While I was away, I was able to do some nice research and poking through my grandmother's letters from Cuba. The juxtaposition of reading about the steamy tropics and listening to Afro-Cuban jazz on the iPod while floating past icebergs was kinda weird at first, but it was actually a nice backdrop to my work.
I've even started a blog specifically for my Cuba project: Habana Daydreamin'. Hopefully, this will give me an outlet for musing and writing and the accountability to keep up with the project. Comments (constructive, please -- my fledgling writer's ego is a bit nervous at this prospect) questions and encouragement are welcomed...
8.29.2006
Not as Happy as I Wanna Be Homecoming
Nothing like coming home from a lovely vacation to find things chaotic at home:
* Tropical storm 'a-brewin', headed towards Florida. We cut the vacation short upon seeing the track of the storm heading RIGHT OVER OUR HOUSE on Sunday afternoon. Things aren't so doomy-gloomy for the west coast now (but my pals in the Miami-Dade area are batting down the hatches as we speak), but at the time, we made the best decision we could based on the information at hand. Fickle, unpredictable Mother Nature.
* Will's leg is not "all that great" today, per my mother. Now, she has an uncanny way of making the most innocuous news seem catastrophic to me (must be that tenuous mother/daughter dynamic) -- and now I'm ramped up about how he's doing and what happened to him while I was away and what can I do to make it better. I'll get him from school here shortly and will see for myself what's going on.
*My husband, in the short span of four hours, has ramped back up to his stressed-out, single-focused work mode after checking e-mails and sending a short missive to the players on his current project letting them know he's home early and receiving a shit-load of SOS messages in return. Same old, same old.
And now I say "What vacation?"
Gonna go look at pictures of glaciers and mountains now to try and remember.
Sigh.
* Tropical storm 'a-brewin', headed towards Florida. We cut the vacation short upon seeing the track of the storm heading RIGHT OVER OUR HOUSE on Sunday afternoon. Things aren't so doomy-gloomy for the west coast now (but my pals in the Miami-Dade area are batting down the hatches as we speak), but at the time, we made the best decision we could based on the information at hand. Fickle, unpredictable Mother Nature.
* Will's leg is not "all that great" today, per my mother. Now, she has an uncanny way of making the most innocuous news seem catastrophic to me (must be that tenuous mother/daughter dynamic) -- and now I'm ramped up about how he's doing and what happened to him while I was away and what can I do to make it better. I'll get him from school here shortly and will see for myself what's going on.
*My husband, in the short span of four hours, has ramped back up to his stressed-out, single-focused work mode after checking e-mails and sending a short missive to the players on his current project letting them know he's home early and receiving a shit-load of SOS messages in return. Same old, same old.
And now I say "What vacation?"
Gonna go look at pictures of glaciers and mountains now to try and remember.
Sigh.
8.24.2006
Maritime of My Life
Water, water everywhere
And nor a drop to drink...
~ Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Just can't seem to get away from the water around here.
It's underfoot -- obviously. I'm on a cruise ship, for goodness sake.
But it's falling from the sky -- sometimes in torrents, sometimes in drizzle. I look like a drowned rat -- so much for trying to do one's hair.
Alaska, despite the weather, is beautiful. Awe-inspiring, in fact. Truly a frontier.
The sights of Glacier Bay were amazing -- and I did enjoy some turbo hot chocolate --albeit with Kahlua, rather than peppermint schnapps. Juneau and Sitka each had their own charms -- although it was interesting to note that tourist traps are the same the world over, no matter if they're in Alaska or Florida. We're off to British Columbia for the next two days -- to see sea lions and otters and bears. Oh my!
It's been a good trip thus far -- I've gotten into the swing of the cruise lifestyle, participating in cheesy on-board activities (mostly trivia-related, natch) and hanging out in bars, drinking Black Russians and grooving to the sounds of a Filipino dance band -- who are actually really, really good. When they cranked out the Tom Jones version of "Kiss," I knew we had something worth listening to.
That's not to say that everything's been smooth sailing. Something's up with young William -- not neurological, thank goodness. He doesn't seem to want to put any weight on his right foot -- meaning no walking. My mother, in conjunction with the wonderful staff at Will's school, his pediatrician and physical therapist, has had him checked out from top to bottom, even taking him for X-rays this morning. All clear. Who knows what's up -- he could have just twisted his ankle. Or he could just be being a pain in the ass in the absence of his parents. He's happy, in good spirits and in no pain. That's all anyone could really ask.
Meanwhile, I spent the good porition of yesterday wrestling with worry, anxiety and the omnipresent guilt I tote around. My biggest fear was seemingly manifesting itself -- something was amiss with Will and I was over 4000 miles away, unable to do anything. But, as was pointed out to me, I did do something. In advance. I have cultivated a wonderful network of Will Support, and in my absence, they kicked in and took care of him. Whew. Bless them all.
That's not to say that I'm completely without worry. But I can sleep a bit easier tonight knowing that he's in good hands. Even if they're not mine.
And nor a drop to drink...
~ Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Just can't seem to get away from the water around here.
It's underfoot -- obviously. I'm on a cruise ship, for goodness sake.
But it's falling from the sky -- sometimes in torrents, sometimes in drizzle. I look like a drowned rat -- so much for trying to do one's hair.
Alaska, despite the weather, is beautiful. Awe-inspiring, in fact. Truly a frontier.
The sights of Glacier Bay were amazing -- and I did enjoy some turbo hot chocolate --albeit with Kahlua, rather than peppermint schnapps. Juneau and Sitka each had their own charms -- although it was interesting to note that tourist traps are the same the world over, no matter if they're in Alaska or Florida. We're off to British Columbia for the next two days -- to see sea lions and otters and bears. Oh my!
It's been a good trip thus far -- I've gotten into the swing of the cruise lifestyle, participating in cheesy on-board activities (mostly trivia-related, natch) and hanging out in bars, drinking Black Russians and grooving to the sounds of a Filipino dance band -- who are actually really, really good. When they cranked out the Tom Jones version of "Kiss," I knew we had something worth listening to.
That's not to say that everything's been smooth sailing. Something's up with young William -- not neurological, thank goodness. He doesn't seem to want to put any weight on his right foot -- meaning no walking. My mother, in conjunction with the wonderful staff at Will's school, his pediatrician and physical therapist, has had him checked out from top to bottom, even taking him for X-rays this morning. All clear. Who knows what's up -- he could have just twisted his ankle. Or he could just be being a pain in the ass in the absence of his parents. He's happy, in good spirits and in no pain. That's all anyone could really ask.
Meanwhile, I spent the good porition of yesterday wrestling with worry, anxiety and the omnipresent guilt I tote around. My biggest fear was seemingly manifesting itself -- something was amiss with Will and I was over 4000 miles away, unable to do anything. But, as was pointed out to me, I did do something. In advance. I have cultivated a wonderful network of Will Support, and in my absence, they kicked in and took care of him. Whew. Bless them all.
That's not to say that I'm completely without worry. But I can sleep a bit easier tonight knowing that he's in good hands. Even if they're not mine.
8.21.2006
Won't You Let Me Take You on a Sea Cruise
Day 1 -- at sea. Ahoy!
The most expensive post I've ever made -- .75/minute. Yikes!
Thus far, I've
...sipped iced chai latte on the verandah of my cabin, watching the sea world roll by.
...enjoyed a evening's entertainment with the song stylings of Ian and his Piano Bar. He's so bad, he's good. Never heard Tony Bennett songs performed quite like that before, nor have ever heard a growl at the end of "Moondance." (I dig growls from members of the opposite sex very much, but this was in a whole class by itself.)
...taken a crash course in how to play Craps with the casino manager. I'm ready for Vegas, baby!
...gotten a mani/pedi. So relaxing. I hardly recognize my own feet.
...done some serious people watching. It's been interesting. Men sporting their Tommy Bahama shirts topped with fleece jackets. That's what's passing for festive Alaskan cruise wear.
As we head north, the temperature is getting more brisk. Tomorrow, while we sail through Glacier Bay, I'm gonna take lots of photos, check out the sites and sounds of a nature I've never seen before, and sip hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps.
And a drink umbrella.
The most expensive post I've ever made -- .75/minute. Yikes!
Thus far, I've
...sipped iced chai latte on the verandah of my cabin, watching the sea world roll by.
...enjoyed a evening's entertainment with the song stylings of Ian and his Piano Bar. He's so bad, he's good. Never heard Tony Bennett songs performed quite like that before, nor have ever heard a growl at the end of "Moondance." (I dig growls from members of the opposite sex very much, but this was in a whole class by itself.)
...taken a crash course in how to play Craps with the casino manager. I'm ready for Vegas, baby!
...gotten a mani/pedi. So relaxing. I hardly recognize my own feet.
...done some serious people watching. It's been interesting. Men sporting their Tommy Bahama shirts topped with fleece jackets. That's what's passing for festive Alaskan cruise wear.
As we head north, the temperature is getting more brisk. Tomorrow, while we sail through Glacier Bay, I'm gonna take lots of photos, check out the sites and sounds of a nature I've never seen before, and sip hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps.
And a drink umbrella.
8.17.2006
Worth a Thousand Words
Sixty steps. Unassisted. Not holding on to anything.
Will walked today for the first time. My baby walked.
And suddenly anything is possible.
8.14.2006
¡Inspiración!
I don’t know why this didn’t dawn on me before. Estúpido yo.
But in the midst of trying to get things organized in Will’s world for his trip to my parents’ house and things organized in my world for our trip to Alaska (more about that later...), I had a creative brainstorm. About what I can write about. Really write about. A story. Even a book perhaps.
I had thought that I would tackle Will’s tale -- and had begun fleshing out everything here on the blog to see whether or not I had the writing chops to actually take on such a project and to determine whether or not I could revisit that time and those experiences while my emotions were still raw. And while I think I might be able to adequately write about it and that I might have the emotional strength to handle it, I believe I may have another bit of subject matter to explore.
A bit of background: My maternal grandfather died when my mother was quite young -- just a bit older than Will is now. I obviously never knew him, and that is one of my great regrets. He was a Spanish professor at a junior college and by all accounts, was a great teacher and even better man. He and my grandmother spent a great deal of time in Cuba in the 1930s -- before my mother was born. I have several pieces of memorabilia that they brought back -- maracas and pottery and an amazing lithograph of a street in old Habana. As the de-facto family historian, I also have photos of them in Cuba and several letters my nana wrote to her mother and sister back in the States. I’m fascinated by this piece of my history, especially since Cuba is off-limits to me at this time. It’s like forbidden fruit that I can’t wait to taste -- and hopefully I will be able to someday soon.
My grandfather, circa 1929, in Habana.
A good buddy of mine on my favorite internet hangout penned a silly little poem about this very thing after I relayed this story to him in the midst of a conversation about Cuban music and the Buena Vista Social Club:
Grandpa and Nana
Flew down to Havana
On weekends for their little treat
In times now pasado
They loved the helado
And danced to the magical beat.
It must have been magic
The years have been tragic
I wish I'd have seen Cuba then.
Like mi abuelito
Fly down for a treat, Oh
One day we'll see Cuba again.
After reading that and realizing how passionate I was about this bit of my family history, it finally hit me: I want -- no, I need -- to write about Daddy Pete and Nana’s experiences in Cuba. I had been laboring over the subject matter for my writing venture. I knew that it was something I wanted to do desperately, but any of the topics and things I was thinking about, while important and personal, didn’t sit just right with me.
Until now. This I’m excited about. This looks like it can be an amazing project for me. I can’t wait to see where this takes me -- and can’t wait to share what I discover and create.
I’m making scans of my nana’s letters to take with me on my trip so I can begin to absorb them -- she wrote in great detail about everything. I just ordered a book on 20th century Cuban history before Castro. I’m looking up things on the internet to have a reference point from which to start.
Can you tell I’m excited? Because I am. Oh I am.
¡Soy listo ir¡ (I’m ready to go!)
¡Caída encendido¡ (Hang on!)
But in the midst of trying to get things organized in Will’s world for his trip to my parents’ house and things organized in my world for our trip to Alaska (more about that later...), I had a creative brainstorm. About what I can write about. Really write about. A story. Even a book perhaps.
I had thought that I would tackle Will’s tale -- and had begun fleshing out everything here on the blog to see whether or not I had the writing chops to actually take on such a project and to determine whether or not I could revisit that time and those experiences while my emotions were still raw. And while I think I might be able to adequately write about it and that I might have the emotional strength to handle it, I believe I may have another bit of subject matter to explore.
A bit of background: My maternal grandfather died when my mother was quite young -- just a bit older than Will is now. I obviously never knew him, and that is one of my great regrets. He was a Spanish professor at a junior college and by all accounts, was a great teacher and even better man. He and my grandmother spent a great deal of time in Cuba in the 1930s -- before my mother was born. I have several pieces of memorabilia that they brought back -- maracas and pottery and an amazing lithograph of a street in old Habana. As the de-facto family historian, I also have photos of them in Cuba and several letters my nana wrote to her mother and sister back in the States. I’m fascinated by this piece of my history, especially since Cuba is off-limits to me at this time. It’s like forbidden fruit that I can’t wait to taste -- and hopefully I will be able to someday soon.
My grandfather, circa 1929, in Habana.
A good buddy of mine on my favorite internet hangout penned a silly little poem about this very thing after I relayed this story to him in the midst of a conversation about Cuban music and the Buena Vista Social Club:
Grandpa and Nana
Flew down to Havana
On weekends for their little treat
In times now pasado
They loved the helado
And danced to the magical beat.
It must have been magic
The years have been tragic
I wish I'd have seen Cuba then.
Like mi abuelito
Fly down for a treat, Oh
One day we'll see Cuba again.
After reading that and realizing how passionate I was about this bit of my family history, it finally hit me: I want -- no, I need -- to write about Daddy Pete and Nana’s experiences in Cuba. I had been laboring over the subject matter for my writing venture. I knew that it was something I wanted to do desperately, but any of the topics and things I was thinking about, while important and personal, didn’t sit just right with me.
Until now. This I’m excited about. This looks like it can be an amazing project for me. I can’t wait to see where this takes me -- and can’t wait to share what I discover and create.
I’m making scans of my nana’s letters to take with me on my trip so I can begin to absorb them -- she wrote in great detail about everything. I just ordered a book on 20th century Cuban history before Castro. I’m looking up things on the internet to have a reference point from which to start.
Can you tell I’m excited? Because I am. Oh I am.
¡Soy listo ir¡ (I’m ready to go!)
¡Caída encendido¡ (Hang on!)
Back-to-Preschool Daze
You learn something every day if you pay attention.
~ Ray LeBlond
It’s back to school time here for us. Doesn’t seem quite right, going back to the classroom in the hotter-than-hell-dog-days of August, but that’s what the local school board mandates, so off we go. Always running a bit late, but that’s just what we do.
Will was spit-shined and polished for his very first day of the new school year. Standing tall (holding onto my hand) in his little uniform of light blue polo shirt and navy blue shorts. Wearing his new glasses -- wire rims -- that make him look so handsome and grown up. his Wiggles backpack hanging askew from his proud little shoulders. Nose running a mile a minute, a residual side effect from his surgery. Pulling me through the freshly-mowed grass, taking a short cut to the door of his classroom. He was ready to get about the business of going to school.
He -- and I -- were greeted with hugs and kissed by teachers, classroom assistants and therapists. It was old home week for us, as we both settled back into our familiar school routine. Will didn’t miss a beat as he sought out his favorite toys in the classroom the minute he could break away.
It’s always enlightening to see your child through someone else’s eyes -- try as I might, I have a scant amount of objectivity when it comes to him. But his “entourage,” as I lovingly refer to them, always give me good feedback as to where he is and how he’s doing. He’s been with them all for two years now -- and they love him and know him really well. And they were all amazed and thrilled at how much he’d changed in the ten weeks they’d been apart for the summer break.
He’s got (save for an occasionally dropped L-M-N) the alphabet mastered. Hey! Won’t you come and sing with him?
He can count to 40. (Although did you know that sometimes 30 can also be 20-10? Betcha that’s new to you, isn’t it?)
He’s talking constantly, actually engaging people in a bit of conversation and making appropriate comments at appropriate times. “I would like some juice,” he politely announced the other day. He then proceeded to pour his juice out of the sippy cup onto the table, but at least he asked for it before he used his powers for mischief instead of good.
He’s coloring on his own, feeding himself on his own, drinking on his own. (Now if he would just let go of my finger and his fear and walk on his own... we won’t even dare to dream yet about being potty trained, but that’s my own personal goal for him this year.)
He’s trying so hard to master the little exercise routines in PE, working to make his little CP-plagued limbs and muscles twist and lift as his wonderful PE teacher asks him to.
He’s an active participant in circle time, singing the songs and answering questions. They’re not always the questions his teacher is asking, but by golly, he’s going to chime in with his opinion anyway.
He’s learning the names of his new classmates. Allison. Dale. Vladimir.
He’s making an effort to do just about everything he encounters.
And I’m so proud. I almost can’t stand it.
He and his little buddy B. are the elder statesmen of the classroom, this being their third and final year in pre-school. And they are doing their part to be the class leaders -- as much as four-year-olds with limited attention spans can do, anyway.
They look so serious, sitting at the table together, working on a puzzle.
It makes me happy that Will’s got a little buddy -- they were in the NICU together and share the same therapists at the hospital. B.’s mom and I are also good friends and have become great support systems for each other.
We were hanging out one evening last week, watching Lingo as we always do after dinner.
Chillin' out. Relaxing after a hard day at school.
All at once I hear this little voice pipe up after Chuck Woolery announced a new puzzle.
W.
I.
L.
L.
Spells Will.
Man. Oh man. How cool is that.
And yeah. The tears welled up with that one when I realized what I was hearing.
This after only one week back.
It’s going to be a great school year for us.
I can just tell.
Mary had a little lamb
Its fleece was white as snow, yeah
Everywhere the child went
The little lamb was sure to go, yeah
He followed her to school one day
And broke the teacher's rule
What a time did they have
That day at school
~ Stevie Ray Vaughn
~ Ray LeBlond
It’s back to school time here for us. Doesn’t seem quite right, going back to the classroom in the hotter-than-hell-dog-days of August, but that’s what the local school board mandates, so off we go. Always running a bit late, but that’s just what we do.
Will was spit-shined and polished for his very first day of the new school year. Standing tall (holding onto my hand) in his little uniform of light blue polo shirt and navy blue shorts. Wearing his new glasses -- wire rims -- that make him look so handsome and grown up. his Wiggles backpack hanging askew from his proud little shoulders. Nose running a mile a minute, a residual side effect from his surgery. Pulling me through the freshly-mowed grass, taking a short cut to the door of his classroom. He was ready to get about the business of going to school.
He -- and I -- were greeted with hugs and kissed by teachers, classroom assistants and therapists. It was old home week for us, as we both settled back into our familiar school routine. Will didn’t miss a beat as he sought out his favorite toys in the classroom the minute he could break away.
It’s always enlightening to see your child through someone else’s eyes -- try as I might, I have a scant amount of objectivity when it comes to him. But his “entourage,” as I lovingly refer to them, always give me good feedback as to where he is and how he’s doing. He’s been with them all for two years now -- and they love him and know him really well. And they were all amazed and thrilled at how much he’d changed in the ten weeks they’d been apart for the summer break.
He’s got (save for an occasionally dropped L-M-N) the alphabet mastered. Hey! Won’t you come and sing with him?
He can count to 40. (Although did you know that sometimes 30 can also be 20-10? Betcha that’s new to you, isn’t it?)
He’s talking constantly, actually engaging people in a bit of conversation and making appropriate comments at appropriate times. “I would like some juice,” he politely announced the other day. He then proceeded to pour his juice out of the sippy cup onto the table, but at least he asked for it before he used his powers for mischief instead of good.
He’s coloring on his own, feeding himself on his own, drinking on his own. (Now if he would just let go of my finger and his fear and walk on his own... we won’t even dare to dream yet about being potty trained, but that’s my own personal goal for him this year.)
He’s trying so hard to master the little exercise routines in PE, working to make his little CP-plagued limbs and muscles twist and lift as his wonderful PE teacher asks him to.
He’s an active participant in circle time, singing the songs and answering questions. They’re not always the questions his teacher is asking, but by golly, he’s going to chime in with his opinion anyway.
He’s learning the names of his new classmates. Allison. Dale. Vladimir.
He’s making an effort to do just about everything he encounters.
And I’m so proud. I almost can’t stand it.
He and his little buddy B. are the elder statesmen of the classroom, this being their third and final year in pre-school. And they are doing their part to be the class leaders -- as much as four-year-olds with limited attention spans can do, anyway.
They look so serious, sitting at the table together, working on a puzzle.
It makes me happy that Will’s got a little buddy -- they were in the NICU together and share the same therapists at the hospital. B.’s mom and I are also good friends and have become great support systems for each other.
We were hanging out one evening last week, watching Lingo as we always do after dinner.
Chillin' out. Relaxing after a hard day at school.
All at once I hear this little voice pipe up after Chuck Woolery announced a new puzzle.
W.
I.
L.
L.
Spells Will.
Man. Oh man. How cool is that.
And yeah. The tears welled up with that one when I realized what I was hearing.
This after only one week back.
It’s going to be a great school year for us.
I can just tell.
Mary had a little lamb
Its fleece was white as snow, yeah
Everywhere the child went
The little lamb was sure to go, yeah
He followed her to school one day
And broke the teacher's rule
What a time did they have
That day at school
~ Stevie Ray Vaughn
8.08.2006
Idol Pursuits
A live concert to me is exciting because of all the electricity that is generated in the crowd and on stage. It's my favorite part of the business, live concerts.
~ Elvis Presley
In the denouement to my obsession with this year's American Idol nonsence, I, along with a young friend (age 10) of mine, went to the AI concert in Tampa. While the show was everything you'd expect from an AI production: Good Cheesy Fun, I was frankly more fascinated (read: nosy) by watching the mass of humanity that had descended on downtown Tampa in the middle of a hot, impossibly humid Sunday afternoon to attend a concert by people from a television show.
Amazing.
As my young friend and I hung out in the cool of the box office area waiting to meet up with my buddies from my Elliott fan board (SHUT UP!), the world seemingly passed by. I saw grandparents with grandchildren; couples -- straight, gay, old, young; family groups; teenagers; young adults; older women; older men. You name it -- they were there.
Everyone was excited (with the exception of the poor little girls who came to see Kellie. My heart broke a little for them, as the anticipation in their eyes was replaced by sadness upon discovering that their Idol wouldn’t be singing that night.) Everyone was enthusiatic. Everyone was ready.
Cameras were everywhere and shots were taken almost from the moment people stepped onto the St. Pete Times Forum property. Group shots, individual shots; shots with strangers who were drawn together by their affection for the same Idol.
Things were only enhanced when we went inside and found our seats, after a quick trip to the concession stand. Interestingly enough, the longest lines were not at the beer concessions, but at the basic food ones, where harried fathers tucked their change sloppily into their pockets and schlepped cartons filled with hot dogs, popcorn and sodas back to their hungry charges. Cotton candy and ice cream were hawked throughout the arena. It was really all about family, rather than the more adult accoutrements usually found at a concert experience.
Our seatmates were symbolic of the nature of the entire evening. There were two very well manicured older ladies next to me who paid $200 each for their seats. Taylor fans. Had never been to anything at the St. Pete Time Forum -- their concert-going was most likely reserved for fancy performing arts centers and the like. They had their hair done and nails done and goodness knows what else done. They looked great and were anxious for an evening of good entertainment. They were going to see their Idol.
The young ladies seated next to them were Chris fans, complete with an assortment of homemade signs declaring their undying love for him. Barney Fife, the earnest security guard on patrol in our section, kept waving his flashlight at them in an attempt to get them to put down the signs while performers were singing. One girl practically hyperventilated when Mr. Daughtry and his Wallet Chain came out on stage the first time. Her friend started to cry. For them, it was all about their Idol.
My young friend, a darling 10-year-old, was appalled that "those girls" would “get so worked up” over someone like Chris. Meanwhile, she herself squealed until dogs came a-runnin’ when Ace appeared. Her Idol.
It’s all about personal taste, I suppose.
Everywhere I looked, people were caught up in Idol self-expression, inhibitions and self-consciousness be damned.
A family in homemade Soul Patrol shirts -- in glowing neon yellow, no less.
Middle-aged women in Absent Element shirts -- showing their support for Chris and his hometown band.
Twenty-somethings in hand-Bedazzled tanks, with Elliott spelled out across the chest in what must have been a pound of rhinestones.
Wide-eyed little girls with Ace buttons on their Limited-Too t-shirts holding hands with their mothers as they were experiencing a rite of passage together -- one’s first concert.
There were two young men -- maybe aged 12 or 13 -- who sat in front of me, along with their parents. Armed with cameras and photo-taking phones, they documented every moment they could. They weren’t embarrassed to be seen with their ‘rents, and literally enjoyed every thing about the concert -- even running down a vendor to purchase his last show program. Polite, happy, enthusiastic. (I kept trying to get my young friend to notice them, but her eyes were only for Ace.)
And in the midst of it all, I got to experience the reason for my obsession with this year’s show; the reason I participate on a crazy message board with like-minded people; the reason I have a bit of renewed passion for music.
That Voice.
Elliott’s voice.
Yes, I screamed like a madwoman when he came out for his duet with Chris. And I waved my arms and danced during his first number.
But when it came time for MMFL, I sat down and closed my eyes. And just listened. A huge cavernous forum was not the ideal venue to be in to try and appreciate the nuances of such a song sung by such a voice.
But I tried.
And while my immediate feelings weren’t as swift or powerful as they were when I first saw Elliott, nervous in his sweater-vest, sing this song initially during that semi-final round, I still was moved.
For so many reasons -- some achingly personal and intimate. Got more than a little teary, in fact.
And I remembered why I was drawn to this man and his talent in the first place, and why I will support his future career. Because even in that loud, acoustically-challenging venue, his voice was amazing. Pure even in its exhaustion. The voice of my Idol.
And as the evening drew to a close, with Taylor (so handsome!) shaking his groove thing and cheesy group numbers, complete with crazy choreography, the smile on my young friend’s face said it all. As did the amount of merchandise we purchased on our way to our car -- she had been saving her allowance for this moment. She went home with two t-shirts (one for her, one for her younger sister); a poster of all the Idols; an Idol teddy bear; and an 8x10 photo of Ace, again for her sister.
That sums it up beautifully, in my opinion -- and what more could one ask for in an entertainment experience.
Not much more, if you ask me...
~ Elvis Presley
In the denouement to my obsession with this year's American Idol nonsence, I, along with a young friend (age 10) of mine, went to the AI concert in Tampa. While the show was everything you'd expect from an AI production: Good Cheesy Fun, I was frankly more fascinated (read: nosy) by watching the mass of humanity that had descended on downtown Tampa in the middle of a hot, impossibly humid Sunday afternoon to attend a concert by people from a television show.
Amazing.
As my young friend and I hung out in the cool of the box office area waiting to meet up with my buddies from my Elliott fan board (SHUT UP!), the world seemingly passed by. I saw grandparents with grandchildren; couples -- straight, gay, old, young; family groups; teenagers; young adults; older women; older men. You name it -- they were there.
Everyone was excited (with the exception of the poor little girls who came to see Kellie. My heart broke a little for them, as the anticipation in their eyes was replaced by sadness upon discovering that their Idol wouldn’t be singing that night.) Everyone was enthusiatic. Everyone was ready.
Cameras were everywhere and shots were taken almost from the moment people stepped onto the St. Pete Times Forum property. Group shots, individual shots; shots with strangers who were drawn together by their affection for the same Idol.
Things were only enhanced when we went inside and found our seats, after a quick trip to the concession stand. Interestingly enough, the longest lines were not at the beer concessions, but at the basic food ones, where harried fathers tucked their change sloppily into their pockets and schlepped cartons filled with hot dogs, popcorn and sodas back to their hungry charges. Cotton candy and ice cream were hawked throughout the arena. It was really all about family, rather than the more adult accoutrements usually found at a concert experience.
Our seatmates were symbolic of the nature of the entire evening. There were two very well manicured older ladies next to me who paid $200 each for their seats. Taylor fans. Had never been to anything at the St. Pete Time Forum -- their concert-going was most likely reserved for fancy performing arts centers and the like. They had their hair done and nails done and goodness knows what else done. They looked great and were anxious for an evening of good entertainment. They were going to see their Idol.
The young ladies seated next to them were Chris fans, complete with an assortment of homemade signs declaring their undying love for him. Barney Fife, the earnest security guard on patrol in our section, kept waving his flashlight at them in an attempt to get them to put down the signs while performers were singing. One girl practically hyperventilated when Mr. Daughtry and his Wallet Chain came out on stage the first time. Her friend started to cry. For them, it was all about their Idol.
My young friend, a darling 10-year-old, was appalled that "those girls" would “get so worked up” over someone like Chris. Meanwhile, she herself squealed until dogs came a-runnin’ when Ace appeared. Her Idol.
It’s all about personal taste, I suppose.
Everywhere I looked, people were caught up in Idol self-expression, inhibitions and self-consciousness be damned.
A family in homemade Soul Patrol shirts -- in glowing neon yellow, no less.
Middle-aged women in Absent Element shirts -- showing their support for Chris and his hometown band.
Twenty-somethings in hand-Bedazzled tanks, with Elliott spelled out across the chest in what must have been a pound of rhinestones.
Wide-eyed little girls with Ace buttons on their Limited-Too t-shirts holding hands with their mothers as they were experiencing a rite of passage together -- one’s first concert.
There were two young men -- maybe aged 12 or 13 -- who sat in front of me, along with their parents. Armed with cameras and photo-taking phones, they documented every moment they could. They weren’t embarrassed to be seen with their ‘rents, and literally enjoyed every thing about the concert -- even running down a vendor to purchase his last show program. Polite, happy, enthusiastic. (I kept trying to get my young friend to notice them, but her eyes were only for Ace.)
And in the midst of it all, I got to experience the reason for my obsession with this year’s show; the reason I participate on a crazy message board with like-minded people; the reason I have a bit of renewed passion for music.
That Voice.
Elliott’s voice.
Yes, I screamed like a madwoman when he came out for his duet with Chris. And I waved my arms and danced during his first number.
But when it came time for MMFL, I sat down and closed my eyes. And just listened. A huge cavernous forum was not the ideal venue to be in to try and appreciate the nuances of such a song sung by such a voice.
But I tried.
And while my immediate feelings weren’t as swift or powerful as they were when I first saw Elliott, nervous in his sweater-vest, sing this song initially during that semi-final round, I still was moved.
For so many reasons -- some achingly personal and intimate. Got more than a little teary, in fact.
And I remembered why I was drawn to this man and his talent in the first place, and why I will support his future career. Because even in that loud, acoustically-challenging venue, his voice was amazing. Pure even in its exhaustion. The voice of my Idol.
And as the evening drew to a close, with Taylor (so handsome!) shaking his groove thing and cheesy group numbers, complete with crazy choreography, the smile on my young friend’s face said it all. As did the amount of merchandise we purchased on our way to our car -- she had been saving her allowance for this moment. She went home with two t-shirts (one for her, one for her younger sister); a poster of all the Idols; an Idol teddy bear; and an 8x10 photo of Ace, again for her sister.
That sums it up beautifully, in my opinion -- and what more could one ask for in an entertainment experience.
Not much more, if you ask me...
8.04.2006
The Walk of the Familiar
It's deja vu all over again
~ Yogi Berra
I am sitting with my baby boy in my arms, rocking him in my arms. His head nestled up against my chest. I am singing to him, quietly, gently. He rustles and moves to get comfortable. An IV line dangles from his scarred ankle. He periodically lifts his head to look at me, tears rolling down his scared, distressed face. Despite my best efforts, my face mirrors his, with damp eyes the hallmark. My tears are not of fear this time -- but of relief, thanks, resignation.
And of memory.
I’ve been in this position before. Comforting my child after a medical procedure. Bonding with him in an intimate setting.
Before, he was but a baby. Small. Tiny. Not even four pounds.
Now, he’s not a baby anymore. Tall. Strong. Long. Thirty-seven pounds.
Familiar. But not.
Will’s surgery turned out to be almost a non-event, at least from his perspective. His time of distress after coming out of the anesthesia lasted not even an hour. And now, just barely a day later, he is showing no signs of being worse for wear or that he even had any sort of procedure done at all.
Hallelujah. Amen.
I’m armed with Tylenol with Codeine in the event he needs some serious pain relief and an antibiotic to help fend off infection. But thus far, he’s not shown any signs of any pain or discomfort and the antibiotic, flavored with raspberry, is eagerly taken.
Still a bit weary, from the stressful build-up that I invariably created within myself when I have time to think about and process events such as this. And from the accompanying lack of sleep, proper eating and getting rest that always goes hand in hand when I’m worked up about something Will-related. Damn glad this one's over.
Our hospital jaunt was, frankly, weird, when compared to past experiences. While we weren’t privy to the expedient treatment that Will merits with his neurological emergencies, we were signed out and making our way down the sidewalk to our car in time for a late lunch. Fastest visit on record.
I had to laugh at the size of Will’s file that kept getting passed from person to person. A big-ass file, that. I joked with more than one person that we should get frequent flyer miles for our time spent at their facility. It’s just the way it is.
And now that I’ve walked for a bit in the shoes of a parent of a standard-issue kid undergoing a standard-issue medical procedure, I can say that it’s not a lot different than my usual modus operendi. You still worry about your child. Still make sure that his best interest and comfort are the priority.
Except that I suspect that many parents leave that particular pair of shoes at the doors of the hospital when they walk out. Or maybe send them back a short time later, postage paid. And then they go on with business as usual, donning different pairs of footwear as the occasion requires.
For me, the shoes stay with, in heavy wardrobe rotation. There’s no leaving them behind. That’s fine. The style’s not bad at all (although it’s not one I would have chosen at first glance). They’re now completely broken in.
Just don’t look at the heels -- they’re a bit worn down and in need of a boost. (Stop that! I asked you not to look...) And the toes are more than scuffed. In need of a good polish.
But they do go with every outfit I own.
And frankly, they really suit me.
Yes, yes -- they do.
If the shoe fits, it is probably worn out.
~ Craig Bruce
~ Yogi Berra
I am sitting with my baby boy in my arms, rocking him in my arms. His head nestled up against my chest. I am singing to him, quietly, gently. He rustles and moves to get comfortable. An IV line dangles from his scarred ankle. He periodically lifts his head to look at me, tears rolling down his scared, distressed face. Despite my best efforts, my face mirrors his, with damp eyes the hallmark. My tears are not of fear this time -- but of relief, thanks, resignation.
And of memory.
I’ve been in this position before. Comforting my child after a medical procedure. Bonding with him in an intimate setting.
Before, he was but a baby. Small. Tiny. Not even four pounds.
Now, he’s not a baby anymore. Tall. Strong. Long. Thirty-seven pounds.
Familiar. But not.
Will’s surgery turned out to be almost a non-event, at least from his perspective. His time of distress after coming out of the anesthesia lasted not even an hour. And now, just barely a day later, he is showing no signs of being worse for wear or that he even had any sort of procedure done at all.
Hallelujah. Amen.
I’m armed with Tylenol with Codeine in the event he needs some serious pain relief and an antibiotic to help fend off infection. But thus far, he’s not shown any signs of any pain or discomfort and the antibiotic, flavored with raspberry, is eagerly taken.
Still a bit weary, from the stressful build-up that I invariably created within myself when I have time to think about and process events such as this. And from the accompanying lack of sleep, proper eating and getting rest that always goes hand in hand when I’m worked up about something Will-related. Damn glad this one's over.
Our hospital jaunt was, frankly, weird, when compared to past experiences. While we weren’t privy to the expedient treatment that Will merits with his neurological emergencies, we were signed out and making our way down the sidewalk to our car in time for a late lunch. Fastest visit on record.
I had to laugh at the size of Will’s file that kept getting passed from person to person. A big-ass file, that. I joked with more than one person that we should get frequent flyer miles for our time spent at their facility. It’s just the way it is.
And now that I’ve walked for a bit in the shoes of a parent of a standard-issue kid undergoing a standard-issue medical procedure, I can say that it’s not a lot different than my usual modus operendi. You still worry about your child. Still make sure that his best interest and comfort are the priority.
Except that I suspect that many parents leave that particular pair of shoes at the doors of the hospital when they walk out. Or maybe send them back a short time later, postage paid. And then they go on with business as usual, donning different pairs of footwear as the occasion requires.
For me, the shoes stay with, in heavy wardrobe rotation. There’s no leaving them behind. That’s fine. The style’s not bad at all (although it’s not one I would have chosen at first glance). They’re now completely broken in.
Just don’t look at the heels -- they’re a bit worn down and in need of a boost. (Stop that! I asked you not to look...) And the toes are more than scuffed. In need of a good polish.
But they do go with every outfit I own.
And frankly, they really suit me.
Yes, yes -- they do.
If the shoe fits, it is probably worn out.
~ Craig Bruce
8.02.2006
Playlists Twists
In a futile quest to burn off some nervous energy about tomorrow's activities, I've been tinkering in my iTunes catalog and making up some new playlists -- very different, but very represenative of moi. Something for every frame of mind and mood.
Here for your listening pleasure, are my latest programming masterpieces.
Head Bop Jangle Pop
Go All The Way/The Raspberries
Time for You/The Tories
Here Comes Your Boyfriend/The Buckners
The Way I Want to Be/The Village Green
I'm Gonna Make You Love Me/The Jayhawks
Dyslexic Heart/Paul Westerberg
There She Goes/The Las
Stacy's Mom/Fountains of Wayne
Hey Jealousy/Gin Blossoms
Girlfriend/Matthew Sweet
Turn a Square/The Shins
Pulling Mussels (From The Shell)/Squeeze
She Is/The Fray
Why Can't I?/Liz Phair
Clear Spot/The Pernice Brothers
Phone Call #27/Admiral Twin
Cruel To Be Kind/Nick Lowe
I'll Be You/The Replacements
If She Knew What She Wants/The Bangles
I Got You/Split Enz
Look Out (Here Comes Tomorrow)/The Monkees
Torch Songs Extraordinare
Somewhere Out There/James Ingram & Linda Ronstadt
What'll I Do?/Linda Ronstadt
I Only Have Eyes for You/The Flamingos
Who Can I Turn To (When Nobody Needs Me)/Tony Bennett
Time After Time/Carly Simon (the Sammy Cahn version, not Cyndi Lauper)
Losing My Mind/Julia McKenzie (Side By Side By Sondheim)
Something Wonderful/The King and I
When Your Lover Has Gone/Carly Simon
In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning/Frank Sinatra
So Far Away/Carole King
Alone/Heart
The Very Thought of You/Kurt Elling
But Not For Me/Diana Krall
Night and Day/Frank Sinatra
Here for your listening pleasure, are my latest programming masterpieces.
Head Bop Jangle Pop
Go All The Way/The Raspberries
Time for You/The Tories
Here Comes Your Boyfriend/The Buckners
The Way I Want to Be/The Village Green
I'm Gonna Make You Love Me/The Jayhawks
Dyslexic Heart/Paul Westerberg
There She Goes/The Las
Stacy's Mom/Fountains of Wayne
Hey Jealousy/Gin Blossoms
Girlfriend/Matthew Sweet
Turn a Square/The Shins
Pulling Mussels (From The Shell)/Squeeze
She Is/The Fray
Why Can't I?/Liz Phair
Clear Spot/The Pernice Brothers
Phone Call #27/Admiral Twin
Cruel To Be Kind/Nick Lowe
I'll Be You/The Replacements
If She Knew What She Wants/The Bangles
I Got You/Split Enz
Look Out (Here Comes Tomorrow)/The Monkees
Torch Songs Extraordinare
Somewhere Out There/James Ingram & Linda Ronstadt
What'll I Do?/Linda Ronstadt
I Only Have Eyes for You/The Flamingos
Who Can I Turn To (When Nobody Needs Me)/Tony Bennett
Time After Time/Carly Simon (the Sammy Cahn version, not Cyndi Lauper)
Losing My Mind/Julia McKenzie (Side By Side By Sondheim)
Something Wonderful/The King and I
When Your Lover Has Gone/Carly Simon
In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning/Frank Sinatra
So Far Away/Carole King
Alone/Heart
The Very Thought of You/Kurt Elling
But Not For Me/Diana Krall
Night and Day/Frank Sinatra
Pre-Op Jitters
Just got off the phone with the admissions nurse at the hospital regarding Will's surgery tomorrow. We have our instructions, marching orders and details about where, what, when.
So why am I so anxious?
Will's been through much scarier situations than this one. Nothing will top the scary factor *knock on wood* of having brain surgery in an emergency room. He will only be under the anesthesia for 30 minutes. The length of a sitcom, with commercials. If I thought about it, I could probably run through the plot of one of my favorites in that time frame as a diversion.
And we're going to check in at the Short Stay Admissions counter. That's encouraging in itself. Not Long Stay or Emergency or Intensive Care. Short Stay.
I like the sound of that.
But the talk of anesthesia, recovery times, NPO (Latin for 'nothing by mouth', learned and retained from our days in the NICU) after midnight and post-op scenarios makes my stomach flip-flop and my nerves edgy. Can't help it. Must be a parent thing.
I'm going to be doing this hospital thing solo, as my husband won't be able to get home until tomorrow night. I'm used to that, given our scheduled lifestyle. But still. Not easy. I know Will can depend and rely on me. That's what I work for, what I live for. I just hope I can rely on myself. Getting a little scared, frankly -- self-doubt is insidious in its ability to consume.
For once, I'm a bit relieved that Will's developmental delays are keeping him from being too aware of what lies ahead. Not that it's going to be bad or problematic.
One nervous nellie in the family is more than enough.
This just in: when it rains, it pours.
Got off the phone with my dad. His PSA levels are elevated -- the doctors are going to give him medication for a couple of weeks to see if that helps lower things, but if not, it's Biopsy Time.
Sigh.
So why am I so anxious?
Will's been through much scarier situations than this one. Nothing will top the scary factor *knock on wood* of having brain surgery in an emergency room. He will only be under the anesthesia for 30 minutes. The length of a sitcom, with commercials. If I thought about it, I could probably run through the plot of one of my favorites in that time frame as a diversion.
And we're going to check in at the Short Stay Admissions counter. That's encouraging in itself. Not Long Stay or Emergency or Intensive Care. Short Stay.
I like the sound of that.
But the talk of anesthesia, recovery times, NPO (Latin for 'nothing by mouth', learned and retained from our days in the NICU) after midnight and post-op scenarios makes my stomach flip-flop and my nerves edgy. Can't help it. Must be a parent thing.
I'm going to be doing this hospital thing solo, as my husband won't be able to get home until tomorrow night. I'm used to that, given our scheduled lifestyle. But still. Not easy. I know Will can depend and rely on me. That's what I work for, what I live for. I just hope I can rely on myself. Getting a little scared, frankly -- self-doubt is insidious in its ability to consume.
For once, I'm a bit relieved that Will's developmental delays are keeping him from being too aware of what lies ahead. Not that it's going to be bad or problematic.
One nervous nellie in the family is more than enough.
This just in: when it rains, it pours.
Got off the phone with my dad. His PSA levels are elevated -- the doctors are going to give him medication for a couple of weeks to see if that helps lower things, but if not, it's Biopsy Time.
Sigh.
The Snort Hot Tea Up My Nose Quote of the Day
From E!Online (editorial comment included):
"I'm so over the tattoos and the T-shirts and rings through the noses. It's not pretty, it's not pleasant, it's not exciting. Please stop it now."
--Elton John, criticizing the fashion choices made by American bands. Bitch is back.
"I'm so over the tattoos and the T-shirts and rings through the noses. It's not pretty, it's not pleasant, it's not exciting. Please stop it now."
--Elton John, criticizing the fashion choices made by American bands. Bitch is back.
8.01.2006
Designing Woman
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I’m doing something I haven’t done in a very long time.
A wee little bit of graphic design.
It’s only for a CD label/liner notes/jewel case cover. And I have a program with the templates all plugged in. But damned if I’m not having a good time doing this.
I’ve changed my mind about the font style at least a dozen times. And have tinkered with the background artwork about that many as well -- playing with the percentage of color saturation and shading and placement. I’d forgotten how I like to have things Just So when I design. A carryover from my proofreading days, when I could spot misaligned text blocks or an extra return space in a paragraph a mile away. I do still proofread everything, out of habit. You can take the girl out of the print shop, but you can’t take the print shop out of the girl, I guess.
It’s a nice bit of serendipity that today marks the 25th Anniversary of MTV. I used to study (that’s right, study) with MTV on the telly when I was in journalism school, working on my various projects. Sitting cross-legged on the floor with my stuff strewn everywhere in a circle around me. Watching some of those early videos took me back to the days of X-acto knives and rubber cement and rub-on letters and T-squares and pica rulers. My current design effort involves nothing more tangible than my computer and a software program. So streamlined. Almost too easy. (Although how I wish I had more fonts to choose from...) I rather like having my MTV on while I work, with the crude, now-campy videos providing some soothing nostalgic background noise. Kinda takes away some of my anxiety at doing something that I haven't even attempted in many years.
Seems appropriate somehow. One step forward, one step back. Straddling that line.
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I’m doing something I haven’t done in a very long time.
A wee little bit of graphic design.
It’s only for a CD label/liner notes/jewel case cover. And I have a program with the templates all plugged in. But damned if I’m not having a good time doing this.
I’ve changed my mind about the font style at least a dozen times. And have tinkered with the background artwork about that many as well -- playing with the percentage of color saturation and shading and placement. I’d forgotten how I like to have things Just So when I design. A carryover from my proofreading days, when I could spot misaligned text blocks or an extra return space in a paragraph a mile away. I do still proofread everything, out of habit. You can take the girl out of the print shop, but you can’t take the print shop out of the girl, I guess.
It’s a nice bit of serendipity that today marks the 25th Anniversary of MTV. I used to study (that’s right, study) with MTV on the telly when I was in journalism school, working on my various projects. Sitting cross-legged on the floor with my stuff strewn everywhere in a circle around me. Watching some of those early videos took me back to the days of X-acto knives and rubber cement and rub-on letters and T-squares and pica rulers. My current design effort involves nothing more tangible than my computer and a software program. So streamlined. Almost too easy. (Although how I wish I had more fonts to choose from...) I rather like having my MTV on while I work, with the crude, now-campy videos providing some soothing nostalgic background noise. Kinda takes away some of my anxiety at doing something that I haven't even attempted in many years.
Seems appropriate somehow. One step forward, one step back. Straddling that line.
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