Author: Sam Mitchell

The following story was performed live for Flying Monkey Arts Theatre on August 26, 2017. The theme for the evening was “Umbraphiles”. 

Dear Mr. Nimoy,

I wish that I had written you when you were alive, but I finally felt it time to clarify an event that happened on Labor Day weekend, 2009 in Atlanta.

I know how it must have looked, but I swear that I’m not a rabid fan. You see I didn’t even appreciate your work until I was an adult. In fact, I resented you for a long time. It had nothing to do with you per say, but more Mr. Spock.

You see Mr. Nimoy, I grew up a Star Wars fan. I’d like to say that I was a Han Solo type: good with a blaster, could hold my liquor and was charming with the princesses, but in reality, I was a flop haired, whiny farm boy. I grew up in the country, watered coon hounds from reused pickle barrels and shoveled cow manure for spending money. Yes, I was a Luke Skywalker and not the cool grizzled, close mouthed one we’ve seen in The Force Awakens. No shots lined up at the cantina for me, only Aunt Beru’s blue milk.

Of course, at the time I was unaware of the stigma of young Luke. I was in love with the romance, the idea of knights, aliens, fast ships and light sabers. What’s that? Why am I rambling to you about Star Wars? I’m getting to it.

Unlike today, Star Wars could not be found everywhere, but guess what could be found… Star Trek. There were reruns of your show that I watched, but it was the equivalent of getting cube steak when what you really craved was bacon wrapped filet medallions. I did however like the new show, it was… good. And this Jean Luc guy was like an Atticus Finch in space. Pre “Go Set a Watchmen” of course, but luckily you passed before that revelation.

In my youth, Star Trek and Star Wars were very different religions. Think classic ideological beefs like Southern Baptists vs. Catholics, Leah Remini vs Tom Cruise or Westboro Baptist Church vs… everyone. There is no reason that a mutual love can not exist between these fandoms, but the older zealous population, my uncle included, tried to brainwash the young by indoctrination.

My point is this. In my heart I was Rebel Alliance. So, when I was in the hallways of my 9th grade school, surviving socially on a thread, I was mortified when one of the high school juniors called out “Hey, Spock! You dropped your keys” due to the fact that my house keys slipped through an open hole in my jeans pocket and the fact that when I was 14 I had a bowl cut and could have been your illegitimate son.

This was enough to make any teenager with aspirations of climbing the social ladder cringe and at the same time resent you, my doppelgänger dad.

But Mr. Nimoy, our journey together is not over. Years later, my appreciation for Star Wars and all things George Lucas began to wane. I started devouring more media than what my younger self would have prescribed. Doctor Who, Firefly, Next Gen, BSG, Douglas Adams, Vonnegut, Philip K. Dick, and yes, even your show, the original Star Trek.

Set your phasers to stunning, wouldn’t you know it, I fell in love. I was unashamed. And then, you were back in the public eye in a way that I’m sure you hadn’t experienced in many years. Your cameo in J.J. Abrams reboot was charming and grounded the entire Kelvin timeline. To boot, thanks to a Terry Gross interview, I learned that you were an artist. A real artist, not a Jim Carey with a swinging harness and a paint brush, but a really talented photographer. Your photos of full-bodied nude women poised as objects of desire, lust and beauty was eye opening, empowering, subversive and thoughtful.

Anyway to the point at hand. It was 2009. My friend Jason had a press pass for the small, now defunct, paper in Atlanta and had been assigned to photograph DragonCon, the largest fan run sci-fi convention in the nation. Being Jason, he invited as many of his friends to “assist him” so we could attend at no charge. We now had access to officially photograph as many b-celebrities as we could stand or if we’re being honest, recognize.

The day of the con, I found out that you and actors of your cult standing were highly sought out and heavily guarded. My friends said it couldn’t be done with our small credentials, but by the end of the afternoon I had convinced your handler to let my friend and me snap a photograph of you. Several of us had made of game out of photographing celebrities. In my heart I was a collector and this was akin to scoring rare collectible Topps cards, you know,  the kind that came wrapped in wax paper with brittle bubble gum paddle.

As I bent over my camera bag, making sure that everything was in order, your handler gave the signal that it was time and waved the group of photographers over. The wave was meant for me. I was the one who spoke to your handler. I was the one who waited patiently near the kiosk while the other photographers and small-time journalist shot photos of the parade and the likes of lesser celebrities. I couldn’t believe this. I rushed over to the huddled mass of cameras and nudged my way through right as your arm left Shatner’s shoulder and right as your smile faded from your face. Your face. I’ll never forget it. From warm and collegial to hard and severe in less than it take to go from impulse power to warp factor 7. You looked up, made eye contact and I can only assume that you thought was that I was an ordinary fan on the tailcoats of these professionals who had not earn the right to photograph you.

You then turned to your business manager and said WHO IS THIS, but all that I heard in my head was WHO THE FUCK IS THIS?

In that moment, my hopes fell and my arms went up. CLICK.

I slumped away feeling genuinely down on myself that I had upset you and that your impression of me was that of a crazed fan. And what was worse, I knew my photo was inferior to that of my peers. It took at least a day and a return trip home for me get out of my own head and realize that although I would never forget the interaction, that you would never remember it. And that’s the crux. It’s a fantasy. In the end, maybe all fantasies about meeting celebrities is about you becoming personal friends. I can see how this is intoxicating and to others dangerous and I’m glad that meeting you broke me of that.

In the end, I’m a collector and what I didn’t realize was that you gave me a rare gift that day. After DragonCon, my friend, the other photographers and I shared our photos of you with your arm around William Shatner. There you were, Leonard Nimoy, smiling over and over and over. I had the rare 1 in 5 photograph of you pissed. Finger pointing. If I had to caption the picture as it were a collectible trading card like the ones from my childhood, it would read, Mr Spock says who the fuck is this guy.

Mr. Nimoy, I have not always been, but I forever shall be your fan.

Yours,

Sam Mitchell

I’m a bit ambivalent when it comes to Elvis Presley, at least as an icon. His music never really resonated with me, although I like a few of his songs. More specifically, I like many of the song writers, which he wasn’t one of, and I certainly recognize that he’s a culture thief. When asked the elementary question, Beatles or Elvis, I always feel like I’m being trapped. The question always felt like and unwinnable test that represented a generational divide. One that supposes that there are no other musical options of importance, a frame argument designed by a narrow architect, the Kobayashi Maru for Baby Boomers. If made to answer I steadfastly reply The Beatles as they wrote most of their own songs.

Elvis’ persona is that of a hip-wagging, rock crooner with shiny pompadoured black hair. I imagine that the deal he made with Ol’ Scratch to become famous began in the womb. His twin, Jessie Garon Presley was dead at birth and perhaps Elvis was the cause. If he could have absorbed his essence in utero, then maybe he would have. Stealing a soul to make himself soulful. But really, if you are a not a fan, you need look no further than his hair. He’s a natural blonde, but who would know this? (Also, Garon, really? Elvis Aaron Presley. Jessie Garon Presley. Aaron, Garon?) I see nothing wrong with changing your look, but again if you’re a hater, it screams “exhibit a” for his appropriation of black music and black style. Again, his soul for soulfulness. Stealing aside, he was also a magnetic performer and song interpreter and people like performers. Last Friday, I read kid’s books to Henry’s second grade class and afterwards three of his peers came up to me asking for my autograph, while Henry smacked his forehead in disgust.

Elvis is an icon, whether respected or not, and for a person who just claimed to be ambivalent you may wonder why I have a gold statue of him in my house?

My first meeting with Elvis was when I was 10. Of course, I had heard of him, but my Mom’s cousin, Christian, was in the 1961 musical romantic comedy Blue Hawaii. The story was that Christian was to play opposite Elvis as his main love interest. It would have been her big Hollywood break, but before or during, Christian had had a nervous breakdown and the role was given to Joan Blackman. Christian is still in the movie as one of the court that can be seen dancing within a group of women who swoon for Elvis throughout the film. These two things were the most that I ever knew about Christian, a story about her proximity to him and then her being prescribed Lithium.

Mom and I were both on summer vacation, she the teacher, I the student. We had close to three months to entertain ourselves on an educator’s budget. That summer she introduced me to all of the movies of Alfred Hitchcock and of Elvis Presley that were cataloged at Hightower Memorial Library. After the summer, I came away a Hitchcock fan.

My second run in with Elvis was in high school. I was ending a date with Hellen. The closest movie theater was in Griffin, 30 minutes away and after seeing a movie I don’t remember, we went to the only place that was open so we could get dessert, Shoney’s. If Shoney’s is what you remember, then the movie could have only been bad, but something did happen that made it stand out. As we were buckling in to the car to leave, a man who appeared to be in his 40s was holding the door open to go in with what looked like his date. He had black hair, mutton chops, collar was flipped up and he wore sunglasses at night.

Holy Shit, Hellen. Elvis is NOT dead. Do you see him.

He’s the spitting image, she replied.

And in a moment of magic, as if this clone heard us through the rolled-up windows, he turned toward us, one hand still on the door and one hand pointed to us. He made eye contact with me as if to say, Huh! – a musical grunt of appreciation. Hellen and I would have fallen out of the car if we hadn’t had our seatbelts on. Years later when I related this story to a friend of mine, who was a Griffinite, she said that she knew him. His name was Otis Spragins and he claimed for years that he was the illegitimate son of Presley. Otis was the reigning karaoke darling at WiseGuys Wings across from the Wal-Mart off the Expressway and it was almost believable considering his accurate impression and the fact that so many fatherless men in the south with some singing talent had claimed the same thing since the death of Elvis. If Otis didn’t have Elvis at least he had respect and wing bucks from his karaoke winnings.

Third Elvis Experience. I met my roommate Chuck at work. Chuck and I were two kids raised in rural areas who bonded over the fact that we had somehow found and secretly loved the music of English synth pop band Erasure. We were also born 5 days apart. His birthday was August 16th and mine August 21st. We decided to have a small birthday party at our house.

“Do we really want it to be a joint birthday party at our place?”, Chuck asked.

“Well, Elvis died the day after you were born. We could have an Elvis is Dead party. And we did.”

It was the 25th anniversary of Elvis’ death and this anniversary brought out more people claiming that Elvis was still among us. Our anti-Elvis party felt right. Regina, my girlfriend at the time and future wife, loved our parties as she had gone through a mild Elvis obsession phase in high school and especially had an appreciation for his earlier recordings at Sun Records.

I’ve made some really good relationships with people from Alabama. The first person that I met from Alabama, Regina, became my wife. The second person that I met from Alabama was often confused as my sister. I met both, my wife and my friend LeeAnn working for an apparel company in Atlanta. Because of our similar look and style, LeeAnn and I were automatically drawn to each other like one’s reflection in a pond. In our twenties, we both were lanky, had large dark glasses and wore backwards Kangol hats. Our similarities didn’t end with our physical appearance.

We were both raised in small, religiously oppressive towns. We both had chihuahuas and we both had ties to musical theater in high school. Her brother, who actually did look a lot like me, even went on to become a well-respected theater director after his stint as a cruise ship entertainer. This was the first instance that I had heard of anyone using cruise ship entertaining as a career stepping stone. I thought that it was only the final chapter for semi-talented triple threats, but I was proven wrong.

Over lunch, LeeAnn and I would wax philosophical on politics, our families, religion and the most taboo of all subjects, movies.

Movies were the language of bridge building, empathy machines, as Roger Ebert put it. We filmed a night’s worth of footage for the 24-hour film fest in Atlanta, but ultimately decided that we’d trash what we had. If we couldn’t spend more than a day making our film, then we’d do it later and do it the right way. Movies would be our way to rebel in spirit to the injustices around us and solve the problems of the world. If only we had the resources, but we didn’t.

As a lesbian from Hokes Bluff, Alabama, LeeAnn was familiar with the looks of condemnation that came from being open with her sexuality in the Bible Belt. I know that some preachers have their check lists, but at her own granny’s funeral, the granny who supported her the moment she came out, the pastor decided this service was the appropriate time to aim his own fire and brimstone using Old Testament verses to damn LeeAnne, her wife and brother for being gay. She took it in stride and knew that if she could, her granny might actually spring from the casket, slap the preacher, turn to LeeAnn and say, “Don’t you worry baby, he’s as lost as last year’s Easter egg.” This had the potential to be a scene in the movie we’d one day make.

LeeAnn was gay and I was accused of being so because I had aspirations of being an artist and refused to hunt woodland creatures with my southern brethren. So, having grown up in rural communities that quickly denounced those who were different, one can see how LeeAnn and I may have both been drawn to the western interpretations of Buddhism even though we had been raised with the Lord’s Supper. Maybe it was our personal rebellion.

Maybe it was because one could be a Buddhist without evoking the concept of dogmatic punishment. We had had enough of the Jerry Falwells, Jim Bakers and Jimmy Swaggarts of the world. Our particular favorite Buddhist writer was Vietnamese monk, Thich Nhat Hanh. The small, soft-spoken friend and contemporary of Martin Luther King, Jr. suited us just fine.

My great-grandmother Marche passed away shortly after LeeAnn’s granny died. In the ‘70s, Marche moved to Georgia from Connecticut to be near her family. Marche had been a psychiatric nurse during the war, a lifelong lover of the night sky, a fan Carl Sagan, and like LeeAnn's grandmother, had supported the family’s black sheep, my mother. Marche was the lone financial supporter of my mom’s efforts to go to college and to one day become a teacher. My mom was different because she was only the second person in her family to value a formal education and Marche became her cheerleader.

So, when Marche died, not having a church home, we used the funeral home’s “on-the-spot” evangelical preacher to perform the service. Though, not nearly as horrifying as LeeAnn’s experience, the pastor did use our time to also warn us of the everlasting fires of hell. We all laughed at the juxtaposition of what was happening and who Marche really was and vowed never to use what was the equivalent of a Drive-Thru funerary service again.