Ohio Girl

I wrapped up my film festival experience last night with a midnight showing of F*CK--a documentary about the history of the word and the current battle over its public use. Sitting in one of two sold-out theatres--the aroma of beer wafting through the air--there was that feeling we all used to get when we skipped school and didn't get caught. When we were confronted by our Mom after a night of drinking and she bought the excuse that it was just bad Chinese. That oh-so-free feeling of getting away with something fantastically fun and if you were lucky--really, really raunchy.

"What are you here to see?" asked the prim looking film festival director feeding on that feeling.

"F*CK!" we all screamed.

"How about a little something for the camera?"

And then a photog took a shot of the whole theatre brandishing the finger. The same finger that George W whips out for the camera in a light moment later in the film.

Cathartic and public cursing aside, I learned a lot. That contrary to the popular myth we used to discuss in junior high--F*CK is not and has never been an acronym. (Remember the debates about Found Unlawful Carnal Knowledge and Fornication Under Consent of the King?) That the word has been around for hundreds of years--first found in print in a bawdy poem in 14-hundred-something. And that just as people have always relished using the word--other people have always been offended by its mere utterance.

Two sides debated the word throughout. Pat Boone and Alan "certified, organic nuts" Keyes, among others, leading the team that would like to see the word legislated and eradicated. (Although they defended VP Cheney's use of the word on the Sentae floor.) Ice-T and Drew Carey, among others, standing up for the right to drop the F-bomb whenever and wherever necessity dictates. First Amendment, free speech, and all of that.

As for me, I love to say f*ck. (And if you are honest with yourself, you know you do too.) Sometimes I say it when I am mad, or sad, or elated, or surprised. Sometimes it has something to do with the sex-act, but usually not at all. As many in the movie expressed there is nothing like the feeling of saying f*ck--the ultimate in onomatopoeia.

I sympathize with the offended crowd--there is no need to say it all the time, everywhere and it would lose its punch under such circumstances--up to a point. But the "it is an assault on my senses" and "we must shield the children" argument only holds up so long. Folks like the Parents Television Council (or whatever it's called) who are keen to spend loads of time and money battling the f-word might try shielding children from other threats. Things like poverty, public school systems in dire straits, war, violence in the home, and all of those pesky issues that should be the REAL assault on the senses.

NASCAR on Sundays has replaced Mass for me. The race always starts with prayer. Charting Jr.’s progression (or lack there of) and his finishes--methodical and meditative—reminds me of praying the rosary. I sit and stand and kneel a lot during a race according to my emotional responses—just like Catholic calisthenics. And instead of reciting the creed I bond with fellow congregants through the TV. Peace be with you. And also with you, my Bud-drinking, woo-hooing brethren.

Missing this ritual on Sunday due to rain delay left me off-kilter. Spiritually starved. I had a friend tape the race, (still can’t work my VCR), but my schedule did not permit me to watch until last night. Sweet serenity. 

I already knew Kahne had won the race. Good for Evernham and for Dodge. I also knew that all eyes were on Bill Lester. “The first African-American to race in Cup in 20 years.” This was the refrain throughout qualifying—where Lester did well—and the rest of the weekend. It was exciting. And there was some symmetry to him starting with Bill Davis Racing in Atlanta—where the Civil Rights Museum resides. It was also a little horrifying. Amidst all the homage to Windell Scott (the only African American to ever win a Cup race) and the excitement over Lester there was little discussion about the challenges they overcame, or why NASCAR has had such a White face.

It was hard too, to ignore Lester’s irritation at always being introduced as the African-American. He wants to race. He has worked hard--has moved up through the Truck Series. He could give a crap about being the first anything. “I’m just living MY dream,” I think I heard him say.

One of my dreams came true at Atlanta--seeing Jr. run a decent race! He worked hard all day coming up through traffic to finish third. He put in the same work at Las Vegas the week before only to have a tire problem and penalty land him 27^th. And what about Petty? Eighth! The man finished eighth! In post-race interviews Kyle was all grace and light. Enough to make a believer out of anyone.

And all the people said, "Amen."

I saw my first festival film of the week on Saturday. I will see a few more before the Cleveland International Film Festival concludes. Homemade Hillbilly Jam attempted a look at the endangered music and culture of the hillbillies of the Ozarks. I am not sure the movie properly achieved its goal. There were a couple shots of new freeways penetrating the hills—literally and figuratively—and meditations on the hillbilly stereotype, but no big revelations.

It was the music that stole the show. Big Smith--a band of brothers and cousins—was center stage surrounded by generations of musical family. A mix of traditional songs and feisty originals Big Smith manages to be true to its roots while exploring its own creative energy and direction. Or as ‘Hillbilly Hank’ said, they somehow manage to be both straight from the hills-billies, while being “hippie intellectuals.” I don’t know about that, but I bought ‘Gig’--their double, live album--and have been toe-tapping ever since.

My friend and I rushed out of a work-related event—where we had shown up with the denim and cleavage appropriate to a concert and not the fundraiser of a non-profit—to see Lucinda Williams at the House of Blues. It was good-timing; the intermission between her and her opening act.

Work came rushing back in… Amongst the crowd, we were first met by a social worker from the Public Defender’s office. She greeted us a full octave higher than her normal voice. “I had martinis before dinner,” she sang as she introduced us to her people. “Let me get you a beer,” she shrieked and ran off, mid-sentence.

In another corner was an attorney from the Public Defender’s office. She was still wearing a pin-striped suit, although she had loosened the upper buttons of her blouse. I recalled working on some cases with her back in my jail days. I tried to remember names, but faces only blurred into ‘cases.’ She leaned in close to a man who bought her a drink and smiled a flirty smile.

I made my way to the womb—my personal name for the HOB bathroom. It is warm, and red, and musky scented. The concierge was a client of the agency for which I work. She had told me that she got this job and she was excited. It ain’t easy to get work with a criminal record—not at McDonald’s, not at the House of Blues. She squealed when she saw me and gave me a big-armed hug. I tried to wipe the four-beer smirk off my face and heard myself say “bad example” inside my head. "How condescending," was my next thought. What sort of an example does a woman 20 years my senior need from me?

The other women in the restroom took our friendly chatter to be an instruction guide for how they should interact with the only Black woman in the house. They fawned over her and tipped her crazy and asked personal questions, like old friends.

Back out on the floor my friend and I moved to the opposite side to get a better view. Lucinda came out. She looked raw and pretty, like her sound. Women started to sway and men called out ‘baby’ trying to own some part of her passion. Her voice melted the knots in my neck.

To my right I caught sight of a social worker from the court psychiatric clinic--the people who determine whether, or not one is sane enough to stand trial. Still dressed for work, he seemed unaware of his surroundings. He focused on Lucinda the way he might on a client—trying to discern the most essential matter at hand.

I go out to see music a lot in Cleveland. Sometimes I see someone I know. I have never run into so many work-related folks. Folks like me who work on the unpopular side of the criminal justice system. (Or who find themselves smack in the middle of it.) We don’t arrest, prosecute, or imprison. We are there to advocate for the accused, convicted, imprisoned. It is as unpopular as it is vague. What does ‘advocate’ really mean? It is dramatic work never dramatized on primetime television.

And what does it mean that we all are drawn to Lucinda? I feel myself waxing too sentimental (a byproduct of my recent decision to leave Cleveland and my job) so I switch to sugar-free Red Bull. The taste makes me stick out my tongue and go “ack.”

And then I get the urge to dye a purple streak in my hair, or to tattoo myself--something to mark what I have done. What I have been here in Cleveland. I think about talking to my comrades, but they are all heavy into their Friday nights and we are all veterans. All past the point of discussing what the work feels like.

So I return to Lucinda, who I realize is saying it for us--raw and pretty--just like our jobs.

“Poor Mexico! So far from God, so close to the United States!”  -said by Porfirio Diaz, President of Mexico, over a century ago

And even closer to NASCAR...

The Busch Series took the good ol’ boys global for the second year at the Autodromo Hermanos Rodriguez in Mexico City. The road course track—named for the famous Mexican racing brothers—is a dandy with a long series of  curvy S’ and all sorts of bumps and turns.

There were no dogs on the track this year—a decidedly Latin American spectacle—and DW did not attempt to translate “boogity, boogity” into Spanish this time. But there was plenty of fun, perhaps most especially the ire of Mexican fans when Kyle Busch took homegrown Michel Jourdain out of the running. A contrite Busch came on the radio and said, “Well, I guess I am hated by all of Mexico.” He got that much right.

And let’s give it up for the Mexican singer who performed The Star Spangled Banner. She made her way through it with a straight face and hitting most of the notes. But I know she was thinking, “what a god awful mess of a song.”

Boris Said came in second after looking like an easy winner early on. Goossens, a Belgian driver, made it into the top ten. Contreras and Fernandez pulled 11^th and 12^th—the latter overcoming a crash with McMurray who also made his way back to the front. And rookie Denny Hamlin got the win in a car that looked stout all day long. The kind of car that could give the Border Patrol a run for its money.