While I was poking around YouTube on the hunt for something, I came across this gem.
Carol Channing, Ethel Merman, Della Reese and Ann Miller.
On the Love Boat.
Sporting lots and lots of lamé.
Totally worth a look.
8.31.2007
8.30.2007
Civilized Blues
The English major in me went seeking out poetical musings regarding the blues... somehow there's comfort in reading and analyzing the verse. It puts my mind on something academic and intellectual -- always a good thing.
Anyhoo...
Ode on Melancholy
by John Keats
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty -Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine:
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
There might be a pop quiz on this later in the week. Stay tuned...
Anyhoo...
Ode on Melancholy
by John Keats
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty -Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine:
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
There might be a pop quiz on this later in the week. Stay tuned...
My Mantra of the Moment...
...seen on the menu of the Cuban restaurant where I had dinner last night after Will's Back-to-School Open House:
"An indulgence that alleviates stress is often a better choice than a sacrifice that creates tension."
So Order What Pleases You!
Indulgence, here I come. Just as soon as I clear the decks (old habits are hard to break...)
You can't fault a girl for trying.
"An indulgence that alleviates stress is often a better choice than a sacrifice that creates tension."
So Order What Pleases You!
Indulgence, here I come. Just as soon as I clear the decks (old habits are hard to break...)
You can't fault a girl for trying.
8.29.2007
Down in the Valley
So Owen Wilson tried to kill himself. Much to the surprise of the public at large. A personality characterized by easy-going, laid back affectations masked a deeper darker streak. That seemingly had had enough. Of something.
I get it. Totally.
Not the attempted suicide part, although I can understand where he might have been coming from. With the depression thing.
Depression is a cruel, cruel mistress.
Incidious. Relentless. Exhausting.
She's paying me a visit right now. Despite my adhering to the Better Living Through Chemistry way of existance. I've got the blue funk, the blue meanies, the blues.
Spending too much time inside my head. Too consumed within myself. It's not good. But I'm having a hell of a time trying to shake it.
This shit happens to me ocassionally. I think it's residual, actually -- a byproduct of the stress I've been toting around. While Will's starting kindergarten was a fairly smooth transition for him, it took a toll on me. A new school, new teacher, new routine. I didn't know anyone who would be part of his daily education entourage. Coming from a place where I knew everyone and had settled into a comfortable lull, this was unnerving. And then the cancer scare with my mom -- and since I wasn't supposed to know, I threw on an extra layer of anxiety.
I'm not surprised that Miss Depression saw an opportunity to come in and pay me a call. And I just keep retreating.
Damn, do I hate this. Really hate this. I'm writing in the hopes that I can exorcise some of the demons out, transferring my emotions to the page. Where hopefully they'll stick. And stay.
I'm full of contradictions now -- the siren's call of isolation juxtaposed with feelings of extreme lonliness. The need to make a change and get about the business of being me juxtaposed with apathy and indifference. Self-loathing coupled with selfishness.
I've fought this battle before. I'll come 'round here eventually.
But it will be just a battle that ends.
Not the war. That seems to be everlasting.
At least from where I sit.
I get it. Totally.
Not the attempted suicide part, although I can understand where he might have been coming from. With the depression thing.
Depression is a cruel, cruel mistress.
Incidious. Relentless. Exhausting.
She's paying me a visit right now. Despite my adhering to the Better Living Through Chemistry way of existance. I've got the blue funk, the blue meanies, the blues.
Spending too much time inside my head. Too consumed within myself. It's not good. But I'm having a hell of a time trying to shake it.
This shit happens to me ocassionally. I think it's residual, actually -- a byproduct of the stress I've been toting around. While Will's starting kindergarten was a fairly smooth transition for him, it took a toll on me. A new school, new teacher, new routine. I didn't know anyone who would be part of his daily education entourage. Coming from a place where I knew everyone and had settled into a comfortable lull, this was unnerving. And then the cancer scare with my mom -- and since I wasn't supposed to know, I threw on an extra layer of anxiety.
I'm not surprised that Miss Depression saw an opportunity to come in and pay me a call. And I just keep retreating.
Damn, do I hate this. Really hate this. I'm writing in the hopes that I can exorcise some of the demons out, transferring my emotions to the page. Where hopefully they'll stick. And stay.
I'm full of contradictions now -- the siren's call of isolation juxtaposed with feelings of extreme lonliness. The need to make a change and get about the business of being me juxtaposed with apathy and indifference. Self-loathing coupled with selfishness.
I've fought this battle before. I'll come 'round here eventually.
But it will be just a battle that ends.
Not the war. That seems to be everlasting.
At least from where I sit.
8.28.2007
And So It Goes
It's been a very weird seven days around here.
First and foremost, though, is the fact that my mom does not have cancer. Thank goodness. That pesky nodule is just a cyst and a benign one at that. Whew. Breathe out now.
However, before she got that news, she had to attend the funeral of her first boyfriend. Kidney cancer. Tough stuff.
This one was very bittersweet because as it turns out, this fellow was gay. And my mom was his beard for a time, so to speak (however, I would never say this to her, not in this fashion anyway...)
Back in the late 50s, when they were in their youth, being gay wasn't something that was discussed or acknowledged in their crowd, in this community. Lots of pretense, lots of blind eyes. They ended up being good pals, with a friendship that lasted until his death. He became quite reclusive, more because of his personality than anything. But Mama would call him every couple of months or so, just to check in and say hello. They would always talk about meeting for lunch, but when time came to pick a date, he simply "could never make it."
When she called to tell me the news, I asked her if she were alright. She sighed and said no, very honestly. "He fixed me my first martini," she said. And then re-told me the story of how she and her girlfriend went to visit him when he was away at college and they were still in high school. Whistful memories wrapped up in melancholy but with no regret.
I don't know all the nuances of my mom's relationship with this fellow -- and would never ask her. At least not now. But as I watch her experiencing the closing and locking of a door from her past, I have a new appreciation of who she is as a person. And I have to smile just a bit, knowing that having feelings for a closeted gay man does indeed run in the family. But mostly my heart is heavy for her as she watches as part of her youth come to its true and final conclusion. As she remembers what was, without the supposition of what might have been.
First and foremost, though, is the fact that my mom does not have cancer. Thank goodness. That pesky nodule is just a cyst and a benign one at that. Whew. Breathe out now.
However, before she got that news, she had to attend the funeral of her first boyfriend. Kidney cancer. Tough stuff.
This one was very bittersweet because as it turns out, this fellow was gay. And my mom was his beard for a time, so to speak (however, I would never say this to her, not in this fashion anyway...)
Back in the late 50s, when they were in their youth, being gay wasn't something that was discussed or acknowledged in their crowd, in this community. Lots of pretense, lots of blind eyes. They ended up being good pals, with a friendship that lasted until his death. He became quite reclusive, more because of his personality than anything. But Mama would call him every couple of months or so, just to check in and say hello. They would always talk about meeting for lunch, but when time came to pick a date, he simply "could never make it."
When she called to tell me the news, I asked her if she were alright. She sighed and said no, very honestly. "He fixed me my first martini," she said. And then re-told me the story of how she and her girlfriend went to visit him when he was away at college and they were still in high school. Whistful memories wrapped up in melancholy but with no regret.
I don't know all the nuances of my mom's relationship with this fellow -- and would never ask her. At least not now. But as I watch her experiencing the closing and locking of a door from her past, I have a new appreciation of who she is as a person. And I have to smile just a bit, knowing that having feelings for a closeted gay man does indeed run in the family. But mostly my heart is heavy for her as she watches as part of her youth come to its true and final conclusion. As she remembers what was, without the supposition of what might have been.
8.21.2007
Juxtaposition
The High
Kindergarten: Day One
After a rough start (very quiet and shy upon arrival) Young William rocked the house and totally impressed his new teacher. He showed off his counting and ABC skills, spelled his name and pointed out colors.
Tomorrow: nuclear physics and a discertation on the comedies of Shakespeare.
Whew.
The Low
Just got off the phone with my dad. My mother has been scheduled on Friday for a follow-up mammogram and testing because of a suspicious nodule that showed up on her annual mammo.
Breast cancer runs in the family.
She hasn't said anything to me about it, so I'm not supposed to know. (My dad has a BIG mouth -- can't keep a secret.)
Tears are flowing, but I cannot tell the happy from the scared. Intermingling as they stream down my cheeks.
Too many emotions. Too compact a vessel.
Kindergarten: Day One
After a rough start (very quiet and shy upon arrival) Young William rocked the house and totally impressed his new teacher. He showed off his counting and ABC skills, spelled his name and pointed out colors.
Tomorrow: nuclear physics and a discertation on the comedies of Shakespeare.
Whew.
The Low
Just got off the phone with my dad. My mother has been scheduled on Friday for a follow-up mammogram and testing because of a suspicious nodule that showed up on her annual mammo.
Breast cancer runs in the family.
She hasn't said anything to me about it, so I'm not supposed to know. (My dad has a BIG mouth -- can't keep a secret.)
Tears are flowing, but I cannot tell the happy from the scared. Intermingling as they stream down my cheeks.
Too many emotions. Too compact a vessel.
8.20.2007
Origin of My Species
Evolution.
It happens to species. (Yes, even as a church-goin', God-lovin' Christian, I get this.)
It happens to culture. (From Clara Bow to Marilyn Monroe to Paris Hilton...)
It happens to child/parent relationships. Especially as the child (and parent, for that matter) gets older.
I've had two very interesting conversations lately -- one with each of my parents -- that have made me think.
I was chatting with my dad about some family photos I've recently come across. I've been made the defacto family historian and am trying to organize 75 years of chaos into some semblance of order so I can file, document, scan and scrapbook this stuff so that my great-great-great whatever doesn't have to do it. I off-handedly mentioned my nana, my maternal grandmother, and how in awe of her accomplishments I was -- she got her masters in the early 1940s, which was a pretty incredible feat for a woman to achieve at that time. My dad got a really warm tone in his voice as he talked about what great friends he and "Martha P." were. How it used to make my mother so mad when Nana would side with him in a discussion. How they would chat about this that and the other, separate from the rest of us.
I never knew that.
I did realize that they had a nice relationship, but not that they were such good friends. That's really cool to think about -- a man being buddies with his mother-in-law. Speaks volumes for the kinds of people they were and are.
And then today, I was talking to my mother about Will going to kindergarten tomorrow. How I'm a bit anxious, since the teacher I thought he was going to have (and the primary reason for me putting him in this school) is in fact, not going to be his teacher this year, as she's moved up to the next class level. And my good friend has put her little boy into a school other than Will's school, so we're without each other as class moms for the first time. My mom was being very helpful, giving good advice (somehow solicited advice always goes down better with me than the unsolicited kind) and telling me that it's OK for me to be anxious. And a little weapy... even to be more than a little weapy. She told me about dropping me off at kindergarten for the first day and then going to our neighbor's house for coffee and a good cry -- the neighbor having also taken her oldest that morning for his first day of kindergarten.
I never knew that.
For the first time, I can relate to my mother as a mother. Our parenting paths have been remarkably different, as hers was pretty standard issue, and mine -- not so much. But at this moment, we can share a common emotion -- the sending of our baby off to "real" school for the first time.
I'm rather liking learning these new little tidbits about my folks. It's helping me to see the nuances of their different components. Daddy as a son-in-law; Mother as, well, a mother. Although I'm not sure I'm ready to be as disclosing -- there are still some things they're not ready for. Like the time I took this road trip...
That one'll be for another time on another day. I'm not quite that evolved yet.
It happens to species. (Yes, even as a church-goin', God-lovin' Christian, I get this.)
It happens to culture. (From Clara Bow to Marilyn Monroe to Paris Hilton...)
It happens to child/parent relationships. Especially as the child (and parent, for that matter) gets older.
I've had two very interesting conversations lately -- one with each of my parents -- that have made me think.
I was chatting with my dad about some family photos I've recently come across. I've been made the defacto family historian and am trying to organize 75 years of chaos into some semblance of order so I can file, document, scan and scrapbook this stuff so that my great-great-great whatever doesn't have to do it. I off-handedly mentioned my nana, my maternal grandmother, and how in awe of her accomplishments I was -- she got her masters in the early 1940s, which was a pretty incredible feat for a woman to achieve at that time. My dad got a really warm tone in his voice as he talked about what great friends he and "Martha P." were. How it used to make my mother so mad when Nana would side with him in a discussion. How they would chat about this that and the other, separate from the rest of us.
I never knew that.
I did realize that they had a nice relationship, but not that they were such good friends. That's really cool to think about -- a man being buddies with his mother-in-law. Speaks volumes for the kinds of people they were and are.
And then today, I was talking to my mother about Will going to kindergarten tomorrow. How I'm a bit anxious, since the teacher I thought he was going to have (and the primary reason for me putting him in this school) is in fact, not going to be his teacher this year, as she's moved up to the next class level. And my good friend has put her little boy into a school other than Will's school, so we're without each other as class moms for the first time. My mom was being very helpful, giving good advice (somehow solicited advice always goes down better with me than the unsolicited kind) and telling me that it's OK for me to be anxious. And a little weapy... even to be more than a little weapy. She told me about dropping me off at kindergarten for the first day and then going to our neighbor's house for coffee and a good cry -- the neighbor having also taken her oldest that morning for his first day of kindergarten.
I never knew that.
For the first time, I can relate to my mother as a mother. Our parenting paths have been remarkably different, as hers was pretty standard issue, and mine -- not so much. But at this moment, we can share a common emotion -- the sending of our baby off to "real" school for the first time.
I'm rather liking learning these new little tidbits about my folks. It's helping me to see the nuances of their different components. Daddy as a son-in-law; Mother as, well, a mother. Although I'm not sure I'm ready to be as disclosing -- there are still some things they're not ready for. Like the time I took this road trip...
That one'll be for another time on another day. I'm not quite that evolved yet.
8.14.2007
Growing Pains
My baby is growing up. Right before my eyes.
Next week, he starts kindergarten. Cannot believe it. Yes, he's been in school for the past two and a half years -- but there's a big difference between Pre-K and full strength kindergarten.
I also heard him singing a medley of '80s songs earlier today, while playing with his trucks. It was a bit of Eddie Money's "Take Me Home Tonight" with Human League's "Don't You Want Me Baby." Apparently he was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar and wants you to take him home tonight because don't you want him baby. He's five, by the way.
And this morning, while I was helping him brush his teeth after breakfast, I noticed something that looked like a stubborn bit of oatmeal in his teeth. Turns out it's a grown-up tooth. And the one in front of it (front bottom lower) is a'wigglin'.
He's not a baby anymore. *Sob*
Next week, he starts kindergarten. Cannot believe it. Yes, he's been in school for the past two and a half years -- but there's a big difference between Pre-K and full strength kindergarten.
I also heard him singing a medley of '80s songs earlier today, while playing with his trucks. It was a bit of Eddie Money's "Take Me Home Tonight" with Human League's "Don't You Want Me Baby." Apparently he was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar and wants you to take him home tonight because don't you want him baby. He's five, by the way.
And this morning, while I was helping him brush his teeth after breakfast, I noticed something that looked like a stubborn bit of oatmeal in his teeth. Turns out it's a grown-up tooth. And the one in front of it (front bottom lower) is a'wigglin'.
He's not a baby anymore. *Sob*
8.02.2007
End Too Soon
On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are how fragile we are
~ Gordon Sumner
The friend of a friend killed himself Monday. He was an acclaimed news producer, winning award and accolades for his work. He apparently was despondent over many things, including being fired from his job last fall for alcohol and pain pill addiction and being estranged from his wife. Those around him said he was a man lost, evidenced by the pain and emptiness on his face.
My friend is hurting. He and this fellow were buddies when they were in their 20s, about 20 years ago, doing all those things that guys that age do. And, as so often happens, they lost touch when time and life and distance caught up with them. My pal said that this man was creative and talented and charasmatic -- the memories of him were still tinged with the residue of that cloak of invincibility that we so often grab on to when we are that age.
My heart aches for my friend. He's far away -- lives in Toronto -- so all I can do is administer some TLC long distance. I cannot imagine what he's going through, as I've not lost a peer who I was close to at one time or another. But I am doing some pondering of my own. About priorities and how we define ourselves and what makes us tick and in turn, what might make the ticking stop.
It's sobering. And sad. And a little scary. He was only 45 years old.
Makes you think, doesn't it.
Like tears from a star like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are how fragile we are
~ Gordon Sumner
The friend of a friend killed himself Monday. He was an acclaimed news producer, winning award and accolades for his work. He apparently was despondent over many things, including being fired from his job last fall for alcohol and pain pill addiction and being estranged from his wife. Those around him said he was a man lost, evidenced by the pain and emptiness on his face.
My friend is hurting. He and this fellow were buddies when they were in their 20s, about 20 years ago, doing all those things that guys that age do. And, as so often happens, they lost touch when time and life and distance caught up with them. My pal said that this man was creative and talented and charasmatic -- the memories of him were still tinged with the residue of that cloak of invincibility that we so often grab on to when we are that age.
My heart aches for my friend. He's far away -- lives in Toronto -- so all I can do is administer some TLC long distance. I cannot imagine what he's going through, as I've not lost a peer who I was close to at one time or another. But I am doing some pondering of my own. About priorities and how we define ourselves and what makes us tick and in turn, what might make the ticking stop.
It's sobering. And sad. And a little scary. He was only 45 years old.
Makes you think, doesn't it.
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