My Name is Not Eddie

My husband recently took on a part-time job in addition to his 40 hours a week as a career services advisor.  We have some financial needs.  It happens.  I don't see him much anymore, which is definitely not cool.  Tonight was the first time we'd get to eat dinner together in a week.

I know, my charming, clever, domestic self thought, I'll make my beloved hunk of man-candy something truly spectacular - an Eddie Dog!

If you lived in Clarion, PA, for any amount of time, you know what I'm talking about.  If not, then please go with me to a magical place that sparkles mysteriously in the starlight and only smells just the slightest bit of stale beer and regret.

The Hot Dog House was known affectionately as Eddie Dog's.  An Eddie Dog was also the product of said house.  You went to Eddie Dog's to buy an Eddie Dog.  Simple.  Which was good, because most of the people who went to Eddie Dog's were drunk.

It was only open between 9:00 PM and 2:00 AM.  It pretty much only sold about 4 different kinds of hot dogs and Coke products.  That was it.  

Eddie, you smart, smart man.

I was one of those rare college students who abstained from alcohol but still went to parties.  (With all due respect to my boys, the Phi Mu Alpha house, full of Star Wars posters and action figures, was definitely NOT the wildest place on campus, but that's probably why I felt safe there.)  Still, no matter the hour, I was always up to accompany an inebriated friend on a stumble off campus to Sheetz or Eddie's.

Because food.

Eddie was (is?) a character.  He was always in short sleeves, reaching into his bun warmer and slapping ketchup on lukewarm weenies.  He always miscounted change.  Always.  You could hand him a $5 bill for $3.15 worth of dogs, and you'd get $3.78 back in quarters and pennies.  And woe, woe, WOE to the unsuspecting student who commented snidely about the political news he always had on the TV.  Eddie was remarkably outspoken about politics.  And if a drunkenly slurred comment was slung his way, he was able to launch into a pretty impressive tirade about - whatever.  Immigration, the deficit, trade agreements.  

Stuff that drunk college students are really good at ignoring.  Or not.

On a few occasions, one of the more, um, belligerent of the fraternity brothers I was with decided that he wanted to get into a political debate with Eddie.  I left and sat on the shop's cold stoop, watching the misty midnight air swirl around the street lamp on the corner.

Those cheap little frankfurters were worth it, though.

Poor college kid chow.

So of course I thought I'd make one for The Hubbs.

Behold THE TACO DOG in its majestic, chili-smothered splendor!

Yeah...

...um, it was kind of awful.

I guess I just don't have The Eddie Touch.  

I used turkey dogs, which were probably 60 or 70 calories less than an authentic Eddie Dog.  I was really disappointed, especially because they were from Aldi and I really, really like most everything I've tried from Aldi.  The dogs themselves had kind of a funny aftertaste.  

I like to toast whole wheat buns and bread for sandwiches, which is exactly the opposite of the moist, limp, starchy white Eddie Dog buns.  Failure, again.

I used the Hormel chili with beans.  Also a mistake.  I remember Eddie's Taco Dogs being beanless.  

The cheese happened to be made with 2% milk and was acceptable.

The tortilla chips were slightly stale.

My husband ate two, then the last bite of the Faux Eddie Dog I left on my plate.  "These aren't that good," I apologized, but he shrugged.  "They're fine!"  He didn't seem to care, but I died a little inside.

I guess he'll never REALLY understand me, and I'll never understand that you do NOT mess with an original.

Maimed

Generally, when I hear about a political or religious scandal, breaking, ultra-controversial news story, or tragic shooting  or earth-shattering arrest or trial, I try to reflect before making my opinion public.  In fact, there are some issues (such as the Trayvon Martin case) on which I really have no public comment – mostly because I either feel that my opinion doesn’t matter, or, more likely, that I don’t have enough information to go spouting off my thoughts.  I know I don’t have thousands of readers right now, but my blog is my platform, and it’s a reflection of me in every way.  I have passionate convictions, but I refuse to waste my time and talent by commenting on every single story that bubbles up on the news and social media feeds.  There’s much more to life than the media would have us believe – and a lot of it is actually wonderful. 

But “wonderful” doesn’t really sell very well, does it?

The recent news in regards to Clarion University’s ugly budget cuts, however, has me in an absolute rage.  I don’t want to hear any more before I share my opinion.  It might be too late if I wait.

Let’s start with why this cause is so dear to my heart.  I began school with the desire to be a secondary English education major, but before my first classes even started, I switched to English and Theatre, with concentrations in literature and acting, respectively.  I was not – and still am not – a drinker, but I spent a lot time hanging out with the guys who would later be my “brothers” – the big boys of Phi Mu Alpha, the music fraternity.   They were musicians and singers who worked on many – if not all – of the theatre department’s productions.  I liked these guys and, quite frankly, they were less intimidating and more intelligent than a lot of the other frat boys on campus.  They were a decent bunch to hang with – and they were talented.  They were dedicated.  They practiced their art and they cared about it.  Many of them were perfectionists in regards to their musical performance.  In fact, a lot of them were more professional than my own peers – the theatre majors, who were awesome people, but who (like me) sometimes waited ‘til the last second to learn lines or master accents. 

I was an insecure person in college, but my experience in music and theatre helped bring me out of my shell.  Many of you cannot begin to imagine me as shy, but my teenage years were full of reasons for me to become quiet and reserved.  Almost immediately following me religious rebirth at 16, I experienced a rebirth of expression in college.  Little by little, the demands of vastly different roles began to pull from me ideas, attitudes, and expectations I never knew I had.  Although I’m not proud of every role I played, I am proud that every role stretched me in some way, whether it was physically, mentally, or emotionally.  Working as an actor taught me discipline; it also taught me that there is a great deal hidden under the surface of every interaction in our lives.  Working as a director gave me a deep appreciation for “the big picture” and for how all working parts come together to form a complete machine.  Working as a designer  showed me how to bring imagination and creativity to life and blend it with practicality and purpose.  Working as a writer reinforced my first and foremost love of words and the knowledge that they carry more power than most of us ever realize.  Working with (sometimes) finicky musicians, (often) needy actors, (usually) demanding directors, and (occasionally) moody techies taught me how to deal with people in “real life”.  It taught me how to swallow my pride and be part of a team.  A greater good.

I wrote a lot.  A lot.  I read.  I acted.  I sang.  I directed.  I danced.  I designed.  I was utterly in my element.   I came alive.  Granted, my faith has and always will play a large role in my success; that is what I believe and it’s who I am.  But my time in college gave me the opportunities to spread my wings, shake my tail-feathers, and throw back my head and crow. 

Clarion is now denying that joy to future generations.

My heart is broken.

I know the decision is based on the budget.  I won’t pretend to understand all the intricacies of the decision.  I also won’t assume that the decision-makers are heartless, blood-thirsty and money-hungry, slashing at the arts purely for pleasure’s sake.  I genuinely don’t believe that.  But can I say something here about arts funding, please?

There are at least two (and probably dozens of) kids I’ve worked with in the past year who have told me that music is their life.  They’ve both been through some things that no teenage girl should ever have to deal with, but when they are dancing, singing, and playing music, they feel free and alive.  They don’t feel hurt or ashamed anymore.  Music heals them. 

I know a recently-divorced young mom who is supplementing her income by painting beautiful, commissioned artwork.  She studied art in school.

And, yes, since I am a Christian, I’m even going to bring my beliefs into this – you can say it undermines my argument, if you like, but that’s never really worried me before.  The Tabernacle, which was created to be God’s “mobile temple”, was full of finely-crafted utensils and decorations.  It was the carpenters who measured out the wood, but it was the artisans who wove the beautiful curtains and the silversmiths and goldsmiths who hammered metal into tables, basins, and lamps to glorify God.  In addition, many of the temple musicians were mentioned as being hand-selected.  These artists are actually named in the Old Testament.  God felt so strongly about these people's talents that he saw fit to name them in his Word – this is significant because there are central characters in Bible stories (The Good Samaritan, Lot's wife, etc.) who aren’t even given names in the Bible, but these artisans are.  (See the books of 1 and 2 Chronicles and Exodus in particular, for details.)

Do you even have any idea how often music and musical instruments are mentioned in the book of Psalms?  David himself – one of Israel’s greatest kings - was a musician.  Deborah and Miriam were musicians, leading crowds in victorious songs when enemies were defeated.  Music was a way of life, as intertwined with daily living as was eating or tending to livestock.    

I can’t understand why any university – or any establishment at all, for that matter – would allow such a vibrant and creative limb to wither and die.  Worse still, that anyone should willingly and painfully sever that very limb far before its time. 

Ars Gratia Artis, Clarion.  You don’t teach Latin, either, to my knowledge, so allow me to translate: “Art for art’s sake.”  That was the motto of Sigma Alpha Iota, an organization of which I was a part, and it is a way of life.  Not art for profit’s sake, or government’s sake, or even our own sake.

 

I'm still reeling over this recent explosion.  I really feel like a part of my identity has been shaken - challenged.  It wouldn't surprise me if this had been in the works for over a decade - as evidenced by things noticed by other alumni.  Marwick-Boyd, the music and arts building, was never finished or remodeled, even as new buildings were erected on campus.  In spite of numerous awards and honors collected by the faculty and students, I now have the vague and unsettling feeling that accolades from the highers-up were mere pats on the head, rather than triumphant victory laps.  

This all leaves me questioning my faith in higher education in general.  Coupled with the government's ridiculous policies regarding student loans (my husband works in financial aid; trust me, I've heard every excuse imaginable and every lame policy explained through a poorly-written script), I'm thinking that I may have been better off skipping college altogether and heading to New York or California, if I really wanted to be onstage.  Yes, I would have missed out on a lot of friendships and experience, but I also wouldn't be enduring the pit-of-my-stomach, bone-chilling heart-rending disappointment I'm trying to swallow right now.  I wouldn't be feeling like a loyal friend has turned on me.  I wouldn't be feeling like the college to which I pledged honor and a whole lot of money, that I talked up to incoming freshmen, that I even two weeks ago was still lauding, would be taking my hard-earned degree and treating it with indifference.

Do you see, indifference is often worse than hatred?  Apathy can be far more damaging than disrespect.  Hatred and disrespect, while painful, still move us to react.  Indifference and apathy teach us that our talents, beliefs, and identities are invalid and that our voices are powerless.

But I won't fall for it.

I am a person.  I am the arts.  And I have a voice.