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by: Ace
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by: Ace
“We make the The Vagina Monologues look like The Sound of Music,” Donna Ison smiles into her Makers. We’re enjoying a cold one at Sidebar and talking all things provocative, including the upcoming performance, “Panty Raid: a pajamarama of epic proportions” by the Sisters Provocateur at Natasha’s, this Thursday, August 12, at 8:30 PM (tickets are $8).
For Ison, author of The Miracle of Myrtle: Saint Gone Wild and Flirtini With Disaster, turning heads on and off-stage is nothing new. The actress, novelist, and historical dramatist (I could go on), is no stranger to raising eyebrows. Her writing and personal style are known for being candid, humorous, and risque, and rivaled only by her savvy stage presence.
Ison is a founding member of the new all-woman theater troupe, The Sisters Provocateur. Through poetry, dance, song, and games, the Sisters’ mission is simple: “to promote the idea that poetry doesn’t have to be pretentious, sexy doesn’t have to be skinny, and brainy doesn’t have to be boring.” Funded in part through a Kentucky Foundation for Women “Arts Meets Activism” grant, the troupe is comprised of local writers and performers along with Ison, Sunny Montgomery, Kate Hadfield, Renee Rigdon, Kirstin Preston, and this performance’s special guest, Jessi Fehrenbach. The pastel posters for the performance can be spotted all over town, including Lexington’s resident Hustler store.
Art enthusiasts who attended the Lexington Art League’s Fourth Friday event in June, had the pleasure of a peek at the Sisters’ debut performance, “Maidenform Mayhem,” a 50’s-esque dating game which included a dance number and a scene where each woman stripped down, quite literally, to who their characters really were. “It went wonderfully,” Ison says, “We did two shows that night, one inside and one out in the courtyard.”
When describing what the audience can expect, she runs down a list that starts to sound like a combination of what you learned in high-school Health class, what you heard about in the locker room, and what you find out in the back of your first boyfriend’s car. “It starts out as a slumber party. There will be games, quizzes, educational facts about sex. We play ‘Never Have I Ever.’ Whoever makes a statement that no one can drink to wins a gift basket of sexual aids.”
Where does a troupe get fodder like this for their performances? Ison says they harvest material from their personal lives. Though their writing styles and topics are varied, the Sisters have one perception in common, “Nothing can be gratuitous. Everything has to be empowering and enlightening. Everything has to be honest.” A script like “Panty Raid” comes about through conversations over their individual material. She can’t help but laugh when recalling some of the informal conversations in her living room that make it onstage, “Our scripts are kind of like Dr. Ruth meets cabaret. Sometimes I have to stop to ask, ‘can we really say this, can someone Google that to make sure it’s not outlawed in some states?’”
It’s not hard to envision the “Panty Raid” content if you’ve ever caught a snippet of the Bourbonista Blog on Ison’s website: http://www.donnaison.com. The Sisters also keep a website up where they regularly blog http://www.sistersprovocateur.com. Imagine being in a slumber party with these ladies and you get the idea:
Donna Ison
When we scheduled this show back in early April, I told myself I had plenty of time to drop fifteen pounds and tone up. I was going to do yoga every morning in my sunroom at 6:30am. I was going to eat like a fruit bat. I was going to rejoin Jazzercise. I was going to cut out carbs. I was going to drink less booze and more water. I was going to do calf raises when I did the dishes and squats while I brushed my teeth. I was going to go organic. I have done none of these things.
Kate Hadfield
You know, I’ve had a few people in my life (ok, so maybe more than a few), that have really urged me to find that traditional life. They haven’t understood that I am an artist, that I will always be an artist, and that I’m going to lead an artistic life. This means I’m probably going to have several menial kind of jobs over my lifetime. Dinner’s going to be around 9 p.m., if I even get to it, because honestly, I might just smoke a few cigarettes instead while I’m praying that the muses find me.
Renee Rigdon
Once, long ago, I bought a pink bathrobe. I am not typically a “pink” girl, but the idea of a fuzzy pink bathrobe to wrap up in on days when I was feeling low seemed perfect. And, it was marketed using my third favorite word of all time: Clearance. At first, the bathrobe was just fine. I’d put it on for morning coffee, and promptly change into my day clothes after. As winter turned to spring, I found the robe was too warm for daily wear, and it gradually fell out of use. As close as I can tell, this is when the robe developed some sort of revenge complex. I had abandoned it, and it would make damn sure that any time I cast eyes on it, it would make my life hell.
Sunny Montgomery
Let me begin today’s blog by saying that I am in a super foul mood. And so my random weekly confession will be appropriate: I hate babies. And by babies I mean any child under the age of 8. Okay, I hate 99% of babies. My best friend, Steph, just had a baby a few weeks back and I don’t hate him…yet…Anyway, babies suck. They ruin everything fun. Even grocery shopping which isn’t that fun to begin with. Seriously, I hate parents that let their children push the grocery cart as much as I hate babies. I hate how babies are always staring at you… it makes me really anxious. I hate how parents bring babies out on restaurant patios and then evil-eye you for smoking a cigarette at the next table. I hate how babies don’t have the neck strength to hold up their big heads and so you have to do it for them.
Dear Babies: Please grow up already so I can stop hating you. And seriously, stop staring at me.
Kirstin Preston
At 3 AM this morning, I was startled by dudes in the church parking lot next to my bedroom window, loading firewood in the back of a truck. And by loading, I mean they were chucking massive logs onto the metal surface of the truck’s bed…I don’t even know if they work at that church. Were they stealing? I don’t know. When you live in Castlewood, you don’t ask questions unless you want to get hit in the back of the head with a log.
To reserve tickets by phone call: (859) 259-2754 or online at http://www.beetnik.com/reservations/
by: Bianca Spriggs
Last Fall, I found myself in the ridiculously unenviable position of explaining the Pitino-Sypher affair to my grandmother. As I attempted to quietly explain that, due to the events that were unfolding at the time, my granny might want to keep her nostalgia for the Pitino years of Kentucky basketball to herself, I found solace only in the fact that the conversation was being conducted via telephone. There’s no way that I could have conducted that particular exchange in person without actually dying of embarrassment. Now, if you’ve never had to discuss the finer points of after-hours, Italian restaurant-based extramarital affairs with an 84 year-old Southern Lady who is proudly both a lifelong Methodist and a retired first grade teacher, I’d advise you to do everything within your power to keep it that way. There’s no way to acknowledge that you know the events that transpired without feeling prurient and trashy. You start to wish, harder than you’ve ever wished anything in your life, that you’d never read a newspaper or a sports blog. Your shell of hardened worldliness cracks quite easily, and you just wish you didn’t know anything about it. It would take a Silkwood shower to wash away the dirty feeling.
In the intervening months since that mortifying conversation occurred, I’ve found myself, time and again, in similarly awkward positions. I’ve kept myself informed as the sordid details about That Night in 2003 have come to light, but I haven’t really wanted to discuss them in polite company, lest I seem overly interested. I’ve racked my brain for sly jokes that would retain my street cred as the author of pithy Facebook statuses, but which would be suitable for viewing by my aunts and former Sunday School teachers. As I’ve learned about the charming way that Rick and Karen met, and the heartbreakingly beautiful love story that subsequently unfolded between Karen and Tim, I’ve tried to keep a jaded and sophisticated attitude about the entire business. We’re all adults here, I’ve tried to remind myself, this is neither the first nor the last time something like this has happened. Not in basketball, and most assuredly not in life. But, the truth is, a nasty and embarrassing business has unfolded in the Federal Courthouse in Jefferson County. We’re all being faced with stories we don’t quite want to hear.
Just when I thought that I had tackled the ick-factor of the entire affair once and for all, Rick himself took the witness stand and provided details about his personal habits that only his wife, his mistress, or his doctor should know. Instead, those details have been broadcast to the entire news-reading nation. Late last week, as I sat over coffee and donuts with my mother, the conversation naturally turned to the previous day’s testimony. There I was, in the Richmond Road Krispy Kreme, discussing our former coach’s “staying power” with my mama, as discreet a Christian lady as you’ll ever hope to meet. I was disconcerted, to say the least. Aside from my discomfort about the conversation at hand, however, I felt a profound sadness for the loss of a little chunk of my own childhood. I was a huge fan of the Pitino-era Wildcats; now that storied coach was reduced to the fodder of frathouse jokes.
No matter how questionably he’s conducted himself in recent years — be it accepting a job at that school down the road or cavorting with short-skirted blondes — Rick Pitino was a great coach who brought a desperately needed pride back to the Kentucky basketball program. No matter how hard I try to gloss over this fact, he was a hero of my youth. He brought a big city luster to our downtrodden program; he brought our team back to national prominence, and he did it in high style. Now, he’s the brunt of some of the basest jokes I’ve ever heard. Just search Twitter for the phrase “15 seconds,” and you’ll see what I mean.
The Sypher affair has embarrassed Wildcat and Cardinal fans alike with its messy details and cringe-inducing admissions. For many of us, it’s become increasingly difficult to maintain tasteful decorum while keeping ourselves informed about the sports events occurring in our basketball-mad state. There is simply no escaping the reports of Karen Sypher’s prior experience or Rick Pitino’s performance. At a time of the year when we should be concerning ourselves with incoming players and preseason projections, we are suddenly all extras in a particularly ribald Judd Apatow film. We laugh along with the raunchy jokes, but it is more an act of nervous discomfort than actual amusement. Deep down, as devoted Wildcat fans, we acknowledge that Pitino is part of our legendary past. We fear that, maybe a little, the joke is on us.
As this nasty business draws to an end, we find ourselves facing the uncomfortable fact that it won’t go away for a while. There will be more prurient analysis and vile jokes. As well-mannered Southerners and devout basketball fans, we are faced with the choice of either laughing along or ignoring the situation. Let’s just hope we don’t have to discuss it with our mamas again anytime soon.
by: Matt Sparks
[This Sports Column appears on page 14 of the July 15 issue of Ace.]
PHOTO COURTESY UK ATHLETICS: Turpin over Shaq
by Heather C. Watson
The 1982-83 Kentucky Wildcats are the first basketball team I can remember.
When you grow up in a basketball family like I did, memories of your team are a part of the family lore. They become a part of the conversation, a way of establishing each member of the family along the team’s timeline—sort of a generational link to the team’s history. Memories of big games or favorite lineups are woven into the family history.
My father recalls being a high school basketball player in ’66, catching the infamous loss to Texas Western over his transistor radio. My brother claims that the Laettner stomp of ’92 is his earliest memory (perhaps a bit of revisionist history, but we’re willing to overlook it for the sake of a great story). My own very first memories of UK basketball include the names Dirk Minniefield, Kenny Walker, Bret Bearup, Dicky Beal, and Melvin Turpin. I was in the early weeks of second grade when Coach Hall’s team began their season with a revolutionary midnight practice session in Memorial Coliseum.
I can remember my daddy and granddaddy analyzing those players’ performance after every game. The conversation around me was so impassioned that it seemed quite important that I form my own opinions. My favorite player, I decided, was Melvin Turpin. Mel wasn’t my favorite because of the SEC scoring records he’d go on to break, but for a far simpler reason: he had a kind face. As a kid who was learning the rules of the game as well as what it meant to be a fan, I simply saw that this was a player that I could look up to.
Several years later, I had the privilege of sitting behind Mel during a UK game. My lower arena tickets at the UGA game were already a fantastic birthday present from my cousin. When we took those seats, however, that present became exponentially better. We were not only sitting behind a bona fide UK star, but behind my favorite player! My 20-something birthday celebration now included an appearance from Melvin Turpin!
Sitting behind the big guy was, perhaps, a little obstructive. He filled the seat in every imaginable sense. Not only was he too tall and too wide for the seat, but his personality filled up the surrounding rows. Everyone in the adjacent area was gawking at the sight of a star Wildcat alumnus. And, truth be told, it was hard to see around him. But, at halftime, I introduced myself by saying “I was a huge fan when I was a kid.” It more than made up for any missed viewing opportunities when Mel was gracious and humble and charming in response. He didn’t have to be so kind to the silly girls who wanted to talk about their own childhood memories of his college sports career. But he was kind, and he confirmed my earliest belief that he was someone to whom I could look up.
Over the years, I’ve had the opportunity to meet several Wildcats and to see many more play. I’ve met former players and those currently in uniform. I’ve encountered some players of my own age in social settings, and I’ve sat in Rupp Arena knowing that the player who just scored two points for our team would soon be taking his game to an impressive professional level. But my favorite UK basketball experience will always be the day Melvin Turpin was nice to me on my birthday.
Last Thursday, as I fulfilled an evening obligation, I attempted to surreptitiously check Twitter for a quick update on the LeBron James Media Circus. My feed brought me far sadder news, as I learned the Favorite Player of my youth had passed. In subsequent days, I have studiously avoided the blogosphere and the sports papers. I don’t want to read speculation into the details of Mel’s untimely demise, nor do I want to rehash his NBA years.
I want to hold on to the simple memory that he was my favorite player. I want to remember the kind man who graciously accepted the ridiculous rants of a fan. I want to recall one of the sports legend of my youth.
Goodbye, Mel. You’ll be missed. And you’ll always be my very first Favorite Player.
by: Ace
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