A life sort of well lived

Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.

Because I chose to drop out of college in my third year and move to Los Angeles in order to investigate the possibility of making a living as a stand-up comic, I've always thought, if nothing else, I've lived a rather adventurous life. Performing gave me an opportunity to visit nearly every state in the Union as well as throughout Canada and Europe. Because most of my friends know me as "Horse Pam" and as horses are all I generally want to talk about, they haven't really heard of this other, shadowy, life I've led.

There are wonderful stories to haul from memory to bore potential grandchildren, had I decided to spawn, so perhaps when I'm 85, I'll simply regale the stuffed bodies of my beloved terriers, Bonnie and Rosie, propped up against the back of the dining room chairs at Thanksgiving, with these true life tales. They'll look at me blankly.

I'll interpret that to mean barely concealed fascination. My one way conversational nuggets will begin something like this:

"Once upon a time I had a Pit-bull named Max that nearly pulled down Jay Leno's pants."

"I'll never forget doing a show from the back of a flatbed truck on a beach in Spain in front of 2,500 sailors...."

"You'll never believe this, but one night in London, I literally, on the street, bumped into the actor Christopher Lloyd and the American Ambassador to England. An hour later, the three of us were eating strawberries and sipping champagne in Christopher's suite at the Dorchester 'til 3 a.m.!"

Along with these name-dropping yarns are also tales of hot-air ballooning in San Diego, flying with eyes screwed shut in a glider above the Bavarian Alps and regaining consciousness in a dew-soaked vineyard somewhere in northern Italy. No, I shall not expand further. It's like an acquittal means nothing to you people.

The point of all these illustrations? Simply to provide a sprinkling of samples, gentle reader, so that you might agree, "Well, this will be nice to think of when she's in a nursing home..."

Well, consider me trumped. On all levels.

My English cousin, Hunter, has just returned to his West Sussex cottage after a week's visit here at the farm. He's an interesting fellow who has led a varied and interesting life. Like me, he is childless with adventures tucked away bubbling to be shared. His mother, my late aunt, worked for Orson Wells for over thirty years and that, in itself, is pretty amazing. The travel required by her spilled over into Hunter's life and gave him ample opportunities to live wondrous experiences. As a boy, he was sent to the same boarding school which was attended by Prince Charles. As a young man, he came of age in swinging London around 1964. Now, I ask you, what is cooler than that? However, not having spent any real time with Hunter for over a dozen years, there was much about him that I didn't know. I didn't know that he was a model railroad enthusiast. I didn't realize he had once been a surveyor. And I certainly didn't know the best story of all. The story that reduced all my adventures to a crumbling, dried arrangement.

"Did I ever tell you," he began, as I steered onto Highway 9 towards Lake Lure, "that I introduced the "Twist" to Romania?"

I merely gaped.

"Yes, I was part of a youth delegation allowed into this then Eastern Block country and the kids our age had never heard any Rock and Roll. I brought in a Chubby Checker LP, began to show them all how to do the dance and they went wild! Evidently, it spread like wildfire."

The lush countryside pouring along each side of the car turned as dull as two day old iced tea.

It's as if I've never lived at all....

The Imus mess

Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.

Alright. Since I've had my own radio show for roughly four years now, I think I can speak on this topic with a little experience.

Having done both a two-hour show and a four-hour show, there is an enormous amount of material that is used. Experienced performers are comfortable enough to improv: "wing it." I pretty much do this my entire show. Having toured as a stand-up for twenty years, it is second nature for me and not at all daunting. As a matter of fact, it's the only way I can perform. So, it's great for radio. It's awful when I'm trying to succintly explain to Paul that the drain's backed up and he has to try to figure out why I would include grass seed and Dick Cheney in the report.
When one opens one's brain to improv, thoughts rush in like a Cheetah on speed. I have had entire ideas, characters, pacing and punch lines kick open my head like a gunslinger busting into a saloon. However, at the same time, there is an edit button. There is also a doorway that reads "No Entry." That's anything that would be hurtful, overtly offensive or flatly untruthful.

To me, the saddest thing of all regarding Don Imus' remark describing the Rutgers' Women's Basketball Team was not that he actually said it, but that he actually thought it. Why would it even occur to him? And it rings so hollow, afterwards, to bray, "But I'm not a racist!"

This is what I think needs to be addressed front and center. I truly don't think Don Imus believes he is racist. I don't think most of us do. I'm sure I didn't, when I've held my purse tighter as a black man walked past. I'm sure my friend didn't when, after talking to a woman over the telephone, upon learning that she was African-American, said, "Wow, you don't sound black!" Therefore, I don't think people actually understand what being a racist means. The definitions in the dictionary boil down to hatred and intolerance, fear and suspicion. The end result, however it is delivered, is always deeply painful. Don Imus feels that he meant it as a "joke," and he has said he "wasn't angry" when he said it, as Michael Richards was when he spewed his tirade at The Laugh Factory, in Hollywood. That's almost worse: when one is furious, one can easily slip into irrational behavior. But when one says something in jest, with plenty of time to consider whether it's hurtful or not, can this, honestly, be justified? Is it alright, therefore, to say to someone, "Man, you are as fat as a pig." and then clap them on the shoulder and howl, "I'm just joking!!" Would it be alright, therefore, to refer to our local High School Girl's basketball team as "ugly, redneck, sluts?" and then cry, "Why are you so angry? It was a JOKE."

And it's not enough to brush off racist remarks by saying, "Well, you know, they call themselves those sort of words." Some do. More of them don't. Some make millions of dollars performing filthy, degrading, lyrics. Just as many are deeply offended by them. I can certainly relate to that. As a white woman, I am offended by the actions of many a white man and white woman. I was offended by the endless coverage of Anna Nichol-Smith and her string of lovers, all claiming paternity of her child. That story was broadcast by white men and women on networks owned by white men, hoping to lure white viewers to buy products from white-owned sponsors. That story, for weeks, was considered far more important than the innocent Coalition and Iraqi lives that were lost. You see, a dead kid from Alabama doesn't make money like a dead starlet. At least according to a white guy in power.

Entertainers have the freedom to express themselves to the height of their intellectual capabilities or go the easy, unoriginal, route to shock and grab a quick buck. But entertainers, like everyone else, do not deserve a free pass. If anyone else in this country: a CEO, an airline pilot, a doctor, or a university professor took to the microphone at a meeting and announced that they worked with "a bunch of nappy-headed hos" they would be deservedly fired on the spot. What entertainers must realize is that we are their employers. By simply not listening or viewing, by not supporting sponsors, we can fire them as well.