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.

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.

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 ...

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!

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

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!

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 ...