because of someone’s opinion.  You are not a problem.  You are not contributing to a ‘downward spiral.’  You are strong.  You are brave.  And most of all, you are loved.”

keller music poetry, aka, def jam…

“An Officer and His Gentleman”

Lying back with my lover, I am cooled by the rotations of a five-pointed star.
I stare at the wooden blades as they turn in a hurried circle.
Lights protrude from the bottom like the searching beams of a Navy Seals’ rescue.

It makes me feel balanced.
It makes me feel fresh.
It makes me feel like the warmth is back.
Covered in sheets, but the artificial wind still needed.

A single string hangs from its center.
The ripcord of a parachute I am too scared to touch.
I am fearful of its saving wonder, and fearful it might not work.
Its final, dangling embellishment, an emerald, catching the dim light from the street.

Is it too much?
It makes me feel frigid.
It makes me feel old.
The shadows of ghosts speed across the walls.

I am afraid of waking the undead.
I creep to grasp the final metal straw.
I pull the string, but am denied my request.
The engine turning faster than before.

I try again.
My wish is granted.
The helicopter, now grounded, winds down to its idle state.
And now there is silence.

There is no more manufactured wind.
It makes me feel normal.
It makes me feel fine.

I return to the sheets.
My lover is still blank, and happily lost in a world that is not his own.
The raised window at my left whistles a soft medley.

“Grains”

Her wedding day had been conceived shortly after she was.
The dress? Timeless.
The flowers? Ageless.
The people? Speechless.
These, the quotas waiting to be met.
These, the markers of assured disappointment.

The groom was dressed for a banquet even his imagination could not attend.
He was homely with the hands of man three times his age.
His love for Ms. Pattye was as deep as a twelve year old’s wrinkle.
Arrangement, it seemed, was like an empty plate, covered with finest of silver lids.

The day had arrived, but not like the beginning of spring when flowers bloom in full.
Rather, it was like autumn, when you notice the first leaf leave its rooted branch.
She stood at the altar, a sacrifice to the gods of complacency.
Her blood boiled and rushed through her like a rampant river, unyielding and terrible.

She ran from the altar.
She ran from her family.
She ran from the passion that she could not grasp.
She ran towards the golden fields that came alive with the wind.

The train too long to keep up with her pace began to buckle beneath her strides.
An unexpected hole awaited her tracks.
Falling to the earth, she buried herself beneath the dirt and the wheat.
Rising, she shred the garment of old and new, borrowed and blue.

The sun scorched the field, a heat lamp at a buffet.
Pattye limped through the tall grass, her hair blending with the dried grains.
She bent down to tighten the tourniquet tied around her bloodied knee.
Perhaps passion is overrated.

“Mamaw Was a Gypsy”

Momma says Mamaw was a Gypsy.
To me she looked like a dummy, hard and ready for the speculation of the masses.
They weren’t too big.
They weren’t too gaudy.
They were just flowers.  Scattered across her final home like a floral map of her life.

There were the big vines, which stretched and curled all over her cover.
They were encompassing and strong, rooted in the memories of her summers away.
Summers, like the one’s Mamaw lived, were seasons for which time stood still.
Summers that made even God take a moment to notice.

San Francisco, 1963.
Mamaw was a lion tamer for a traveling circus, a painted chorus of unending excitement.
The King’s branding still rested on her frail neck.
Her costly return for the respect she would gain.
Pride was not just the trait she tried to travel lightly with.

New Orleans, 1975.
Mamaw worked in the back alley shops, the places where magic was scared to run.
The burn marks on her fingers still remained after all this time.
The hoodoo backfire of a love spell gone wrong.

Chicago, 1987.
The young man she acquired after Papaw’s passing had an affinity for candles.
The shards of glass in her palms still buried from an escape plan gone wrong.
Running from an abusive man proved more treacherous than she thought.

New York, 1999.
New Year’s rang in with the terrifying sounds of a world about to crumble.
She wore the watch that kept its time, regardless of the fears of man.
“Don’t lose the time you don’t have,” she would tell us.

Meridian, 2011.
Treatments stopped working, in spite of the fight she put forth.
Her face was just as calm as when they had found her.
She was barely wrapped in a worn blanket that had seen its better days.

In the drawer next to her bed, she placed items.
In the casket she would rest, they placed her items.
A lion’s tooth.
A voodoo doll.
A sliver of glass.
And a still watch.

sheedy’s starting shit….again.

yep.  it’s her, again…

Ally-fucking-Sheedy.

I got a call today from my publicist/grandmother, and was informed that the sitcom Ally and I were supposed to be shooting the pilot for, is no longer a go.  When I asked why the sudden change in plans, my publicist/grandmother informed me that…

“Ms. Sheedy is backing out due to creative differences with the writers, directors, and crew members.” (Ain’t mamaw formal?)

Well, as you can imagine, I’m a little hurt.  Seeing as how I am writing, directing and crew-ing the show, Sheedy is clearly unhappy with the way things are being run by me.

I really don’t see what she could be upset about.  The premise for the show is rather intriguing if i do say so myself.  Picture it:  Starkville, Fall of 2010…

The show revolves around Ally living with me in my one bedroom apartment (she sleeps on the couch and I get the room that is rightfully mine), she comes with me to class and takes notes with me (though she doesn’t get any sort of college credit for this), and then she accompanies me during my rehearsals and runs for the shows I’ll be doing (she doesn’t really get to audition or perform, rather just working backstage and filling my water bottle when necessary).

Gold, right?

Apparently not.

Apparently, I’m crazy.

Apparently, I’m plotting my revenge on Ally-fucking-Sheedy as we speak. Or at least, as I type.

Here’s the plan:

- 1) Set up a Breakfast Club reunion, via The View.  (I’ve talked with Whoopi and Joy, and they are just as pissed. They were set to be recurring characters)

- 2) When the rest of the Club doesn’t show up, since it’s a fake reunion, interview Sheedy alone and ask her what she’s been up to.  Her response? Not that much.

- 3) I come in last minute as a “surprise guest” and let the ladies know the show I’m working on will now feature Molly Ringwald as my co-star, because “another” “actress” had to drop out last minute.

- 4) Give Ally Sheedy the death stare when I say “another” “actress”

- 5) Guest star on Glee.  (Just ’cause.  I’ll have the spare time now that Ally-fucking-Sheedy dropped my show)

- 6) Get invited to the newest disaster telethon hosted by George Clooney and bring Sheedy along with me, positioning her in the phone booth right next to me.

- 7) Disconnect Ally Sheedy’s phone line so she raises no money for said disaster, making her look foolish and low-class to the A-list community

- 8) Get Ally Sheedy to go onto Celebrity Survivor with me where I vote her out in the first tribal council.

- 9) Orchestrate a collective silent treatment for Ally Sheedy at the Celebrity Survivor reunion show, including all cast, crew, audience and Probst.

- 10) Premiere in the Fall of 2010 with Me & Molly: A Southern Tale to the highest ratings ever.

- 11) Call Ally-fucking-Sheedy once the Nielsen ratings are in, and laugh a hearty laugh.

- 12) Send Ally Sheedy a box of Kleenex in the mail, with all the tissues removed.

Best. Plan. Ever.

Stop Motion.

You’ll learn to stop hating it.

At some point, we all stop.
We stop caring, we stop sharing.
We stop.

But this isn’t a bad stop.
It’s a good stop at best.

You learn when you stop.

When you stop at a stop sign.
When you stop at a buffet.
When you stop crying.

You learn.

You learn that stopping is okay.
For some things.

You never stop reaching, you never stop living.
You never stop being.

Being you.
You in all.
All you are.

Because it’s beautiful.
This stop.

It makes you see.
It makes you dance.
It makes you understand.

We are  ourselves.

Every last one.
You.
Me.
Him.
Her.
Us.
It.

So, stop.
And learn.

when you can’t make sense, have peace…

I love making sense.

It’s one of my favorite things to make.

And you can make it out of anything.

Today I couldn’t.  And I got so mad.

You see, today I realized something….when you can’t make sense, have peace.

(I am channeling my friend Kris Lee right now with the whole “have the title of your blog, in your blog” and I’m not apologizing. Hopefully Kris will not be mad.)

My friend/teacher/huge inspiration in the ways of being a genuine person died today.  Her name is Lora.

(I actually just typed  was Lora.  But that’s not right.  She’s still here, and she always will be.)

She battled cancer.  And damn it to Hell on a Black Sunday when it’s raining, did she battle it.

You see, I really was not too terribly close to Lora.  She taught me Newswriting last semester.  I am eternally grateful that she did, because 1) it rejuvenated my love of writing and 2) I got to share in her wisdom, knowledge and overall amazing-ness.

But I can’t make sense of it.  So instead, I’m having peace.

Peace gets delivered.  It’s not something you can make.  And as far as I’ve gotten away from the maker of this Peace, I know who has it.  I know the address, and thank God the number is only a prayer away.  Again, thank God.

A part of me feels somewhat indulgent in writing this.  I know there are so many people grieving right now.  People that were her closest confidants, friends and family members, whose grief I could not possibly understand and be able to bear right now.  But these are my thoughts, and I have to get them out.  My mother always said, “Better out, than in.”  This is the reason for burping prowess that passes all understanding.

I don’t get cancer.  In fact, I hate it.  And I hate cancer because of this one fact:  it doesn’t matter how strong you are sometimes.  And Lora was the strongest. Again, it just makes me mad.  And I hate it.  I hate it so much.

So without dwelling on that, I’m having some peace.  I got it delivered this afternoon.  It was a beautiful gift and treat.  I wanted sense, but it wasn’t on the menu.  And between me, you and the pack of marlboro lights on the coffee table, I’m glad I got peace.

I will end on this note, then go to bed, check on my friends tomorrow and thank God on the way.

My friend Lora went to Heaven today.  She left behind a legacy of kindness, compassion, truth, perseverance, grace and class.  The inspiration she gave to generations of students and friends is invaluable and will always be remembered.  My friend Lora is in Heaven right now.  And because of that, I’m having peace.

 

 

 

ally sheedy, you know what you did…

i’m fueding with ally sheedy.

that’s right.  you heard me.  ally-fucking-sheedy.

and she knows what she did.

i don’t even have to say it on here, because 1.)quite honestly, the tale is one to told be in person and 2.) i don’t want ally sheedy reading this and trying to spin my words.  my words which happen to be fact.

molly ringwald and i had a falling out not too long ago, but a fruit basket and two iTunes gift cards later…me and molls are on the road to recovery.

i’ve been bored lately and needed a new celebrity feud.  i won’t let my small town surroundings keep me from being in the headlines of the latest supermarket rag.  and ally sheedy is just the lady to help me out.

you might be saying to yourself: “but matt….ally sheedy?  is she even that famous anymore? is she really a credible celebrity?  is she even still alive?”

not really. not really. and here’s hoping she’s still kicking because otherwise it’s back on with ringwald and i’m gonna have to return that fruit basket, and not use the $12.67 left on that second iTunes card.

i’ve thought this out though. i can’t take on brangelina or oprah.  they’re too big. too much power.  i’ve gotta start small.  small and obscure.  you see that’s the whole allure to my feud.  ally sheedy is the most random thing to come out of left field since james earl jones.  (he did come out of left field in Field of Dreams, right?)

here’s my plan:
1.) Start feud with ally sheedy via my blog which is read by handfuls.
2.) Give an exclusive interivew with vanity fair about all the gory details of said feud, with a photo spread by annie leibovitz
3.) Go on the view to discuss feud, and meet one of my idols, whoopi goldberg.
4.) Reconcile with ally sheedy on the o’reily factor where we open up about our shared political views and become friends at the end of the interview
5.) Get drinks with ally sheedy where we bury the hatchet and have a bitch session about how the o’reily interns treated us.
6.) Begin production on our mafia themed drama directed by martin scorcese.
7.) Record a smashing new power ballad for the swine flu benefit concert we plan to put together.
8.) Go out on the town with ally sheedy in new york or LA where we will be photographed by the paparazzi getting out of the limo with no panties on.
9.) Go to rehab with ally sheedy.
10.)  Guest judge with ally sheedy on so you think you can dance.

i think i’ve got my work cut out for me, but i think it’s a solid plan.

it’s because you always moved to the beat…

it’s becaue you always moved to the beat…

it’s because they called you “m’am.”…

it’s because you always picked the girl in video games…

it’s because you always cried…

it’s because you never told us…

it’s because it was different…

it’s because i didn’t care…

it’s because we’ll always love you…

it’s because you always moved to the beat…

back pew prayers…

Little Scotty Matheson sat in the back pew with his paternal grandmother, Edna, during Sunday worship services at Oak Shade Baptist Church in Middleton, Nebraska.  Scotty was 5. Edna was 68.  Scotty tried to be good, obey his parents and that sort of thing so that he wouldn’t make the Lord mad at him.  Edna had been speaking with the Almighty for decades now.  From her standpoint, He knew her flaws, and she knew His.  His flaw being that He didn’t care for gossiping during the sermon.

Edna never cared for this aspect of the Alpha and Omega.

So while Scotty tried to sing along with the choir that his mother sang in, Edna whispered and slipped the occassional note to her Bridge club friends Kathy Stewart, Marie Blackburn and Dorothy Shoemaker.  At the end of the sermon, Pastor Charles prayed over the congregation, then devoted a special time for “all of God’s sheep seated here today” to have their own personal prayers said aloud at the same time.  The sound that erupted was both confusing and holy.

Edna prayed for her family, that lunch would turn out well or that “the store would flourish.” The “store” was a package store in walking distance of her home, and “flourishing” meant that she hoped they didn’t run out of her Jameson’s when she needed it.  She usually needed it around 7am and 7pm everyday.

Scotty, on the other hand, didn’t know what to pray for.  He, of course, prayed for his mother and for his school grades.  But Scotty felt cheated.  He didn’t want to keep praying for the same thing over and over again.  So, he began to pray for all of the people that Edna and the Bridge ladies would talk about it.

Sunday June 7, 2009: Sermon Topic – “The Illusion of Control”

“Dear God,

Thank you for today and everything that you have given us.  Please be with momma tomorrow when she drives to work, and please let me finish my coloring book tomorrow during class.  With no gray crayon, the elephant on page 13 is giving me some trouble.  But that was a good frog and lily pad, right?  Also, please be with o ur neighbor Mr. Raskins.  Mamaw says he can’t get it up.  I’m guessing she means his prayers aren’t being answered, so please give him patience.  Help Ms. Nancy Holmes find a new favorite color too.  Mamaw says she wants to wear white at her wedding coming up, but if she does then everyone will make fun of her because everyone at church knows she couldn’t carry off white since she was 15.  I like blue.  Help Nancy like blue too.  And please be with Deacon Jacobs.  Mamaw’s friends seem to think he can’t stay on the wagon.  Let Deacon Jacobs know that I can ride my wagon real good, and I can help stay on longer if he wants the help.  Thank you for sending us Jesus and always loving me. Amen.”

ain’t nobody readin’ this shit…

oh well.

I knew when I started this, it wasn’t going to go far.  but i’m back again. so here we go.

Top 10 things on my mind today.  Care if I share?  I didn’t think so.

- The show I’m in, “The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged)” is fantastic.  Not just because I’m in it, mind you.  The two other guys I work with are nothing short of brilliant and amazing and cease to amaze me/make me laugh at jokes I’ve heard for the past month.  And our crew/directors are top notch.  I have so enjoyed this experience, I can’t begin to tell you.

- If tonight is any indication, I have some of the best friends in the world.  Crazy? Yes. Loving? Double yes. I couldn’t ask for better.

- I like having someone to say goodnight to.

- I miss my theatre freshman (now sophomores).  Apparently I’ve joined the ranks of the “old ones” in the department now.  Joe, Hannah, Robbie, Rachel, Heather, Kelsey, Charlie… come back to me.

- I still miss New York.

- Brother came to see my show tonight.  When I saw his shaved head in the audience before going on, I didn’t think I could stop from smiling.  He’s sort of my favorite person. Ever.

- I still can’t get over that my grandmother went skydiving before I did.

- The Pony in West Point is fun.  So I’ve read.

- As August approaches, I hate the Iraq War more every day.  Brother, don’t make me come over there and get you, ’cause you know I will.

- Everyone is so worried whether or not Adam Lambert will come out of the closet.  One: who cares.  Two: I wonder if this will be as big a shock as when Aiken came out.

Come back another night, and we’ll discuss more.  And, not to start anything, but if you go to the thecleverkris.com, you can find a link to his blog.  For the most part, it’s fantastic, except for a particular post where he dismisses the validity of the flip-flop.  Don’t buy into this propaganda.  Flip-flops are the best thing to ever happen to the human foot.

Done.

the nervous breakdown of a morning announcer…

Gooood morning East Middleton Junior High!

As always, this is your resident counselor Marty Schaefer with your morning announcements.

Today is Thursday, May 14 of 2-double 0-9 and before we get down to business, I think we have some birthdays to celebrate.  Let’s give a big Dolphins birthday squeal(!) for Marissa Hardy, Teeshawn Carter, Derrick Maynard, Cynthia Black and our very own Einstein in the 8th grade science department, Mr. Walker in room 106.  If real drinking glasses were permitted for student use on campus, we would all raise one to you!

Final exams are just around the corner, so….BOO! don’t let them scare you, like I just did.  Start preparing now by eating right, getting good rest and seeing what mother might have in the “special” cabinet to keep you alert for studying.  I know you couldn’t see it, but I winked when I said “special.”

Here’s a few housekeeping notes to keep in mind.

1. The biology lab should not be used for the creation of personal concoctions, and no, I did not just say a dirty word.  As my father used to tell me, “Son, you want to mix up that smack, fine, but do it on your own dime.”  So please, let’s follow ol’ Schaefer Senior’s advice, because the dime your spending now is the dime of a tax payer who doesn’t deserve to have their hard earned money wasted on the reason after-school specials are made.

2. This one’s for the girl’s, right Martina? That was a reference to country singing sensation, mother and God-fearing patriot Martina McBride. But seriously ladies, Coach Stephens has been reporting that some of you are not flushing the toilets in the bathrooms.  What do the choices you’re gonna make in the future if you continue this pattern of behavior and your urine have in common?  They settle.  Never settle, ladies. Flush.

3. The faculty is sickened by the gross lack of respect some of you have been showing towards our janitorial staff.  Our Facilities Manager, the “Head Broom In Charge” if you will, Mr. Clarkson has reported several instances of taunting towards our janitors.  You should all be very thankful for the people who do this work.  Take Mr. Dylan Kays, for instance.  Mr. Kays is a hard-working man who didn’t think his life would end up like it has.  Dylan had everything.  But a recession is not a recession without some layoffs, right?  So, Dylan did what he needed to.  He came to work here about three months ago, and since then it’s been an amazing three months. If you got to know Dylan you’d realize that he’s not what his rugged exterior makes him out to be.  He’s quite cultured and loves to talk about classic movies, good wines and all of his past business trips to Europe where he wants to go when we can save up the money, but I keep telling him that with a couple of candles, a nice dinner and Amelie playing in the background, Middleton, Nebraska can become Paris any night……………….so stop teasing the cleaning staff.

Um, what else do I have for you today.  Ah.  Teachers, Mrs. Jansky’s retirement luncheon is today at 4 pm.  Melinda has requested a theme for her retirement, so we’re having a barnyard theme so we can, and I quote, “send this good-looking cow out to pasture with state benefits.”

Well, I do have some more things to go over with you all, but thinking about having to attend Jansky’s retirement thing has sort of made me feel like the walls of this very tiny room in the office where these announcements are made are closing in on me.  So, I’m just going to step outside for a minute and join the cafeteria ladies for their morning smoke break.

Oh.  To take us out, here’s Janetta Carter with the Pledge of Allegiance.