It began with my still being engaged to marry. It ended with a newfound strength in singlehood and a magnificent male friend.
It started with being the oldest ballet major in state history, which required transcendence over cancer and injury. It ended with production of my first original children's ballet and being asked to teach at the school of a Bolshoi-trained artist.
In its embryonic stages, there were dreams of life in a less urban and more idyllic setting. At its conclusion, I am living that dream.
It commenced with a body of writing work that was directed at my peers. It evolved into works appreciated by far younger audiences.
At its origins, I did not know how to extricate myself from putting the lion's share of my labors into others' interests. Now I know better.
It initiated with undue concern about how my life looked on paper. It has culminated with my pulling my head out of my proverbial rear end and embracing what really matters.
At the onset, I had lost touch with far too many from my past. At its closure, I am magically surrounded by so many of them once again.
9/11, Katrina, Hirings and layoffs, sickness and recovery, loves lost and gained ... I remain ... most grateful, and looking forward to the next 10.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
The Most Powerful Christmas Song Ever Written
The year was 1962. The United States was in the midst of the Cuban Missile Crisis -- the great standoff between John F. Kennedy and Nikita ("We will bury you!") Khrushchev.
A French songwriter, living in New York, had been commissioned to write a Christmas-themed song, but he could not put pen to paper. He certainly had the talent. He had studied at the Strasbourg Conservatory and at the Conservatoire National de Paris.
However, the man was troubled. How could he write a joyful tune when the world was on the brink of potential annihilation? He had already been through enough war in his lifetime.
Duing World War II, the aspiring composer, previously destined for a brilliant career, was drafted into the German army after Hitler's Nazi forces overcame France.
While still in the German army and wearing the hated uniform, he became a member of the French underground. He collected information and warned French resistance fighters of attacks being planned by the Germans on his homeland.
That activity culminated in an episode that haunted him for the rest of his life. Intrepidly, he led a group of German soldiers into a trap where they were ambushed by French fighters in crossfire. The young man was also shot -- most likely on purpose -- to protect him from being found out.
The young man survived, but never forgot the image of all of those enemy soldiers collapsing and dying around him. He never talked about it publicly. He subsequently deserted the German army and lived with the French underground until the war was over.
In 1952, he moved to Manhattan, and it was on that memorable night, 10 years later, that he was having so much difficulty with his composition. He decided to clear his head by going out for a walk that evening through the streets of New York.
He saw something that made him pause. Two mothers had stopped by a storefront to chat with one another. They each were holding onto a baby stroller. The two infants in those strollers were smiling and wordlessly gesturing to one another
in a language wholly of their own.
What the songwriter witnessed was complete openness and love shared by two innocent beings. He raced home, inspired as never before, and in one sitting wrote the following as a plea for peace:
Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see?
'Way up in the sky, little lamb
Do you see what I see?
A star, a star
Dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite
With a tail as big as a kite
Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing thru the sky, shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
A song, a song
High above the tree
With a voice as big as the sea
With a voice as big as the sea
Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king
Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king
Do you know what I know?
A Child, a Child
Shivers in the cold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Said the king to the people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
The Child, the Child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
He will bring us goodness and light
Postscript: Although Bing Crosby's version of the carol brought it to national attention and sold more copies that that of anyone else, the composer -- the late Noel Regney -- most appreciated the version recorded by Robert Goulet, with that artist's impassioned delivery of the line, "Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere!"
A French songwriter, living in New York, had been commissioned to write a Christmas-themed song, but he could not put pen to paper. He certainly had the talent. He had studied at the Strasbourg Conservatory and at the Conservatoire National de Paris.
However, the man was troubled. How could he write a joyful tune when the world was on the brink of potential annihilation? He had already been through enough war in his lifetime.
Duing World War II, the aspiring composer, previously destined for a brilliant career, was drafted into the German army after Hitler's Nazi forces overcame France.
While still in the German army and wearing the hated uniform, he became a member of the French underground. He collected information and warned French resistance fighters of attacks being planned by the Germans on his homeland.
That activity culminated in an episode that haunted him for the rest of his life. Intrepidly, he led a group of German soldiers into a trap where they were ambushed by French fighters in crossfire. The young man was also shot -- most likely on purpose -- to protect him from being found out.
The young man survived, but never forgot the image of all of those enemy soldiers collapsing and dying around him. He never talked about it publicly. He subsequently deserted the German army and lived with the French underground until the war was over.
In 1952, he moved to Manhattan, and it was on that memorable night, 10 years later, that he was having so much difficulty with his composition. He decided to clear his head by going out for a walk that evening through the streets of New York.
He saw something that made him pause. Two mothers had stopped by a storefront to chat with one another. They each were holding onto a baby stroller. The two infants in those strollers were smiling and wordlessly gesturing to one another
in a language wholly of their own.
What the songwriter witnessed was complete openness and love shared by two innocent beings. He raced home, inspired as never before, and in one sitting wrote the following as a plea for peace:
Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see?
'Way up in the sky, little lamb
Do you see what I see?
A star, a star
Dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite
With a tail as big as a kite
Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing thru the sky, shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
A song, a song
High above the tree
With a voice as big as the sea
With a voice as big as the sea
Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king
Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king
Do you know what I know?
A Child, a Child
Shivers in the cold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Said the king to the people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
The Child, the Child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
He will bring us goodness and light
Postscript: Although Bing Crosby's version of the carol brought it to national attention and sold more copies that that of anyone else, the composer -- the late Noel Regney -- most appreciated the version recorded by Robert Goulet, with that artist's impassioned delivery of the line, "Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere!"
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Nothing says summer like ...
Baseball and state fairs!
Enjoyed the first on Sunday and the latter this evening in Wisconsin. This year, the trend is food on a stick. Unless it's an olive in a Bloody Mary, or shish kabobs on the grill, I'm of the mind, "Let's not and say we did." Just not that into skewered food and, particularly, food that's been skewered and fried.
Just give me the basics, the classics: fresh cream puffs with cold, real cream. And anything that Rupena's makes -- to die for! It's a West Allis caterer that provided the eats for more weddings, funerals and picnics than I can remember growing up here. The chicken I had tonight was marinated in butter, seasoned with garlic, roasted, and served -- plump, thick and tender -- in a fresh bun with lettuce and tomato. No condiments necessary. Accompanied by a cold beer and a cool breeze, and you have my idea of heaven. Especially when there's a group of scruffy young'ins churning up some Irish folk music nearby.
A state fair appeals to all of the senses, but perhaps most salient are the smells. The convergence of strong odors from prized livestock with the aromas of their "kin" being grilled for the pleasure of attendees. Such is the cycle of life. Just ask E.B. White's infamous pig, "Wilbur," saved from such a fate by his supremely generous friend, "Charlotte."
And even when you're no longer of younger and crazier mind to partake of rides designed to do nothing less than play havoc with your central nervous system, there's the ubiquitous ferris wheel, tame enough for just about any age, and offering spectacular views of the lights of the city beyond.
There are larger fairs than the one in Wisconsin. I should know. My family lived right across the street from it, in Falcon Heights, Minnesota. Now, I know dem's fightin' words with Texans. Their fair lasts longer and ultimately has a greater overall attendance. But Minnesota's has a larger daily attendance, and it's also got Garrison Keillor and gang as perennial performers.
No matter where you live, you really oughtta go to your fair this year. Most things American -- including my beloved baseball -- seem almost unrecognizable these days, with the actual event taking a back seat to the techno-happy, ear-blasting sideshows. But not a fair. It's still pretty much what it's always been. And that's a good thing.
Enjoyed the first on Sunday and the latter this evening in Wisconsin. This year, the trend is food on a stick. Unless it's an olive in a Bloody Mary, or shish kabobs on the grill, I'm of the mind, "Let's not and say we did." Just not that into skewered food and, particularly, food that's been skewered and fried.
Just give me the basics, the classics: fresh cream puffs with cold, real cream. And anything that Rupena's makes -- to die for! It's a West Allis caterer that provided the eats for more weddings, funerals and picnics than I can remember growing up here. The chicken I had tonight was marinated in butter, seasoned with garlic, roasted, and served -- plump, thick and tender -- in a fresh bun with lettuce and tomato. No condiments necessary. Accompanied by a cold beer and a cool breeze, and you have my idea of heaven. Especially when there's a group of scruffy young'ins churning up some Irish folk music nearby.
A state fair appeals to all of the senses, but perhaps most salient are the smells. The convergence of strong odors from prized livestock with the aromas of their "kin" being grilled for the pleasure of attendees. Such is the cycle of life. Just ask E.B. White's infamous pig, "Wilbur," saved from such a fate by his supremely generous friend, "Charlotte."
And even when you're no longer of younger and crazier mind to partake of rides designed to do nothing less than play havoc with your central nervous system, there's the ubiquitous ferris wheel, tame enough for just about any age, and offering spectacular views of the lights of the city beyond.
There are larger fairs than the one in Wisconsin. I should know. My family lived right across the street from it, in Falcon Heights, Minnesota. Now, I know dem's fightin' words with Texans. Their fair lasts longer and ultimately has a greater overall attendance. But Minnesota's has a larger daily attendance, and it's also got Garrison Keillor and gang as perennial performers.
No matter where you live, you really oughtta go to your fair this year. Most things American -- including my beloved baseball -- seem almost unrecognizable these days, with the actual event taking a back seat to the techno-happy, ear-blasting sideshows. But not a fair. It's still pretty much what it's always been. And that's a good thing.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide ...
I have the dubious distinction of being a Louisianian who came up to Wisconsin for a reunion and a brief respite from what had become unrelenting heat and humidity in what has been predicted to be an active hurricane season ... only to have her car submerged in the Great Shorewood Flood. A once in a century event in an otherwise idyllic village. Oh, the irony!
I have also overheard in recent days comments from locals complaining about the heat and humidity index here. But it's all relative, really.
For while thousands stood and sang "God Bless America" during the seventh inning stretch of the Milwaukee Brewers versus Houston Astros game last Sunday afternoon, scores of people in Russia were dying, literally, from the heat.
Folks seem surprised -- and it's not their fault, really, with the inundation of far more "important" news, such as the latest celebrity scandal -- when I mention that people in Russia are succumbing in record numbers to the heat right now, whether by direct affect or by drowning in an effort to escape it.
Yes, these are the hottest days in history for Russia, as well as for its neighbors, Ukraine and Belarus. We are talking in terms of 1,000 years. This unrelenting blast of heat, smog and smoke, which began on June 27, has been estimated to kill at least 7,000 people in Moscow alone, with the death toll in all of Russia well more than double that figure. It's been predicted that when nature's brutal assault -- compounded by untenable pollution and carbon monoxide levels -- finally ends this year, we will be looking at the deadliest heat wave in history.
Elsewhere, as Haiti struggles to recover from its devastating earthquake, thousands have perished or are missing due to monsoon flooding and landslides in China, India, Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Meanwhile, all seems quiet for now in the oil-soaked Gulf, with some scoffing (perhaps as a means of denying the inevitable) about early predictions of an active hurricane season. But sea surface temperatures in the tropical Atlantic have reached record highs. And as I've taught in my children's science show, "When temperatures are high and wind sheers are low, hurricanes form and threaten to blow!"
The only lesson I think I personally can take away from all of this is to recognize that there truly is, as the song goes, "nowhere to run, nowhere to hide." We're all in this together on Mother Earth.
I have also overheard in recent days comments from locals complaining about the heat and humidity index here. But it's all relative, really.
For while thousands stood and sang "God Bless America" during the seventh inning stretch of the Milwaukee Brewers versus Houston Astros game last Sunday afternoon, scores of people in Russia were dying, literally, from the heat.
Folks seem surprised -- and it's not their fault, really, with the inundation of far more "important" news, such as the latest celebrity scandal -- when I mention that people in Russia are succumbing in record numbers to the heat right now, whether by direct affect or by drowning in an effort to escape it.
Yes, these are the hottest days in history for Russia, as well as for its neighbors, Ukraine and Belarus. We are talking in terms of 1,000 years. This unrelenting blast of heat, smog and smoke, which began on June 27, has been estimated to kill at least 7,000 people in Moscow alone, with the death toll in all of Russia well more than double that figure. It's been predicted that when nature's brutal assault -- compounded by untenable pollution and carbon monoxide levels -- finally ends this year, we will be looking at the deadliest heat wave in history.
Elsewhere, as Haiti struggles to recover from its devastating earthquake, thousands have perished or are missing due to monsoon flooding and landslides in China, India, Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Meanwhile, all seems quiet for now in the oil-soaked Gulf, with some scoffing (perhaps as a means of denying the inevitable) about early predictions of an active hurricane season. But sea surface temperatures in the tropical Atlantic have reached record highs. And as I've taught in my children's science show, "When temperatures are high and wind sheers are low, hurricanes form and threaten to blow!"
The only lesson I think I personally can take away from all of this is to recognize that there truly is, as the song goes, "nowhere to run, nowhere to hide." We're all in this together on Mother Earth.
Friday, August 6, 2010
A Closetful of Friends ... and no one to care
I'e always loved Georgia O'Keefe's quote, "Nobody sees a flower, really, it is so small. We haven't time -- and to see takes time like to have a friend takes time."
In this age of racing to accumulate as many friends as possible on various social networks, I can't help but compare that to people hoarding closets full of clothes, and still having nothing to wear. With all of those "friends," how many are really on hand to hear you out -- fully and completely -- on that occasion that you need to cry until every last tear is purged, or to bring you the proverbial chicken soup when you are too weak to get up from your bed?
I recently read about an Oxford anthropologist determining that the human brain's cognitive power limits the size of the social networks we can sustain. Therefore, our outside limit for human friendship is about 150 people.
I recognize that some people -- particularly in the arts -- use their social networks as a means of getting the word out about their latest gallery events, concert performances or book launches. They understand that they are not necessarily forming relationships with people they expect to have heart-to-hearts with anytime soon.
But what about the rest who "friend" others with a zeal that might be put to far better use in the world?
For some people, it's all about the very collecting of friends, as many as possible. Their wall-to-wall posts resemble frantic ping pong matches:
"How long you gonna be in town?"
"Not sure. Can't wait to see you, too!"
"Hey, maybe we can get up a posse of Tom and Dick and Harry while you're here!"
"Yeah, that'd be great!"
Only, the gathering will likely never occur, and a year down the road, there'll be an encore of similar dialogue and the same result. And even if by some miracle, the gathering materializes, how much meaningful exchange ensues?
But, oh heck, at least you tried, didn't you?!?
Oh, no judgment here from me. Not really. Just a reality check. And it is this:
If reaching out to as many people as possible is your preference, so be it. But bear in mind that when you do catch up, you cannot expect those whom you keep on the eternal periphery of your life to share confidences because you finally happen to be there at that moment. Prepare for nothing else than a brief exchange of good cheer.
Because to have anything more means that you have to be a friend -- a REAL friend. And as Ms. O'Keefe said, that takes time.
In this age of racing to accumulate as many friends as possible on various social networks, I can't help but compare that to people hoarding closets full of clothes, and still having nothing to wear. With all of those "friends," how many are really on hand to hear you out -- fully and completely -- on that occasion that you need to cry until every last tear is purged, or to bring you the proverbial chicken soup when you are too weak to get up from your bed?
I recently read about an Oxford anthropologist determining that the human brain's cognitive power limits the size of the social networks we can sustain. Therefore, our outside limit for human friendship is about 150 people.
I recognize that some people -- particularly in the arts -- use their social networks as a means of getting the word out about their latest gallery events, concert performances or book launches. They understand that they are not necessarily forming relationships with people they expect to have heart-to-hearts with anytime soon.
But what about the rest who "friend" others with a zeal that might be put to far better use in the world?
For some people, it's all about the very collecting of friends, as many as possible. Their wall-to-wall posts resemble frantic ping pong matches:
"How long you gonna be in town?"
"Not sure. Can't wait to see you, too!"
"Hey, maybe we can get up a posse of Tom and Dick and Harry while you're here!"
"Yeah, that'd be great!"
Only, the gathering will likely never occur, and a year down the road, there'll be an encore of similar dialogue and the same result. And even if by some miracle, the gathering materializes, how much meaningful exchange ensues?
But, oh heck, at least you tried, didn't you?!?
Oh, no judgment here from me. Not really. Just a reality check. And it is this:
If reaching out to as many people as possible is your preference, so be it. But bear in mind that when you do catch up, you cannot expect those whom you keep on the eternal periphery of your life to share confidences because you finally happen to be there at that moment. Prepare for nothing else than a brief exchange of good cheer.
Because to have anything more means that you have to be a friend -- a REAL friend. And as Ms. O'Keefe said, that takes time.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Why They Call It Comfort Food
My friend and colleague, the inimitable children's writer, Candice Farris Ransom, just sang the praises of mom and pop diners, which she wisely prefers over "fern bars," all the better to do "constructive eavesdropping." However, it's more than just fodder for an author's mill that she speaks of.
She writes of the comfort she's found in her own neighborhood eatery, following a summer marked by sadness and the kind of fatigue that penetrates the body and spirit. We are on the "same page" on this one. We both shared the loss of a former professor (somehow, that description is so inadequate) who impacted us forever in our professional lives and as human beings. And then, while we most needed a bit of a respite, we remained thrust in the midst of "the world" and all that that entails. She writes beautifully of her own experience in her blog, "Under the Honeysuckle Vine," and there is no need for me to comment further on her end.
As to my own travails, they included the flood of the century occurring during a sojourn to my Wisconsin hometown, which decimated my car, and an incomprehensible assault, which I will need some time to process and heal from.
And I, like my literary friend, have felt a pull towards what heals best -- a return to a simpler time in an America not easy to find these days. For me, it's a 20-minute drive to Ponchatoula, which bills itself as not only "The Strawberry Capital of the World," but "America's Antiques City."
Speaking of, I don't know how many of you have watched James Lipton's Q&A to the evening's guest actor at the close of every segment of "Inside the Actor's Studio" on BRAVO, but I'm rather surprised that no one has yet uttered what I would say when asked, "What is your favorite word?" For me, there's nothing like a sign advertising "Antiques" to make me feel like all's right with the world ...
When I get back home, that's where I'm heading. First stop is going to be Paul's Cafe, for if ever there was the antithesis of the "fern bar," there it is. http://www.paulscafe.net/full-menu.html.
I'm gonna have me some fried catfish and a Barq's rootbeer, and bask in an ambience like no other, doing some of that "constructive eavesdropping" in the "Mayberry of the Deep South" (yet another of its monikers) until my soul has been restored. Yes, it's getting time to click my heels ...
She writes of the comfort she's found in her own neighborhood eatery, following a summer marked by sadness and the kind of fatigue that penetrates the body and spirit. We are on the "same page" on this one. We both shared the loss of a former professor (somehow, that description is so inadequate) who impacted us forever in our professional lives and as human beings. And then, while we most needed a bit of a respite, we remained thrust in the midst of "the world" and all that that entails. She writes beautifully of her own experience in her blog, "Under the Honeysuckle Vine," and there is no need for me to comment further on her end.
As to my own travails, they included the flood of the century occurring during a sojourn to my Wisconsin hometown, which decimated my car, and an incomprehensible assault, which I will need some time to process and heal from.
And I, like my literary friend, have felt a pull towards what heals best -- a return to a simpler time in an America not easy to find these days. For me, it's a 20-minute drive to Ponchatoula, which bills itself as not only "The Strawberry Capital of the World," but "America's Antiques City."
Speaking of, I don't know how many of you have watched James Lipton's Q&A to the evening's guest actor at the close of every segment of "Inside the Actor's Studio" on BRAVO, but I'm rather surprised that no one has yet uttered what I would say when asked, "What is your favorite word?" For me, there's nothing like a sign advertising "Antiques" to make me feel like all's right with the world ...
When I get back home, that's where I'm heading. First stop is going to be Paul's Cafe, for if ever there was the antithesis of the "fern bar," there it is. http://www.paulscafe.net/full-menu.html.
I'm gonna have me some fried catfish and a Barq's rootbeer, and bask in an ambience like no other, doing some of that "constructive eavesdropping" in the "Mayberry of the Deep South" (yet another of its monikers) until my soul has been restored. Yes, it's getting time to click my heels ...
Monday, May 3, 2010
Who Needs Blockbusters?
In light of the oil spill in the Gulf, and its aftermath, I can't help but think that real life is beginning to surpass any fictitious tale of the apocalypse. This is not a movie that we can just walk away from, and simply assuage our fears with popcorn in the lobby. It was nearly three years ago that I was preparing to debut my one-woman musical science show for elementary schools in Tangipahoa and St. Tammany Parishes. The show was to focus on astronomy. But I, ever the aspiring environmentalist, felt compelled to include a song about the travesty committed upon Lake Apopka in Florida, decades ago, on Mother Earth. It was a harbinger of more to come. Have a listen to the beginning:
There was a beautiful Floridian lake
When people had a vacation to take
They upped and shouted, "Hey, for goodness sake,
Let's go to Lake Apopka!"
They caught the biggest fish you've ever seen
They splashed and played in water fresh and clean
The whole environment was rich and green
There in Lake Apopka
But now the birds are dropping to the ground
The graceful cougar there no longer abound
And healthy fish are rarely found
Now in Lake Apopka
That's why I'm singing:
Don't let the birds fall from the sky
Don't let the birds fall from the sky
We've got to help them fly high
Fly, fly, fly
Pelicans, egrets and gulls
They don't need our man made troubles
C'mon and show the planet some pride
Think twice before dumping that pesticide!
There was a beautiful Floridian lake
When people had a vacation to take
They upped and shouted, "Hey, for goodness sake,
Let's go to Lake Apopka!"
They caught the biggest fish you've ever seen
They splashed and played in water fresh and clean
The whole environment was rich and green
There in Lake Apopka
But now the birds are dropping to the ground
The graceful cougar there no longer abound
And healthy fish are rarely found
Now in Lake Apopka
That's why I'm singing:
Don't let the birds fall from the sky
Don't let the birds fall from the sky
We've got to help them fly high
Fly, fly, fly
Pelicans, egrets and gulls
They don't need our man made troubles
C'mon and show the planet some pride
Think twice before dumping that pesticide!
Friday, April 30, 2010
A Sad Day in the Treehouse
Having just completed an environmental fairy tale to be staged by the Early Childhood Division of the New Orleans Dance Academy next month, I am nearly numb by the magnitude of the oil spill in the Gulf that has taken lives and livelihoods, and threatened our existence as we know it. In recent months, I was delighted, in researching flora and fauna indigenous to the Louisiana forests, to find a wealth of poetry in terminology. Butterflies such as "Great Purple Hairstreak" and "Cassius Blue." Amphibians like "Dusky Gophers" and "Tiger Salamanders." Birds that included the "Yellow-breasted Chat" and "Chuck Will's Widow." The story nearly wrote itself. And even prompted me to pen, "Could heaven be much greater, or any more divine?"
Time was when people actually received prescriptions from their doctors to come to Mandeville to partake of the clean, invigorating air. I cannot describe the horror I felt when I walked outside to my front porch today and took in the miasma of the spill, now being burned in a day late/dollar short attempt to mitigate the damages.
Yes, we have a bit of heaven on earth in these parts. But if you want to see what hell is like, look no further:
http://photos.nola.com/tpphotos/2010/04/oil_rig_explosion_21.html
Time was when people actually received prescriptions from their doctors to come to Mandeville to partake of the clean, invigorating air. I cannot describe the horror I felt when I walked outside to my front porch today and took in the miasma of the spill, now being burned in a day late/dollar short attempt to mitigate the damages.
Yes, we have a bit of heaven on earth in these parts. But if you want to see what hell is like, look no further:
http://photos.nola.com/tpphotos/2010/04/oil_rig_explosion_21.html
Monday, April 26, 2010
Be gone, Satan!
Some software support hawker/hacker actually responded to yesterday's post of mine by trying to tell me in a bastardized version of English about the virtues of their product.
I don't know if that took stones, stupidity, or a combination of both. Did you not understand the gist of my post? It was not a request for infiltration from more drones such as yourself!
I don't know if that took stones, stupidity, or a combination of both. Did you not understand the gist of my post? It was not a request for infiltration from more drones such as yourself!
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Thoreau was right ...
A friend with whom I'd performed many years ago, and with whom I'd recently reconnected decades later via Facebook, emailed me earlier this week about some of life's travails that were getting at her recently -- both personal and global, such as the recent horrific oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. She then felt she was sounding like "Debbie Downer." And I, in turn, shared the following with her, which I think may be applicable to many of us:
Friday, I downloaded a "free" upgrade to my anti-virus program, and it wiped out all virus protection and blocked my email access. No phone number on any of its literature and, of course, I couldn't find one online because I couldn't get online, so I had to rush over to the library to use their computers (thank God, we have a fabulous business resource branch which is a boon to small business owners). Murphy's Law in full force, I still couldn't find a viable phone number on line(!) Finally went to my email site and located an old email from them with a phone number and got through to someone for whom English was a second language. Picture me gritting my teeth as I'm conversing with her, or trying to, anyway.
After several hours of that nonsense, I thought everything was intact, but yesterday afternoon, the updated virus protection was blocking my access to Facebook, so I called tech support again, and this time attempted a rapport with someone who only spoke Klingon (computer nomenclature). I kept saying, "I don't understand what you're telling me," and he would repeat himself, thinking somehow I'd get it the 2nd or 3rd time. Another example of semantic aphasia. Outside of computer language, the guy had a sum total of several dozen words in his vocabulary, and simply could not say, in English, what I needed to know. When did our country have this incredible breakdown in communication?
So Klingon is doing everything he can to "help" fix whatever Dingleberry screwed up the day before, and each time the problem remained, and I kept hearing, "Hmmmm, wow, well let's try this instead." In the midst of this, with him ON LINE WITH ME, a viral attack is made by a site called (and I am not making this up) "Fucking Threesomes." (I hesitated to write that, but even the eloquent Father Andrew Greeley has been known to use the word in his writings, when no other will suffice). So I, of course, panic a little, and ask the guy what the hell just happened, because when I had the old version of my anti-virus protection, nothing like that ever happened, and with the new and improved version, I'm an immediate target?
Then I read this morning in a recent Time magazine (3/39/10 edition) that Elmore Leonard writes every single word of his work longhand, and then transfers it to his 20-year-old typewriter. The man has no computer, does not email, etc. And in the same magazine, I read that Twyla Tharp does not own a TV. And I'm starting to think that perhaps all of this CRAP is sucking the life out of us. At the same time, it's what allowed me to reconnect with people like my long lost performing friend. But see how paralyzed we become when something we rely on this heavily goes wrong?
I'm thinking back now when 23 years ago -- feeling this incredible calling, especially after my enchantment with Steinbeck's "Travels With Charley," and all of the successive books of that genre -- I stored, tossed or donated everything I had, and took off in my Honda Civic, which I also eventually ditched, for a several-year odyssey of working my way through the U.S. Took a variety of jobs, from being a grunt on a log cabin crew, to working on air with John Walsh on "America's Most Wanted," to fitting women with "foundations," as intimate apparel was once called. And I kept a MANUAL record of the people I'd met, and periodically mailed out newsletters to them and got letters back. Most of them handwritten. Wonderful stuff. All before email, and it meant so much, that exchange of real paper. I did not have a cell phone or a computer. I typed my newsletters on a borrowed word processor, and cut and pasted with photos, and photocopied it all and handwrote the envelopes. And it was fun! Barely a generation ago.
What have we wrought with our technical advances? We've made zippity do dah progress with the space program. We still don't have those cars "run by the sun" as depicted in films presented to us in elementary school. Cancer hasn't been cured -- sure, we can detect the little bugger in a woman's breast more easily, but we can't agree on what put it there. Despite all the fitness equipment with a million bells and whistles, hawked on QVC, HSN, and every other darned shopping network acronym, we are the fattest people in the world, for whom bariatric surgery is becoming as common as removal of an ingrown toenail. We can put books on Kindle and the like, but we can't light a match under most people's butts to get them to read and comprehend. (Don't believe me? Just look at the crap substituting for the English language in comments posted by the common people underneath any print news story). And it's becoming increasingly evident, even to skeptics, that cell phones are frying the brains and destroying the hearing of their youngest users.
But hey, with the advance of email and Facebook, at least we can commiserate about all of this stuff. Some progress ...
Friday, I downloaded a "free" upgrade to my anti-virus program, and it wiped out all virus protection and blocked my email access. No phone number on any of its literature and, of course, I couldn't find one online because I couldn't get online, so I had to rush over to the library to use their computers (thank God, we have a fabulous business resource branch which is a boon to small business owners). Murphy's Law in full force, I still couldn't find a viable phone number on line(!) Finally went to my email site and located an old email from them with a phone number and got through to someone for whom English was a second language. Picture me gritting my teeth as I'm conversing with her, or trying to, anyway.
After several hours of that nonsense, I thought everything was intact, but yesterday afternoon, the updated virus protection was blocking my access to Facebook, so I called tech support again, and this time attempted a rapport with someone who only spoke Klingon (computer nomenclature). I kept saying, "I don't understand what you're telling me," and he would repeat himself, thinking somehow I'd get it the 2nd or 3rd time. Another example of semantic aphasia. Outside of computer language, the guy had a sum total of several dozen words in his vocabulary, and simply could not say, in English, what I needed to know. When did our country have this incredible breakdown in communication?
So Klingon is doing everything he can to "help" fix whatever Dingleberry screwed up the day before, and each time the problem remained, and I kept hearing, "Hmmmm, wow, well let's try this instead." In the midst of this, with him ON LINE WITH ME, a viral attack is made by a site called (and I am not making this up) "Fucking Threesomes." (I hesitated to write that, but even the eloquent Father Andrew Greeley has been known to use the word in his writings, when no other will suffice). So I, of course, panic a little, and ask the guy what the hell just happened, because when I had the old version of my anti-virus protection, nothing like that ever happened, and with the new and improved version, I'm an immediate target?
Then I read this morning in a recent Time magazine (3/39/10 edition) that Elmore Leonard writes every single word of his work longhand, and then transfers it to his 20-year-old typewriter. The man has no computer, does not email, etc. And in the same magazine, I read that Twyla Tharp does not own a TV. And I'm starting to think that perhaps all of this CRAP is sucking the life out of us. At the same time, it's what allowed me to reconnect with people like my long lost performing friend. But see how paralyzed we become when something we rely on this heavily goes wrong?
I'm thinking back now when 23 years ago -- feeling this incredible calling, especially after my enchantment with Steinbeck's "Travels With Charley," and all of the successive books of that genre -- I stored, tossed or donated everything I had, and took off in my Honda Civic, which I also eventually ditched, for a several-year odyssey of working my way through the U.S. Took a variety of jobs, from being a grunt on a log cabin crew, to working on air with John Walsh on "America's Most Wanted," to fitting women with "foundations," as intimate apparel was once called. And I kept a MANUAL record of the people I'd met, and periodically mailed out newsletters to them and got letters back. Most of them handwritten. Wonderful stuff. All before email, and it meant so much, that exchange of real paper. I did not have a cell phone or a computer. I typed my newsletters on a borrowed word processor, and cut and pasted with photos, and photocopied it all and handwrote the envelopes. And it was fun! Barely a generation ago.
What have we wrought with our technical advances? We've made zippity do dah progress with the space program. We still don't have those cars "run by the sun" as depicted in films presented to us in elementary school. Cancer hasn't been cured -- sure, we can detect the little bugger in a woman's breast more easily, but we can't agree on what put it there. Despite all the fitness equipment with a million bells and whistles, hawked on QVC, HSN, and every other darned shopping network acronym, we are the fattest people in the world, for whom bariatric surgery is becoming as common as removal of an ingrown toenail. We can put books on Kindle and the like, but we can't light a match under most people's butts to get them to read and comprehend. (Don't believe me? Just look at the crap substituting for the English language in comments posted by the common people underneath any print news story). And it's becoming increasingly evident, even to skeptics, that cell phones are frying the brains and destroying the hearing of their youngest users.
But hey, with the advance of email and Facebook, at least we can commiserate about all of this stuff. Some progress ...
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Silence is Golden
Yes, it's been a while. Feeling rather private of late, spending a good deal of time in the treehouse, writing, writing, writing.
Last night, while writing with the TV news on in the background, I laughed out loud without looking up when the anchor quipped, "Gee, I haven't heard that in 20 minutes ...." He was referring, of course, to "Stand Up and Get Crunk," which was accompanying the umpteenth story about "Who Dat Nation." As the strains of that 'lovely' composition begin to fade at long last, we are settling into what is my favorite time of year. Between Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest, the New Orleans area exhales and you can actually see the city for who she is when not putting on her face for visitors.
That seems only fitting for Lent -- clear out the company and get your house back in order. I've been doing that this week by attending a Lenten Mission at Mary Queen of Peace each evening, led by visiting Redemptorist priest, Father Daniel Francis, who's been 'playing to packed houses.' With his funny, touching, insightful and prayerful leadership, these nights are a spiritual respite from the rest of the world that is paying far too much attention to the latest scandals surrounding "The Bachelor" or "American Idol."
Meanwhile, the weather has taken a turn back to cold and gray -- perfect for long walks amidst the pines when the air is so brisk and fulfilling, you can almost gulp it. All is as it should be.
Last night, while writing with the TV news on in the background, I laughed out loud without looking up when the anchor quipped, "Gee, I haven't heard that in 20 minutes ...." He was referring, of course, to "Stand Up and Get Crunk," which was accompanying the umpteenth story about "Who Dat Nation." As the strains of that 'lovely' composition begin to fade at long last, we are settling into what is my favorite time of year. Between Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest, the New Orleans area exhales and you can actually see the city for who she is when not putting on her face for visitors.
That seems only fitting for Lent -- clear out the company and get your house back in order. I've been doing that this week by attending a Lenten Mission at Mary Queen of Peace each evening, led by visiting Redemptorist priest, Father Daniel Francis, who's been 'playing to packed houses.' With his funny, touching, insightful and prayerful leadership, these nights are a spiritual respite from the rest of the world that is paying far too much attention to the latest scandals surrounding "The Bachelor" or "American Idol."
Meanwhile, the weather has taken a turn back to cold and gray -- perfect for long walks amidst the pines when the air is so brisk and fulfilling, you can almost gulp it. All is as it should be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
