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Review - Theater Emory's Persuasion

2011-11-24T13:59:00.002-05:00

John Ammerman’s adaptation of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, produced by Theater Emory, tells of love lost, love on hold, and love prevailing. I was able to watch production progress from first rehearsal through closing performance, thanks to my position as light board operator. I’ll tackle this paper both as audience observer and as production team member.
Anne Elliot, considered a near-spinster past 25, puts on a brave face as her father has spent their fortune toward the brink of bankruptcy. With her godmother, Lady Russell, a plan is concocted to restore their wealth while renting their estate to Admiral Croft and his wife, Sophie Wentworth-Croft. This brings Anne’s past immediately to her present, as she was once engaged to Sophie’s brother Frederick – an engagement broken thanks to the encouragement of her advisors, as he was at the time a poor sailor with no money or title. Has he forgiven her? Will he even remember her? Anne puts on a brave face while pining for her one true love which may never come to fruition.
I heard several classmates say that this play was not their cup of tea, but I’m a sucker for a romance. The play is long, but Ammerman did a fine job taking the highlights of the book and telling the story in both a beautiful and understandable way. The dance at the top of the show – directly atop Sara Culpepper’s beautiful scenic charge work in Kell-lynch Hall – immediately took the audience to the world of the early 1800s. Marianne Martin came through yet again with an amazing costume design, perfect in every way. Some of the young actresses were stunned that they had to wear corsets underneath their dresses, though the empire waist barely accentuates actual body shape. A nice touch, I thought, of the turbans worn by Lady Russell and Lady Dalrymple, which I assume are a nod to British occupation of India. Speaking of hats, the naval officers were superbly resplendent in their uniforms, complete with Napoleonic bicornes. Leslie Taylor’s lovely set allowed for a myriad of entrances and exits, and Ammerman carefully transitioned scene-to-scene with the actors becoming stage hands to move curtains and furniture. A bit of great advice I remember from one of my favorite directors, Actor’s Express co-founding artistic director Chris Coleman. He always cautioned his directing students to embrace scene changes. If they have to happen, have fun with them. Rob Turner and Teresa Findley did a lovely job with the soundtrack, complete with a gorgeous Beverly Sills aria to encapsulate the final kiss at play’s end.
Cynthia Barrett, the vocal coach, had a lot on her plate with a cast of 23 actors. Two of them young boys and two of them native speakers, granted, a good bit to handle. That still doesn’t excuse her ignorance of Kristie Denlinger as Mary Elliot. We hear her father and both sisters speak long before she does, and when she does, it’s a comical voice reminiscent of Nancy from Oliver or Mrs. Lovett from Sweeney Todd. She might as well be Joshua Jacobs’s Peep Show barker. Kristie is a student, and I assume getting course credit for the performance. Barrett could have worked with her more and forced her to lose the commonness while keeping the comedy. Mary is a comic character, but her speech patterns just don’t match her family members, and I find it grating to my ears and inexcusable.
As far as shining stars in the cast, there are certainly many; notably, Emily Kleypas in the lead role, as Anne. I’ve not seen her in a Theater Emory show before, but have enjoyed her work in student theater, Starving Artists Productions. So great to see my friend Brian Kimmel again, playing Frederick. Brian is not only a professional actor, but an alumnus – another nice touch for the Emory student actors who might wonder if one can take a theater studies degree into the real world. Stalwart favorites Kathleen McManus and Allen Edwards must relish their deliciously worded roles, allowing Austen’s beautiful language to ring beautifully to our ears. Nice, too, that the student actors are given young roles and the professional actors the older roles. By the time you arrive in collegiate theater, you should be able to put your can of grey spray away and let the old be old, you know?
As the play moves throughout several locations in England, integral to the play are the projections and light, which set the mood for each location. The audience follows quite easily via portraits and window gobos or pastoral outdoor scenes and leafy gobos. Not only am I a sucker for romance, I’m a sucker for gobos and hope to use one or two in mini-form for my ¼” scale set. Gobos are a simple and straightforward way to help the audience know where they are. For Persuasion, window gobos remind us whether we’re at Kell-lynch Hall, Camden Place, or Lady Dalrymple’s salon.
The lights were definitely a collaboration and compromise between director and designer. It was personally interesting to witness the give-and-take during tech weekend. Timings of transitions as well as “mood” colors were hashed out and agreed upon quite amicably. Can the focus be more on center stage with less wash to the sides? Should the last moment be in a romantic pink or a wintry blue? Discuss! Elizabeth Waldman’s job wasn’t easy, thanks in good part to those aforementioned projections. How does one light the set and the actors without washing out the projections? Good question. A good amount of side light, thanks to lighting booms in the wings, was one solution.
A great thing about theater lighting is the ability to gauge levels of light. Projections are set, depending on the strength of the machine and the bulb within. Light levels can range from extremely dim to extremely bright, depending upon the need for light in the scene. In transitions, the actors need to be able to see; in scenes, the audience needs to be able to see the actors – and varying levels between. Manipulation of light on stage is also a manipulation of the audience eye. “Hey, look over here,” so to speak. Lighting helps the audience pay attention and helps guide them through the story. Waldman did a lovely job guiding the eye through scenes, into transitions, and back again to the world of Jane Austen.

Review - Theater Emory's The Lieutenant of Inishmore

2011-10-17T18:43:00.000-04:00

Martin McDonagh’s The Lieutenant of Inishmore, recently produced by Theater Emory, encapsulates a moment of time in early 1990’s IRA war-torn Ireland. Padraic is away, serving in the INLA, and has asked one simple task of his father, Donny: look after his cat (Wee Thomas) while he’s gone. The play opens with said cat, brain-dripping and quite dead, in the arms of Padraic’s childhood friend, Davey. Donny and Davey must decide whether to confess to the violent and self-obsessed Padraic that his only friend in the world – this cat – is dead, or cover up the truth.
Dark humor injects itself throughout the play, beginning with the duo’s mad decision and near-obsession to cover up the crime rather than confess and deal with the nasty consequences. Among their ideas: telling Padraic he’s merely sick, and substituting and shoe-polishing another cat. When Padraic arrives home, their plan is to tell him Wee Thomas has a disease that makes him smell like shoe polish and “get all orangey.”
I thought the entire ensemble was well cast, and the director effortlessly melded the stage crew as well. Thanks to vocal coach Cynthia Barrett for making the actors’ brogues, for the most part, crisp and clear. McManus was lucky to find actors up to the caliber and height of Tim McDonough. Mairead, the only female character, had a difficult task of playing with the boys and proving in the end to be an even more zealous maniac than Padraic, her love. I found Teissler the most difficult to understand, and for some reason chose to focus her gaze out beyond the audience above far stage left. Perhaps the choice was to invoke a dreamy sixteen year old with an eye to a future far from Inishmore, but I found it distracting. The easiest to understand, I thought, was Jonathan Durie, who (I think) was the only non-American on stage. A tip of the hat to Mark Cabus’s Christy, lollipop-wielding and eye-patched, entering with the most benign greeting, “How do!” only to take a sinister turn on Padraic with his henchmen. Krakovsky and Harland made a lovable duo backing up Cabus, and it’s too bad that the audience’s hearts had already been won over by the other comic team, McDonough and Read.
Not having read the script, I can only hope that a brilliant directorial turn was taken by Donald McManus in having Tim McDonough in character as Donny giving the curtain speech each night with Wee Thomas, very much alive, in arms. A beautifully subtle way to get the audience – and PETA – to both see a live cat from the get-go, and reassure that no animals will be harmed during the production. I found it off-putting and unnecessary, however, for an ASM to cook food for the cat onstage before show. At first I thought that the point was to get the smell wafting through the air, but the smell didn’t last. Then I thought it was to show off that the play had a working hotplate, but that’s not such a great feat. All in all, no one needs to see an ASM’s backside for a solid ten minutes. I chalked it up as simply confounding.
In Kat Conley’s beautifully designed set, the main piece is Donny’s home. The large roof beams were either an optical illusion or cunningly designed, as they looked quite heavy and I was shocked to not see them stretch to the floor behind stage. A great use of space in front of the stage, a rocky shore along the front of the set took us outside to the shores of Inishmore, and a steel structure at stage right became Padraic’s torture warehouse in Northern Ireland. Kudos to the poor actor having to hang upside down for a good ten minutes…not to mention his fellow actor who had no means of cutting him down if necessary, as the winch was operated from below. I thought the physical separation of playing space not only helped denote geographic distance, but helped drive home that Inishmore is an island, and there’s something isolated and self-sufficient about island dwellers: every man for him- or her-self.
Liz Waldman’s sound structure was thoughtful throughout. Highlights for me were the water-dripping with echo effect for the warehouse, and the live drumming for “The Patriot Game.” I could have done without “Are You Ready for a War?” sung by the full cast at the end. If the purpose there was to uplift audience spirits after a dark show…it was catchy, certainly, but too long, and uplifted nothing.
The costumes were unremarkable – with no offense meant to designer Ros Staib, who had a slim palette to work within, with blood-cleaning issues and lots of drab/dull scenarios to consider. A nod, certainly, to Mairead’s dress, made entirely of men’s shirts and ties.
I must take issue with Wee Thomas’s reappearance at the end of the show. By the time the cat comes home, the point of the play has already hit home: terrorism is a fool's paradise – pointless and creating needless hurt and confusion. Concretely put via the cat’s return: all this fuss for nothing. So, why the bright light and angelic chorus? All the audience needs to see is the cat appearing on the window ledge (pushed or tossed from below by a willing ASM). Pardon the use of this word, but: overkill.
I was fortunate to work on McDonagh’s The Pillowman at Actor’s Express some years ago, and had seen Theater Gael’s staging of The Cripple of Inishmaan. Though I hadn’t read this play nor seen it live before, I guessed it would be gripping, bloody, gory, unsettling…or all of the above. I was stunned to learn that McDonagh is quite young – just 40. He has a bevy of plays under his belt as well as – I think – In Bruges was his screenplay, yes? Seeing Theater Emory feature a young(er) playwright is a nice bookend to the 6x6 productions that will end the season. Theater Emory has done a lot to surprise in the past few seasons: showing Ad Hoc they can do musicals, too, and now some blood & guts. I look forward to Persuasion, the rest of this season, and beyond.

Celine, Her Mom, an Old Dude and Some Kids

2011-10-02T09:22:00.008-04:00

First of all, we've been bamboozled. I was under the impression that Celine's show on the Oprah Winfrey Network was going to be a docudrama, what with "A New Show" being part of the title. No, no. The "new show" is her new show in Vegas. Man!!

12-15-2007 A New Day - The Last Concert. 723 sold out shows, 3 million+ spectators. What's next, Celine? The Taking Chances World Tour 2008-2009...with her ancient mom, her ancient husband, and her long-haired son. ...and when I say long-haired, I mean he's giving Zuma Rossdale and Paris Jackson a run for their money.

Jump-cut to screaming fans and Celine yelling, "Is that all right, ______??" (insert random name of city she's playing, because that's what she yells to her fans after every encore. Taking Chances boasted 133 sold out shows over five continents, blissfully ending February 2009.

Rene-Charles, also known as "RC," is the aforementioned long-haired son. ...and I hope you're sitting down, but he speaks French. Also blissfully ending with the concert: his long hair. He now looks like a normal blue-eyed boy. Back to her Florida home, where RC begins school and Celine begins invitro fertilization.

Cut to: Larry King, February 2010. "Are you trying?" (to have a baby), says King. "We're trying. We tried 4 times." Christ, I hope she means actual sex, not times of invitro. Damn, she means invitro. Cut to: the Oprah interview. She and Oprah crying, talking about her miscarriage and how they're on their 5th try. Invitro. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Have I mentioned that in and out of commercial breaks, the songs playing in the background are these exquisite midi file-type versions? Her hits and others. Truly awful.

So, the babies arrive October 23rd. Baby A and Baby B, to start - unnamed at birth. They are boys, eventually Nelson and Eddy. Perhaps a nod to Nelson Eddy, the late singer/actor? We'll never know - they didn't say, and Wikipedia won't confirm. The Vegas show is supposed to open 3-15-2011. Do THAT math. Less than five months, after gaining 60 some-odd pounds during pregnancy.

Celine, what's most difficult: delivering a baby or delivering a show? "Delivering a show." Wow.

We get to see her at home in Florida - big, white house on the ocean with a lot of big, white furniture. Even the twins' room has mostly white (with hints of green - she's no monster, for god's sake!) The living room includes one of those 60's round plastic chairs that you'd see in Ann-Margaret's room in Tommy. Awesome. At home: no show business. That's her rule. Two months before show, rehearsals begin. Celine says that during her pregnancy, she stopped vocal exercises because it would give her contractions, so she's well outta practice.

We also get to see her prep for breast pumping. No nip show, just prep. Pumping for her babies is what she loves about being a mom. Breast milk is food AND love.

BTW, I hope you're sitting down when I tell you that she's driven EVERYWHERE. I wonder if she knows how? Full-on limo, not just a big town car. Eff You, world.

Songs we get tastes of, trying out for the show: Open Arms, The Man in the Mirror, Ben (yes, there's a Michael Jackson tribute - as I said before, she's no monster). She tries Billy Joel's Good Night, My Angel, and she has a total mega breakdown. She can't make it through, and says she loves Billy Joel, but that song won't make the cut - the lyrics are too sad. She FEELS, yo.

Back at home, she's visited by the head designer from Versace. He arrives with personal gifts from Donatella herself (a handbag and sunglasses), from Milan, with a note. We get to hear about her worries over leftover baby fat - interestingly, easily seen in her normal clothes, but she is Spanx'd to the max or something because she's cutting a lovely figure in her gowns. She's a fan of the one-sleeve, one bare arm look. SO modern. Not.

We also get to see her 10-year old son's green-screen rehearsal for the James Bond montage - she'll have him with her onstage every night on film. Um, not really - his film will run while she has a costume change. Whatevs. Lovely bit of her telling us about how proud she is of him and how handsome he is, while he mock-mimes her the whole time. He pitches a fit - in french - I don't hear him speak anything else during the whole show, actually - that he's been given a break for the upcoming Chicago trip: no homework. Celine is in disbelief that THIS is her challenge: a kid who likes studying. Rene comforts her. He's a husband and father at home, not her manager. Ew.

Are you still sitting down? Celine's getting on a private jet. ...because it's time to fly to Chicago to The Oprah Show to announce her new show in Vegas. Worried about the babies travelling, but they're champs. Probably heavily drugged, too - who's to say.

Oprah tells her audience that this Celine appearance marks the most appearances EVER by a guest on the Oprah Show. Speaking of Oprah - you'll note that it's twice now the woman has been heavily featured on this program about someone else. Yes, we get it. This Celine program is on The OWN. She owns you. Also on this particular Oprah show - a woman with sextuplets. Random woman from somewhere USA with Celine, talking about how hard it is to raise multiples. Are you freaking kidding me? The millions of dollars and nannies help. Oh, wait - the random sextuplet mom doesn't HAVE millions or nannies. Celine just needs to yell for her ancient mom or some woman named Linda, and she's set. The Oprah appearance is live in Chicago literally the day before the Vegas show opens. Back on the plane to midi strains of Where Does My Heart Beat Now?

Driven from the private jet to Caesar's Palace, the marquee reads: Welcome Home, Celine. Thousands of fans/Caesar's employees line the driveway, steps and lobby to greet her & the fam. They have to move in to a penthouse there because her Las Vegas home is being renovated (because 4-month-old babies need room to roam) and isn't ready yet.

Costume fittings on-site next day: she doesn't want a lot of boob-focus. Food + Love makes her breasts bigger you see. There's also a super-short gold number. Let's just say, she shouldn't stand downstage in it. I lost count at about 8-10 costume changes throughout the show.

More family time - the babies are baptized on March 5th. Rene's three grown children (Anne Marie, Jean Pierre & Patrick, easily Celine's age) AND Rene-Charles are the godparents. It is at the church where we learn that the aforementioned Linda, who's always taking care of the babies, is her SISTER! Wikipedia tells me a few interesting things I'll interject here: Celine is one of 14 children (where are the others??) and Celine is Rene's third wife, and he had been divorced twenty years before he married Celine. He is 26 years her senior. "I know her since she was 12." Ew. It's a happy day, and as the babies are baptized, Stevie Wonder's midi'd "Overjoyed" plays as we fade to commercial.

Premiere day! Rene confesses that he's never been so nervous, and he hasn't been able to sleep. The rest of the production team says the same. Who's relaxed, but happy and can't wait: Celine! She sings "All Coming Back to Me" for sound check - and Celine loves her some sound checks.

Seriously, sit down: Celine does her own make-up. No joke. She's got a dresser, but didn't see another person touch her face.

"How Do You Keep the Music Playing" involves the real Celine wandering the audience, while a videotaped Celine performs a duet with live Celine. Rene says Celine herself thought it too pretentious, but he insisted. Double your pleasure, baby.

Day after premiere: Rene is Celine's biggest fan AND biggest critic. They have a critique session. Pretty much involving how she needs to move downstage in the top number to not get whacked by the falling drapery. It's actually a lovely effect that reveals the orchestra & singers. Rene proclaims, "This is the best show I've seen since I know you." She replies, "Come back tomorrow - I'm here every night." (NOTE - just for fun, went to see if that's true. Um, no, she does 4 shows a week AND it's going to cost you love three-figure range minimum, and don't think you can get tickets until at least New Year's.)

If you don't get tickets, here are some of the numbers you'll miss (among some I've mentioned already): Open Arms (opening number), Power of Love, This Is For You, The Reason, Declaration of Love, Love Can Move Mountains, All By Myself, River Deep/Mountain High, My Heart Will Go On (like she's gonna leave that one out). She reflects on "At 17," by saying that she was not a good looking teenager: bad teeth, extremely skinny, not good in school, didn't feel pretty. So, she feels for the teenagers out there. "Ne Me Quitte Pas," by Jacques Brel, is a song about love lost and strong despair. "One of the most emotional songs ever written," and she cries every night...and gets a standing ovation for it every night. Oh, the humanity.

Oh, and the James Bond montage. Goldfinger starts it, and it's just bad. Not her song at all. Oh, and she scats. She scats. Gonna crack into your bank account now??

Appropos of nothing, She loves her husband very much and says it's tough to live with her and it isn't easy because she's disciplined and she's intense. No shizz, Sherlock! Rene says that an interviewer asked Celine if she wants another baby and she answered that door is not closed. Celine ends with, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Am I ready to be pregnant in Vegas and perform? Stay tuned!"

Poem as Parable: Wilfred Owen’s Harsh Lesson

2011-08-27T09:37:00.002-04:00

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
and builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

The story of how Abraham, in obedience to a direct command from God, nearly sacrifices his first-born son, Isaac, is one of the most perfectly written short narratives in the Old Testament. Parables teach a lesson, and Wilfred Owen takes his place among Aesop, Confucius and Plato in the canon of education via his “The Parable of the Old Man and the Young.” He keeps close to the Old Testament story, but takes a twist. This poem-length allusion receives an entirely unexpected ending, proclaiming disgust with war.

The war paralleling this poem is World War I, once given the moniker, “The Great War.” War, great? Not at all – “great” merely connotes “large.” Consider the gravity of the poem’s final line, when “half the seed of Europe, one by one” is destroyed. Seed, of course, a euphemism for ejaculate, represents millions and millions of lives. Human ejaculate contains anywhere from 180-400 million sperm. Estimates tally the total number of military casualties from World War I at 37.5 million overall, the United Kingdom at 1.6 million alone – Owen among them. The most bitter irony of all, the editor notes, is that Owen was killed in the final days of battle.

Owen himself was first-born, and the third line of this poem, “And as they sojourned both of them together,” implies that fathers walk with their sons into battle. Father Abraham sends his son to the sacrificial table and the son trusts enough to believe he will return home safely – a belief that becomes a horrible judgment error. The sacrificial allusion itself brings the entire Abraham story to mind, as Isaac’s birth came as both a joy and a surprise, with Abraham elderly, and Sarah beyond childbearing years. The name Isaac, roughly translated, is “he laughs,” and hearkens Abraham’s wife’s disbelieving guffaw when told she will give birth at her advanced age. Isaac, the solitary sacrificial lamb poetically representing millions of sons, rings a hollow laugh in Owen’s version.

The parable begins with images of “fire and iron,” whereas Abraham’s implements are simply fire, wood and a knife. Owen’s modernizing tactics become increasingly clear, with the anachronism of “iron” and images of tanks and cannon blasts. The Old Testament Isaac was merely bound to the pyre, but Owen’s Isaac is bound by modern battle-like adjectives, “straps and belts,” and then, unmistakably, “parapets and trenches” to create the funeral pyre. Staying true to the original plot, Owen continues with the angel’s stay of execution. His heavenly “angel” is lowercase, yet capitalization emphasizes the symbolic “Ram of Pride.” A capitalized Angel would perhaps pull more weight, but Owen’s Abraham does not take the free pass. In an ironic twist, Abraham here does what his Old Testament counterpart does not. One son sacrificed for the good of all stays in both the Old Testament and the New, but not here.

Owen is concerned both with the tragedy of war and with its bitter irony. How much less it would cost a leader to slaughter a single Ram of Pride instead of millions of young men “one by one.” The poem reveals the sheer ridiculousness of arrogant militarism. The Genesis story has no such moral. It ends with the Angel promising Abraham that his seed, multiplying like stars and sand grains, will “possess the gates of his enemies.” Its subject is the nation’s dream of victory; not pitying war but winking at its deceptive glory. Good war poetry, whether by Homer, Melville or Owen, conveys authenticity and guarantees its integrity by raw images and rough-hewn reportage. Owen gives us raw and rough-hewn, but in this poem he stands back from his subject matter: he is here to preach, and his matter is serious and specific. [The Ram of] Pride goeth before a fall, the hubristic idiom recalls, and the fall of millions in war begins with one blade stroke. Such loss, at such cost.

The Inevitable Buzz Saw: Robert Frosts’s “Out, Out – ”

2011-07-26T18:20:00.001-04:00

"Out, Out – " by Robert Frost

The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside him in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
As if it meant to prove saws know what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap -
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all –
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart –
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off -
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!”
So. The hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then – the watcher at his pulse took a fright.
No one believed. They listened to his heart.
Little – less – nothing! – and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

“Out, Out – ” retells a gruesome tale of a pastoral scene turned tragic. Why would a poet choose such a scene? Frost’s first-hand witness invokes inevitable sympathy and pathos for a boy, yet the narrator remains emotionless. Perhaps the poem’s title hints at an answer, in the allusion to the final scene of Shakespeare’s “Macbeth.” The symbol of that flickering, brief candle represents the brevity of life. In “Out, Out – ” few personal comments are made on the poet’s part, suggesting an idea of the inevitability of death and the futility of life. A slice-of-life cycle: presented for consumption, digested, and passed, leaving the reader to proceed to another day, another poetic meal. Day is done – bring on another. It may be like yesterday, it may not. Frost himself said, “In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on.” This has all happened before and will happen again. The reader remains with poetic crumbs on the plate, rather than with emotions wrung dry.

Vivid imagery at the onset: sound, sight and smell, permeate the senses. Against the din of the saw buzz, images of falling sawdust, stove-length sticks, the five mountain ranges and a Vermont sunset are meant to please, topped by the olfactory “Sweet-scented stuff” (3) wafted by a breeze complete a minds-eye view. The onomatopoeia of the opening salvo, “The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard” (1), is redoubled a bit later: “And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled” (7). The power tool has animalistic life. “Snarled” evokes angry dogs, wolves, and other wild beasts. “Rattled” conjures a venomous fanged snake giving imminent warning of a strike. The saw itself has a ring to it: the buzz of an angry yellowjacket or wasp hive. Each adjective resonates with sound and fury. The juxtaposition of the buzz-saw against a tranquil setting highlights the conflict between technology and nature, wherein the boy is forced to relegate his childhood, thereby going against Nature.

In this agrarian setting, a boy does the work of a man: operating a power saw. Boys, being boys, appreciate release from labor even more than their grown counterparts. How fortuitous that the boy’s sister, doing the work of a woman, arrives apron-clad, “To tell them ‘Supper’” (14), at which point he is “saved from work” (12). The buzz saw underlines the boy’s mechanical routine - this part of the day occurring by rote, each day, every day. Workaday ordinary, reinforced by the empty understatement, “And nothing happened: day was all but done” (9). The girl arrives, the men can “Call it a day” (10), the narrator regretfully adds, “I wish they might have said” (10).

“As if it meant to prove saws know what supper meant, leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap - He must have given the hand” (15-17). Ironically, to give one’s hand suggests a greeting in friendly handshake. This boy, in the end, gives much more than that. The buzz saw, a typically inanimate object, becomes a cognizant being, aggressively snarling and rattling. When the sister makes the dinner announcement, the saw demonstrates a mind of its own by “leaping” out of the boy’s hand in its excitement. The boy, still a “child at heart” (24), is not to blame for the accident; the saw is. Irony continues as the boy utters “a rueful laugh” (19). His laughter is a shocked outcry rather than a mere snicker.

The boy loses his hand in this nasty accident, but more tragically unexplainable is that while under the doctor’s anesthesia, the boy dies – apparently of shock. None in attendance can believe it. Senseless: a death signifying nothing. The boy pleads to a fellow child, his sister: “Don’t let him, cut my hand off, [sister!]” (25-26). In a lovely metonymous gesture, he holds up the hand “as if to keep the life from spilling” (21-22). Blood spills with a tilt of an arm, but life hangs in the balance. The boy’s gesticulation is a mere attempt, since nothing can be done, for he is still enough of an adult to realize that he has lost too much blood to survive. Above all, the boy hopes to maintain physical dignity in death, rather than die with a missing hand. A revelatory moment, “He saw all spoiled” (25), a vision of himself in future – a grown but incomplete man – explains the choice to let life spill. A choice – perhaps not shock at all.

Frost seems flippant in a concluding line, “No more to build on there” (33). At first the phrase seems a wry and callous reference to construction jobs where power saws are important to the overall build. But perhaps the narrator refers to life, in that there is nothing more to report. Life, eventually snuffed like an extinguished candle, the boy’s heartbeat or pulse that fades, “Little – less – nothing!” (32). Nothing can be built on nothing. Certainly sorrow, mourning and a tearful funeral will come, but none of that pertains to the poet’s message. The living have lives to lead, foundations to build upon.

By the end of the poem, the narrator runs out of words for the tragedy of the boy’s death. While the first twenty-six lines contain elegant metaphors and descriptions of the scene, the final eight lines are detached and unemotional. The narrator’s “So” and “No more to build on there” (27, 33) reveal that even the narrator is unable to find any explanation for a young boy’s death. A day happened, and in that day, this moment happened. In the last line of the poem, the narrator is completely detached, almost as if indifference is the only way to cope with the boy’s death. The people of this New England town “[turn] to their affairs,” (34) and can do nothing more than move on with their lives, as must we. The boy’s life, this poem, and life itself – a brief candle.

“Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
– William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act V, Scene V

Ports of Call: John Crowe Ransom's "Good Ships"

2011-07-21T18:27:00.003-04:00

GOOD SHIPS
John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974)

Fleet ships encountering on the high seas
Who speak, and then unto the vast diverge,
Two hailed each other, poised on the loud surge
Of one of Mrs. Grundy's Tuesday teas,
Nor trimmed one sail to baffle the driving breeze.
A macaroon absorbed all her emotion;
His hue was ruddy but an effect of ocean;
They exchanged the nautical technicalities.

It was only a nothing or so until they parted.
Away they went, most certainly bound for port,
So seaworthy one felt they could not sink;
Still there was a tremor shook them, I should think,
Beautiful timbers fit for storm and sport
And unto miserly merchant hulks converted.

The phrase, “tea party,” of late, connotes a political bent, though John Crowe Ransom’s poem refers to a high-society afternoon gathering of a time gone by. Then, as now, individuals feel the burden of singlehood. Whether meeting at a bar, a party, online, or through friends, a pressure exists – real or imagined – to pair up. The couple in Ransom’s “Good Ships,” seek camaraderie, food and fun at the tea party, but do not seek each other.

Previously acquainted, these two fleet members of the fleet meet once again on the “high seas” of Mrs. Grundy’s tea party, as they “[hail] each other” at the gathering. “High” connotes the style or breeding of a tea party room or indicates the boisterous room itself. The conversation cannot be intimate, as they must contend with the “loud surge” of the other party-goers. While the party is in full swing, neither fleet-mate feels the need to “baffle the driving breeze” as each maneuvers their way from hors d’oeuvre to canapé to petit four.

The woman becomes more and more a deserted island with each bite of her absorbing macaroon. She speaks to the man, yet she appears more interested in her delicious cocoanut morsel rather than giving him her full attention. In ship shape, she wants to be left alone, privately stowing her booty. He, meanwhile, is, “ruddy but an effect of ocean,” inferring either the temperature of the crowded room causing him to flush or having found the spiked punch and pausing several times to replenish his personal vessel. A lovely turn of phrase, “exchanged the nautical technicalities” indicates the couple exchanging weather pleasantries to pass the time. How often are, “Read any good books lately?” or “Hot, isn’t it?” the only things to say in an awkward encounter? Clearly, the couple is not having an easy, breezy conversation. Why stop to chat when there are hatches to batten down?

After “only a nothing or so,” though probably an interminable amount of time for each of them, these ships are “bound for port,” or, headed home separately – each to their individual port. Steering sure and true, the ships find themselves “so seaworthy one felt they could not sink,” their hulls full of good food and drink. Their ballast allows temporary stability and control, leading toward gastrointestinal reactions as, “a tremor shook them” on their journey home. Their tremors do not seem to be tainted with regret, but rather perhaps shudders at the memory of their uncomfortable encounter.

The poem’s final line, “And unto miserly merchant hulks converted,” is a bit of a stumper. Thankfully, blog commenters came to the rescue. Pre-party, the couple are individually “fleet” and “beautiful timbers fit for storm and sport,” able to pilot through seas choppy or calm. Post-party, they are each “hulks,” or no longer seaworthy. They hoard their booty in a miserly fashion – perhaps feeling wrecked, unwieldy, and used for storage rather than voyage. There will be other afternoon teas, other ports of call. A solo rest at home is all they need.

An online biography of Ransom notes that he, “…primarily wrote short poems examining the ironic and unsentimental nature of life.” The symbolism for these two individual ships could just as easily include Mrs. Grundy’s entire tea party fleet. These two people are in no need of a date, let alone each other. They meet at a party and they move on – ships passing in the night, as it were. Mrs. Grundy is perhaps a lighthouse in the harbor for her guests. Her Tuesday home is the place where any port in a storm will do, but these particular ships have sailed.

Personification is the Fine Print of Nye’s “Eye Test”

2011-07-13T10:13:00.002-04:00

Eye Test by Naomi Shihab Nye

The D is desperate.
The B wants to take a vacation,
live on a billboard, be broad and brave.
The E is mad at the R for upstaging him.
The little c wants to be a big C if possible,
and the P pauses long between thoughts.
How much better to be a story, story.
Can you read me?
We have to live on this white board
together like a neighborhood.
We would rather be the tail of a cloud,
one letter becoming another,
or lost in a boy’s pocket
shapeless as lint
the same boy who squints to read us
believing we convey a secret message.
Be his friend
We are so tired of meaning nothing.

Personification is the Fine Print of Nye’s Eye Test

When visiting the optometrist’s office and reading down the eye chart, a patient is almost desperate to get it right. The doctor asks a patient to read what appears as mice-type, and it is nearly impossible. The patient wiggles in the chair and bears down, willing the letters to come into focus. Clarity fades, and with it, hope. Helpless tears make blurry vision no better, and desperation takes hold. What if those letters were desperately crying out to the patient as well? That is the personification Naomi Shahib Nye explores in her poem, “Eye Test.”

The desperate “D” begins Nye’s litany of individualized letters as she allows the patient and the eye chart to connect as one. “The P pauses long between thoughts,” as would a patient attempting to utter the correct letter aloud. The initial hope that the Eye Test will result in a score of 20/20 vision causes the patient to begin carefully and patiently, being “brave and bold” as the letter B.

The patient in this poem is a young boy, who has not gone to the eye doctor as a matter of course, as an adult would, but because he has been taken there. Perhaps his grades are slipping or perhaps he is not hitting the ball off the T as he used to do well. He has something to prove: that he can see. The brutal, teasing consequences of sporting glasses is not a future he envisions for himself, yet he “squints to read us.” The letters, too, ache to speak: “Can you read me?” they cry, begging for some kind of understanding. The boy wants to understand, believing, “we convey a secret message,” though the message is another language altogether from his – blurry and incomprehensible. The italicized plea, to “Be his friend,” is a piteous, mournful call that cannot be heard.

Nye further personifies helplessness and loneliness in the line, “We have to live on this white board together like a neighborhood.” Even early in the poem, Nye suggests that, “The B wants to take a vacation,” to no avail. Days pass, patients come and go, yet the letters feel they must dwell on their wall chart, the same proximity from their fellow letters as the day before. “Shapeless as lint,” the letters feel – alone and meaningless – the bits of what used to exist as a whole. The letters dwell in their neighborhood, perhaps like the dregs of their boy-patient’s pocket – once grand objects, now fragments, waiting in vain to be pieced back together.
The poet takes, perhaps, a jab at herself, or at her craft, in the lines, “How much better to be a story, story,” and, “We are so tired of meaning nothing.” An eye chart is merely a series of letters, or, as the poem itself puts it, “one letter after another.” So, too, are words and phrases that make up the written language – but letters put together for the purpose of an eye test, and letters put together to convey meaning are worlds apart. A poem does not wish to be a “story, story” such as an article, essay, or novel. A poem is the creative art that conveys its meaning in subtle and evocative ways. Perhaps Nye gives a nod to the truth that many believe poems mean nothing. The letters that make up the words of poems, then, are tired of trying to convey their meaning day after day, reader after reader, like an Eye Test patient.

Naomi Shahib Nye takes an unremarkable object like an eye chart on the wall and turns it into something beautiful and meaningful. The letters wish to “float like the tail of a cloud,” and in their searching to be understood, form the meanings of the words they try to convey. “Can you read me?” the letters ask? We can certainly try.

Learn Your Damned Homophones

2011-06-13T15:59:00.003-04:00

Apparently I have nothing to say, so I'll recommend another lovely site, Learn Your Damned Homophones. Enjoy!
http://learnyourdamnhomophones.com/

Apps I could do without

2011-05-10T11:50:00.002-04:00

ABCs of Boobs - Free - a collection of facts and information about breasts. Such as, "When erect, the average nipple is slightly taller than 5 stacked quarters." (handy for trivia night)

Beer Carbs - $0.99 - Beer Carbs lets you quickly find the carb amount of over 1,000 beers. (drink your damned beer, already!)

Blood Type Forecast Pro - $0.99 - Helps you forecast possible blood type of a child or one of parents (because you need this at the singles bar and your doctor can't figure this out for you??)

Crazy Spouse Daily Log - $0.99 - Keep a log of how crazy your spouse is and you might just notice a pattern and be able to predict just when they will be "The Craziest." (sigh)

Hi, Daddy! Pregnancy Calculator - $0.99 - Want to have a sweet night with your partner but afraid of being a father? No more fear! (how about condoms?)

Instant Bellydancer Volume 2 - $7.99 - (I won't even go into the description...because I know you already bought - for way too much - Volume 1)

iSin - $1.99 - Lets you track your sins as they happen, with all the details you may want to have at your fingertips when it's time to confess (wrap it up, there are other people in line)

Office Affairs Ideas - $0.99 - Office romances can be fun and successful, but you and your colleague must be subtle about it. Here are some guidelines on how you can give the relationship a real shot, while keeping a lid on possible problems. (never let your spouse borrow your iPhone)

SexTrack - $1.99 - The built-in iPhone accelerometer measures the dynamics of your adventures in the bedroom. It is easy to use (just put your phone on the bed close to the action) and adds to the magic of being together. (no comment)

Art History Class Can Be Fun (if you try)

2011-04-28T08:15:00.003-04:00

Write a fictional dialogue between any two aesthetic theorists, modern or historical, that we have read. They are discussing whether or not a particular work of art is beautiful. They may agree or disagree, partially or completely.

Tolstoy: Hegel, I’ve waited so long for this chat. May I call you Georg?

Hegel: Are you my wife?

Tolstoy: Not last I checked.

Hegel: Then…no, Tolstoy. Please don’t.

Tolstoy: Can I get you anything? A cup of tea…a glass of water?

Hegel: I’m dead.

Tolstoy: Right! Me too. We just seem so real!

Hegel: I’m sure some academics would say that we’re just as vital today as we were when we were alive.

Tolstoy: Do you find it strange that we’re speaking English when I speak Russian and you speak German?

Hegel: You think that’s strange…I died when you were three years old!

Tolstoy: I can’t even begin to wrap my head around that…but perhaps I’ll incorporate it into a novel soon. So. You know why I’ve called you here?

Hegel: Yes. Those little worship figures from ancient Mesopotamia…around 2500 BC, yes?

Tolstoy: Yes. Aren’t they wonderful? By the way, they say BCE now. Before the Common Era rather than Before Christ.

Hegel: Christ.

Tolstoy: I know.

Hegel: Well, before I agree that they’re “wonderful,” as you put it, let’s go with what we know. I understand that these figures were intended as prayer statues, to stand-in, perhaps, for human worshippers for the gods?

Tolstoy: That’s what we believe to be true, yes. Do you not see that the artist meant to convey to you the awe of the beholder as they gaze upon a god?

Hegel: Please. Spare me your yawn theory.

Tolstoy: (yawns)

Hegel: (yawns) Stop it!

Tolstoy: Just making my point that art is infectious. My yawn spawns your yawn – it’s the same thing.

Hegel: It is certainly not the same thing. A physical reaction like a yawn could simply indicate that you need to open a window. But I digress…we’re not here to argue about oxygen, are we?

Tolstoy: No, we’re not. I’m just saying that the emotions of the artist to the audience are tantamount to understanding and appreciating art – even these fellows.

Hegel: Oh. These are considered “art,” are they?

Tolstoy: Ah. I suppose now you’re going to tell me that “fine” art is the only art worthy of admiration?

Hegel: No, no – not at all. I think that philosophers like us have taken the idea of art philosophy and heightened it to a place higher than the art itself.

Tolstoy: How so?

Hegel: I believe I once said, in my Introduction to Aesthetics, that ‘…the philosophy of art is … a greater need in our day than it was in days when art by itself as art yielded full satisfaction’ (147).

Tolstoy: Meaning what?

Hegel: Meaning that the artist who created these creatures was in his time and we are in ours. Don’t think so hard. Look here: was the object necessary?

Tolstoy: Oh, I see! You’re saying that the artist wasn’t necessarily creating art for appreciation as an artwork, but because the statue had an intended purpose.

Hegel: Now you’re talking.

Tolstoy: Enlighten me some more.

Hegel: Try this on for size: ‘The beauty of art is beauty born of the spirit and born again, and the higher the spirit and its productions stand above nature and its phenomena, the higher too is the beauty of art above that of nature’ (136).

Tolstoy: That’s very ancient Egyptian of you, “Born of the spirit and born again.” Lah dee dah.

Hegel: Perhaps. An alleged Christian such as you should have plenty to say about multiple deities.

Tolstoy: Don’t get me started.

Hegel: I’m honestly trying to point out that you have overstepped your bounds with your theories of art and art appreciation. You’re a writer.

Tolstoy: What of it?

Hegel: I read some of your aesthetic criticism – if one can call it that – on my way here. In On Art, you say that an artist, “…must be able to express the new subject so that all may understand it. For this he must have such mastery of his craft that when working he will think as little about the rules of that craft as a man when walking thinks of the laws of motion” (175). Honestly. A simile?

Tolstoy: What’s wrong with what I said? I stand by those remarks.

Hegel: You’re simply tooting your own horn by lauding the artist. You are an artist. You’re too close to art to be able to critique it. Look at your ending salvo: “…a true work of art is the revelation (by laws beyond our grasp) of a new conception of life arising in the artist’s soul…” (176). Talk about appreciation of the ancient Egyptians – that’s certainly a summoning of the gods above to prove the greatness of the artist.

Tolstoy: Hey, we were going to talk about these prayer statues!

Hegel: Impossible. There’s no budging you. I could give my opinion all day, and you’d continue back to your point that the artist is the be-all, end-all. I’m more than happy to go back to…wherever it was you summoned me from.

Tolstoy: If you insist.

Hegel: Before I go…do you concur that you’re in no position to judge art?

Tolstoy: Absolutely not. I have opinions about a variety of subjects: literature, politics, religion. I’ll make my case against anyone, even you, Hegel.

Hegel: Yes, but will you win?
Tolstoy: It’s not about winning, it’s about expressing myself.

Hegel: Exactly. You, the artist - and your opinion that must be conveyed to the world. I just don’t buy it. Sorry.

Tolstoy: Let’s do this again some time.

Hegel: Let’s not.

Tolstoy: (yawns)

Hegel: (yawns) Stop it!

What I'd Change About Healthcare

2011-02-10T09:08:00.003-05:00

I don't usually have a ton to say about political hotbutton issues. Sure, I have my opinions about political parties, abortion, death penalty, tea parties, speed limit, gay marriage, whatever. I simply choose to lay low and let more vocal types go about their way.
I am lucky enough to have good healthcare. I have reasonable co-pays, reasonable prescription costs - including generic options - and can be admitted to any emergency room without fear of being kicked back out again.
I have two doctor's appointments coming up - one tomorrow, one Monday. Both annual visits, and both doctors have seen me for over 10 years. I don't necessarily look forward to poking, prodding and whatnot, but that's what annual visits are for.
The painful part is the paperwork. I just printed out 7 pages of crap for one of the doctors - the one smart enough to put the forms online so you can fill them out early rather than go 20 mintues early to sit in the waiting room and fill them out there. So much of it is family history that you've written out several times before. I want blanket authority to draw a big X on the page and write, "No Change Since Last Visit," and sign at the bottom. Is that so wrong?

There's Always a Tranny

2010-12-13T15:58:00.002-05:00

I visited my mom recently and went to church with her, as is expected. I can go through the prayers by rote and don't much have to pay attention...but I certainly can people-watch while the hour goes mind-numbingly by. One person I can't keep my eyes off of...is a tranny. I think.

Remember "Tootsie" and "Mrs. Doubtfire" and how Dustin Hoffman make really unconvincing women? Not behavior-wise, but LOOK-wise. Middle-aged, house frau-ish and just, well, something ain't right about them? This woman fits every single category: Too much make-up. Not very attractive. Hair looks like a wig. High-collars. Lots of jewelry. Low voice. Mom's tranny happens to have a low voice (I overheard her) and never sings along with the hymns. She's not very tall, and her hands and feet aren't large, but other than that - I'm certain she's got a secret.

I've been to church with the boyfriend's family a few times now...and THEY have a tranny, too!! She hands out programs before service. She's got all of the above PLUS the height, large hands and feet. ...and she's blonde. Which reminds me of the Flight of the Conchords song, "Leggy Blonde," which is about a REAL woman, but still...worth a listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7syyywL9JuM

Modern Family

2010-10-18T11:56:00.003-04:00

“There’s a reason why this family wants to be together, and there’s a reason why people come to visit and want to stay.” Our director has some lovely ideas about what “belonging” is, and how important this family is to one another.

Those of us who are visitors to the Vanderhof homestead have been asked to think about what we like about the house and what draws us to return. The milk man stayed five years, the ice man (Mr. DePinna) has been there for eight years and counting. Lucky me - my character shows up once and the play is over before she leaves.

I've been thinking a lot about the closeness of some families. There's mine...close, but really more at a distance. There's the boyfriend's...who are so close that they gather at least monthly for a big family dinner AND spend a full long week together in a summer beach house and seem to get along beautifully. Now that I've experienced it with them, it's not just for show - they actually like each other! I've been catching up on the TV phenomenon "Modern Family" as well. Each show's wrap-up points out why they all love each other even though there are arguments, disagreements, misunderstandings, quirks and teasing. (A great, clever show, by the way.)

So that brings us back to the Vanderhof/Sycamore house. Alice knows her family are unusual - to say the least - and goes to extraordinary measures to create the illusion of a "normal" home when her boyfriend's parents come to visit. Yet when those plans are ruined - she makes the incredibly difficult decision to leave and be on her own for a while. Leaving is the last thing she wants to do, but feels a need to have some time by herself. They're her family, odd or not, and they love each other, they love her, and they accept all comers. No apologies, no excuses.

Would I live there? Heavens, no! They be crazy. Would the Grand Dutchess? Probably not. She is brought there by her friend Boris Kolenkhov, with the promise of a free meal. "She has not had a good meal since before the Revolution." Clearly the Grand Dutchess hasn't missed many meals...but they're probably leftovers grabbed from the restaurant taken home to eat later. She and Boris can maneuver their way into the homes of generous friends and share good food and good company. Better than a bread line, wouldn't you say?

Before my entrance at rehearsal yesterday, Andrew (Kolenkhov) came offstage to get me, and said quietly in his non-Russian voice: "They fell for it...now, remember you're supposed to be Russian royalty!" Wouldn't that be awful - but an entirely different plot - if they were shysters and just in it for the food?

You Can't Take it With You

2010-10-13T07:43:00.003-04:00

Today marks the first day of rehearsals for our university theater production of You Can't Take it With You. In other words: today is the first day of the rest of my life.

My journey began this past April when I received a call from the production manager saying that the artistic director wanted me to audition. Beg PARDON?? I enjoy staged readings and I certainly would LOVE to act...but that's not what I do! For reals? For reals. I was asked to audition for the role of The Grand Dutchess Olga Katrina.

What's great about her: she's Russian royalty - which means her costume is going to ROCK. She shows up literally ten pages before the end of the play, has her moment, and we're done. Not a ton to memorize - bonus!

She speaks english, but with a Russian accent, so that's a challenge. I emailed my friend Elisa - a vocal coach - post-haste and asked for the best dialogue sources possible, and she was happy to oblige. Ordered a CD and went to work.

The audition was terrifying and exhilirating all at once. In a stage-managerial capacity, I have watched actors audition for years, and I don't envy them a bit. It's part-skill, part-luck, part-game. An actor can give it their all and just not be what the director is looking for. The audition was fun, but I was glad it was over.

Shock of all shocks - the production manager called me back about a week later and offered me the role. Wow. Do you have the right number?? For reals? For reals. I accepted, but fully believe that our artistic director has lost his mind.

Two weeks ago, I met the costume designer at her shop and was measured within an inch of my life for the costume. Again, I've watched actors go through this process for years - but having someone take a tape measure to YOU and know that someone's going to make a dress especially for YOU - it feels pretty darned great.

Meanwhile - I have taken the plunge and officially applied for undergraduate study at the University. This means: I'm registered as a student this semester and am doing the show for course credit hours. Bringing back my blog posts for the rehearsal and run of the show will be cathartic, and I plan to turn them in to my faculty director as a surprise side-project to prove I was doing something besides goofing off - I mean - memorization in my non-rehearsal hours. I hope to have interesting things to say. I'm nervous and excited!! Stay tuned...

Where Babies Come From

2010-05-14T09:51:00.001-04:00

I love that I have a life...but hate that it keeps me from random blog posts. Speaking of random...

I want the truth and I want it now. I know I should be much older before I ponder life-altering questions such as this, but, honestly, Where Did I Come From? The useless answers I’ve found so far:
• A stork flew me here (plausible)
• Jesus brought me (less plausible than the stork, but I hear He’s pretty cool)
• Mom & Dad went to a cabbage patch (funny, I don’t feel like a cabbage)
• A 1-800 number from the back pages of Rolling Stone (that makes me feel wanted)
• South Korean laboratories (I don’t feel Asian, either)
• A sea monkey packet that mom & dad “overfed” (that would make me King of the Sea People!)
• The one I’m completely throwing out is the LEAST obvious: mom & dad had “sex” … whatever that is.

Choose Your Own Adventure

2010-04-04T10:11:00.002-04:00

OK, so I'm at my gynecologist's office for an 8:15am appointment. When I arrived, there was an older couple sitting in the waiting room. Older, like, 70s. They looked tense. I assumed maybe it was some kind of cancer diagnosis result day - because clearly they're beyond the age to have children.
About five minutes later, in walks a pretty younger woman (I'll give her 30), not visibly pregnant, with a younger guy. They greet the older couple, hugs all around, and sit with them. They do not check in. I think - oh how cute - I bet they're getting a sonogram and want the grandparents to be there. Small talk ensues - though they're not especially chipper or elated.
Some time goes by.
Another young woman walks in, walks up to the counter and checks in. She turns around, timidly says hello to everyone, hugs the OLD GUY ONLY, says, "I'm not sitting down," ...and dashes off to the restroom. Younger guy calls after her: "Why not?" Then looks at everyone else, shrugs, and sits down. Sadly, that's where the story ends. I got called in, and didn't see them again.
Congratulations - if you've read this, you're in the Choose Your Own Adventure mode about this group like I am. Theories??

Subliminal Web Shopping

2010-03-26T03:14:00.004-04:00

An earlier post, Happy Belated New Year, about the glorious web site "your baby is an asshole dot com" is now null and void. Said web site now directs you to: buy Xanax. Awwwwwww. Silly web hackers. If you didn't get a chance to see the wonder that was "your baby is..." you missed out. RIP, glorious web site. You are missed.

Dangling the Carrot

2010-03-25T15:59:00.002-04:00

I can't let March go by without at least ONE post! Today's rant: paychecks. I work, as I've mentioned before, at a large southeastern university. Today is Thursday, March 25th. Salaried employees such as I get paid at midnight of the last work day of the month (in arrears). We routinely receive e-mails to tell us when our paychecks will be viewable online...a week ahead of time. So, though I won't actually GET the money for seven days, I can LOOK AT the money. It's like window-shopping and it gets me down every single time. I don't live hand-to-mouth and I don't need that paycheck any sooner than it's going to get to me...but still. Why you gotta dangle it in front of my face, you know?

Rejection Never Felt So Good

2010-02-10T14:24:00.002-05:00

Times in life when one can be rejected:

Receiving an F on a test or in a class entirely
Being in the lane that just closed (bank, grocery store, toll plaza, etc.)
Being fired
Breaking up

So...internet dating. Another fun place to be rejected. I e-mailed someone interesting yesterday, and this morning I received this. You know, if everyone could take the time to (a) acknowledge and respond, and (b) use candor, this world might be a better place:

"I hope you are having a great week. Thank you for the email and interest in my profile, I'm very flattered. I feel like we have common interests, but I wanted to take a moment to let you know that I have met someone on match that I think may turn into a relationship and I'm the kind of guy that doesn't like to juggle women, I don't believe it is fair to anyone. With that being said I hope you understand if I don't continue to get to know you better until I'm certain of where this may lead. Maybe if things don't work out you will consider giving me another chance at getting to know you. I wish you the best of luck finding a match."

Fantastic. So much better than silence. (I kind of want to copy it to use in replying to people, myself!!)

Buncha Wusses

2010-02-05T09:01:00.004-05:00

Please refer to my post of December 3, 2009 (Man Overboard) for a bit of background. I took the ball and ran with it. I met with both the Human Resources Manager as well as her boss, the Associate VP. I told them the basic situation: EVERYONE who comes to my desk scrunches up their face and goes, What The Hell IS That Smell??? I have headaches, and the situation needs to be addressed.
Both HR folks are hemming and hawing as I talk to them about how tricky the situation is, and how we can't force people not to smoke. Oh, really? Can we not force people to lighten up on the cologne? Can we not look them in the eye and tell them there is a legitimate concern regarding their health (the smoking) and the health of others (the slathering of cologne to cover up the smoking)? No, these HR people apparently can't. Because they're wusses.
I've been in the business world since I was 16...I worked corporate in the 80s and 90s. I get how HR should work, and I get what HR's job is. HR's job is, among other things: to address valid employee concerns. The health and welfare of an employee is a valid concern. So, I even help them out! I bring with me to these meetings a print-out of the University No Smoking Policy 4.69. It's a great read. The item that I high-lighted and suggested HR could use to begin the conversation: "Smoking is prohibited within 25 feet of all entrances to all [University] buildings."
I pointed out that this guy is in violation of that policy all day, every day. We are the healthcare unit of this University. The guy stands either directly in front of the doors to the building OR - and this one is classic - directly underneath the sign about 10' down the building that says "Making People Healthy."
I'm not in HR, but if I were, that would be the starting point of my conversation. Scenario:
Hey, fella...you've got to step awaaaaaay from the building (hand him University policy...because that doesn't make ME look like the bad guy, I'm just sharing Policy. Oh, and have you heard about how bad smoking is for you? Yeah, it is. Furthermore, we here are concerned about your health. Did you know that this University offers FREE smoking cessation programs here on campus? Yes, really. Lots of them. Through the Counseling Center, through the Faculty/Staff Assistance Program, through our Cancer Institute. It's true. We suggest that you at least look that the information I've printed for you (handing him a pile of brochures and web site info). I've heard you cough at least twice while I've been talking, and in my non-medical opinion, your lungs don't sound so great. Oh, and one more thing: you've been in my office, what, 5 minutes now? I am telling you that I can smell your cologne and it's a bit overpowering. Do you, by chance, use cologne after you come back inside so that your colleagues don't smell your cigarette smoke? (He will answer yes, because he's a nice guy and I can tell has a healthy fear of authority) I must ask you to not re-apply cologne after you leave your house in the morning. I can suggest chewing gum, Binaca, Altoids...something like that instead, OK? So. Here's a letter (handing him letter) re-capping everything I've just explained to you, and I'm going to need you to sign it saying you understand the University Policy and that you will strive to improve your health habits. Good day, sir.
How hard is that? Apparently really, really hard. Completely expected, HR totally took the coward's way out. Smoky McSmokes-A-Lot (smelling like he always does) comes up to my desk this morning looking super-sad and says, "I am told I have new office in Clinic. I must move by end of day."
So, there you have it. A FINE way to solve the problem. I'm 99.9% sure that's all he was told, "We're relocating you." No reason given. Wonder how many more complaints will arise - and trust me, unless they're relocating him to a cave all by himself, there will be - before someone actually does sit him down and tell him the truth. Buncha wusses. Sure, I got what I wanted and my cube area will be a nicer place to visit, Renuzit-free, by next week. Badly handled, though. I'm very disappointed.

Happy Belated New Year

2010-01-23T20:08:00.002-05:00

Since I can't seem to get around and be clever enough to post something from my own brain, please enjoy: http://www.yourbabyisanasshole.com/

I was on an airplane today from Atlanta to San Francisco with a screaming baby. Nearly five hours of screaming baby. ...and was he perfectly screamed-out and adorable at baggage claim?? Oh, yes, he was. His poor mom looked like hell.

Online Dating

2009-12-21T16:27:00.001-05:00

A tip from me to you: the following words and phrases should NOT be used when online dating. These are above and beyond spelling errors and shirtless guys in their alleged photos (most of whom should have kept their shirts on). These words and phrases have been offered to me - and the world at-large - on a lovely silver platter and they immediately make me think, “No thanks.”

Alpha Male
Fetish
Prideful
“my grandchildren” (I’m not yet 40, is what I’m getting at)
“spend lots of time playing video games”
Lover (I just hate that word)
“can drink 1 ½ times my weight” (I hope that was a joke)
“Many women find me attractive.” (Oh, REALLY??)
“a member of the KISS Army”
Yankees fan (move along, pal)
“My cat thinks I’m purrrfect.” (and I think you’re gay)
No Baggage (yeah, buddy…me either)
No Drama (ditto)
Experienced (what the hell does THAT mean?) (Ohhhhh. Yeah, probably)

Man Overboard

2009-12-03T09:50:00.000-05:00

Our offices were renovated, and we were displaced for some months last year (like a little asbestos is gonna kill ya...) and have been back here since mid-April. I moved right back to where I was before, in a little cluster of three cubicles. My other two cube-mates moved down a floor, and I'm rather isolated now. A lot of foot-traffic by my desk, but no one sitting on either side of me. Random work/study students use the desks now and again, but that's it. Lo and behold: a part-time guy shows up yesterday, and he’ll be here a couple of days a week. I'm not entirely sure what his job is - he doesn't work in my division - but he's quite the interesting fellow. I'm going to bet he's in his early 60s. First of all, he sat over there from about 1pm onward until I left...and didn't say a word. The woman who was showing him the ropes got him to talk a little, but not a lot. Primary reason: he doesn't seem to speak a lot of english. Going geographically by accent, I’ll call him Boris. I'm not even going to try to spell the last name. The most interesting part about him: the cologne. Good lord, he smells like...well, like I think those guys from “A Night at the Roxbury” must smell. He smells like a high school kid who just figured out what Axe Body Spray is. Over. The. Top. AND I'm pretty sure he freshened it up a bit some time during the late afternoon. Ewww. This morning: he’s back! As strong as ever.

El Presidente

2009-11-18T21:18:00.002-05:00

7:30am this morning. I had something to drop off for signature in the Administration Building of the University where I work.
Ride up in the elevator to the Executive Floor...lights off everywhere except for the President's Office. Not unusual, but I did scoff a little...
I go to the office next door to the President and shove my envelope under the door...and who pops his head out to see who's there?? Our President.
"Wow! Hey, Dr. _____, I didn't expect to see you here. How's it going?"
(He doesn't know me from joe. He has no reason to. I mean, he knows he's seen me, and I've been to his home for various events, and he knows in some way I'm some vice president's assistant, but he doesn't exactly know me by name.)
He's a congenial fellow, though, so of course he says, "Good morning. How are you?" "Fine," I say, "Why are we the only two people working on this campus at this hour?" He says - and this just makes me laugh: "Well...SOMEbody's gotta run the place!" "Yes, sir...and I'm glad it's YOU." Hilarious.
I've repeated my story about five times today and no one finds it as funny as I do. Go figure.

B of A pisses me off

2009-11-03T11:04:00.002-05:00

There, I've said it. I have been a B of A customer since, oh, let's say, the early 90's. Clark Howard has complained about them for years, but here's my gripe: their ATM cards BLOW. I can't tell you the number of times I have been asked to swipe, re-swipe, and triple-swipe my card. It happens at ATM's, the grocery store, random vendors...it doesn't matter. I end up having to use another card - which doesn't do B of A any good - and when I rush home and look up my balance (though I know there is money to cover my purchase) I freak out until I see that indeed I have plenty of money to cover.
I don't keep my cards piled on top of one another so that they wipe out the magnetic strip...and even if that was true, other cards are fine. Ridiculous.
Maybe B of A doesn't piss me off, maybe plastic does. ...or magnets do.

It's good to be back...complaining to no one.

Where'd that girl go, anyway?

2009-09-17T11:54:00.001-04:00

Yeah...mid-October I'll have more time to write. Seriously, though.

Shut Yer Yap

2009-08-28T09:24:00.002-04:00

There's a woman who works in my building who is exactly - to the day - one month older than I am. We are in our late 30's. Honest to god, this woman has more aches and pains, trouble, and assorted randomness in-general than anyone else I know.

I get to work typically 1 to 1-1/2 hours before her, partially for the better commute, but partially because I know that I can crank out a ton of work before she arrives. That way, when she gets here, I have the time to listen to the verbal diarrhea that will become Issue of the Day.

Her physical pain I COULD understand and sympathize with...if it wasn't for the constance of complaint. After a while...suck it up and deal...or stay home and whine there. The other stuff is, to me, truly odd. I'll call it: empathy by proxy.

Hypothetically, let's just say that one morning there's a plane crash in Bangladesh. News of the crash is all over the radio/TV/internet. This woman will more than likely come in the office telling me how sad she is about it and how sick she feels about it, her stomach is upset, and she can't even function, feeling sorry for those poor people and their families.

I'm sorry, do WHAT, now?? Is she from Bangladesh? Does she have family in Bangladesh? Does she have friends or co-workers traveling in the area? A giant, resounding NO to all of the above. ...and she's serious. She'll chat with her folks or her sister or some friend about it on the phone for a while (oh, and me, in person, for longer than I care to). For real. I pray, on a regular basis, for her to have sick days or vacation time.

Please, please make it stop.

There Goes the Neighborhood

2009-08-17T14:11:00.002-04:00

I'm visiting my hometown, east of San Francisco, and I had an unexpected drive this morning. I planned to meet a friend for breakfast but was surprised to find the car battery dead when trying to leave the house. Called the breakfast place, found my friend, explained the situation, and moved on about my day.
Called AAA, they were here in no time, and got me jumped (and I liked it). The guy recommended that I not pass go, not collect $200, but by all means drive to the nearest place to get a new battery. So, off I go.
My hometown is an island - not Alcatraz, ya jokers - with about, oh, population of 70,000 I'd say, and is probably not more than 10 square miles of land, give or take. We used to have a naval base, but has been shut down for many years and the land is rented out to movie & TV production companies. Very picturesque, lovely views of the Oakland hills, south bay, and San Francisco itself.
I haven't lived here for 15 years, so driving around I thought I had a pretty good idea of where auto row/car parts stores would be. It was crazy to drive around and actually look at what my little city has become.
Tillie's Diner on Webster looks like it closed, that makes me sad. Lincoln's Address, the most hilariously named bar on Lincoln Avenue is now called something else. South Shore Shopping Center now has some fancy glitzed-up name and newer, better stores. Who knew my little hometown would tear down Penney's and the old Woolworth's and end up with a Barnes & Noble, Trader Joe's, and Kohl's? There are beautiful Victorian and Queen Anne homes that are now being lovingly restored, which is great to see. Streets have been re-named...all in all, the same but not the same.
Auto row doesn't exist anymore, but thankfully a Kragen did. Thanks, Kragen, I'm all charged up. Literally.

Rambo

2009-08-14T15:28:00.002-04:00

Once upon a time in Fall 2002, I stage-managed the musical Gypsy. In prep for it, I was in constant summertime contact with our director, who was flying in for rehearsals from New York City. Really nice lady, and I knew working with her would be great - which it was. Her only true request: Mama Rose needs a REAL dog. Getting a trained dog was out of the question for the amount of money we'd have to spend.
Stage managers aren't typically involved in prop purchases, but for this particular theater at this particular time, I figured I could tackle it. ...and is a live dog REALLY a prop??
Since the cast was set and I had been in contact with all of them anyway for various scheduling, costume fittings and other random reasons, I decided to e-mail them and my crew en masse to ask if anyone might have a small dog already, handy and up for the task. Responses were all similar: "I have a doberman," "I have a St. Bernard." Fantastic. Until: "I don't, my my next-door neighbor is affiliated with a shelter and I'm sure she can help you." ...and so, St. Francis Rescue, Inc., came into my life.
Theater administration decided it would be great to get a stray and have audience members meet the dog after the show, learn it's story, contribute to the rescue league and maybe raffle the dog off at the end to the people who could provide the best home.
St. Francis called me to say they had the perfect stray: Pomeranian, red, male, approximately one year old, blind in one eye from birth. The blindness meant he was "on sale," and I had already told the theater I'd fork out the fee to adopt the dog. He was found wandering the mean streets of Birmingham and we could go pick him up right away. "We," by the way...was me. Perfect! Cut and dried, right? Wrong.
St. Francis representatives had to do a house visit to inspect the home where the dog would live. I had to fill out umpteen pages of information: personal info, personal banking info, credit info, have I ever euthanized a pet, would I ever euthanize a pet, what circumstances would it take for me to euthanize a pet, would I ever abandon a pet, had I ever abandoned a pet, mother's maiden name, future plans if I died unexpectedly as to what would happen to this pet...you get the idea. I wish that human parents were required to fill out as much paperwork to adopt human babies. Truly.
I was given a polaroid photo (old school even then) of "Rambo," sitting happily on a sofa and was told that he was found wandering a laundromat parking lot in the heat of summer, all sad, and was currently living in a home with the laundromat manager, her small children, 17 other dogs and sleeping in a banana crate. How to break my heart into small pieces: tell me a story like that. Thankfully, my home passed muster and off I drove on Labor Day 2002 to get this dog.
I was greeted by a scary, cowboy-killer-smoking, 400-pound woman who informed me that, "Rambo don't take kindly to strangers," as I knelt down to meet him. He bounced up into my lap, licking my hands and face, not indicating in any way that I was someone to not take kindly to. He let me pick him up and he pretty much collapsed in my arms in a very contented way and nuzzled there. Break my heart into little tiny pieces some more, please. "Well, he seems to like you quite a lot! Congratulations, girl, you got you a new dog!!" Thanks, lady. I gave her a check for her vet (adopters pay the vet, who has already neutered and vaccinated them, gratis) and we were on our way. We stopped at the AL/GA border to get to know each other and he seemed like a very sweet, albeit skitterish, dog. Within a few hours: welcome to the stage - rehearsals, tech, previews, and run. What the heck did he sign up for??
He was not a fan of small children in any way, shape, or form. Baby June got nipped, but trust me, she deserved it. No blood drawn, just a warning snap. He was not a fan of the orchestra, bright lights, applause, or much else. He tolerated Mama Rose and the other folks who had to hold him onstage, but some nights didn't make it through the scenes he was supposed to be in. Our director and I thought he had been abused fairly severely, judging by his odd behavior. He had been placed in a bizarre situation, but still. He WAS a fan of the attention when people would meet him after show, and he had fun with the actors backstage. For the most part, he was happy astride my arm whilst carried around and otherwise happy being fed, walked, and left alone to sleep.
He got a photo and write-up in the AJC's Peach Buzz as the only actor in the show with his own dressing room, albeit a cage in the Managing Director's office.
Rambo had a "wrangler," one of the theater interns, who spoiled him rotten, and since he wasn't needed after Scene 4 or so, he spent each intermission and Act 2 with me in the booth. He followed me around everywhere I went, and does to this day. I try not to anthropomorphize, but I think that somehow he knows that he's leading a tremendously better life than he would have, had I not come along. I'm sure you've guessed by now: we didn't raffle him off - the rescue league put the kibosh on that from the get-go.
Nearly 7 years later, he's nearly blind in the other eye, can barely hear, and is generally a grumpy and mean old man. He still "loves" me, and is sweet to humans, as long as those humans don't smell like a vet's office. That said, I spent my lunch hour today taking him to the vet to board while I'm away. He is all teeth there; big red sticker on his file: "Will Bite!" ...and he ain't kiddin'. It was a long and painful check-in, poor fella.
So. Be good, Rambo. I'll be back before you know it.

Si Mi Adoras…

2009-08-10T01:34:00.001-04:00

…Bobby Cox: you’ll let Matt Diaz play more often
…Matt Diaz: you’ll hit a home run
…Tim Curry: you’ll make a good movie
…Mom: you’ll quit calling me every day
…Mother Nature: you’ll give me another summer of no triple-digit temps
…The Office: you won’t jump the shark now that Jim & Pam are pregnant
…This Blog: you won’t spoil The Office season finale for everyone who didn’t see it yet (Oops!)

A little tip from me to you

2009-08-08T03:23:00.002-04:00

...turns out that when one puts one's blog notes in DRAFT, when one posts one's draft, one's draft is back-dated to when one began the draft.

"Business School" (below) was supposed to be dated today. Alas, its suddenly July again. Time doesn't fly after all.

Business School Can't Teach you Everything

2009-07-24T16:14:00.005-04:00

So I'm driving down Moreland Avenue in Atlanta at 2pm on a Friday. It's 91 degrees with 40% humidity. There's a good amount of traffic headed to I-20, and I'm in a long line of cars waiting at the light. I notice this scraggly-lookin' dude walking inbetween cars with a plastic bag full of bottled water. He's selling them to drivers-by for $1.00 apiece. I know this because not only was I offered one (I didn't bite), but he's screaming his product and price at us SO LOUDLY that no one could help but hear him.

For the amount of time he's spending in the hot sun, on asphault, carrying a heavy bag, yelling, surrounded by exhaust from running vehicles, sweating his tuckus off ... seriously, is this a good business plan?? I mean, even if he's selling drugs that I can't see because I'm not a savvy drive-by drug buyer (though he's causing such a ruckus it's doubtful...he's drawing way too much attention), that STILL doesn't seem like a great way to spend one's summer afernoon.

False Comparison

2009-07-24T11:45:00.002-04:00

I received an e-mail from a friend. I responded, and need to share:

From: Pedestrian in Motion
Sent: Thursday, July 23, 2009 9:34 AM
Subject: It's about time

Friends: Remember how many people didn’t truly begin to pay attention to AIDS until Rock Hudson – someone famous – died of it. Sadly I believe the same is true for cellphone use while driving. Until someone famous is tragically hurt or killed by a driver paying more attention to his toys than the road, it will receive limited attention. And now with the advent of texting, even less attention is being paid to the road. Here’s the latest on the damage that can be done. I’ve told y’all before and I’ll say it again—please do not call me while on the road. http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/23/opinion/23thu3.html?ref=opinion&pagewanted=print

From: AntiBlogger
Sent: Friday, July 24, 2009 11:43 AM
Subject: RE: It's about time

Hey, I’ve thought about this a full day before responding to make sure that I wasn’t having a knee-jerk reaction. Turns out, I wasn’t, so here goes:
I fully agree with you that cell phones in general (talking or texting) are distractions and I look forward to the day when their use is abolished in all 50 states and not just a handful of them.
Famous people, though apparently not famous enough, have suffered serious injury and death thanks to cell phone use. Most notably: supermodel Niki Taylor (serious injury) and most recently Josh Hancock of the St. Louis Cardinals (death). How many stories have we heard lately about bus and train conductors texting? Idiots, all.
That said, what really struck a nerve with me was your opening salvo.
The AIDS epidemic cannot and must not be minimized and compared to driving while distracted. There is no apples-to-apples comparison about it, whatsoever. Yes, Rock Hudson and others (Ryan White, Arthur Ashe, Anthony Perkins, Magic Johnson to name a few) bring a ton of attention, and that’s a good thing. It is not the same thing, I don’t care how you package and present it.
I am certain you meant absolutely no ill by your comparison, but I rabidly disagree with the comparison. You are my friend and I value your opinions and I enjoy our heart-to-hearts and get-togethers and hope to for many years to come. I simply couldn’t let this pass and needed to tell you how I feel. You know I’m not a boat-rocker, but I had to speak up.

Amusement

2009-07-18T10:08:00.002-04:00

There's an amusement that a co-worker and I have shared for literally years now. I'm certain this game, or something like it, is played globally in one form or another by those of us who have an inner 7th-grade boy. We call it simply, "Fake Titles," and it involves taking a real movie title and altering it to invent a potential porn or fetish movie title. I certainly won't share the good 'n juicy ones here...that's just not cool...but trust me, we've got an excellent list going.

Some write themselves, of course, as legit flicks:

Above the Rim
Big
Die Hard
Easy Rider
Failure to Launch
Fire Down Below
Shooter
Snake Island
...etc.

A small sample of my not-too-graphic favorites we've managed to muster:

An Inconvenient Itch
Bend Over Like Beckham
Crotchless Panties Hidden Dragon
Cuckold School
Engorge of the Jungle
Lake Flaccid
Little Shop of Whores
My Big Fat Greek Wetting
Remember the Trojans

Funny thing is, I'm pretty sure some of these altered titles are actual movie titles somewhere in the world and I just don't care to subscribe to the right web sites to find out.

Please, please, begin your own list, you fellow filthy-minded fools. Trust me, it can be a daily giggle fest.

Share the Road??

2009-07-10T15:44:00.001-04:00

I used to work for a cycling enthusiast. For six years I felt compelled to quench my absolute loathe and disgust for cyclists. That particular enthusiast hasn’t been my boss now for over a year, so I think it’s safe to let the bile seep out.

Who. The hell. Do you think you are, cyclists?? I see you on your sweet bike, in your sweet outfit that cost umpteen hundreds of dollars. I see you ahead of me, very much in my lane, in fact, you’re in the middle of it. Awesome. This is me, passing you, in my car. The car licensed to drive on the road, in an appropriate lane, in a safe manner. I obey the rules of the road, albeit on occasion I fail to follow the speed limit. Trust me, I’m a careful driver, and I see you. I’ve passed you now, and you’re in my rear-view mirror. Stay back there.

Wait. Don’t stay back there. Go to a park. Go to a cycling trail. You know, the kinds of trails crafted especially for you. There’s Stone Mountain Park. There’s the Silver Comet. That’s just two. There are many more, and I can even tell you how to get there. Why in god’s name must you ride on the same road as cars? There’s exhaust, there’s traffic lights, there’s all sorts of hazards, let alone…you. What’s fun in any way about behaving like a car when you can’t go anywhere near as fast as a car, and every car on the road HATES you? Get out of my way. Thank you.

Where in the World is Carmen San Diego??

2009-07-08T23:29:00.002-04:00

Yes, I know. Nearly a month and all three of you (or two) (or one) (is anybody out there?) are maybe wondering, why is this Blogger such a slacker??

Little did you know: I started this thing purposefully to "anti-blog," or in my lingo: not talk about myself, per se. Why? I have been and am going through a time in my life when the only thing I feel motivated to do IS to talk about myself.

So...this is a test. (A what? A test. A what? A test. Oh...a test!) I have typed full missives and deleted them entirely because, as a close friend put it, "who the hell cares what [bloggers] have to say?" EXACTLY. I didn't force you here at gunpoint, you came here of your own accord. The least I could do is write something mildly entertaining, and then you can move on about your day. Introspection is for me, not for you. Back soon, I kinda promise.

Karma

2009-06-25T09:46:00.001-04:00

Kindly draw your attention to the June 3, 2009 entry: Creepy or Cool? and/or recall my mention of the uber-precious conference room in my building. …and now, read on, cuz karma’s a bitch.

Sent: Wednesday, June 24, 2009 9:27 AM:
Unfortunately the ________ Room has sustained severe water damage. The leak was found this morning around 8:00AM and the leak continues. The renovation project manager has told us that the room cannot be currently be used, more than likely for several weeks. Water is being extracted from the rug and dehumidifiers are being brought in and will run 24/7.

A true pity. Chuckle, snort.

Comprehension

2009-06-13T07:06:00.001-04:00

Am I the only one who doesn’t shampoo twice? The bottle is pretty straightforward. “Apply to wet hair. Rinse. Repeat.” Once is fine, though, right?

That’s beside the point. Point being: following instructions. Take this one, for example: “Tell your doctor if you are taking other medications.”

Do WHAT, now? (Sidebar: I’m not from these parts, but that’s one of my favorite southern phrases. I translate it as a mix of, “I beg your pardon,” “You’ve got to be kidding me,” and, “I don’t think I heard you properly.”)

“Tell your doctor if you are taking other medications.” Every prescription medication ad mentions that sentence amidst the legalese. Really? Do people go to different doctors and not mention, oh, I don’t know: heart condition, asthma, epilepsy, diabetes…whatever reason you might be taking medication. Really?

Remember when McDonald’s was successfully sued by the lady who scalded herself via coffee because the cup didn’t mention that coffee is…hot?? I’m just a little stunned by the lengths that companies have to go to in order to protect themselves from frivolity. Unbelievable.

Did You Get New Glasses?

2009-06-12T09:23:00.002-04:00

In January of 2009 I got new eyeglasses. They are Ray Ban RX5136 and have, according to the specs, "dark green" frames.

Not one week has gone by in the past 5 months that someone - and most always it's someone who sees me regularly, mind you - says, "Did you get new glasses?" It happened AGAIN just moments ago.

The specs also say: "Colors in pictures may be slightly different than in the sunlight. Also individual perception of colors may be different."

I suppose it's what I'm wearing of a given day, but...dang.

What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love and Self-Examination?

2009-06-10T18:44:00.001-04:00

I left the office today smiling to myself for the first time in a long time. Physically sloughing off the place. How odd that what made me smile further was think about one of the smartest moves I ever made some years back (2006, in fact), nothing whatsoever to do with work.

People break up - that's life. I heard an interview with (of all people!) Iggy Pop on Fresh Air last week. I'm not a fan, but it was a great interview (go find it on NPR or the Fresh Air site, I ain't linkin' it here). He's plugging a new album, of course, called Préliminaires. One of the songs they talked about specifically was a cover of an Antônio Carlos Jobim song, "How Insensitive." He was saying this song is so blissfully short and says exactly what it needs to say without droning on and on like so many emotional songs do. I'll tell ya: when you feel it and they don't...what can you do, you know?

How insensitive I must have seemed when he told me that he loved me
How unmoved and cold I must have seemed when he told me so sincerely
Why, he must have asked, did I just turn and stare in icy silence
What was I to say? What can you say when a love affair is over
Now he's gone away and I'm alone with a memory of him:
Last look vague and drawn and sad. I see it still. All his heartbreak in that last look.
How, he must have asked, could I just turn and stare in icy silence
What was I to do? What can one do when a love affair is over

"...and I'm alone with a memory of him," by the way, is a good thing. No idea what brought this specifically to mind today, but there you have it. Oh, and I know...the point of this blog is, it's not about me. OK, so today it is.

Creepy or Cool? -- UPDATE

2009-06-03T11:34:00.000-04:00

Curiosity got the better of me and I entered The Room (unobserved). It’s a rose IN WATER, IN the carbonated beverage bottle (like a vase). Not the way I pictured it in my mind and perhaps conveyed, like laid out on a tomb. Doesn't change my opinion much.

Creepy or Cool?

2009-06-03T08:08:00.000-04:00

Atlanta has a rich history, and speaking of rich -- lots of old money. Let's just say that a deceased benefactor earned plenty via a carbonated beverage . Let's just say that there is a Foundation that bears his last name and that my employer and many other non-profits around the world reap the benefits. Let's just say that a good number of buildings where I work also bear that last name. Let's just say that not only my building but a conference room IN my building bear his name. This conference room may only be reserved for "high-level" meetings -- and trust me, if you're found booking said room and your meeting isn't high-level enough, you will be asked to find another location. Really. I don't cross the threshold, let's just say.

My building was recently renovated and the Foundation Board is coming for a tour today. I went downstairs to the office of Buildings & Construction to prove that though I threatened it, no, I am not wearing daisy dukes, a tube top and rollerskates today (you know, for our esteemed guests).

I learned this: every Monday, a red rose and a bottle of that carbonated beverage are placed beneath his portrait, because that's what they do at the Foundation.

Creepy...or cool?

(Oh, and am I the only one who really wants to know now if said bottle is opened for him, too????)

Failure to Launch

2009-05-31T11:28:00.000-04:00

Yes, this movie was made in 2006 and I'm just now getting around to a review. I pity the fool who saw it first-run. A co-worker handed this to me (i.e., they own it) last week and said how HILARIOUS the movie is and how much "the best friend" reminded them of me. Lovely compliment - the best friend is one of the few good parts of the movie. I'm 3 years behind with this easy joke, but: Failure to Launch did not fail to make ME launch.

I still can’t figure out if Sarah Jessica Parker is actually attractive or has some kind of mind-bending device that makes the world believe she is (a general comment not having to do with the movie in particular)
For the most part, McConaghey keeps his shirt on. Big mistake.
You know who DOES take his shirt off? For an entire scene?? Terry Bradshaw. Oh, and not just his shirt.
The DVD has no outtake/gag reel. That would have needed a separate stand-alone six-disc bonus materials special feature release.
Hollywood, listen to me: Zooey Deschanel is underused talent.
I don’t get the dead former girlfriend / “nephew” plot line, unless you need to have an adorable child in your movie, which you don’t.
The animals biting him and that being a metaphor for living your life…what???
The life preserver metaphor at the end??
Suddenly it’s the mom who wants to fix everything? Oh, and this is my surprised face to learn that it’s HER issues that make her keep her son at home @ 35. Crimeny.
Locking them in, in order to repair the damage? Extreme.
He FORGIVES her? Not only that, he forgives his PARENTS??
Oh, for god’s sake.

Quarantine

2009-05-30T07:37:00.000-04:00

I hear tell that old folks and idiots are caught up into e-mail viruses all day, every day. I mean, honestly! What makes someone, legitimately with interest, click on any of this stuff? If you want to surf for porn, you go on and surf for porn, but clearly if THEY’RE e-mailing YOU, somethin’ ain’t right. Behold, some recent gems from the Spam Filter, porn-ish and otherwise (these are as-is and none have been made up by me):

From now you don't need a crane to lift your instrument up.
Woman with artificial butt
She wont need a magnifying glass from now to find your instrument.
From now you will be able to please any size-queen.
Your little friend is begging you to take a blue pill.
You must be The Real Man with huge dignity
Have your own decent hair effectively grown.

…and my personal favorites:

Were you drunk? Answer, bastard! (really, this was spam and not from someone I know)
Stop ruining yourself (my mom doesn't know how to use her e-mail)
I Am McLovin! (that's just plain pop culture funny)

Irrational Fears

2009-05-22T03:53:00.000-04:00

In no particular order. One of these is not irrational.*

Mimes
Clowns
Snakes
Spiders
Doctors
Sleestaks
Drowning
Santa Claus
Costumed Mascots
Having your feet touched
Being run over while crossing the street Frogger-style

(*no, really…just one)

Abuse

2009-05-20T18:53:00.000-04:00

Any good therapist would say: step away from men who abuse you. So I ask myself: why do I keep watching the Atlanta Braves?

Excuse List (let’s see how well I answer myself)
1. I made them do it. (FALSE: I don’t have that kind of power.)
2. I like to be hit/cat-called. (FALSE: I cry easily)
3. They’re only going to do to me what I allow them to do. (TRUE)
4. Why would I watch/go to games if they’re going to treat me like that? (Is that answerable?)
5. If I want to hit like a man, I ought to be hit like a man. (Wow. Can’t make this one funny.)
6. I must have done something to deserve it. (PLAUSIBLE)
7. I disrespected them. (TRUE…but they disrespected me first.) (Nyah nyah-nyah nyah nyahhhhh)
8. Some women know how to push their buttons, and so they “just snap.” (Again, don’t have that kind of power.)
9. Why would I wear revealing clothes if I didn't want negative attention? (Quit lookin’ at me, Matt Diaz.)
10. Some women think you don't love them if you don't hit them. (COMPROMISE: hit FOR me, not AT me)

I know nothing of the misery of, say, Chicago Cubs fans, so I should shut my yap right now. But. A 12-0 loss to the Diamondbacks last Saturday and I sat through every last second. Really. Then Jekyll & Hyde sets in: great win Sunday, great loss Monday, great win Tuesday…we’ll see what happens tonight. Bottom line: I love ‘em. Baseball is a ton of fun, and I enjoy rooting for the home team. I’m going to keep going back, no matter how much they hurt me.

Superciliousness

2009-05-17T15:02:00.000-04:00

I am in a constant quest of karma cleansing, as I think bad things about others. A lot. I’m on the slow boat to hell even if purgatory exists and I get a free pass there instead of Gehenna itself. I don’t have enough friends to pray me out. Ever.

That said, here comes the latest spew of venom. I’ve had just about enough of supercilious jerkwads who think they’re better than everyone else. Sure, I have specific jerkwads in mind, but let me be general:

You work on the top floor of your building and your gigantic windows afford you a sweet view. You live in a great neighborhood and someone else mows your lawn and prunes your hedges. You drive an awesome car and have a hottie wife. Your children were raised by the hired help and all went to Ivy League schools, even though probably you had to pay their way both in and through.

I’m pretty sure you were a jerkwad even as a kid, but your mama told you how awesome you were and that she loved you no matter what anyone said, so it didn’t matter that you were fat or short or stole lunch money from the other kids or kicked sand on weaklings or made fun of poindexters or cheated on your prom date. Your mama still loves you, god rest her soul, and you’re a gift from on high to us all, lest we forget.

I pray for and await your downfall.

Staff Fest

2009-05-15T09:35:00.000-04:00

I don’t feel like being appreciated today.
It’s Staff Fest at my place of employment. Once a year, all 23,500-odd employees are invited to the quadrangle for a few hours of appreciation.
In years past, we were encouraged to wear shorts & t-shirts, have free lunch & free ice cream, play volleyball, climb a rock wall, moon bounce, do the electric slide or ride the bucking bronc if we were so inclined.
In my head, that translates to: are you freaking kidding me? It’s 85 degrees outside and you want me to stand in line and show my ID to get your dumb plate of corn & bean salad, barbeque sandwich and dumb Coke and by the time I’m done eating, the ice cream ran out?
I’ve been here for nearly 13 years and I’m telling you it’s the same every year. Every year about 11:30am my co-workers come by wondering why I’m not going and why they can’t convince me to. Every year I tell them I wouldn’t go if you paid me…and oh, wait, you ARE paying me to sit at my desk and do the good work of the University.
Sure, it’s nice to see the President and all the other execs sloughing out food like workers at the local soup kitchen. It’s amusing to see your co-workers begin crispy sunburns for the weekend. It’s hilarious to watch the largest man you’ve ever seen re-creating his glory days at Studio 54…but I have YouTube for that now.
This year, we aren’t even being fed. I think we get ice cream, but like I said, it runs out quickly and there’s a line. If I want ice cream, I’ll buy my own and eat it in the shade, thankyouverymuch.
I was looking through some old stuff last night – my life during the year 1990, in fact. I found memos from my then-place of business. Our regional manager telling me how mindful I was of the budget and how much he appreciated my cost-savings. Our district manager telling me that my latest memo regarding whatever was well-written and well-received. My direct supervisor telling me…well, you get the picture. If I do something right, tell me. If I do something wrong, tell me that, too. Don’t think once a year is going to cut it, and don’t think that I’m the only one griping. If I hear one more person gripe about work and then follow it up with, “But in this economy I feel lucky just to HAVE a job.” Give me a break. That’s what workers do: gripe about work until we retire, then gripe about how we don’t have medicare, social security or retirement income.
Clearly, I’m employee of the year.

Oh, and what about parking?

2009-05-13T07:40:00.000-04:00

Lord knows I’m not always the best when it comes to reading comprehension. So this is me, yet again, on a slow boat to hell for mocking others. The following is verbatim e-mail correspondence between me and the executive assistant of a local CEO. Names have been changed, and of course bolding of what floors me:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From: [Me]
Sent: Tuesday, May 12, 2009 9:24 AM
To: [Doe, Jane]
Subject: Checking in
Hey, [Jane] – thanks for letting [My Boss] know to keep you in the loop! Speaking of that upcoming meeting, [My Boss] asked me to check in to see if [Mr. CEO] can join us, at least for the morning session. The meeting will begin at 8:30am in the [Campus Location]. I haven’t received the full agenda yet, so the end time for the morning session is a bit up in the air, but as soon as I’ve seen something more definite, I can be back in touch.
Also let me know if I can help find [Mr. CEO] a place to park. Many thanks. –[Me]—

From: Doe, Jane
Sent: Tuesday, May 12, 2009 2:28 PM
To: [Me]
Subject: re: Checking in
Sorry for the delay in getting back to you, but yes he plans to attend. How long should I book for the morning session? Thanks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For the record, it took two additional e-mails on my part to pry out of her that, indeed, her boss needs parking. Shoot me now.

Star Trek

2009-05-12T11:38:00.000-04:00

I admit it, and proudly: I'm a Trekkie.
Many a year ago, I was even seen at conventions. I will also admit, even more proudly: I never dressed up. OK, so maybe I own a phaser and maybe I own a communicator, but I draw the line at hours in the makeup chair unless it's Halloween...and even then, never as a Star Trek character. Seriously, though, if you've never been to a Star Trek convention, they're a must-see. Don't gape, they're all very serious about what they do.
So, the new Star Trek movie. I wasn't hesitant to go, and no love lost for the original...but it was great. Shatner can shove it, bein' all a hater. He's just jealous of the Nimoy.
I'm not here to give away plot or spoilers, but I will say a bit about the alternate reality. Alternate reality was a really nice set-up and lovely device for the director to use to say: I know you all know what happened in the series and in those subsequent movies, but guess what folks? All bets are off. Anyone could die or be injured or have their face burnt off or lose a limb...because what they do in this timeline might affect the future and create a different outcome. OK, I'm down with that. What I'm NOT down with is when Future Character meets Current Character. It's established that young Spock can't know about the existence of old Spock (who's allegedly in a different reality and timeline)...but give them an hour and young Spock finds out. Not only does he find out, but they meet face-to-face and have a little chat. That tilted my whirl just a bit.
That said, five outta five starts from me. Just a lovely job from the whole cast. Including Tyler Perry, who I wasn't expecting, and still don't know what business he had being there. My favorite bit: their nod to the red jersey-ed guy in the landing party you know ain't comin' back. Brilliant.

Pet Peeves

2009-05-08T07:56:00.000-04:00

URGENT e-mail message labels
Leaving a message on both e-mail and voicemail. Pick one!
Those who put on makeup while they drive (car in motion)
Airports with poor signage
Kleenex that makes its way into your washer/dryer
Putting half of a sugar packet back in the bowl
Putting empty candy wrapper back in the bowl
Leaving the copier lid up when done
Leaving the paper cutter up when done
The phrase, “A little bit of this, a little bit of that…”
Using an umbrella as a parasol on a sunny day
Motorcyclists who wear a helmet and very little else
Not using turn indicators
Those who stand at the ATM for way too long

I Miss Phil

2009-05-06T09:08:00.000-04:00

Phil saw me cry, on probably too many occasions. Phil never asked how I was feeling. Phil didn’t compliment outfits. Phil wasn’t curious about what I did over the weekend. Phil didn’t take into account anyone’s feelings when making a decision. Phil didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. Phil didn’t make it a point to greet me warmly in the morning and wish me a good evening.

However.

Phil was predictable. Phil didn’t make me read his mind. Phil didn’t rearrange his schedule on a whim at the last minute all day every day. Phil didn’t ask three people to do the same thing. Phil knew how to manage people. Phil used his time wisely. Phil didn’t second-guess himself. Phil didn’t fret. Phil didn’t sweat the small stuff. With Phil, no meant no and yes meant yes…and we were done.

Phil asked me to go with him and I didn’t. No regrets, but I sure do miss him.

Fair Labor Standards Act

2009-04-27T09:51:00.000-04:00

Scene: Park bench, somewhere on the Emory University campus. Overcast. Perhaps it’s lunch time.
Characters: Man, Woman

Man sits on park bench with sandwich, apple, bottled water and some back-issue of “Men’s Health.” Woman enters with paperback novel.

Woman: (tossing her paperback angrily at bench) This is about the crappiest day ever.

Man: (while chewing) I’m sorry…are you talking to me?

Woman: (oblivious) I mean, for the love of god, what the hell are they trying to do to us?

Man: (picking up her book, which has fallen through the slats) Sartre? Mmm. That’s a little heavy for pleasure reading, don’t you think? …

Woman: (hands on hips) How long have you worked here?

Man: (amused) You can sit down, you know. Have some water – you’ll feel better.

Woman: How long have you worked here?? How long have you had to endure this??

Man: Look. The Counseling Center is just over there in the…

Woman: Do we not live in a free country? Is this not America? You know…land of the free?

Man: I love it when you get all worked up like this.

Woman: I mean, I could totally use the overtime pay, but there’s no way it’s in the budget.

Man: Maybe they’ll change the budget. Apple?

Woman: (sits, accepting the apple) …and what if… Oh, hell. I hate it here.

Man: (chewing again) I love peanut butter.

Woman: (holding back tears) I just want this to be over.

Man: Hey. I hear they’re letting us leave early today.

Woman: It’s cold in my office.

Man: I swear to god if you don’t stop moping right now I’ll never speak to you again.

Woman: You know what? Let’s blow this popsicle stand. Right now. You with me?

Man: Do I know you?

The Normal Heart

2009-04-23T18:34:00.000-04:00

Originally written May 13, 2008 following a benefit reading of Larry Kramer’s The Normal Heart: So, sure, I hang out in the theater community and there are plenty of reasons why the AIDS quilt and its memories and hopes for survivorship are near and dear to my heart. Last night’s reading was held at The Names Project, where the panels of The Quilt are housed. The reading was done under a tent and instead of tent walls, we were surrounded by quilt panels. Ticketholders had requested panels of their friends/family, plus other random quilt panels. They’re really powerful, if you’ve never seen them in person. A sad but cool statistic: there are so many panels now, there is nowhere on earth that they could again lie flat side-by-side as they did on the Washington Mall over a decade ago.

I still know several people living with AIDS, in various states of health, under various forms of treatment. I have had many friends - and family - die over the years and last night there was one in particular on my mind.

I met Barry in autumn of 1997 when he was both in and musical director of a show I assistant-stage managed. We had an elaborate set, lots of levels, one of the staircases high above the stage near the steel beams of the building. Barry clocked himself on one during a dress rehearsal and caught a sharp edge. We were in the middle of a number and I was the only one who saw him hit and go down. I went running upstairs. He was conscious, and immediately told me to back off. I was like, “Dude, you're bleeding.” He kept insisting that I back off and not come back unless I found rubber gloves. All at once I was like, “OH.” I found gloves + an ice pack and came back. I sat there cradling him with the ice pack to his head and he kept saying over and over and over, “please don’t...please don’t...” I didn’t think the cut was very deep, but I wanted him to go to the emergency room. Rehearsal was about done, and our lead actress took him. They were good friends and she knew what was up. Barry taught high school drama so had insurance and all, and thankfully didn’t need stitches. Just a slight concussion, so incredibly lucky.

We worked together twice more -- in spring 2000 and fall 2001. By the time fall of 2001 rolled around, it was becoming clear that Barry wasn’t well. I remember distinctly sitting out behind the theater late one night over cigarettes & beers talking with my friend Brit that this might be Barry’s last show.

In fall of 2002, we began rehearsals for another musical. Music rehearsals preceded acting rehearsals, at Barry’s home. He asked me, as his stage manager, to come a full hour earlier than the actors, so I did. He sat me down and explained that he was going to do his darndest, but needed my help. He was physically very weak and his memory was going -- fast. He wanted to tell everyone personally what was going on -- he had no choice anymore, and if I’d be his eyes & ears and memory...well, of course I could do that. I’m that anyway in any production, whether my director/music director is 100% healthy or not. I learned his medication schedule, doctors numbers, eating habits, warning signs...I kept him hydrated and fed...it was a grueling rehearsal process for him, and not three weeks in, he couldn’t take it anymore. We had to replace him with another music director and Barry went to the hospital. Most of our cast & crew didn’t get a lot of sleep for the remainder of rehearsal, because when we weren’t rehearsing, we were taking turns at the hospital. We had to follow universal precautions: booties, gowns, long gloves, masks, caps, goggles...we looked like astronauts.

I’ve never seen anything so awful up close. Morphine kept him out of pain, for the most part, but he was writhing almost constantly and making the most gutteral noises...not a lot of coherent english, but sometimes he’d have moments of clarity. He was gaunt, covered in lesions and attached to dozens of tubes, also restrained to the bed, because what strength he had manifested itself in great surges and stretches. You just wanted to touch him, rub his leg or his arm, and get him to calm down...but we weren't allowed to. By that time his brain was pretty much shot, and the constant stroking motion, we were told, registered badly instead of soothingly. So, to touch him at all meant a firm grip, and don’t move. Letting him know you were there was OK, but all you could do was hold on.

The doctors and nurses were kind enough to allow us 24/7 visitation, family or not. His family did come, thankfully -- a lot of people are abandoned when this disease arrives. There are a lot of hours in a day, so there were hours at a time sometimes when we’d just be there in groups of two or three, but often times solo for an hour or so. I had plenty of conversations with him (with myself, really, but out loud) and plenty of time for me to tell him -- and I did -- how absolutely furious I was. The disease is 100% preventable. It’s not like you go out and ask for it, but damn it, why in god’s name didn't he protect himself. Who knows when he got it or how he got it or who from...it could have been dormant for years, so maybe he contracted it before we knew to protect ourselves. It’s an awful feeling, feeling so damned sorry and so damned angry all at the same time. You poor, poor man...you rat bastard.

I got the call the morning of our tech rehearsal (the weekend before opening) that Barry died. One of the hardest bits of news to tell a group of people, let me tell you. We didn’t get a lot of work done that day -- and even thought about postponing the show to give everyone time to grieve, but we got through it. We dedicated the show to him. His memorial was amazingly bright...all his friends sang and several people spoke, lots of people from out of town he had worked with over the years, and some of his students were there...it was pretty great.

A quilt panel was made last night to commemorate the evening, and anyone could sign it. I don’t know if he already has a panel of his own -- I can’t imagine some of his closer friends didn’t make one -- but I signed a memorial to him, lit a candle, and felt a little better. He’s surely happier now than he was those last few weeks. He’s singing for sure, wherever he may be.

Stranger in Paradise

2009-04-22T20:23:00.000-04:00

The sidewalks were crowded. I had never seen so many people. I couldn't remember what time of year it was. Where were they all going? They appeared to be comfortable, dressed in shorts, tank tops and sundresses, but I couldn't figure out why, because I was quite chilly. None of them would look at me. Well, they did, but quickly looked away and kept walking. A few of them stared, just long enough to laugh as they passed by. I didn't know what was so funny; I was just an old lady looking for a friendly face.
I thought I could find some warmth indoors. I turned around to face the wall behind me. It wasn't a real wall; it was a windowed wall with a door. I pushed the door open and heart cowbells clanging. I stepped back to avoid the stampede, but the bells were attached to the door. I walked inside and found a world full of color and light. There were no white tile floors like home; there were no dirty moss green carpets or curtains like there were at home. These colors were bright and cheerful and full of life – not like home.
I wandered along rows and rows of beautiful patterns. I couldn't resist touching them. My hands glided across the corduroy, satin and velvet textures. I pulled a purple-sequined cloth around my head and neck. I thought for just a moment that I was a gypsy. I imagined myself with big gold hoops in my ears as I whirled among the patterns – paisley, stripes, dots and plaids, multi-colored, multi-shaped beads and bows, feathers and glitter. I threw a gold-beaded wrap over my shoulder, dashed giddy, free and young-at-heart – a gypsy dancing madly in a wooded glade. This amazing place – this playland – made me happier than I had been in years.
"Can I help you?" a young lady said. I turned around quickly, startled by her question.
"Oh, I'm looking for a mirror. Does this place have one?"
"Yes, of course. Are you all right?" she asked me.
"Fine. I'm much warmer now," I answered.
"You must be," the young lady smiled, "Your dress is unbuttoned, you know."
"It is?" I stared at her. She led me to a mirror to prove it to me. I slowly stripped away my gypsy costume – I didn't look as much like one as I thought after all. Now I knew why all those people had laughed at me. I saw my reflection. An old lady, pale and worn, the glitter streaked through her grey hair. My dress, the blue and white pinstripe, beltless, with the entire front gaping open. My mouth hung open, too. "You'll catch flies," my mother used to say.
I remembered how I got there. I remembered leaving home. I had wanted a breath of fresh air. I just wanted to take a walk by myself. I just wanted to be free.
"Mrs. Drennan!" a voice called, "There you are!" It was Emily. She had come to rescue me.
Emily grabbed my hand. "Mrs. Drennan, you had us very worried. You are not to run away ever again!" she said.
"I didn't run away! I didn't!" I scanned her face, hoping for a smile. I didn't think I had run away.
"Well, thank goodness you're not hurt. Are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right. Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"It's time to go home," Emily said quietly.
"Oh, no! I don't want to go home. It's lovely here. See? Don't you see the colors and prints? This is a wonderful place I've found." I couldn't believe she was taking me back. I had found a haven – a paradise. She was going to take me back to all those strange people and strange things. To me, whatever this place was, it wasn't as strange as home.
Back home. I wondered how I ever ended up there. Some of the strange people screamed, some of them stared at you, but most of them just sat there, lifeless. They scared me. I didn't want to be like them. I didn't want to forget what the outside world was like. I didn't want to forget this place. I didn't want to forget…
"It's nearly lunchtime, Mrs. Drennan. Here, let me help you with your dress," Emily said.
She buttoned my dress and led me out of the store. I cried silently; I looked as stupid as I felt. I was a silly old lady – the kind back at home – the kind I feared. I wanted to go back into the beautiful place I had left. I wanted to be a gypsy again, but knew I could not.

How Dare You

2009-04-17T09:30:00.000-04:00

Why Blog if you can't stand the blogs of most others? The urge to write. Most Blogs aren't blogs at all...blog is short, I'm told, for Web Log. "Captain's Log, Stardate Whateverthehell..." is an audio diary. It's a diary, people. It informs you about what's going on of a day. Diaries are to share your thoughts...but really, who but you or the closest to you are ever expected to read it? I don't want to know your most intimate thoughts, though! Who the heck does?? Don't you dare tell me that blogging like that is to keep your family informed about your life in an accessible way -- I seriously doubt you ever shared your high school diary with your mom, so don't do so decades later.

Blogs I Hate: Today I woke up cursing the sky because my period started. Walked my very expensive, highly bred dog while eating a bran muffin because sometimes I have bowel issues. Put on my Chanel suit and drove to the office in my 2010 BMW, stopping by Starbucks for a triple latte and a quick visit to the ATM where I withdrew $500 because I plan to get wasted this weekend and that's expensive. My job sucks and I'm better than this and my boss is a total chode. My nose is running. I love my boyfriend -- he's superawesome and does me regularly in crazy ways that I'll discuss in full detail later, just you wait. My nieces and nephews are the brightest, funniest children in the world and you'll hear all about them, too. I hate my dad because he beat me relentlessly as a child and I hate my mom because she let him. I'm going to pour my issues out in front of you, though I pay my analyst thousands of dollars a year for the same privilege. Et cetera.

Blogs I Enjoy: Hello, world. Here is what I think about [random thing]. I'm not here to convince you of anything, I'm not here to argue with you. I think I convey my ideas well, and hope you do, too, whether you agree or disagree. Please enjoy.

So, dear reader, whomever you may be...this I vow: I may bitch about my job, I may bitch about my life, but if you're expecting superpersonal things, this ain't the place. Writing is cathartic, in general, and for me personally. Stay tuned.