The Rocky Horror Picture Show just turned 35 years old. Here's my thoughts on the subject:
I was fifteen years old, and I was a sheltered Christian kid who had somehow landed a girlfriend who was 1) a year older than I, and 2) one of two goth kids in the entire town of Prescott, Arizona. She listened to The Cure and Bauhaus and wore black lipstick. I listened to DC Talk and the Newsboys and wore shirts with a Jesus fish on them. Yeah. I don't get it either.
A few weeks before she let me touch her boobs (!), and a few weeks before she gave me a little vial of her blood to wear around my neck, she asked me if I had ever seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I hadn't. R-rated movies were forbidden in our household, and even if they weren't, the picture on the cover of the VHS box she showed me certainly would never have gotten in the door. There was a man dressed in women's clothes, with high heels and fishnets and a full face of makeup.
She invited a couple of friends over to her house, and put the movie on. I expected we'd sit and make out the whole time, as usual, but she was really into the movie. It seemed like she knew the script backwards and forwards; she knew where every pause in the dialog was, and she had something witty to say at every one. She and her friends even knew the Time Warp dance. For my part, I just sat and stared, transfixed.
The songs! I'd never heard anything like it! They had the sexy swagger of the rock music I was just starting to listen to, but the clever lyrics of a Broadway musical. Then there was the lingerie, the transvestism, the homoerotic undertones, the Susan Sarandon in a bra and panties . . . I was sold. Then, after I had thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing, my goth girlfriend told me I *had* to see it in the theater to get the full experience.
Months later, after the girl left me to sleep with some dude at band camp (I felt a weird pang the first time I saw American Pie), I finally got a chance to drive the two hours to the big city of Phoenix to see the movie in a theater. I borrowed a leather jacket from a friend of mine (who told me that Rocky sucked, but I could use the coat if I wanted) and pulled together a half-assed Eddie costume.
I want to say that seeing Rocky with a live cast, in a theater full of like-minded drama nerds, was some kind of revelation, an awakening, a feeling of being in harmony with fellow outcasts -- I want to say that because that's what most people say. It was definitely a blast, and it definitely demonstrated that there were far stranger things on earth than a girl who wears black lipstick and listens to the Cure. It didn't feel like coming home, but it did feel like a much-needed expanding of my small-town mind. Queers! Transvestites! Boys kissing boys kissing girls kissing girls! Jokes about people masturbating in the back row! The girl playing Columbia wearing a thong! But at the heart of it was still that clever, fun movie, where the hero is maybe the bitchy queen who isn't so great at relationships, but really just wants to expand everybody's mind and have a good time.
Even though people made fun of "I'm Coming Home," my favorite song, I still wanted to go back. I downloaded a script and studied the call-and-response lines and added a few of my own. For the next couple of years, my buddies and I made the trek down to Phoenix at least once a month, catching the midnight show and driving home as the sun was coming up. I bought the anniversary edition soundtrack, the karaoke CD, some posters, the VHS video, the DVD . . .and through the years, I saw the live show as often as I could.
The last time I went to see Rocky live, I was in the cast. There I was, 30 years old, my wife eight months pregnant, and I strapped on the high heels, the fishnets, the bodice, and performed an energetic (if imperfect) rendition of Frank N. Furter. I'm sure some people were embarrassed on my behalf. I know my wife was -- she still mentions it occasionally.
But for me, dreaming that character and being that character, running around a theater dressed like Frank N. Furter, felt like a last step from that small-town kid to a grown man who knows his place in the world. And for that, I will always love the Rocky Horror Picture Show, one of the many guides through the turbulent passageways of growing into myself.
Hey. I belted out "Sweet Transvestite" while DANCING on four-inch heels in front of a hundred people. I fear absolutely nothing after that.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
In a Word: Security
With a deep bow to Lore Sjoberg's One Word comics, here's what I hope is a recurring feature on what I hope will be a continuing blog.
Security
Today, I got a call telling me that I needed to pay my car payment. Money's been tight, so I had been putting it off. The woman on the phone was sympathetic, even friendly, until the time came to end the call. "So when will you be making a payment? Will it be today? I can take a payment right now, if you'd like . . ."
I declined. I don't like making payments over the phone. I told her I could just log in to the website and pay it, like I do every month.
Would that were the case.
I opened the leaseholder's website and put in my login. It kicked back an error -- either my login or password was wrong. Then I remembered that for increased security, they had made me change my login from a gmail address to a unique login name.
I chose, of course, a login that I use for at least four other sites. It's just easier to remember that way.
They also insisted I make a new password that would be longer and harder for a bot to brute force.
I chose, of course, a password I use for at least four other sites. It's just easier to remember that way.
My memory jogged, I put in the correct login and password. Then, for added security, the site fed me a question I had, apparently, answered at some point: "what's your favorite TV show?"
What is my favorite TV show? What was my favorite show a month ago, when I put in the answer? Was it the X-Files, a rediscovered gem? Star Trek: The Next Generation? Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Did I capitalize, or did I think it'd be easier to remember it was all lower-case? Why didn't they serve up the question about what model my first car was? At least I could have looked that up online.
After several attempts to read my own mind, I was locked out of the account. For my security, I had to re-enter my account number to get back in. The account number that's on all of the paper bills I don't get since I switched to paperless billing.
So I called the help number again. After several prompts to enter my account number, I banged on 0 until the computer hung up on me. I called back and played along until I got a person.
Like the woman who called to urge me to pay the bill, this woman was friendly and sympathetic, until I asked her to give me my account number.
"We cannot give out that information over the phone, for security purposes. I can mail the number to you."
"Can't you just send it to my email?"
"No. We are unable to send email outside our intranet. Do you have a fax machine?"
"No, I do not, because this is not 1975, it's 2010. Please transfer me to someone who can help me."
So she kicked me up the call-center ladder one rung. The next lady was a little less polite to start, and even quicker to shut me down. She would be happy to mail or fax the number, but absolutely could not give it over the phone or email.
"Why won't you let me give you money? I'm trying so hard to give you money. I really don't care if someone else gets my account number and pays my car payment for me. Let's do this."
No dice. I demanded to be kicked up another rung in the responsibility ladder. She said she'd happily transfer me to someone else who would tell me 'no.'
While I waited on hold, I went to a fax-to-email service online. I gave them a credit card for a free trial, and they generated a junk phone number that could receive faxes and email them to me. When I spoke to the next woman, I grumbled about archaic technology, suggested she send it by carrier pigeon, and finally gave her the fax number.
Minutes later, the fax showed up -- as a PDF file in my email.
Here's how tight the car company's security is: in order to get my super-sekrit account number, I gave them the last four digits of my social security number (easy enough to find online), my home address (ditto), and a random fax number. Rather than sending an email to the address they had on file that was associated with the account, they sent a fax out blind to a number that, for all they knew, was in Leroy's Den of Money Laundering and Thievery. It was none of their doing that the fax went where it was supposed to -- my freakin' email.
I've decided that any organization that insists on using a fax machine gets the same double-barreled red-eyed rage usually reserved for companies that don't take credit cards, and people who insist on writing checks for groceries. This is outdated technology that has been replaced by something easier and better, and was replaced over a decade ago.
For my security, next time just text it to my phone, okay?
Security
Today, I got a call telling me that I needed to pay my car payment. Money's been tight, so I had been putting it off. The woman on the phone was sympathetic, even friendly, until the time came to end the call. "So when will you be making a payment? Will it be today? I can take a payment right now, if you'd like . . ."
I declined. I don't like making payments over the phone. I told her I could just log in to the website and pay it, like I do every month.
Would that were the case.
I opened the leaseholder's website and put in my login. It kicked back an error -- either my login or password was wrong. Then I remembered that for increased security, they had made me change my login from a gmail address to a unique login name.
I chose, of course, a login that I use for at least four other sites. It's just easier to remember that way.
They also insisted I make a new password that would be longer and harder for a bot to brute force.
I chose, of course, a password I use for at least four other sites. It's just easier to remember that way.
My memory jogged, I put in the correct login and password. Then, for added security, the site fed me a question I had, apparently, answered at some point: "what's your favorite TV show?"
What is my favorite TV show? What was my favorite show a month ago, when I put in the answer? Was it the X-Files, a rediscovered gem? Star Trek: The Next Generation? Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Did I capitalize, or did I think it'd be easier to remember it was all lower-case? Why didn't they serve up the question about what model my first car was? At least I could have looked that up online.
After several attempts to read my own mind, I was locked out of the account. For my security, I had to re-enter my account number to get back in. The account number that's on all of the paper bills I don't get since I switched to paperless billing.
So I called the help number again. After several prompts to enter my account number, I banged on 0 until the computer hung up on me. I called back and played along until I got a person.
Like the woman who called to urge me to pay the bill, this woman was friendly and sympathetic, until I asked her to give me my account number.
"We cannot give out that information over the phone, for security purposes. I can mail the number to you."
"Can't you just send it to my email?"
"No. We are unable to send email outside our intranet. Do you have a fax machine?"
"No, I do not, because this is not 1975, it's 2010. Please transfer me to someone who can help me."
So she kicked me up the call-center ladder one rung. The next lady was a little less polite to start, and even quicker to shut me down. She would be happy to mail or fax the number, but absolutely could not give it over the phone or email.
"Why won't you let me give you money? I'm trying so hard to give you money. I really don't care if someone else gets my account number and pays my car payment for me. Let's do this."
No dice. I demanded to be kicked up another rung in the responsibility ladder. She said she'd happily transfer me to someone else who would tell me 'no.'
While I waited on hold, I went to a fax-to-email service online. I gave them a credit card for a free trial, and they generated a junk phone number that could receive faxes and email them to me. When I spoke to the next woman, I grumbled about archaic technology, suggested she send it by carrier pigeon, and finally gave her the fax number.
Minutes later, the fax showed up -- as a PDF file in my email.
Here's how tight the car company's security is: in order to get my super-sekrit account number, I gave them the last four digits of my social security number (easy enough to find online), my home address (ditto), and a random fax number. Rather than sending an email to the address they had on file that was associated with the account, they sent a fax out blind to a number that, for all they knew, was in Leroy's Den of Money Laundering and Thievery. It was none of their doing that the fax went where it was supposed to -- my freakin' email.
I've decided that any organization that insists on using a fax machine gets the same double-barreled red-eyed rage usually reserved for companies that don't take credit cards, and people who insist on writing checks for groceries. This is outdated technology that has been replaced by something easier and better, and was replaced over a decade ago.
For my security, next time just text it to my phone, okay?
New Look, New Thoughts.
So I figured it's about time I stopped wasting hours refreshing metafilter and boingboing, and spent a little more time writing on my own blog. Which meant a long-overdue facelift.
This blog will now focus on my curmudgeonly rants about politics and pop culture, my observations of human behavior, and the occasional adorable story about my adorable child.
Hopefully, it will also go on longer than a couple of posts before I taper off again.
This blog will now focus on my curmudgeonly rants about politics and pop culture, my observations of human behavior, and the occasional adorable story about my adorable child.
Hopefully, it will also go on longer than a couple of posts before I taper off again.
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