This week brought an outpouring of remembrances of John Lennon on the thirtieth anniversary of his murder in New York City in 1980. It's close to impossible to measure the influence of the man, in musical history, in our culture, on a generation of adoring fans and on the world at large. All the paeans and tributes have said most of what there is to say about his enduring legacy. But I can add a few memories of my own.
When the Beatles first appeared on American television in February 1964 I was eight years old. Like millions of kids, I sat cross-legged on the floor close to the TV and witnessed the birth of something revolutionary in every sense of the word. Of course we didn't know that at the time. What we saw and most importantly, what we heard, was a riotous liberating awakening in pop music. I had already logged many hours dulling the grooves in my 45 RPM single of "I Want to Hold Your Hand." But nothing could prepare me for what I saw when they came crashing into our collective consciousness: sheer unadulterated joy. The lingering malaise of John F. Kennedy's assassination lifted. The four lads from Liverpool were about to rock our world...for the next six years and beyond.
Anna Quindlen wrote a column years ago about how women are defined by their favorite Beatle. She admitted that she was "a Paul girl." While Paul, George and Ringo were deliriously cute, my eyes fixed on Lennon--his sexy stance and raw, dangerous swagger. When the words "Sorry, girls, he's married" flashed beneath his picture, it made him all the more beguiling. Later I recognized John was the funniest of the the quartet, the cheekiest, and ultimately, the bravest. He combined a rare mix of cynicism and hope, of rebellion and affability.
In 1980 I was working in "A Christmas Carol" at the Coconut Grove Playhouse in Miami. It was my first Equity job. Monday, December 8th was a much-needed day off. The cast was in final runthroughs and technical rehearsals, leading up to our first dress on Tuesday. I went to bed without watching my team, the Miami Dolphins, on Monday Night Football. The next morning my sister, sobbing and angry, broke the horrible news to me. Before going to the Playhouse I stopped at the mall to buy Double Fantasy. When I arrived at the theater the green room was full of actors who looked as if Doomsday had come. Wise-cracking techies were sullen. It was a walking nightmare trying to get through the show. The director couldn't grasp why his cast was in a deep funk. People were dropping lines, blowing entrances, fighting back tears.
On Sunday, December 14, honoring Yoko Ono's call for worldwide silence in memory of John, we held curtain on the matinee until 2:10. That night, having put in one of the toughest opening weeks of our lives, we gathered in the stage manager's apartment and methodically played every Beatles album in the catalog, one after another, in a state of drunken grief. Yet at the same time we were celebratory: no one could take the music away from us.
John Lennon dared to be achingly honest and vulnerable. He and the Beatles created art that will stand the test of time. The irony is that when they burst on the music scene many highbrow critics scoffed at their work. Talk to an musical "expert" now and they'll likely place the Fab Four's contributions on the same par as Beethoven, Bach and Mozart, and certainly Gershwin, Porter and Berlin. They were the minstrels of the twentieth century, cultural touchstones, the defining trailblazers we all followed as faithful acolytes. A few years ago I was driving one of my kids somewhere with a CD playing "Abbey Road." I realized why I drift back to their songs after tiring of current tunesmiths. "They make me happy, " I told my son, and that, in essence, is what makes them a lasting treasure.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Monster Mom
A new book is out called "The Monster Within: The Hidden Side of Motherhood." Written by Barbara Almond, it explores the ambivalence mothers feel towards the role. Too bad it conjures images of Charlize Theron's Oscar-winning turn as serial murderer Aileen Wuornos. According to the review I read, the book also draws parallels to "Frankenstein." The gist of what the author is saying is that all mothers experience negative feelings toward their children to one degree or another. Newsflash! Ask any mother changing a colicky baby's soiled diaper while her two-year-old screams for attention and you'll get the same response. Or any mom whose dealt with a recalcitrant, irritable teenager in the throes of hormonal turmoil. The truth is your children can drive you stark raving mad and anyone who tells you otherwise is likely to be childless or a liar.
My disaffection with motherhood began about the time I brought one of my sons home from the hospital and spent the first night, all night, rocking and nursing him to no avail. I did endless rounds of "Go Tell Aunt Rhody" and lowered him ever so gingerly into the crib, only to watch in horror as his eyes popped open again. I thought I'd given birth to a congenital speed freak. By the time he was three, my oldest was five and I was pregnant with a third, I pasted a print ad in my journal that read "The stress the average mother faces would bring most executives to their knees." Before I had children I thought I knew about anger, resentment, frustration and rage. Then I became a mother.
Losing sleep, denying oneself, sacrifice, these are the trade-offs inherent in the adventure of mothering. I mean adventure in the sense of a Mt. Everest climber gasping for oxygen in the ascent, having to return to base camp and realizing she may never make it to the top. The goal is elusive, the journey the most arduous undertaking on the planet. Yet the rewards are plentiful. Granted, they often come tucked into tiny corners or socked away in a drawer, but they come. Tomorrow night my youngest child will be at the taping of a local TV show for whiz kids. Today my middle son will log in another eight hours as an office manager paid a handsome salary, especially in the current economic gloom. My oldest just took part in a presentation that "blew away" a professor who couldn't believe he was a first year grad student. When they were younger I had days when I said, "Just shoot me." Now I'm glad I didn't pull the trigger, that I stuck around for the second act. I've been magnanimous and I've been monstrous, and that, sisters, is just the nature of the gig.
My disaffection with motherhood began about the time I brought one of my sons home from the hospital and spent the first night, all night, rocking and nursing him to no avail. I did endless rounds of "Go Tell Aunt Rhody" and lowered him ever so gingerly into the crib, only to watch in horror as his eyes popped open again. I thought I'd given birth to a congenital speed freak. By the time he was three, my oldest was five and I was pregnant with a third, I pasted a print ad in my journal that read "The stress the average mother faces would bring most executives to their knees." Before I had children I thought I knew about anger, resentment, frustration and rage. Then I became a mother.
Losing sleep, denying oneself, sacrifice, these are the trade-offs inherent in the adventure of mothering. I mean adventure in the sense of a Mt. Everest climber gasping for oxygen in the ascent, having to return to base camp and realizing she may never make it to the top. The goal is elusive, the journey the most arduous undertaking on the planet. Yet the rewards are plentiful. Granted, they often come tucked into tiny corners or socked away in a drawer, but they come. Tomorrow night my youngest child will be at the taping of a local TV show for whiz kids. Today my middle son will log in another eight hours as an office manager paid a handsome salary, especially in the current economic gloom. My oldest just took part in a presentation that "blew away" a professor who couldn't believe he was a first year grad student. When they were younger I had days when I said, "Just shoot me." Now I'm glad I didn't pull the trigger, that I stuck around for the second act. I've been magnanimous and I've been monstrous, and that, sisters, is just the nature of the gig.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Potpourri
We're two weeks away from the mid-term elections and there's a 'whole lotta shakin' goin' on.' I don't think I can add anything to the national conversation that hasn't already been said: witches, illegal housekeepers, inexperienced dolts and the usual punch/counter-punch of misrepresentations on both sides. As for the Tea Party and their presumed influence on the outcome, I will not dignify their ilk with comment.
So here's a random list, apropos of some things and nothing, of what's been on my mind lately. Many of these are generalizations but most bear some kernel of truth:
Mothers get blamed for everything and fathers, by and large, get free passes. Fathers can get away with murder but mothers are expected to be saints.
People who cut in line should be called out in polite but bellowing tones, reminding the offenders that other customers are following the rules, they broke them and it's not OK. Passive onlookers who say nothing are the reason such inconsiderate piggies continue to do it.
While grammar has generally gone the way of land-line phones, the media and the citizenry are committing grotesque crimes against the English language. The most glaring example I hear each day is the misuse of "is" versus "are", as in "There's too many instances of robbery."
Someone should inform TV newscasters that "the very latest" is redundant.
I welcome being wired for sound when I'm doing a power walk, and see the convenience of CDs, MP3s and iPods. But analog and vinyl still rule and there's no substitute, acoustically speaking, for listening to an entire album on a turntable. (Assuming you own a really good stereo system.)
It appears that, like JFK's assassination, we'll never know the real truth behind 9/11.
The placement of bathroom tissue on the dispenser is a hotly contested issue. For the record, sane people install it rolling out over, not under.
How is it that Nicholas Sparks' books are bestsellers and are subsequently made into movies? This applies to scores of so-called writers, of course. I picked up "The Notebook" in a grocery stack one day, read the first few lines and almost hurled. (As in the book, into the air, and slang for vomited.)
Someone should put an end to low-cut gowns (cut to the navel, that is) with openings wide enough to view half of female breasts. Jennifer Lopez started this trend and now it's ubiquitous. No woman with an ample bosom can manage it; it's strictly for the flatter-chested. And how do they keep their boobs from popping out? Velcro? Elmer's glue?
Moviegoers who talk during the feature presentation or make loud noises snarfing their popcorn should be ejected from their seats, James Bond-style. (For those of you who remember the real Bond, pre-Roger Moore.)
People who open their presents on Christmas Eve are cheating.
The Beatles are the greatest rock and roll band, period.
Global warming is not an environmentalist, Al Gore-concocted hoax. Check the latest stats for warmest years on record.
Logic serves an essential purpose and eludes far too many of us. However, the dictates of your heart and intuition are worth listening to, and, to achieve happiness, followed.
Finally, bloggers often have nothing better to do than post their worthless opinions. You need no credentials to blog. All you need is a computer and an attitude. Frankly, most of us need to get a life.
Don't forget to vote!
So here's a random list, apropos of some things and nothing, of what's been on my mind lately. Many of these are generalizations but most bear some kernel of truth:
Mothers get blamed for everything and fathers, by and large, get free passes. Fathers can get away with murder but mothers are expected to be saints.
People who cut in line should be called out in polite but bellowing tones, reminding the offenders that other customers are following the rules, they broke them and it's not OK. Passive onlookers who say nothing are the reason such inconsiderate piggies continue to do it.
While grammar has generally gone the way of land-line phones, the media and the citizenry are committing grotesque crimes against the English language. The most glaring example I hear each day is the misuse of "is" versus "are", as in "There's too many instances of robbery."
Someone should inform TV newscasters that "the very latest" is redundant.
I welcome being wired for sound when I'm doing a power walk, and see the convenience of CDs, MP3s and iPods. But analog and vinyl still rule and there's no substitute, acoustically speaking, for listening to an entire album on a turntable. (Assuming you own a really good stereo system.)
It appears that, like JFK's assassination, we'll never know the real truth behind 9/11.
The placement of bathroom tissue on the dispenser is a hotly contested issue. For the record, sane people install it rolling out over, not under.
How is it that Nicholas Sparks' books are bestsellers and are subsequently made into movies? This applies to scores of so-called writers, of course. I picked up "The Notebook" in a grocery stack one day, read the first few lines and almost hurled. (As in the book, into the air, and slang for vomited.)
Someone should put an end to low-cut gowns (cut to the navel, that is) with openings wide enough to view half of female breasts. Jennifer Lopez started this trend and now it's ubiquitous. No woman with an ample bosom can manage it; it's strictly for the flatter-chested. And how do they keep their boobs from popping out? Velcro? Elmer's glue?
Moviegoers who talk during the feature presentation or make loud noises snarfing their popcorn should be ejected from their seats, James Bond-style. (For those of you who remember the real Bond, pre-Roger Moore.)
People who open their presents on Christmas Eve are cheating.
The Beatles are the greatest rock and roll band, period.
Global warming is not an environmentalist, Al Gore-concocted hoax. Check the latest stats for warmest years on record.
Logic serves an essential purpose and eludes far too many of us. However, the dictates of your heart and intuition are worth listening to, and, to achieve happiness, followed.
Finally, bloggers often have nothing better to do than post their worthless opinions. You need no credentials to blog. All you need is a computer and an attitude. Frankly, most of us need to get a life.
Don't forget to vote!
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Franzen's Freedom
I'm obsessing about Jonathan Franzen and his new book "Freedom." I'm on page 400-something and only put it down to write this post and view some more publicity for the highly acclaimed "masterpiece." Franzen has reportedly brought back the Great American Novel (I wasn't aware it had left the building), gracing the cover of Time magazine and drawing humongous crowds at book venues nationwide. Even though I attended the Decatur Book Festival, I missed his keynote address, which drew over a thousand Franzenmaniacs. There's no question the dude is an exceptionally talented, gifted novelist. I realized this a few pages into his 2001 National Book Award-winning "The Corrections" and hung onto every word in one fell swoop reading marathon.
But Franzen, with his studious sexy looks and his I'm-hip-but-also-unassuming-manner, seems to attract lovers and detractors in equal portions. There are those who'll never forgive him for snubbing Oprah's Book Club anointing, probably her loyal followers and some of his competitors. Others who view the author as snobby, self-important and grandiose. I am a fan, unlike the Borders salesman who put up his hands defensively when I asked him if he'd read "Freedom." The chap recommends his favorites to all who enter the bookstore but apparently is a member of the Franzen Fatigue Fringe.
In his new novel, Franzen has a steady but rather pedantic finger on the national pulse. He gets it, capturing everything from stay-at-home moms and almost famous rock stars to Washington's unscrupulous politicos and the ever-evolving environmental crisis. His prose is polished, revelatory and finely-tuned to America's Different Drum. But there's an element somewhere in "Freedom's" mix that is annoying, even while one devours its elegant sentences and rips through nearly six-hundred pages. One candid observer opined that from all she could tell Franzen must be "an asshole."
Say what you will, he's arguably The Novelist for Our Times. Perhaps because of our disaffection with where we are at this point in our history, we simply don't like looking at ourselves through Franzen's lens. It's hyper-acute and spot-on. If you're not in the mood for self-assessment, pick up the latest vampire epic. But if you can stand an unflinching look in the mirror, go ahead and read the book that's got America buzzing.
But Franzen, with his studious sexy looks and his I'm-hip-but-also-unassuming-manner, seems to attract lovers and detractors in equal portions. There are those who'll never forgive him for snubbing Oprah's Book Club anointing, probably her loyal followers and some of his competitors. Others who view the author as snobby, self-important and grandiose. I am a fan, unlike the Borders salesman who put up his hands defensively when I asked him if he'd read "Freedom." The chap recommends his favorites to all who enter the bookstore but apparently is a member of the Franzen Fatigue Fringe.
In his new novel, Franzen has a steady but rather pedantic finger on the national pulse. He gets it, capturing everything from stay-at-home moms and almost famous rock stars to Washington's unscrupulous politicos and the ever-evolving environmental crisis. His prose is polished, revelatory and finely-tuned to America's Different Drum. But there's an element somewhere in "Freedom's" mix that is annoying, even while one devours its elegant sentences and rips through nearly six-hundred pages. One candid observer opined that from all she could tell Franzen must be "an asshole."
Say what you will, he's arguably The Novelist for Our Times. Perhaps because of our disaffection with where we are at this point in our history, we simply don't like looking at ourselves through Franzen's lens. It's hyper-acute and spot-on. If you're not in the mood for self-assessment, pick up the latest vampire epic. But if you can stand an unflinching look in the mirror, go ahead and read the book that's got America buzzing.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Palin's Politics
I think I'm ready to run for political office. I have no qualifications to speak of; I never served on the student council or chaired a single committee for the PTSA. I don't attend homeowners association meetings. I don't go to public hearings given by the zoning board. But I have opinions, lots of them. I'm reasonably attractive for my age, have raised three children and had several careers. I'm intelligent and articulate. But I've never been to Alaska, written talking points on my hand or won a beauty contest. I transferred from one college to another, stayed there and got a degree...on time. My seal of approval does not get anybody elected. I don't speak in generalities, wink and say "You betcha." So maybe I'm not cut out for politics.
In other words, I'm not Sarah Palin. She has better skin, whiter teeth and a pricier wardrobe. She knows how to fish and hunt. I don't have a Twitter account. I'm several years older than Sarah. Men look twice at me but not three or four times. I came of age with the real feminist movement and marched for choice in D.C. I guess that leaves me out. Except in a case of self-defense, I would never kill a moose or polar bear. I don't spy on Putin from my kitchen window. What can I possibly offer my country?
I do have great legs but varicose veins invaded them. I could stand to lose five to ten more pounds. I'm a semi-vegetarian and I can effectively describe the Bush doctrine. No, there's no hope for me. I don't want to cut rich people's taxes. Not in a tanking economy with nearly 10% unemployment and startling new statistics showing we're going downhill financially. To reinvent myself as a high-powered female political machine I'll need Botox, a fanny lift and fresh peroxide on my hair. I'll need to stay mum about foreign policy and forget who's leading what country. I must brush up my use of cliches, embrace a decades-old Republican party line and rethink my teaching of sex education. No more condoms for my boys--just zip it.
I'd better quit while I'm ahead, stop reading the New York Times. Purge all records of having cast my first presidential campaign vote for Carter and working for Obama. Who needs a free-thinking liberal Boomer who doesn't have a legal trail, and wouldn't feel comfortable charging taxpayers with redecorating her governor's office? No Paul, my husband of nearly 25 years, forget about becoming the First Dude. How can we package our couplehood if we don't have a daughter who's given birth out of wedlock? It takes cojones to stand with Sarah, to usher in a Year of The Woman in Washington. Nope, no public service for a gal like me who'd like to help poor, unappealing women get a leg up the ladder. And heavens to Betsy, I'd have to proclaim: That Supreme Court needs an injection of conservative testosterone! I definitely don't have what it takes. Not with an A in debate class on my high school transcript.
Oh well, I wouldn't look good as a brunette anyway.
In other words, I'm not Sarah Palin. She has better skin, whiter teeth and a pricier wardrobe. She knows how to fish and hunt. I don't have a Twitter account. I'm several years older than Sarah. Men look twice at me but not three or four times. I came of age with the real feminist movement and marched for choice in D.C. I guess that leaves me out. Except in a case of self-defense, I would never kill a moose or polar bear. I don't spy on Putin from my kitchen window. What can I possibly offer my country?
I do have great legs but varicose veins invaded them. I could stand to lose five to ten more pounds. I'm a semi-vegetarian and I can effectively describe the Bush doctrine. No, there's no hope for me. I don't want to cut rich people's taxes. Not in a tanking economy with nearly 10% unemployment and startling new statistics showing we're going downhill financially. To reinvent myself as a high-powered female political machine I'll need Botox, a fanny lift and fresh peroxide on my hair. I'll need to stay mum about foreign policy and forget who's leading what country. I must brush up my use of cliches, embrace a decades-old Republican party line and rethink my teaching of sex education. No more condoms for my boys--just zip it.
I'd better quit while I'm ahead, stop reading the New York Times. Purge all records of having cast my first presidential campaign vote for Carter and working for Obama. Who needs a free-thinking liberal Boomer who doesn't have a legal trail, and wouldn't feel comfortable charging taxpayers with redecorating her governor's office? No Paul, my husband of nearly 25 years, forget about becoming the First Dude. How can we package our couplehood if we don't have a daughter who's given birth out of wedlock? It takes cojones to stand with Sarah, to usher in a Year of The Woman in Washington. Nope, no public service for a gal like me who'd like to help poor, unappealing women get a leg up the ladder. And heavens to Betsy, I'd have to proclaim: That Supreme Court needs an injection of conservative testosterone! I definitely don't have what it takes. Not with an A in debate class on my high school transcript.
Oh well, I wouldn't look good as a brunette anyway.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Privacy, Anyone?
An article in today's New York Times got me thinking about identity, the various roles we play, who we are and what's on our minds. "The Web Means the End of Forgetting" offers a look at where we came from, how we evolved technologically and our near-addictive fascination with offering our selves up to the world for scrutiny. How many people do you know who do not have a Facebook or MySpace page, Twitter account or other social-networking site? Maybe you can count them on two hands. Narrowing the field further, who among your friends and co-workers doesn't own a cellular, iPhone or iTouch? Know anybody without a desktop, laptop, Kindle, Notebook or iPad? Now we're down to one hand, I'll bet. Younger readers probably have no acquaintance with such a Luddite.
The most oft-cited reference to our desire to be known by the public for our accomplishments, position, education or sex appeal is Andy Warhol's prophetic observation, "In the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes." It runs the gamut from YouTube covers to Balloon Boy and the unfortunate victim of media-run-amok, Shirley Sharrod. It's all out there-- someone's cellphone footage, the cameras descending, your embarrassing admission in a weak moment status update or this blog entry: our need to make an imprint on the collective consciousness. My baby is beautiful, here's a feat worth filming, I was quoted out of context, he threw the first punch. Whatever the fodder, the mill is always running.
At what point did we cross this threshold and plunge boldly in where man heretofore had never gone before? How eager we are, in general, to expose ourselves, report our activities, political slant, spiritual point of view or tag the latest digital photo. The expression, "She's a very private person," has little currency in the new millennium, not when she's broadcasting details of her personal life for the Internet to gobble and forever enshrine. True, some eschew instant-access machines in favor of subtlety or subterfuge. But by and large, we as a nation have become consumers of tidbits barely worth our consumption, let alone hours basking in the glow of an animated screen.
I joined Facebook because a old friend "invited" me to, which simply meant the engine scanned his email list and sent out the word. Into Face Forum I leaped, contacting people I hadn't seen or spoken to in decades, "friending" strangers and fending off pseudo-stalkers. Pictures of me in my prime went up, as did my opinions on everything from food to fascists. Like a child with its new toy I took quizzes asking absurd questions with misspellings aplenty, reported important and insignificant events, took sides and sought advice. Above all, I solicited attention. When some guy speaking Farsi begged me to watch his music video I hit delete and "defriended."
Sure, it's fun, I'm connected, in touch and aware but at what cost? I have a mobile phone that dates back to the Stone Age and prefer to read the written word on paper. I'm irritated when the bank can't reply to a simple query because of C. A. D. : Computers Are Down. Is it old-fashioned, to use an antiquated phrase, not to jump on the bandwagon and ride into infinity with notoriety nipping at my heels? Once you put it into our spinning sphere it ain't gonna boomerang. Call it second thoughts or abject regret, but I'm wishing I could retrieve a whole lotta data.
The most oft-cited reference to our desire to be known by the public for our accomplishments, position, education or sex appeal is Andy Warhol's prophetic observation, "In the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes." It runs the gamut from YouTube covers to Balloon Boy and the unfortunate victim of media-run-amok, Shirley Sharrod. It's all out there-- someone's cellphone footage, the cameras descending, your embarrassing admission in a weak moment status update or this blog entry: our need to make an imprint on the collective consciousness. My baby is beautiful, here's a feat worth filming, I was quoted out of context, he threw the first punch. Whatever the fodder, the mill is always running.
At what point did we cross this threshold and plunge boldly in where man heretofore had never gone before? How eager we are, in general, to expose ourselves, report our activities, political slant, spiritual point of view or tag the latest digital photo. The expression, "She's a very private person," has little currency in the new millennium, not when she's broadcasting details of her personal life for the Internet to gobble and forever enshrine. True, some eschew instant-access machines in favor of subtlety or subterfuge. But by and large, we as a nation have become consumers of tidbits barely worth our consumption, let alone hours basking in the glow of an animated screen.
I joined Facebook because a old friend "invited" me to, which simply meant the engine scanned his email list and sent out the word. Into Face Forum I leaped, contacting people I hadn't seen or spoken to in decades, "friending" strangers and fending off pseudo-stalkers. Pictures of me in my prime went up, as did my opinions on everything from food to fascists. Like a child with its new toy I took quizzes asking absurd questions with misspellings aplenty, reported important and insignificant events, took sides and sought advice. Above all, I solicited attention. When some guy speaking Farsi begged me to watch his music video I hit delete and "defriended."
Sure, it's fun, I'm connected, in touch and aware but at what cost? I have a mobile phone that dates back to the Stone Age and prefer to read the written word on paper. I'm irritated when the bank can't reply to a simple query because of C. A. D. : Computers Are Down. Is it old-fashioned, to use an antiquated phrase, not to jump on the bandwagon and ride into infinity with notoriety nipping at my heels? Once you put it into our spinning sphere it ain't gonna boomerang. Call it second thoughts or abject regret, but I'm wishing I could retrieve a whole lotta data.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Mel's Madness
With the latest Mel Gibson implosion currently fueling office cooler commentary, it seemed an appropriate time to reflect on public displays of bad behavior. Or private ones, for that matter. Mel is apparently guilty of both, having made a series of offensive remarks during his drunk driving arrest four years ago and now, caught on audio tape by his girlfriend, dishing out a litany of abuse. The first incident could be chalked up to drunken nonsense, or so his publicist might say. But it had to be obvious to even Mel's fans that calling a female police officer "sugar tits" and tirades against Jews revealed his sexist, anti-Semitic side. There were rumors of this before, during promotion for his film "The Passion of the Christ," which reportedly depicted Jews in a stereotypical and historically inaccurate fashion. Not surprising, since the star's father is a Holocaust denier.
Mel's wife of 28 years and seven children, Robyn, divorced him in April of last year. That left him with a girlfriend and a "love child." Listening to the the tape of Oksana Grigorieva getting lambasted by Gibson is gut-wrenching. One thinks of all the victims of partner abuse and domestic violence who don't have a public forum to air their grievances. Gibson's verbal evisceration of Oksana goes so far beyond the pale it sounds like a B-grade horror film. Mel comes across like a killer in a slasher reel, complete with heavy breathing, endless threats and unbridled profanity. It's also clear he's a raving bigot. The agency that used to represent him has cut him loose. It's hard to imagine anyone willing to touch him after this exposure. He's a candidate for the Hollywood loony bin, far from the golden boy clutching Oscars for "Braveheart."
Similarly, parents reacted with disdain to the audio clip of Alec Baldwin's argument with his then-eleven-year-old daughter. Baldwin is not even in the ballpark with Mel on this one. He's just a tired, irritated father having a bad day, railing against his child for her thoughtless approach to their pre-arranged phone calls. He calls her mother, his ex-wife Kim Basinger, "an ass" which is tame compared to the gamut of expletives Mel rains down on his mistress.
If we are being honest with ourselves, if someone taped us at our worst we'd have a lot to account for. There is no defense for the loathsome Mad Mel, but the contemptible diatribe touched on some visceral elements found in many relationships. At one point Mel says, "You make my life so f---ing difficult." At another he tells her she has no soul, that they share "no spiritual common ground." I can relate to that one. I'm just not threatening to kill my husband over it. It was scary for my spouse to hear it too, for he also recognized the desperation in Gibson's screeching voice. It's an object lesson in the primal side of human behavior, a glimpse of the moral abyss, the car wreck you can't help rubbernecking. And sadly, it's another piece of entertainment on our info-driven radar screens.
Mel's wife of 28 years and seven children, Robyn, divorced him in April of last year. That left him with a girlfriend and a "love child." Listening to the the tape of Oksana Grigorieva getting lambasted by Gibson is gut-wrenching. One thinks of all the victims of partner abuse and domestic violence who don't have a public forum to air their grievances. Gibson's verbal evisceration of Oksana goes so far beyond the pale it sounds like a B-grade horror film. Mel comes across like a killer in a slasher reel, complete with heavy breathing, endless threats and unbridled profanity. It's also clear he's a raving bigot. The agency that used to represent him has cut him loose. It's hard to imagine anyone willing to touch him after this exposure. He's a candidate for the Hollywood loony bin, far from the golden boy clutching Oscars for "Braveheart."
Similarly, parents reacted with disdain to the audio clip of Alec Baldwin's argument with his then-eleven-year-old daughter. Baldwin is not even in the ballpark with Mel on this one. He's just a tired, irritated father having a bad day, railing against his child for her thoughtless approach to their pre-arranged phone calls. He calls her mother, his ex-wife Kim Basinger, "an ass" which is tame compared to the gamut of expletives Mel rains down on his mistress.
If we are being honest with ourselves, if someone taped us at our worst we'd have a lot to account for. There is no defense for the loathsome Mad Mel, but the contemptible diatribe touched on some visceral elements found in many relationships. At one point Mel says, "You make my life so f---ing difficult." At another he tells her she has no soul, that they share "no spiritual common ground." I can relate to that one. I'm just not threatening to kill my husband over it. It was scary for my spouse to hear it too, for he also recognized the desperation in Gibson's screeching voice. It's an object lesson in the primal side of human behavior, a glimpse of the moral abyss, the car wreck you can't help rubbernecking. And sadly, it's another piece of entertainment on our info-driven radar screens.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
The Oil Disaster
I can't stop thinking about the oil spill. Who could, with 24/7 live images of a gushing geyser polluting the Gulf of Mexico and at least four states with unrelenting force? Weeks ago, I remarked to my family that this catastrophe was worse than 9/11. It does not have the dramatic impact of what happened that horrible day, nor the resulting geopolitical ramifications. The oil spill looks less like a Greek tragedy than a Shakespearean dark comedy of errors, as evidenced by that viral YouTube video depicting BP execs fretting over how to clean up a spilled cup of coffee.
Details of what happened to precipitate the April 20th explosion have yet to be revealed. And the criminal investigation launched too late may never assign proper blame. Yes, the dreaded scoundrels of BP are at fault, Deepwater Horizon played a role and Haliburton made a cameo appearance. The people who run the Minerals Management Service were apparently too busy watching Internet porn to notice the gross overreach of corporate interests at the expense of environmental safety. The Obama administration underestimated this calamity from the start, barely registering a reaction until nine days after the event, waffling about who is in charge of fixing the mess, and only now demanding that BP come up with better methods of containing the oil within 48 hours, as of yesterday.
We see Thad Allen of the Coast Guard and BP's Chief Operating Officer Doug Settles giving news updates, along with a continuous loop of oil-drenched pelicans, beleaguered fishermen and the tide bringing in the slick slop. Reporters troll the shorelines interviewing people who came for a day at the beach and leave with sore throats and nausea. Clean-up crews are on some affected sites, while others remain untouched. Louisiana and Alabama politicians wail and beg for relief as Ragin' Cajun James Carville unleashes his fury at everyone involved. Even schoolchildren's ideas for solving the crisis are being vetted.
But the crude keeps coming. As a friend of mine posted on his Facebook status: future students of the environment will be taught in two categories, pre-BP and post-BP. There's no end to the dire consequences of this horror in economic, ecological and health-related terms. Yet the U.S. government is dragging its feet, BP is evading responsibility and no one in the world has a clue how to halt the damage. It's infuriating, embarrassing and pathetic. Dick Cheney, who authored energy policy during the Bush years behind closed doors and in total secrecy, is noticeably absent in all of this. As citizens, we also need to examine the part we play as oil-addicted consumers who can't be bothered to carpool or support a greener lifestyle.
I can't stop thinking about the oil spill. And it looks like it will be spilling clear to Christmas and beyond.
Details of what happened to precipitate the April 20th explosion have yet to be revealed. And the criminal investigation launched too late may never assign proper blame. Yes, the dreaded scoundrels of BP are at fault, Deepwater Horizon played a role and Haliburton made a cameo appearance. The people who run the Minerals Management Service were apparently too busy watching Internet porn to notice the gross overreach of corporate interests at the expense of environmental safety. The Obama administration underestimated this calamity from the start, barely registering a reaction until nine days after the event, waffling about who is in charge of fixing the mess, and only now demanding that BP come up with better methods of containing the oil within 48 hours, as of yesterday.
We see Thad Allen of the Coast Guard and BP's Chief Operating Officer Doug Settles giving news updates, along with a continuous loop of oil-drenched pelicans, beleaguered fishermen and the tide bringing in the slick slop. Reporters troll the shorelines interviewing people who came for a day at the beach and leave with sore throats and nausea. Clean-up crews are on some affected sites, while others remain untouched. Louisiana and Alabama politicians wail and beg for relief as Ragin' Cajun James Carville unleashes his fury at everyone involved. Even schoolchildren's ideas for solving the crisis are being vetted.
But the crude keeps coming. As a friend of mine posted on his Facebook status: future students of the environment will be taught in two categories, pre-BP and post-BP. There's no end to the dire consequences of this horror in economic, ecological and health-related terms. Yet the U.S. government is dragging its feet, BP is evading responsibility and no one in the world has a clue how to halt the damage. It's infuriating, embarrassing and pathetic. Dick Cheney, who authored energy policy during the Bush years behind closed doors and in total secrecy, is noticeably absent in all of this. As citizens, we also need to examine the part we play as oil-addicted consumers who can't be bothered to carpool or support a greener lifestyle.
I can't stop thinking about the oil spill. And it looks like it will be spilling clear to Christmas and beyond.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Cellphones Kill
As we bask in the lusty month of May, America is facing a colossal oil spill of epic environmental, ecological and economic proportion. A divisive immigration crisis strains at the fabric of Constitutional precepts. Oprah just declared a No Phone Zone Day. What do these three events have in common? They're all problems which seem to require an out-of-control spiral before they merit sufficient attention. The first two would exhaust far too much space and time to address, but there's a fix for the last issue all of us can and should embrace.
Imagine that you're in too big a hurry to take a shower and blow-dry your hair, so you opt to do both simultaneously to get ready on time. That's how insane it is to try to drive and "multi-task." Diverting attention from driving, regardless of whether we're crawling in bumper-to-bumper traffic or speeding down 285, is, as Oprah suggests, "a game of Russian roulette." New York City has outlawed the use of cellphones while driving and we should all follow suit. In Manhattan, it's a dicey enough proposition to walk while using a mobile phone, let alone successfully operate a metallic hulk capable of mowing down pedestrians and totaling other cars.
The sight of one-handed drivers clasping iPhones or Blackberries to their heads has become ubiquitous. These zombies do one or all of the following: mosey along at a glacial pace in a 45 mph zone, weave well over the yellow line, make turns with no regard to oncoming traffic, and sail blithely through red lights and stop signs. They also miss the intended exit on the interstate, narrowly avoid hitting runners, cyclists and baby strollers, and are generally oblivious to their surroundings. Yet somehow, because of our global love affair with constant communication, they all get a free pass while high speed demons are ticketed and drunk drivers are locked up.
The nature of the "crime" is twofold: if you're engrossed in a conversation behind the wheel, fellow motorists and innocent bystanders become virtually invisible; you can cause an accident or become a statistic yourself. Oprah's national campaign to halt the madness has called attention to a host of deaths due to cellphone use, often teens who not only chat and drive but also text while driving. How did we all get along before, in Superman world? You know, the one where phone booths still existed. All those discussions about what to pick up at the store, what to eat for dinner, the latest gossip, the wheeling and dealing--it all miraculously got done in the past, before the dawn of T-Mobile, Sprint and Verizon.
Enough people have died, been seriously injured or have had too-close-for-comfort-calls, thanks to the nifty little devices. If you're an offender, concede the harsh reality that you're willing to sacrifice your life or someone else's for the sake of convenience. That "urgent" ringtone can be ignored long enough to pull into the closest parking lot, cut the engine and tap a button. Cellphones are great when your car breaks down on a deserted road in the middle of the night or an axe murderer is stalking you. But meaningless gabbing mixed with mindless driving is a deadly mix. Besides, the jury's still out on what high-frequency microwaves do to those other gadgets--our brains. Go to Oprah.com and take the No Phone Zone Pledge.
Imagine that you're in too big a hurry to take a shower and blow-dry your hair, so you opt to do both simultaneously to get ready on time. That's how insane it is to try to drive and "multi-task." Diverting attention from driving, regardless of whether we're crawling in bumper-to-bumper traffic or speeding down 285, is, as Oprah suggests, "a game of Russian roulette." New York City has outlawed the use of cellphones while driving and we should all follow suit. In Manhattan, it's a dicey enough proposition to walk while using a mobile phone, let alone successfully operate a metallic hulk capable of mowing down pedestrians and totaling other cars.
The sight of one-handed drivers clasping iPhones or Blackberries to their heads has become ubiquitous. These zombies do one or all of the following: mosey along at a glacial pace in a 45 mph zone, weave well over the yellow line, make turns with no regard to oncoming traffic, and sail blithely through red lights and stop signs. They also miss the intended exit on the interstate, narrowly avoid hitting runners, cyclists and baby strollers, and are generally oblivious to their surroundings. Yet somehow, because of our global love affair with constant communication, they all get a free pass while high speed demons are ticketed and drunk drivers are locked up.
The nature of the "crime" is twofold: if you're engrossed in a conversation behind the wheel, fellow motorists and innocent bystanders become virtually invisible; you can cause an accident or become a statistic yourself. Oprah's national campaign to halt the madness has called attention to a host of deaths due to cellphone use, often teens who not only chat and drive but also text while driving. How did we all get along before, in Superman world? You know, the one where phone booths still existed. All those discussions about what to pick up at the store, what to eat for dinner, the latest gossip, the wheeling and dealing--it all miraculously got done in the past, before the dawn of T-Mobile, Sprint and Verizon.
Enough people have died, been seriously injured or have had too-close-for-comfort-calls, thanks to the nifty little devices. If you're an offender, concede the harsh reality that you're willing to sacrifice your life or someone else's for the sake of convenience. That "urgent" ringtone can be ignored long enough to pull into the closest parking lot, cut the engine and tap a button. Cellphones are great when your car breaks down on a deserted road in the middle of the night or an axe murderer is stalking you. But meaningless gabbing mixed with mindless driving is a deadly mix. Besides, the jury's still out on what high-frequency microwaves do to those other gadgets--our brains. Go to Oprah.com and take the No Phone Zone Pledge.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Poetry
It's National Poetry Month. As a writer, my first form was the poem. I started at age eleven, scribbling screeds on the vagaries of life behind a locked bedroom door. I began clumsily, in self-absorbed fashion, unschooled in the art of poetry, apart from Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on A Snowy Evening" or Joyce Kilmer's "Trees." Hardly a Dylan Thomas or Rimbaud, my early efforts are laughably embarrassing when I look at them now. My youngest son composed better stuff at the same age. But the act of writing itself, expounding on themes, revealing myself on the page, was liberating. It primed the pump for stories and essays which followed.
Love of poetry, the reading or reciting of poems, is in short supply these days. Aside from some independent bookstore events or guest authors appearing at universities, it's rare that such lyrical magic is given voice. Thank goodness for Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac on National Public Radio, which features a daily poem, and the popularity of the contemporary, "accessible" former U. S. poet laureate Billy Collins, whose books actually sell. There's the relatively new venue for sounding stanzas, poetry slams. For the uninitiated, a slam is a way of performing a poem in a more exaggerated fashion than a typical coffeehouse reading. People gyrate, scream and often cause something of a commotion in the process of airing their verses.
But ask the average reader what he/she is poring over these days and chances are you'll never hear "poetry" in response. Unless you're at a writers workshop, seminar or conference. Even then the answer will most likely be fiction. So I invite my readers to take their next free moment and pen one for the fun of it. Or the ache, agitation, joy, ecstasy, injustice, grief or grievance. You're bound to come up with something memorable to you, if not to your spouse, children or best friend. The pen is not only mightier than the sword, it is the Jedi Force, Frodo's ring and Alice's looking-glass all rolled into one. Go to a notebook, journal or poetry blog and leave your mark. No matter how trite it seems, how insignificant the subject matter, you'll feel better afterwards. And chances are no one will ever read it but you.
Love of poetry, the reading or reciting of poems, is in short supply these days. Aside from some independent bookstore events or guest authors appearing at universities, it's rare that such lyrical magic is given voice. Thank goodness for Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac on National Public Radio, which features a daily poem, and the popularity of the contemporary, "accessible" former U. S. poet laureate Billy Collins, whose books actually sell. There's the relatively new venue for sounding stanzas, poetry slams. For the uninitiated, a slam is a way of performing a poem in a more exaggerated fashion than a typical coffeehouse reading. People gyrate, scream and often cause something of a commotion in the process of airing their verses.
But ask the average reader what he/she is poring over these days and chances are you'll never hear "poetry" in response. Unless you're at a writers workshop, seminar or conference. Even then the answer will most likely be fiction. So I invite my readers to take their next free moment and pen one for the fun of it. Or the ache, agitation, joy, ecstasy, injustice, grief or grievance. You're bound to come up with something memorable to you, if not to your spouse, children or best friend. The pen is not only mightier than the sword, it is the Jedi Force, Frodo's ring and Alice's looking-glass all rolled into one. Go to a notebook, journal or poetry blog and leave your mark. No matter how trite it seems, how insignificant the subject matter, you'll feel better afterwards. And chances are no one will ever read it but you.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Going Gray
The latest trend from the runway and bohemian sets? Gray highlights for twenty-somethings and even teens. That's right, instead of streaks of fire engine red or chartreuse, gray and Andy Warhol white are in vogue. Some New York models are sporting the look, while teenagers and other trendsetters experiment with looking like Cruella Deville or Gloria Steinem. Meanwhile, the rest of us pay a small fortune to keep restoring our original shade or, the most popular tint of all time, blonde.
This fashion statement is not for the timid; you have to be out there to pull it off and wear it with authority, especially if you're in high school. Many girls I knew at that age ironed their hair. Or rolled it up in orange juice cans and actually slept on them. My sister and I went through a phase of creating our own version of dreadlocks. Using wet hair, we anchored miniature braids with tiny rubber bands all over our heads, then waited a whole day for them to dry and set. Once undone, viola: perfect frizzy manes with lots of body. A sort of Afro for white girls.
I remember my first perm. Unable to afford an upscale, hip salon, I went to a local beauty parlor and came out with a little old lady permanent. The end result looked as if death-grip pincurls had been fastened, then welded to my scalp. It took a week for the screaming strands to settle down. I looked like a cross between Shirley Temple and Annette Funicello. The chemicals smelled as powerful as anything an embalmer might use. Visions of old Toni home perm commercials danced in my doused brain. I didn't even color my hair until I was 30, when an artistic director insisted my stage character should be a redhead.
Once I reached the age when vanity trumps good judgment, I began dyeing on a semi-regular basis. When I come home with a new shade, the lingering stench makes me wish I could apply leeches to my head to suck the nasty peroxide out of it. Suffice it to say, if anyone had approached me at twenty-three, peddling a method of turning me into Susan Sontag, I would have respectfully declined. For now, I'd love to have Jamie Lee Curtis' gig: getting paid to be the pleasant, pale-streaked matron slurping Activa.
This fashion statement is not for the timid; you have to be out there to pull it off and wear it with authority, especially if you're in high school. Many girls I knew at that age ironed their hair. Or rolled it up in orange juice cans and actually slept on them. My sister and I went through a phase of creating our own version of dreadlocks. Using wet hair, we anchored miniature braids with tiny rubber bands all over our heads, then waited a whole day for them to dry and set. Once undone, viola: perfect frizzy manes with lots of body. A sort of Afro for white girls.
I remember my first perm. Unable to afford an upscale, hip salon, I went to a local beauty parlor and came out with a little old lady permanent. The end result looked as if death-grip pincurls had been fastened, then welded to my scalp. It took a week for the screaming strands to settle down. I looked like a cross between Shirley Temple and Annette Funicello. The chemicals smelled as powerful as anything an embalmer might use. Visions of old Toni home perm commercials danced in my doused brain. I didn't even color my hair until I was 30, when an artistic director insisted my stage character should be a redhead.
Once I reached the age when vanity trumps good judgment, I began dyeing on a semi-regular basis. When I come home with a new shade, the lingering stench makes me wish I could apply leeches to my head to suck the nasty peroxide out of it. Suffice it to say, if anyone had approached me at twenty-three, peddling a method of turning me into Susan Sontag, I would have respectfully declined. For now, I'd love to have Jamie Lee Curtis' gig: getting paid to be the pleasant, pale-streaked matron slurping Activa.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Vehicular Madness
I have a theory about how people are driving these days. At least half of the drivers I encounter in metro Atlanta are under the impression they are invisible. They're not steering gigantic hulks of metal that can and do crash and burn. These operators act as if they're surfing in some imaginary universe where their cars are the only ones on the road. They are pilots of private planes with unlimited options at their disposal.
They make lefts into oncoming traffic, a millisecond before certain impact, apparently convinced the car that has to swerve to avoid hitting them doesn't exist. They can successfully defy the laws of physics because they're untouchable, invincible. They behave like they've never had a driver's ed class, are zoned out on Oxycontin or high on crack. Or all three. A trip to the grocery store has become The Road Warrior. We have an abundance of Mad Maxes hellbent on annihilating everything in their path.
I attribute this phenomenon to the stoked motorist's belief in stealth cars. To them, their vehicle is the equivalent of the military's radar-proof F-117 Nighthawk. Granted, since Henry Ford invented the Model T we've had inept idiots behind the wheel. But now the trend is toward daredevil maneuvers on a run for milk or to pick up the kids. It's everywhere you look, the rule rather than the exception, business as usual. I'm talking surface streets, not 285 or an interstate. Driving has evolved into a perverse sport or video game. A reality show featuring delusional nuts who think tempting fate constitutes their fifteen minutes of fame.
Making the risk more deadly, Jane and Joe Destructo juggle cellphone use with driving; it's the norm. These chatterers, engrossed in conversations which range from dinner preparation to divorce proceedings, are oblivious to their surroundings. They're scarcely aware of the Mack truck steamrolling in the opposite lane as they stray over the yellow line. They literally wouldn't be caught dead without their Blackberry, Palm Pre or iPhone. Using a magic Star Trek communicator to negotiate the Big Deal on the way to work is the goal, arriving alive at the office for a round of high fives is purely secondary.
In this fictional paradise of automotive omnipotence, your car won't suffer a scratch, let alone an impact capable of busting your Beamer or leveling your Lexus. Tailgating is a contest of wills, wherein the pushy driver gets so cozy he wants to achieve the mechanical equivalent of anal sex. Cutting another person off is gratifying, especially if you nearly clip a headlight in the process. Sharing the road is for wimps, let's all travel in paved personal bubbles. Bending another car into a pretzel is fun, but the prospect of paralyzing or killing someone really jump-starts the adrenaline buzz and shows who's boss.
In the final analysis, we all know bigger is better; Escalades and Excursions enhance your driving pleasure to Viagra-esque proportions. And let's not forget that dominatrix of the highway, the Hummer. When I see one it reminds me I'm living in a combat zone. Nietzsche was right: That which doesn't kill me makes me stronger. And every time I dodge another barreling bullet, I slap my head and have to admit, "I could have had a V8!"
They make lefts into oncoming traffic, a millisecond before certain impact, apparently convinced the car that has to swerve to avoid hitting them doesn't exist. They can successfully defy the laws of physics because they're untouchable, invincible. They behave like they've never had a driver's ed class, are zoned out on Oxycontin or high on crack. Or all three. A trip to the grocery store has become The Road Warrior. We have an abundance of Mad Maxes hellbent on annihilating everything in their path.
I attribute this phenomenon to the stoked motorist's belief in stealth cars. To them, their vehicle is the equivalent of the military's radar-proof F-117 Nighthawk. Granted, since Henry Ford invented the Model T we've had inept idiots behind the wheel. But now the trend is toward daredevil maneuvers on a run for milk or to pick up the kids. It's everywhere you look, the rule rather than the exception, business as usual. I'm talking surface streets, not 285 or an interstate. Driving has evolved into a perverse sport or video game. A reality show featuring delusional nuts who think tempting fate constitutes their fifteen minutes of fame.
Making the risk more deadly, Jane and Joe Destructo juggle cellphone use with driving; it's the norm. These chatterers, engrossed in conversations which range from dinner preparation to divorce proceedings, are oblivious to their surroundings. They're scarcely aware of the Mack truck steamrolling in the opposite lane as they stray over the yellow line. They literally wouldn't be caught dead without their Blackberry, Palm Pre or iPhone. Using a magic Star Trek communicator to negotiate the Big Deal on the way to work is the goal, arriving alive at the office for a round of high fives is purely secondary.
In this fictional paradise of automotive omnipotence, your car won't suffer a scratch, let alone an impact capable of busting your Beamer or leveling your Lexus. Tailgating is a contest of wills, wherein the pushy driver gets so cozy he wants to achieve the mechanical equivalent of anal sex. Cutting another person off is gratifying, especially if you nearly clip a headlight in the process. Sharing the road is for wimps, let's all travel in paved personal bubbles. Bending another car into a pretzel is fun, but the prospect of paralyzing or killing someone really jump-starts the adrenaline buzz and shows who's boss.
In the final analysis, we all know bigger is better; Escalades and Excursions enhance your driving pleasure to Viagra-esque proportions. And let's not forget that dominatrix of the highway, the Hummer. When I see one it reminds me I'm living in a combat zone. Nietzsche was right: That which doesn't kill me makes me stronger. And every time I dodge another barreling bullet, I slap my head and have to admit, "I could have had a V8!"
Friday, February 19, 2010
License To Brag
Even though I'm guilty of doing it shamelessly, I often apologize for bragging about my kids. Boasting parents can be extremely obnoxious. I preface whatever accomplishment Tom, Dick or Harry have scored by demurring slightly, then plunging into the proud mama pool. Likewise, I don't restrain criticism when my children screw up. There's probably some Zen bridge calling for humility between these two poles that I'm still struggling to cross. I never sported a bumper sticker declaring My Kid Is An Honor Student, or placed an "ad" in the back of a school yearbook lavishing praise and gushing about my shining star. But after twenty-two years of applauding my sons' various feats--cautioning them to keep egos in check--and cheering uncontrollably at one too many athletic events, I've hit a parental "personal best."
My firstborn has been accepted for a graduate school full ride at an Ivy. Part of the most famed triumvirate of The League, it shall remain nameless. Suffice it to say when I learned of this coup I wanted to buy time on a cable news channel to announce the news. Post a sign in the front yard. My hand is somewhat numb from grasping cellphone and land lines to spread the word. I had to wait 48 hours to post it as a Facebook status, while my circumspect son withheld the info from cyberspace for personal reasons. Had there been a megaphone handy, I would have climbed a ladder to the roof, shouting loudly enough to be audible throughout one of the largest subdivisions in our county. I was a woman possessed, a mother obsessed.
My husband is walking around with a satisfied grin on his face. But Dad's understated glow is no match for my manic joy and raging glory. Because hubby enjoys the recognition that accompanies his healthy career, while I back-burnered mine once Smarty Pants arrived. Smarty and his Bros are my career or have been, to one degree or another, for two decades. Which is why I feel (that dreaded psychobabble term) validation over this fortuitous turn of events. Now I've earned the right to a new career...writing one of those ridiculous books: "How To Raise An Ivy Leaguer, from Birth to Baccalaureate and Beyond."
My firstborn has been accepted for a graduate school full ride at an Ivy. Part of the most famed triumvirate of The League, it shall remain nameless. Suffice it to say when I learned of this coup I wanted to buy time on a cable news channel to announce the news. Post a sign in the front yard. My hand is somewhat numb from grasping cellphone and land lines to spread the word. I had to wait 48 hours to post it as a Facebook status, while my circumspect son withheld the info from cyberspace for personal reasons. Had there been a megaphone handy, I would have climbed a ladder to the roof, shouting loudly enough to be audible throughout one of the largest subdivisions in our county. I was a woman possessed, a mother obsessed.
My husband is walking around with a satisfied grin on his face. But Dad's understated glow is no match for my manic joy and raging glory. Because hubby enjoys the recognition that accompanies his healthy career, while I back-burnered mine once Smarty Pants arrived. Smarty and his Bros are my career or have been, to one degree or another, for two decades. Which is why I feel (that dreaded psychobabble term) validation over this fortuitous turn of events. Now I've earned the right to a new career...writing one of those ridiculous books: "How To Raise An Ivy Leaguer, from Birth to Baccalaureate and Beyond."
Monday, February 8, 2010
Pathetic Palin
After a blessed absence from the national stage, in the wake of jumping ship as Alaska's governor, the most ludicrous player on the political scene is back with what bumper stickers call "Palin Power." Most pundits give Sarah Palin credit for her latest shrewd moves--publishing an instant best-seller (she needed help to write), signing on as a commentator for Fox News (the de facto propaganda machine for the Far Right) and showing up wherever the Tea Partiers, Birthers or 'Nazi Health Care' Killers converge, to make speeches at $100,000 a pop. Buzz is Sarah resorted to crib notes penned in her palm to pull off public speaking.
She appeared on Oprah with her unwed mother daughter, Bristol, the 19-year-old mom of Tripp, whose ill-timed birth could have been avoided with Sex Ed 101. Oprah gave Bristol the opportunity to retract a statement avowing she'd "never" have sex outside of marriage again. Bristol, about as articulate as a tree trunk, stuck to her guns. Aside from all the justifiably nasty things we can say about Barracuda, propping up her kid as a poster child for chastity, after parading the then-pregnant poor thing around the campaign trail back in '08, seems the height of bad taste.
The fundamental truth is that if Sarah Palin looked like Susan Boyle, none of this would be happening. The woman does not have smarts, skills or serious ideas. What she has is looks, a wink and a nod. She has parlayed the anger many felt over the election of an African-American Democrat to the White House and a Blue majority in Congress into a platform for her free-for-all Facebook-ready blather. Most Republicans dodge the question of whether they'd vote for her as a presidential candidate, while basking in the fury she foments in the Seeing Red brigade. If they were honest they'd admit she's nothing more than a successful ad campaign, designed to encourage people to jump on a bandwagon labeled "We're Mad As Hell and Don't Know What To Do About It."
Conservatives will publicly laud Palin while laughing behind her back, thankful that a great-looking, leggy brunette is out stumping for a cause no one can identify. Everything is wrong, according to them, but they have few, if any, plausible ideas about how to make it right. A clear-thinking, knowledgeable alternative with a real agenda isn't necessary in a society that falls for a former beauty queen whose claims to fame are fishing, hunting and cooking up one Mean Moose Mush.
She appeared on Oprah with her unwed mother daughter, Bristol, the 19-year-old mom of Tripp, whose ill-timed birth could have been avoided with Sex Ed 101. Oprah gave Bristol the opportunity to retract a statement avowing she'd "never" have sex outside of marriage again. Bristol, about as articulate as a tree trunk, stuck to her guns. Aside from all the justifiably nasty things we can say about Barracuda, propping up her kid as a poster child for chastity, after parading the then-pregnant poor thing around the campaign trail back in '08, seems the height of bad taste.
The fundamental truth is that if Sarah Palin looked like Susan Boyle, none of this would be happening. The woman does not have smarts, skills or serious ideas. What she has is looks, a wink and a nod. She has parlayed the anger many felt over the election of an African-American Democrat to the White House and a Blue majority in Congress into a platform for her free-for-all Facebook-ready blather. Most Republicans dodge the question of whether they'd vote for her as a presidential candidate, while basking in the fury she foments in the Seeing Red brigade. If they were honest they'd admit she's nothing more than a successful ad campaign, designed to encourage people to jump on a bandwagon labeled "We're Mad As Hell and Don't Know What To Do About It."
Conservatives will publicly laud Palin while laughing behind her back, thankful that a great-looking, leggy brunette is out stumping for a cause no one can identify. Everything is wrong, according to them, but they have few, if any, plausible ideas about how to make it right. A clear-thinking, knowledgeable alternative with a real agenda isn't necessary in a society that falls for a former beauty queen whose claims to fame are fishing, hunting and cooking up one Mean Moose Mush.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
The Paleo Philistines
The Caveman is back in vogue. Not the Neanderthals in the Geico commercials, but the hunter-gatherer diet and lifestyle kick. An article from the New York Times Style section digs into the New Age Paleo Movement, whose converts adhere to a regimen fit for Fred Flintstone. The Paleos aim to replicate conditions our prehistoric ancestors endured. They stock deep freeze storage lockers with butcher-sized slabs of red meat. They leap from boulders, fast between meals and regularly donate blood, since all those nasty tussles with mastodons caused real Cavemen to lose some serious plasma. The Paleos do workouts that make ours look like Gymboree.
I wonder what's on their bookshelves? After all, the printing press wasn't around in the B.C. era. Drawings on cave walls passed for the current reading material of the day. Given the sad state of literacy in America, what with all the latest iPhone apps and digital daily feed, who needs books? Maybe listening to audio versions of great works during your commute counts. Those fireside grunting sessions were the precursors of the oral tradition. If you're living the Paleo way, you can't be bothered with frivolity like delving into a dense novel. You're too busy flexing important muscles--the ones used to do battle with beasts to put dinner on the table.
So what's the missing link? The one between carnivorous "health nuts" of today seeking an edge in the competitive arena and the literary lapses of the average Joe, the New Millennium Philistine? The following conversation I had the other night: After a reference was made to the film Gone With The Wind, I asked an acquaintance if, in addition to seeing the movie, he had read the book. Yes, he said, he had years ago. "But I haven't read the sequel, The Scarlet Letter." When I pointed out that the two novels had no correlation, were in fact written in different centuries by different people, my friend was not convinced. "I'll Google it," he said.
Dear Reader, weren't you put through the laborious tribulations of Hester Prynne in the eighth
grade? Do you know the difference between Nathaniel Hawthorne and Margaret Mitchell? The nineteenth century from the twentieth? Please leave comments yea or nay. For now, it's safe to assume my social circle may not include any future Jeopardy champions.
I wonder what's on their bookshelves? After all, the printing press wasn't around in the B.C. era. Drawings on cave walls passed for the current reading material of the day. Given the sad state of literacy in America, what with all the latest iPhone apps and digital daily feed, who needs books? Maybe listening to audio versions of great works during your commute counts. Those fireside grunting sessions were the precursors of the oral tradition. If you're living the Paleo way, you can't be bothered with frivolity like delving into a dense novel. You're too busy flexing important muscles--the ones used to do battle with beasts to put dinner on the table.
So what's the missing link? The one between carnivorous "health nuts" of today seeking an edge in the competitive arena and the literary lapses of the average Joe, the New Millennium Philistine? The following conversation I had the other night: After a reference was made to the film Gone With The Wind, I asked an acquaintance if, in addition to seeing the movie, he had read the book. Yes, he said, he had years ago. "But I haven't read the sequel, The Scarlet Letter." When I pointed out that the two novels had no correlation, were in fact written in different centuries by different people, my friend was not convinced. "I'll Google it," he said.
Dear Reader, weren't you put through the laborious tribulations of Hester Prynne in the eighth
grade? Do you know the difference between Nathaniel Hawthorne and Margaret Mitchell? The nineteenth century from the twentieth? Please leave comments yea or nay. For now, it's safe to assume my social circle may not include any future Jeopardy champions.
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