Examining The Rocky Horror Picture Show prop list, fatherhood and inheriting baseball fandoms

If you attended a live screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at The Piedmont Grand Opera House last Friday, you at one point held a Macon Melody over your head. 

The cult horror/sci-fi/musical comedy, released in 1975, is based on a live musical production — The Rocky Horror Show. A few years ago, I saw it performed at the University of Oklahoma’s Black Box Theater, and I had a blast.

But that’s not what I mean by “live screening.” Starting in the late ‘70s, folks started going to theaters for midnight showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show and they brought props: toast, toilet paper, water pistols and newspapers.

The newspapers are used early in the film when Brad and Janet are caught in a storm. Janet covers her head with a copy of the Cleveland Plain Dealer, and the audience follows suit. 

Many of my friends and colleagues have never seen the movie — one of my reporters watched it for the first time at the Grand — but I’ve known about it and the prop list for decades, thanks to my dad, Gary.

As a high schooler in the late 1970s/early ‘80s, Dad attended quite a few midnight showings of Rocky Horror Picture Show, and, decades later, he recounted his experiences fondly. Sending him a photo of the Grand full of people holding The Melody over their heads was a fun full circle moment for me.

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My dad grew up in San Antonio, where he attended Churchill High School, played on the baseball team and — most importantly for this column — worked on the school newspaper as a sports editor. There’s a photo of Dad in his yearbook: he’s sitting on the desk, phone in one hand and pencil in another, a reporter’s notebook nearby (the phone, however, is not plugged in, and this is before cordless phones became ubiquitous, so it’s a bit of theater).

Dad wanted to major in journalism at Texas A&M, but in the 1980s, you had to pass a typing test and his hunt-and-peck style didn’t make the cut. He ended up going into the burgeoning IT field and the rest is history.

But he maintained an interest in journalism, and he enjoys my war stories. It’s a way I feel connected with my dad when he was young, before I knew him.

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The New York Yankees and Los Angeles Dodgers are battling in this year’s World Series, although by the time you read this, the Fall Classic could be over. My friend and college newspaper editor James Bright reached out last week — he was writing a column about dads and baseball. 

James is a Yankees fan because his father — James Bright III — was. Of all the things we inherit from our fathers, last names and baseball fandoms seem the most common. Jim died in 2010, but his Yankee legacy is carried on in James’ two sons. 

It happens slowly, then all at once: one day, you’re going with your dad to the ballpark, and the next you’re underhanding plastic baseballs to your boy, who is just crushing opposite field line drives. There’s a bittersweet symmetry at work.

James asked me about my first baseball memory, and while it’s not crystal clear, it is there, rattling around in the attic of my brain. I remember being young, probably 7 or 8. My dad took me and my twin brother to a Texas Rangers game, along with his buddy from work. I don’t remember anything about the game itself, but I do recall a rain delay. 

There is a moment that sticks out to me: I’m sitting in a hallway at The Ballpark in Arlington, listening to the rain slap concrete steps and plastic seats. And I’m happy, because I’m getting to spend time with my dad.

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One of the most positive cultural shifts over the past 20 years has been our understanding of what it means to be a father. I’ve noticed my Millennial dad friends embrace the caregiver, nurturer role. They’re not shy about their children being their No. 1 priority.

A friend of mine recently told me he votes via mail, so he can discuss the process with his children and impress upon them the importance of voting. That’s the kind of thoughtful parenting this world needs.

I’m not saying no other generation has valued the father as a (or the main) caregiver, but it was less acceptable socially. My dad, born at the end of the Baby Boomer generation, didn’t see regular displays of that kind of parenting. 

I hope that means the generations we’re raising now are going to have a greater emotional maturity, more self-confidence, a clearer sense of community, of civic duty, of how they fit into the world.

After all, that’s what my dad gave me.

Caleb Slinkard is the managing editor of The Macon Melody. His email is caleb@maconmelody.com.