Hotter Than Hot



Speaking as a happily heterosexual woman....could Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not be any hotter? That smoldering look. The husky voice. That sassy personality. There are some women I just "get". I get her.

On the other hand, there are some women that are considered sex symbols that I honestly do not get. I mean even if I were a man, or a lesbian, there is no way on earth I would find Angelina Jolie sexy. I just don't get her. To me she's all lips and not much personality. I get Halle Berry. I don't get Natalie Portman. I get the classics (Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly) I don't get the moderns (Liv Tyler or Keira Knigtley). So I suppose it's a good thing I'm straight, otherwise I wouldn't have anyone to lust over.

Or maybe I was just born in the wrong generation. To me the sexiest man ever was Cary Grant.

It seems to me that actors in the Golden Age of Hollywood used to have charm. A certain grace. And, most definitely, intelligence. Today's actors often lack all three. I'm not saying that Angelia Jolie is a dumb woman. For all I know she could be a Rhodes Scholar. But when I look at her I don't see wheels turning behind the eyes. And charm, that most elusive of all qualities, is a dead commodity. Occasionally you will see actors that have real charm, but today what passes for charm seems to be snideness. And it seems anyone even mildly attractive, with a large enough chest, can be a star. Talent is secondary. In the old studio system I believe it was the same, but if you didn't have talent you were stuck as the best friend or the smart-cracking waitress. You weren't given star billing and paid $25 million dollar to look nice in luxurious clothing.

All of the classic actress of Hollywood had acting talent. They may not have started off with it, but they learned and they got better -- or they got canned. You many not like Joan Crawford, but you can't deny she had a way of conveying evil that could be quite chilling. Grace Kelly, everyone's favorite cool blond proved she was not just a pretty face in roles like Dial M For Murder Country Girl and Rear Window. And many would dismiss Audrey Hepburn as just a pretty,charming actress with not much depth. Until they see The Nun's Story where she struggles with her imperfections as she tries to find faith.

These are deep, thoughtful performance were actresses we required to show depth of emotion, not how well that could ass-kick a ninja. (Although personally I think Katharine Hepburn could take on anyone). It's just odd to look at the all those classic actors and wonder if they'd have a career now. I mean who would hire Humphrey Bogart. He's gruft, he's got a scar and a bit of a lisp. Not terribly handsome. No, they'd make Sam Spade into Matthew McConaughey, with perfect teeth and clear blue eyes. And run The Maltese Falcon.

They had faces then. Actors. Even the extras. The glorious Thelma Diamond, the delicious Eric Blore, each had a distinctive personality so a movie was packed with real people. A real waitress who would give you a bad time for ordering tea instead of of coffee, or a cop who you can charm out of writing that parking ticket. Small interactions with minor characters that gave those sorts of films that charm. A charm that is, sadly, lacking in contemporary cinema.

Now it seems if you see an extra it is only as a prelude to them having their lungs removed by a snow plow.

No, I don't want body part and blood. I want Hichcockian suspense.. A good plot, A strong hero meets a strong heroine and together they save the world from birds, anarchy, and yet another verse of che sera sera. Put that on, I'll watch it all night long. But give six idiots small amounts of clothing, lock them up in a soon-to-be-abandoned movie studio where various murderious attacks have taken place and let the hijinks begin. Woo whoo....can't msis entertainment with that one can you?

No thanks, I'll still wit Cary Grant and James Stewart, Katharine Hepburn and Barbara Stanwick, Gene Kelly, Fred & Ginger, for me, I like my movie stars with glamour, with grace and brains, and a filter systems that lets than turn away crap So I see fewer ,movies that my contemporaries see, but I will happily see all of mine multiple times. Casablanca for instance I could probaby watch ever day until I die and still see something I hadn't noticed before. I would derve more pleasure from my 53rd viewing of Singing in the Rain than I would from my first viewing of anything by Quinten Tarintino.

Unless his film stars Gary Grant.

Photo of the day: Husband's Bow Ties

Husband wears one to work every morning, I'm sure during the interview process they thought he was trying to make a good impression. He did, But I think they were surprised to find its an everyday thing with him. He's become so known for this look that last Haloween the rest of his team dressed up as him. Dark slacks, a dress shirt, and a bow tie. It was so funny. None looked quite as dapper as he, but perhaps I'm partial. Anyway, it's nice to have a style and bow ties are his.

Photo of the day: All I Need is a Lock

Old keys are so much more interesting than new keys. New keys just unlock doors. These keys unlock the imagination.

Photo of the day: Drops

From our dear friend, Mother Nature.

Eavesdropping

Overheard at the grocery store:
Man on cell phone: I'll be so glad when the Olympics are over and I can go back to watching sports.

.....
Overheard at the gas station:
Woman talking to her husband who is putting gas in the car: Don't forget we need to stop at Walgreens before we go home. You're out of whopee pills.
(My first thought was Viagra. But I suppose it could be Vicodin.)

.....
Overheard at the shelter:
A woman to her friend: It was an OK first date but it would have been a lousy second date.

Photo of the day: Bygone Necessities

It used to be that everyone had silver-backed dressing table accessories. These two brushes have the initials of both my father and my grandfather, so I'm not sure which one owned them. But the live on my dresser. Never used, but a graceful reminder of an era long ago.

What's Wrong With Looking Out the Window?

I saw some horrible minivan/SUV ad today that features dual DVD players "for the kids." Oh, great. I think one is a lousy idea. But two? Who needs two?

What's wrong with looking out the window? I used to love it when I was a kid. Hell, I still do. I love it when Husband drives and I have free reign to look for deer and birds, read odd bumper stickers, look into people's yards. It's great fun. And don't give me that crap about "keeping kids entertained." That does keep kids entertained.

When I was a kid we used to all pile into a huge station wagon (no SUV. No pop-up table. No cup holders. No DVD player.) We had an 8-track player and AM radio. Eight people in one station wagon for a six-hour trip up to the mountains. Sure we fought and got bored and got on each other's nerves. But we also sang cheesy songs, played the license plate game, and played the "three things" game. Everyone had three things that had to find on their trip. Like a red pick-up truck or a motorcycle with two people on it. If you were the first to find your three things, you won.

But mostly we just looked out the windows. I think that's where I got my interest in photography, and my appreciation for seeing things that most people overlook. I would love thinking I was the only person to spot that herd of cows grazing on the hillside. Or the river playing hide-and-seek with the highway.

I think it's sad that we're raising a generation of kids who will never look out the window. Whose idea of a road trip with the family is to strap on headphones and watch their own movie. No talking. No interaction. Just you and Finding Nemo. But I recall our trips as a time when everyone in the family learned all the words to the Glenn Miller music my parents loved so much. As the time when we told bad knock-knock jokes, made up word games, and got inordinately excited when we saw a sign that began with the letter "X".

Remember that the journey is half the fun. It's not something to be gotten through quickly, ignoring each other, and not interacting. It's the perfect time to get your kids to keep an eye out for wildlife or to play the alphabet game with billboards. It's the time when all those camp songs you thought you'd forgotten should come back to you and be passed down.

I am so grateful my parents didn't have DVD players in the station wagon. Hell, if I remember correctly, they didn't even have enough seatbelts for all of us.

Photo of the day: A Rich Flower

It must be rich. It lives on the Stanford campus.

Photo of the day: First of the Season

I couldn't resist these strawberries in the store today. Not quite sweet enough, but I love having a bowl of strawberries with a light dusting of sugar as my midnight snack.

Wish List
I am not, by nature, an acquisitive person. Aside, that is, from wanting to own every book ever written and every world music CD ever produced. (OK, you can keep Danielle Steele and bad Hawaiian reggae.) But there are random things that I get into my head that I want. For example, ever since I was a little kid I have wanted a carousel horse. A classic one, mind you. Hand carved wood. To be even more specific, I want one from the carousel at the San Francisco Zoo. Of course I could never afford one, nor would I have anyplace to put it if I could. But still...

And also in the cannot afford list, put a Native American rug and/or blanket. I have always wanted one. Doesn't need to be antique, I'd be happy with anything. Provided it was authentic and beautiful. But then the cat would probably claw it up, so perhaps it's best I don't have one.

Then there are things that I don't necessarily care about owning, but I would love to touch or play with. Like a collapsable top hat. I've always thought they were cool. I just want to pop it out, collapse it back. Just once. Don't know why.

A tuning fork. A tuning fork? Yeah, why not. They fascinate me. I cannot sing or play a musical instrument. But I'd like to strike one and feel the note vibrate through my hand. Don't ask me to explain, I can't. I'd also like to strum a harp, just once. And get just one skrill out of a bagpipe.

I'd like to drive a Rolls Royce. Once. I'd like to write one time with an actual quill pen dipped into an actual inkwell. I'd like to use an old fashioned cocktail shaker and one of those delightful 1920's soda syphons. Again, once would be enough. I'd like to strike a pair of symbols and a big kettle drum. I'd like to wear a blonde wig for a day and see if the world is any different.

I want a silver cigarette case. I do not smoke. So why do I want one? Surely I cannot be the only one who has these unexplainably weird desires. What do you want, either to own or to try, that you really can't explain?

Photo of the day: The Bike Rack

Layers of wheels and chain and gears. Stretching on into...well, not infinity....but at least into the parking lot.

Photo of the day: You Are Here

The last of "Solar Biology." Are you sick of it yet? Well, I promise something different tomorrow.

Memo to self -- take pictures tomorrow of something other than this blasted book,

Focus

Husband and I have been glued to the Olympics since the start. We're total Olympic junkies and cannot get enough.

One thing, though, that has struck me time and again is the look of absolute focus certain athletes get before a race/match/event. it's something in the eyes. A sort of "I'll do whatever" look that makes you feel like they're going to give it 110%.

I happen to know for a fact, despite rarely looking myself in the eye, that I have never had that look on my face. I have never in my life had a moment of absolute and total commitment. I've been committed. I've been focused. But I've never had that cold-blooded look of a predator about to eat everyone in the competition.

And perhaps "competition" is the key word here. I'm not a competitive person. I hate playing games with people I love because I always want them to win. Husband will tell you I've been known to cheat in his favor. No. Really. I have.

It's this quality in me, though, that would make me a lousy athlete. I don't have it in me to win at all costs. I have it in me to be dedicated, sure; to give something my best. But not in any area where I'm competing against someone else.

Back when I was an acting major I would definitely find myself getting into character before shows, and would put my mind on my performance. But it wasn't to the exclusion of all else. No matter how focused I was, I would still notice things like the stage manager's beer breath or the fact that the lighting guy was wearing white sneakers. I could never, ever, manage to block everything out of my mind and think about nothing but Shakespeare.

And this quality of focus, which denies me my Olympic gold (that and the total lack of any type of athletic skills) is also responsible for my lack of sleep. I am an insomniac because I cannot shut of my mind. I will lie in bed at night and my mind is racing 95 mph over bills I need to pay, duties I need to take care of. I'll be lying there thinking that I'm trying to sleep, and then realize I've been writing a short story in my head or trying to remember who played Sam in Casablanca. (And yes, I know it's Dooley Wilson.)

I've tried bio feedback and acupuncture. I've tried chiropractic care and meditation. I've tried sleep studies and keeping a dream journal. The only thing that reliably gives me a good night's sleep is Ambien. And as for meditation, I'm a total failure. I do not possess a brain that can be shut off. I've tried for over 40 years and never once been completely quiet, blank, focused. Not on getting down the hill faster than anyone else. Not on pushing out care and focusing on my breathing. Not on shutting it down and getting some sleep.

Like many of my photographs, I am out-of-focus. And I will never be in the Olympics. Or, alas, sleep.

The Man Who Broke Into Auschwitz
One of those stories that deserves more exposure. Dennis Avey an amazing man.

Photo of the day: Choose Your Own Adventure


Or let "Solar Biology" choose for you.

O Canada
With the Olympics on, and the great showing, I had a question about the Canadian national anthem, "O Canada." Aside from the "Star Spangled Banner" this is the national anthem I know the best. As a hockey fan, I have often heard it before a US team played a Canadian team.

I've actually heard it so often I pretty much know it by heart. The English version, anyway. Here are the lyrics:
O Canada!
Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!
From far and wide, O Canada,
We stand on guard for thee.
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

If you're interested, here are the French lyrics:
Ô Canada!
Terre de nos aïeux,
Ton front est ceint de fleurons glorieux!
Car ton bras sait porter l'épée,
Il sait porter la croix!
Ton histoire est une épopée
Des plus brillants exploits.
Et ta valeur, de foi trempée,
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.

Now here is where things get interesting. Look at the translation of the French version:
O Canada!
Thy brow is wreathed with a glorious garland of flowers.
As is thine arm ready to wield the sword,
So also is it ready to carry the cross.
Thy history is an epic
Of the most brilliant exploits.
Thy valour steeped in faith
Will protect our homes and our rights
Will protect our homes and our rights.

It's a completely different song! Aside from the phrase "O Canada" (which I always thought was "Oh Canada") there is nothing in common. I wonder if it's the only national anthem where there are two accepted versions that are so different.

Oh, and if you want to impress the hell out of your family the next time Canada wins gold, sing along to the version in Inukituit:
ᐆ ᑲᓇᑕ! ᓇᖕᒥᓂ ᓄᓇᕗᑦ!
ᐱᖁᔭᑏ ᓇᓚᑦᑎᐊᖅᐸᕗᑦ.
ᐊᖏᒡᓕᕙᓪᓕᐊᔪᑎ,
ᓴᙱᔪᓗᑎᓪᓗ.
ᓇᖏᖅᐳᒍ, ᐆ ᑲᓇᑕ,
ᒥᐊᓂᕆᑉᓗᑎ.
ᐆ ᑲᓇᑕ! ᓄᓇᑦᓯᐊ!
ᓇᖏᖅᐳᒍ ᒥᐊᓂᕆᑉᓗᑎ,
ᐆ ᑲᓇᑕ, ᓴᓚᒋᔭᐅᖁᓇ!

Oh, you don't read Inkuit? Here is the transliteration:

Uu Kanata! nangmini nunavut!
Piqujatii nalattiaqpavut.
Angiglivalliajuti,
Sanngijulutillu.
Nangiqpugu, Uu Kanata,
Mianiripluti.
Uu Kanata! nunatsia!
Nangiqpugu mianiripluti,
Uu Kanata, salagijauquna!

Canada. So cool for so many reasons.

A Step Down for the Big Guy

God really has come down in the world, hasn't He? Used to be when you had a religious experience, the Virgin Mary appeared to you; spoke to you. After all, that's what Bernadette saw. Or a blazing cross, a la Constantine.

Now, however, it's strictly low rent. Jesus appears in a grilled cheese sandwich. Mary on a tortilla. Miraculous appearances on the dirty window of an SUV or a paint stain on a concrete floor. That's what miraculous sightings are referred to. Look, the Virgin Mary on a pancake.

Really? Here we are with the being you believe is the Creator of All Things and you think the best he can come up with is a fromage portrait? The really sad thing is that people pay for these things. One of these things went up on eBay and fetched a few thousand dollars. Money that, if you were truly trying to live a Christian life, could have been much better used to feed the hungry and clothe the poor.

And people wonder why I don't believe in God.

Photo of the day: Solar Biology

More from the book Solar Biology. I'm a Capricorn, for what it's worth.

Photo of the day: Star Signs


From an 1880s book on "Solar Biology."

My Great-Aunt and the Titanic

As a postscript to yesterday's piece about my grandmother...

The odd thing about Nan was that her sister, Auntie Clemmie, was exactly her opposite. Where Nan was small and brittle, Clemmie was round and ample. Where Nan was disapproving, Clemmie was the center of the party. Nan never touched alcohol. Clemmie, in tune with our Basque roots, never went a day without pouring a glass from a jug of what she called "Dago Red." She was noted for saying that when she got down to half a case she knew she needed to go shopping.

Clemmie as fun and boisterous; with an innocently naughty sense of humor and a big personality. Nan gave every event attended the air of sanctity. Clemmie was known for cooking meals for dozens of people, specializing in Basque sweetbreads, which personality terrified me. Nan made crepes once. They were delicious. She never made them, or anything else, ever again. Nor would she ever teach me, in spite of my repeated requests.

Clemmie would spice her conversation with bits of French, often a bit risque. Nan rarely spoke French, and then only to criticize. (Her favorite expression was basically a French version of "shut up.")

Clemmie would dance to rock and roll at family parties, moving shaking her ample bosom and having a grand old time -- not caring if she looked a fool (which she didn't). I recall Nan dancing only once, with my father, a slow, sedate, and entirely proper dance at a family wedding.

One of my loyal readers (Duke, author of the fabulous blog It's a Noir World) commented that grandparents used to have more personality. I completely agree. Generations ago grandparents were either stereotypically wonderful people who spoiled you at Christmas and baked amazing pies, or they were curmudgeonly characters with eccentric personalities. Today grandparents drive BMWs and play tennis. Hardly the same.

I did, finally, get the wonderful grandmother I'd always wanted though. When I married Husband. His wonderful Mom-Mom was a total character. Strong, brave, totally outrageous and maker of the world's strongest Egg Nog (the recipe of which included an entire bottle of Four Roses). Sadly, Mom-Mom died a few years ago. But we have memories of her all around the house and she will always live in my memory.

I recall be terrified to meet her. Husband and I were already in love and living together when we went to Philadelphia for my first meeting with his mom, stepdad, and grandmother. Husband was the only grandchild and Mom-Mom was, quite naturally, very protective. She knew I was "the one" and if I didn't pass muster, Husband told me that she would make no secret of the fact. I had no nerves meeting his mom, but the prospect of living up to his grandmother's standards filled me with dread. And I don't scare easily.

But honestly within fifteen minutes it seems like she'd sized me up and approved. She wanted the best for her boy and while I still don't think I deserve him, she saw that I loved him and would take care of him. That's all she needed to know.

She was an incredible woman and earning her approval remains one of the proudest achievements of my life.

My Grandmother and the Titanic

Family lore has it that we're only here because of the Titanic.

According to my paternal grandmother her mother hated it in San Francisco. She and her husband had come over from France and she was miserable. After much moaning and complaining, my great-grandfather agreed to return to the old country after a period of five years.

And then the Titanic sank and my great-grandmother was so terrified she vowed never to set foot on a boat again and so the family stayed.

As I said, this is family lore. I also think it's apocryphal. I believe it's the one fanciful lie ever told by my staid and sober grandmother.

She was a tiny, rather bitter, decidedly un-grandmotherly grandmother with strict Catholic values and no sense of humor. She believed in two things: God and the San Francisco Giants. There was nothing cinnamon-scented or welcoming about her. We called her "Nan" and she was the kind of woman who would say the rosary aloud on long road trips up to Lake Tahoe because she firmly believed every trip would end in a fiery accident and she wanted to be prepared.

She was entirely miserly and cashed her Social Security checks every month, got cash, and kept the cash in a WWII ammo case under her bed. Each envelope was carefully totaled in pencil with a slip of paper rubber-banded around the whole thing with a running tab. At any one time she had several thousand dollars in that ammo case, and would give each of us five dollars for Christmas.

Nan smelled of Jean Nate perfume and old roses. She always had a kleenex up the sleeve of her sweater. She would sit in the kitchen, in the dark, and listen to Giants games on AM radio; swearing at the boys in French. She made huge, heavy, hideous quilts out of yo-yos of cloth and then never give them to anyone. She would go to church several times a week and nag us when we didn't go to confession regularly -- although we always had very little to confess. She told me I was going to hell but never told me why.

She had a knack of making you feel guilty for having fun. If we were outside, playing, making too much noise she'd knock loudly on the kitchen window and wag her finger at us. She would tell us to keep down the noise. And when my parents would go away and leave me with her she'd insist on watching The Lawrence Welk Show and would eat Salisbury Steak TV dinners.

If I'm making her sound unpleasant, it's because she was. I don't think she ever truly loved anything or anyone except for her only child, my father. When he died she wailed like a banshee for an hour and then stayed silent for about two weeks. And then, impossible as it may seem, she got even more bitter and cranky.

I tried to love her, because I was told you're supposed to love your grandmother. And she was the only grandparent I ever knew. But I could never connect with her. She held me at emotional arm's length for her whole life and never did anything to invite the work necessary to break through her wall. She seemed to be fonder of my brothers, perhaps because they reminded her of my father and I and my sisters did not. In retrospect I feel sorry for her, but at the time I just felt puzzled.

It's hard to feel affection for someone who never shows affection to you. I think I showed her respect, but never felt more than that. And on the odd times we would hug, I would feel a distinct coldness when I wrapped my arms around her thin, bony frame. As if I were hugging someone who was already dead.

Nan hated spending money, as I said. And in spite of the fact that she had a great deal of it, she dressed in cheap clothes with patches and holes. When she died, we had to go out and buy her a new dress because she hadn't anything decent to be buried in. That remains one of the saddest memories of my life. Not because the occasion was sad, because the situation was.

She lived with us when I was growing up. Eight of us in one house. Two parents. Five kids. One island. I don't know how my siblings felt about her or feel about her today because after she died, she sort of disappeared. She's a photo in an album, and an occasional quirky story about the one time in my life she made us crepes. And the one lie she made up about her mother and the Titanic.

Photo of the day: What the...?


I just like the odd angle of this one. And the color of the wood.

Photo of the day: Lamplight

Outside of a pink fire station. Pink!

A Good Day (Cat-Wise)
Some days of cat duty are better than others.

Don't get me wrong, I love every single day that I'm at the shelter. But there are some days where it seems like I spend all my time cleaning cages or dealing with just-this-side-of-feral cats more interested in ripping off my arm than being socialized.

But today but was but one of those really good days. The majority of my time was spent with the inhabitants of "The Condo of Love." It's a kennel with five (5!!) 10-month old kittens. When I opened the cage my lap was instantly inundated with warm, purring bodies who decided I was their best friend. There was fighting for prime lap space. There was licking. There was batting of my head. There was ... well, love.

Luckily one of the get acquainted rooms was empty to I picked up the nearest kitten and took her into the room. Then I closed the door, went back to the cage and got the next kitty. Lather. Rise. Repeat. Once all five were running crazily around the room I left them alone, cleaned out their cage and got it all cozy for their return, and then went to the room to play with the kitties. I swear while I left them by themselves, they multiplied. There must have been 17 cats in that room. There was wrestling. There was meowing. There was attacking the bench, eating the towel, and trying to crawl into my bag.

And that was before I pulled out the toys.

The biggest hit of the day was the laser pointer. One of the kitties (appropriately named "Livewire") went insane chasing the little red light. The other cats very politely took turns in my lap. One would curl up and get the love while the others would play. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, the lap cat would suddenly hop down and decide the laser pointer was more interesting than the attention. A few seconds later another would move into the lap for his or her turn. But then...chaos. They all wanted the lap at once. I was literally covered in cats. One on my lap, another on my stretched-out legs. One curled up next to me, one trying to crawl up my arm (and eventually succeeding and spreading himself across my neck and wedged between my back and the wall).

For some reason, the song "Love Machine" kept going through my head. Along with the thought that I am the luckiest person in the world.

Photo of the day: Things Are Looking Up

I love old buildings. And I love how much you can see when you look up at what surrounds you.

Back in TIme
I went to the funeral mass for the mother of a high school friend today. It was pretty weird. For one thing I came face-to-face with half of my high school. It was a definite case of the way-back machine. I think I saw a half dozen people I went to high school with and haven't seen since graduation. It was a bit odd to see these people, remember them as young crazy people, full of dreams and energy, and hear them talk about kids and job troubles.

The other strange bit was being back in the Catholic church of my childhood. For one thing it's amazing how much of the old ritual I recall. For another, it was surprisingly Medieval. The "bells and smells" that haven't changed since back when pope's had mistresses. It was all so 12th century. The sung responses. The candles and incense. The music and flowers. The sermon about resurrection and everlasting life. The communion. I felt like I'd gone back in time to a completely different century, as if I should be veiled and holding a prayer book.

Instead I stood and sat as instructed, admired the stained glass, and wondered (not for the first time) how it is some people have faith and some don't. Me? Not so much.

Photo of the day: Another Cryptic Note from our Engineering Overloards

They're making less sense,but they;re doing in interestingly at least.

Photo of the day; Self Explanatory

So? What is it? Does it work?

Scenes from Silver Creek: Mrs. Liddle

Mrs. Amelia Liddle was the most theatrical person in all of Silver Creek. Rumor had it she had once been a Rockette and had appeared on Broadway. Rumor was wrong. But somewhere in her dim past she developed a love of the theatre (with an “re” always with an “re”).

She was costume mistress for every production Silver Creek High ever put on. She wrote and directed plays for children at the Rec Center. She put on puppet shows, pantomimes, even some of the worst Shakespeare ever performed. (Picture Romeo and Juliet where Romeo was a foot shorter and 50 pounds lighter than Juliet.) Every Halloween she would dress up in the most amazing costumes and pass out homemade caramel apples. And every Christmas she directed the pageant at every church within a 15 mile radius.

And above all, she instilled in every child who came into her orbit with a love of all things creative. She gave the artistic cheap sets of watercolors and thick pads of butcher paper. She gave the musical free singing or piano lessons. Every budding Olivier got a chance to perform on the stage she set up in her garage. And every would-be Astaire got tap or ballet lessons.

When I was about six or seven and decided I was going to be the next Katharine Hepburn, it was Mrs. Liddle who gave me free scripts to non-royalty plays and taught me to project to the second balcony. She gave me my breakthrough role as Rabbit #2 in an Easter play. I still remember my first line “But what will we do if it rains?” I moaned that line with such intensity, such depth of feeling that I’m sure everyone in the audience (except for my brothers, on whom such passion was lost) wept with total and absolute fear that it would, in fact, rain.

She was my first and only singing teacher. In her booming, Ethel Merman-esque voice she’d lead me through selections from Oklahoma with decreasing enthusiasm as she and I both slowly realized that I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. But once she got singing, it was hard to get her to stop and often our lessons would end with her belting out her “You’ll Never Walk Alone” with such force and depth of feeling you could feel the windows rattle. Her voice was an almost physical force, emanating from her giant prow of a bosom, typically covered in layers of costume jewelry.

Mrs. Liddle, much to her disappointment, had three athletic but entirely talentless sons. She loved them all, but never quite got over the feeling that God had somehow misplaced their parentage. She was sure at least one would win an Oscar or paint a masterpiece. But, alas, all they wanted to do was run around a track or throw a football. All were tone deaf and had two left feet. Each failed miserably at piano, drawing, singing, or acting. Her youngest, Eddie, at least felt enough filial affection to try out for school plays. But his intense stage fright would render his lines inaudible. And for boys thoroughly coordinated on the playing field, each was tremendously and surprisingly awkward on the dance floor. The middle boy, Simon, tripped up his date to the winter formal and she broke her ankle (and the romance).

Mr. Liddle was something of an enigma. His sole contribution to theatricality was being the news director of a local AM radio station. He had a commanding voice, which seemed to absorb the whole of his personality as he was physically almost invisible. I often saw him at church and five minutes later couldn’t possibly describe him. I don’t know if it was because Mrs. Liddle was so larger than life that she overshadowed him, or if it was because he truly was unremarkable. But, as Mrs Liddle once said “he doesn’t ever get in my way” so he perhaps he was used to standing in the background.

Most unexpectedly, in my senior year of high school. Mrs. Liddle died. She’s gone into the hospital for a routine operation but her huge heart gave out and she died on the table. The entire town went into mourning. When news came, the principal made the announcement over the loudspeaker at school and then dismissed classes for the afternoon. Stores on Union Street closed or taped up hastily made RIP signs. I saw big, tough high school athletes cry at the memory of Mrs. Liddle helping them to survive the terrors of the church choir or the summer musical.

Our Lady of Angels was packed for her funeral mass. It seemed as if every child in town, and half of the adults, had come into contact with Mrs. Liddle. The choir seemed lost without their director, and quieter without her soaring soprano. And those of us who had benefited from her generous expertise, her enormous talent, and her Halloween caramel apples sat a bit lost, feeling as if all of Silver Creek had gotten quieter.

Which it had.

Photo of the day: Gathering No Rolling Stones

A lovely little patch of moss growing under the downspout in our backyard.

Olympic Fever
Yeah, I admit it. I got it. Husband and I are both huge Olympic fans (although we'll have to decided between watching the Olympics and watching the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show). We've been glued to the TV all weekend and will continue to be obsessed until they put out the torch.

We're not all "USA! USA!" about it. We'll root for the underdog. We love it when some athlete from, say, Moldova, wins their country's first winter medal. We're all about the competition. Whoever seems to work the hardest or gives the best performance is the guy we'll be pulling for.

Our favorite sport is biathlon -- the cross-country skiing, stopping to shoot, sport. Based upon its military history, it makes perfect sense. But when you take it apart, it seems insane. Like swimming and then stopping to play badminton. How they do it is beyond me. They ski flat out and get all exhausted and then suddenly stop, slow their breathing and heart rate somehow, and blow away five targets.

We're not so fond of the "extreme" sports, but we'll watch pretty much anything.

And the coverage so far? Iffy. I am already sick of the Dreamworks movie ads where they try to tie the Olympics into their upcoming film. And there are a few commercials that make me lunge for the mute button. The sports themselves are OK, but again overdone with the "tragic athlete we're going to focus on with the dead grandmother whose parents had to sell their blood to send kid to the games" stories. But that's to be expected. We were a little pissed on Saturday when the women's biathlon coverage go 6 1/2 minutes (we timed out) out of a four hour broadcast. But apparently biathlon isn't a commercial sport. I suppose if we want fuller coverage we'll need to move to Norway.

In other news, our book group meets tonight. One of the highlights of the month. Sadly tonight's gathering will be thin due to illness, a rehearsal conflict, and a visit from distant family. I think there will only be five of us. But there will be lively talk, some yummy cheese, good friends and, in honor of the Olympics, Nanaimo Bars.

Photo of the day: Steve's Tree

Signs of life on the apricot tree that my best friend Steve planted right after I moved into this house.

Photo of the day: A Small Valentine's Rose

For all the people that I love. For all the reasons wby I love them.

Cathouse

A big thank you to Don, the world's best ex-husband. He made this little cathouse so I can keep feeding the ferals in our backyard. I had a rickety contraption made of a Tupperware storage box and bricks, but the raccoons knocked it over pretty much every night. I needed something to keep the food dry in the rainy weather, and Don made this. It's incredibly cute and a perfect size. Big enough for the cats to poke their heads in and feed, but small enough that the raccoons can't get in. Yay!

Photo of the day: The Real Golden Arches

Stanford. Circa 2009 A.D.

Hallmark Love
I've never been a fan of Valentine's Day. First off, I cannot be romantic just because it says so on the calendar. There are days when I am extra in love with Husband, and days when I am just normally in love. And it has nothing to do with the date, but everything to do with who we are.

Secondly, I don't like the idea that people need a commercial holiday to remember the people in their lives.

The only good thing about losing those you love to AIDS is that it reinforces how important it is to make sure that everyone in your life knows you love them. And luckily it's a lesson that I have learned.

I say "I love you" a lot. And I always mean it. It's not a toss off, or something that I say lightly. If I have said this to you, it is because I love you. Because you are dear to me an always will be. I suppose it is nice, once a year, to get a card or flowers that make you feel appreciated. But I find it means much more when I am appreciated on an average Tuesday rather than on V-Day. Because it seems more sincere, more real.

To be loved on February 14th is a very good thing. But to be loved on August 9th is even better.

Photo of the day: Neverfear, Stpring is Near!

At least it is in my mom's front garden.

Photo of the day: Up or Down

Everyone choses to the escalator. The stairs are lonely.

Connections
It's no surprise, having majored in Classics and Art History, that I am interested in the past. Two years ago I started looking into my family tree, and that of Husband.

I love genealogy and the stories of who we came from and how. Not just my family, but anybody's. I want to know about your great-grandparents and how they left Ireland/Poland/Mexico to come to America. I've just finished watching the first episode of Faces of America, another wonderful Henry Louis Gates special on PBS. This time he's looking into the roots of Americans whose ancestors came to the US for various reasons. He discussed how Kristi Yamaguchi's mother was born in a relocation camp at the same time her grandfather was fighting for the US. And how Mike Nichols' family escaped Nazi Germany just in time to avoid the Holocaust.

My own family story is rather tame. On my father's side we come from French Basque people, mostly in and around the village of Pau (known now mainly for being a stop on the Tour de France). On my mother's side we're originally from Scotland and then from Canada....but I've hit a dead end and cannot seem to go any further. I'm hampered by the fact that the ancestor who left Scotland was named John Campbell -- and it seems every other man in Scotland at the time was named John Campbell. Her mother's family is also a dead end. I can get back to my great-grandparents, but no further.

But, alas, no Charlemagne. No Henry VIII. No royalty or riches. I don't even have any good outlaws. My maternal grandfather did make illegal beer during Prohibition, but that's about the only black sheep I can find. And the only real interesting story is that my paternal grandmother and her family lived through the great 1906 San Francisco earthquake. She was 9 at the time and remembered it clearly. It knocked her out of bed. She lined up in the park for bread. But family stories weren't tossed around the dinner table, unfortunately, and so I knew little about where I came from. Research through various online ancestry websites have helped, as has some documents that come from distant cousins still living in Pau. Those documents get my father's family back to the 1600s, but I must confess to having my doubts as to their accuracy. According to their research, everyone in my family lived to be 80 or 90, which is hard to believe since longevity wasn't one of the hallmarks of the 17th century.

Husband's family is in many ways more interesting. He is African American and we've been able to get back to his slave ancestors. Of course, it's almost impossible to go farther back than that. We're fortunate in that the family who owned his many-times-great grandfather (and I can't believe someone once "owned" his relations) was prominent in the county and there's a lot of information about them. Husband has always been curious about his identity so last year for his birthday I gave him a DNA test to help give him more information about his history.

I find it hard to grasp the reality that there is slavery in his past. It's even harder to accept the more recent racism. The fact that his grandmother, one of the most beautiful and admirable women I've ever known, had to ride in the back of the bus just burns me. This is my family, the people that I love, and yet at one point they were discriminated against, hated and, most unbelievable of all, owned.

So my sheep-herding Basque ancestors had the easy life. But dull. And I have to admit, if there were going to do a PBS special on my family, nobody would watch. Including, truth be told, me.

Photo of the day: Lost at Sea

In the Presidio, looking out towards Land's End. A monument to those lost at sea during WWII. How beautiful, and how sad, to spend you days looking out on an ocean from which they will never return.

Photo of the day: My Namesake

Thanks, Decca.

Address Unknown
An unassuming little volume that nevertheless packs quite a punch. Address Unknown by Kathrine Kressmann Taylor is a powerful anti-Nazi short story, written in 1938. It is a series of letters between two business partners, one a Jew based in San Francisco, the other a gentile who has returned to his native Germany and taken up the Nazi cause.

It is surprisingly short, but equally as impressive. And quite devilishly plotted. I cannot explain fuller, or else I would give the plot away, but I have to admit that I found this book lived up to its reputation. It was hugely influential when it first came out, providing one of the first glimpses into just how bad things were for Jews in Germany. After the war it became somewhat forgotten but a new edition has been released and certainly deserves a wider audience.

Photo of the day: Cheers

In honor of the Saints. In fond remembrance of a trip to New Orleans, and drinking shots out of test-tubes at a cheesy tourist bar on Bourbon Street.

Chopin at Midnight
Sometimes I don't mind being an insomniac. There's a nice sort of calmness in being up all night. I can watch movies or catch up on whatever I've saved in TiVo. I can read trashy books all night or do something improving like delving into Dickens or browsing through the Brontes. Sometimes I'll listen to music, try to find something suitable for the book, the weather, and my mood.

When I'm in a classical mood I always turn to Chopin. More specifically, Chopin's piano works played by Vladimir Ashkenazy. I'm surprised I haven't worn a groove in my CD because I play it so often. It's perfect for a rainy night and a good book. Oddly enough, the same music is also perfect for a heat wave and total brain-candy-trash. Quite versatile, that Chopin.

The classical realm is one area of music where I will gladly admit my ignorance. I can beat anyone at world music knowledge (thank you KZSU), and I'm pretty good at blues, certain genres of jazz, and bits of bluegrass and country. I know my 80s pop as well as anyone, and have a fairly good grasp of what's new in the world of music. But when it comes to what's old well, there I'm lost. I've been to the symphony, but not too many. I've seen operas, but don't particularly like them. And yet I love opera CDs -- not entire operas, but certain singers performing selections from many composers. My favorite is Jose Cura, who has a warm and delicious voice. His music is reserved for intricate and cryptic literary novels full of delicious passages of prose. I cannot put on Jose Cura and curl up with, say, Nora Roberts. But he goes quite well with Arturo Perez-Reverte.

Oddly enough, since I'm surrounded by jazz, I tend not to listen to it on my own. Husband is both a jazz radio DJ and a jazz journalist (in fact he's just gotten the gig to cover the Portland Jazz Festival for JazzTimes Magazine later this month). His collection of jazz is huge, varied, and intimidating. It's so intimidating that it's in it's own room. The front room has my music and our joint collection of classical and blues. But the music office is his domain. I am perfectly free to go in and select anything I want, but I wouldn't even know where to begin. So I keep my own selection of favorites out here. They're pretty thin, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, the big bands of WWII. The Brubeck and the Monk, the Coltrane and the Pharoah Sanders, they're all in the music office.

But tonight, it's Chopin and The Pre-Raphaelites in Love by Gay Daly. Excuse me, won't you, Frederic is calling me.

Photo of the day: A Capital Idea

Ah, my deep and abiding love for Corinthian capitals. All those lovely acanthus leaves. Modern architecture is so dull, isn't it?

Olympics
Husband and I are total Olympic junkies. For the entire two weeks we'll be glued to the TV, watching athletes we've never heard of compete in sports we would never normally watch. It's an addiction. Winter or summer games, it doesn't matter, we'll watch it all.

We've gotten into the habit of watching the opening ceremonies with dinner from the host country. For the Athens Olympics we made gyros. The Torino games featured pasta. What the hell are we going to make for the Vancouver games? Aside from Canadian bacon, Molson beer, and Tim Horton's doughnuts I can't think of typically Canadian food. Seal meat? Anyway, we'll have to figure that one out. But we totally love the opening. All the pageant. The over-the-top effects and entertainment. And yes, i still do get a tiny lump in my throat when I see all the athletes marching in. Not just team USA, but everyone. All full of hopes and dreams. All dedicated and young. Healthy and strong. Hoping that a lifetime of work will pay off in the next few weeks. It's enough to make even an old cynic like I get all misty.

Our favorite winter sport is biathlon. Weren't expect that, were you? We got totally addicted to it the last winter games and cannot wait for this year's competition to begin. It's the cross country skiing flat out and then stopping to shoot accurately sport, which sounds less like a sport than a Nazi war tactic. And it did, in fact, stem from a military exercise. But it's so cool to watch because the lead can change so fast. If you miss a shot you get a time penalty, so the first guy into the shooting range might actually end up in fourth place at the end of the round because he missed shots and the other guys went clean. It's nail biting to watch because you'll find yourself cheering for some guy (the big money is going on somebody Nordic) and he'll miss one shot and that drops him back six places in something like 10 seconds.

We'll also be watching hockey. Husband is a huge hockey fan (go Flyers!) and it's always interesting to see NHL players competing on their national teams. It must be odd when some guy you play with on the same team suddenly becomes your opponent because you're from Canada and he's from Finland. Three Flyers (his favorite team -- that's my Philly boy) will be in the games, all playing for team Canada. I'm thinking it'll be a Canada vs. Finland or Sweden final. But it's gonna be a good time no matter who ends up in the finals.

There are a few sports that we care nothing about. Like snowboarding and freestyle skiing. But everything else we'll settle in and actually find ourselves caring who wins in long track speed skating or luge. And yes, we'll even watch curling.

Photo of the day: Cowardice

White feathers were once used as a sign of cowardice. Men who were deserters or even conscious objectors would receive them, usually anonymously (because the senders were too cowardly?) as a sign that others thought him a shirker. There have even been movies with that title, two of them I believe, where, of course, the recipients went on to brave deeds of derring-do that proved the senders wrong. The hero even saves the life on one of his detractors.

But there's no symbol here. Just two white feathers I found on a walk.

Words and Books
My fascination with the English language occasionally leads me towards speculations for which I cannot find an answer.

For instance, is there a word for a word where you have a negative but no opposite positive? As an example, you might here the word "unkempt" but no one is ever "kempt." You might be told that you look disheveled, but nobody will ever call you sheveled. You get the idea. Couth and uncouth. Gruntled and disgruntled. Someone suggested that the concept can be described as "lost positives" which sounds great. But I think there needs to be a word for something where you only hear the negative and never the positive.

Another example. Is there a word for those two-word rhyming nonsense phrases like hocus-pocus or helter-skelter? If not, there should be.

I also have this weird thing where I cannot continue with a book if I come across a word I do not know. I have to put the book down, get the dictionary, and find out what the word is. Usually this is not a problem as I have quite a large vocabulary (no doubt because I am forever looking up words). But every so often I come across a book where there are so many words I do not know that it's disruptive to be forever putting it down. Such was the case with Lempriere's Dictionary by Lawrence Norfolk. I read it many years ago and it is #2 on my all-time favorite fiction books of all time. (Number 1, for those of you who care, is Possession by A.S. Byatt. Rounding out my top three is Pride and Prejudice.)

Now, back to Lempriere's Dictionary. It is a dense and yet captivating story of John Lempriere, an actual 18th century mythologist who wrote about the stories of the ancient Greeks and Romans. The book follows his research and the weird parallels that occur in his life that seem to mirror the classic myths. It is most definitely not an easy read. And it is full of obscure and intricate words that were completely unfamiliar to me. Eventually I jotted down every word in a notebook and would look them all up at the end of the day, rather than having to constantly stop and lose the flow of the narrative. I picked up this book ages ago, and yet just the other day I ran across that notebook and knew instantly what this list of odd words referred to. Nobody I know has ever read this book. I can't even recommend it to them, as it's such an intimidating volume. You must love mythology, words, mysteries, and intricate plots. You have to be patient and willing to work for the outcome. But if you do, you will be highly rewarded.

In case you are even mildly interested, here are my favorite non-fiction books of all time:
1. Testament of Youth by Vera Brittain. Taken from the diary she kept during WWI. She was a sheltered student who volunteered as a nurse on the front lines. During the course of the war she lost her only brother, her fiance, and her two best friends. The loss of all she loved is beautifully captured. It made her one of my heroes. The way she turned such a negative into such a positive. After the war she became committed to the cause of pacifism and worked for it the rest of her life. She's not an entirely likable person, but you cannot help but respect her courage and strength.
2. Between Silk and Cyanide by Leo Marks. A fascinating look at British espionage during the second World War. Marks was one of the code-creators who came up with ways for British spies behind enemy lines to communicate information back to England. The fact that it's true only makes the nail-biting exploits of the brave men and women of the SOE more captivating.
3. The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson. On the surface, an odd topic for a book - a look at the 1893 Chicago World's Fair combined with the story of one of America's first serial killers. But it works. It's a well-researched, well-written tale about a changing world, an amazing event, and an evil mind. It's full of fascinating information about how the fairgrounds were built and what an effect the fair had on both American and international culture. The crime section is equally interesting and you read how one man planned and committed a series of horrendous crimes.

OK, now I want to go book shopping. Thank goodness for Amazon!

Photo of the day: Hardware

I love random bits of ironmongery (how's that for a word?). This is on a telephone pole a few houses up the block. No idea what it is, aside from something that I couldn't resist photographing.

Another Lost Language
I came across this London Times article about the last surviving member of an Andaman Island tribe dying, taking with her 65,000 years of culture. And a language.

Languages are as endangered a species at the salt marsh harvest mouse or the giant panda. And equally worth saving.

In college, as a Classics major, I spent several years studying so-called "dead languages:" Latin, ancient Greek, Egyptian hieroglyphics, Sanskrit. Useful for nothing, but one obscure proud achievement -- I've read The Iliad in the original. I also studied one modern language, French, which I completely forgot the day after the final exam.

I'm fascinated by languages, and by the way they survive in spite of all odds. When Europeans took over North America and stole land from the native peoples, in addition to smallpox and Christianity, they also made it illegal to speak their own language. Children were forced onto reservation schools and told to speak English only. There were severe penalties for speaking in their mother tongue.

Ironically it was one of these indigenous languages, Navajo, that played a crucial role in the allied victory in WWII. If you don't know the story of the Navajo Code Talkers, you should. Using their ancient language, Navajo Marines set up communications stations throughout the Pacific and spoke to each other, openly over the radio, knowing full well the Japanese were monitoring their transmissions. But the Japanese were never able to decipher the code. It was a simple substitution code, using real Navajo words, (using "turtle" to mean "tank" for instance) but outside of the Navajo reservations, nobody knew their language -- certainly not the Japanese, and so valuable information was able to be transmitted without fear of the enemy catching on.

What I find amusing is that these young men who still spoke Navajo did so because they broke the law. They and their families thought it was important to keep their culture alive and so, in spite of laws against it, they spoke in the old tongue at home. And because so much of Native American culture is passed down orally, many other native languages still survive, thankfully.

For a while, they were in danger of dying. But a new renaissance and pride in native culture, combined with the establishment of tribal colleges, made it possible (and even admirable) for elders to pass on their knowledge. Not just of how to speak Hopi or Lakota, but of other cultural treasures, such as how to weave, make pottery or baskets, and the correct way to conduct tribal ceremonies.

And the ones that kept the flame going were the outlaws. Those who refused to do what they were told. In public they'd learn English, just as the Europeans insisted. But at home, with the doors closed, elders would pass on centuries-old stories in centuries-old languages. And because of that, we haven't lost these linguistic treasures.

Thanks to technology, we'll never truly lose another language. We can record the old ones telling the ancient tales. But it's not the same as having a native speaker around to teach their gift.

Many years ago I was touring the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-Upon-Avon. At the time they were putting together an impressive archive of Shakespeare being read in every language on the planet. Everything from Hamlet in Swahili to Measure For Measure in Mandarin. I'll always remember the guide mentioning how people all over the world had gotten into the spirit of the challenge and gave their grandparents passages of the Bard to read in whatever language they spoke. They had dozens of African dialects, sonnets read in the many languages of India, and everything from Icelandic to Esperanto. They also had one tape that, up to that point, they had never been able to identify. They couldn't tell what play it was from, but it came from Canada and they thought it might have been Inuit or some other First Nations language of Canada. But they weren't sure. They said for a while they asked tour groups if anyone visiting spoke Inuit, hoping they could play the tape and get an "yes" or "no" as to whether they even had the right language. Identifying the play seemed an impossibility.

I have often thought about that, and wondered if they ever figured it out.

Some day I'd love to see a Cherokee version of Much Ado.

Things That I've Laughed At Lately
Because we all need a good laugh:

First up we have Charlie Brooker's Newswipe The World's Most Generic News Report, a hilarious parody of how predictable "news" stories have become. I've watched this three times now and it still cracks me up.

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Always good for a laugh, People of Walmart, which demonstrates why I do not shop there. It'll make your jaw drop at how few people seem to own mirrors.

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What happens when you have too much icing and not enough education? Cake Wrecks. Dedicated to showcasing the worst dessert errors ever served up at your local bakery counter.

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And finally, there's Totally Looks Like, which can be hit or miss. But when it hits, it's pretty funny.

In Praise of Thelma Ritter

One of the things that connects Husband and I is our love for old movies. Further than that, our love for the character actors that made so many of those old movies memorable. Character actors seem to have died out. But "way back when" every hotel clerk, every waiter, every wise-cracking salesgirl was someone worth remembering. Fans of old movies love to play the "hey, that's..." game where you realize the guy driving Myrna Loy's cab was seen two movies ago serving Humphrey Bogart a slice of pie. Today you might recognize a waitress in a movie as a dancing toothbrush from a TV commercial, but these actors have no names and there are as forgettable as a waitress is in real life (with apologies to waitresses everywhere).

My all-time favorite female character actor was Thelma Ritter. She wasn't so much a bit-part player as she was a supporting actress, and every movie she was in was made magical by her dry wit and delicious line delivery.

She was a wonderful actress, earning four Academy Award nominations for Best Supporting Actress, starting with her role as Bette Davis' dresser in All About Eve. Her movie career covered everything from Hitchcock (Jimmy Stewart's nurse in Rear Window) to romantic comedies (the scene in Pillow Talk where she drinks Rock Hudson under the table is a classic) to musicals (acting as Fred Astaire's secretary in Daddy Long Legs. But she was always flat-out fabulous.

She specialized in the smart-aleck roles. The secretary who likes a shot of rye and a snappy come-back. The maid who doesn't hesitate to tell her mistress that she's making a fool out of herself by treating the nice guy like dirt. And there's always something so spot-on about the way she slips in her comments. Of course it helps that back then they wrote scripts with dialogue that was equally memorable. Sadly, that kind of rough diamond with a heart of gold character seems to have gone the way of stockings with seams in them and men in fedoras. But very few people could ever compete with Thelma Ritter for delivering just one line with such an air of dry disdain that she could infuse a word with a world of meaning. In today's movies, I think only Alan Rickman can match her for that ability to make a single word drip with venom.

Only with Thelma, the venom really had no lasting sting. Only a smartness that would make you stand up and take notice.

Oh Thelma, we miss you.

Photo of the day: Welcome Home

Husband bought me flowers as a "glad you got sprung from the hospital" gift. I love Husband.

The World is Xfinite
Comcast, the world's most expensive and useless cable/internet/media/phone sex/animal cracker company in the galaxy has decided to address its many problems by the cheapest and most ineffective way possible. They are changing their name.

Introducing Xfinity a word that means absolutely nothing, but seems cool, hip, and sexy. Hey, if it's cool, hip, and sexy it's gotta be good, huh? Forget that our cable bill costs about a much as Ghana's national debt. We're gonna have TV that goes to Xfinity. It'll be Xfinite!

Why do companies do that? Decide that the public is so stupid we won't notice that Xfinity is the same company as Comcast, only with a different name? Are our collective memories supposed to be that short? We won't care how much our bill is because, damn it, it's a whole new ball game. It's not just TV, it's Xfinite TV! Not only that, but Comcast's Executive VP of Operations has said "the new brand name communicates Comcast's constant product upgrades and innovation." Really? It does all that, does it?

First off, when has Comcast ever innovated? Secondly, this ridiculous nonsense word conveys all that? Sure it does! After all, putting "X" in front of something is edgy. It's eXtreme. It's like snowboarding, only you have to control the snowboard through the cable box that doesn't really work all that well and sometimes goes to the wrong channel. But other than that, it's just like snowboarding. The kind of snowboarding where you have 125 different channel of slopes to chose from and no snow on any of them. Endless choices. Nothing on. But fuck that, it's Xfinite nothing! And we're all going to forget about Comcast in the rush to be as hip and cool as Xfinite. And the bad service, outrageous bill, and useless technology...it'll all be a bad dream once we're living in a world where TV is Xfinite.

Terry Pratchett's Case for Euthanasia
British novelist Terry Pratchett is, sadly, suffering from a form al Alzheimer's called PCA. He and his "stunt Pratchett" (actor Tony Robinson....remember Baldrick from Blackadder?) deliver a powerful, funny, moving, and thought-provoking talk about assisted suicide. Watch the six-part video (part one is here - links to parts 2-6 on same page) or, for those short on time, read the edit transcript here.

Hospitalitis
Hospitals are in the business of over-reacting. That's what they get paid to do. And rightly so. When it comes to health, it makes sense to be a bit of an alarmist about things that concern you. Which is why I went into the emergency room on Saturday night, and ended up in one of their critical care units on Sunday morning.

Although I was never anything other than fine, they put me in their TCU (one step down from ICU). According to the website for the hospital, the Telemetry Care Unit is a "31-bed nursing unit provides care for patients who require monitoring such as cardiac surveillance following procedures including pacemaker insertion, cardiac or vascular surgery." They put me there because of a racing heart rate. (Which they eventually diagnosed as a combination of exhaustion, dehydration following a day of zarfing, anemia, and pain.) But since my family has a history of heart disease (my father died of a heart attack and my mother has already suffered one minor heart attack), the hospital went into over-react mode and set me up in a 4-bed critical care ward with a group of patients who all sounded like they were just this side of dying. They all seemed to be having breathing problems, one poor man had a cough that sounded like he was swimming in warm pudding and they had to (delightful) repeatedly suction phlegm out of his throat so he could breathe. That was my next-bed neighbor.

So there I am, begging for quiet, next to waterlogged guy. I felt terribly sorry for him, but the sound was both repulsive and loud, and went on several times an hour for the entire time I was there. He was also hardly lucid, so whenever people came to visit him they kept talking ever-louder in an attempt to get a response. Eventually they ended up yelling his name, trying to get him to understand they were there to take him for a CT scan, or to let him know that they were cousin Al and they were worried about him. The man in the bed next to him watched TV most of the night. Loudly. (We were in an open ward, separated only by curtains, so I could hear everything he watched.) And whenever waterlogged man would start coughing, TV guy would turn up the sound.

I was also by the door into the hall, next to the nursing station. So there were phone call and loud conversations all night long. And there I am, in spite of the ear plugs, hearing it all. Trying to sleep and failing. Wishing for darkness but by a window into the hallway where florescent lights glared all night long. Wishing somebody would hand me poor, migraine-wracked head an Imitrex. But nope, no migraine drugs. (t was like those jokes you hear about Amsterdam, where you can get heroin but can't find Nyquil. Here all I wanted was a migraine pill but all I could get was Delaudid, a lovely, warm, haze-inducing narcotic that is lovely for pain but not for all that long. It hits instantly (the good), but wear off about two hours later (the bad) needing you to request another IV dose. I could have all that I wanted, apparently. It was like a drug buffet, but nothing to actually treat the cause of the pain.

And yes, I realize I'm selfish to be all about me when I'm surrounded by obviously incredibly-sick people who don't seem to be in any state to be leaving the hospital later. But hey, this is my blog, it's all about me. If waterlogged guy had a blog it would be all about him. And I'm not minimizing the pain by any means. I know they're suffering more than I was and I did not begrudge them one moment of their treatment. It's just hard to be best by nausea, finally get an appetite back, and have them bring you lukewarm oatmeal for breakfast -- only to have them start vacuuming phlegm from the guy next to you. Truly unappetizing.

All of this was decidedly unnecessary. (I almost used the phrase "over kill.") All I had was a migraine, and there I was in the "I hope you have a will" section of the hospital. It wasn't until I got out that I realized I was in that section. I can't imagine what poor Husband thought when he found out his wife was in a critical care unit. Had the positions been reversed, I would have freaked out. When he left I was in the ER, they had just decided to admit me, it was 6 am, and I sent him home because he'd been up all night. He comes back a few hours later to visit and discovers I'm surrounded by pacemakers and things that go endlessly beep in the night. (Which is good, because when they stop beeping, it's not a good thing.)

As usual with this hospital, the staff was great. I was a bit pissed that I from 6 am on Sunday when they decided to admit me to 1 pm yesterday when the ward doctor released me, I never once spoke to a doctor. That bothered me because I knew I was fine to get out but couldn't get anyone to OK that. Nor could I get anyone to OK Imitrex, which was really all I needed (plus dark and no sucking next door). But the nurses were amazing. And, being in a CCU, when you hit the nurse buzzer they come running. The endless Delaudid kept the pain away for the most part. They do this "how is your pain on a scale from 1 to 10?" thing and, at one point, it was up to a brain-exploding 9. But the lovely cocktail made it go away. The one thing it didn't do, oddly enough, was make me sleep. I hade five doses of Delaudid in ER, from 10 pm Saturday to 6 am Sunday, and I was lucid and awake for the whole time. Man, can I hold my narcotic or what?

Photo of the day: I Spy Something Purple

More flowers courtesy of our recent rainfall.

Photo of the day: I Do the Rock (Part 2)

I like to pick up rocks from places I've visited. Just small pebbles. I keep them in a ceramic bowl and they're all mixed up so I can't tell the rock that comes from Africa from the rock that comes from Hawaii. For some reason, that just makes me smile.

Photo of the day: I Do The Rock

Yeah, I know I missed a day. I ended up in ER Saturday night and they kept me in until this afternoon. Great fun. I'm fine now. I just had a 32-hour migraine that wouldn't go away. They wanted to observe me because every time I stood up my heart rate went through the roof. (Ignoring the fact that I was exhausted, in some pretty severe pain, and severely dehydrated they jumped right to "heart trouble") and put me in with the cardiac care unit. Great fun. Don't ever go there. Especially for a migraine. It's non-stop noise and light -- the worst things when you are light- and sound-sensitive. And they never did, in spite of my repeated requests, give me any migraine meds. What they did give me, however, was Delaudid whenever I was in pain. Which was great fun, but didn't really treat the problem. Anyway, I'm home and well and doing fine. Just need to get my strength back after a few days without eating or much sleep.