Standing with the other suckers roped into jury duty for twenty minutes or so, waiting for the court house to open. When the doors are finally unlocked, we shuffle obediently through the metal detectors, find the restrooms, make note of all the vending machines and finally make our way to Room 303.
"We'll validate your tickets when you're dismissed for the day. Please take a badge and have a seat," says the pleasantly efficient blond in the surprisingly low-cut silver top. She'll say it a hundred times or more as the jury room continues to fill. It is now a quarter to eight, and the wait begins.
And how lucky for me. Though most people in the packed room sit quietly, reading or messing with their phones, I'm sitting in front of two right-wing nutjobs. They don't seem to know each other, but they feel amazingly comfortable sharing their noxious world views with each other.
It starts out with one of them going on about the "cowardly" Democrats in Wisconsin, which leads nicely into some anti-union bullshit, and then it goes downhill from there. By the time one of them is waxing nostalgic for the eighties--"We had a good president, and kids could fight. None of this fucking stuff about bullying. Who is some committee to decide what a bully is, anyway?"--I start to loathe the criminal justice system. Imagine having your guilt or innocence decided by these goofballs.
Fortunately, the Donald Westlake/Richard Stark book I brought along provides excellent distraction--damn, that guy could write!--at least until the person in charge appears at the front of the room and instructs the right side of the room to follow her for orientation. Unfortunately, I'm on the left side, which means I get to listen to more pearls of wisdom from the cornfed Glenn Becks behind me. It's not even eight-thirty. Shit.
I'm already up to page 50 in my book when the person in charge--who tells us her name, and it confirms that she is not in fact the woman I once had a mild crush on many, many years ago--reappears and leads us down the hall to a surprisingly disheveled courtroom, with boxes piled in one corner and a rack of folding chairs against a wall. She rolls out a vintage Zenith, pops in a VHS tape and our orientation begins.
As befits a tutorial presented in an obsolete format, the video walks us in the most dated way imaginable through the essential stuff we need to know about being a juror. One of the most important things it stresses is to avoid reading newspapers or watching TV. Uh, right. This tape is being played to a room full of people with cellphones and iPads, who can easily find out anything they need to know in seconds, and we're being told that we can have loved ones cut out any relevant stories from newspapers before we read them. I know that Polk County has had to make some pretty severe budget cuts, but would it be too much to ask that our orientation material be produced in this century?
The tape ends, and we're addressed by a judge, who reiterates half of what we've already heard, then apologizes for the age of the video. The idea of skipping the video altogether and merely having the judge address us from the get-go apparently never occurred to anybody. After all, that would speed up the process, and God knows we wouldn't want that.
Back to the jury room, where names are called for potential jurors for specific trials. I'm one of thirty potential jurors for a trial being overseen by Judge Rosenberg, whose name is mentioned half a dozen times, as in "Judge Rosenberg jurors, please line up in the hallway," or "Judge Rosenberg jurors, please wait to the left of the jury room," or "Judge Rosenberg jurors, please wait."
So we wait in the hallway. And wait. And wait. Conversations start, then peter out from lack of interest. People lean against walls or marble columns, walk around briefly, the lean some more. All thirty of us watch, mesmerized, as an elderly gentleman polishes the balustrade, and shortly after wondering whether "polishing the balustrade" works better as a euphemism for oral sex or masturbation I realize it has been years since I've been quite this bored.
What was supposed to be a fifteen minute wait stretches to an hour. It's obvious that the case we were to hear is being settled, but nobody keeps us informed. Finally some functionary who is different from all the other functionaries we've seen this morning gathers all the Judge Rosenberg jurors together and tells us the obvious: The case is settled. "However," she adds, "this does not mean you are being released from service. There is one other trial scheduled, and we may yet need alternates for the two other trials getting underway"--and here she checks her watch in an absurdly theatrical manner--"shortly, so please return to the jury room and wait."
Which we do, for another hour or so, until another yet another functionary appears, telling us to go home. I wait for the line to thin out before having my parking ticket validated by the blond in the surprisingly low-cut top, which is now covered by a white shirt buttoned to the neck.
Someone must have said something.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
NOTHING'S GONNA CHANGE MY WORLD
Suddenly, it's five years.
I'm forty-five. Five years is a long time, a considerable chunk of my life. And yet five years is how long I have lived in this world without Mom.
LiFe without her comforting words, her wise counsel, her fiercely-held opinions? It once seemed unbearable. And how I would miss her sense of humor--she could make me laugh anytime I talked to her. She was--and I hesitate to use the term, but there's really no better description--a life force: everyone who came into contact with her was better for knowing her. She was the center of my life, my world, my universe. Life without her would be no life at all.
Still, here we are. Life has gone on, and I might make note of the fact that the first sentence of this paragraph was a lift from the Bob Seger song We've Got Tonight, which has nothing to do with what I'm writing about. In fact, I hate Bob Seger, and I particularly hate that song, and maybe it only popped into my head because I'm trying to think of something, anything, to distract me from the subject at hand, because I don't want to start grieving all over again.
Or maybe it popped into my head because I'm frankly kind of bored. I don't want to be writing another tribute to Mom. What else is there to say? This site came into being as a way of dealing with my grief, but it quickly became something else, because after all, how long could the grieving process last? I still remember so many little details, and still do all I can to honor Mom's memory, but the simple fact is, that memory doesn't mean as much to me now as it once did. It just doesn't. It can't. If it did, I'd live under it every single day, unable to move forward.
It is, after all, the nature of all things to move forward. And so I have--I rarely think of Mom anymore. Life goes on, things in their season, and all that. Letting go is a natural and inevitable part of the process.
Still, something stings my eyes. Couldn't be tears, though. Not after five years.
I'm forty-five. Five years is a long time, a considerable chunk of my life. And yet five years is how long I have lived in this world without Mom.
LiFe without her comforting words, her wise counsel, her fiercely-held opinions? It once seemed unbearable. And how I would miss her sense of humor--she could make me laugh anytime I talked to her. She was--and I hesitate to use the term, but there's really no better description--a life force: everyone who came into contact with her was better for knowing her. She was the center of my life, my world, my universe. Life without her would be no life at all.
Still, here we are. Life has gone on, and I might make note of the fact that the first sentence of this paragraph was a lift from the Bob Seger song We've Got Tonight, which has nothing to do with what I'm writing about. In fact, I hate Bob Seger, and I particularly hate that song, and maybe it only popped into my head because I'm trying to think of something, anything, to distract me from the subject at hand, because I don't want to start grieving all over again.
Or maybe it popped into my head because I'm frankly kind of bored. I don't want to be writing another tribute to Mom. What else is there to say? This site came into being as a way of dealing with my grief, but it quickly became something else, because after all, how long could the grieving process last? I still remember so many little details, and still do all I can to honor Mom's memory, but the simple fact is, that memory doesn't mean as much to me now as it once did. It just doesn't. It can't. If it did, I'd live under it every single day, unable to move forward.
It is, after all, the nature of all things to move forward. And so I have--I rarely think of Mom anymore. Life goes on, things in their season, and all that. Letting go is a natural and inevitable part of the process.
Still, something stings my eyes. Couldn't be tears, though. Not after five years.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
NOTHING SO APPALLING IN THE ANNALS OF HORROR!
More passings of people I'd always hoped would be around forever.
Betty Garrett, for instance, has died at 91. She was a mainstay of MGM musicals in the late forties and fifties, but the famously conservative studio cut her loose when her husband, Larry Parks, was blacklisted for pro-Communist sympathies. (He named names, which made him a pariah of the right and the left.) Garrett found work at other studios, she and Parks did a ton of summer stock, and she finally became a much-loved character actress. I couldn't find my favorite moment Garrett had on film (her performance of It's Fate, baby, It's Fate from the otherwise undistinguished Take Me Out To The Ballgame) but this will do nicely, as she effortlessly takes charge of an amazing ensemble including Tommy Rall, Janet Leigh and Bob Fosse in a number from Richard Quine's wonderful 1955 musical My Sister Eileen.
Pancreatic cancer took the great character comedian Kenneth Mars at 75. Like Garrett, he made anything better simply by being in it, whether it was an episode of Murder, She Wrote, the cult favorite Fernwood 2Nite, or, the roles that granted him immortality, Mel Brooks' The Producers and Young Frankenstein. That last film, in particular, has a cast full of great comic performers, but Mars, in a relatively small role, steals it from them all.
Finally, heart failure finally took producer David Friedman, the distinguished impresario behind some of the finest films ever made.
That was, of course, Blood Feast, one of several movies Friedman produced for writer-director Herschell Gordon Lewis. The almost-competent cinematography and dime store effects came courtesy of Lewis, but that patently insincere warning at the top of the trailer was pure Friedman, a master of selling the sizzle without the steak. So many of his titles--Trader Hornee, The Erotic Adventures Of Zorro--sound entertaining, but most of the inventiveness was spent on the titles and ad campaigns. Still, they generally at least delivered on their promise to show gorgeous naked babes, so there's that. Friedman flourished during a more innocent time of exploitation cinema, though he later produced the notorious Ilsa, She-Wolf Of The S.S., from which he removed his name, as well as some hard-core porn. But he always had a sense of humor about what he did, and never took himself seriously.
And it was a sense of humor that united Friedman, Mars and Garrett. The world is worse without them.
Betty Garrett, for instance, has died at 91. She was a mainstay of MGM musicals in the late forties and fifties, but the famously conservative studio cut her loose when her husband, Larry Parks, was blacklisted for pro-Communist sympathies. (He named names, which made him a pariah of the right and the left.) Garrett found work at other studios, she and Parks did a ton of summer stock, and she finally became a much-loved character actress. I couldn't find my favorite moment Garrett had on film (her performance of It's Fate, baby, It's Fate from the otherwise undistinguished Take Me Out To The Ballgame) but this will do nicely, as she effortlessly takes charge of an amazing ensemble including Tommy Rall, Janet Leigh and Bob Fosse in a number from Richard Quine's wonderful 1955 musical My Sister Eileen.
Pancreatic cancer took the great character comedian Kenneth Mars at 75. Like Garrett, he made anything better simply by being in it, whether it was an episode of Murder, She Wrote, the cult favorite Fernwood 2Nite, or, the roles that granted him immortality, Mel Brooks' The Producers and Young Frankenstein. That last film, in particular, has a cast full of great comic performers, but Mars, in a relatively small role, steals it from them all.
Finally, heart failure finally took producer David Friedman, the distinguished impresario behind some of the finest films ever made.
That was, of course, Blood Feast, one of several movies Friedman produced for writer-director Herschell Gordon Lewis. The almost-competent cinematography and dime store effects came courtesy of Lewis, but that patently insincere warning at the top of the trailer was pure Friedman, a master of selling the sizzle without the steak. So many of his titles--Trader Hornee, The Erotic Adventures Of Zorro--sound entertaining, but most of the inventiveness was spent on the titles and ad campaigns. Still, they generally at least delivered on their promise to show gorgeous naked babes, so there's that. Friedman flourished during a more innocent time of exploitation cinema, though he later produced the notorious Ilsa, She-Wolf Of The S.S., from which he removed his name, as well as some hard-core porn. But he always had a sense of humor about what he did, and never took himself seriously.
And it was a sense of humor that united Friedman, Mars and Garrett. The world is worse without them.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
DON'T TRY TO FIGHT IT
It was called the music room, mostly because it was the only available space left in the whole school for the band and choir to rehearse. No one was fooled, though. The awful acoustics and overhead door on the north side marked it for what it originally was--a garage.
It was, therefore, the only sheltered area in the entire building that could temporarily house a pickup, and so that was where we gathered: seventh and eighth graders being allowed for the first time in school history to build a float for the homecoming parade. This honor had previously only been bestowed on freshman and up, and the significance wasn't lost on us. It meant we were practically in high school, which meant we were practically adults.
Normally we would have been outside working on this, but a furious rain pounded the ground, as it had the whole previous night, as it was scheduled to do all day. If it continued, the parade and all related events scheduled for that afternoon would be canceled, but none of the twelve and thirteen-year-olds gathered inside the music room were thinking of that.
Most concentrated on the papier-mache figure taking shape on the back of the pickup, some sort of angry bird wearing a YJB Raiders helmet. Others, less ambitious, hung on the periphery, happy just to have been granted a period full of extended goof-off time, free from the burdens of the classroom. I was one of those, though I wasn't all that celebratory about my freedom. I hated gatherings like this, feeling perpetually isolated from most of my classmates, so non-social it hurt.
Still, somehow I found myself leaning against the driver's side door of the pickup when Dale, one of my classmates, and Marty, a grade ahead, slid into the cab from the other side. They motioned me inside, handed me the key--how had they gotten hold of it?--and Marty said, "We need some music."
I turned it to auxiliary. Dale punched buttons on the radio until he came to KIOA, the local Top Forty station, the one station everyone listened to. We suffered through some commercials and the top of the hour newscast, then, finally, music.
Well I was sixteen, sick of school
Didn't know what I wanted to do
I bought a guitar
I got the fever
That's rock & roll
I was twelve, and I already knew Shaun Cassidy was nothing but a TV pretty boy, that this song, this product, had nothing to do with real rock & roll. But Dale and Marty were bopping their heads in time to the music, and damned if I didn't start pounding out the beat on the steering wheel. By the chorus, we were all three singing along.
Come on everybody, get down and get with it
Come on everybody, get down and get with it
Come on everybody, get down--that's rock & roll
We kept swinging our bodies back and forth in time to the rhythm, and pantomimed playing along to the cheesy sax solo. For three minutes, we freed ourselves to wild abandon.
That song ended, some Neil Diamond crap came on, we emerged from the pickup. Dale and Marty went off to do something else, and since I wasn't explicitly invited to join them, I crept back to the periphery. I had briefly glimpsed something new and different, a kinship with people I barely even knew, but now I stood in the corner by the big windows, watching the rain, falling, falling.
It was, therefore, the only sheltered area in the entire building that could temporarily house a pickup, and so that was where we gathered: seventh and eighth graders being allowed for the first time in school history to build a float for the homecoming parade. This honor had previously only been bestowed on freshman and up, and the significance wasn't lost on us. It meant we were practically in high school, which meant we were practically adults.
Normally we would have been outside working on this, but a furious rain pounded the ground, as it had the whole previous night, as it was scheduled to do all day. If it continued, the parade and all related events scheduled for that afternoon would be canceled, but none of the twelve and thirteen-year-olds gathered inside the music room were thinking of that.
Most concentrated on the papier-mache figure taking shape on the back of the pickup, some sort of angry bird wearing a YJB Raiders helmet. Others, less ambitious, hung on the periphery, happy just to have been granted a period full of extended goof-off time, free from the burdens of the classroom. I was one of those, though I wasn't all that celebratory about my freedom. I hated gatherings like this, feeling perpetually isolated from most of my classmates, so non-social it hurt.
Still, somehow I found myself leaning against the driver's side door of the pickup when Dale, one of my classmates, and Marty, a grade ahead, slid into the cab from the other side. They motioned me inside, handed me the key--how had they gotten hold of it?--and Marty said, "We need some music."
I turned it to auxiliary. Dale punched buttons on the radio until he came to KIOA, the local Top Forty station, the one station everyone listened to. We suffered through some commercials and the top of the hour newscast, then, finally, music.
Well I was sixteen, sick of school
Didn't know what I wanted to do
I bought a guitar
I got the fever
That's rock & roll
I was twelve, and I already knew Shaun Cassidy was nothing but a TV pretty boy, that this song, this product, had nothing to do with real rock & roll. But Dale and Marty were bopping their heads in time to the music, and damned if I didn't start pounding out the beat on the steering wheel. By the chorus, we were all three singing along.
Come on everybody, get down and get with it
Come on everybody, get down and get with it
Come on everybody, get down--that's rock & roll
We kept swinging our bodies back and forth in time to the rhythm, and pantomimed playing along to the cheesy sax solo. For three minutes, we freed ourselves to wild abandon.
That song ended, some Neil Diamond crap came on, we emerged from the pickup. Dale and Marty went off to do something else, and since I wasn't explicitly invited to join them, I crept back to the periphery. I had briefly glimpsed something new and different, a kinship with people I barely even knew, but now I stood in the corner by the big windows, watching the rain, falling, falling.
Sunday, February 06, 2011
PUSSYCATS
A friend was moving, she couldn't take all of her pets with her, so please welcome to the stage another player--new kitty Staley. I don't really need another critter around here, what with the cat and the dog I already have, and Janie's cat, which will presumably be joining us shortly.
But Staley is fuzzy and gray, and darned if she doesn't look a bit like much-beloved and still much-missed Monika and...and she's just insanely lovable, is what she is. She's already shown she can hold her own against a leaping Beagle, and even though Delmar hates her, that's not too troubling, because of course Del hates everyone. (Except me, of course.) It's a little disconcerting to be reading in bed and suddenly have a fuzzy gray presence appear in my peripheral vision--for one brief moment, I think Monika's still around--but there's comfort in that presence, as well.
So again, welcome to Staley, but a sad farewell to Tura Satana, the iconic, magnetic star of one of Russ Meyer's greatest films, Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! Unfortunately for Satana--her real name, incidentally, which is one of the many awesome things about her--that film was released in 1965, a time when nobody in the filmmaking establishment was paying any attention to the disreputable likes of Russ Meyer, so her amazing performance, which should have led to a long, well-earned career, pretty much led nowhere.
She wasn't a great actress, but she was an astonishing presence--would it be too much to compare her to Cyd Charisse?--and she certainly deserved better than the Al Adamson crapfests she wound up doing. Later in life, as appreciation for Faster, Pussycat! became more common, she became famous for simply being, adored by fans for one great role.
And while it would have been great if she'd done more, what she did was more than enough.
But Staley is fuzzy and gray, and darned if she doesn't look a bit like much-beloved and still much-missed Monika and...and she's just insanely lovable, is what she is. She's already shown she can hold her own against a leaping Beagle, and even though Delmar hates her, that's not too troubling, because of course Del hates everyone. (Except me, of course.) It's a little disconcerting to be reading in bed and suddenly have a fuzzy gray presence appear in my peripheral vision--for one brief moment, I think Monika's still around--but there's comfort in that presence, as well.
So again, welcome to Staley, but a sad farewell to Tura Satana, the iconic, magnetic star of one of Russ Meyer's greatest films, Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! Unfortunately for Satana--her real name, incidentally, which is one of the many awesome things about her--that film was released in 1965, a time when nobody in the filmmaking establishment was paying any attention to the disreputable likes of Russ Meyer, so her amazing performance, which should have led to a long, well-earned career, pretty much led nowhere.
She wasn't a great actress, but she was an astonishing presence--would it be too much to compare her to Cyd Charisse?--and she certainly deserved better than the Al Adamson crapfests she wound up doing. Later in life, as appreciation for Faster, Pussycat! became more common, she became famous for simply being, adored by fans for one great role.
And while it would have been great if she'd done more, what she did was more than enough.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?
Some time ago, in the wake of multiple posts lamenting the punishingly dull, relentlessly self-important botch that was Superman Returns, I mentioned my regret that the shift toward dourly serious superhero movies meant it was extremely unlikely that we'd ever again see a movie like Richard Lester's Superman 3, which is a whole lot worse than Superman Returns but a lot more interesting, as Lester's obvious contempt for the genre and discomfort at handling a summer tentpole were palpable. The days had long passed, I thought, when a studio would hire a director as obviously incompatible with this kind of material.
I was wrong, apparently, although in the case of The Green Hornet, it's hard to know who is more incompatible with the mechanics of superhero machinery, director Michel Gondry, more noted for his decidedly low-tech whimsy, or co-writer/star Seth Rogen, whose slacker/stoner persona is rapidly approaching its sell-by date. To their credit, neither men seems remotely interested in making a big dumb action movie. In fact, they don't quite seem to know what the hell they're doing.
That's mostly intended as a compliment. It would be impossible to describe The Green hornet as a good movie, exactly, but it's a lot of fun, with some of the go-for-broke inventiveness of Edgar Wright's Scott Pilgrim vs. The World, albeit without the visual and thematic unity of that film. Half of what happens, plot-wise and character-wise, seems utterly random, and not always intentionally so, but that makes it wonderfully free of Screenwriting 101 conventions. A late scene where Rogen puts together the motivations of the two main villains is the closest it even comes to pretending to care about the storyline.
So the movie rises and falls on its individual scenes. Some of them, particularly anything involving Rogen or co-star Jay Chou hitting on Cameron Diaz, are pretty squirm-inducing. But the scenes revealing Chou's abilities as a crackpot inventor as well as an ass-kicking martial artist (and incidentally, Gondry shows a real flair for filming and editing action scenes; who knew?) are delightful, everything involving Christoph Waltz's insecure villain Chudnofsky (or Bloodnofsky, as he later decides to call himself) is solid gold, and how can you not love the fact that Gondry sticks a homage to the sped-up threeway scene from A Clockwork Orange into this would-be franchise movie?
The Green Hornet did unexpectedly well in its opening weekend, but I suspect it won't have legs, and any kind of sequel seems unlikely. That's okay. It's reassuring to know that the Hollywood development process even allowed something this eccentric to get made in the first place.
I was wrong, apparently, although in the case of The Green Hornet, it's hard to know who is more incompatible with the mechanics of superhero machinery, director Michel Gondry, more noted for his decidedly low-tech whimsy, or co-writer/star Seth Rogen, whose slacker/stoner persona is rapidly approaching its sell-by date. To their credit, neither men seems remotely interested in making a big dumb action movie. In fact, they don't quite seem to know what the hell they're doing.
That's mostly intended as a compliment. It would be impossible to describe The Green hornet as a good movie, exactly, but it's a lot of fun, with some of the go-for-broke inventiveness of Edgar Wright's Scott Pilgrim vs. The World, albeit without the visual and thematic unity of that film. Half of what happens, plot-wise and character-wise, seems utterly random, and not always intentionally so, but that makes it wonderfully free of Screenwriting 101 conventions. A late scene where Rogen puts together the motivations of the two main villains is the closest it even comes to pretending to care about the storyline.
So the movie rises and falls on its individual scenes. Some of them, particularly anything involving Rogen or co-star Jay Chou hitting on Cameron Diaz, are pretty squirm-inducing. But the scenes revealing Chou's abilities as a crackpot inventor as well as an ass-kicking martial artist (and incidentally, Gondry shows a real flair for filming and editing action scenes; who knew?) are delightful, everything involving Christoph Waltz's insecure villain Chudnofsky (or Bloodnofsky, as he later decides to call himself) is solid gold, and how can you not love the fact that Gondry sticks a homage to the sped-up threeway scene from A Clockwork Orange into this would-be franchise movie?
The Green Hornet did unexpectedly well in its opening weekend, but I suspect it won't have legs, and any kind of sequel seems unlikely. That's okay. It's reassuring to know that the Hollywood development process even allowed something this eccentric to get made in the first place.
Monday, January 17, 2011
I REALLY LOVE TO WATCH THEM ROLL
This is a not-untypical day off: Janie and I went out for breakfast, we came home and hung out, took epic-length naps...That's about it. Right now she's watching Underworld on cable, a movie I don't care for but which I'm finding to be a perfect zone-out movie, something that can be on in the background and I can dip in and out of without any concern that I'm missing anything.
That's kind of the point of my life that I've reached, and honestly, I'm good with it. I'm no longer nagged by the feeling that I'm supposed to be doing something else. I haven't seen as much of the world as I might like, I've never finished, much less published, any of those novels I started, and I've sentenced myself to a life with a job, not a career, which means I'll never earn as much money as I thought I needed to be happy.
Thing is, though, I am happy. Mostly, anyway. It doesn't matter how worldly we are or what our income level is, life will always be made up of small, individual moments. And if more of those moments are joyous than sad, well, that's a life well-lived. As long as Janie and I can inexplicably burst into songs from Mary Poppins while snuggling in bed, as long as beloved beagle Isabella leaps like an overgrown bunny through snow banks, as long as Delmar growls, hisses and finally purrs when curled up on my lap...At times like those I feel love, both given and received. And what could produce greater happiness than that?
That's kind of the point of my life that I've reached, and honestly, I'm good with it. I'm no longer nagged by the feeling that I'm supposed to be doing something else. I haven't seen as much of the world as I might like, I've never finished, much less published, any of those novels I started, and I've sentenced myself to a life with a job, not a career, which means I'll never earn as much money as I thought I needed to be happy.
Thing is, though, I am happy. Mostly, anyway. It doesn't matter how worldly we are or what our income level is, life will always be made up of small, individual moments. And if more of those moments are joyous than sad, well, that's a life well-lived. As long as Janie and I can inexplicably burst into songs from Mary Poppins while snuggling in bed, as long as beloved beagle Isabella leaps like an overgrown bunny through snow banks, as long as Delmar growls, hisses and finally purrs when curled up on my lap...At times like those I feel love, both given and received. And what could produce greater happiness than that?
Friday, January 14, 2011
DISTURBING, SURE, BUT STILL CRISPLY
In the past, I've tended to use terms like "Lovecraftian nightmare" to describe vintage TV commercials that featured edible objects coming to terrifying life. I mean, a talking, disembodied hand or a lumbering pitcher of fruit-flavored drink would be, if we saw them in our everyday lives, a horror beyond comprehension.
Still, you know what? I say, good for Mr. Salty!
Though I doubt he ever really served in the Navy, he at least found someone willing to rent him a costume, and through sheer pluck, and without actually accomplishing anything more than being "crisply"--which, you know, he's a pretzel; it's like congratulating a human for having skin--he manages to get the all-white citizens of this anonymous city singing his praises. Of course, presumably after the ceremony, everyone will gather 'round and consume him, and his bland smile won't be enough to cover the unbearable pain, but at least he had his moment.
Still, you know what? I say, good for Mr. Salty!
Though I doubt he ever really served in the Navy, he at least found someone willing to rent him a costume, and through sheer pluck, and without actually accomplishing anything more than being "crisply"--which, you know, he's a pretzel; it's like congratulating a human for having skin--he manages to get the all-white citizens of this anonymous city singing his praises. Of course, presumably after the ceremony, everyone will gather 'round and consume him, and his bland smile won't be enough to cover the unbearable pain, but at least he had his moment.
Sunday, January 09, 2011
GRAY
A great day yesterday, spent almost entirely in the company of Paul--we went to a movie, we ate out, mostly we made each other laugh. (Yes, my sense of humor is like an eleven-year-old's.) In all we did, the radio and computer were barely utilized, and the TV was used for entertainment purposes only.
It wasn't until this morning, glancing at the headlines at The New York Times, that I even became aware of the shootings in Arizona. And the horrifying details filled me with...nothing, really. A vague sadness, a faraway sense of despair.
But no grand emotions. Just made me feel sort of numb, and the feeling continues. I'm all alone here now, Paul is back with his mom and Janie's gone for the weekend, so I hunker down here with the beloved cat and dog, staring out the window at the gray day, waiting for the snow.
It wasn't until this morning, glancing at the headlines at The New York Times, that I even became aware of the shootings in Arizona. And the horrifying details filled me with...nothing, really. A vague sadness, a faraway sense of despair.
But no grand emotions. Just made me feel sort of numb, and the feeling continues. I'm all alone here now, Paul is back with his mom and Janie's gone for the weekend, so I hunker down here with the beloved cat and dog, staring out the window at the gray day, waiting for the snow.
Friday, December 31, 2010
MAYBE I'M CRAZY TO SUPPOSE
The darkness is always there, always visible. I know myself well enough to know it will never go away, not completely.
Still, there is light and warmth, more than I've known for so long. There is Janie, the woman I've been looking for without even realizing it, so full of love and acceptance. There is wonderful Isabella, the greatest dog in the history of dogs. And, as always, there is my beloved little malcontent, my heart and soul, my psychokitty Delmar.
There are great friends and nodding acquaintances, there is music and movies and long drives on lazy days. There is a sense that I've found something like my place in the world, and there is a feeling of contentment.
So what am I doing New Year's Eve? Probably not much, but whatever it is, I'll be doing it with the knowledge that I'm loved, and that I can love back.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
I'M REALLY OVERTHINKING THIS
I originally wanted to post this commercial break from ABC's 1976 Saturday morning cartoon lineup as an excuse to go on about the second ad here, for the long-forgotten (and little-missed) cereal Grins And Smiles And Giggles And Laughs, possibly the most misbegotten breakfast food of all time. Seriously--"the cereal that smiles back at you"? Happy little faces piled in your bowl, waiting to be eaten? And, if the commercial is to be believed, vomited up by some large-brained supercomputer? What a wonder that this thing didn't go over!
Possibly even more disturbing, if only as a comment on the state of the nation in the year of the Bicentennial, is the McDonald's ad. Everybody wants to go out for a morning meal, but only Ronald seems to know that McDonald's is now serving breakfast. Most baffled of all is Mayor McCheese himself...but wait! Mayor McCheese presumably runs McDonaldland. How can he be unaware of this seemingly momentous change in restaurant policy? Did he not sign off on it? Was it drafted by others? A secret cabal, perhaps, working in shadows to ensure that things would go the correct way? Was Mayor McCheese even duly elected, or did he merely assume the position when McDonaldland's previous ruler was forced to resign in disgrace, perhaps fearing impeachment?
Not that I spent any time thinking about any of this when these ads originally aired. I wasn't that cynical as a kid. Still, I remember all these things, so they obviously had an impact on me, though I dearly wish they hadn't. There must have been plenty of time spent on weekends back in '76 when eleven-year-old me was outside playing with the dog or having adventures or...I dunno, something. But any such memories are lost. But puking computers and badly-costumed politicians ruling fast food empires...that stuff's with me to death.
Possibly even more disturbing, if only as a comment on the state of the nation in the year of the Bicentennial, is the McDonald's ad. Everybody wants to go out for a morning meal, but only Ronald seems to know that McDonald's is now serving breakfast. Most baffled of all is Mayor McCheese himself...but wait! Mayor McCheese presumably runs McDonaldland. How can he be unaware of this seemingly momentous change in restaurant policy? Did he not sign off on it? Was it drafted by others? A secret cabal, perhaps, working in shadows to ensure that things would go the correct way? Was Mayor McCheese even duly elected, or did he merely assume the position when McDonaldland's previous ruler was forced to resign in disgrace, perhaps fearing impeachment?
Not that I spent any time thinking about any of this when these ads originally aired. I wasn't that cynical as a kid. Still, I remember all these things, so they obviously had an impact on me, though I dearly wish they hadn't. There must have been plenty of time spent on weekends back in '76 when eleven-year-old me was outside playing with the dog or having adventures or...I dunno, something. But any such memories are lost. But puking computers and badly-costumed politicians ruling fast food empires...that stuff's with me to death.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
THE WORLD IN SILENT STILLNESS LAY
The day grew short, as winter days will. It was late in the afternoon when my brother John realized he needed to do some last minute shopping, so I rode along as he drove into Perry and headed for Gibson's Discount Store, the only place open so late on Christmas Eve. He found what he was looking for, and bought himself a present as well--Simon And Garfunkle's Greatest Hits on 8-track, which he listened to on the way home.
It was nearly dark when we got back to the farm, the sky turning ever darker shades of blue. Mom had turned on both the yard light and porch light, which we didn't really need to find our way, but the gesture was appreciated. John immediately vanished to his room, as my oldest brother Keith had already spent the day in his, and my sister Julie was in the kitchen talking to Mom, who made last-minute preparations for the next day's feast. Dad and I were the only ones in the living room, numbly sitting in front of the television, watching without interest the typically awful animated specials run endlessly in syndication, killing time until dinner was served.
After eating, there was some wrapping to be done--I was used mostly to tear off pieces of tape, while Mom and Julie did most of the real work--and then...well, and then, I just couldn't wait to go to bed. I was all of ten, too old for Santa Claus, but not too old to enact the comforting ritual of snuggling in the darkness, anticipating all the wonders the next morning would bring. I could hear voices downstairs, and the TV, and the hum of our fuel oil stove. My family was here, and the next day was Christmas. For the moment, at least, all was right with the world.
It was nearly dark when we got back to the farm, the sky turning ever darker shades of blue. Mom had turned on both the yard light and porch light, which we didn't really need to find our way, but the gesture was appreciated. John immediately vanished to his room, as my oldest brother Keith had already spent the day in his, and my sister Julie was in the kitchen talking to Mom, who made last-minute preparations for the next day's feast. Dad and I were the only ones in the living room, numbly sitting in front of the television, watching without interest the typically awful animated specials run endlessly in syndication, killing time until dinner was served.
After eating, there was some wrapping to be done--I was used mostly to tear off pieces of tape, while Mom and Julie did most of the real work--and then...well, and then, I just couldn't wait to go to bed. I was all of ten, too old for Santa Claus, but not too old to enact the comforting ritual of snuggling in the darkness, anticipating all the wonders the next morning would bring. I could hear voices downstairs, and the TV, and the hum of our fuel oil stove. My family was here, and the next day was Christmas. For the moment, at least, all was right with the world.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF!
You know, there are so many reasons to slog on the truly dreadful-sounding Broadway musical Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark, it almost seems unnecessary to list them. You can start with the fact that it recently endured its fourth injury of a cast member, continue with the practice of charging full ticket prices for preview performances of a show that is nowhere near completion (its creators cheerily admit that they STILL don't have a final act), continue by pointing out that its songwriters, Bono and The Edge (who, incidentally, continue to call themselves Bono and The Edge, a fact which calls their very intelligence into question), are touring with U2 and are thus unavailable to provide the new material a preview period might demand, and of course, there's no overlooking the fact that it's called Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark, the stupidest title of anything in recorded history.
The greatest venom would have to be reserved for the show's director and co-writer, Julie Taymor (or, as she's apparently contractually required to be called, "visionary director Julie Taymor"). While it is undeniably true that the producers of this thing deserve some of the blame for indulging her too long--the budget is still listed at sixty-five million, though that was the official count on opening night, and numerous revisions (and hospital stays) have no doubt driven the costs up considerably since then--it is Taymor's inability to see the show as anything other than a monument to her own hubris that is so infuriating. Whatever fans may want or expect from a Spider-Man musical (and I'm not sure many of them would want one in the first place, but whatever), that is not want Taymor intends to give them. She apparently is determined to use the character as a jumping-off point for a fantasia on Greek mythology, pop culture and whatever else pops into her head. Such basic concepts as "story" or "characterization" or even "entertainment" seem foreign to her.
Which is all well and good, and I'm not at all opposed to Taymor's ambition (except when, you know, it could cost the life of a cast member), but, boy, is it misplaced. She's not making some semi-avant garde piece to be seen by the season's subscribers at BAM this time out, she's making a fucking Broadway musical about a superhero. Given that, yes, she does have an obligation to meet an audience's basic expectations. She could exceed those expectations, go beyond them, yes, but only if she shows any understanding of what people like about the character in the first place.
But we're talking about the director of Across the Universe here, so...
The greatest venom would have to be reserved for the show's director and co-writer, Julie Taymor (or, as she's apparently contractually required to be called, "visionary director Julie Taymor"). While it is undeniably true that the producers of this thing deserve some of the blame for indulging her too long--the budget is still listed at sixty-five million, though that was the official count on opening night, and numerous revisions (and hospital stays) have no doubt driven the costs up considerably since then--it is Taymor's inability to see the show as anything other than a monument to her own hubris that is so infuriating. Whatever fans may want or expect from a Spider-Man musical (and I'm not sure many of them would want one in the first place, but whatever), that is not want Taymor intends to give them. She apparently is determined to use the character as a jumping-off point for a fantasia on Greek mythology, pop culture and whatever else pops into her head. Such basic concepts as "story" or "characterization" or even "entertainment" seem foreign to her.
Which is all well and good, and I'm not at all opposed to Taymor's ambition (except when, you know, it could cost the life of a cast member), but, boy, is it misplaced. She's not making some semi-avant garde piece to be seen by the season's subscribers at BAM this time out, she's making a fucking Broadway musical about a superhero. Given that, yes, she does have an obligation to meet an audience's basic expectations. She could exceed those expectations, go beyond them, yes, but only if she shows any understanding of what people like about the character in the first place.
But we're talking about the director of Across the Universe here, so...
Saturday, December 18, 2010
I'M EASILY DISTRACTED
I had a long piece in mind about director Blake Edwards, who died this week at the age of 88. Basically, I intended to state my deeply-held belief that A Shot In The Dark is one of the best comedies ever made, that Days Of Wine And Roses, Experiment In Terror, Wild Rovers and That's Life are damn good movies, that Darling Lili is crushingly underrated...and that almost everything else Edwards ever did (and he was nothing if not prolific) was incredibly problematic. But there are serious gaps in my viewings of Edwards' films (I've never actually sat through Breakfast At Tiffany's, mostly because as soon as Mickey Rooney's buck-toothed Japanese caricature appears, I bail), and the whole thing never quite came together and...
Then yesterday came the news of the death of Captain Beefheart, and again, it seemed like I should have something to say about one of the most important musicians of the twentieth century, but I was busy last night, and the computer was acting screwy again, and...it didn't happen.
Then...hey! This morning I wake up and discover Neil Patrick Harris and Eric Braeden are having a feud on Twitter, and suddenly life is good. Apparently Braeden was set to do a cameo on How I Met Your Mother, then bailed, prompting Harris to call him a D-bag. Braeden offered some mildly caustic rejoinders, Harris half-ass apologized...and that's about it, really.
But it's Neil Patrick Harris and Eric Braeden, people! Dr. Horrible vs The Actor Formerly Known As Hans Gudegast! The cool, funny guy with the beautiful singing voice for whom geeks everywhere have a (metaphorical and strictly hetero, thank you) boner is squabbling with that guy from The Young And the Restless who used to play that Nazi on The Rat Patrol who kind of became the only sympathetic character on that show, because who could blame him for wanting to kill a dick like Christopher George?
So it's not really a big deal, and not really worth writing about, especially when I couldn't bother to summon any thoughts on Blake Edwards, but it amused me.
Then yesterday came the news of the death of Captain Beefheart, and again, it seemed like I should have something to say about one of the most important musicians of the twentieth century, but I was busy last night, and the computer was acting screwy again, and...it didn't happen.
Then...hey! This morning I wake up and discover Neil Patrick Harris and Eric Braeden are having a feud on Twitter, and suddenly life is good. Apparently Braeden was set to do a cameo on How I Met Your Mother, then bailed, prompting Harris to call him a D-bag. Braeden offered some mildly caustic rejoinders, Harris half-ass apologized...and that's about it, really.
But it's Neil Patrick Harris and Eric Braeden, people! Dr. Horrible vs The Actor Formerly Known As Hans Gudegast! The cool, funny guy with the beautiful singing voice for whom geeks everywhere have a (metaphorical and strictly hetero, thank you) boner is squabbling with that guy from The Young And the Restless who used to play that Nazi on The Rat Patrol who kind of became the only sympathetic character on that show, because who could blame him for wanting to kill a dick like Christopher George?
So it's not really a big deal, and not really worth writing about, especially when I couldn't bother to summon any thoughts on Blake Edwards, but it amused me.
Monday, December 13, 2010
JUST LIKE STARTING OVER
The other night I dreamed I stood in a buffet line at some small town community center. I accompanied Mom, and it was somehow understood that when we got through the line and sat down, we had important but unspecified matters to discuss. The line was slow, and food kept piling up on my plate. Mashed potatoes and dressing, a high pile of tuna casserole, a grilled cheese sandwich, comfort food staples of my childhood. I wondered what Mom and I would talk about, but I was also distracted by the dessert table, which featured brownies and chocolate chip cookies and all manner of cakes--
--Then, suddenly, I woke up. And, in those few moments of altered perception experienced between the dream state and the real world, I did not find myself wondering what Mom and I needed to discuss. All I could think was, I didn't get to eat.
Which means...well, it could mean any number of things, but for now I'm going to use it as a metaphor for this site. It started out as a way to grieve Mom's loss, but it quickly turned into whatever the hell it is now, a forum for me to rage or observe or purge whatever feelings I had at the moment. For awhile there, I needed this space, the compulsion to write every day was overpowering. And invigorating.
Lately, though, that urge to fill space is no longer there. My life has undergone some major changes, and I find that I am--for lack of a better word--content. There are still any number of free-floating anxieties, but they no longer overwhelm. As I look back at so much of what has been written here over the past four and a half years, it seemed to reflect my quest to find a place in the world, to somehow belong somewhere.
And I think I've accomplished that, more or less. So what is there to write about? Lots of things, of course--but specifically, what to write about here? Is this site even necessary anymore? I honestly don't know. I still love writing, on those increasingly rare occasions when my ability and my interest combine to produce good work. I enjoy it, but no longer feel the need to do it.
So--again--what does this mean? I'm not shutting this down, I'm not signing off. I'm honestly trying to figure out what this space needs to be, how it can keep me interested, what it will become. I would like to post more frequently, but I would need to find a reason to do that, and so far, I'm too busy doing other things. But soon enough, I'll be back here doing whatever the hell I do.
Say, what DO I do around here, anyway?
--Then, suddenly, I woke up. And, in those few moments of altered perception experienced between the dream state and the real world, I did not find myself wondering what Mom and I needed to discuss. All I could think was, I didn't get to eat.
Which means...well, it could mean any number of things, but for now I'm going to use it as a metaphor for this site. It started out as a way to grieve Mom's loss, but it quickly turned into whatever the hell it is now, a forum for me to rage or observe or purge whatever feelings I had at the moment. For awhile there, I needed this space, the compulsion to write every day was overpowering. And invigorating.
Lately, though, that urge to fill space is no longer there. My life has undergone some major changes, and I find that I am--for lack of a better word--content. There are still any number of free-floating anxieties, but they no longer overwhelm. As I look back at so much of what has been written here over the past four and a half years, it seemed to reflect my quest to find a place in the world, to somehow belong somewhere.
And I think I've accomplished that, more or less. So what is there to write about? Lots of things, of course--but specifically, what to write about here? Is this site even necessary anymore? I honestly don't know. I still love writing, on those increasingly rare occasions when my ability and my interest combine to produce good work. I enjoy it, but no longer feel the need to do it.
So--again--what does this mean? I'm not shutting this down, I'm not signing off. I'm honestly trying to figure out what this space needs to be, how it can keep me interested, what it will become. I would like to post more frequently, but I would need to find a reason to do that, and so far, I'm too busy doing other things. But soon enough, I'll be back here doing whatever the hell I do.
Say, what DO I do around here, anyway?
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
ISN'T IT INSPIRING HOW A MAN BORN WITHOUT A SPINE CAN BECOME PRESIDENT?
Let us say there is a political party determined to preserve tax breaks for the super-wealthy at the expense of benefits for the nation's most desperate, wretched souls--hard to believe, I know, but let's pretend--and if such a nakedly rapacious force existed, it shouldn't be difficult for anyone with even a bit of imagination and a mere trace of rhetorical skill to depict them as, you know, kind of villainous.
Or they could do what President Obama has done, and make a deal with them. He gave them everything they wanted and more, and all they had to do in return was promise to extend unemployment benefits for barely more than a year. So the downtrodden will continue to eke out a miserable existence, and the obscenely wealthy are free to fill up their swimming pools with gold coins and dive right in, Scrooge McDuck-style, and even the faintest glimmer of "hope" and "change" fades a little more, a faint memory of a promise we once naively believed, or tried to believe.
Or they could do what President Obama has done, and make a deal with them. He gave them everything they wanted and more, and all they had to do in return was promise to extend unemployment benefits for barely more than a year. So the downtrodden will continue to eke out a miserable existence, and the obscenely wealthy are free to fill up their swimming pools with gold coins and dive right in, Scrooge McDuck-style, and even the faintest glimmer of "hope" and "change" fades a little more, a faint memory of a promise we once naively believed, or tried to believe.
Sunday, December 05, 2010
WHAT IS THIS AUTOSAVE OF WHICH YOU SPEAK? AND WHY DO YOU WEEP WHEN IT FAILS?
So I had this thing I was working on here, and it's not like i was that far into it or anything, just a couple paragraphs, but still. The point is, I managed to start cranking out something halfway decent at a pretty good clip, when suddenly--
DA-DA-DUUUMMM
--my computer froze. Which it's been doing a lot lately, and it's getting pretty damned--oh, look, let's not get into that. The point is, Blogger is supposed to autosave these things, but when I returned, it was gone. Gone! As though my thoughts had never stirred, as though...well, again, it really wasn't that big a deal. Just kind of annoying, really. Hardly worth mentioning.
You know what? Let's just pretend this whole thing never happened. Instead, enjoy this...the most disturbing thing you'll ever see.
DA-DA-DUUUMMM
--my computer froze. Which it's been doing a lot lately, and it's getting pretty damned--oh, look, let's not get into that. The point is, Blogger is supposed to autosave these things, but when I returned, it was gone. Gone! As though my thoughts had never stirred, as though...well, again, it really wasn't that big a deal. Just kind of annoying, really. Hardly worth mentioning.
You know what? Let's just pretend this whole thing never happened. Instead, enjoy this...the most disturbing thing you'll ever see.
Thursday, December 02, 2010
LIVING IS EASY WITH EYES CLOSED
I remember the details of individual moments surrounding my father's death--the foggy morning, the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulance, already lined up at Mom and Dad's apartment building before I even arrived, the dread coiled in the pit of my stomach as I called various siblings to tell them the news--but I can't recall the bigger picture, the larger context.
What did I do that night, or the next day, or the day after that? What was on TV, what music played on the radio, what did I eat, how did I feel? These are the kinds of things I can recall without even trying. I can conjure vividly not only the superficial details from when my mom and my brother died, but the continuity surrounding those events. I can still replay in my mind tiny details of the days before and after, the life I led that was disrupted by these awful circumstances, and the time spent after trying to make sense of that which makes no sense: Conversations ignored, music half heard, minutes dragging on and on, as though time itself had stopped. And the better parts of those events, time spent with family and friends, memories shared and laughter erupting at unexpected times.
In other words, these are things that happened to me. I remember; I was there. Dad's passing seems more like a dream, arrived at without beginning or end, viewed like a movie but not actually experienced, certainly not felt. Maybe I was simply in shock from the first Big death of my adult life, or maybe I was unmoved because Dad's condition had deteriorated long before he died, or...
Or maybe there are no reasons. Details that have been forgotten can't be simply remembered. There's nothing to do, except to carry on every day with the odd, faintly disturbing feeling that a milestone in my life remains unmarked, and to perpetually wonder what that means.
What did I do that night, or the next day, or the day after that? What was on TV, what music played on the radio, what did I eat, how did I feel? These are the kinds of things I can recall without even trying. I can conjure vividly not only the superficial details from when my mom and my brother died, but the continuity surrounding those events. I can still replay in my mind tiny details of the days before and after, the life I led that was disrupted by these awful circumstances, and the time spent after trying to make sense of that which makes no sense: Conversations ignored, music half heard, minutes dragging on and on, as though time itself had stopped. And the better parts of those events, time spent with family and friends, memories shared and laughter erupting at unexpected times.
In other words, these are things that happened to me. I remember; I was there. Dad's passing seems more like a dream, arrived at without beginning or end, viewed like a movie but not actually experienced, certainly not felt. Maybe I was simply in shock from the first Big death of my adult life, or maybe I was unmoved because Dad's condition had deteriorated long before he died, or...
Or maybe there are no reasons. Details that have been forgotten can't be simply remembered. There's nothing to do, except to carry on every day with the odd, faintly disturbing feeling that a milestone in my life remains unmarked, and to perpetually wonder what that means.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
AND HARDER TO CLIMB
The memory just appeared fully-formed. The other night, while talking on the phone with my brother John, I mentioned how hearing certain songs could trigger a very specific memory, even if that memory was unconnected to anything else.
For instance, I could very specifically remember hearing the Bee Gees' Too Much Heaven while we drove lazily along in his '76 Chevette, just before we reached a certain hill along Highway 141.
"And that's all you remember?" John asked.
Well yeah, I answered, then corrected myself: No. It was overcast, it was a Sunday, we'd left home a little later than we usually would have. We didn't have a movie we were going to see, we were just going to hit the record stores in the malls. I remember I was fired up to buy the soundtrack to Taxi Driver...
I stopped. John paused for a second, then asked, "And you remember all this why?"
I didn't have an answer. I still don't. For whatever reason, the past is becoming more vivid to me every day. Memories are becoming more distinct. Maybe I've become unstuck in time, like Billy Pilgrim, or maybe I'm just learning to appreciate all the little things that made me who I am.
In any event, I'm wondering if such things are going to become the focus of this site, as much as this site has any focus. Guess we'll have to wait and see.
For instance, I could very specifically remember hearing the Bee Gees' Too Much Heaven while we drove lazily along in his '76 Chevette, just before we reached a certain hill along Highway 141.
"And that's all you remember?" John asked.
Well yeah, I answered, then corrected myself: No. It was overcast, it was a Sunday, we'd left home a little later than we usually would have. We didn't have a movie we were going to see, we were just going to hit the record stores in the malls. I remember I was fired up to buy the soundtrack to Taxi Driver...
I stopped. John paused for a second, then asked, "And you remember all this why?"
I didn't have an answer. I still don't. For whatever reason, the past is becoming more vivid to me every day. Memories are becoming more distinct. Maybe I've become unstuck in time, like Billy Pilgrim, or maybe I'm just learning to appreciate all the little things that made me who I am.
In any event, I'm wondering if such things are going to become the focus of this site, as much as this site has any focus. Guess we'll have to wait and see.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
SHE SERVES THE SMOOTH RETSINA
Just taking a moment to be by myself, to reflect and be grateful.
I've only mentioned her in passing, but I seem to be spending all my time with Janie. She's here pretty much non-stop, and though she hasn't formally moved in, she's always here in spirit.
It's odd because on paper, this all seems wrong. She doesn't like The Simpsons, for crying out loud. And she can only name three Beatles! And for God's sake, she watches reruns of Little House On The Prarie--not ironically, either, because I don't even think it's possible to watch that show ironically. She just, you know, likes it.
Which probably tells you something about her personality--she's a genuinely nice person. Good, kind-hearted, warm. She's supportive of me no matter what I do, and she's there for me because...well, because she loves me. And, whatever else has been going on in my life for God knows how long, I haven't been in a mutually loving relationship, and, to quote the sage poets Peaches & Herb (or, alternately, Chuck Mangione), it feels so good.
So whenever posting is light around here, it's because, good times or bad, I'm busy living my life.
I've only mentioned her in passing, but I seem to be spending all my time with Janie. She's here pretty much non-stop, and though she hasn't formally moved in, she's always here in spirit.
It's odd because on paper, this all seems wrong. She doesn't like The Simpsons, for crying out loud. And she can only name three Beatles! And for God's sake, she watches reruns of Little House On The Prarie--not ironically, either, because I don't even think it's possible to watch that show ironically. She just, you know, likes it.
Which probably tells you something about her personality--she's a genuinely nice person. Good, kind-hearted, warm. She's supportive of me no matter what I do, and she's there for me because...well, because she loves me. And, whatever else has been going on in my life for God knows how long, I haven't been in a mutually loving relationship, and, to quote the sage poets Peaches & Herb (or, alternately, Chuck Mangione), it feels so good.
So whenever posting is light around here, it's because, good times or bad, I'm busy living my life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)