Friday, November 30, 2007

A Tale of Two Contract Offers

Today, the AMPTP (Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers -- the group that reps the studios and mini-majors) is giving itself a firm clap on the back for what it calls a "contract offer," so much so that they felt the need to send it via lot-wide e-mail so we could see how generous and giving companies like Fox and Paramount can be -- apparently forgetting for one wild, impetuous moment that we who work here have had our own contract negotiations with these companies, so we know exactly how they roll. The WGA has issued its own viewpoint of the offer, and precisely what it does and does not promise.

The AMPTP loves to talk about how, on average, screen and television writers are some of the highest wage earners in America. This is simply not true. Let me repeat that. Simply. Not. True. As in, false. As in a fucking bald-faced lie.

The truth about this industry is that, much like in SAG or the Directors' Guild, or the rest of the country, for that matter, the top 2% of the wage earners in the union earn about 95% of the money that's being made. That means that the remaining 5% or so is divided amongst the vast majority of the WGA membership. How much per writer do you thing that comes to? In short, less than 15% of writers make they're livings only as writers. Most have "day jobs" in order to pay the bills.

Furthermore, the AMPTP is on a desperate campaign to link internet residual sales to those of DVDs. Wanna know how much the average writer -- the person who wrote the screenplay for the movie that is being sold on DVD -- gets per every DVD copy sold? One third of of one percent. That's one third of one penny per every DVD copy sold. My dear friend Matt Greenberg has written several movies that have fared quite well in DVD sales, including "Reign of Fire," "Halloween H2O," and the just-released-on-DVD "1408." And yet he has seen very little money for these DVD releases, though they have been quite profitable for the studios.

The amount of money that the WGA is asking for has been made to sound like a fortune by the AMPTP. But it is, in reality, a pittance compared to the vast profits that these companies are raking in, both in DVD sales and over the internet. It is the expressed desire of these mega-corporations to "break the unions," so that they can return Hollywood to the days where actors, writers and directors were little more than slave labor. Writers from that era are overwhelming supportive of the current strike, though most of them are now retired. They know what a Hollywood without collective bargaining agreements is like.

This "offer" is no offer. It's a photo-op at best, no matter how the AMPTP chooses to paint it.

~C~
For more on the WGA stance on the strike, see these videos:
And Zoo Milk's take on what life (and television) will be like if the WGA strike goes on too long:

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

The "Myth" of Global Warming

I was reading a rather frightening article about a Northern Ireland salmon farm which was wiped out this week by an unprecedented attack of billions of jellyfish on the penned salmon. By the time workers wended their way through hordes of jellyfish, the entire salmon farm population was dead or dying from stings.

Sad, sad story, made even sadder when one anthropomorphizes the salmon and then imagines them penned like sitting (you should pardon the expression) ducks, whilst the (also anthropomorphized) rapacious and senselessly violent jellyfish (who probably are products of a bad upbringing and too much television) set upon them in a spectacular thrill-kill.

But this was the paragraph that pulled me up short and brought me back from my Lord-of-the-Jellyfish-Flies fantasyfest:

"The species of jellyfish responsible, Pelagia nocticula -- popularly known as the mauve stinger -- is noted for its purplish night-time glow and its propensity for terrorizing bathers in the warmer Mediterranean Sea. Until the past decade, the mauve stinger has rarely been spotted so far north in British or Irish waters, and scientists cite this as evidence of global warming."
Gee. Ya think? No. Really. Ya think maybe? What used to be the difference in temperature between the Mediterranean and the Irish Sea was the thing that sent tens of thousands of Brits packing for Costa del Sol and the south of France every year. Now, today, there's so little difference in the temperature between the two water bodies that jellyfish that require warm water to live have no problem collecting there (in great, gaping, roiling, homicidal numbers, apparently).

I'm pretty sure the planet Earth is broken. I'm pretty sure we broke it. And I'm almost positive that we've waited too long to fix it.

(sigh)

~C~

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Nice To See He's Spending Time on the Really Important Issues.

Bush outlines plan to ease travel delays

It's so sweet. He took time out of his hectic schedule to outline a plan. Like someone else in the government -- like, say, in the Department of Transportation -- couldn't have done that just as well. So good to know that the White House Administration is busying itself with the truly important business at hand, such as easing congestion in airports during the holidays, rather than frittering its time away on frivolous matters, such as healthcare for the poor, a souring economy and... oh, yeah...
THE FUCKING WAR IN IRAQ!!!!!
(Dear Mother of ever-lovin' God, Please kindly help us survive the next 433 days of this supremely stupid, soulless jackass. Thanks ever so. Best to Joe and the kids.)

~C~

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

The Last Gift She'll Give Him

I never have known quite what to make of Sandra Day O'Connor. I admire that she was the first woman appointed to the Supreme Court, and that she slipped into that robe with a tremendous amount of dignity and personal integrity. But clearly, her politics are not my politics.

Though never coming out directly against Roe v. Wade, as is now the fashion of the Alitos and the Robertses of the Court, some of her first rulings opened the door to allow states to interfere with a woman's right to abortion. In her opinion, she said states could pass laws that interfered with a woman's right to her own body, as long as those laws didn't place "undue burden" on the woman. That uncorked the genie from the legislative bottle which produced prior parental and spousal consent laws, laws stipulating waiting periods, laws requiring "educational programs" (usually consisting of many photos of mutilated dead baby corpses), etc., etc.

Still, as much as I resented her rulings with regard to abortion, sexual discrimination cases and (lest we never forget) Bush v. Gore, I couldn't help but admire the fact that her rulings throughout her judicial career, were kind of... well... all over the political map. Appointed by Ronald Reagan in 1981, she was to have been the conservative "sure thing," casting votes along a conservative party line that forced the court into a right-leaning body. In practice, though, Day O'Connor proved unpredictable and, at times, downright capricious. She proved particularly bothersome to conservatives in issues involving the separation of church and state, and in decisions where the use of the death penalty was controversial (such as the execution of the mentally handicapped and minors). Conservatives found her an untrustworthy enigmatic, and liberals found her an occasional uneasy ally. Clearly, Day O'Connor looked at each case put before her as a new opportunity to test state and federal law against the only measure that ought to applied to any law -- its Constitutionality.

Always a bit aloof and austere in her appearance, but still attractive in a grandmotherly way, Day O'Connor was always the picture perfect representative for what the court should be -- a smart, educated, open-minded expert in the principles on which this country was founded, driven by desire to keep us on the right track. Disagree with her or not, you could never accuse her of carrying someone else's water.

When she retired in 2004, Day O'Connor cited her husband, John's, then-13-year battle with Alzheimers Disease. His condition was deteriorating, by all accounts, and she was needed at home to care for him. She retired, and we heard little from her. Until today, that is, when CNN ran this story about her husband, John, whose disease has progressed sufficiently that it became necessary earlier this year to place him in an assisted living facility. O'Connor reacted so negatively to his institutionalization that he began to talk about suicide, according to the O'Connors' son, Scott. But in an odd, and apparently not uncommon turn of events, Justice Day O'Connor's husband has fallen in love with a fellow patient at the facility. As Alzheimers patients live longer and longer, and drugs that slow the progression of the disease become more and more prevalent, this is happening more and more. Patients' dementia advances to the point that they literally have forgotten their spouses, and so fall in love with fellow patients, who are nearby and more readily available every day.

Scott O'Connor says that his father's attitude has improved dramatically, that he is no longer talking of ending his life. Even more surprising, the son reports that the former Supreme Court justice is not jealous at this turn of events. She is, he says, just grateful that her husband has finally found something at his new residence that makes him happy and comfortable. Setting aside all romantic ideas of afterschool and disease-of-the-week t.v. movies, the truth about dementia is it robs people of themselves and those they love a bit at time over the long haul by destroying the continuity of relationships. What on earth do you do if the man you love, that you joined your life with over a half century ago, that you bore and reared three children with, hugged and cuddled grandchildren with, slept beside for decades, suddenly doesn't know you? I couldn't tell you what I'd do.

If you're Sandra Day O'Connor, though, you apparently do what you've always done when faced with a tough case. You think about it rationally and calmly, you keep your wits about you, you keep your mind open and mouth shut, and you do the only thing your conscience will let you do. With all her education and her smarts and her good intentions, she couldn't save her life partner from this horrible thing that ravaged their lives for nearly two decades. The thing she could do was to give him a gift as his life winds down. Maybe the best gift you can give a person. Maybe the same gift she's always given him, though we who live outside their marriage will never know that. She's given him the gift of a brand new love, a love which requires neither history nor shared memory to bind it.

It only solidifies my respect for her. For all my gnashing of teeth over some of her rulings, I am grateful (in this season of approaching thankfulness), if we as women had to wait so long for a woman to sit on the highest court in the land, that the first one to wear those robes was Sandra Day O'Connor, with her bearing and her poise, with her open mind and her sharp, critical common sense, and, yes, even with her right-leaning principles. Because at least she has them. Principles, that is to say. And a glimpse at the Court without her makes it clear that not all who now wear those robes do have them.

I wish Sandra Day O'Connor and her family all the peace and serenity in these upcoming difficult months (perhaps years) that they can find.

And I wish the same for you all as well.

~C~

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

I'm Published.

The newly minted MySpace lit journal, Nouveau Blank, has published one of my short stories, entitled Til We Come Round Right, for it's November issue. This could be the beginning of a trend -- where I actually make the effort to submit my work, and, occasionally, people actually take the time and trouble to publish it.

Hmmmm...

Enjoy.

~C~

Thursday, October 18, 2007

IF THE BLOG FITS

As promised in yesterday's post, I tried to personalize my donation website provided by Team-in-Training, but it is pretty limited. It is still the place to go to donate, and it's set up well for that. But it doesn't allow me to whine to the desire I choose.

So I've created a new blog -- TriCathLete -- in which I will sob and cry my way through share the process of competing in the Toyota Desert Triathlon Sprint in April of 2008. It's still inventing itself. But I'll try and make this process as entertaining as possible, for both of us.

Check it out. Then wait a couple of weeks, and check it out again, when it's likely to be MUCH more interesting.

~C~

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Taking One for the Team (In Training, That Is).

(Cross-posted at Naked Voodoo Chicken Dance and MySpace)
No turning back now. I've started training for the Desert Triathlon Sprint event on April 20, 2008 in La Quinta, California. I am officially a member of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's Westside Team-in-Training, or, as my sister and her endurance sports friends call them, "The Purple People." TIT is the athletic event fundraising arm of the association (there are a couple of different fundraising methods LLS uses regularly).

LLS, in case you don't know, provides funding for research, treatment and support services for people suffering from blood cancers, including Hodgkin lymphoma, non-Hodgkin lymphoma, myeloma and leukemias. It is is a very worthy cause, and it is my goal to raise $3400 for LLS between now and the end of March. I have already donated $100 to my own cause (lest you think I'm not willing to put my money where my hamstrings are). $3,300 to go.

I will be training for the Sprint distance of the Triathlon -- that's a 450-meter swim, a 14-mile bike ride and a 5K run. It ends up being about half the distance of a full Olympic or International distance tri. I figured as a newbie, this would probably be the best way to break into it. I have discovered, though, that I actually enjoy training this hard in a lot of ways, that it's pretty good for me, especially emotionally, and that I may actually (do I dare allow myself to believe?) be kind of good at it. I won't be finishing first, by any stretch, but I will be finishing. I like cross-training a lot, and it seems to fit my ADD with a precision heretofore unknown in past athletic events.

This is my Team-in-Training website, (yes, I go by my middle name, Amanda) which I haven't really personalized much (except with a photo). I will be rewriting my little intro (as I'm sure many of you have already guessed) and will be posting better, more relevant photos ("see Catharine running," "see Catharine on bike," etc.) I will be also updating it in terms of my how my training is progressing ("see Catharine keel over," "see Catharine gasp for air, while simultaneously begging for her mommy," etc.) It is the means by which donations can be made, if you should feel so inclined. (I'll be nagging more about this later, because it's a noble cause and because, well, I happen to be a fairly annoying and tenacious person.)

So... tomorrow is our first team swim practice. I haven't done any serious swimming in a very long time. I hope I don't come off a total doofus. In fact, let's say a collective prayer together, shall we?

"Dear (insert relevant personal Higher Power here):

Please don't let Catharine look like a total doofus tomorrow when she swims on Thursday.

Kind regards.

Yours, sincerely,

(your name here)"

Thanks for your support.

~C~

HE JUST MAKES IT TOO EASY, DAMMIT!

President Bush Praises the Dalai Lama as a Symbol of Peace

Seriously... I'd write a post on this... but... what more is there to say, but to point out the hideously heinous irony?

I ask you.

This is why I turned to MySpace, people.

I can't take it anymore.

~C~

Sunday, October 07, 2007

Why On Earth Would MoveOn.Org Think He Was a Betrayer?

CNN Headline: Petraeus: Iran Still Fueling War In Iraq.

Could it possibly be because, with every passing week, he turns more and more into the White House's Chief Bitch in Uniform?

Yeah.

Maybe that's it.

~C~

Sunday, September 02, 2007

Is It Hot Out Here, or Is It Gabriela Montero?

(cross-posted at MySpace blog)

The answer to both questions last night at the Hollywood Bowl last night was, "yes." Last night, for the first time in the nearly forty years of attending the Hollywood Bowl (including the three seasons I worked there as an usher), I've sat the entire concert in a cotton t-shirt and no blanket, and was still hot. The "cool vortex" that is the Hollywood Bowl failed to deliver last night with respect to the climate.

With respect to the music, though, the Bowl didn't disappoint. It was Tchaikovsky-and-fireworks night, performed by a shirt-sleeved L.A. Phil (thank God, since I'm sure the sight of a jacket or bow tie would have been too much to bear), lead by very enthusiastic and charming conductor, Thomas Wilkins, a man who clearly loves his job.

The program consisted of most of Tchaikovsky's best known, best loved work, beginning with the Festival Coronation March. Then, Wilkins brought out the evening's soloist, Venezuelan pianist Gabriela Montero, to play the notorious Piano Concerto No. 1. Sopranos have certain solos -- the Queen of the Night aria, the arias from Abduction of the Seraglio, and anything by Wagner -- that are spoken of in dreaded hushed whispers. To pianists, Tchaikovsky's Pioano concerto No. 1 must be the same. I haven't played the piano since I was nine, but I can tell -- it's tough. Montero was amazing, never missing a beat. Bowl audiences aren't the most sophisticated music fans, and you always get the occasional wave of applause between movements (a no-no, folks, in case you were wondering). Last night, it was unavoidable. After the first movement, we were so enthralled, we had to applaud. When she'd finished with the piece, she got a standing ovation, and agreed to perform a small encore. Montero is known for her improvisational abilities (see her website for more detail). Principal cellist Peter Stumpf played a brief theme, and Ms. Montero proceeded to improvise a thrilling and amusing piece around it, which included elements of classical, jazz and latin influences. It was such a treat. She really was astounding. I'm considering becoming a weird, creepy stalker fan, if I can work it into my schedule.

The second act consisted of Tchaikovsky dances, starting with the famous waltz from the ballet Sleeping Beauty, known to parents of girls everywhere as Once Upon A Dream, from the Disney animated feature. The Act 1 pas de deux from Swan Lake was next (not one of my favorite pieces, actually), and finally the Dance of the Buffoons, incidental music from The Snow Maiden. It was lovely. In the interests of full disclosure, I was eating dessert at the time, so anything might have seemed lovely.

But the event that everyone waits for on Tchaikovsky night is the 1812 Overture, and the reenactment of the Russian victory over Napoleon. (Spoiler alert: Napoleon gets his ass kicked. Every time.) The USC marching band provided the extra brass required for the piece, and the pyrotechnicians took a slightly different tack than in previous years. They set the Bowl on fire. I didn't get the idea to take digital photos until I saw someone else doing it (the one benefit digital has over film -- the "Fireworks" setting), so I missed capturing the moment when the rim of the procenium was aflame. It was indescribable. I'll remember next time, I promise. But I did get a couple of nifty fireworks shots for you.

Other things I missed photographing were the white waning gibbous moon, rising over the eastern hills and the stars directly overhead. The heat was so bad all day that it broke the inversion layer and the air was quite clear last night, leaving the city lights on both sides of the hills (Hollywood and the Valley) brilliant. Because of my responsibilities last year, I wasn't able to go to the Bowl at all, when I usually attend two to three times a summer. Last night was my first Bowl trip in over a year. Way too long. If I were ever to move away from Los Angeles, I'd have to plan a trip back every year to go to the Bowl a few times. It's one of my favorite places on the planet.

Sorry you couldn't all be there with me. But there just wasn't enough dessert.

~C~

Friday, August 31, 2007

Ten Years Ago

Nine years and fifty weeks ago, I was lucky enough to be able to take an unexpected vacation to Shropshire, England to visit a friend. In the evenings, my host and I would sit on the couch, watching the evening news. I'd joked when I got there that perhaps we should pop in and see Di while we're here. She'd given her famous "People's Princess" interview not long before, and I said, since she was so hellbent on just being regular folk, I was sure it would be okay, as long as we brought a bundt cake. Diana wasn't in England when I was there. She was pictured in news reports, gingerly walking through landmine fields in foreign lands. Ah, well. Good thing, I suppose, since bundt cakes are not as common as one would think in Great Britain on short notice, and I was staying in the home of a man whose idea of cooking was anything that would fit in the deep fryer. After staying a glorious week in the West Country, I flew home, landing at home on August 24, 1997. I spent the next week recovering from a ghastly case of jet lag (I hit the ground running in Europe, but have a bad problem coming home).

On the morning of August 31, 1997, I got out of bed feeling wonderful. Before turning on the television, I went to the computer and to ICQ, to check in with my British host and tell him that I was finally getting over my conflict with the time/space continuum. He'd sent me a message containing one sentence:

"Poor woman. They just couldn't leave her alone, and now they've run her straight into the grave."

That's when I turned on the television. I spent the next several days, watching the most amazing, frightening, over-the-top open expression of grief by the British people I've ever seen. I come from British stock. England is my home-away-from-home. I know these folks. After three days of weepy, soppy Brits, I was ready to kind of the slap them, a la Cher, and scream, "Snap out of it!" Not right, I know, but they were beginning to frighten me. I watched the funeral in real time, and had to go through the jetlag recovery process all over again.

I've never been much of a fan of Diana. I'm still not (I'm more of a Camilla fan myself). For all the hubbub over the much hated papparazzi, there were a million little things that she and Dodi could have done to make sure they were safe. Fastening seatbelts would have been a start (it is worth noting that the only person who fastened his seatbelt in the car, bodyguard Trevor Rees-Jones, survived the crash, and he was sitting in the front passenger seat, the most dangerous seat in a car during a front-end crash). Not hiring a chauffeur with a long-known drug and alcohol problem would have been another. Frankly (and not to speak ill of the dead), Diana used the press as much as they used her (I refer back to the "People's Princess" interview), and to blame the press solely for an accident that was caused by excessive speed and a drunk driver is patently ridiculous.

None of that, of course, takes away from the brutal sadness of her death. Diana was not my favorite celebrity. But I believe at her core, for all her insecurity and narcissism, she was a decent person who wanted to use her royal cache to do more than open government buildings and prance around in parades three times a year. She took on hard issues, like AIDS and landmines and children's poverty in the world. She touched people and made them love their Britishness again. She shamed the inert royal family into putting their energies to some good use and dragged them kicking and screaming into the 21st Century.

She left behind her two smart, handsome sons who learned far too young that being born rich and titled is no innoculation against loss, grief and misery. I believe it has instilled them with a sense of duty and responsibility to carry on with the example of good works their mother started. In another way, by leaving the void of a lost mother, it forced their father to step forward and finish the job of raising them -- something that must have been very difficult for him prior to Diana's death, as she was, it is well-rumored, loathe to let them spend time with him while he was consorting with her hated rival, Camilla. Charles, who lacked Diana's charisma and fashion sense, had a tougher row to hoe when it came to being considered a good father. But he has, by all accounts, stepped into that role remarkably, giving his sons both a sense of their obligation and of their heritage, while being a fairly warm and involved father. The boys have even made their peace with his wife, Camilla, which can only be good for the future of the royal family.

Ten years ago, two handsome people made a capricious snap decision to get into a car driven by a drunkard through a dastardly tunnel at speeds that even most French wouldn't drive, and a few minutes later, the world was caught up in a drama. Perhaps Diana was destined to live on in people's memories forever young and beautiful, a perennial photo-op of the mind. While she and Dodi probably would have ended their fling in a few months had they lived, they are locked in an unofficial marriage of memories and nostalgia, destined to live on in a haze of tragic mishap. Today is the day the British remember that, with a bit more of the composure and reserve to which we're accustomed, we hope.
~C~

Monday, July 23, 2007

Okay, Everybody, Just... Breeeeathe....

I love me some animals. I am a big-time animal lover. Regular readers of this blog don't have to be told this. I have cats, have had dogs, used to be owned by a horse, lived on good terms with a snake and two Oriental firebelly toads.... I love animals. I especially love and feel protective of pit bulls, one of the most maligned, misused and misunderstood breeds in existence (the truth, ladies and germs, is that -- when not raised to be mean by callous, inhumane owners -- they are big, fat babydolls, with terrier smarts, bulldog loyalty and compassion and enough energy to light the city of Minneapolis for a week).

It seems that Atlanta Falcons' quarterback Michael Vick is, according to the police, deeply ensconced in a dogfighting ring that purchased, trained and fought dogs using Vick's money, and used facilities built on property he owned. The evidence is pretty damning to be sure. The police seem to have put together a strong case against Vick. Protestors for PETA and other animal rights groups are demanding that Vick be released from his contract with the Falcons.

Here's my problem. He hasn't been convicted yet. I don't care how much evidence you collect against someone, or how guilty they appear to be, until they're convicted in a court of law, neither the Falcons, nor PETA, nor any individual or group in this country, has the right to treat Vick as if he had already been found guilty. I'm deeply, profoundly disturbed by the rush to simply do away with due process so everybody can feel better about everything. On the day that Vick is convicted, or decides to change his plea from guilty to not guilty, then everyone can demand that he be treated as a convicted criminal (because he will be one). But until then, our Constitution (pesky little document that it is) keeps insisting that Vick is innocent until that wonderfully prolific evidence against him has been presented for consideration to a jury of his peers.

The dogs are out of harm's way, people. The ring is out of operation. So let's let the law do what it's supposed to, and either coax a change of plea or prosecute to the fullest the crime before us. But let's stop treating Vick as if he's already had his day in court.

~C~

Sunday, July 08, 2007

MORPHINE AND CHOCOLATE

My father has been ill for quite some time. As many of you know, I moved in to his house to care for him for several months, until my sister took over those duties in February. He was suffering from chronic obstructive pulminary disease and amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (Lou Gehrig's Disease).
He finally let go early this morning. He went peacefully, with no pain. Penny was periodically spooning chocolate sorbet onto his tongue so he'd pass away with the taste of chocolate in his mouth.
Hence the title of this post.

Thanks to all of you who gave us your words of support and encouragement these very difficult past few weeks.
JACK BURKE SOWARDS
March 18, 1929 - July 8, 2007

~C~

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Energy Can Neither Be Created Nor Destroyed

I heard a quick mention of this, and went hunting for the whole story. Unfortunately, I confirmed it quickly, on his own website.

Don Herbert, a.k.a. Mr. Wizard, died of cancer on Tuesday, a month before what would have been his 90th birthday. Most of you guys are too young to remember him. I'm almost too young to remember him, except that, as the child of a single mother, the television was my babysitter. In the days before Josie and the Pussycats and Scooby-Do, Where Are You?, Satureday morning were about three things:

1) Fury
2) Watch Mr. Wizard
3) Bugs Bunny

All of that was over by about 10 am, and then, it was "go outside and play" time, until sundown. New shows in the Watch Mr. Wizard series were produced until '65, but I recall reruns going for some time after that, because I'm pretty sure I was nearly ten when I was still watching.

Because I'm late to this news, I will simply refer you to two other excellent articles on him -- His official obit in the NY Times, and Marty Kaplan's gushy-but-sweet tribute at Huffington Post.

Don Herbert represents a time in America's history (late 50s - early 60s) when being smart wasn't considered "elite," and being folksy-stupid wasn't considered "cute." It was a time when, as the "greatest country on Earth," we were expected to know stuff and act on it appropriately. Herbert, along with his brave little assistant, Timmy, embodied that. Even for those of us who never went into the sciences professionally, he sparked a curiousity in how things worked, why they did what they did, and how we could impact or preserve the process. He birthed an entire generation of science geeks -- both professional and amateur -- and many of us have moved on to pass the curiosity and love of science, biology and physics on to our children.

So, here's another farewell to Don Herbert, from someone who watched Mr. Wizard.

~A~

Thursday, June 07, 2007

You Say You Want a Meh-Volution!

Behold the sketchy-type picture to your left. This is Sarah Harkness, artistic director and founder of Meh-Tropolis Dance Theatre (which I may have mentioned a time or two in the past... like here... and here.... and here... oh, and also here, too.). Sarah has magical powers. No, really, I swear. I can prove it.

She made me dance. On stage. In front of people. For several performances. Without having a nervous breakdown.

Let's be clear about this. I don't dance. Don't ask me. I have danced in the past. If you perform any type of musical theatre, prepare to have to move to music. It's a given. And while I can get from one end of the stage to another without falling into the orchestra pit, I... do... not... dance.... I "move well." (<-euphemism for a musical theater actor who can get from one end of the stage to the other without falling into the orchestra pit.) But it's not easy, and it's often not pretty. In the wrong hands, my dancing could mean the end of Western civilization as we know it.

And, still, Sarah Harkness made me dance. Such a miracle, had it been performed in 17th Century France, would surely have gotten her burned at the stake as a witch. But we're not in 17th Century France, by God. We're in 21st Century Los Angeles, and that makes us lucky. Why? Because next week, Sarah's dance company (where she and her fellow choreography witches use their magical powers on real live dancers) will be performing their annual repertory concert and silent auction, Meh-Volution.

The concert is a fundraiser, both to support the continuation of Meh-tropolis, but also, for the benefit of the National MS Society (a cause near and dear to my heart, as many of you know).

One of the best part of coming to the repertory concert is that you get a taste of a lot of different things that Meh-tropolis does. It's a very ecclectic dance company, which is not above mixing classical ballet and jazz, modern, martial arts and hip-hop ("Hammertime!") to make their statement. I have never -- and I mean, NEVER -- brought anyone to one of the shows who didn't leave absolutely raving. A good time is guaranteed for all.

What: Meh-Volution: Repertory Concert and Silent Auction for Meh-tropolis Dance Theatre
When: June 13 - June 16th (two shows on the 16th)
Where: The Strub Theatre (click here for map on campus)
Loyola Marymount University (click here for map to University)
1 LMU Dr.
Foley Building
Los Angeles, CA 90045

Tickets can be ordered by phone (310) 838-2236.

See you there.

~C~

P.S. To watch some videos of past performances, check out their MySpace here.

Friday, May 18, 2007

Stop The Presses!

An arts program in Los Angeles needs our support! Self Help Graphics and Arts, a program that supports Latinos artists in printmaking. The East L.A. arts center has felt the bite of reduced federal and private-sector grant money (since we have this great big war we have to pay for), and is on the verge of having to close its doors. Self Help is seeking alternate sources of grant money, but, as anyone who has applied for artistic or academic grants knows, this is a lengthy process that will require time -- time Self Help doesn't have at the moment.

One look at the samples of their past exhibits will tell you this is would be a huge loss for the arts in this city. Exhibits aside, take a gander at their building! With every passing year, art programs that aren't a part of the entertainment industry (live theatre, live dance, visual arts programs) are vanishing because conservative political forces conspire to syphon funds away from the NEA and local arts sponsors. Programs are being eliminated in our public schools and state-funded universities, and the people feeling this most acutely are people in economically challenged areas. Less grant money means less opportunity for struggling new artists who cannot afford to sponsor their own shows and display and promote their own work, especially in predominantly minority communities. Nothing marginalizes a community more than silencing its artistic voice.

Self Help's website speaks for itself, so I won't ramble on about it. They provide support for artists who might not otherwise find a venue for their work, and gives them the skills and opportunity to get that work shown publicly. That warrants saving. As someone who isn't a visual artist (but plays one on the computer), I ask you to do whatever you can to assist Self Help in reaching its $100K fundraising goal. I know that you guys are being pulled in a lot of directions, moneywise, but a lot of small gifts can go a long way.

Thanks.

~C~

Monday, April 23, 2007

Dancing Fools

If you're Los Angeles-based, here's an interesting little something to do this weekend. Meh-tropolis Dance Theatre is performing at the Del Rey Theatre at Loyola University this weekend. Meh-tropolis' artistic director is Sarah Harkness, who choreographed me in a show about a year and a half ago. She actually made me look good. (Sing? Yes. Act? You betcha. Dance? Uhh... not so much.) So you can imagine what she and her other choreographers can do with REAL dancers. I've brought people (some of them near kicking and screaming) to Meh-tropolis performances, and they never failed to gush afterward. <- not hyperbole, I swear!

If you can catch the performances, April 26 through April 28, you won't be sorry. The Del Rey is a really nice theatre -- big enough to have a true "theatre" ambience, but with that close, intimate feeling that small university theatres have. Tickets are $10 dollars a pop. TEN DOLLARS, people. You can't even see a movie for ten dollars, and nothing good is playing anyway.

Come... rediscover live dance theatre. I promise you won't be sorry.

~C~

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

When the World is So Unbearably Sad...

... words seem so hard to come by. (UPDATE: I did manage to express myself a little more specifically on this topic on Helium.com, in my article, THE TAO OF "I DON'T WANT TO KNOW.")

My heart aches for the parents and loved ones who lost their children in Virginia on Monday. How they will survive this, what will sustain them, I can only barely imagine. I could just kick the news media for giving that utter waste of human DNA that did this horrible thing the publicity and press saturation he so desperately wanted and could never have attained another way. I beseech you all to forget this loser asswipe and only to remember the lives of those he took, of people who were so far above him in every possible respect, he doesn't deserve to share the same memory space.

But most of all, I'd like to humbly request that everybody who wants to blame Virginia Tech administration and security for the way they handled the situation following the dorm shootings to kindly sit down and shut the hell up. The gift of 20/20 hindsight in such a case is invaluable. Unfortunately, the administrators of the University, who apparently had misplaced their divining rods and crystal balls, failed to predict that the guy who killed two people in a dorm would come back TWO HOURS LATER, and attack people in several classrooms, a half-mile away. Neither I nor you nor any reasonable, sane person could have, would have anticipated such an insane, brutal turn of events. People in charge do the best they can under difficult circumstances, like trying to figure out how to deal with a double homicide in one of their dorms. Trying to assuage our grief and desperation at their expense, by blaming them for choices they made in an unimaginably horrific scenario seems so unnecessarily petty and mean as to be almost -- dare I say it? -- evil.

Everybody's a fucking strategic genius once the shooting's stopped, and I don't know about you all, but I've got no stomach for Tuesday-morning quarterbacking at the moment.

~C~

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Bad News Is Good News.

Don't get me wrong. I'm really happy for Larry Birkhead. I'm happy for DannieLynn Smith. I am. I hope that father and daughter are reunited at the earliest possible opportunity. I'm really glad that Howard K. Stern wasn't the biological father of the baby -- if for no other reason than her personal safety. I mean, Stern may not be responsible for the deaths of Anna Nicole Smith and her son, Daniel, but at the very least, he is the biggest freakin' jonah I've ever seen. To the best of our knowledge, no one has dropped dead in Larry Birkhead's presence in the past two years or so, and I feel better about the baby's odds for survival because of it.

Here's my problem with CNN's cover page. A glance at this screen shot of CNN will document what I believe is the problem with today' cultural environment. Please note big picture and headline of Larry Birkhead, arms raised in celebratory glee. Please note also that, in little tiny letters to the left of the screen, three news items appear regarding an insurgent uprising in Baghdad, Congressional subpoenas issued to the Attorney General's office for documents, and Bush's unwillingness to pull his head out of his ass and deal with the fact that he's already lost his war.

CNN knows what the American people want. And what they want is dead Anna Nicole Smith and her baby and her baby's daddy. What they don't want is Iraqi insurgency. Nor do they pine for discussions of what the attorney general knew and when he knew it, regarding 8 wrongfully dismissed US attorneys. And they especially don't want to hear about the sniping battles between the White House and the Congress when it comes to war funding and landmark withdrawal dates.

The sad fact of it is this: What the American people want to hear is of no fucking relevance whatsoever. The trouble with what happened to the news in the early 80s, when networks and newspapers began turning newsgathering into a for-profit operation is that it forces journalists and editors to tailor stories to suit what people want to hear. Because I gaurantee you that nobody wanted to hear that five little guys broke into and burgalized the Democratic National headquarters in the Watergate building in 1972. Nobody wanted to hear that in 1951 that thirteen black families were bringing a class action suit against the Topeka, KS school board in order to get their children access to the same education to which their white contemporaries were entitled. And I'm pretty damn positive that nobody really cared much when, after a hard day's work, a young black seamstress named Rosa Parks refused to give up her bus seat to a white man in Montgomery, Alabama in 1955.

But news isn't about what people want to know. It's about what they need to know, whether they like it or not. Journalism is -- or should be, at any rate -- about disseminating the truth, however ugly and unappealing it may be. During the first year or two after Watergate broke, I recall several of my mother's Republican friends almost putting their fingers in their ears when a news story would come on television. They didn't want to know. They'd voted for Nixon, trusted him, and they didn't want to know that, far from the strong, empassioned leader he presented himself to be, he was actually just another paranoid, power-mad politician with a foul temper and an even fouler mouth. But the press coverage then didn't care about what Americans wanted to hear. The press then concerned itself with what was news, and a minor break-in which was being covered up at the uppermost levels of government was, for better or worse, news.

There are two prices that we pay for living in a democratic republic. The first is that we pay taxes. We pay taxes, people. It's the price we pay. We pay what we owe -- no more, no less. That's our duty and our responsibility, like it or not. Get over it. The second is that we must be adults and run our government and not let it run us. After 9/11, a vast majority of crybaby scaredycats decided to let George W. Bush be their daddy and protect them from the big, bad world. Aside from the fact that George W. Bush couldn't protect a birthday candle from a strong wind, that is not why we have leadership in this country.

This is why travelling to other countries, especially when one is young, is essential. You realize something when you spend time in Europe. You realize a few things, actually, not the least of which is that European men, while appreciative of a fine pair, are no where near as "beast obsessed" as American men, but that's a subject for another blog post. More importantly, you realize that America is laboring under two major myths.
  • Myth No. 1: America is the greatest nation on earth.
  • Myth No. 2: There is such a thing as national security.

America as a great nation, a fine nation, a nation full of wonderful qualities and attributes. But the greatest? No. Far from it. When 20% of a country's population currently living below the poverty line are children below the age of 15, when 15% of its citizen are not covered by any health insurance plan (an all-time high, even here), when we remain only one of two industrial nations (the other being Japan) to resort to state-sanctioned killing of its criminals, then, my friends, we abdicate the right to call ourselves the greatest nation on Earth. We are the wealthiest, and we are surely one of the most religious, and in light of that, the above statistics are even more damning.

As for national security, a quick trip through any European airport will clue Americans in on what Europeans have known for decades -- national security is an illusory luxury that intelligent people cannot afford. In 1976, I walked through four European airports (Schriphrol in Amsterdam, Heathrow in London, Leonardo da Vinci in Rome, and Barajas in Madrid) and in every single one of them, there were uniformed security men with large, impressive automatic weapons. It was the days of the Bader-Meinhoff and the IRA and Europeans knew that, if the threat didn't come from some outside alien influence, it would certainly come from inside. It could happen in a pub, or on a train or in a marketplace. Precautions were taken, but they did not amount to security. There is no such thing. We are, and always have been, in constant danger of attack. September 11th wasn't a fluke -- it was inevitable, partially because of our hubris and lack of awareness, and partially because such things happen everywhere, so it is insanity to assume that they won't happen here.

These are the bad tidings that Americans need to hear. We are good, but not perfect. Terrible things are happening every day that require our immediate attention. And the time has come for us to stop looking to be taken care of, and start looking to take care. We need to start caring for our children, and our sick and elderly, and we need to wise up and quit acting like cowboys on the open plain. It's the job of journalists to tell us things we find hard to hear, and its our job to hear it.

The big, bad world from which you're seeking protection is the place where we live. That bad news you've been hiding from is actually a good thing -- because it gives us a chance to try and fix the thing that's broken, whether its the weather, or the war, or the White House. The one thing that Americans are really good at is fixing broken stuff and making it work (especially after we're the ones who've broken it). But we can't fix what we don't see, and that's where ugly news comes in.

So, toughen up, America. Embrace the bad news. Put down the copy of Star and the New York Post, and start checking out news sources where Anna Nicole is a page three story, tops. You won't be sorry in the long run.

~C~

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Goin' to the Chapel and We're Gonna Get... Awww.. Screw It!

Well, well. What do you know about that? The braintrusts over at Newsweek have decided to run a twenty-year retrospective on the ruckus-stirring cover piece about women and marriage they called "The Marriage Crunch" in which, using data gleaned from a demographic study called "Marriage Patterns in the United States,"* the news magazine had the incredible bad taste to quip that a woman who hadn't married by the age of 40 was "more likely to be killed by terrorists" than ever utter "I do." Granted, in these post-9/11 days, the writers would certainly have used a different (if equally as demeaning and derogatory) comparison. But I remember thinking at the time whether people who'd lost loved ones to terrorist attacks like pub bombings in London,the Operation Entebbe incident, and the hijacking of the Achille Lauro (which had occurred mere months before the article was written) were as amused as the writers seemed to be by that mean-spirited (not to mention utterly false -- see Susan Faludi and Discover magazine) little taunt. Furthermore, the article went on to contend that women with college degrees and good jobs with good pay were less likely to get married than women who had only completed high school and were working for minimum wage. The message was clear -- do too well, get too smart, be too independent and ambitious, and you can expect a life of lonely solitude and desperation.

Had Newsweek only just met us in 1986? Our mothers were the women who burned their bras, took to the courts to declare our rights to our own wombs, overturned decades of subjugating legislation, made it possible for a married woman to establish her own credit, open her own bank account, and even charge her own husband with spousal rape (laws that had never existed before the late 2oth century, thank you very much). The study on which Newsweek based the article was also reported on the television news and in People magazine with particular relish. People, as I recall, featured a photograph of the gorgeous, single 40-something Donna Mills on its cover as an example of what it called "The New Look of Old Maids" (charming, no?). But People is People, and Newsweek is Newsweek, and when I read something as lowbrow and badly researched and conceived as "The Marriage Crunch" was, I take exception. What really irked me at the time was how Newsweek could so audaciously proclaim to gaze into their statistical crystal ball, and based on numbers gathered from previous generations, blythely assume that women who had not yet married would, in fact, never marry. The plain fact of the matter was that the study was based on economic statistics that were never intended for such use, and that failed to take into account an entirely new generation of women who had been raised to want, need and look for different things in life. Surely, any idiot could see that (well, almost any idiot, apparently).

Thanks to those stalwart, wicked, courageous mothers of ours, by God, marriage, gender roles and family life in America were all undergoing an enormous shift. People were choosing to live together and have children without being married, to be open about their homosexuality**, to marry later, delay motherhood, and have longer, more fulfilling careers outside the home. Oh, well, who cares whether those fat, ugly, over-40-year-old women were nonplussed at Newsweek's presumptuous, poorly conceived, mean-spirited little journalistic mishap? They were probably all just hysterical, sexless, spinster females, gagging for a good, hearty poke anyway, weren't they.

Or, were they?

Newsweek decided that a nifty way to celebrate the twenty-year anniversary was to do a collection of articles addressing the originals issues so hotly contended back in 1986. In "Marriage By Numbers: Rethinking Marriage After 40", they went back and re-interviewed 11 of the 14 women from "The Marriage Crunch" to see where they were today. Know what they discovered? That, miraculously, of the eleven, eight had actually managed to trap a man and get knocked up.*** Three stayed single, they say (but who can really trust those lying spinster hags?) by choice. Know what else they've discovered? Of the eight women who married, none -- not one -- has divorced. Then, the magazine has the nerve to make the following observation: "One striking aspect of this Where Are They Now exercise: none of these women divorced. Perhaps it's no coincidence." Yes, perhaps it's not. Perhaps, just perhaps, mind you, that staving off marriage until you're a whole person with a highly developed sense of self and a separate and well-established identity is conducive to forming a relationship bond that might actually last for at least an hour and twenty minutes after getting back from the honeymoon.

For the record, the Newsweek article was written mostly by women contributors, and the "killed by terrorist" line was initally written as a quippy little joke in an internal memo by one of the writers, and was inserted into the final piece, intended as levity, by one of the female editors. Both have since expressed regret at the furor (and fury) that the line caused, and equally disdain its inclusion in American pop culture to the extent it has been. To Newsweek's credit (yes, I'm actually going to cut them some slack), they have pretty much owned up to the fallacies they heaped on an entire generation of women (as if we didn't have enough of a burden to carry, what with having it all, and being ball-busting feminists, goddamnit!). Every link I've included in this article came directly or indirectly through the Newsweek restrospective on The Marriage Crunch. While the original article was considered a "cautionary tale of delaying matrimony" for American women, the retrospective refers to that article as a cautionary tale of what happens when a statistical study is taken at face value without further investigating the numbers (as was done a month or two later, when some bright genius used U.S. Census numbers and ran a comparison against the original study statistics, proving them lacking).

It's an interesting turn about -- one that Newsweek kind of downplays in all of the articles with a sort of "Aw, shucks, it was all in good fun" demeanor that grates. Maybe it was all in good fun. But the fact is that women in this country over 40 have faced a hard enough time, trying to fight the notion that we're too old to do anybody any good. Such statistical stigmatizing only fuels the sexism and agism that we are already up against. Additionally, the fact that Newsweek failed to seek sources indicating an American man's statistical likelihood of marriage based on his age, salary and job title was a huge journalistic blunder -- one that violates the very premise of objective, balanced reporting (and this was back in '86, before objective, balanced reporting had gone the way of the dodo bird and the sabertoothed tiger).

So, happy 20th annivesary, "Marriage Crunch." May the road rise up to meet you... then smack you upside the head for all the grief you've caused us, lo, these past two decades.

~C~


* It should be noted that the original study paper, written by David E. Bloom and Neil G. Bennett, relied on economic data rather than census data for its demographics, as the original intent of the study was to determine the impact that a woman's salary/job status had on the timing of a woman's first marriage. The results were never intended by Bloom and Bennett to state with any reliability a woman's chances of marrying based on her age.
**It's important to remember that there are many lesbians well into middle age today who would gladly be married to the loves of their lives had our petty, small-minded legislatures not prevented them doing so at every possible turn.
*** In a shocking turn of events, none of the women had, at the time of this writing, actually been killed by a terrorist.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Peace Be With You. And Also With Them.

As someone who was raised Anglican Episcopalian, watching as the Church struggles to avoid a new "reformation" or schism over the issue of homosexuality within its ranks is deeply painful. Though my belief in religion has waivered in the past few years, my belief in God has not, and my love and nostalgia for the Church in which I was reared continues to this day. I went to an Episcopalian Church, attended an Episcopalian parochial school through 9th grade, and was baptized and confirmed in the High Church. Seeing my beloved childhood spiritual home under attack from outside forces (the world wide Anglican church) and inside (conservative homophobes) is discouraging and infuriating.

The church where I was reared as a child, though it had its faults, was always one of compassionate acceptance and tolerance. Even among the oldest, most conservative members, in my youth, I never heard a negative word openly spoken about homosexuality. However people felt in deep in their hearts, they knew better than to speak it aloud and give it credence in the light of day. Of course, this was the Anglican Church in Los Angeles, and if a church in Los Angeles becomes gay-hostile, it can kiss goodbye a huge chunk of its congregation, both homosexuals and sympathetic straights alike. And with the members go their tythes. That can hit a church right where it lives -- in its coffers.

That hasn't stopped certain L.A.-based Presbyterian churches (which shall remain nameless for the moment), taking their cues from the national synod's formally adopted policies, from attempting to eliminate homosexuals from its congretation by subtly changing policy to purge them from positions as elders and laypeople in positions of power. I'm happy to say both the Episcopalian church and the Presbyterian church to which I have belonged as an adult have adamantly resisted this small-minded mini-Inquisition.

I loved being in Church. I still love being inside a Church, especially my churches, one Episcopalian and one Presbyterian. There's a comfort and safety I feel in church that I don't feel anywhere else. I can say anything to God, and He'll listen and love me anyway. I've had very little in the way of unconditional love in my life, except from God. I would never presume to believe that anyone who came humbly to any of His houses and confided in Him would get any less than I. I'm just not that special.

I feel for the conservative Christians who've been so brainwashed by television pastors and the White House that they just can't bring themselves to love without judgement, to tolerate that which they do not -- cannot -- understand. Tolerant acceptance does not mean that you must adopt an experience as your own. I don't understand the experience being over six feet tall, but that doesn't mean I can't accept people over six feet tall, and allow them to be as tall as they were destined to be without judging or condemning them. I would have thought that the Jesus Christ that all those Christians have such a "close, personal relationship" with might have gotten that point across. But as is true of most people in relationships with others, most Christians only think they understand Christ. The sad truth is, they've done with Christ what they've most likely done with their spouses, parents and children -- applied a thin veneer of their own design to the surface of the other person to build them into someone they can understand and accept. Unfortunately, as with any veneer or neat, fancy finish, it obscures the real thing. Harsh of me, perhaps. Still, it is what I see unenlightened individuals do to each other (and to God) every day. I always come back to Anne Lamott's quote from a priest friend of hers: "You can be sure you've created God in your image when God hates all the same people you do."

The Anglican Episcopalian and American Presbyterian churches are on the verge of serious schism over the issue of homosexuality. When it comes to the "gay issue," I like to return to the words of Jesus Christ on the subject. Or, rather, I would like to return to the words of Jesus Christ on the subject, if Christ had actually discussed it -- which he didn't. Doesn't that tell those holier-than-just-about-anyone-else Christians that maybe their off-base here?

I feel bad and sad for them. I hurt for them. How exhausting it must be to carry such fear and hatred around. I should know. They way they feel about gays, I feel about our current government. So I can safely say that they are lost in the hearts, and no amount of outside prayer and well-wishing can save them from themselves. God knows I won't try. I'm in no position to judge them. But they have built themselves a labyrinth* that they'll have to find their own way out of, step by step and row by row. And since they've chosen to separate themselves so wholly from the love of their God, they shouldn't rely on Him to pull them through this one. Sometimes even an unconditionally loving Father has to let you flail on your own, so you'll learn what you need to learn to live well.

So I can only leave them with what I know from childhood -- the benediction that my beloved reverend, Dr. Alexander Campbell, said at the end of every service over which he presided, whether it was weekdays in chapel or Sundays in church:

"May the Lord bless you and keep you;
May the Lord cause His face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you;
May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and grant you His peace."

~C~

* The labyrinth is considered by many Anglicans to be a sacred symbol. Having its origins (for Anglicans at least) in the ancient practices of the Gaelics and the Druids, "walking the labyrinth" is considered a means of meditation and relfection where a person can find his spiritual center and reconnect with the true nature of God. It is believed that the practice of growing hedge mazes at English castles, like the famous one at at Hampton Court, sprang from the desire for a place of peaceful contemplation.

Monday, March 19, 2007

When Comedy Was Prozac

My sister has been organizing my dad's house while she's been caring for him. (Unlike me, she took a leave of absence from work when she came to stay with him, and my sister, not working is NOT a pretty. Bad things can and do happen.) She decided to go through some of her own keepsakes and purge the lot from about ten boxes down to two, keeping only the letters, photos and relics she deemed practical and indispensible. Along the way, she found a couple of gems from the past.

One of them is a letter I wrote to her when she was away at college, and I was preparing to leave for the Midwest to go to school there. Throughout the summer of '82, I had passed the time waiting to leave by taking summer courses at the (then!) impossibly cheap junior colleges LA had to offer, and working a succession of excrutiatingly dull office temp jobs that required things like "front office appearance" and "good phone personality" (have I got phone personality? Honeyyy, hush!). One of them was at the Emerson Radio corporate offices in Sun Valley.

I have transcribed the content below, so I don't get sued for any eyestrain injuries, and only include the scan to demonstrate the lengths to which I was willing to go to get a laugh back then. The letterhead is actually a cut-and-paste job in order to keep it from actually resembling someone's letterhead (lest it fall into the wrong hands, I guess). I used two typewriters (an IBM Selectric II for the company street address, and a Smith Corona portable for the letter body). Then I took the time (at my desk, between answering phone calls with my "good phone personality", no doubt) to actually compose the letter.

I presume, though I have no recollection of the actually gig, that it was like all the other boring jobs I had (at the computer component sales werehouse, the vitamin distribution factory, a day and a half at Rocketdyne before I called the temp agency and said, "If you send me on another government gig, I'll cut your heart out" -- or words to that effect). Mundane, repetitive, monotonous, pointless -- all designed to drive me loopy. Often, I expressed my loopiness in the form of bogus business letter to my friends and family. This is probably the only remaining example, as I'm sure everyone else tossed their long ago. But I do remember there were more than a few of these, and I went to great lengths to make them look authentic. Clearly, while my friends and family chuckled away at these little missives, they failed to see them for what they were -- a veiled cry for help.

Dear Ms. Sowards

We are sorry to inform you that we have accidentally turned your beloved older sister into a stereo component. We understand the grief you must be experiencing. There are no words which can bring comfort after a tragedy such as this. However, we at Emerson wish to offer you the consolation of knowing that your sister is a fully equipped Emerson 6000 PA, with Cue/Review Stereo Deck -- Auto/Manual Program Selector, AM/FM Stereo Receiver with LED Audio Output Display, match 20" Full Range Speaker System, and Deluxe Automatic Record Changer plus Matching Base.

Thank you for doing business with Emerson. If you have any questions regarding other stereo systems available, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Sincerely,

Arnold P. Kravatz
Director of Personnel Accidentally Turned Into Stereo Components

AKP/cas

The good news is that, now we live in the new millennium, where I have a job that, while somewhat worn out, does not drive me to utter madness, and also, where the presence of good psychotropic medications have become readily available by prescription.

Thanks for letting me share.

~C~

Thursday, March 15, 2007

A Family Thang

The day started off nicely today when I received the long-anticipated CD from the Austin, Tx band Pompeii in the mail. I was doubly-pleasantly surprised when I put the CD in and hit "play." Hey, you know what. They're good. No, really. They're really, really good.

I see that furrow in your lovely brows, my little puzzled readers. You're asking yourselves, "Why would she actually spend money on a CD when she wasn't even sure she liked the band?" Well, it's like this. It's a family thing. The cellist in the band (an alt rock band with a cellist -- top that, Green Day!) is my first cousin, Caitlin Bailey. Caitlin was raised in Austin and because I've never been particularly close to her father (my uncle, Chris), we've never met. No family feud or anything... it's just one of those "travelled in different circles, hung out with different people" kind of things. Here's a photo of Caitlin, taken with my other uncle's (Marck's) daughter, Piper, (photo at left -- I trust I don't need to tell you which one plays in a rock band). Marck is the uncle I'm close to, because we're closer in age (they're my mother's half-brothers). (In the photo at right, I'm on the far left, flashing a goofy peace sign, and Chris is laying on the floor behind his father -- my grandfather -- looking bored out of his ever-loving mind. The aforementioned Marck, now the father of two darling girls who do positively horrid things to him in the name of beauty, is the squirt in the front.)

But back to Pompeii. An amazing band. But don't take my word for it.

From depravedfangirls.org: "as I watched Pompeii I realized that for thefirst time, I was seeing a band who was using that ubiquitous (and utterlytiresome, usually) Radiohead influence in the right way -- chiming, lovelyguitars and sweet, sad boy vocals and modestly epic and darkly uplifitinglyrics, over the driving clatter of emo drums and Peter Hook-ish melodicbass lines -- all hoisted up by the deep, raspy scraping of Caitlin's cello.I'm hesitant to know what to call Pompeii's music -- because it's not indiepop, or indie rock, or straight up goth or emo. It's all these things, andin the end, I think that's why Pompeii's music is so affecting."

I have absolutely no idea what any of this means, because took French in high school, and not "music reviewerese." But I'm sure they like it bunches over at depravedgirls.org. So, head over to the band's My Space, where they have several cuts from their debut album, Assembly. You, too, will be won over by their "emo drums and Peter Hook-ish melodicbass lines" (who wouldn't, after all?).

Pompeii. Not just a band, but family, goddamit!

~C~

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Another Too-Soon Good-bye


Richard Jeni
Comic
B. 10-30-1957
D. 03-10-2007
He dated a close friend of mine for a few months, and I was fortunate enough to meet him three or four times. He was funny, smart and nice, kind of nerdy and insecure, but in that charming "comedian-offstage-in-real-life" kind of way. I didn't know him at all as a person, but I thought he was riotously funny as a comic.
He was also the author of one of my favorite lines in comedy ever:
"My mother never understood the irony of calling me a son of a bitch."
To set the record straight about his death, his family has issued a very touching statement on his homepage confirming that Jeni took his own life on Saturday night.
He had apparently been in treatment for severe clinical depression, coupled with periodic episodes of psychotic paranoia. He was under the care of professionals, he was still working, he had a girlfriend and a life, and was, according to his reps and family, enjoying a particularly lucrative period in his life. The fact that this appears to be the momentary, transient result of an illness for which he was being treated makes this all the more tragic and sad.
I hope that wherever he is, he's the headliner in a packed house with a two drink minimum.
Messages of condolence can be left at his website,
RichardJeni.com
at the memorial guestbook.
Other sweet sayings about Richard Jeni:
An illustrated audio clip of one of his best bits,
A really funny interview about Jeni's relationship with cars
from last December, before a gig at an auto show.
'Night, Rich. Nice to have met you.
~C~

Monday, February 26, 2007

Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Were Hot Like Her?

When I dream of being in my sixties, do you know what I dream of? Helen Mirren's life. She's sexy, but age-appropriate, smart and funny, found undying love in her fifties with a man who is clearly still head over heals in love with her after being together for nearly two decades, and she just won an Oscar.

Okay, I'd be fine if it weren't an Oscar. Perhaps a Nobel Prize for Literature. But still.... You get my point. If someone can look that fabulous at the Oscars, surrounded by 22-year-old stick figures, looking every inch a full-grown woman, then so can I, dammit!

Helen Mirren.

That's who I want to be when I grow up.

~C~

Saturday, February 17, 2007

I Gotta Get a New Job.

Oprah Winfrey makes $483 per minute. And she doesn't even have a master's degree.

Can someone please hand me a razorblade?

Thanks.

~C~

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Yeah, I Got Your Cupid -- Right Here!

I hate Valentine's Day. Okay, so now you know -- if you're one of those "gooey-in-love-hearts-and-flowers-'why-do-you-angry-Vagina-Monologues-loving-bitches-have-to-attack-the-sacred-institution-of-Valentine's-Day'" types, you'll want to divert your browser immediately to another URL. But maybe you'd be better off if you heard me out. Because I'm not just being a feminist here. I really think its a bad idea all the way round, in more ways than one. Let's start with the most superficial aspects. The color scheme sucks, the art is hokey and poorly drawn, and the entire idea is kind of small-minded and mean-spirited.

For the sake of full disclosure, I should be upfront about the fact that I suffer from the notorious Valentine's Day Curse. For those of you who don't, this is the syndrome where one begins to date someone in March of one year, only to end up breaking up with them (or being broken up with by them) in January of the next, never having experienced the "joys" of being part of a couple on Valentine's Day. I've no idea why this is. It's just seemed to happen this way. Even when I was married, Valentine's Day was usually a forgotten or last minute holiday, buried in the realities of past-due bills and dirty diapers.

So, I guess there's reason to suspect I am a little bitter about Valentine's Day in general. I've even been accused by people who don't know me well of being "unromantic" and "cynical." Though I might cop to a little V-Day Envy, let me clear up the latter charges here and now. My cynicism is reserved for things that warrant it -- like politics and the entertainment industry. But when it comes to love -- and everyone who knows me will tell you this -- I am, in fact, hopelessly romantic and, when in love, unrelentingly naive and "love-conquers-all"-ish.

But I stand by my original assertion that we should do away with this hokey fraud of a holiday. It's history has been written and rewritten by the likes of first Chaucer (nice guy, but not known for his restrained historical notation), then Hallmark and American Greetings, it was sanctioned by candy makers for the purposes of promoting chocolate (not like that's a bad thing, mind you), and its become an opportunity for manufacturers to peddle their wares to everyone from kindergarten teachers to jewelry shoppers.

Here's why I think Valentine's Day is useless and maybe even dangerous. I think we can agree that, for the most part, Valentine's Day is a holiday for women. Men usually show little if any interest in it, unless they are in a relationship. Which is not to say that unattached men don't get notice it, or don't feel left out when it comes around. The blog Bitter Asian Men has a survival guide to assist the single Asian man in surviving this wretched day. Lewis Black has implied that putting the holiday in dismally grey February might be tantamount to inviting singles to commit suicide ("Maybe I should slash my wrists, just so I can see some color!!"). But for the most part, men don't bother with things like candy and flowers unless urged by women. (Yes. I know there are exceptions, and if you're lucky enough to have married one, keep it to yourself. It's never good to advertise your man, sister.)

I have a theory about "romance," as its commonly defined, and just what it has done for Western Civilization as we know it. First off, here in our country, we have a 54% divorce rate, nationwide. In the Bible-belt states, where OurLordJesusChrist seems to have a close personal relationship with every last living soul, the rate is more like 61%. I believe that fairytale, hearts-and-flowers expectation is a huge part of the problem. Romance needs to be redefined, and as long as you have compliant, terrified little sorority girls and huge corporations with a vested financial interest setting the terms of what qualifies as romance, we'll continue to be lost in a sea of doilies and candy hearts.

I think we need to be reminded what love is. I think we need to remember that love isn't about diamonds and tissue paper and February 14th. He can be as nice as pie every Valentine's Day and ignore you the other 364 days a year, and that's not alright. Love is about what you bring every day, in terms of showing up and listening and being there. And if he's there for you every day, propping you up, supporting you, listening to you (which is really hard for me to do because we talk -- a LOT!), and yet manages to forget to buy just the right bouquet or make the right dinner reservation or send the right e-Card, he's skewered. That's what I hate most about Valentine's Day -- it's use as a cudgel to punish if the love doesn't come in a pretty box with bow we like. And don't tell me you don't do it, because I've heard you guys on February 15th in the office kitchen bitching because he didn't buy the right wine or get your hint about that fabulous diamond tennis bracelet you've been wanting.

So, this is why I think we need to start rearranging our priorities when it comes to men, women and romance. And this is why I think that this year, instead of taking your date out on February 14, you should eat out on the 9th, or the 11th or (dare I suggest?) the 17th. Instead of chocolate candy in a heart-shaped box, get a gigantic Pixy Stix for two. Instead of diamonds... okay, let's not get too crazy all at once. If I make the ban-the-diamond suggestion this month, I'm liable to get jumped by a roving band of yuppie princesses. But if I may just put forth an idea here. Allow me to point out that, as beautiful as diamonds are, you never know which ones were mined by a West African child under threat of having their arms amputated (cuz you know most men don't bother with such tidy details as "conflict-free" when it comes to shopping for jewelry). Just a thought to remember as you're showing your lovely new tennis bracelet to your girlies at the club.

It's time to start doing away with this so-called holiday (trumped up and manufactured as it is) and start celebrating real love, everyday love, without that little naked baby and his god-damned arrow (and may I just ask -- where the hell is his mother? What idiot lets a little kid play with a bow and arrow like that?)

Happy February 14th, folks. May it bring all the appropriate joy and fulfillment to you and those you love.

~C~

(Hey, I made a lovely little fractal painting in honor of the damn day. What more do you people want? Okay, so I've named it Valentine's Mayhem... so sue me....)

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

"Well, Aren't You Special?"

We interrupt the extremely serious Congressional debate on escalating the Iraqi War, the who's who of who's not testifying in the Scooter Libby trial, and the ongoing fistfight between the American Catholic contingent and feminist bloggers to bring you this message of extreme, if not earth-shattering, importance.

At Sunday's Grammy Awards Ceremony, Comedian Lewis Black won a Grammy for best comedy album for his hilarious Carnegie Hall Performance.

Black's competition in the category consisted of no less than one of his idols, George Carlin (for Life is Worth Losing), as well as Ron White (for You Can't Fix Stupid), "Weird Al" Yankovic (for Straight Outta Lynwood), and the Blue Collar Comedy guys -- Bill Engvall, Jeff Foxworthy, Ron White (again!) and Larry the Cable Guy (for Blue Collar Comedy Tour — One For The Road).

I missed the awards ceremonies broadcast on Sunday, because I was out... uhhh... having a life, you might say. Those who know me know that I have no patience for such things -- its all I can do to choke down the Oscars once a year. And that's if you throw a party and feed me unspeakably tantalizing delicacies and potables.

But I am happy Lewis Black won. His nervous, nerdy thank you speech was really refreshing. Still crushing on him. Wanna date him. There ya go.

Also, the formerly besieged Dixie Chicks seem to have weathered their political storm. They went five for five, including Best Record and Best Album (Taking the Long Way) at the Grammys, and gave a kick-ass performance of their winning record, I'm Not Ready to Make Nice.

So, good news all the way around -- a nice little island in a sea of political, social and environmental drek....

Now, on to Valentine's Day.... Motherpussbucketall!!!

~C~

Thursday, February 08, 2007

79 Pounds

That's what our father weighs now. Seventy-nine pounds. He's five nine. When the hospice nurse was inputting his information and she heard his height and weight, she stopped typing for a moment and said, thoughtfully, "Yes, that's... slim." Slim. A masterpiece of understatement.

In the past week or two before my sister had flown here, he'd contracted aspiration pneumonia which was the excuse that landed him in the hospital overnight, just long enough for the neurologist to finally be able to do the necessary testing to diagnose his mobility issues. He has a problem with the medical/dental profession -- like thinking he knows more than they do. So, it took a lot of doing, and a mention that pneumonia could kill him, to make him submit to any form of diagnostic tests. It didn't take much, given his level of deterioration. A day later, my sister was sitting in the room with him when the word came down. Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. Lou Gehrig's Disease. Advanced. Untreatable. Incurable. In short, terminal. They assigned him to hospice care and sent him home, pretty sure, I'm sure, that he'd die of the pneumonia before the ALS could get him for good. He didn't.

The life expectancy for ALS is somewhere around five years from first symptoms to succumbing. We're approaching the five-year mark within the next couple of months. Things are beginning to change in strange ways. That's why I had to hand it over to my sister. We'd agreed from the beginning that I'd do it for as long as I could, and then she'd bat clean-up.

Now, we're there.

I've moved. She's taken a leave of absence, and come from her home to stay until it's all over. He's recovered from the pneumonia, so is feeling just good enough to be difficult and ornery again. He's decided it's cigarettes that are his only hope, and all this newfangled breathing treatment just gets in the way of his smoking. I think he's pretty sure that we're trying to kill him when we do things that require that he postpone the next cigarette. In actuality, we've decided that if it makes him feel better, he should continue to smoke. He has Lou Gehrig's Disease, for crying out loud. Smoking is entirely beside the point right about now.

It's all frustrating, but not as much for me anymore, because he's not in my face. My sister has to deal with him now, and so she's the bad guy. She's always looked better in black than I have, so its suits her better. He doesn't push her buttons the way he did mine. Now, I come and go as I please, and then get to my little space and cuddle my cats. And its all good.

Or at least, as good as it can be. Maybe not good, good. Just good, comparatively.

So, if you're family, and you haven't heard from us, this is probably why. Talking about this has been difficult. Telling people is hard. I've had to call people I've been out of touch with for months or years and say, "Hey, how ya doin'? D'ja hear Dad's got Lou Gehrig's?" What are they supposed to say? I feel horrible for them, because in a way, the diagnosis has brought us a bit of relief. It's provided us the comfort of knowing our enemy. It's also provided us access to hospice care, which is the greatest invention in patient care in the history of modern medicine. These people are freakin' angels. After a year or more of being told by home caregivers, "No, we can't do that," or "I'm afraid workman's comp won't let us provide that," someone has come into the house and said, "Yes." "Whatever you want -- as much or as little." (insert god rays and heavenly choir of cherubim and seraphim here) How we survived this long without it, I'll never know. So, if you've gotten this news before and have gone into denial, let me take this opportunity to yank you out. It's happening, it's real, and if you have some peace to make with him, you'd better find as unobtrusive a way to do it and do it, because your time is finite. (And I think you know you are, Missy!)

If you're one of my loyal readers who gets to watch this from a distance, thanks for everything you guys have done to bolster me through these past months. Journaling in the blog about this has, at times, been my salvation, and your positive, kind comments have helped more than you know. My sincerest appreciation to all of you.

~C~