Scenes from Silver Creek: The Great Hallelujah Egg Hunt
For a small town, Silver Creek sure was sanctified. In addition to mom’s church (St. Edith’s Episcopal), and dad’s church (Our Lady of Angels) we also had the Calvary Lutheran Church, the Church of Christ, and the Ebenezer Baptist Church.
EBC was the closest we had to a holy-roller church and it was founded and run by one of our town’s most eccentric families, the Washingtons. Here’s the picture, two extremely devout Baptists (the gloriously named Hallelujah Washington and his wife, Esther Pride-Washington) have eight extremely devout children, all of whom were given monikers that suggest all were recently-freed slaves:
Bethesda Monday and her twin brother Ezra Monday
Gideon Tuesday
Unity Wednesday
Ezekiel Thursday
Glory Friday
Shenandoah Saturday
Jubilee Sunday
None of the family was, in fact, freed slaves. They were a crop of skinny white kids with skinny white parents who really wished they had been born black so they could have a “real” Baptist church.
The Reverend Hallelujah wanted, above all things, to preach fire and brimstone sermons. He was hindered in this achievement by the possession of a damp-matches and pudding voice. Seriously tone deaf, his desire to be a great religious orator was further hampered by his tendency to put the emphasis on the wrong words in his sermon, thereby often making “the” more important than the word “savior.” He often spoke at city council meetings and other public gatherings and I never lost the urge to giggle when he’d say something like “we’d like TO commend the football team for their great win ON Friday against the Auburn WildCATS.”
I always believed that the eight Washington kids had a hard time living up to their names. I mean it can’t be easy in the modern world to be named Jubilee. But they loved their parents and were there every Sunday to help get the church ready for services. Bethesda and Glory were great at arranging flowers. Ezra and Gideon alternated playing the organ and leading the choir. Ezekiel, who was naturally outgoing, would stand on the sidewalk inviting people in. And both Shenandoah and Jubilee were ordained ministers. The one chore that all the Washington kids balked at, and that was sitting next to Miss Rose Hylam, a vinegary old virgin with a venomous tongue. A termagant with the mixed scent of self-righteousness and rosewater. Miss Rose was the kind of woman who would tell you things "for your own good" that never did you any good. But she was quite rich and the EBC’s most generous benefactor. In her opinion, her copious donations to the church entitled her to her very own Washington at every service, helping her out of her seat, finding the right page in the hymnal, and escorting her down to the social room for punch when the service was over. And, in a mixture of Christian kindness and practicality, the Reverend made sure she always had one of his children there are her personal church-going minion. It was not an enjoyable duty so the kids made sure it was fairly split up with each taking his or her own turn as the sacrificial lamb.
Reverend Hallelujah was a sweet, friendly man who genuinely seemed to like people and was honestly proud to be of service to the community. Although he was not the Martin Luther King type of minister he dreamed of being, he was nevertheless a good man who practiced what he preached. He helped the poor. He forgave the sinners. He went out at midnight to hold hands with hospital patients and got up at dawn to drive the senior club on road trips. He was also he driving force behind the Ecumenical Brotherhood, sort of a Lions Club for Christ where he’d get the priests and ministers of all the local churches to come together for various citywide programs. They would, for example, put together an all-choir sing-along at Christmas time and held annual Forth of July parties at which each church would have a booth where you could buy things that were bad for your teeth and know the money would be going to a good cause.
One year Reverend Hal had the idea to put together an Easter Egg Hunt in Grover Park. All the local churches agreed to take part and mother’s groups all over the county spent days filling brightly colored plastic eggs with candy and small toys. The idea was that all churches would hold Easter services at the same time on Easter Sunday and then the families would gather in the park to let the little ones find the prizes.
Unfortunately for Reverend Hal, and everyone else concerned, Easter weekend coincided with “Senior Prank Week” where high-school seniors at Silver Creek High were expected to play properly harmless practical jokes on the entire town. Things like covering the fire station with toilet paper or putting a fore sale sign in front of city hall.
The year of Hallelujah’s great egg hunt year the seniors waited until late Saturday night when all the plastic eggs had been hidden and then they raided Grover Park. Like the Grinch, they took all the toys and candy. Unlike the Grinch, though, they replaced the surprises with surprises of their own and let the entire town converge on the park, all innocent, on Easter morning.
The first hint that something was wrong was when four-year old Emmy Jeevers found a lovely bright pink plastic egg with a condom inside. “Oooh,” she declared happily, “I got a balloon!”
Other children opened their eggs to find bottle caps, band-aids, walnuts (in shell) and dice. Personally, I thought the dice was a nice touch. The only candy left relatively intact were the marshmallow Peeps, all of whom were in breeding position in proximity with other Peeps.
The more conservative of the town were livid, starting with my ever-self righteous and entirely humorless Aunt Camilla. How dare these high school bullies take away the innocent fun of the children eagerly hoping to find chocolate bunnies amid the wild daisies of Grover Park?
But, oddly enough, the Reverend Hal thought it was hilarious. He laughed and laughed. And when I, along with the other seniors, showed signs of coming off of some serious sugar highs (hey, we had to do something with all that candy) he congratulated us on the prank and then ordered us to rectify the situation while he took the children to a corner of the park for story time.
We quickly pooled our resources and ran hell-for-leather down to Walgreen’s where we pretty much bought out their stock. One frantic hour later the children of Silver Creek were let loose again and got their bunnies, their malted milk balls and more virginal Peeps.
As additional punishment, the seniors had to wash every church bus in town. Hallelujah supervised us and when we were done, took us all to EBC where we were each presented with plastic eggs, each containing a “chore slip” from a local business. I, along with three others, got roped into painting all the picnic tables in Grover park. My friend Sean spent an afternoon building shelves for Jeever’s Hardware. And Bethesda and Ezra Washington, whose inspired idea it was, got the worst punishment of all. They both got Miss Rose duty for the next six months.
Saturday, April 03, 2010
Friday, April 02, 2010
20 Things I've Learned From Watching Movies
1. No matter where you live. No matter what culture you're from. No matter what you're making for dinner. If you go grocery shopping you will come home with a baguette.
2. Never accept a dare that involves a graveyard, a haunted house, or a prom. Always say "no" when anyone begins a sentence with "Hey, why don't we...?"
3. No Broadway musical ever depicted will actually fit in a Broadway theatre. Oh yes, and apparently all choreography in Broadway musicals is meant to be seen from directly above the state.
4. Blood comes out of the body in slow motion.
5. If you burst into song and dance in the middle of the street, nobody will notice.
6. Children of ministers always end up crazy.
7. People can do nothing but bicker for two hours and then declare endless love in the last minutes. Alternately people will have one conversation and fall madly in love and spend the next two hours going through hell for someone they only knew for 15 minutes.
8. Any group of American soldiers in WWII had to include one wise-cracking Italian guy from Brooklyn or the Bronx, and one kid named "Jimmy."
9. If you were a kid named "Jimmy" in WWII your life expectancy was approximately 92 minutes.
10. Never, ever, dig up a mummy. Apparently mummification worked very well because they're all still alive.
11. Life was sexier when we didn't know smoking and drinking were bad for you.
12. America would have lost every war ever fought if it weren't for John Wayne.
13. Before 1950 everyone in America was white with the exception of Pullman porters and Charlie Chan.
14. The miraculous conception of every baby born before 1960 was done in separate beds.
15. Your family didn't officially count as "eccentric" unless Mishca Auer was in residence.
16. Gangsters love their mothers.
17. The only good thing to come out of Nazism is that Hollywood will never want for evil villains.
18. The middle ages were the zenith of cleanliness.
19. A "dame" will always be cooler than a "broad" and a "broad" will always be cooler than a "bitch."
20. Rule number one in The Astronauts' Guide to Getting Along with Aliens is "kill it."
1. No matter where you live. No matter what culture you're from. No matter what you're making for dinner. If you go grocery shopping you will come home with a baguette.
2. Never accept a dare that involves a graveyard, a haunted house, or a prom. Always say "no" when anyone begins a sentence with "Hey, why don't we...?"
3. No Broadway musical ever depicted will actually fit in a Broadway theatre. Oh yes, and apparently all choreography in Broadway musicals is meant to be seen from directly above the state.
4. Blood comes out of the body in slow motion.
5. If you burst into song and dance in the middle of the street, nobody will notice.
6. Children of ministers always end up crazy.
7. People can do nothing but bicker for two hours and then declare endless love in the last minutes. Alternately people will have one conversation and fall madly in love and spend the next two hours going through hell for someone they only knew for 15 minutes.
8. Any group of American soldiers in WWII had to include one wise-cracking Italian guy from Brooklyn or the Bronx, and one kid named "Jimmy."
9. If you were a kid named "Jimmy" in WWII your life expectancy was approximately 92 minutes.
10. Never, ever, dig up a mummy. Apparently mummification worked very well because they're all still alive.
11. Life was sexier when we didn't know smoking and drinking were bad for you.
12. America would have lost every war ever fought if it weren't for John Wayne.
13. Before 1950 everyone in America was white with the exception of Pullman porters and Charlie Chan.
14. The miraculous conception of every baby born before 1960 was done in separate beds.
15. Your family didn't officially count as "eccentric" unless Mishca Auer was in residence.
16. Gangsters love their mothers.
17. The only good thing to come out of Nazism is that Hollywood will never want for evil villains.
18. The middle ages were the zenith of cleanliness.
19. A "dame" will always be cooler than a "broad" and a "broad" will always be cooler than a "bitch."
20. Rule number one in The Astronauts' Guide to Getting Along with Aliens is "kill it."
Photo of the day: Stanford Art
This rather suggestive set of curves is, in fact, a sculpture of birds that stands by the Stanford Business School. I love the lines and the sexiness of it. I wish I could remember the artist but I took this over a year ago. I really must take more photos, I haven't had a good shoot since beach day.
This rather suggestive set of curves is, in fact, a sculpture of birds that stands by the Stanford Business School. I love the lines and the sexiness of it. I wish I could remember the artist but I took this over a year ago. I really must take more photos, I haven't had a good shoot since beach day.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: My First Love
My first love and I were brought together through a combination of my father, Walter Cronkite, and Time magazine.
Sadly, like all the classic love affairs it ended in tragedy on January 27, 1967 when astronauts Roger Chaffee, Gus Grissom, and Ed White were killed in a fire during a test of Apollo 1. You see, I was going to grow up and marry Roger Chaffee.
I didn’t care that he was already married and I was seven. All I knew was that he was handsome and he was an astronaut. That meant he was brave, strong, smart, and being married to him would mean I would get to ride in a parade. For some reason when I was seven my big ambition was to ride in a parade. Obviously I had no career in mind because parade riding is not, as far as I know, a legitimate occupation. I was apparently a dull child. Odd too, because when it came to crushes, all I seemed to fall for was older men. Cary Grant. Gregory Peck and, my real love, Roger Chaffee.
Our love affair started when my father brought home a magazine with big color photos of the Apollo astronauts inside. My family, like most American families in the 60s was space-mad. Anything related to NASA was major news. Dad was obsessed with the space program and insisted on watching every newscast he could, every documentary shown, and every interview with anyone even remotely related to the space race.
Our coffee table was covered with the smiling, handsome, white bread faces of John Glenn and Wally Schirra. And as an impressionable young girl, with a total absence of hot men in town, I developed a wicked crush on Roger Chaffee. I was also vaguely confused because for some reason I thought we were related. This did not, strangely enough, affect our engagement. But because there were photos of him around I got the idea he was some distant, attractive, clean-cut uncle. And I’m not sure why I fixated on him as opposed to one of the other astronauts, but he was definitely the one I picked out.
To this day I still think he was wonderfully handsome. But back then I also thought he magic. Space flight as a concept was mysterious to me. Not because I was too young to understand science. But because I was too young to get what all the fuss was about.
Growing up on a diet of quirky sci-fi flicks (my brothers were addicted) I thought space travel was a given. We’d already been to Mars, hadn’t we? And wasn’t space full of amphibious monsters and cheesy special effects? What was so exciting about the prospect of going to the moon? I’d thought we’d already been there, so I just didn’t get why everyone was so excited and why it was the topic of conversation all over the world. (OK, all over Silver Creek – but back then Silver Creek was the world.)
I thought maybe everyone was in love with Roger Chaffee and that’s why the world was talking. Wow, look at this handsome man who will soon marry one of our own, going to the moon for the 800th time and fighting amphibious monsters with his bare hands. What a guy.
I didn’t understand “dead” then. My only real experience with loss was with pets or people I was not going to grow up and marry. I’d recently buried Badger, an asthmatic hamster who got a cigar-box coffin and a teary, off-key rendition of My Country ‘Tis of Thee. (Don’t ask why.) But losing my fiancée was rough.
I remember my dad turning on the TV and Walter breaking the news. Dad was stunned. Mom said a prayer. Everyone was quiet except for me asking “what? What?” And not getting an answer. Eventually dad told me, gravely, that there had been an accident and some of the astronauts had died. I asked if Roger was OK. (I figured since we were going to get married it was OK to call him “Roger” and not Mr. Chaffee.) And dad told me he was dead.
Mom had to explain dead. “Like Badger,” she said. And I pictured my handsome hero in a huge cigar box with me singing My Country ‘Tis of Thee. I think I cried. I cried harder when I asked if I could go to the funeral and mom said no. I asked if he was going to be buried in Silver Creek and got another no.
The next day I took the photo of Roger I had stolen from one of my father’s copies of Life, rolled it up in an old paper towel roll, and buried it next to Badger.
I didn’t sing anything. But I did swear I’d never fall in love. And I never did.
Until Sean Connery.
My first love and I were brought together through a combination of my father, Walter Cronkite, and Time magazine.
Sadly, like all the classic love affairs it ended in tragedy on January 27, 1967 when astronauts Roger Chaffee, Gus Grissom, and Ed White were killed in a fire during a test of Apollo 1. You see, I was going to grow up and marry Roger Chaffee.
I didn’t care that he was already married and I was seven. All I knew was that he was handsome and he was an astronaut. That meant he was brave, strong, smart, and being married to him would mean I would get to ride in a parade. For some reason when I was seven my big ambition was to ride in a parade. Obviously I had no career in mind because parade riding is not, as far as I know, a legitimate occupation. I was apparently a dull child. Odd too, because when it came to crushes, all I seemed to fall for was older men. Cary Grant. Gregory Peck and, my real love, Roger Chaffee.
Our love affair started when my father brought home a magazine with big color photos of the Apollo astronauts inside. My family, like most American families in the 60s was space-mad. Anything related to NASA was major news. Dad was obsessed with the space program and insisted on watching every newscast he could, every documentary shown, and every interview with anyone even remotely related to the space race.
Our coffee table was covered with the smiling, handsome, white bread faces of John Glenn and Wally Schirra. And as an impressionable young girl, with a total absence of hot men in town, I developed a wicked crush on Roger Chaffee. I was also vaguely confused because for some reason I thought we were related. This did not, strangely enough, affect our engagement. But because there were photos of him around I got the idea he was some distant, attractive, clean-cut uncle. And I’m not sure why I fixated on him as opposed to one of the other astronauts, but he was definitely the one I picked out.
To this day I still think he was wonderfully handsome. But back then I also thought he magic. Space flight as a concept was mysterious to me. Not because I was too young to understand science. But because I was too young to get what all the fuss was about.
Growing up on a diet of quirky sci-fi flicks (my brothers were addicted) I thought space travel was a given. We’d already been to Mars, hadn’t we? And wasn’t space full of amphibious monsters and cheesy special effects? What was so exciting about the prospect of going to the moon? I’d thought we’d already been there, so I just didn’t get why everyone was so excited and why it was the topic of conversation all over the world. (OK, all over Silver Creek – but back then Silver Creek was the world.)
I thought maybe everyone was in love with Roger Chaffee and that’s why the world was talking. Wow, look at this handsome man who will soon marry one of our own, going to the moon for the 800th time and fighting amphibious monsters with his bare hands. What a guy.
I didn’t understand “dead” then. My only real experience with loss was with pets or people I was not going to grow up and marry. I’d recently buried Badger, an asthmatic hamster who got a cigar-box coffin and a teary, off-key rendition of My Country ‘Tis of Thee. (Don’t ask why.) But losing my fiancée was rough.
I remember my dad turning on the TV and Walter breaking the news. Dad was stunned. Mom said a prayer. Everyone was quiet except for me asking “what? What?” And not getting an answer. Eventually dad told me, gravely, that there had been an accident and some of the astronauts had died. I asked if Roger was OK. (I figured since we were going to get married it was OK to call him “Roger” and not Mr. Chaffee.) And dad told me he was dead.
Mom had to explain dead. “Like Badger,” she said. And I pictured my handsome hero in a huge cigar box with me singing My Country ‘Tis of Thee. I think I cried. I cried harder when I asked if I could go to the funeral and mom said no. I asked if he was going to be buried in Silver Creek and got another no.
The next day I took the photo of Roger I had stolen from one of my father’s copies of Life, rolled it up in an old paper towel roll, and buried it next to Badger.
I didn’t sing anything. But I did swear I’d never fall in love. And I never did.
Until Sean Connery.
Photo of the day: Pink
For a while we thought we were getting some Spring. We had a few days of sunshine and warm weather. Nice enough to open the windows and let the fresh air in. But the rain rolled in last night and continued today. Tomorrow is supposed to be cold and gray as well. So I turned to a photo of last season's roses, to remind me that soon we will have more sunshine.
For a while we thought we were getting some Spring. We had a few days of sunshine and warm weather. Nice enough to open the windows and let the fresh air in. But the rain rolled in last night and continued today. Tomorrow is supposed to be cold and gray as well. So I turned to a photo of last season's roses, to remind me that soon we will have more sunshine.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
A Little Knowledge
Husband turned 40 yesterday. I turned 49 in December. Yup, 49. I'm going to be 50 on my next birthday and just typing that gives me the heebie-jeebies. And yet, not.
My beloved best friend died of AIDS in his 30s and I remember his saying wistfully that he wished some day he could turn 50. Sadly, he didn't. So I will for him. Proudly. When I hear people complain about getting older I cannot help but think that it's far better than the alternative.
Husband's turning 40 has got me thinking. In some ways it gave me a bit of the blues, but in another it made me feel...content.
When I was younger, the word "content" would have made me gag. What an awful thing to be! And yet as I've gotten older and have finally gotten to know myself better I have come to appreciate the wonders of being content. I suppose when I was in my 20s the concept would have been interchangeable with the word "settling," but now I find it a wonderful state of mind.
I love my life. My wonderful husband and my adorable cat. I love my work at the shelter and the fact that I am lucky enough to be able to spend my time doing something worthwhile. I love my cozy home and my amazing friends. I love the feeling of utter bliss when I'm curled up in the world's most comfiest bed with the man I love and the cat who drives me crazy.
And I love not being 20. Dealing with horrible first dates and existential angst. Am I pretty enough? Am I smart enough? Am I too smart? Will I ever stop dating losers and meet a guy with good oral hygiene and a sense of humor? Will I ever make enough money to afford both rent and food in the same month?
Now I know who I am. Mostly. I still surprise myself. I still learn things. I'm not perfect and I know it. It's OK, as long as I don't stop trying to get better. I've learned to cut myself enough slack to find peace, but not enough that I let things slide. (OK, maybe I slide too much -- but I'm working on it.)
And I'm sorry to get all dull and philosophic. But hey, as I've said before, this place is all about me.
Husband turned 40 yesterday. I turned 49 in December. Yup, 49. I'm going to be 50 on my next birthday and just typing that gives me the heebie-jeebies. And yet, not.
My beloved best friend died of AIDS in his 30s and I remember his saying wistfully that he wished some day he could turn 50. Sadly, he didn't. So I will for him. Proudly. When I hear people complain about getting older I cannot help but think that it's far better than the alternative.
Husband's turning 40 has got me thinking. In some ways it gave me a bit of the blues, but in another it made me feel...content.
When I was younger, the word "content" would have made me gag. What an awful thing to be! And yet as I've gotten older and have finally gotten to know myself better I have come to appreciate the wonders of being content. I suppose when I was in my 20s the concept would have been interchangeable with the word "settling," but now I find it a wonderful state of mind.
I love my life. My wonderful husband and my adorable cat. I love my work at the shelter and the fact that I am lucky enough to be able to spend my time doing something worthwhile. I love my cozy home and my amazing friends. I love the feeling of utter bliss when I'm curled up in the world's most comfiest bed with the man I love and the cat who drives me crazy.
And I love not being 20. Dealing with horrible first dates and existential angst. Am I pretty enough? Am I smart enough? Am I too smart? Will I ever stop dating losers and meet a guy with good oral hygiene and a sense of humor? Will I ever make enough money to afford both rent and food in the same month?
Now I know who I am. Mostly. I still surprise myself. I still learn things. I'm not perfect and I know it. It's OK, as long as I don't stop trying to get better. I've learned to cut myself enough slack to find peace, but not enough that I let things slide. (OK, maybe I slide too much -- but I'm working on it.)
And I'm sorry to get all dull and philosophic. But hey, as I've said before, this place is all about me.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Old Friends
I've been in a weird mood lately and have turned for comfort to old friends. By that I mean old, favorite books. I find something wonderfully peaceful about reading books I know practically by heart. At the moment I am happily curled into Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers.
Old books are lovely. Especially when they fall open to a familiar, beloved page. When you have the blues there's nothing quite like letting a book fall open naturally and saying "oh yes, this is the part where they have dinner." Or "how wonderful, here's that beautiful passage about truth."
There are some books that I have truly enjoyed, loved even, but have no desire to read again. And yet others that I can read once a year and still enjoy. I wonder why that is? What makes one novel so repeatable and another a one-time only event? What makes it more curious is when there are some books by an author that I can reread and others I cannot. For instance, I love Jane Austen and can pick up Pride and Prejudice or Northanger Abbey and happily lose myself for hours. Emma, on the other hand, I cannot.
There are nights like tonight, when the rain kicks up and the wind moans down the street. When I'm vaguely discontented that I haven't done enough to save the world or disappointed in myself for not exercising more or eating more spinach. When my back is sore and my feet are cold. And yet when there are old friends, like Dorothy L. Sayers, the world is warmer and I am happier.
I've been in a weird mood lately and have turned for comfort to old friends. By that I mean old, favorite books. I find something wonderfully peaceful about reading books I know practically by heart. At the moment I am happily curled into Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers.
Old books are lovely. Especially when they fall open to a familiar, beloved page. When you have the blues there's nothing quite like letting a book fall open naturally and saying "oh yes, this is the part where they have dinner." Or "how wonderful, here's that beautiful passage about truth."
There are some books that I have truly enjoyed, loved even, but have no desire to read again. And yet others that I can read once a year and still enjoy. I wonder why that is? What makes one novel so repeatable and another a one-time only event? What makes it more curious is when there are some books by an author that I can reread and others I cannot. For instance, I love Jane Austen and can pick up Pride and Prejudice or Northanger Abbey and happily lose myself for hours. Emma, on the other hand, I cannot.
There are nights like tonight, when the rain kicks up and the wind moans down the street. When I'm vaguely discontented that I haven't done enough to save the world or disappointed in myself for not exercising more or eating more spinach. When my back is sore and my feet are cold. And yet when there are old friends, like Dorothy L. Sayers, the world is warmer and I am happier.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The Over Dramatic World of LMN
Do you get The Lifetime Movie Network? We do. I've never watched it. But it shows up in our schedule listing and I always read the titles? Why? Because they're hilarious. Because you can tell by reading them that you don't want to see them. And because they all sound exactly alike. Let's see. Child abduction. Addiction. Double-lives. Cheating. You know, your average Wednesday. When taken en masse the effect is absolutely hilarious. Here's a sample of just the next few days:
Live Once, Die Twice
No Brother of Mine
A Face to Die For
My Nanny's Secret
Shattered Hearts
Doing Time on Maple Drive
Baby for Sale
A Kidnapping in the Family
Little Girl Lost
Gone in a Heartbeat
When He Didn't Come Home
Point Last Seen
The Man Next Door
My Husband's Secret
A Daughter's Conviction
Sins of the Mother
Where Are My Children?
Prison of Secrets
Abducted: A Father's Love
Honestly, can't you predict the plot of every film just by the title? And don't they just make you want to reach for the "off" button? For some reason, I find this so funny. I think my favorite is When He Didn't Come Home...wow, intense human drama.
Do you get The Lifetime Movie Network? We do. I've never watched it. But it shows up in our schedule listing and I always read the titles? Why? Because they're hilarious. Because you can tell by reading them that you don't want to see them. And because they all sound exactly alike. Let's see. Child abduction. Addiction. Double-lives. Cheating. You know, your average Wednesday. When taken en masse the effect is absolutely hilarious. Here's a sample of just the next few days:
Live Once, Die Twice
No Brother of Mine
A Face to Die For
My Nanny's Secret
Shattered Hearts
Doing Time on Maple Drive
Baby for Sale
A Kidnapping in the Family
Little Girl Lost
Gone in a Heartbeat
When He Didn't Come Home
Point Last Seen
The Man Next Door
My Husband's Secret
A Daughter's Conviction
Sins of the Mother
Where Are My Children?
Prison of Secrets
Abducted: A Father's Love
Honestly, can't you predict the plot of every film just by the title? And don't they just make you want to reach for the "off" button? For some reason, I find this so funny. I think my favorite is When He Didn't Come Home...wow, intense human drama.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Hello, I'm Rude
Rudeness seems to be an epidemic in modern society. Sometimes I just shrug it off. Other times it annoys me.
I find there are degrees of rudeness. For example, today I stopped for a few seconds to hold the door for a man who was walking out of a store behind me. He saw I held the door, walked right past me, and said nothing. Not a "thank you" nothing. Just walked past as if he expected no less than for people to hold doors for him. Ass.
Then there was the old woman I saw who dropped a few things on the floor of the store. Two able-bodied young men actually walked over her items and continued on. I, well trained by my parents, stopped to help. She thanked me nicely and we moved on.
Is it a matter of training? Of generations? My parents instilled in me manners and courtesy. I still send thank-you notes when people do me favors, give me presents, or invite me to dinner. I say "please" and 'thank you." I notice the people around me and take the time to the right thing. And yet other people are totally oblivious. They talk on their cell phone and completely disregard the poor clerk ringing up their order or the hard-working waitress who brings their food. Not even a nod to acknowledge that another human is providing them with a service.
Today at the shelter a woman was on her cell phone and talking so loudly that I could hear her conversation from the next room. I know all about her relationship with her boyfriend. The shopping expedition she had with her sister-in-law. The fact that her boss has taken up golf and wants her to cover for him when he takes off early in the afternoon. While talking loudly is more inconsiderate than rude, it's still an indication that this woman, for some reason, thinks her life and her desires are more important that anyone else's. She actually asked me a question while still on her cell phone and then interrupted me while I was answering to talk to the person on the other end of the call. How nice? Carrying on two conversations at once. Don't I feel special?
I have no children. Never had a desire. I have the maternal instincts of a preying mantis. But if I were a parent I would definitely insist on teaching my kids manners. Teaching them right from wrong. How to behave in public and how to treat other people. Today child from hell was running around the store and ran right into me. No apologies, nothing. And mom saw this. Mom didn't apologize either. Here's Damian nearly knocking me over and there's no acknowledgement that he inconvenienced me. When I was a kid that would have been totally unacceptable behavior. And I would have known that.
Perhaps I should have said something to mom. But I didn't want to be rude.
Rudeness seems to be an epidemic in modern society. Sometimes I just shrug it off. Other times it annoys me.
I find there are degrees of rudeness. For example, today I stopped for a few seconds to hold the door for a man who was walking out of a store behind me. He saw I held the door, walked right past me, and said nothing. Not a "thank you" nothing. Just walked past as if he expected no less than for people to hold doors for him. Ass.
Then there was the old woman I saw who dropped a few things on the floor of the store. Two able-bodied young men actually walked over her items and continued on. I, well trained by my parents, stopped to help. She thanked me nicely and we moved on.
Is it a matter of training? Of generations? My parents instilled in me manners and courtesy. I still send thank-you notes when people do me favors, give me presents, or invite me to dinner. I say "please" and 'thank you." I notice the people around me and take the time to the right thing. And yet other people are totally oblivious. They talk on their cell phone and completely disregard the poor clerk ringing up their order or the hard-working waitress who brings their food. Not even a nod to acknowledge that another human is providing them with a service.
Today at the shelter a woman was on her cell phone and talking so loudly that I could hear her conversation from the next room. I know all about her relationship with her boyfriend. The shopping expedition she had with her sister-in-law. The fact that her boss has taken up golf and wants her to cover for him when he takes off early in the afternoon. While talking loudly is more inconsiderate than rude, it's still an indication that this woman, for some reason, thinks her life and her desires are more important that anyone else's. She actually asked me a question while still on her cell phone and then interrupted me while I was answering to talk to the person on the other end of the call. How nice? Carrying on two conversations at once. Don't I feel special?
I have no children. Never had a desire. I have the maternal instincts of a preying mantis. But if I were a parent I would definitely insist on teaching my kids manners. Teaching them right from wrong. How to behave in public and how to treat other people. Today child from hell was running around the store and ran right into me. No apologies, nothing. And mom saw this. Mom didn't apologize either. Here's Damian nearly knocking me over and there's no acknowledgement that he inconvenienced me. When I was a kid that would have been totally unacceptable behavior. And I would have known that.
Perhaps I should have said something to mom. But I didn't want to be rude.
Photo of the day: The Shell Game
There was a surprising lack of shells on the beach when I did my photo shoot a few weeks back. This and a broken one were the only ones I saw. Lots of seaweed. Some interesting driftwood. An old beer can (which I picked up) but all the shells were hiding.
I saw parents with a small kid running around. I like to think the kid found them all.
There was a surprising lack of shells on the beach when I did my photo shoot a few weeks back. This and a broken one were the only ones I saw. Lots of seaweed. Some interesting driftwood. An old beer can (which I picked up) but all the shells were hiding.
I saw parents with a small kid running around. I like to think the kid found them all.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
I Love I Love Lucy
You may disagree, but in my opinion I Love Lucy was the funniest sitcom ever. I've seen every episode probably a dozen times and yet I still laugh out loud at some episodes.
It's hard to pick a favorite, although I do like the series when she and Rickey are in Hollywood and she does all sorts of crazy things to meet the movie stars. Breaks into Richard Widmark's house. Hits William Holden in the face with a pie. And, of course, steals John Wayne's footprints. Stars were insanely gracious to long-suffering Ricky and his crazy wife and nobody had her arrested or committed. Nice of them.
Some of those episodes were wonderful, especially the one where she mirrors Harpo Marx. Classic!
The two biggest laughs of the series for me comes in two different episodes. The first is when they're living in the country and it's the famous "tango" episode. For a variety of reasons too complex to relate, Lucy has her shirt loaded with two dozen raw eggs. She and Ricky rehearse a tango and at the dramatic end of the dance, the eggs smash. It's genius. The look on RIcky's face when his wife "explodes." The reaction from Lucy at being a drippy, messy wreck. Every time I see that episode, even though I know it's going to happen, I laugh.
The other favorite moment is from a more obscure episode where Ricky takes Lucy hunting. She enlists Ethel to help her fool Ricky into thinking that Lucy is an experienced outdoorswoman. Ethel buys a bunch of fish and gives them to Lucy who pretend to catch them. But the big laugh comes the next day when they go duck hunting. Ethel hide up a tree. Lucky "spots the duck" and fires. And down comes the bird. Ricky picks it up -- and it's already plucked, fresh from the butcher. It's a huge laugh and one that had but Husband and i in stitches the last time we saw it.
So many of the classic series hold up well. Barney Miller is still brilliant. Some of the old Dick Van Dyke shows still deliver laughs. The Newhart Show, M*A*S*H, and The Mary Tyler Moore Show can still be funny. But the only one that never fails to make me laugh is Lucy.
Maybe I'm turning into one of those cranky old women (even though I'm still under 50) but the newer comedies just don't make me laugh. Of the past few years, only Friends had scripts that were literate and funny and didn't seem to revolve entirely around who was sleeping with whom.
I know there are some good ones out there, but if left up to me to choose between something where the plot is described as "a case of mistaken identity leads Heather to suspect her new boyfriend may be her long-lost brother" or I Love Lucy, there's really no choice.
You may disagree, but in my opinion I Love Lucy was the funniest sitcom ever. I've seen every episode probably a dozen times and yet I still laugh out loud at some episodes.
It's hard to pick a favorite, although I do like the series when she and Rickey are in Hollywood and she does all sorts of crazy things to meet the movie stars. Breaks into Richard Widmark's house. Hits William Holden in the face with a pie. And, of course, steals John Wayne's footprints. Stars were insanely gracious to long-suffering Ricky and his crazy wife and nobody had her arrested or committed. Nice of them.
Some of those episodes were wonderful, especially the one where she mirrors Harpo Marx. Classic!
The two biggest laughs of the series for me comes in two different episodes. The first is when they're living in the country and it's the famous "tango" episode. For a variety of reasons too complex to relate, Lucy has her shirt loaded with two dozen raw eggs. She and Ricky rehearse a tango and at the dramatic end of the dance, the eggs smash. It's genius. The look on RIcky's face when his wife "explodes." The reaction from Lucy at being a drippy, messy wreck. Every time I see that episode, even though I know it's going to happen, I laugh.
The other favorite moment is from a more obscure episode where Ricky takes Lucy hunting. She enlists Ethel to help her fool Ricky into thinking that Lucy is an experienced outdoorswoman. Ethel buys a bunch of fish and gives them to Lucy who pretend to catch them. But the big laugh comes the next day when they go duck hunting. Ethel hide up a tree. Lucky "spots the duck" and fires. And down comes the bird. Ricky picks it up -- and it's already plucked, fresh from the butcher. It's a huge laugh and one that had but Husband and i in stitches the last time we saw it.
So many of the classic series hold up well. Barney Miller is still brilliant. Some of the old Dick Van Dyke shows still deliver laughs. The Newhart Show, M*A*S*H, and The Mary Tyler Moore Show can still be funny. But the only one that never fails to make me laugh is Lucy.
Maybe I'm turning into one of those cranky old women (even though I'm still under 50) but the newer comedies just don't make me laugh. Of the past few years, only Friends had scripts that were literate and funny and didn't seem to revolve entirely around who was sleeping with whom.
I know there are some good ones out there, but if left up to me to choose between something where the plot is described as "a case of mistaken identity leads Heather to suspect her new boyfriend may be her long-lost brother" or I Love Lucy, there's really no choice.
Photo of the day: Ten Pennies. Ten Years
Ten years ago today Husband and I had our first date. We celebrate this anniversary rather than the date on which we married (in 2003) because March 25, 2000 was the day we fell in love with each other. Yeah, it happened that quickly.
The story is we had our first date two weeks before our first date. After a couple of conflicting schedules, we'd finally arranged our first official date: to go see Femi Kuti in San Francisco with some friends. But Husband decided (bless him) that he didn't want to wait two weeks to see me, so he came down to the radio station.
I was doing an early Saturday morning show and rarely had visitors. And then in walks Husband. "Hey, what are you doing here?" I asked. He mentioned something about music work. We chatted. My show finished. He asked me if I wanted to go get some coffee. That was at about 9 am. And at about 2 am we said goodnight after some serious necking in my car.
That morning I woke up alone and not really looking and that night I went to sleep in love with this amazing man who was funny and smart, creative and interesting, caring, compassionate, generous and, icing on the cake, a great kisser. And to this day I still get butterflies in my stomach when he kisses me.
So each of these pennies represents a year together. Bright, lucky, simple little objects -- like my life with my beloved Husband.
Ten years ago today Husband and I had our first date. We celebrate this anniversary rather than the date on which we married (in 2003) because March 25, 2000 was the day we fell in love with each other. Yeah, it happened that quickly.
The story is we had our first date two weeks before our first date. After a couple of conflicting schedules, we'd finally arranged our first official date: to go see Femi Kuti in San Francisco with some friends. But Husband decided (bless him) that he didn't want to wait two weeks to see me, so he came down to the radio station.
I was doing an early Saturday morning show and rarely had visitors. And then in walks Husband. "Hey, what are you doing here?" I asked. He mentioned something about music work. We chatted. My show finished. He asked me if I wanted to go get some coffee. That was at about 9 am. And at about 2 am we said goodnight after some serious necking in my car.
That morning I woke up alone and not really looking and that night I went to sleep in love with this amazing man who was funny and smart, creative and interesting, caring, compassionate, generous and, icing on the cake, a great kisser. And to this day I still get butterflies in my stomach when he kisses me.
So each of these pennies represents a year together. Bright, lucky, simple little objects -- like my life with my beloved Husband.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Photo of the day: Cat Mat
I have this lovely bulky yarn which I crochet into cat mats. These are placemat-sized creations that are put into shoe boxes and then given to the cats at the shelter so they have a cozy place to sleep. These are the only things I know how to crochet because the cats don't care that the edges are uneven and the whole thing, rather than rectangular, ends up looking like an outline of Rhode Island.
I have this lovely bulky yarn which I crochet into cat mats. These are placemat-sized creations that are put into shoe boxes and then given to the cats at the shelter so they have a cozy place to sleep. These are the only things I know how to crochet because the cats don't care that the edges are uneven and the whole thing, rather than rectangular, ends up looking like an outline of Rhode Island.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
What's In a Name?
I am fascinated by names. Personally I've never liked my first name. Too common. When I was in Catholic School there were only 25 or 30 kids in the class and four of us girls had the same name. I guess it was popular the year I was born. On the other hand, I'm glad I didn't get some weird, way-out name like Sapphire or LaTonda.
I am particularly interested in last names and I love how nearly every day I hear of a last name that I've never come across before. I was watching a documentary about Chinese history and they spoke to an archeologist whose last name was Marshover. Not too esoteric perhaps, but a name I've never heard.
New (to me) last names always make me wonder about their origin. Did this man's ancestors live over a marsh or something? I mean some names are obvious. The "profession" ones, for instance. Baker. Cook. Wheelwright. But then you get one that seem like just a melodious collection of syllables. Hartsmede. Callio. Ashlyn. Many, I'm sure, are place names. Some are derived from a non-English language. But each in its own way is interesting.
Another thing that I find interesting is how names go in and out of fashion and how, in some cases, you can guess the age of the person merely by knowing their first name. I don't believe any female under the age of 70 is named Bertha or Gertrude. Nor any man younger than 50 named Adolph (unless his parents are white supremacists, in which case I don't want to know him). And yet names always seem to come around again. Flower names are again popular with girls. Rose, Lily, Daisy. And yet for a while I knew of no babies named after anything botanical, unless it was of the hippie generation and it was something wild like Orchid or Poplar. For a while it seemed every girl had to have a "creative" name like Madison or Dakota. Then the classic names came around again: Jane, Anne, Hannah. In my grandmother's generation there were several branches on the family tree with names like Lucy. Then nothing for about 40 years, and now Lucy is back.
Some names never seem to leave the map. There are a respectable number of Elizabeths or James in every generation. And then every generation grows its own. Were there any Ashtons in the 19th century? Or anyone in World War I whose name was Heath? And I'm sorry to any Cody reading this, but your name sounds like it should belong to a big dog with a bandana around its neck.
Many parents draw their inspiration from fiction. I read an article today that said Atticus was becoming quite a popular name for boys and I know someone with a daughter named Scout. Jane Austen heroines are also quite common now; lots of Emmas and Charlottes. I suppose there are worse sources for names (anybody who names their child after a retail establishment should be sterilized. Tiffany? Macys?) but if your inspiration is a romance novel, your child will definitely need therapy. (Over the years I've met a Caressa, a Jakeman and two birds: Raven and Falcon.) Honestly, how do you face the world with a name like Caressa? Are you predestined to become a pole dancer?
There are some names that I find downright ugly. With apologies to anyone named Dorcas, I think it's a horrible name. Yes, I know it's biblical, but it's just so unappealing -- a growl and a hiss. And in some cases I find names unappealing because they are tainted by someone unpleasant. I once knew a horrible girl named Christine, a perfectly respectable name and yet I dislike it because I disliked her so intensely.
But then again, I'm shallow and judgemental.
I am fascinated by names. Personally I've never liked my first name. Too common. When I was in Catholic School there were only 25 or 30 kids in the class and four of us girls had the same name. I guess it was popular the year I was born. On the other hand, I'm glad I didn't get some weird, way-out name like Sapphire or LaTonda.
I am particularly interested in last names and I love how nearly every day I hear of a last name that I've never come across before. I was watching a documentary about Chinese history and they spoke to an archeologist whose last name was Marshover. Not too esoteric perhaps, but a name I've never heard.
New (to me) last names always make me wonder about their origin. Did this man's ancestors live over a marsh or something? I mean some names are obvious. The "profession" ones, for instance. Baker. Cook. Wheelwright. But then you get one that seem like just a melodious collection of syllables. Hartsmede. Callio. Ashlyn. Many, I'm sure, are place names. Some are derived from a non-English language. But each in its own way is interesting.
Another thing that I find interesting is how names go in and out of fashion and how, in some cases, you can guess the age of the person merely by knowing their first name. I don't believe any female under the age of 70 is named Bertha or Gertrude. Nor any man younger than 50 named Adolph (unless his parents are white supremacists, in which case I don't want to know him). And yet names always seem to come around again. Flower names are again popular with girls. Rose, Lily, Daisy. And yet for a while I knew of no babies named after anything botanical, unless it was of the hippie generation and it was something wild like Orchid or Poplar. For a while it seemed every girl had to have a "creative" name like Madison or Dakota. Then the classic names came around again: Jane, Anne, Hannah. In my grandmother's generation there were several branches on the family tree with names like Lucy. Then nothing for about 40 years, and now Lucy is back.
Some names never seem to leave the map. There are a respectable number of Elizabeths or James in every generation. And then every generation grows its own. Were there any Ashtons in the 19th century? Or anyone in World War I whose name was Heath? And I'm sorry to any Cody reading this, but your name sounds like it should belong to a big dog with a bandana around its neck.
Many parents draw their inspiration from fiction. I read an article today that said Atticus was becoming quite a popular name for boys and I know someone with a daughter named Scout. Jane Austen heroines are also quite common now; lots of Emmas and Charlottes. I suppose there are worse sources for names (anybody who names their child after a retail establishment should be sterilized. Tiffany? Macys?) but if your inspiration is a romance novel, your child will definitely need therapy. (Over the years I've met a Caressa, a Jakeman and two birds: Raven and Falcon.) Honestly, how do you face the world with a name like Caressa? Are you predestined to become a pole dancer?
There are some names that I find downright ugly. With apologies to anyone named Dorcas, I think it's a horrible name. Yes, I know it's biblical, but it's just so unappealing -- a growl and a hiss. And in some cases I find names unappealing because they are tainted by someone unpleasant. I once knew a horrible girl named Christine, a perfectly respectable name and yet I dislike it because I disliked her so intensely.
But then again, I'm shallow and judgemental.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: Flash Gordon
Everyone who filed through Silver Creek High eventually sat in a class taught by William Gordon. Called “Flash” by everyone who knew him, though not to his face, Flash was your stereotypical math teacher with an abstracted look on his face and a head of hair always in need of cutting.
He was a tall, gangly man whose shorts always seeded too short and whose ties always seemed too wide. He also had a good right arm, which he’d use to lob chalkboard erasers onto the head of any student caught talking in class. I suppose today it would be assault or child abuse, but back then it was jut part of life. Walking down the science hallway with a headful of chalk dust was almost a badge on honor because everyone knew Flash had caught you.
Flash and his wife, Helen, were parishioners at Our Lady of Angels, so we often saw them on Sunday mornings. He had a very special wide tie that he reserved for services and holydays, it had crucifixions all over it. I thought it was the most morbid article of clothing I had ever seen. I used to wonder, if Christ came back, what he would make of all these people with symbols of his execution lying around. People wearing crosses around their necks, stuck onto the back of their cars. Seems kind of cruel, you know. ‘Welcome back, remember what happened last time?”
We’d often end up sitting near Flash and his wife and it was always something of an ordeal because of the hymns. Flash had an enthusiastic, though unreliable voice. He’d boom his way through the songs he knew by heart and la-la his way through the rest. This resulted in sudden bursts of noise so the hymns wound sound “la-la-la-la GLORY ON HIGH la-la-la LIKE AN EAGLE la-la FOREVER…” This had the unfortunate effect of giving most people around him a bad case of giggles.
Every month Sliver Creek High School had an afternoon assembly. The whole school would gather grudgingly into the gym, sneakers squeaking across the basketball floor, and file into the bleachers to wait for that month’s useless information.
The sophomore cheerleaders bake sale raised $210 for Polynesia. The Drama department production of South Pacific was in dire need of sailors as the entire navy consisted of two awkward Freshmen and Vikram, our Indian exchange student who was to shy to sing the word “dame.” The only good thing about these assemblies (aside from getting me out of gym class) was the feature known as “Meet Your Teacher.” This was the brainchild of our Vice Principal, Lewis Hall who decided it would make student-teacher relations better if students learned something unexpected about the faculty. And it was, in practice.
We’d learned, for example, that Mrs. Favero. from the Home Ec department was 247th in line for the British throne. She was more than a bit coy about the mechanics of it, but I gathered it was the result of some ancestress having an affair with the illegitimate son of the illegitimate daughter of Henry VII. Our principal, Edward Christienssen told of his adventures onboard the Andrea Doria the night it had its great accident, complete with sound-effects and an overwrought poem about "the great lady dipping her brow unto the gray water." And hippie English teacher Mr. Carpenter told us about traveling from Seattle to Death Valley in a van with Ken Kesey and Alan Ginsburg. Unfortunately he couldn’t relate to us any of the details because I gather it was all sex- and drug-related and while the administration wanted us to meet our teachers, they didn’t want us to get quite that personal.
When it was Flash’s turn to take the podium he started by setting up clipboards covered in blueprints. Then he cleared his throat, fiddled with his fat tie, and began talking about how he’d always had an interest in architecture and also had a fascination for all things Classical.
The result was one of the oddest hobbies I’d ever heard of: designing ancient temples. It was the “designing” part that was fascinating. Because he wouldn’t just recreate existing ones, like making detailed drawings of the Parthenon. No, he would take what the ancients had done and then get all weird and make something new. Not just new buildings, but a whole new Olympian pantheon. For example, the Temple of Athena at McDonald’s. This featured Corinthian columns flanking ample parking, complete with a drive-through portico with acanthus leaves and a frieze featuring Mayor McCheese in a toga. The Banktheon was a Bank of America in a round Classical design with a sunken vault and a colossal statue of “Altus Caponus.” (Because, of course, every bank wants a statue of Al Capone in the lobby.) And then there was the Driveoseum, a classic Greek amphitheatre that was a drive-in and included a refreshment stand known as the “Popcornia.”
All of this was delivered with not a hint of how freakishly weird it was. There was no sense of whimsy behind it, no indication that he was aware this hobby was strange and his creations were frivolous and rather wonderful. I was both surprised at this hidden streak of creativity and amused that he was so un-amused. Nobody had the nerve to laugh, we all just sat there as if he were showing us designs for something serious and we had to be suitably respectful.
I have to admit that out of all the Meet Your Teacher assemblies, Flash’s presentation was the one that surprised me the most. The following month Miss Haber from the science department told us how her family kept pet skunks when she was a kid. Yawn.
Everyone who filed through Silver Creek High eventually sat in a class taught by William Gordon. Called “Flash” by everyone who knew him, though not to his face, Flash was your stereotypical math teacher with an abstracted look on his face and a head of hair always in need of cutting.
He was a tall, gangly man whose shorts always seeded too short and whose ties always seemed too wide. He also had a good right arm, which he’d use to lob chalkboard erasers onto the head of any student caught talking in class. I suppose today it would be assault or child abuse, but back then it was jut part of life. Walking down the science hallway with a headful of chalk dust was almost a badge on honor because everyone knew Flash had caught you.
Flash and his wife, Helen, were parishioners at Our Lady of Angels, so we often saw them on Sunday mornings. He had a very special wide tie that he reserved for services and holydays, it had crucifixions all over it. I thought it was the most morbid article of clothing I had ever seen. I used to wonder, if Christ came back, what he would make of all these people with symbols of his execution lying around. People wearing crosses around their necks, stuck onto the back of their cars. Seems kind of cruel, you know. ‘Welcome back, remember what happened last time?”
We’d often end up sitting near Flash and his wife and it was always something of an ordeal because of the hymns. Flash had an enthusiastic, though unreliable voice. He’d boom his way through the songs he knew by heart and la-la his way through the rest. This resulted in sudden bursts of noise so the hymns wound sound “la-la-la-la GLORY ON HIGH la-la-la LIKE AN EAGLE la-la FOREVER…” This had the unfortunate effect of giving most people around him a bad case of giggles.
Every month Sliver Creek High School had an afternoon assembly. The whole school would gather grudgingly into the gym, sneakers squeaking across the basketball floor, and file into the bleachers to wait for that month’s useless information.
The sophomore cheerleaders bake sale raised $210 for Polynesia. The Drama department production of South Pacific was in dire need of sailors as the entire navy consisted of two awkward Freshmen and Vikram, our Indian exchange student who was to shy to sing the word “dame.” The only good thing about these assemblies (aside from getting me out of gym class) was the feature known as “Meet Your Teacher.” This was the brainchild of our Vice Principal, Lewis Hall who decided it would make student-teacher relations better if students learned something unexpected about the faculty. And it was, in practice.
We’d learned, for example, that Mrs. Favero. from the Home Ec department was 247th in line for the British throne. She was more than a bit coy about the mechanics of it, but I gathered it was the result of some ancestress having an affair with the illegitimate son of the illegitimate daughter of Henry VII. Our principal, Edward Christienssen told of his adventures onboard the Andrea Doria the night it had its great accident, complete with sound-effects and an overwrought poem about "the great lady dipping her brow unto the gray water." And hippie English teacher Mr. Carpenter told us about traveling from Seattle to Death Valley in a van with Ken Kesey and Alan Ginsburg. Unfortunately he couldn’t relate to us any of the details because I gather it was all sex- and drug-related and while the administration wanted us to meet our teachers, they didn’t want us to get quite that personal.
When it was Flash’s turn to take the podium he started by setting up clipboards covered in blueprints. Then he cleared his throat, fiddled with his fat tie, and began talking about how he’d always had an interest in architecture and also had a fascination for all things Classical.
The result was one of the oddest hobbies I’d ever heard of: designing ancient temples. It was the “designing” part that was fascinating. Because he wouldn’t just recreate existing ones, like making detailed drawings of the Parthenon. No, he would take what the ancients had done and then get all weird and make something new. Not just new buildings, but a whole new Olympian pantheon. For example, the Temple of Athena at McDonald’s. This featured Corinthian columns flanking ample parking, complete with a drive-through portico with acanthus leaves and a frieze featuring Mayor McCheese in a toga. The Banktheon was a Bank of America in a round Classical design with a sunken vault and a colossal statue of “Altus Caponus.” (Because, of course, every bank wants a statue of Al Capone in the lobby.) And then there was the Driveoseum, a classic Greek amphitheatre that was a drive-in and included a refreshment stand known as the “Popcornia.”
All of this was delivered with not a hint of how freakishly weird it was. There was no sense of whimsy behind it, no indication that he was aware this hobby was strange and his creations were frivolous and rather wonderful. I was both surprised at this hidden streak of creativity and amused that he was so un-amused. Nobody had the nerve to laugh, we all just sat there as if he were showing us designs for something serious and we had to be suitably respectful.
I have to admit that out of all the Meet Your Teacher assemblies, Flash’s presentation was the one that surprised me the most. The following month Miss Haber from the science department told us how her family kept pet skunks when she was a kid. Yawn.
Photo of the day: Last Year's Residents
In anticipation of the upcoming kitten nursery I pulled out this cutie from last year's residents. We'll be opening next month and I cannot wait! Kitten duty is the highlight of the week -- I'm alway surprised there aren't hoards of people rushing the shelter saying "Yes, we want to feed baby kittens!" Of course that enthusiasm fades away when they realize they'll have to teach the aforementioned kittens how to poop. But trust me, it's all worth it.
In anticipation of the upcoming kitten nursery I pulled out this cutie from last year's residents. We'll be opening next month and I cannot wait! Kitten duty is the highlight of the week -- I'm alway surprised there aren't hoards of people rushing the shelter saying "Yes, we want to feed baby kittens!" Of course that enthusiasm fades away when they realize they'll have to teach the aforementioned kittens how to poop. But trust me, it's all worth it.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
You Can Only Do it for the Love
I can't believe we had our first meeting for the next season's kitten nursery last night. It seems like we only just closed down from last year.
We're aiming for an early May opening and will go through September; even October if there are still kittens in need.
Last night was for us old hands, so there wasn't anything in the way of training. Just a few new policies to go over and a chance to pick out our preferred shifts. Three shifts a day breakfast 8-10, lunch 1-3. and dinner 5-7. Seven days a week. Last summer I did two regular shifts and picked up a third along the way, plus doing my cat shifts on the days when I wasn't at the nursery. This year I hope to work with some of my favorite people from last year -- at least we all requested the same shift, so I'm hoping it'll be the fun crew again.
And then I went back today for a regular cat session. Someone today asks me why I do it? Why give us so much of my days and work so had for absolutely no money. I had to, in all honesty, respond that this is the best paying job I've ever had. When I left Apple I was making over $1k a year to do nothing all that important. And yeah, I could buy socks before they all developed holes and had dreams one day of a new car (mine is 10 years old with 185,000 miles on it). And yes, my all time big dream of all dreams, owning my own house.
But what I'm doing now is more important that that. I can find a good used car. I can rent. I can shop at K Mart rather than Macy's (although I'll still insist Husband shops at Macy's). But I can't give up the fact that i am doing something good. I made a conscitious decision to turn in the 6-figure salary in favor of the buy your own catnip and band-aids brigade. And I don't regret a minute of it. There may be times when I feel guilty when Husband has to get up early or work late to make a deadline and I feel like I'm not pulling the weight in our relationship. But then he smiles at me and tells me how proud he is that I'm taking care of critters and all's right with the world again. (I am the luclkiest woman on the planet!)
Sure I'd love a car I can count on. And yes, more than anything, I was to own a house where I can paint the walls whatever color I chose and where I can't be asked to move on 30 days notice. But more than that, I want to take care of the animals. I want to be there when they learn they can trust people, when they find that one and true person who wants to take them home. I want to get the shy cat to curl into my lap and I want the agressitve cat to play with me without claws out and with no trauma getting hin back into the cage.
I honestly believe that working with animals is what I was born to do. Now if I could only find someone to help me pay my rent and I'll be a full-butt-wiggle happy camper.
I can't believe we had our first meeting for the next season's kitten nursery last night. It seems like we only just closed down from last year.
We're aiming for an early May opening and will go through September; even October if there are still kittens in need.
Last night was for us old hands, so there wasn't anything in the way of training. Just a few new policies to go over and a chance to pick out our preferred shifts. Three shifts a day breakfast 8-10, lunch 1-3. and dinner 5-7. Seven days a week. Last summer I did two regular shifts and picked up a third along the way, plus doing my cat shifts on the days when I wasn't at the nursery. This year I hope to work with some of my favorite people from last year -- at least we all requested the same shift, so I'm hoping it'll be the fun crew again.
And then I went back today for a regular cat session. Someone today asks me why I do it? Why give us so much of my days and work so had for absolutely no money. I had to, in all honesty, respond that this is the best paying job I've ever had. When I left Apple I was making over $1k a year to do nothing all that important. And yeah, I could buy socks before they all developed holes and had dreams one day of a new car (mine is 10 years old with 185,000 miles on it). And yes, my all time big dream of all dreams, owning my own house.
But what I'm doing now is more important that that. I can find a good used car. I can rent. I can shop at K Mart rather than Macy's (although I'll still insist Husband shops at Macy's). But I can't give up the fact that i am doing something good. I made a conscitious decision to turn in the 6-figure salary in favor of the buy your own catnip and band-aids brigade. And I don't regret a minute of it. There may be times when I feel guilty when Husband has to get up early or work late to make a deadline and I feel like I'm not pulling the weight in our relationship. But then he smiles at me and tells me how proud he is that I'm taking care of critters and all's right with the world again. (I am the luclkiest woman on the planet!)
Sure I'd love a car I can count on. And yes, more than anything, I was to own a house where I can paint the walls whatever color I chose and where I can't be asked to move on 30 days notice. But more than that, I want to take care of the animals. I want to be there when they learn they can trust people, when they find that one and true person who wants to take them home. I want to get the shy cat to curl into my lap and I want the agressitve cat to play with me without claws out and with no trauma getting hin back into the cage.
I honestly believe that working with animals is what I was born to do. Now if I could only find someone to help me pay my rent and I'll be a full-butt-wiggle happy camper.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Wearing of the Green
When I was a senior in high school I was in the marching band. I played the flag. You know those spangle-clad girls you see twirling flags at the Thanksgiving Day Parade? Yeah, I was one of them. Go figure.
Our band was quite a big thing. We went to, and won, state competitions and marched in a lot of big-time parades. Before my time the band from our high school played at the Kennedy inauguration. But my year we didn't do much except compete, do a few local events, and march in the San Francisco St. Patrick's Day Parade.
I suppose it was appropriate, as our uniforms were green. The flag girl uniforms were short leotard-y things, green spangles with white fringe. They were hideous, in retrospect. No. Not in retrospect. They were hideous back then too. And so uncomfortable. With them we wore white knee-high boots which made us all look like little hookers. Ah, those were the days.
For the SF parade we joined with dozens of other local bands and hundreds of floats, plus every pipe band in the universe, to march down Market Street under a typically gray San Francisco Day. The streets were lined with thousands of revelers, most of them drunk out of their gourds, happy for an excuse to be snockered at 11 am on a Sunday.
Most of the spectators were wearing green and there was a huge business in green cardboard top hats with gold shamrocks on them. There were adorable troops of red-headed Irish children step-dancing their way down the financial district. And a float from the local Irish-American Cultural Center that was tossing out green mardi gras beads. I can't tell you how many of those things I stepped on.
We discovered that the grates covering Market Street had squares the exact same size as the heels on our hooker boots and several of us got stuck along the parade route. We had to pull each other out and then dash to catch up to the rest of the band. Andy Landucci passed out in front of the Bank of America because he was hungover from Jessie Madell's 17th birthday party the night before and was dragged off the parade route by a cop and some guy in a McDonald's uniform. We were at the back of the band and had a hard time staying in step because the float behind us, playing a tinny version of McNamarra's Band, was louder than our own band in front of us. We heard McNamarra's Band 17 times during the course of the day. I hate McNamarra's Band. The float was from a local Irish pub named "Brennan's" and the guys on the float downed their first pint of Guinness at dawn and were well and truly cooked by the time the parade kicked off. Thoughtfully they had designed their float with a fake bar, with real stout. They kept up the drinking. One guy kept yelling inventive come-ons to us girls at the back. Another guy jumped off the float and started a fight with some hapless tourist who, unfortunately for him was wearing orange.
In keeping with the Irish theme, our band played Barry Manilow's Copa and the theme to the movie Rocky. Apparently we didn't know how to play McNamarra's Band.
When I was a senior in high school I was in the marching band. I played the flag. You know those spangle-clad girls you see twirling flags at the Thanksgiving Day Parade? Yeah, I was one of them. Go figure.
Our band was quite a big thing. We went to, and won, state competitions and marched in a lot of big-time parades. Before my time the band from our high school played at the Kennedy inauguration. But my year we didn't do much except compete, do a few local events, and march in the San Francisco St. Patrick's Day Parade.
I suppose it was appropriate, as our uniforms were green. The flag girl uniforms were short leotard-y things, green spangles with white fringe. They were hideous, in retrospect. No. Not in retrospect. They were hideous back then too. And so uncomfortable. With them we wore white knee-high boots which made us all look like little hookers. Ah, those were the days.
For the SF parade we joined with dozens of other local bands and hundreds of floats, plus every pipe band in the universe, to march down Market Street under a typically gray San Francisco Day. The streets were lined with thousands of revelers, most of them drunk out of their gourds, happy for an excuse to be snockered at 11 am on a Sunday.
Most of the spectators were wearing green and there was a huge business in green cardboard top hats with gold shamrocks on them. There were adorable troops of red-headed Irish children step-dancing their way down the financial district. And a float from the local Irish-American Cultural Center that was tossing out green mardi gras beads. I can't tell you how many of those things I stepped on.
We discovered that the grates covering Market Street had squares the exact same size as the heels on our hooker boots and several of us got stuck along the parade route. We had to pull each other out and then dash to catch up to the rest of the band. Andy Landucci passed out in front of the Bank of America because he was hungover from Jessie Madell's 17th birthday party the night before and was dragged off the parade route by a cop and some guy in a McDonald's uniform. We were at the back of the band and had a hard time staying in step because the float behind us, playing a tinny version of McNamarra's Band, was louder than our own band in front of us. We heard McNamarra's Band 17 times during the course of the day. I hate McNamarra's Band. The float was from a local Irish pub named "Brennan's" and the guys on the float downed their first pint of Guinness at dawn and were well and truly cooked by the time the parade kicked off. Thoughtfully they had designed their float with a fake bar, with real stout. They kept up the drinking. One guy kept yelling inventive come-ons to us girls at the back. Another guy jumped off the float and started a fight with some hapless tourist who, unfortunately for him was wearing orange.
In keeping with the Irish theme, our band played Barry Manilow's Copa and the theme to the movie Rocky. Apparently we didn't know how to play McNamarra's Band.
Photo of the day: Traces of Fire
Traces of fire against these rocks bring to mind beach parties from high school. Beer bought with a fake ID and then lots of skinny dipping and playing on the beach on a warm summer night. A ritual from high school. You had to have attended at least one of our beach parties. In retrospect, quite innocent. Some pot, maybe, but nothing more than that and alcohol and we always had sober drivers. Some great music, great friends, and a chance to get away from the folks for a while and just be teenagers again.
I lived for those nights when I could leave who my family thought I was behind and then go out with my real friends and laugh and get goofy, try stupid things, have fun. I celebrate those memories and credit them for helping me realize there was life outside of what my family were presenting me on their road map. I tore up that map. And I still don't know where I'm going. Loving every minute of it.
Traces of fire against these rocks bring to mind beach parties from high school. Beer bought with a fake ID and then lots of skinny dipping and playing on the beach on a warm summer night. A ritual from high school. You had to have attended at least one of our beach parties. In retrospect, quite innocent. Some pot, maybe, but nothing more than that and alcohol and we always had sober drivers. Some great music, great friends, and a chance to get away from the folks for a while and just be teenagers again.
I lived for those nights when I could leave who my family thought I was behind and then go out with my real friends and laugh and get goofy, try stupid things, have fun. I celebrate those memories and credit them for helping me realize there was life outside of what my family were presenting me on their road map. I tore up that map. And I still don't know where I'm going. Loving every minute of it.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: Wyatt Earp and Columbo
I suppose most towns are proud of their famous sons and daughters. Or eager to claim some brush with glory by proclaiming that George Washington slept there. Silver Creek was no exception….well, with one exception.
Silver Creek has absolutely no claim to any famous citizen or visitor.
The closest the town had ever come to a famous citizen is Andrew Kilpatrick. He right after high school to become an actor. He had one credit: he was a corpse on an episode of Columbo. I suppose his drive to be an actor wasn’t very strong because after six whole months of hard slogging in Hollywood, he got a job as a salesman at a Ford dealership in Orange County and ended his acting career. (Although he did appear in a few ads for the dealership and “Salesman Sal, your car-buying pal!”)
And as for George Washington passing through, well the only even remotely famous person to ever pass through Silver Creek was Wyatt Earp. And everyone knows he never actually visited town – it was just a PR ploy cooked up by the city council to give a little cache to our annual “Founder’s Days” events.
What prompted the deception was the fact that one of Silver Creek’s first families was named Earp. Absolutely no relation as the family never failed to point out – though I could never quite decide if they made that admission with pride at not being related to an such a character or disappointment at not having such a black sheep on the family tree. (If one can have sheep on a tree.)
But when it became obvious that nobody cared about Founder’s Days, the city council decided to add a little spice to the proceedings by claiming that Wyatt Earp had spent time in Sliver Creek in 1880, the year before the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. According to the adventurously titled pamphlet “Wyatt Earp in Silver Creek,” the lawman was convalescing from a gunshot wound at the home of his Aunt and Uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Lyman Earp.
But having him lying around in bed eating Aunt Agnes’ peach cobbler wasn’t enough and the pamphlet was three pages long so….
“By July of 1880 Earp was well enough to leave the comfort and care of the family homestead and throw himself into Silver Creek society. It was on the evening of July 17th that Earp single-handedly foiled a dastardly crime….”
Where to begin? Well, first off in 1880 Earp was living in Tombstone. The non-existent “family homestead” would have been the Earp house, a one-story ranch home built in 1892. Silver Creek never had much society. And I’m not even going to touch the phrase “dastardly crime.”
According to the increasingly hysterical pamphlet, a gang of masked robbers burst into the home of Mr. and Mrs. Preston Mears while a party was being held in honor of the visitor. Silver Creek’s finest citizens were being robbed at gunpoint when Wyatt Earp (who had conveniently been out of the room when the miscreants broke in) came flying through a window, guns blazing in both hands. He took down four robbers and finished the evening by dancing the Virginia Reel with the Mears’ lovely young daughter, Camellia.
Phrases such as “Earp’s cool lawman’s mind chilled at the thought of the beautiful Miss Camellia being misused by such ruffians” were matched in their stupidity only by the revelation that Earp was, apparently, such an expert shot that not one of the villains was killed. Earp managed to disarm each, but fired no mortal shot, so that every man was brought to a fair trial. (I guess whoever wrote this preposterous tale decided that having four men killed at a party would rather put a crimp on any further Virginia Reeling.)
One of the great things about Silver Creek is that everyone knew it was a lie, and everyone went along with it. Not in a “we believe this story” kind of way but in a “this is such a ridiculous idea that we’re going to have fun with it” fashion. The first Founder’s Day events after the creation of the Gospel According to Wyatt Earp included an old west costume party and a peach cobbler contest, in honor o Aunt Agnes Earp.
The following year proved even more exciting with a reenactment of The Great Crime, complete with Silver Creek police officer Dan Hartley jumping through a window at the Kiwanis hall and firing blanks towards the four “ruffians.”
And since then, it has only grown. There are mock shoot-outs on the street, in a battle rivaled only by the O.K. Corral itself. There is a cowboy poetry slam and a bluegrass music festival. There is even a dance that concludes with the Virginia Reel.
And one time I danced the Virginia Reel with Andrew Kilpatrick. Before he became a corpse on Columbo.
I suppose most towns are proud of their famous sons and daughters. Or eager to claim some brush with glory by proclaiming that George Washington slept there. Silver Creek was no exception….well, with one exception.
Silver Creek has absolutely no claim to any famous citizen or visitor.
The closest the town had ever come to a famous citizen is Andrew Kilpatrick. He right after high school to become an actor. He had one credit: he was a corpse on an episode of Columbo. I suppose his drive to be an actor wasn’t very strong because after six whole months of hard slogging in Hollywood, he got a job as a salesman at a Ford dealership in Orange County and ended his acting career. (Although he did appear in a few ads for the dealership and “Salesman Sal, your car-buying pal!”)
And as for George Washington passing through, well the only even remotely famous person to ever pass through Silver Creek was Wyatt Earp. And everyone knows he never actually visited town – it was just a PR ploy cooked up by the city council to give a little cache to our annual “Founder’s Days” events.
What prompted the deception was the fact that one of Silver Creek’s first families was named Earp. Absolutely no relation as the family never failed to point out – though I could never quite decide if they made that admission with pride at not being related to an such a character or disappointment at not having such a black sheep on the family tree. (If one can have sheep on a tree.)
But when it became obvious that nobody cared about Founder’s Days, the city council decided to add a little spice to the proceedings by claiming that Wyatt Earp had spent time in Sliver Creek in 1880, the year before the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. According to the adventurously titled pamphlet “Wyatt Earp in Silver Creek,” the lawman was convalescing from a gunshot wound at the home of his Aunt and Uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Lyman Earp.
But having him lying around in bed eating Aunt Agnes’ peach cobbler wasn’t enough and the pamphlet was three pages long so….
“By July of 1880 Earp was well enough to leave the comfort and care of the family homestead and throw himself into Silver Creek society. It was on the evening of July 17th that Earp single-handedly foiled a dastardly crime….”
Where to begin? Well, first off in 1880 Earp was living in Tombstone. The non-existent “family homestead” would have been the Earp house, a one-story ranch home built in 1892. Silver Creek never had much society. And I’m not even going to touch the phrase “dastardly crime.”
According to the increasingly hysterical pamphlet, a gang of masked robbers burst into the home of Mr. and Mrs. Preston Mears while a party was being held in honor of the visitor. Silver Creek’s finest citizens were being robbed at gunpoint when Wyatt Earp (who had conveniently been out of the room when the miscreants broke in) came flying through a window, guns blazing in both hands. He took down four robbers and finished the evening by dancing the Virginia Reel with the Mears’ lovely young daughter, Camellia.
Phrases such as “Earp’s cool lawman’s mind chilled at the thought of the beautiful Miss Camellia being misused by such ruffians” were matched in their stupidity only by the revelation that Earp was, apparently, such an expert shot that not one of the villains was killed. Earp managed to disarm each, but fired no mortal shot, so that every man was brought to a fair trial. (I guess whoever wrote this preposterous tale decided that having four men killed at a party would rather put a crimp on any further Virginia Reeling.)
One of the great things about Silver Creek is that everyone knew it was a lie, and everyone went along with it. Not in a “we believe this story” kind of way but in a “this is such a ridiculous idea that we’re going to have fun with it” fashion. The first Founder’s Day events after the creation of the Gospel According to Wyatt Earp included an old west costume party and a peach cobbler contest, in honor o Aunt Agnes Earp.
The following year proved even more exciting with a reenactment of The Great Crime, complete with Silver Creek police officer Dan Hartley jumping through a window at the Kiwanis hall and firing blanks towards the four “ruffians.”
And since then, it has only grown. There are mock shoot-outs on the street, in a battle rivaled only by the O.K. Corral itself. There is a cowboy poetry slam and a bluegrass music festival. There is even a dance that concludes with the Virginia Reel.
And one time I danced the Virginia Reel with Andrew Kilpatrick. Before he became a corpse on Columbo.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
CD Pick of the Week: The Chieftans and Ry Cooder
Multi-grammy winners (and elder statesmen of Irish music) the Chieftans team up with world music's favorite chameleon, Ry Cooder on San Patricio. As if that weren't enough, they include guests like Lila Downs and Linda Rondstadt, plus Liam Neeson doing the narration on one track. This release combines the music of Ireland and Mexico in a tribute to the little-known San Patricio Battalion, a group of Irish immigrants who deserted from the US Army to fight for Mexico in the Mexican-American War. This outstanding CD includes mariachi music backed by bagpipes, and Irish seafaring ballads with a touch of cancion guitar.
It's releases like this that make me so happy to be a world music DJ.
Multi-grammy winners (and elder statesmen of Irish music) the Chieftans team up with world music's favorite chameleon, Ry Cooder on San Patricio. As if that weren't enough, they include guests like Lila Downs and Linda Rondstadt, plus Liam Neeson doing the narration on one track. This release combines the music of Ireland and Mexico in a tribute to the little-known San Patricio Battalion, a group of Irish immigrants who deserted from the US Army to fight for Mexico in the Mexican-American War. This outstanding CD includes mariachi music backed by bagpipes, and Irish seafaring ballads with a touch of cancion guitar.
It's releases like this that make me so happy to be a world music DJ.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Look At Me Being All Proud
Kittie, author of the wonderful The Block has just graced me with an award. Well color me proud! Considering I have all of three readers (ok, maybe five) I'm all twitterpated. (No reference to Twitter intended.)
The instructions are to pass on the award to some of my favorite bloggers so I picked my top two.
To Finny at Finnyknits. A does of gardening. A dash of cooking. Three large cups of snarky humor. Finny is ever-hilarious, frequently instructive, and a laugh-out-loud hoot to read. She is also, I'm proud to say, a dear friend. And I hereby publicly proclaim my love for her.
To Duke at It's a Noir World. A newly-discovered blogging treasure. He writes on movies, politics, social issues. It's thought-provoking, intelligently written, and a gem for people who like to think and learn.
Thank you both for enriching my life. And thank you, Kittie, for the generous award.
Kittie, author of the wonderful The Block has just graced me with an award. Well color me proud! Considering I have all of three readers (ok, maybe five) I'm all twitterpated. (No reference to Twitter intended.)
The instructions are to pass on the award to some of my favorite bloggers so I picked my top two.
To Finny at Finnyknits. A does of gardening. A dash of cooking. Three large cups of snarky humor. Finny is ever-hilarious, frequently instructive, and a laugh-out-loud hoot to read. She is also, I'm proud to say, a dear friend. And I hereby publicly proclaim my love for her.
To Duke at It's a Noir World. A newly-discovered blogging treasure. He writes on movies, politics, social issues. It's thought-provoking, intelligently written, and a gem for people who like to think and learn.
Thank you both for enriching my life. And thank you, Kittie, for the generous award.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Lost in Coventry
I randomly picked up a copy of Coventry by Helen Humphreys. I'm one of those "judging a book by its cover" types of people and I saw it on display at my favorite independent bookstore, Keplers. Something about it had me picking it up and reading the back cover. And something there had me adding it to my pile of treasures. I don't know what or why, but it appealed to me and so it became mine.
I started it last night, finished it a few minutes ago and actually feel like I want to read it again because I think I read so fast that some of its beauty might have been missed.
It takes place mostly on one very long night, November 14, 1940, when the Germans bombed the English city of Coventry to destruction. During that night two women, connected by one young man, deal with danger, reflection, and thoughts of life and death while their world goes up in flames. Do you stay and help the wounded? Do you seek safety? Do you flee your home in terror or sit determined in your own home, feeling that being where your loved ones can find you is more important than being away from harm?
Coventry is a short book, just 177 pages in a trade paperback size. But it is intensely powerful and so beautifully written that it's like poetry. It's liquid, moving, with flashes of quicksilver brilliance. An example:
How would I describe the world? By describing something, doesn't the thing itself cease to exist? How would I decided what to marry -- this shade o grey with the low-slung clouds of November. Not precise enough. This shade of grey is cigarette ash. That shade of grey is water running over clay. Not vivid enough. That shade of grey is old mortar between old bricks.
Wow. How do you describe color? You can only do so in comparison to something else, and it's never quite right, And other literary problem children -- how does a person deal with loss? How does someone who loses everything go on to make a life? It's handled with subtle grace and breathtaking prose.
This is a beautiful, warm gem of a book that completely captured by my imagination and my heart. And makes me wish I had Ms. Humphrey's gift with words. Why, oh why can't I write like that?
I randomly picked up a copy of Coventry by Helen Humphreys. I'm one of those "judging a book by its cover" types of people and I saw it on display at my favorite independent bookstore, Keplers. Something about it had me picking it up and reading the back cover. And something there had me adding it to my pile of treasures. I don't know what or why, but it appealed to me and so it became mine.
I started it last night, finished it a few minutes ago and actually feel like I want to read it again because I think I read so fast that some of its beauty might have been missed.
It takes place mostly on one very long night, November 14, 1940, when the Germans bombed the English city of Coventry to destruction. During that night two women, connected by one young man, deal with danger, reflection, and thoughts of life and death while their world goes up in flames. Do you stay and help the wounded? Do you seek safety? Do you flee your home in terror or sit determined in your own home, feeling that being where your loved ones can find you is more important than being away from harm?
Coventry is a short book, just 177 pages in a trade paperback size. But it is intensely powerful and so beautifully written that it's like poetry. It's liquid, moving, with flashes of quicksilver brilliance. An example:
How would I describe the world? By describing something, doesn't the thing itself cease to exist? How would I decided what to marry -- this shade o grey with the low-slung clouds of November. Not precise enough. This shade of grey is cigarette ash. That shade of grey is water running over clay. Not vivid enough. That shade of grey is old mortar between old bricks.
Wow. How do you describe color? You can only do so in comparison to something else, and it's never quite right, And other literary problem children -- how does a person deal with loss? How does someone who loses everything go on to make a life? It's handled with subtle grace and breathtaking prose.
This is a beautiful, warm gem of a book that completely captured by my imagination and my heart. And makes me wish I had Ms. Humphrey's gift with words. Why, oh why can't I write like that?
Why I am Not a Drug Addict
Because I don't know where to buy them.
OK, there's more to it than that. But really I am so out of the drug-taking scene that if I suddenly decided that I wanted to get stoned, I would have no idea where to buy some pot. (I know, I'm a DJ at a college radio station -- wouldn't be that hard.)
What prompted this is the other night is I was watching a British mystery and part of the plot was that a group of men, otherwise law abiding, upstanding citizens, found themselves in a situation where they drugged a woman with Rohypnol so she would forget witnessing an accidental murder.
My problem? Where do middle-aged, usually honest, upright British gentlemen get their hands on the date-rape drug? Murder drugs seem less of a problem. I mean go to your local hardware store, pick up some weed killer, and you're one step away from ridding the world of Lord Bittwell.
But you hear about people who are addicted to Vicodin or Ambien. I have prescriptions for both drugs and getting them is a tightly controlled process. Now, of course, I'm not breaking the law. But where do people get their hands on these things? One of my fellow volunteers said her sister has ordered both, without a prescription, from internet sites and ended up getting useless fake pills. So what do addicts know that I don't about getting access to real drugs? And yes, this is a rhetorical question. I don't want cocaine, nor do I want illegal Vicodin. I'm just actually, honestly curious how people find this stuff without getting arrested, ripped off, or dead.
Because I don't know where to buy them.
OK, there's more to it than that. But really I am so out of the drug-taking scene that if I suddenly decided that I wanted to get stoned, I would have no idea where to buy some pot. (I know, I'm a DJ at a college radio station -- wouldn't be that hard.)
What prompted this is the other night is I was watching a British mystery and part of the plot was that a group of men, otherwise law abiding, upstanding citizens, found themselves in a situation where they drugged a woman with Rohypnol so she would forget witnessing an accidental murder.
My problem? Where do middle-aged, usually honest, upright British gentlemen get their hands on the date-rape drug? Murder drugs seem less of a problem. I mean go to your local hardware store, pick up some weed killer, and you're one step away from ridding the world of Lord Bittwell.
But you hear about people who are addicted to Vicodin or Ambien. I have prescriptions for both drugs and getting them is a tightly controlled process. Now, of course, I'm not breaking the law. But where do people get their hands on these things? One of my fellow volunteers said her sister has ordered both, without a prescription, from internet sites and ended up getting useless fake pills. So what do addicts know that I don't about getting access to real drugs? And yes, this is a rhetorical question. I don't want cocaine, nor do I want illegal Vicodin. I'm just actually, honestly curious how people find this stuff without getting arrested, ripped off, or dead.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Transitions
I'm sure by that title you're thinking this is one of those serious "I'm going through a life-changing event" posts. Well it isn't and I'm not.
By transitions i mean moving from one thing to another, a trick you need to learn when you're a DJ or your show will suck. So I try not to jar people by bridging two wildly different pieces of music. I will definitely switch from country to country or style to style (following, say a Brazilian samba with a warm bit of French jazz) but I try not to follow a high-energy dance track with, for example, an Irish war ballad. I will go from uptempo to midtempo, but not uptempo to downtempo. It's just a quirk of mine.
And I appreciate it when others who are in the position of programming transitions also do the same. Which was why I was amused to see the TCM schedule for tonight. They're in the process of showing five movies by Japanese master director, Akira Kurosawa. The last film will be Donzoko (English title The Lower Depths). The film is based on a story by Maxim Gorky. When you combine a director as artistically serious as Kurosawa and a writer as depressing as Gorky, you know you've got something of a dark masterpiece on your hands. Not a lot of laughs. It's apparently about a group of thieves and prostitutes living in squalor in a flop house, reflecting on the miseries that brought them there.
And then they're following this particular bit of Japanese misery with Meet the People, a lighthearted musical starring Lucille Ball and Dick Powell.
How in the world do you go from Kurosowa to Lucille Ball? That is one seriously odd transition.
I'm sure by that title you're thinking this is one of those serious "I'm going through a life-changing event" posts. Well it isn't and I'm not.
By transitions i mean moving from one thing to another, a trick you need to learn when you're a DJ or your show will suck. So I try not to jar people by bridging two wildly different pieces of music. I will definitely switch from country to country or style to style (following, say a Brazilian samba with a warm bit of French jazz) but I try not to follow a high-energy dance track with, for example, an Irish war ballad. I will go from uptempo to midtempo, but not uptempo to downtempo. It's just a quirk of mine.
And I appreciate it when others who are in the position of programming transitions also do the same. Which was why I was amused to see the TCM schedule for tonight. They're in the process of showing five movies by Japanese master director, Akira Kurosawa. The last film will be Donzoko (English title The Lower Depths). The film is based on a story by Maxim Gorky. When you combine a director as artistically serious as Kurosawa and a writer as depressing as Gorky, you know you've got something of a dark masterpiece on your hands. Not a lot of laughs. It's apparently about a group of thieves and prostitutes living in squalor in a flop house, reflecting on the miseries that brought them there.
And then they're following this particular bit of Japanese misery with Meet the People, a lighthearted musical starring Lucille Ball and Dick Powell.
How in the world do you go from Kurosowa to Lucille Ball? That is one seriously odd transition.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: Poplar Street
If eccentricity had a home in Silver Creek it lived on Poplar Street. Known as “Popular Street” it was a tree-lined lane only one block long but absolutely unique.
Every house on Poplar Street had a personality. And a name. Names usually found only in Agatha Christie novels and most rare in the colonies.
When the town was first founded, the houses clustered on Poplar Street made up the bulk of the residences. Their age and the wealth of their builders rendered them free from the dull taint of the tract homes and 50s style ranches that populated the majority of the city. They were, and are, fascinating structures full of whimsy and unanswered questions.
On the corner of Poplar and Lincoln was “The Lilac Bush.” This was the first and only house I have ever seen painted lilac. With purple trim, yet. It was a big, square, boxy place with a wraparound porch on the ground floor and a widow’s walk on the roof.
The Lilac Bush was the home of the Barrow family. For my entire childhood, Mr. and Mrs. Barrow were about 100 years old, but never aged. They remain somewhat fuzzy in my memory, with the exception of their corduroy-covered rumps, perennially up-ended over their flowers. They weeded a lot. Their garden was their pride and joy and full of color and scent though never, oddly enough, lilacs. And they were never seen sitting on the white wicker rocking chairs on their porch, though Mr. Barrow was once observed sitting on the front steps, most unexpectedly eating watermelon.
Next to the Lilac Bush was “The Cattery.” This all-female establishment was a bright canary yellow A-frame with a rotating army of cats sunning themselves on the lawn. It was home to, at any one time, between 5 and 7 women, all of whom were members of the Honnering family. These sisters and cousins were, sadly, completely interchangeable and nobody ever bothered to learn their first names – not that anyone would dare call them anything other than “Miss Honnering.” Aside from being safe (not risking using the wrong name) it seemed entirely appropriate. They were the most Victorian of women, wearing skirts down to their ankles long past the time it was even remotely fashionable.
On regular intervals a contingency of Misses Honnerings would all pile into an ancient black Cadillac and drive out of town. Nobody ever knew where they went and nobody dared ask. But speculation was both rife and ribald; each suggestion more outrageous than the last. They were strippers over in Hampton. They had a secret gold mine in the mountains. They were in the mob.
The rotating cast of Honnerings was also a mystery. One Miss Honnering would appear in town for a few years, and then she would be gone and another in her place. No questions. No explanations. Never any sign of a moving van or a hearse to resolve the mystery of the disappearing Honnering. They were the Stepford family. In retrospect, this seems more than a little disturbing but at the time it was just another weird Silver Creek entity.
The fence that divided the Cattery from its neighbor was unique for being white on one side (the Cattery) and black on the other (Mole House). Yes, you read that right: Mole House, which was named for…..moles.
Not a family named Mole. Not the gopher-like creature. No, Mole House was named, disgustingly enough, for moles on the skin. At least that was the story told by the Flannering family. Legend said the builder of the house was a man named Dr. Watson (shades of Sherlock!) who made a fortune on patent medicine designed to burn moles and warts off the skin of the gullible. However dubious this provenance, and despite the creepy name, Mole House was the most cheerful black house ever.
I remember my father once asking Mr. Flannering why he’d painted the house black and received the reply “what other color would you paint a house named after a skin growth?” Good point.
Mole House was warm and welcome thanks to a rainbow of flowerbeds outside and the sweetness of the Flannerings inside. They were a sweet and generous duo who offered a shoulder to any friend in need and who welcomed every stray dog and cat in town as if the SPCA had given the critters a map.
There were a half dozen or so other houses on the street. “The Birdcage” which looked like…well, you know. “Bluebell,” which was a Jane Austen-worthy cottage that had never been painted blue to anyone’s memory but which was noteworthy in having four chimneys in spite of its small size. “Magnolia” boasted six magnificent flowering trees that every winter rained white petals down upon the street to the point where the yard looked covered in snow. And “La Paloma” was a sedate, yet graceful dove-gray structure with bright red birdhouses hanging from the rafters and trees.
The one oddity on the street was the house with no name. It was just 7 Poplar Street. A nice enough house, but I always felt sorry for it and always wondered why the owners didn’t give it a name. The other houses all had plaques or signs with their name on it. But 7 Poplar Street just had a sign that read “7 Poplar Street.”
How inadequate that little house must have felt.
If eccentricity had a home in Silver Creek it lived on Poplar Street. Known as “Popular Street” it was a tree-lined lane only one block long but absolutely unique.
Every house on Poplar Street had a personality. And a name. Names usually found only in Agatha Christie novels and most rare in the colonies.
When the town was first founded, the houses clustered on Poplar Street made up the bulk of the residences. Their age and the wealth of their builders rendered them free from the dull taint of the tract homes and 50s style ranches that populated the majority of the city. They were, and are, fascinating structures full of whimsy and unanswered questions.
On the corner of Poplar and Lincoln was “The Lilac Bush.” This was the first and only house I have ever seen painted lilac. With purple trim, yet. It was a big, square, boxy place with a wraparound porch on the ground floor and a widow’s walk on the roof.
The Lilac Bush was the home of the Barrow family. For my entire childhood, Mr. and Mrs. Barrow were about 100 years old, but never aged. They remain somewhat fuzzy in my memory, with the exception of their corduroy-covered rumps, perennially up-ended over their flowers. They weeded a lot. Their garden was their pride and joy and full of color and scent though never, oddly enough, lilacs. And they were never seen sitting on the white wicker rocking chairs on their porch, though Mr. Barrow was once observed sitting on the front steps, most unexpectedly eating watermelon.
Next to the Lilac Bush was “The Cattery.” This all-female establishment was a bright canary yellow A-frame with a rotating army of cats sunning themselves on the lawn. It was home to, at any one time, between 5 and 7 women, all of whom were members of the Honnering family. These sisters and cousins were, sadly, completely interchangeable and nobody ever bothered to learn their first names – not that anyone would dare call them anything other than “Miss Honnering.” Aside from being safe (not risking using the wrong name) it seemed entirely appropriate. They were the most Victorian of women, wearing skirts down to their ankles long past the time it was even remotely fashionable.
On regular intervals a contingency of Misses Honnerings would all pile into an ancient black Cadillac and drive out of town. Nobody ever knew where they went and nobody dared ask. But speculation was both rife and ribald; each suggestion more outrageous than the last. They were strippers over in Hampton. They had a secret gold mine in the mountains. They were in the mob.
The rotating cast of Honnerings was also a mystery. One Miss Honnering would appear in town for a few years, and then she would be gone and another in her place. No questions. No explanations. Never any sign of a moving van or a hearse to resolve the mystery of the disappearing Honnering. They were the Stepford family. In retrospect, this seems more than a little disturbing but at the time it was just another weird Silver Creek entity.
The fence that divided the Cattery from its neighbor was unique for being white on one side (the Cattery) and black on the other (Mole House). Yes, you read that right: Mole House, which was named for…..moles.
Not a family named Mole. Not the gopher-like creature. No, Mole House was named, disgustingly enough, for moles on the skin. At least that was the story told by the Flannering family. Legend said the builder of the house was a man named Dr. Watson (shades of Sherlock!) who made a fortune on patent medicine designed to burn moles and warts off the skin of the gullible. However dubious this provenance, and despite the creepy name, Mole House was the most cheerful black house ever.
I remember my father once asking Mr. Flannering why he’d painted the house black and received the reply “what other color would you paint a house named after a skin growth?” Good point.
Mole House was warm and welcome thanks to a rainbow of flowerbeds outside and the sweetness of the Flannerings inside. They were a sweet and generous duo who offered a shoulder to any friend in need and who welcomed every stray dog and cat in town as if the SPCA had given the critters a map.
There were a half dozen or so other houses on the street. “The Birdcage” which looked like…well, you know. “Bluebell,” which was a Jane Austen-worthy cottage that had never been painted blue to anyone’s memory but which was noteworthy in having four chimneys in spite of its small size. “Magnolia” boasted six magnificent flowering trees that every winter rained white petals down upon the street to the point where the yard looked covered in snow. And “La Paloma” was a sedate, yet graceful dove-gray structure with bright red birdhouses hanging from the rafters and trees.
The one oddity on the street was the house with no name. It was just 7 Poplar Street. A nice enough house, but I always felt sorry for it and always wondered why the owners didn’t give it a name. The other houses all had plaques or signs with their name on it. But 7 Poplar Street just had a sign that read “7 Poplar Street.”
How inadequate that little house must have felt.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
ER and Pie
My day started off with poor Husband waking me with that dreaded phrase "I think I need to go to the hospital." He's been dealing with a kidney stone (his forth!) and today the pain was pretty unbearable. So off we went to our local ER.
A few years ago when I was sick with the mystery illness, we spent far too many hours in that ER. It got to the point where we knew the nurses on a first name basis. And today, with Husband, we had my favorite: Claude. He's an adorable French guy with a dishy accent and a very sweet, caring nature.
We got lucky today. We were taken right away and in and out in under two hours. That's a record. There's been times when we waited nearly that long to get seen. Today there was nobody waiting, there was an empty room, there were nurses that weren't busy, and a good doctor. Husband was taken in, given a CT scan, and given some lovely drugs....then released, all in two hours.
He's home now and in bed, doing fine. The lovely drugs have made him sweetly dopey and the CT scan shows a stone that's small enough to pass naturally (if anything that painful can be natural).
And, as compensation, I'm making an apple pie. So tonight it's apple pie, the Oscars, and pain drugs if needed.
But the adventure confirmed one thing for me: It's much easier being the patient than watching someone you love in pain. Not only is it harder to bear being powerless when the one you love is sick -- it also sucks when you're not the one getting the fun drugs.
My day started off with poor Husband waking me with that dreaded phrase "I think I need to go to the hospital." He's been dealing with a kidney stone (his forth!) and today the pain was pretty unbearable. So off we went to our local ER.
A few years ago when I was sick with the mystery illness, we spent far too many hours in that ER. It got to the point where we knew the nurses on a first name basis. And today, with Husband, we had my favorite: Claude. He's an adorable French guy with a dishy accent and a very sweet, caring nature.
We got lucky today. We were taken right away and in and out in under two hours. That's a record. There's been times when we waited nearly that long to get seen. Today there was nobody waiting, there was an empty room, there were nurses that weren't busy, and a good doctor. Husband was taken in, given a CT scan, and given some lovely drugs....then released, all in two hours.
He's home now and in bed, doing fine. The lovely drugs have made him sweetly dopey and the CT scan shows a stone that's small enough to pass naturally (if anything that painful can be natural).
And, as compensation, I'm making an apple pie. So tonight it's apple pie, the Oscars, and pain drugs if needed.
But the adventure confirmed one thing for me: It's much easier being the patient than watching someone you love in pain. Not only is it harder to bear being powerless when the one you love is sick -- it also sucks when you're not the one getting the fun drugs.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Cheese
I put in some extra time at the shelter today. We had a professional photographer volunteer her time to take pictures of some of our long-term cats so they can show their best on our website. I've never been in a position of having to keep a cat focused for extended periods of times. Cats, I've discovered, are not cooperative when it comes to posing for pictures.
When I socialize the kitties, it's all about keeping them entertained. If they want to run around and play, that's what we do. If they want a lap, they've got one. The cats pretty much dictate how the visit will go. But today I had to try and get them to sit still and look up, preferably towards the nice lady with the camera.
I had no idea how hard it was going to be. it may have been one of the silliest things I've done in a lifetime of doing silly things. Standing there, waving pipe cleaners or squeaky toys. Snapping my fingers. Making odd noises. Anything to keep them focused. In all we photographed about seven cats in two hours and only one was cooperative. This guy sat there, still and charming, and let her snap away. It only took us about five minutes to get a dozen good shots. Other cats we had for 20 minutes at a time and only at the end got something usable. The poor photographer got lots of lovely butt shots, tops of heads, or nice close-ups of side markings. But getting a full on shot of a kitty when he or she has her eyes open, looking at the camera, and still -- that was a work of epic proportions.
The one thing I keep learning from working with the cats is patience. Today was another lesson is that. But I think she did get some lovely photos and I can't wait to see the results on the website.
And, in spite of the fact that we worked with several red cats, I came away with only one scratch. (Laramie, some day you and I will be friends!)
I put in some extra time at the shelter today. We had a professional photographer volunteer her time to take pictures of some of our long-term cats so they can show their best on our website. I've never been in a position of having to keep a cat focused for extended periods of times. Cats, I've discovered, are not cooperative when it comes to posing for pictures.
When I socialize the kitties, it's all about keeping them entertained. If they want to run around and play, that's what we do. If they want a lap, they've got one. The cats pretty much dictate how the visit will go. But today I had to try and get them to sit still and look up, preferably towards the nice lady with the camera.
I had no idea how hard it was going to be. it may have been one of the silliest things I've done in a lifetime of doing silly things. Standing there, waving pipe cleaners or squeaky toys. Snapping my fingers. Making odd noises. Anything to keep them focused. In all we photographed about seven cats in two hours and only one was cooperative. This guy sat there, still and charming, and let her snap away. It only took us about five minutes to get a dozen good shots. Other cats we had for 20 minutes at a time and only at the end got something usable. The poor photographer got lots of lovely butt shots, tops of heads, or nice close-ups of side markings. But getting a full on shot of a kitty when he or she has her eyes open, looking at the camera, and still -- that was a work of epic proportions.
The one thing I keep learning from working with the cats is patience. Today was another lesson is that. But I think she did get some lovely photos and I can't wait to see the results on the website.
And, in spite of the fact that we worked with several red cats, I came away with only one scratch. (Laramie, some day you and I will be friends!)
Friday, March 05, 2010
Love in the Soup Aisle
Here's the scene:
An old woman, probably in her 80s, pushing her cart slowly down a supermarket aisle. Coming towards her is her husband, carrying two boxes of cookies. He looks at her, smiles broadly, and says happily:
"Look, those cookies you like are on sale!"
That, to me, is love. This man was so happy that he could do something, however small, for his wife.
I want to be just like that when I'm in my 80s. And I know Husband is just the kind of man who would look out for those cookies I like.
Here's the scene:
An old woman, probably in her 80s, pushing her cart slowly down a supermarket aisle. Coming towards her is her husband, carrying two boxes of cookies. He looks at her, smiles broadly, and says happily:
"Look, those cookies you like are on sale!"
That, to me, is love. This man was so happy that he could do something, however small, for his wife.
I want to be just like that when I'm in my 80s. And I know Husband is just the kind of man who would look out for those cookies I like.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Monday, March 01, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
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.
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.
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