Once again Mrs. Linklater felt the need to commune with one of the advice ladies. You can read Mrs. L's uncensored, unrepentant opinion here:
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
And The Sundance Film Festival Winners Are. . .
The names of these movies alone are enough to prevent me from seeing them.
Documentary Grand Jury Prize
GOD GREW TIRED OF US
[Charlton Heston comes out of retirement?]
Dramatic Grand Jury Prize
QUINCEAÑERA
[I smell subtitles]
World Cinema Jury Prize: Documentary
IN THE PIT
[Brad talks about life with Angie?]
World Cinema Jury Prize: Dramatic
13 TZAMETI
[Starring that Giamatti guy?]
Documentary Directing Prize
IRAQ IN FRAGMENTS
[I can watch this every night on the news]
Dramatic Directing Prize
A GUIDE TO RECOGNIZING YOUR SAINTS
[Religion for Dummies?]
Documentary Cinematography Prize
IRAQ IN FRAGMENTS
[Is there an echo in here?]
Dramatic Cinematography Prize
RIGHT AT YOUR DOOR
[That's a little too close for me]
Documentary Editing Award
IRAQ IN FRAGMENTS
[Hello, hello, is this thing on?]
Waldo Salt Screenwriting Award
STEPHANIE DALEY
[Where -- no, WHO is Waldo?]
Special Jury Prize: Documentary
AMERICAN BLACKOUT
[And the babies that follow]
Special Jury Prize: Documentary
AMERICAN BLACKOUT
[The ultimate in low budget filmmaking -- a long fade to black]
TV JUNKIE
[Taking the remote away cold turkey]
Special Dramatic Jury Prize for Best Ensemble Performance
A GUIDE TO RECOGNIZING YOUR SAINTS
[Do you learn how to pick them out of a line up?]
Special Dramatic Jury Prize for Independent Vision: IN BETWEEN DAYS
[That nano second between Monday and Tuesday captured on film for the first time]
World Cinema Special Jury Prize: Documentary
INTO GREAT SILENCE
DEAR PYONGYANG
[Nothing creates silence like a pyongyang]
World Cinema Special Jury Prize: Dramatic
EVE & THE FIRE HORSE
[Please tell me this isn't porn]
Alfred P. Sloan Feature Film Prize
THE HOUSE OF SAND
[The sequel to House of Mirth]
Audience Award: Documentary
GOD GREW TIRED OF US
[That's pretty obvious]
Audience Award: Dramatic
QUINCEAÑERA
[James Olmos, J-Lo, and Marc Antony like you've never seen them]
World Cinema Audience Award: Documentary
DENADIE
[You say De-NAH-dee, I say De-NAY-dee]
World Cinema Audience Award: Dramatic
NO. 2
[They named a movie after a bodily function?]
Jury Prize in Short Filmmaking
THE WRAITH OF COBBLE HILL
[Feel the wrath of the wraith]
BUGCRUSH
[Orange Crush with a worm at the bottom?]
Jury Prize in International Short Filmmaking
THE NATURAL ROUTE
[No implants were harmed in the making of this flick]
Honorable Mentions for Short Filmmaking
BEFORE DAWN
[Before Dawn there was JOY with Lemon Scent]
PREACHER WITH AN UNKNOWN GOD
[The Jimmy Swaggart Story]
UNDRESSING MY MOTHER
[Let's not go there]
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Scalzi's Weekend Assignment For a Change
I haven't felt like doing one of these for a long time. I'm not sure why I'm doing it now. Maybe it's the last of my hormones kicking in.
Weekend Assignment #96: "For ladies: Name an incident when you thought: '"OMG I AM my mother! For guys: Same with your father!"
Actually I wish I were more like my mother, who died when I was 23. She did almost everything well. Valedictorian in high school. Horsewoman. Tennis player. Head nurse. Great cook. Fabulous gardener, etc., etc.
Her halo never got tarnished with me. She didn't have time to become annoying with year after year of making me listen to her pet phrases.
However, there was one phrase she used that I found myself repeating often to my children as they grew up. Instead of saying something they were doing or speaking was wrong or bad, I would tell my darling daughters, "That's inappropriate." As the years passed and I knew I was starting to sound more and more like my mother, my kids started to pre-empt me. As soon as they had committed some kind of infraction, they would stop and look in my direction, roll their eyes and sigh,"We know, Mom, that's inappropriate."
I just know when they have kids they'll be saying it, too.
Extra credit: What did your parents do when you told them about it?
My mom died before I had children. But somewhere, she's probably smiling.
My father was a different story. After my mother died my dad remarried and began to say terrible things about her. It was bizaare. It was like they'd been divorced. So I finally said, "We have different memories of her, so I would appreciate it if you wouldn't talk about her in front of me." Needless to say, I never shared any of my thoughts about her with him. Except to tell him that he was a jerk for treating her memory so badly.
Well, that was fun. I wonder what next week's assignment will be.
Weekend Assignment #96: "For ladies: Name an incident when you thought: '"OMG I AM my mother! For guys: Same with your father!"
Actually I wish I were more like my mother, who died when I was 23. She did almost everything well. Valedictorian in high school. Horsewoman. Tennis player. Head nurse. Great cook. Fabulous gardener, etc., etc.
Her halo never got tarnished with me. She didn't have time to become annoying with year after year of making me listen to her pet phrases.
However, there was one phrase she used that I found myself repeating often to my children as they grew up. Instead of saying something they were doing or speaking was wrong or bad, I would tell my darling daughters, "That's inappropriate." As the years passed and I knew I was starting to sound more and more like my mother, my kids started to pre-empt me. As soon as they had committed some kind of infraction, they would stop and look in my direction, roll their eyes and sigh,"We know, Mom, that's inappropriate."
I just know when they have kids they'll be saying it, too.
Extra credit: What did your parents do when you told them about it?
My mom died before I had children. But somewhere, she's probably smiling.
My father was a different story. After my mother died my dad remarried and began to say terrible things about her. It was bizaare. It was like they'd been divorced. So I finally said, "We have different memories of her, so I would appreciate it if you wouldn't talk about her in front of me." Needless to say, I never shared any of my thoughts about her with him. Except to tell him that he was a jerk for treating her memory so badly.
Well, that was fun. I wonder what next week's assignment will be.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Geisha Gotcha Moment
There is a moment in the movie trailer for Memoirs of a Geisha where
some guy on a bike gets sidetracked by the merest glance from the very
young geisha-in-training. Looking at her causes him to ride smack dab
into a cart piled high with fruit and Louis Vuitton knock offs,
before he crashes unceremoniously to the ground.
The geisha's training officer, who witnesses this young man's humiliation, is smugly satisfied by his pratfall, since it means that her protege may now have what it takes to control men with her charms.
After sixty-two years, Mrs. Linklater finally had her own geisha moment a couple of days ago. Why it took so damn long, she'll never know.
Like most people who are younger than she is -- and that would be most people -- you're probably thinking she's just making this up -- a la James "Don't Mess With Oprah" Frey. Perhaps she just wants to include something interesting, but not true, in her own memoir, A Thousand Tiny Pieces of Cake, which is updated intermittently here in this journal, usually when her memory kicks in long enough to remember something.
But, despite what you may think, she's just as surprised as any woman who is closer to pushing a walker than learning to pole dance about the unexpected event that unfolded.
In what may be a useless attempt to be disingenuous, Mrs. Linklater confesses that she uses the wa-a-a-ay flattering headshot over in her About Me section because that's the only part of her body that remains free of cellulite, spider veins, and arthritis.
With a judicious use of photography, combined with hundreds of dollars of make up and careful lighting, she can maintain the illusion of youthfulness without actually revealing the sixty-two year old truth.
Her gift at not looking bad from the neck up can be the only explanation for what transpired the day before yesterday.
Mrs. L was sitting behind the wheel of her high mileage Jeep, stuck in traffic, using the time to finish a day old turkey sandwich she found stuck between the seats, when she half noticed two young men crossing the street, dodging in and out of traffic.
By the way they were rushing, she assumed they were going to the train station. As they were weaving their way around stopped cars, they suddenly turned and decided to cross to the other side in front of her vehicle.
That's when it happened. One of the young men looked at her. This is not unusual. Many people look at Mrs. Linklater when she has a mouth full of food, often in disbelief.
But this time, no doubt distracted by the Hollywood lighting and makeup, her unnaturally blond hair, and the fact that the rest of her body was well hidden behind the wheel of the car, the young man did a double take usually reserved for women who more closely resemble Catherine Zeta Jones, Charlize Theron or Salma Hayak.
Unfortunately, the young man failed to notice the, uh, pothole which had suddenly opened up beneath his feet. It appeared at the very moment he looked at Mrs. Linklater for the second time, instead of watching where the hell he was going.
Like a some David Copperfield rush hour magic trick, the guy vanished before Mrs. Linklater's eyes. Swallowed up by the street. Right in front of her bumper.
But his disappearance was temporary. He immediately jumped back up, looked down at whatever he fell into, brushed himself off, and acted like he did stuff like that all the time.
Followed by one last look to see if the person who caused him so much grief was worth it.
Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
The geisha's training officer, who witnesses this young man's humiliation, is smugly satisfied by his pratfall, since it means that her protege may now have what it takes to control men with her charms.
After sixty-two years, Mrs. Linklater finally had her own geisha moment a couple of days ago. Why it took so damn long, she'll never know.
Like most people who are younger than she is -- and that would be most people -- you're probably thinking she's just making this up -- a la James "Don't Mess With Oprah" Frey. Perhaps she just wants to include something interesting, but not true, in her own memoir, A Thousand Tiny Pieces of Cake, which is updated intermittently here in this journal, usually when her memory kicks in long enough to remember something.
But, despite what you may think, she's just as surprised as any woman who is closer to pushing a walker than learning to pole dance about the unexpected event that unfolded.
In what may be a useless attempt to be disingenuous, Mrs. Linklater confesses that she uses the wa-a-a-ay flattering headshot over in her About Me section because that's the only part of her body that remains free of cellulite, spider veins, and arthritis.
With a judicious use of photography, combined with hundreds of dollars of make up and careful lighting, she can maintain the illusion of youthfulness without actually revealing the sixty-two year old truth.
Her gift at not looking bad from the neck up can be the only explanation for what transpired the day before yesterday.
Mrs. L was sitting behind the wheel of her high mileage Jeep, stuck in traffic, using the time to finish a day old turkey sandwich she found stuck between the seats, when she half noticed two young men crossing the street, dodging in and out of traffic.
By the way they were rushing, she assumed they were going to the train station. As they were weaving their way around stopped cars, they suddenly turned and decided to cross to the other side in front of her vehicle.
That's when it happened. One of the young men looked at her. This is not unusual. Many people look at Mrs. Linklater when she has a mouth full of food, often in disbelief.
But this time, no doubt distracted by the Hollywood lighting and makeup, her unnaturally blond hair, and the fact that the rest of her body was well hidden behind the wheel of the car, the young man did a double take usually reserved for women who more closely resemble Catherine Zeta Jones, Charlize Theron or Salma Hayak.
Unfortunately, the young man failed to notice the, uh, pothole which had suddenly opened up beneath his feet. It appeared at the very moment he looked at Mrs. Linklater for the second time, instead of watching where the hell he was going.
Like a some David Copperfield rush hour magic trick, the guy vanished before Mrs. Linklater's eyes. Swallowed up by the street. Right in front of her bumper.
But his disappearance was temporary. He immediately jumped back up, looked down at whatever he fell into, brushed himself off, and acted like he did stuff like that all the time.
Followed by one last look to see if the person who caused him so much grief was worth it.
Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
What's In Your Purse?
Good Morning America did a segment about how what's in your purse says a lot about who you are. Diane Sawyer showed the contents of four purses to an expert who explained what kind of person owned each one. A purse personality expert? The Apocolypse is lurking around the corner.
Anyways, you got
your super organized, the not so organized, the ready for anything, and
the terrorist. [Kidding.] Diane's purse was the one that included vinyl
gloves and a "condom" to put over someone's mouth, so she
could perform CPR. Oh, please. She also had her passport and a
pack of cinnamon gum, which made her "adventuresome."
I
can't believe that one's gum choice could reveal anything. Juicy Fruit
supposedly means you're a team player and a people pleaser. Peppermint
escapes me, but there was a pack in the very organized purse that was
full of pockets -- those kinds of people always worry about their
breath. Sticks of Clove gum mean you grew up in the fifties. Hubba
Bubba means you're emotionally stuck in junior high. Bet you
can't tell which ones I'm making up.
All this time I
thought life in the good old US of A was all
about size, but I guess it's flavor that matters.
People
who mean to be organized but carry around receipts that get wrinkled
and covered with gunk need to get a plastic bag to put that stuff in.
Or some kind of a clip. What about people that have unidentifiable
pills rolling around on the bottom? There was nothing said
about that. How about people who carry pictures of old
boyfriends? Or a sewing kit? I have no idea who those people are.
None. Not me, of course.
My
purse has make up, an emery board, a pair of reading glasses, my
cellphone, a pick for my hair, a bobby pin, checks, bank cards,
business cards, and my passport, which I have with me at all times. You
never know when you have to catch the redeye to Paris.
I
usually carry cinnamon Tic Tacs or cinnamon gum, but not today. I also
cheat. I keep gas and other receipts I've collected, along with the
occasional lottery ticket [when the pot gets high enough] as well as
extraneous keys and a pair of scissors in that storage thing next to
the driver's seat. So my car is just an extension of my purse. Anything
that doesn't fit in my purse or the armrest goes on the floor behind
the front seat.
I used to have one of those things that holds
two tampons. I used to have a Leatherman, too. I've also brought along
a toothbrush, a change of underwear, and food. More than once. And not
for the reasons you might think.
What's comparable to a purse for guys? Their pockets? Gym bags? The glove compartment?
And do they all have a little package with a Trojan logo on it that leaves a permanent imprint on their wallets?
I
once sprained my ankle playing tennis and the paramedics were
called to take me to the hospital, but not before the guys I was
playing with had their way with me.
When I went down on the court, one of them got a chair to elevate
my leg. Another got some ice. And the third covered my face. "She's
dead isn't she?"
The owner of the club came out, looked
at me lying in the middle of the court, checked his watch and said,
"Well, I'm going to have to charge you for court time."
Finally
my partner had someone get my purse from my locker. The paramedics were
loading me up when he brought it out. "Everything's in there, except
for the condoms. We didn't think you'd be needing them."
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Just Treading Water
Contemplating my navel here at lunchtime is probably not a great idea. But try to stop me.
I'm so old most of my friends have been around for forty years or more. We're all circling the drain in various stages of decay on either side of sixty. What I find most interesting is that the quality of our individual lifestyles doesn't seem to have as much effect on our health as you might hope.
For example, one of my good friends has been athletic all his life. He was elected MVP of his high school football team, the year they won the state championship. He continued to play sports, work out, stay in shape and take care of himself. Deep into his forties, he was the perennial 75-yard dash champion at his town's Fourth of July Races. Every year he beat dozens of hot dog, mustard, and beer bellied celebrants eighteen and over.
Several years ago, because he was so athletic, his enlarged heart muscle was misdiagnosed as an athlete's heart. Some athletes have a heart that's larger and more powerful. It helps explain why they can run farther, faster, and longer. But he was getting slower and short of breath. Finally someone realized his heart wasn't bigger and stronger -- it was enlarged because it was sick and getting sicker. Ironically he had a hereditary disease which should have been discovered at least two years before it had progressed so far. Now DNA testing can prevent what he has had to go through.
After a year's wait, he got a new heart over Thanksgiving a few years ago. If you ever have a friend on a transplant list, you may hear the term DONOR WEEKENDS. That charming phrase refers to the long holidays when highway deaths are more plentiful than usual, and more organs become available. During the year we were waiting, our barbecues and get togethers began to take on the feel of a death watch, checking the news as often as we checked the sports scores for people who died from head injuries.
He doesn't know whose heart he got -- just that it was the heart of a 28-year-old man, but I remember reading about a young couple from Illinois who had been killed on their way home from a vacation trip.
I have heard anecdotes about people with donor organs assuming some of the characteristics of the persons whose organs they have received. Just recently some Scandanvaian guy got a woman's kidney and started doing housework and knitting.
So I asked my friend a few months later if he had noticed any new cravings or strange desires to do anything. At that point there was nothing.
It's been awhile since we talked about it. Last Saturday, we got together for a hamburger at a favorite old hangout with a trip to Dairy Queen afterward and I asked him again. He laughed and said he's really started to like gospel music these days.
Over the weekend there was a serial killer here that committed suicide in his cell. His family wanted to salvage something from his terrible life by donating his organs, but no one wanted them.
I honestly wondered if the rejection was because somehow his evil spirit might be infused in the cell structure of his body parts and affect the recipient. I also have enough ESP to scare myself -- really -- so cut me some slack for that idea.
But it turns out that a prison lifestyle is so risky, he could have HIV that just hadn't manifested itself yet -- that whole six month incubation thing. So whoever got his organs would be at risk.
Meanwhile, I have a robust friend whose last exercise was opening the mail, alcohol is one of his major food groups, and he never met a cigar he didn't light.
I'm so old most of my friends have been around for forty years or more. We're all circling the drain in various stages of decay on either side of sixty. What I find most interesting is that the quality of our individual lifestyles doesn't seem to have as much effect on our health as you might hope.
For example, one of my good friends has been athletic all his life. He was elected MVP of his high school football team, the year they won the state championship. He continued to play sports, work out, stay in shape and take care of himself. Deep into his forties, he was the perennial 75-yard dash champion at his town's Fourth of July Races. Every year he beat dozens of hot dog, mustard, and beer bellied celebrants eighteen and over.
Several years ago, because he was so athletic, his enlarged heart muscle was misdiagnosed as an athlete's heart. Some athletes have a heart that's larger and more powerful. It helps explain why they can run farther, faster, and longer. But he was getting slower and short of breath. Finally someone realized his heart wasn't bigger and stronger -- it was enlarged because it was sick and getting sicker. Ironically he had a hereditary disease which should have been discovered at least two years before it had progressed so far. Now DNA testing can prevent what he has had to go through.
After a year's wait, he got a new heart over Thanksgiving a few years ago. If you ever have a friend on a transplant list, you may hear the term DONOR WEEKENDS. That charming phrase refers to the long holidays when highway deaths are more plentiful than usual, and more organs become available. During the year we were waiting, our barbecues and get togethers began to take on the feel of a death watch, checking the news as often as we checked the sports scores for people who died from head injuries.
He doesn't know whose heart he got -- just that it was the heart of a 28-year-old man, but I remember reading about a young couple from Illinois who had been killed on their way home from a vacation trip.
I have heard anecdotes about people with donor organs assuming some of the characteristics of the persons whose organs they have received. Just recently some Scandanvaian guy got a woman's kidney and started doing housework and knitting.
So I asked my friend a few months later if he had noticed any new cravings or strange desires to do anything. At that point there was nothing.
It's been awhile since we talked about it. Last Saturday, we got together for a hamburger at a favorite old hangout with a trip to Dairy Queen afterward and I asked him again. He laughed and said he's really started to like gospel music these days.
Over the weekend there was a serial killer here that committed suicide in his cell. His family wanted to salvage something from his terrible life by donating his organs, but no one wanted them.
I honestly wondered if the rejection was because somehow his evil spirit might be infused in the cell structure of his body parts and affect the recipient. I also have enough ESP to scare myself -- really -- so cut me some slack for that idea.
But it turns out that a prison lifestyle is so risky, he could have HIV that just hadn't manifested itself yet -- that whole six month incubation thing. So whoever got his organs would be at risk.
Meanwhile, I have a robust friend whose last exercise was opening the mail, alcohol is one of his major food groups, and he never met a cigar he didn't light.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
French Toast with Eggs, Heavy Cream, Vanilla, Cinnamon and Orange Zest
I live about twenty-five miles from downtown Chicago. Today I decided to meet two
friends in the city for a late morning breakfast at a neighborhood spot
I had never been to, but wanted to try.
Ann Sather's is famous on the northside of Chicago for its wonderful breakfasts and homemade sticky buns. Ann herself is memorialized in a large painting that is hung in an ornate frame over the fireplace at her original restaurant. On weekends there are people waiting in lines that go out the front door and wind around into the parking lot.
Having said that, the place we went to was better.
I got there first and the maitress d' in the pink sweatshirt and turquoise eye shadow served me a small cup of fresh squeezed orange juice, while I waited for my friends to show up. I'm a whore for fresh sqoozed o.j. so I drained the first cup and whined for a second. No deal. I had to wait until I could order more at the table.
While looking out the window for my friends, several pairs of handsome, thirty-something men set off my gaydar as they came and went in matching black leather jackets with studs or cashmere sweaters and suede vests. This place must have really good food I thought. Not that gay people are the only ones who frequent good restaurants. But it sure is a good sign when they do.
Unexpectedly, a gregarious lesbian couple struck up a conversation with me, probably because I was in polar fleece, workout pants and wearing my Merrells. Our flirtation came to a screeching halt when my tall, attractive male friend came in and joined me to wait for our pal to find a parking spot.
The breakfast was tasty, as was the charming fifty something server who had the raspy voice of a smoker and worked a second job as a pharmacy tech. My friends ordered eggs, sliced tomato and English muffins. I wanted to try the signature French Toast with fresh strawberries and whipped cream, with a side order of sausage links. Eggs are pretty much just eggs. But fabulous French toast is forever. They were going to have to roll me into my car when it was over.
The aisles were filling with people waiting for a table, so we decided to continue our conversation after driving to a nearby Starbuck's a few blocks away. I had never been in this part of Chicago before, although my kids had lived in a nearby neighborhood at one time. As we walked into Starbuck's I said, for no particular reason, "I bet I run into someone I know."
The place was crowded. Sunday does that to Starbuck's, especially in a city neighborhood. No two of them are ever quite the same, but there is always a certain familiarity. Coffee and high prices. I stood for a bit until a table opened up and I went over to save it.
As I began to sit down, someone said my name. There, at the very next table, calling to me to get my attention was . . .of all people. . .my next door neighbor -- the neighbor who lives about twenty feet away from me on the other side of her driveway, in our typical American suburb, almost twenty-five miles away.
What are the chances of running into her like that? What are the chances that I would also have the sense that I was going to run into someone I knew? And said as much out loud?
What is the reason for these odd juxtapositions of people we know appearing in places we've never been, the two converging far away from home?
One of my friends pointed out that he would never cheat on his wife by sneaking off to spend a secret weekend across the ocean in South Africa on a mountain in a secluded village. Because the next morning he would step outside to discover that a bus tour had arrived with four of his wife's best friends who had just put film in their cameras.
I guess the farther away you think you are, the more likely you are to meet someone you know.
Ann Sather's is famous on the northside of Chicago for its wonderful breakfasts and homemade sticky buns. Ann herself is memorialized in a large painting that is hung in an ornate frame over the fireplace at her original restaurant. On weekends there are people waiting in lines that go out the front door and wind around into the parking lot.
Having said that, the place we went to was better.
I got there first and the maitress d' in the pink sweatshirt and turquoise eye shadow served me a small cup of fresh squeezed orange juice, while I waited for my friends to show up. I'm a whore for fresh sqoozed o.j. so I drained the first cup and whined for a second. No deal. I had to wait until I could order more at the table.
While looking out the window for my friends, several pairs of handsome, thirty-something men set off my gaydar as they came and went in matching black leather jackets with studs or cashmere sweaters and suede vests. This place must have really good food I thought. Not that gay people are the only ones who frequent good restaurants. But it sure is a good sign when they do.
Unexpectedly, a gregarious lesbian couple struck up a conversation with me, probably because I was in polar fleece, workout pants and wearing my Merrells. Our flirtation came to a screeching halt when my tall, attractive male friend came in and joined me to wait for our pal to find a parking spot.
The breakfast was tasty, as was the charming fifty something server who had the raspy voice of a smoker and worked a second job as a pharmacy tech. My friends ordered eggs, sliced tomato and English muffins. I wanted to try the signature French Toast with fresh strawberries and whipped cream, with a side order of sausage links. Eggs are pretty much just eggs. But fabulous French toast is forever. They were going to have to roll me into my car when it was over.
The aisles were filling with people waiting for a table, so we decided to continue our conversation after driving to a nearby Starbuck's a few blocks away. I had never been in this part of Chicago before, although my kids had lived in a nearby neighborhood at one time. As we walked into Starbuck's I said, for no particular reason, "I bet I run into someone I know."
The place was crowded. Sunday does that to Starbuck's, especially in a city neighborhood. No two of them are ever quite the same, but there is always a certain familiarity. Coffee and high prices. I stood for a bit until a table opened up and I went over to save it.
As I began to sit down, someone said my name. There, at the very next table, calling to me to get my attention was . . .of all people. . .my next door neighbor -- the neighbor who lives about twenty feet away from me on the other side of her driveway, in our typical American suburb, almost twenty-five miles away.
What are the chances of running into her like that? What are the chances that I would also have the sense that I was going to run into someone I knew? And said as much out loud?
What is the reason for these odd juxtapositions of people we know appearing in places we've never been, the two converging far away from home?
One of my friends pointed out that he would never cheat on his wife by sneaking off to spend a secret weekend across the ocean in South Africa on a mountain in a secluded village. Because the next morning he would step outside to discover that a bus tour had arrived with four of his wife's best friends who had just put film in their cameras.
I guess the farther away you think you are, the more likely you are to meet someone you know.
Friday, January 20, 2006
A Million Tiny Pieces of Cake -- Chapter Six
Let's see, I was a
bedwetter long enough to remember waking up in wet sheets and being
cold. I also remember my mother telling me once that she wasn't going
to change the sheets or my soaked clothing. She didn't do that all the
time. I think that particular time was a special occasion, a "cure" suggested by
some asshead who shall remain nameless.
That memory is still so vivid I guess I haven't really forgiven her for that cold wet night. However, being mean to children wasn't in her nature, so she didn't do it again.
My brother, on the other hand, used to get out of bed when he was two years old and head for the bathroom in his sleep. He never seemed to get there. Instead of finding the toilet, he would settle for the refrigerator and pee in the lettuce. His "accidents" were charming and a source of family amusement. Mine were a problem, a source of concern. Funny how I just noticed the double standard.
My kids didn't sleepwalk nor did they have to lie in their own pee. I bought plenty of colorful and cute designer kid sheets and warm fuzzy footies to change into in case of accidents. These days those new pull up pants for toddlers and older kids are wonderful solution to the embarrassment and shame kids can feel for something that happens while they are sound asleep.
I remember thinking I got off relatively easy compared to the children who made the news for the same problem. There ought to be a special place in Hell for parents who hit their kids for wetting the bed. And life in prison for the ones who beat them to death. Or put them in scalding water.
I once had a babysitter named Anna Mae who made me eat a plate of peas for lunch. Peas were not lunch as far as I was concerned. A bologna sandwich and bean soup were lunch. But she made me stay at the table until I ate every last one. By the end I was gagging every time I swallowed. Not surprisingly, it wasn't until I was in high school that I tried to eat peas again. To face my fear, I had to wrap a forkful of the little green orbs in potatoes and gravy before I managed to get them down. Just the sensation of their roundness on my tongue came close to making me retch. But I survived. Now I like Bird's Eye Tender Tiny Peas so much I have actually made myself a whole plate for lunch.
Pee problems and a problem with peas. Coincidence? Maybe not.
I think I was young enough during the iniital plate of peas episode that Anna Mae had no idea that I would be able to complain to my mother about what she made me do. In fact, I think my mother was so stunned when I told her what I had for lunch that she even asked the woman if what I said was true. I can only imagine the look on Anna Mae's face when she realized I was able to rat her out. Whatever transpired, I never saw her again.
A bologna -- pronounced BALONEY -- sandwich and bean soup was my favorite lunch mantra. My mom picked us up at school until sixth grade so we could have a homemade hot meal of sorts. Every day my mother would ask us what we wanted for lunch. Every day I would say, "BALONEY AND BEAN SOUP."
Then I switched schools in sixth grade and she started making me a brown bag lunch to eat in the cafeteria. A new school meant a new lunch. Now I always had two sandwiches: One peanut butter and jelly, one cream cheese mixed with red caviar [yes, you read that right], all washed down with two cartons of chocolate milk. M-m-m-m-m-m, dee-lish.
In fifth grade I got a cookbook that had a recipe for old fashioned fudge -- not the Marshmallow Fluff kind -- the cook it until the softball stage and beat it until your arms fall off kind. My mom was from the "you can do it without my help" school of learning, so I would use a wooden spoon and beat the fudge all by myself, until it went from shiny to creamy and was ready to pour into the pan. Timing was everything. Too soon and it wouldn't set up. Too late and the fudge would harden in the pan. The change was subtle, but she would let me know when it happened until I figured it out for myself.
Learning to make rich buttery fudge from scratch began my lifelong attachment to all things chocolate. Godiva, Dove, Ghirardelli, Nestle, Hershey, I'm not a snob. There isn't a fudge shop in a vacation town I've visited where I haven't purchased a big chunk of the plain kind so I could relive those halcyon days of yesteryear. The miracle is that I didn't feel compelled to open my own place.
Boy this is making me hungry.
END OF CHAPTER SIX
That memory is still so vivid I guess I haven't really forgiven her for that cold wet night. However, being mean to children wasn't in her nature, so she didn't do it again.
My brother, on the other hand, used to get out of bed when he was two years old and head for the bathroom in his sleep. He never seemed to get there. Instead of finding the toilet, he would settle for the refrigerator and pee in the lettuce. His "accidents" were charming and a source of family amusement. Mine were a problem, a source of concern. Funny how I just noticed the double standard.
My kids didn't sleepwalk nor did they have to lie in their own pee. I bought plenty of colorful and cute designer kid sheets and warm fuzzy footies to change into in case of accidents. These days those new pull up pants for toddlers and older kids are wonderful solution to the embarrassment and shame kids can feel for something that happens while they are sound asleep.
I remember thinking I got off relatively easy compared to the children who made the news for the same problem. There ought to be a special place in Hell for parents who hit their kids for wetting the bed. And life in prison for the ones who beat them to death. Or put them in scalding water.
I once had a babysitter named Anna Mae who made me eat a plate of peas for lunch. Peas were not lunch as far as I was concerned. A bologna sandwich and bean soup were lunch. But she made me stay at the table until I ate every last one. By the end I was gagging every time I swallowed. Not surprisingly, it wasn't until I was in high school that I tried to eat peas again. To face my fear, I had to wrap a forkful of the little green orbs in potatoes and gravy before I managed to get them down. Just the sensation of their roundness on my tongue came close to making me retch. But I survived. Now I like Bird's Eye Tender Tiny Peas so much I have actually made myself a whole plate for lunch.
Pee problems and a problem with peas. Coincidence? Maybe not.
I think I was young enough during the iniital plate of peas episode that Anna Mae had no idea that I would be able to complain to my mother about what she made me do. In fact, I think my mother was so stunned when I told her what I had for lunch that she even asked the woman if what I said was true. I can only imagine the look on Anna Mae's face when she realized I was able to rat her out. Whatever transpired, I never saw her again.
A bologna -- pronounced BALONEY -- sandwich and bean soup was my favorite lunch mantra. My mom picked us up at school until sixth grade so we could have a homemade hot meal of sorts. Every day my mother would ask us what we wanted for lunch. Every day I would say, "BALONEY AND BEAN SOUP."
Then I switched schools in sixth grade and she started making me a brown bag lunch to eat in the cafeteria. A new school meant a new lunch. Now I always had two sandwiches: One peanut butter and jelly, one cream cheese mixed with red caviar [yes, you read that right], all washed down with two cartons of chocolate milk. M-m-m-m-m-m, dee-lish.
In fifth grade I got a cookbook that had a recipe for old fashioned fudge -- not the Marshmallow Fluff kind -- the cook it until the softball stage and beat it until your arms fall off kind. My mom was from the "you can do it without my help" school of learning, so I would use a wooden spoon and beat the fudge all by myself, until it went from shiny to creamy and was ready to pour into the pan. Timing was everything. Too soon and it wouldn't set up. Too late and the fudge would harden in the pan. The change was subtle, but she would let me know when it happened until I figured it out for myself.
Learning to make rich buttery fudge from scratch began my lifelong attachment to all things chocolate. Godiva, Dove, Ghirardelli, Nestle, Hershey, I'm not a snob. There isn't a fudge shop in a vacation town I've visited where I haven't purchased a big chunk of the plain kind so I could relive those halcyon days of yesteryear. The miracle is that I didn't feel compelled to open my own place.
Boy this is making me hungry.
END OF CHAPTER SIX
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Chapter Five -- A Million Tiny Pieces of Cake
Mrs. Linklater's memoir continues with her driving record, which has all the excitement of parallel parking.
I got my first ticket at 24, for driving 43 MPH in a 25 MPH zone. Ho-hum. Having a 1965 Mustang I received for graduation from college was probably the reason for it. That little car was quick. A little too quick sometimes. I never got stopped on the highways, but barreling through a quiet neighborhood, complete with a Dukes of Hazzard moment, which lifted all four wheels off the road as I crested a small hill, no doubt caught the attention of the police officer who was cruising behind me.
Instead of just paying the ticket I decided to go to traffic court in my town. In those days you went to the village where the infraction took place. Nowadays traffic court takes place in a larger, centralized venue with bunches of smaller courtrooms instead of one big one.
But my first appearance before a judge was in a courtroom with a ceiling two stories high, right out of a Jimmy Stewart movie. The judge was sitting at a nosebleed height. There were at least two hundred people in the room. This was going to be a long haul.
I watched as one sixteen-year-old boy after another went before the judge to defend himself for his second or third speeding ticket. When my turn came the judge almost seemed relieved to discover that young people could drive eight years before getting their first ticket. He gave me supervision, which ultimately kept me from getting a speeding ticket on my record.
Of course, when it came to good driving records I couldn't touch my mother's, which was blemish free. Not only that, but she had a chauffeur's license -- not standard issue for suburban moms in the fifties.
When I was four or five, my resourceful mother started a business driving kids to school. She converted a 1947 Mercury Woody station wagon to a kidmobile so that it had benches around the perimeter of the back for little tykes to sit on.
She started the business to make extra money while my dad was still making no money as a medical resident. She was a registered nurse, but driving was the only way she could take care of us kids while she worked We went on all her pick up runs. "Fingers, hands on chest," was her mantra every time she opened a door or closed it. I think that came about because I stuck my fingers in the door just as she closed it one time. I was like that.
Later, as I got closer to driving age, I became convinced she kept her chauffeur's license long after she needed it, just to show me the high standards of driving she expected from me.
Except for a four year period when I couldn't seem to back out of a driveway or a parking lot space without hitting another car, my contacts with other vehicles driving forward have been pretty much limited to one or two other occasions.
I hit the bumper of a white car in front of me hard enough to leave the black imprint of my bumper on hers. The damage amounted to something that could be rubbed off with some elbow grease. Unfortunately the driver's husband, who hadn't been there, claimed that I hit her so hard that there was irreparable destruction to some gismo in the front end. Luckily I had taken pictures at the scene to show the insurance company how little damage there was. Soon that complaint went away.
A couple of years ago,I lost my mind and tried to turn right in front of a stopped bus, forgetting that it's ILLEGAL to do that. The bus started up and clipped my bumper. No damage, but he had to write a report. This meant the whole bus had to be emptied and another one called to come pick up the passengers, each of whom gave me a dirty look as they trudged off.
The bus driver's superviser had to come to make a report too. He tookdown all my insurance information, driver's license info, etc., etc. We all agreed that everything was my fault. Then the police showed up. Two of the biggest, baddest, baldest Chicago police officers I have ever seen came swaggering over to my car, as I sat looking up at them seated on the passenger side with the door open.
One of the officers talked to the bus driver, then turned to me and started shouting in my face, "Shame on you! Shame on YOU! Trying to drive around the bus, that's illegal, what were you thinking . . ." He went into a wild tirade at me. I just stared at him because even though I knew it was my fault, I sure didn't like him yelling at me up close and personal. Suddenly he stopped his rant and I didn't say anything. I just glared at him with fire in my eyes. By now both cops were standing over me like two huge sumo wrestlers in uniform.
Then I saw the look on the bus driver's face. "Just say you're sorry, lady," was written all over it. He was staring at me like I'd better do something quick. So I said, "Yes, officer, we have agreed that this was all my fault. I'm very sorry." There was another beat, like the cop was trying to decide whether it was worth his time to write me a ticket, because I was up to my neck in insubordination, not to mention utter disrespect.
He looked at me hard, then turned to the bus driver. I had the feeling he didn't want to bother with the ticket, but I had pushed him to the edge. "Any damage?" he asked. "No." At this point he could let it go and seem like a good guy. So I didn't get the ticket I richly deserved.
After the police drove off, the bus driver was incredulous. "You almost got yourself a nasty ticket. What were you thinking?" I was thinking the bus driver was right, Actually, I just needed time to get my anger at the police officer's IN YOUR FACE scolding under control. It almost took me too much time, that's all. So I just agreed with the bus driver and went on my way.
END OF CHAPTER FIVE
I got my first ticket at 24, for driving 43 MPH in a 25 MPH zone. Ho-hum. Having a 1965 Mustang I received for graduation from college was probably the reason for it. That little car was quick. A little too quick sometimes. I never got stopped on the highways, but barreling through a quiet neighborhood, complete with a Dukes of Hazzard moment, which lifted all four wheels off the road as I crested a small hill, no doubt caught the attention of the police officer who was cruising behind me.
Instead of just paying the ticket I decided to go to traffic court in my town. In those days you went to the village where the infraction took place. Nowadays traffic court takes place in a larger, centralized venue with bunches of smaller courtrooms instead of one big one.
But my first appearance before a judge was in a courtroom with a ceiling two stories high, right out of a Jimmy Stewart movie. The judge was sitting at a nosebleed height. There were at least two hundred people in the room. This was going to be a long haul.
I watched as one sixteen-year-old boy after another went before the judge to defend himself for his second or third speeding ticket. When my turn came the judge almost seemed relieved to discover that young people could drive eight years before getting their first ticket. He gave me supervision, which ultimately kept me from getting a speeding ticket on my record.
Of course, when it came to good driving records I couldn't touch my mother's, which was blemish free. Not only that, but she had a chauffeur's license -- not standard issue for suburban moms in the fifties.
When I was four or five, my resourceful mother started a business driving kids to school. She converted a 1947 Mercury Woody station wagon to a kidmobile so that it had benches around the perimeter of the back for little tykes to sit on.
She started the business to make extra money while my dad was still making no money as a medical resident. She was a registered nurse, but driving was the only way she could take care of us kids while she worked We went on all her pick up runs. "Fingers, hands on chest," was her mantra every time she opened a door or closed it. I think that came about because I stuck my fingers in the door just as she closed it one time. I was like that.
Later, as I got closer to driving age, I became convinced she kept her chauffeur's license long after she needed it, just to show me the high standards of driving she expected from me.
Except for a four year period when I couldn't seem to back out of a driveway or a parking lot space without hitting another car, my contacts with other vehicles driving forward have been pretty much limited to one or two other occasions.
I hit the bumper of a white car in front of me hard enough to leave the black imprint of my bumper on hers. The damage amounted to something that could be rubbed off with some elbow grease. Unfortunately the driver's husband, who hadn't been there, claimed that I hit her so hard that there was irreparable destruction to some gismo in the front end. Luckily I had taken pictures at the scene to show the insurance company how little damage there was. Soon that complaint went away.
A couple of years ago,I lost my mind and tried to turn right in front of a stopped bus, forgetting that it's ILLEGAL to do that. The bus started up and clipped my bumper. No damage, but he had to write a report. This meant the whole bus had to be emptied and another one called to come pick up the passengers, each of whom gave me a dirty look as they trudged off.
The bus driver's superviser had to come to make a report too. He tookdown all my insurance information, driver's license info, etc., etc. We all agreed that everything was my fault. Then the police showed up. Two of the biggest, baddest, baldest Chicago police officers I have ever seen came swaggering over to my car, as I sat looking up at them seated on the passenger side with the door open.
One of the officers talked to the bus driver, then turned to me and started shouting in my face, "Shame on you! Shame on YOU! Trying to drive around the bus, that's illegal, what were you thinking . . ." He went into a wild tirade at me. I just stared at him because even though I knew it was my fault, I sure didn't like him yelling at me up close and personal. Suddenly he stopped his rant and I didn't say anything. I just glared at him with fire in my eyes. By now both cops were standing over me like two huge sumo wrestlers in uniform.
Then I saw the look on the bus driver's face. "Just say you're sorry, lady," was written all over it. He was staring at me like I'd better do something quick. So I said, "Yes, officer, we have agreed that this was all my fault. I'm very sorry." There was another beat, like the cop was trying to decide whether it was worth his time to write me a ticket, because I was up to my neck in insubordination, not to mention utter disrespect.
He looked at me hard, then turned to the bus driver. I had the feeling he didn't want to bother with the ticket, but I had pushed him to the edge. "Any damage?" he asked. "No." At this point he could let it go and seem like a good guy. So I didn't get the ticket I richly deserved.
After the police drove off, the bus driver was incredulous. "You almost got yourself a nasty ticket. What were you thinking?" I was thinking the bus driver was right, Actually, I just needed time to get my anger at the police officer's IN YOUR FACE scolding under control. It almost took me too much time, that's all. So I just agreed with the bus driver and went on my way.
END OF CHAPTER FIVE
Up In The Middle Of The Night
You learn things waking up in the middle of the nightshift.
Some hard-drinking guy in Scandanavia on dialysis got a kidney from a woman donor. Suddenly he's doing housework and learning to knit. He's thankful for the kidney, but he wishes they had warned him about the side effects. His wife is fine with his new feminine side, but hopes he doesn't start checking out guys.
Does that mean if a criminal dies and his organs are donated there might be a risk of the recipients descending into lives of crime? Is it possible to be overcome by an uncontrollable urge to embezzle funds with a new, but criminal heart? Or write rap music with a gangbanger's liver?
For years people have complained that the recycled air on planes is what makes passengers sick after a long flight. Except now the airlines have created better circulation in the cabins to include outside air as well as a filter or something that kills germs. Apparently the real reason people get sick from riding in airplanes these days is that there are sick people on the plane with you. What a shocking discovery.
I remember waiting for a flight and noticing some woman hacking like she had TB, in between leaning on her husband's shoulder in the throes of terrible illness. Geez, I thought, too bad for the person sitting next to her. [You're getting ahead of me].
We board the plane. I walk back to my seat and there she is in the seat next to mine. Ever the sympathetic fellow passenger. I looked at her husband. I looked at her. And I said very loudly, "Are YOU SICK?" It sounded like I had accused her of fornicating in public. She looked at me in horror and leaned as far away from me as she could. She never replied to my question.
Even better, she didn't cough, sniffle, speak or breathe for the entire two hour ride.
Ironically, at the end of the flight, there was an announcement. Would we all please remain in our seats so that someone who was deathly ill could deplane first. At that point, I assumed they were talking about the woman next to me. Instead, the guy seated right behind me got up and left the plane.
Haaaa.
Somehow, by some miracle, I didn't get sick.
Today, January 17th, is Ben Franklin's birthday. He would be 300. My dad would be ninety. Muhammed Ali is 64. Jim Carrey is forty-something.
Sixty per cent of African Americans said they celebrated MLK's birthday. Fifteen per cent of white Americans did also.
Oh look, there's Fred and Ethel Mertz from I Love Lucy shilling for the Medicare prescription drug plan, which according to the news is so f**ked up that most seniors can't get their drugs because they've been lost in the system.
Finally, football and the Golden Globes. Am I the only person who wasn't impressed with the high ranking of the Bears' defense? BEFORE the game? Sheesh. They built their reputation on the backs of losing teams. Nevermind, I can't talk about it.
The Golden Globes. Hmmm. Did you love Pam Anderson with her two biggest assets COVERED UP? Remind me to find out what kind of software they used on Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon to make it sound like they could sing. They can do that you know. In fact, I think I want to sing love songs with Barry Manilow.
Stay tuned.
Some hard-drinking guy in Scandanavia on dialysis got a kidney from a woman donor. Suddenly he's doing housework and learning to knit. He's thankful for the kidney, but he wishes they had warned him about the side effects. His wife is fine with his new feminine side, but hopes he doesn't start checking out guys.
Does that mean if a criminal dies and his organs are donated there might be a risk of the recipients descending into lives of crime? Is it possible to be overcome by an uncontrollable urge to embezzle funds with a new, but criminal heart? Or write rap music with a gangbanger's liver?
For years people have complained that the recycled air on planes is what makes passengers sick after a long flight. Except now the airlines have created better circulation in the cabins to include outside air as well as a filter or something that kills germs. Apparently the real reason people get sick from riding in airplanes these days is that there are sick people on the plane with you. What a shocking discovery.
I remember waiting for a flight and noticing some woman hacking like she had TB, in between leaning on her husband's shoulder in the throes of terrible illness. Geez, I thought, too bad for the person sitting next to her. [You're getting ahead of me].
We board the plane. I walk back to my seat and there she is in the seat next to mine. Ever the sympathetic fellow passenger. I looked at her husband. I looked at her. And I said very loudly, "Are YOU SICK?" It sounded like I had accused her of fornicating in public. She looked at me in horror and leaned as far away from me as she could. She never replied to my question.
Even better, she didn't cough, sniffle, speak or breathe for the entire two hour ride.
Ironically, at the end of the flight, there was an announcement. Would we all please remain in our seats so that someone who was deathly ill could deplane first. At that point, I assumed they were talking about the woman next to me. Instead, the guy seated right behind me got up and left the plane.
Haaaa.
Somehow, by some miracle, I didn't get sick.
Today, January 17th, is Ben Franklin's birthday. He would be 300. My dad would be ninety. Muhammed Ali is 64. Jim Carrey is forty-something.
Sixty per cent of African Americans said they celebrated MLK's birthday. Fifteen per cent of white Americans did also.
Oh look, there's Fred and Ethel Mertz from I Love Lucy shilling for the Medicare prescription drug plan, which according to the news is so f**ked up that most seniors can't get their drugs because they've been lost in the system.
Finally, football and the Golden Globes. Am I the only person who wasn't impressed with the high ranking of the Bears' defense? BEFORE the game? Sheesh. They built their reputation on the backs of losing teams. Nevermind, I can't talk about it.
The Golden Globes. Hmmm. Did you love Pam Anderson with her two biggest assets COVERED UP? Remind me to find out what kind of software they used on Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon to make it sound like they could sing. They can do that you know. In fact, I think I want to sing love songs with Barry Manilow.
Stay tuned.
Monday, January 16, 2006
A Million Tiny Pieces of Cake -- Chapter Four
What's with the name of Mrs. Linklater's memoir? The cake part. James Frey's non fiction piece of fiction, A Million Little Pieces, is about drug addiction. Compared to his life, Mrs. L's life has been nothing but cake. Literally and figuratively.
I haven't bought his book or even felt like reading it yet. Mainly because I have no desire to feel the pain of people going through drug withdrawal, even though i'm related to people who have been down that road.
I have my own addictions, but they are not drug or alcohol related. Not that I didn't have my chances. I was on something with five grains of codeine in each pill every month for seven years because I had such terrible cramps in high school and college. Until they finally invented Ponstel, a miracle drug for me.
Before that, I was on an industrial strength high for at least two days a month -- legally. How ironic that I hated every minute of it. The codeine dreams were hallucinatory. I felt like I never slept. The only upside for me was that I was sooooooo mellow. The razor sharp edge that separates me from normal people was gone. In college an ex-boyfriend called my sorority house to talk to someone else. I answered and I sounded so laid back that he ended up talking to me instead. He even asked me out. Unfortunately I wasn't doped up anymore by the time we got together a few days later.
I did gain what little empathy I have for addicts and their pain, when I was a divorced mother raising kids and hurt my back. The spasms were killing me, but it was a holiday and I couldn't reach my doctor for a prescription, or call a chiropractor for an adjustment, or hire a massage therapist for some relief.
Scouring through the medicine chest I found some Darvocet leftover from foot surgery. I took a couple. They didn't do much for the pain in my back, but they sure numbed the "white noise" of stress that had been buzzing -- unbeknownst to me -- in my head. Hmmmm. I'd always heard about the ability of drugs to silence the noise scrambling around in your mind, but I didn't know I even had any. Or how much. Still, I didn't take more pills when those wore off -- I realized there was something going on and talked to someone to figure out what it was. After medicating myself with a box of chocolates.
Which brings me to the cake part of the memoir. I love cake, especially chocolate cake with chocolate butter cream frosting. Why can't it be one of the food groups?
My favorite childhood cake was store-bought -- chocolate layers with creamy white icing and the top and sides covered in chocolate sprinkles. For some reason it was called a Ranch Cake. Thinking about it reminds me of summer suppers of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans after which my mother would bring out a Ranch Cake for dessert. It also reminds me that we had a glass-topped table and my brother used to come to dinner with bare feet, which were visible through the glass in a most unappetizing way.
I graduated to yellow cake with chocolate frosting, angel food cake with strawberry frosting, carrot cake, banana cake, German chocolate cake, Black Forest cake, you name it, but I never learned to bake any from scratch.
Then I got married. My mother-in-law had a family recipe for chocolate cake that my husband loved. He mentioned it so much that I took the hint and asked my MIL for the recipe. The first time I baked it was a disaster. The layers were only about 1/2 inch high, instead of at least an inch.
To save face, I called it a torte. A two-layer torte. I think the definition of torte is at least five to seven layers of really really thin cake layers. So mine was pretty pathetic.
I think the real issue was that my MIL wasn't ready to relinquish her exalted position as the chief and only cakemaker.
That may have been why she neglected to tell me to use cake flour instead of regular flour. Her recipe only called for flour. She just assumed I knew it was supposed to be cake flour. It was a cake, wasn't it? Every knows that. Except for me.
Then I had children who began to have birthday parties which required a cake. Usually there were so many kids I would use that as an excuse to buy a cake, so there could be leftovers. For me.
I found a family bakery close by that made two layer sheet cakes with wonderful, moist and light chocolate cake, covered with extraordinary chocolate butter cream frosting. With your choice of filling between the layers -- I always chose raspberry. When my metabolisim was in high gear I could finish off the leftover cake in a day or two, but those days are long gone. It just goes stale now.
When my younger daughter was in high school I met a woman on a freight elevator in myoffice building who was carrying a beautiful designer cake to a big party. She was the cakemaker, so I took her card and later had her create a cake for my daughter's sixteenth birthday. It looked like a Laura Ashley hatbox. It was beautfiul. My daughter loved it. I tried to find a picture of it, but no luck.
For a friend's 36th birthday party I found a cake sculptor who created a voluptuous female torso in a bikini for him. I had "A PERFECT 36" written across the middle of some body part.
By the way, this wasn't two breastlike mounds on top of a sheet cake -- the cakemaker had actually carved a very shapely and realistic body. My friend loved it. He said it tasted good too.
These days I have no use for any frou frou flourless cake, or those obscene Death by Chocolate extravaganzas. Just gimme good old fashioned layer cake with real butter in the frosting. A scoop of ice cream couldn't hurt. Lately, bakeries under pressure have come up with smaller layer cakes -- only five inches across, instead of ten. So it won't go stale before those of us who live alone and just pretend we're having company can finish it.
There's also a new place in Chicago called Cupcakes -- which specializes in nothing but -- go figure -- cupcakes. Apparently they go through 1200 a day on the weekends. It might be time for a road trip this afternoon. Sometimes these trips down memory lane are full of calories.
So many pieces of cake. So little time.
End of Chapter Four
I haven't bought his book or even felt like reading it yet. Mainly because I have no desire to feel the pain of people going through drug withdrawal, even though i'm related to people who have been down that road.
I have my own addictions, but they are not drug or alcohol related. Not that I didn't have my chances. I was on something with five grains of codeine in each pill every month for seven years because I had such terrible cramps in high school and college. Until they finally invented Ponstel, a miracle drug for me.
Before that, I was on an industrial strength high for at least two days a month -- legally. How ironic that I hated every minute of it. The codeine dreams were hallucinatory. I felt like I never slept. The only upside for me was that I was sooooooo mellow. The razor sharp edge that separates me from normal people was gone. In college an ex-boyfriend called my sorority house to talk to someone else. I answered and I sounded so laid back that he ended up talking to me instead. He even asked me out. Unfortunately I wasn't doped up anymore by the time we got together a few days later.
I did gain what little empathy I have for addicts and their pain, when I was a divorced mother raising kids and hurt my back. The spasms were killing me, but it was a holiday and I couldn't reach my doctor for a prescription, or call a chiropractor for an adjustment, or hire a massage therapist for some relief.
Scouring through the medicine chest I found some Darvocet leftover from foot surgery. I took a couple. They didn't do much for the pain in my back, but they sure numbed the "white noise" of stress that had been buzzing -- unbeknownst to me -- in my head. Hmmmm. I'd always heard about the ability of drugs to silence the noise scrambling around in your mind, but I didn't know I even had any. Or how much. Still, I didn't take more pills when those wore off -- I realized there was something going on and talked to someone to figure out what it was. After medicating myself with a box of chocolates.
Which brings me to the cake part of the memoir. I love cake, especially chocolate cake with chocolate butter cream frosting. Why can't it be one of the food groups?
My favorite childhood cake was store-bought -- chocolate layers with creamy white icing and the top and sides covered in chocolate sprinkles. For some reason it was called a Ranch Cake. Thinking about it reminds me of summer suppers of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans after which my mother would bring out a Ranch Cake for dessert. It also reminds me that we had a glass-topped table and my brother used to come to dinner with bare feet, which were visible through the glass in a most unappetizing way.
I graduated to yellow cake with chocolate frosting, angel food cake with strawberry frosting, carrot cake, banana cake, German chocolate cake, Black Forest cake, you name it, but I never learned to bake any from scratch.
Then I got married. My mother-in-law had a family recipe for chocolate cake that my husband loved. He mentioned it so much that I took the hint and asked my MIL for the recipe. The first time I baked it was a disaster. The layers were only about 1/2 inch high, instead of at least an inch.
To save face, I called it a torte. A two-layer torte. I think the definition of torte is at least five to seven layers of really really thin cake layers. So mine was pretty pathetic.
I think the real issue was that my MIL wasn't ready to relinquish her exalted position as the chief and only cakemaker.
That may have been why she neglected to tell me to use cake flour instead of regular flour. Her recipe only called for flour. She just assumed I knew it was supposed to be cake flour. It was a cake, wasn't it? Every knows that. Except for me.
Then I had children who began to have birthday parties which required a cake. Usually there were so many kids I would use that as an excuse to buy a cake, so there could be leftovers. For me.
I found a family bakery close by that made two layer sheet cakes with wonderful, moist and light chocolate cake, covered with extraordinary chocolate butter cream frosting. With your choice of filling between the layers -- I always chose raspberry. When my metabolisim was in high gear I could finish off the leftover cake in a day or two, but those days are long gone. It just goes stale now.
When my younger daughter was in high school I met a woman on a freight elevator in myoffice building who was carrying a beautiful designer cake to a big party. She was the cakemaker, so I took her card and later had her create a cake for my daughter's sixteenth birthday. It looked like a Laura Ashley hatbox. It was beautfiul. My daughter loved it. I tried to find a picture of it, but no luck.
For a friend's 36th birthday party I found a cake sculptor who created a voluptuous female torso in a bikini for him. I had "A PERFECT 36" written across the middle of some body part.
By the way, this wasn't two breastlike mounds on top of a sheet cake -- the cakemaker had actually carved a very shapely and realistic body. My friend loved it. He said it tasted good too.
These days I have no use for any frou frou flourless cake, or those obscene Death by Chocolate extravaganzas. Just gimme good old fashioned layer cake with real butter in the frosting. A scoop of ice cream couldn't hurt. Lately, bakeries under pressure have come up with smaller layer cakes -- only five inches across, instead of ten. So it won't go stale before those of us who live alone and just pretend we're having company can finish it.
There's also a new place in Chicago called Cupcakes -- which specializes in nothing but -- go figure -- cupcakes. Apparently they go through 1200 a day on the weekends. It might be time for a road trip this afternoon. Sometimes these trips down memory lane are full of calories.
So many pieces of cake. So little time.
End of Chapter Four
Friday, January 13, 2006
The Pieces of Cake Memoir Continues
Chapter Three
The first two chapters of Mrs. Linklater's riveting memoir have been toddler memories, but this one will be about a memory from high school.
Is there a rule that memoirs must have recollections in chronological order? I didn't think so.
The reason I want to skip to a high school memory is that The Book of Daniel is on TV again tonight. This new show is about an Episcopal priest who has a pretty crazy family. Plus he talks to Jesus, which isn't so odd, but Jesus talks back and looks like one of those sanitized and westernized pictures you see hanging next to a photo of Jack Kennedy in homes of people over eighty. There are those who find the show offensive and not funny. I'm not one of them.
I was raised in the Episcopal Church. If you ever want to see where white people who can't sing congregate on Sundays, this is the place. Episcopalians are the Protestants that claim Henry VIII as their patron saint.
While most Episcopal priests are so nondescript that no one could pick them out of a lineup -- not to mention that we have female priests who are lesbians -- the pastor at my church was Hollywood handsome -- sent from Central Casting to minister to the denizens of one of the wealthier suburbs of Chicago.
The summer after I graduated from high school a letter was sent to members of the church. Our handsome Protestant priest was leaving to pursue other interests. I read the letter as a 17 year old virgin and didn't think much about it, until the newspapers ran a story about how the leader of one of the country's wealthiest Episcopal dioceses had left his wife and four children for a woman in the parish. This woman had a husband and children of her own. She was also the heiress to a famous fortune. Oh geez, rich white people are going to look really bad when this one is over.
My mother, who was usually circumspect with gossip, revealed that our minister had grown up in the country town next to hers out east -- a rascally place that had a reputation for women of the evening. She was aware of this probably because her own father may have frequented some of those spots doing research for his own Book of Daniel. Jack Daniel's. She implied that our priest might have been the son of one of those women. She had no proof, just something cryptic her own mother had once said about him.
Meanwhile our disgraced pastor and his lover moved as far out of town as you can go and still be on the continent, where they live to this day as man and wife, as near as I can determine.
However, the upheaval of two families and a church wasn't the end of it. A couple of years later, when one of our former pastor's children was a senior in high school, she went out with some friends to collect door to door for a canned food drive. There were several young people riding around in a car together, which was an old limosine. They had also been drinking. At some point during the evening, the driver lost control of the car and hit a tree head-on. No one was wearing seat belts. One of my brother's friends, a star swimmer, was paralyzed from the neck down. Another young man, a gymnast, suffered several broken bones. The driver wasn't hurt.
Our former minister's daughter was killed.
Her dad came back from his new life across the country to attend his daughter's funeral at the church where he used to work. Imagine how he must have felt when one of the vestrymen, the guys with the programs, wouldn't let him through the door. Apparently he lost his membership card for behaving badly.
I don't know what ultimately happened after he was refused admittance. Did they change their minds? But my mother went ballistic at the hypocrisy of it all. "The church is supposed to be for the sinners!" she ranted. Still locking him out was typical of a place that could get all hinky about who had the right credentials to be in charge of the coffee hour. Naturally people like that would want to keep out anyone who wasn't their kind, forgetting that Henry VIII had created the church for his own convenience -- so he could continue his own bad behavior.
Anyway, after forty years the scandal has finally died down somewhat. But there are those who still remember. Me, for instance. Telling this story helps fan the flames again. Someone has to keep a candle burning.
This memory is why The Book of Daniel, the TV show, seems more like a reality show than a fictional sitcom. Everything on there is within the realm of possibility as far as I'm concerned.
Which brings me to one final thing I later realized about my particular church -- forgiveness is based on your ability to pay.
END OF CHAPTER THREE
The first two chapters of Mrs. Linklater's riveting memoir have been toddler memories, but this one will be about a memory from high school.
Is there a rule that memoirs must have recollections in chronological order? I didn't think so.
The reason I want to skip to a high school memory is that The Book of Daniel is on TV again tonight. This new show is about an Episcopal priest who has a pretty crazy family. Plus he talks to Jesus, which isn't so odd, but Jesus talks back and looks like one of those sanitized and westernized pictures you see hanging next to a photo of Jack Kennedy in homes of people over eighty. There are those who find the show offensive and not funny. I'm not one of them.
I was raised in the Episcopal Church. If you ever want to see where white people who can't sing congregate on Sundays, this is the place. Episcopalians are the Protestants that claim Henry VIII as their patron saint.
While most Episcopal priests are so nondescript that no one could pick them out of a lineup -- not to mention that we have female priests who are lesbians -- the pastor at my church was Hollywood handsome -- sent from Central Casting to minister to the denizens of one of the wealthier suburbs of Chicago.
The summer after I graduated from high school a letter was sent to members of the church. Our handsome Protestant priest was leaving to pursue other interests. I read the letter as a 17 year old virgin and didn't think much about it, until the newspapers ran a story about how the leader of one of the country's wealthiest Episcopal dioceses had left his wife and four children for a woman in the parish. This woman had a husband and children of her own. She was also the heiress to a famous fortune. Oh geez, rich white people are going to look really bad when this one is over.
My mother, who was usually circumspect with gossip, revealed that our minister had grown up in the country town next to hers out east -- a rascally place that had a reputation for women of the evening. She was aware of this probably because her own father may have frequented some of those spots doing research for his own Book of Daniel. Jack Daniel's. She implied that our priest might have been the son of one of those women. She had no proof, just something cryptic her own mother had once said about him.
Meanwhile our disgraced pastor and his lover moved as far out of town as you can go and still be on the continent, where they live to this day as man and wife, as near as I can determine.
However, the upheaval of two families and a church wasn't the end of it. A couple of years later, when one of our former pastor's children was a senior in high school, she went out with some friends to collect door to door for a canned food drive. There were several young people riding around in a car together, which was an old limosine. They had also been drinking. At some point during the evening, the driver lost control of the car and hit a tree head-on. No one was wearing seat belts. One of my brother's friends, a star swimmer, was paralyzed from the neck down. Another young man, a gymnast, suffered several broken bones. The driver wasn't hurt.
Our former minister's daughter was killed.
Her dad came back from his new life across the country to attend his daughter's funeral at the church where he used to work. Imagine how he must have felt when one of the vestrymen, the guys with the programs, wouldn't let him through the door. Apparently he lost his membership card for behaving badly.
I don't know what ultimately happened after he was refused admittance. Did they change their minds? But my mother went ballistic at the hypocrisy of it all. "The church is supposed to be for the sinners!" she ranted. Still locking him out was typical of a place that could get all hinky about who had the right credentials to be in charge of the coffee hour. Naturally people like that would want to keep out anyone who wasn't their kind, forgetting that Henry VIII had created the church for his own convenience -- so he could continue his own bad behavior.
Anyway, after forty years the scandal has finally died down somewhat. But there are those who still remember. Me, for instance. Telling this story helps fan the flames again. Someone has to keep a candle burning.
This memory is why The Book of Daniel, the TV show, seems more like a reality show than a fictional sitcom. Everything on there is within the realm of possibility as far as I'm concerned.
Which brings me to one final thing I later realized about my particular church -- forgiveness is based on your ability to pay.
END OF CHAPTER THREE
A Million Tiny Pieces of Cake, continued
Mrs. Linklater's Memoir keeps on rolling. . .
CHAPTER TWO
I remember a lot of things from when I was two. In short colorful segments. There was a bottle filled with blue liquid sitting on the radiator one day. At least in my memory. I was in a crib and utterly fascinated by the blue color. I have a distinct memory of wanting to get to that bottle at all costs, so I could drink the liquid in the bottle. I assume I did not succeed, since I have no recollection of a trip to the emergency room in a red truck.
I also remember spending time at my aunt's Wisconsin vacation house in the winter, because my brother had just been born.
The popping noise of the crackling fire, roaring in the fireplace, upset me when I was in the high chair being fed. I remember a plastic bib with red things on it around my neck. Dots? Strawberries? The bib made a funny sound when I turned my head. Even though I remember turning and looking at the logs every time I heard the explosions that frightened me, I couldn't express myself, so my aunt assumed I was tired and cranky, not hungry. Each time I got upset, she put me back in the crib, not once but several times.
I remember the dark wood paneling in the room where they kept my crib. The door would close, they would leave, but I wasn't tired. So it was back up, then back down. I think if my aunt was a little more perceptive she might have picked up on my distress over the fire noises. I have the distinct memory of turning around to look at where the noise was coming from whenever I heard that gunfire sound. I think they thought if I weren't facing it, it wouldn't bother me. Stupid adults.
When my sister was born I was sent for another visit to the vacation house. That time it was summer. I remember sitting in the back seat of a big black car on the way up there. There was a huge gray area between the back and the front -- large enough for me to stand and move around but I wasn't allowed to get up. All I wanted to do was play and I had to sit on the seat and not move.
When my little sister was born, I was almost four. My dad's mother was at the vacation house this time. She had a bunch of rules for children. She made me go outside after breakfast and play there all day long. I couldn't come back in until dinner time. The problem was there were no other kids and no toys to play with, except some trucks that belonged to my cousin who wasn't there. So I was very bored. Iwas only allowed inside to go to the bathroom, so I spent a lot of time on the toilet as I recall. Not surprisingly I spend as little time as possible there now.
On reflection I think Grandma and her boyfriend, a very nice man I called Uncle Joe, were having some playtime of their own and didn't want me around. I have no memory of my father ever lying on the floor playing toys with me, but Uncle Joe would play Lincoln Logs with me, helping me put together little cabins and topping them off with that green chimney. Or was it a chimney?
My grandfather had died of a heart attack at fifty, partially as a result of losing all his money in the Crash of '29. That combined with losing his oldest son in a flight training accident not long after that had to have a cummulative effect. Plus he smoked cigars.
So my grandma was a widow pretty young and obviously had an agenda that didn't include babysitting grandbabies unless she had to.
My most burning memory of that grandmother was the time she walked me into the bathroom to show me the tomatoes in the toilet. Tomatoes made her sick to her stomach, and for some reason she wanted me to see what they looked like after she had vomited. I remember standing there looking at the pink floating pieces, holding her hand. To this day tiny pieces of sliced tomato can bring back that cherished childhood memory. Thanks for sharing, Grandma.
Another ding of the microwave. Time for lunch.
END OF CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
I remember a lot of things from when I was two. In short colorful segments. There was a bottle filled with blue liquid sitting on the radiator one day. At least in my memory. I was in a crib and utterly fascinated by the blue color. I have a distinct memory of wanting to get to that bottle at all costs, so I could drink the liquid in the bottle. I assume I did not succeed, since I have no recollection of a trip to the emergency room in a red truck.
I also remember spending time at my aunt's Wisconsin vacation house in the winter, because my brother had just been born.
The popping noise of the crackling fire, roaring in the fireplace, upset me when I was in the high chair being fed. I remember a plastic bib with red things on it around my neck. Dots? Strawberries? The bib made a funny sound when I turned my head. Even though I remember turning and looking at the logs every time I heard the explosions that frightened me, I couldn't express myself, so my aunt assumed I was tired and cranky, not hungry. Each time I got upset, she put me back in the crib, not once but several times.
I remember the dark wood paneling in the room where they kept my crib. The door would close, they would leave, but I wasn't tired. So it was back up, then back down. I think if my aunt was a little more perceptive she might have picked up on my distress over the fire noises. I have the distinct memory of turning around to look at where the noise was coming from whenever I heard that gunfire sound. I think they thought if I weren't facing it, it wouldn't bother me. Stupid adults.
When my sister was born I was sent for another visit to the vacation house. That time it was summer. I remember sitting in the back seat of a big black car on the way up there. There was a huge gray area between the back and the front -- large enough for me to stand and move around but I wasn't allowed to get up. All I wanted to do was play and I had to sit on the seat and not move.
When my little sister was born, I was almost four. My dad's mother was at the vacation house this time. She had a bunch of rules for children. She made me go outside after breakfast and play there all day long. I couldn't come back in until dinner time. The problem was there were no other kids and no toys to play with, except some trucks that belonged to my cousin who wasn't there. So I was very bored. Iwas only allowed inside to go to the bathroom, so I spent a lot of time on the toilet as I recall. Not surprisingly I spend as little time as possible there now.
On reflection I think Grandma and her boyfriend, a very nice man I called Uncle Joe, were having some playtime of their own and didn't want me around. I have no memory of my father ever lying on the floor playing toys with me, but Uncle Joe would play Lincoln Logs with me, helping me put together little cabins and topping them off with that green chimney. Or was it a chimney?
My grandfather had died of a heart attack at fifty, partially as a result of losing all his money in the Crash of '29. That combined with losing his oldest son in a flight training accident not long after that had to have a cummulative effect. Plus he smoked cigars.
So my grandma was a widow pretty young and obviously had an agenda that didn't include babysitting grandbabies unless she had to.
My most burning memory of that grandmother was the time she walked me into the bathroom to show me the tomatoes in the toilet. Tomatoes made her sick to her stomach, and for some reason she wanted me to see what they looked like after she had vomited. I remember standing there looking at the pink floating pieces, holding her hand. To this day tiny pieces of sliced tomato can bring back that cherished childhood memory. Thanks for sharing, Grandma.
Another ding of the microwave. Time for lunch.
END OF CHAPTER TWO
Thursday, January 12, 2006
A Million Tiny Pieces of Cake
A MEMOIR OF MY LIFE
WITH JUST A FEW CHANGES TO MAKE IT SOUND MORE INTERESTING LIKE THAT
JAMES FREY GUY -- by Mrs. Linklater
CHAPTER ONE
I cannot cash in on the gruesome details of my life. There just aren't any. Like James Frey, I once woke up on an airplane totally disoriented and bleary-eyed. However, it was after someone a few rows behind me threw a pillow at my head because I was snoring.
Unlike James Frey, I am not an alcoholic, although I can point with pride to a number of relatives who delight in being overserved. I am also not a drug addict, but here again, I've got close relatives who are liviing on the edge. I have not spent jailtime, although, wait a minute, I have been arrested. Yay for me.
On the other hand, I have always been tall. From day one. There are, however, no Hazeldons for tall people. Nevertheless, it was my cross to bear from the beginning.
I was born tall. Twenty-one inches. For a baby girl, that's very tall, bordering on the ridiculous. Did you know that babies 21 inches long usually weigh over seven pounds? But my mother, an obstetrical nurse, smoked so I wouldn't be too big to be born naturally, not C-section, and I obliged her by weighing only six pounds something. That meant I was not only born tall, I was born skinny. And very hungry. Needless to say, it should come as no surprise that I despise smoke of any kind. Although smoked salmon isn't bad.
At two years old I had grown to three feet tall, mostly knees and legs. Double that and you can usually figure out what a child's height will be as an adult, barring any unforseen difficulties. The predictions were true. I hit six feet in high school. Still mostly knees and legs.
Back when I was two I used to ride my tricycle up and down the hallway of our four room apartment in the city, chanting "Indubitably, indomitably, inevitably. Indubitably, indomitably, inevitably." Back and forth. Up and down the hallway. From the kitchen to the front door and back. Again and again and again.
That was my father's idea of amusement, teaching a precocious kid to say big words that had as much meaning to her as The Jabberwock.
I remember my first plane ride when I was two years old. I was told several times to stay in my seat. That wasn't too difficult once I became fascinated looking out the windows. I could follow the taillights on the cars driving down the roads as we flew overhead. Once on the ground, I also remember holding my father's hand as we walked around the Naval shipyard in New York harbor, looking at all the warships preparing to head out into the Atlantic.
Hmmm, I wonder if my love of flying and men in uniform was influenced by those experiences. Haaaaaaaa.
The microwave just dinged. Time for dinner. A very late dinner. One that will probably still be digesting when I wake up in the morning.
END OF CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
I cannot cash in on the gruesome details of my life. There just aren't any. Like James Frey, I once woke up on an airplane totally disoriented and bleary-eyed. However, it was after someone a few rows behind me threw a pillow at my head because I was snoring.
Unlike James Frey, I am not an alcoholic, although I can point with pride to a number of relatives who delight in being overserved. I am also not a drug addict, but here again, I've got close relatives who are liviing on the edge. I have not spent jailtime, although, wait a minute, I have been arrested. Yay for me.
On the other hand, I have always been tall. From day one. There are, however, no Hazeldons for tall people. Nevertheless, it was my cross to bear from the beginning.
I was born tall. Twenty-one inches. For a baby girl, that's very tall, bordering on the ridiculous. Did you know that babies 21 inches long usually weigh over seven pounds? But my mother, an obstetrical nurse, smoked so I wouldn't be too big to be born naturally, not C-section, and I obliged her by weighing only six pounds something. That meant I was not only born tall, I was born skinny. And very hungry. Needless to say, it should come as no surprise that I despise smoke of any kind. Although smoked salmon isn't bad.
At two years old I had grown to three feet tall, mostly knees and legs. Double that and you can usually figure out what a child's height will be as an adult, barring any unforseen difficulties. The predictions were true. I hit six feet in high school. Still mostly knees and legs.
Back when I was two I used to ride my tricycle up and down the hallway of our four room apartment in the city, chanting "Indubitably, indomitably, inevitably. Indubitably, indomitably, inevitably." Back and forth. Up and down the hallway. From the kitchen to the front door and back. Again and again and again.
That was my father's idea of amusement, teaching a precocious kid to say big words that had as much meaning to her as The Jabberwock.
I remember my first plane ride when I was two years old. I was told several times to stay in my seat. That wasn't too difficult once I became fascinated looking out the windows. I could follow the taillights on the cars driving down the roads as we flew overhead. Once on the ground, I also remember holding my father's hand as we walked around the Naval shipyard in New York harbor, looking at all the warships preparing to head out into the Atlantic.
Hmmm, I wonder if my love of flying and men in uniform was influenced by those experiences. Haaaaaaaa.
The microwave just dinged. Time for dinner. A very late dinner. One that will probably still be digesting when I wake up in the morning.
END OF CHAPTER ONE
Mrs. Linklater Takes on the Advice Columnists Two More Times
If you can't find anything annoying here at her journal, try Mrs. L's blog:
http://askmrslinklater.blogspot.com/
Mrs. Linklater's philosophy of giving advice is to keep doing it until she gets it right. Meanwhile, she will keep giving advice columnists a hard time for practice.
http://askmrslinklater.blogspot.com/
Mrs. Linklater's philosophy of giving advice is to keep doing it until she gets it right. Meanwhile, she will keep giving advice columnists a hard time for practice.
Monday, January 9, 2006
Puttering Around the Pantry
There's one place in my town where you can go to find out what's happening at any given time. It isn't Starbuck's, even though we have a couple of them. Starbuck's is full of young mothers gathering during their child-free moments between nine and noon, or senior citizens hanging out, talking about their hip replacements, or people who work from home who need a break and bring their computers to check email or work on their screenplays. None of those people is tied into the buzz.
You wouldn't learn anything at the dozens of restaurants or even the fast food joints because most of them don't get rolling until lunch. Besides the restaurants are full of people in suits and dresses from other burbs or the city -- people who work in the office buildings nearby. They have no idea what's going on anywhere, except where they work. And nobody speaks English in the fast food places.
Oddly, the place to go to put your finger on the percolating pulse of my scintillating suburb is, of all places, White Hen Pantry. When you run out, run out to White Hen. That place.
Two blocks from the train station. Six blocks from the high school. Right smack dab on the main road through town. The place hums with all that's happening.
When they open at six in the morning, the parking slots fill up with contractors, plumbers, electricians, carpenters, tree people and the like, loading up on coffee, donuts, and frightening replicas of McDonald's Egg McMuffins with a side of hash browns. If nothing else you can fill up your Rolodex with phone numbers off the sides of their pick up and panel trucks for future reference. Standing in line at the counter you can hear who's got a wet basement, a sick tree, a new addition, a bad garage door, etc.
A little later commuters get their coffee. Usually they're talking about golfand their kids. Nothing earthshaking. But occasionally I run into a neighbor and find out what they're up to.
One morning there were news reporters, news trucks,and cameramen taking up a lot of spaces. They descended on White Hen's coffee pots by the dozen on their way to the high school, after reports of a hazing incident that sent some students to the hospital. That became a story that went all over the world. [My daughter in London even saw a clip.] I heard all about the story early in the morning standing in line for my yogurt. So did anybody near me. We got the scoop hours ahead of time.
The wrestling team stopped by on their way to a meet. Somebody got hurt in practice. Somebody didn't make weight. Somebody's parents were getting divorced.
A group of students is always in there after football, soccer, and basketball games and meets. If you missed the game and don't have kids, you can find out the scores and not have to wait for the paper.
My suburb's most famous retired Super Bowl quarterback was in there with a friend around 11:00 one night buying Mountain Dew in an effort to arrive home semi sober. A really tall guy in a hip hop outfit was in there after meeting with a sports agent. Or so he told me. He acted like I knew who he was. I didn't.
People who come into White Hen seem to have no problem carrying on a conversation about stuff they'd ordinarily not discuss with strangers. Like it's Vegas or something. Something about walking into the place loosens their tongues. What happens in White Hen stays in White Hen.
The other night around ten o'clock, there was a black Crown Victoria with M plates parked outside.It might as well have a neon sign blinking COP COP COP. Lots of our local police are in there all day and all night. Surprisingly all they ever do is shoot the breeze. Can't get anything out of them. But undercover cops are rare.
Inside there was a baby-faced guy pouring himself some coffee. Instead of pouring it the way most people do with his back to the door, he was on the other side of the counter watching the door as he poured.
He was so young looking at first that I thought he might be a high school kid in his sweat shirt and jeans. Until he put his wallet in his back pocket and revealed a holstered revolver and handcuffs. Undercover cop, hmmm. Someone's being investigated. But to my chagrin he started talking to me at the counter, so I couldn't wait for him to leave and then follow so see if he was on his way home or on his way to "investigate."
Rats.Now I have to wait for the breaking news.
Sunday, January 8, 2006
Mrs. Linklater's Other Journal
When you discover what you were meant to do with your life there's an enormous sense of freedom and satisfaction.
However, when Mrs. Linklater discovered she had a different opinion than most of the advice columnists, she had to delay her sense of freedom and satisfaction. That's because she was raising kids and trying to keep a regular paying job so she could provide a healthy nourishing meal for them every week or so.
Now, thirty years later she discovered there was a place where she could rant at will without fear of the local police stopping by so much. She took that as a sign to put her foot where her mouth was. And it's been there ever since.
In her lifelong quest to rid the world of advice column calamities, she wants you to know there are a couple of new posts over at Mrs. L's OTHER blog today. They're probably new to you because nobody was reading them back in 2004.
They are reprinted at the blog she will ultimately end up at, if she can ever figure out how to manipulate all the gadgets and gizmos over there. Unlike so many of the folks who left AOL in a huff, she hasn't even figured out how to post her picture there yet.
http://askmrslinklater.blogspot.com/
HEY -- There's a brand NEW, never before seen Ask Mrs. Linklater posted. Don't MISS IT!!!
However, when Mrs. Linklater discovered she had a different opinion than most of the advice columnists, she had to delay her sense of freedom and satisfaction. That's because she was raising kids and trying to keep a regular paying job so she could provide a healthy nourishing meal for them every week or so.
Now, thirty years later she discovered there was a place where she could rant at will without fear of the local police stopping by so much. She took that as a sign to put her foot where her mouth was. And it's been there ever since.
In her lifelong quest to rid the world of advice column calamities, she wants you to know there are a couple of new posts over at Mrs. L's OTHER blog today. They're probably new to you because nobody was reading them back in 2004.
They are reprinted at the blog she will ultimately end up at, if she can ever figure out how to manipulate all the gadgets and gizmos over there. Unlike so many of the folks who left AOL in a huff, she hasn't even figured out how to post her picture there yet.
http://askmrslinklater.blogspot.com/
HEY -- There's a brand NEW, never before seen Ask Mrs. Linklater posted. Don't MISS IT!!!
Saturday, January 7, 2006
Better to Look Good or Feel Good?
Suzypwr of I Don't Recall Having a Memory Problem [see Other Journals] left a comment in a recent entry I wrote, "Is 49 the new 31?"
That entry was based on the notion that attractive women [i.e., movie stars] look younger than ever as they age, for no other reason than plastic surgery.
In response to what I said, she wrote:
I didn't read the article, but I think women today of 49 have just about the energy our grandmas did at 31, if nothing else. Lifespans are much longer, medicine has come lightyears, and we just don't want to sit down and be old at 30 any more. We can't help it if we don't look like teenagers, but attitude counts!
That got me thinking about the average lifespan of Americans these days. My grandparents on my mother's side both lived to a butt-kicking 95. [The organic fruits and vegetables they grew themselves probably helped.]
But nobody since then has come any closer than their late eighties on either side of my family, with some notable deaths at fifty, so I wondered if we were on a downward slope.
Apparently we are. I found an article from September, 2004 in The Observer in London which said,
"Twenty years ago, the US, the richest nation on the planet, led the world's longevity league. Today, American women rank only 19th, while males can only manage 28th place alongside men from Brunei."
So, basically, we are dropping like flies.
But the folks who did the research are blaming our early demise on obesity and inequality in our healthcare delivery system.
We don't drink or smoke like the rest of the world, but boy do we eat. These folks are also claiming that better access to healthcare can make a forty year difference between the lifespan of a rich white woman and a poor minority in the same city.
I'm not in a position to disagree, since I don't have "studies" to back up what I say -- but I do have an opinion. Who knew?
My opinion starts with this observation: We may be fat, but we are also the gun-toting-est, car driving-est, hardest working-est country in the world.
Nothing shortens the lifespan of African American men, particularly in certain socioeconomic sectors, like the power of bullets entering their bodies and producing a fatal result. In fact, gunfire is the number one killer of young urban minority men in this country. But the study would have us believe that eating fast food and blimping out is a bigger killer, especially among the urban poor.
When it comes to booze, we may not consume as much alcohol as the rest of the world, so the effects of long term abuse won't be doing us in as often as, say, the Russians, who consume frightening amounts of vodka.
But young people in this country sure like to get behind the wheel of a chrome-plated battering ram when they're drunk. Their need for speed is encouraged by their easy access to the family car, along with the fine quality of our extensive highway system, which is one of the best, if not the best in the world.
So I would like to offer up drunk driving as another way Americans shorten their lifespans. Either as victims or perpetrators. Insurance rates for people under 25 seem to reflect this problem, too.
I think stress -- working too hard -- is going to shorten the lifespan of the Baby Boomers who are reaching 65. As a country we work longer and harder than our counterparts in Europe. Even when we vacation we take our work with us. Compared with the rest of the world, we also take very short vacations. More than a week and we're on a guilt trip.
As a divorced woman who raised her children alone, while juggling the pressures of a high maintenance, long hour job, I know that my lifespan has been shortened. The good news of liberation is that women could start closing the salary gap with men. The bad news is that married or divorced working women carry the heaviest load of responsibility for the family.
I, personally, could feel the toll which that kind of stress took. Worrying about my children's safety, health, and happiness on top of everything else was something I carried with me every day.
I think the lifespan of uneducated minority women has been shorter than upper middle class white women for a long time. The study can claim it's because of a difference in healthcare, but I think we're going to see that the real difference is between women who have to work as many as three jobs while raising their kids, versus women who can stay home with their children.
The stress is exponentially greater. So I would put gunfire, car driving, and work/family stress ahead of fat on my list of reasons why our lifespans are plummeting in this country.
That's my thought for the morning. My other thought is whether I should have a Yoplait fat free cherry yogurt. Or stop at the Mickey D's driveby for a pancake breakfast.
That entry was based on the notion that attractive women [i.e., movie stars] look younger than ever as they age, for no other reason than plastic surgery.
In response to what I said, she wrote:
I didn't read the article, but I think women today of 49 have just about the energy our grandmas did at 31, if nothing else. Lifespans are much longer, medicine has come lightyears, and we just don't want to sit down and be old at 30 any more. We can't help it if we don't look like teenagers, but attitude counts!
That got me thinking about the average lifespan of Americans these days. My grandparents on my mother's side both lived to a butt-kicking 95. [The organic fruits and vegetables they grew themselves probably helped.]
But nobody since then has come any closer than their late eighties on either side of my family, with some notable deaths at fifty, so I wondered if we were on a downward slope.
Apparently we are. I found an article from September, 2004 in The Observer in London which said,
"Twenty years ago, the US, the richest nation on the planet, led the world's longevity league. Today, American women rank only 19th, while males can only manage 28th place alongside men from Brunei."
So, basically, we are dropping like flies.
But the folks who did the research are blaming our early demise on obesity and inequality in our healthcare delivery system.
We don't drink or smoke like the rest of the world, but boy do we eat. These folks are also claiming that better access to healthcare can make a forty year difference between the lifespan of a rich white woman and a poor minority in the same city.
I'm not in a position to disagree, since I don't have "studies" to back up what I say -- but I do have an opinion. Who knew?
My opinion starts with this observation: We may be fat, but we are also the gun-toting-est, car driving-est, hardest working-est country in the world.
Nothing shortens the lifespan of African American men, particularly in certain socioeconomic sectors, like the power of bullets entering their bodies and producing a fatal result. In fact, gunfire is the number one killer of young urban minority men in this country. But the study would have us believe that eating fast food and blimping out is a bigger killer, especially among the urban poor.
When it comes to booze, we may not consume as much alcohol as the rest of the world, so the effects of long term abuse won't be doing us in as often as, say, the Russians, who consume frightening amounts of vodka.
But young people in this country sure like to get behind the wheel of a chrome-plated battering ram when they're drunk. Their need for speed is encouraged by their easy access to the family car, along with the fine quality of our extensive highway system, which is one of the best, if not the best in the world.
So I would like to offer up drunk driving as another way Americans shorten their lifespans. Either as victims or perpetrators. Insurance rates for people under 25 seem to reflect this problem, too.
I think stress -- working too hard -- is going to shorten the lifespan of the Baby Boomers who are reaching 65. As a country we work longer and harder than our counterparts in Europe. Even when we vacation we take our work with us. Compared with the rest of the world, we also take very short vacations. More than a week and we're on a guilt trip.
As a divorced woman who raised her children alone, while juggling the pressures of a high maintenance, long hour job, I know that my lifespan has been shortened. The good news of liberation is that women could start closing the salary gap with men. The bad news is that married or divorced working women carry the heaviest load of responsibility for the family.
I, personally, could feel the toll which that kind of stress took. Worrying about my children's safety, health, and happiness on top of everything else was something I carried with me every day.
I think the lifespan of uneducated minority women has been shorter than upper middle class white women for a long time. The study can claim it's because of a difference in healthcare, but I think we're going to see that the real difference is between women who have to work as many as three jobs while raising their kids, versus women who can stay home with their children.
The stress is exponentially greater. So I would put gunfire, car driving, and work/family stress ahead of fat on my list of reasons why our lifespans are plummeting in this country.
That's my thought for the morning. My other thought is whether I should have a Yoplait fat free cherry yogurt. Or stop at the Mickey D's driveby for a pancake breakfast.
Friday, January 6, 2006
Star Jones Reynolds' New Blog on AOL
Star Jones
Reynolds of The View has a new book out entitled SHINE. She also
has a new "blog" on AOL to shill for the book while she's on tour for
the next three months. I betcha AOL is paying her. Jean Shatsky anyone? Haaaaaaa. In her first
entry she manages to lecture us on how to behave in the comments.
Needless to say, I took offense. There's a shock. While everybody else
totally sucked up to her, here's what I wrote:
With all due respect to your Star Power as a dynamic former prosecutor and one of the Fab Five on The View, there's no need to lecture us on how to behave in the comments. We've been here longer than you will be. You're the newbie, so maybe it would be nice if you traveled around J-Land and read as many journals as you can first -- get a feel for this place. Then leave a comment in each journal you visit, with an invitation to the writer to visit your new blog. Most folks who're new around here also include links to their journals when they comment. Then we link to you in our Other Journals sidebar. Quid pro quo. Makes for a friendly, supportive community. Or you can just sit up on a celebrity cloud and be above it all. Mrs. L
Hey, somebody had to say something. Nobody else was going to call her out.
Okay, okay here's a link to her journal. Leave a link to your journal if you go there so we can see if she joins the community or just floats on top. If it won't link, just cut and paste.
http://journals.aol.com/starjrblogger/Shinetheofficialblog/
Haaaaaaaaaa!! She went private. Kinda defeats her purpose doesn't it? Why doesn't she just post and not allow any comments. Bet she doesn't know about that. Or just block those of us she doesn't like instead of keeping everyone out. Who is giving her advice anyway?
With all due respect to your Star Power as a dynamic former prosecutor and one of the Fab Five on The View, there's no need to lecture us on how to behave in the comments. We've been here longer than you will be. You're the newbie, so maybe it would be nice if you traveled around J-Land and read as many journals as you can first -- get a feel for this place. Then leave a comment in each journal you visit, with an invitation to the writer to visit your new blog. Most folks who're new around here also include links to their journals when they comment. Then we link to you in our Other Journals sidebar. Quid pro quo. Makes for a friendly, supportive community. Or you can just sit up on a celebrity cloud and be above it all. Mrs. L
Hey, somebody had to say something. Nobody else was going to call her out.
Okay, okay here's a link to her journal. Leave a link to your journal if you go there so we can see if she joins the community or just floats on top. If it won't link, just cut and paste.
http://journals.aol.com/starjrblogger/Shinetheofficialblog/
Haaaaaaaaaa!! She went private. Kinda defeats her purpose doesn't it? Why doesn't she just post and not allow any comments. Bet she doesn't know about that. Or just block those of us she doesn't like instead of keeping everyone out. Who is giving her advice anyway?
AOL HAS DONE IT AGAIN
Do the AOL editors stay up late thinking up ways to annoy me? Apparently they do.
JOURNALS EDITOR JOE JUST POSTED AN ENTRY FOR ALL OF US TO SHARE. IT IS BASED ON HIS RESPONSE TO A YOUNG WOMAN NAMED BRANDI, WITH AN AIM JOURNAL, WHO GOT LINKED WITHOUT HER KNOWLEDGE:
In a culture where linking to other people is encouraged, it becomes less and less feasible, and really, less desireable, to tell people beforehand when they're going to be featured.
Now, of course, when it comes to people's photos and likenesses, we usually still do the whole notification and photo release thing. However, when it comes to a straight link to a blog or Web page, it's pretty much an Internet norm now, where the very existence of a public blog usually implies some sort of willingness to be linked to.
THIS IS WHAT I WROTE IN JOE'S COMMENTS AREA:
Late in 2004, I gave approval to an editor to run my picture, screenname, and a link to my blog in the Women's area. The editor took something I wrote out of context and made me sound like a hooker.
The next thing I know my screename, journal, picture and out of context quote are featured -- without my knowledge -- on the front of the People Connection page. Everytime I log on, I'm suddenly inundated with jerks sending IM's that start out "Hiya Sexy."
Somewhere in the fine print, if I gave permission for an editor to link to me in one area, that meant another editor could use my name, picture and blog link in their area, too -- WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. Or tellingme. So you've been doing this crap for awhile.
Now you feel free to link without even bothering to tell someone. Then I should have the option of requesting that you put me on a DO NOT LINK list. Unless I provide a link, you may not link to me.
You are putting women -- way more than men, because female journals outnumber men by about six or even eight to one -- in the unpleasant position of having to deal with a boatload of creeps.
Especially since, based on my experience, you editors are going to make it seem like someone can link to a really hot babe.
Kind of like you just did to BRANDI.
AOL seems to have a philosophy of turning everything into yet another way to hook up for sex. While maintaining a bizarre TOS standard on the opposite end of the spectrum.
Gimme a break.
Mrs. L
JOURNALS EDITOR JOE JUST POSTED AN ENTRY FOR ALL OF US TO SHARE. IT IS BASED ON HIS RESPONSE TO A YOUNG WOMAN NAMED BRANDI, WITH AN AIM JOURNAL, WHO GOT LINKED WITHOUT HER KNOWLEDGE:
"I don't have a problem with this, more readers wooohooo. I was just wondering who put it there, and how come I wasn't told about it. I get proud when I see that my journal is featured anywhere but would have loved to have known it was there."HE SAYS IN PART:
In a culture where linking to other people is encouraged, it becomes less and less feasible, and really, less desireable, to tell people beforehand when they're going to be featured.
Now, of course, when it comes to people's photos and likenesses, we usually still do the whole notification and photo release thing. However, when it comes to a straight link to a blog or Web page, it's pretty much an Internet norm now, where the very existence of a public blog usually implies some sort of willingness to be linked to.
THIS IS WHAT I WROTE IN JOE'S COMMENTS AREA:
Late in 2004, I gave approval to an editor to run my picture, screenname, and a link to my blog in the Women's area. The editor took something I wrote out of context and made me sound like a hooker.
The next thing I know my screename, journal, picture and out of context quote are featured -- without my knowledge -- on the front of the People Connection page. Everytime I log on, I'm suddenly inundated with jerks sending IM's that start out "Hiya Sexy."
Somewhere in the fine print, if I gave permission for an editor to link to me in one area, that meant another editor could use my name, picture and blog link in their area, too -- WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. Or tellingme. So you've been doing this crap for awhile.
Now you feel free to link without even bothering to tell someone. Then I should have the option of requesting that you put me on a DO NOT LINK list. Unless I provide a link, you may not link to me.
You are putting women -- way more than men, because female journals outnumber men by about six or even eight to one -- in the unpleasant position of having to deal with a boatload of creeps.
Especially since, based on my experience, you editors are going to make it seem like someone can link to a really hot babe.
Kind of like you just did to BRANDI.
AOL seems to have a philosophy of turning everything into yet another way to hook up for sex. While maintaining a bizarre TOS standard on the opposite end of the spectrum.
Gimme a break.
Mrs. L
Thursday, January 5, 2006
The Hatfield and McCloy Incident
According to most
accounts I've read. Anker West Virginia Mining Company CEO, Bennett
Hatfield, knew that all but one of the Sago coal miners were dead
within twenty minutes of the first, erroneous, notification that they
had survived.
He also knew that everybody was down at the church celebrating a lie.
But he let them celebrate for three more hours before he finally confirmed the bad news at a press conference, not by going down to the church where the town had gathered.
What was he thinking? Okay, we have a problem. The miners aren't alive like we thought, they're really dead, but since we thought they were alive before, maybe if we wait long enough they won't be dead anymore, they'll be alive again.
The mine's history of problems in the past year alone may be indicative of this head-in-the-sand management philosophy.
Even more astonishing is that there was someone at the church who could have kept a lid on the craziness that followed the unconfirmed reports that the miners were alive.
The governor, Joe Manchin III.
He was there at the church talking to the families, when news of the supposed miracle came in. He claims he asked his communications people and security detail if the miracle had been confirmed and the answer was no. Apparently he asked them more than once. And the answer was NO more than once.
So why didn't he take that opportunity to get up and tell everyone to take it easy and let him make sure the news was correct? He IS the governor, isn't he? He's supposed to be a leader, right? He even lost his own uncle in a mining accident, so he knows that the chances of survival are usually poor. He could have been a voice of reason and calm.
Why didn't he point out to the crowd that the news was not confirmed and encourage them to wait until he could find out for them?
Instead he became a victim of the wishful thinking that overtook the entire town.
We've all had experiences where our hopes have been raised and subsequently dashed to smithereens. I was once told I'd made the cast for the big school show in high school. I was ecstatic, celebrating for over an hour until I went to check the list and discovered I wasn't on it after all. It was devastating. To this day, I don't believe anything unless I can confirm the information myself.
So I can't begin to imagine the emotional damage this execruciating experience will do to the families of the miners who died. Especially the children. There's been an accident. Your father may be dead. No!! He's alive! Just kidding. He's dead.
At the very least, the impotent, ineffectual governor and the insensitive clod of a CEO make FEMA's Michael Brown look like a statesman.
Given a chance for a do-over, Hatfield said, "I would have personally gone to the church. . .to say something may be wrong here."
Wasn't that his job in the first place?
POSTSCRIPT: Just because Randal McCloy is still alive doesn't mean he can expect to live a normal life again. Carbon monoxide poisoning that leaves you in a coma can cause irreversible brain, lung, kidney and other probems that can make the rest of your life pretty unpleasant.
He also knew that everybody was down at the church celebrating a lie.
But he let them celebrate for three more hours before he finally confirmed the bad news at a press conference, not by going down to the church where the town had gathered.
What was he thinking? Okay, we have a problem. The miners aren't alive like we thought, they're really dead, but since we thought they were alive before, maybe if we wait long enough they won't be dead anymore, they'll be alive again.
The mine's history of problems in the past year alone may be indicative of this head-in-the-sand management philosophy.
Even more astonishing is that there was someone at the church who could have kept a lid on the craziness that followed the unconfirmed reports that the miners were alive.
The governor, Joe Manchin III.
He was there at the church talking to the families, when news of the supposed miracle came in. He claims he asked his communications people and security detail if the miracle had been confirmed and the answer was no. Apparently he asked them more than once. And the answer was NO more than once.
So why didn't he take that opportunity to get up and tell everyone to take it easy and let him make sure the news was correct? He IS the governor, isn't he? He's supposed to be a leader, right? He even lost his own uncle in a mining accident, so he knows that the chances of survival are usually poor. He could have been a voice of reason and calm.
Why didn't he point out to the crowd that the news was not confirmed and encourage them to wait until he could find out for them?
Instead he became a victim of the wishful thinking that overtook the entire town.
We've all had experiences where our hopes have been raised and subsequently dashed to smithereens. I was once told I'd made the cast for the big school show in high school. I was ecstatic, celebrating for over an hour until I went to check the list and discovered I wasn't on it after all. It was devastating. To this day, I don't believe anything unless I can confirm the information myself.
So I can't begin to imagine the emotional damage this execruciating experience will do to the families of the miners who died. Especially the children. There's been an accident. Your father may be dead. No!! He's alive! Just kidding. He's dead.
At the very least, the impotent, ineffectual governor and the insensitive clod of a CEO make FEMA's Michael Brown look like a statesman.
Given a chance for a do-over, Hatfield said, "I would have personally gone to the church. . .to say something may be wrong here."
Wasn't that his job in the first place?
POSTSCRIPT: Just because Randal McCloy is still alive doesn't mean he can expect to live a normal life again. Carbon monoxide poisoning that leaves you in a coma can cause irreversible brain, lung, kidney and other probems that can make the rest of your life pretty unpleasant.
London Street Christmas Day 2005
Here's another picture from my English holiday. Notice there are no Italian lights sparkling anywhere. This usually bustling street was virtually empty on Christmas Day as I went for a walk in the afternoon. When I saw the car in the photo coming toward me I was concerned that IT WAS ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD -- ARE YOU CRAZY!!! Oh, wait, this is London.
Wednesday, January 4, 2006
Is 49 the new 31?
AOL WELCOME SCREENAOL, along with an army of publicists and plastic surgeons, is trying to tell us these women are prime examples of the new middle age.
If that's the case, then feast your eyes on the Botox Generation. The best looking forty and fifty something females that money can buy.
Oprah's looks are a miracle of modern make up, hefty hair styling, a personal trainer and a private chef.
Demi has been augmented and cemented more than a new patio.
When was the last time you saw Madonna's face move?
The Nicollette Sheridan pictured here bears no resemblance to the Nicollette Sheridan of twenty years ago. No wonder she's starting to look like she's impersonating herself.
Sharon Stone sued someone who claimed she'd had work done. Earth to Sharon -- you've had work done.
And Christy Brinkley? If they pull your cheeks any higher you won't be able to see.
All but a couple of these women have spawned. They've expelled those large bowling balls called children from their bodies. A process not generally recommended in most beauty regimens.
As for ordinary women who think they, too, can recapture the flat abs of their youths after a litter of kids -- without surgical intervention, lipo, or a blind husband -- I've got some old Michael Bolton tapes for you.
Hey ladies, life's a bitch. Embrace it. At least, get real.
Tuesday, January 3, 2006
The Marlboro Marine
Luis Sinco, Los Angeles Times
I have never seen this picture before it showed up on AOL today, but from what I read, the soldier shown here became famous as the Marlboro Marine in 2004.
Today when I saw it for the first time I realized that most of the pictures we see from Iraq seem to be of soldiers who aren't so dirty and grimy. Is that planned? Are the men coming back from combat made presentable before pictures are taken? Or are photographers kept away?
This photo reminds me so much of pictures from WWII and Vietnam. Raw and painful to look at. You can see the exhaustion on the soldier's face. His long night has stretched out into the day. His eyes stare off into the distance. The cigarette hangs on his lips as if the effort to keep it there is almost too great.
Iraq seems like it's on the back burner. I was reminded of how little we seem to hear anymore, when I flew to London over the holidays.
My seatmate was in the military. He was very nervous about the takeoff -- my favorite part of the plane ride. I get a rush when we get up enough speed to leave the ground. He got pretty uncomfortable.
We were flying in a 777, sitting over the wing, so you could really feel the power and sound of the huge engines as we made our way down the runway. I was loving it. He was gripping the armrests. I told him I would love to ride in a helicopter some time. He said he'd ridden in plenty while he was in Iraq. How fun, I said. Not so fun, he said. None of them had any doors on them. Wouldn't that be neat, I said, thinking about the incredible view you could have -- nevermind the enemy shooting at you. He just laughed because flying in a helicopter made him airsick, so they always had him sit on the outside where he became a target, but he could also throw up easily without bothering anybody.
So far one person I know who was in Iraq is back okay. Another in Afghanistan has been wounded, but he wouldn't give me details. He stopped contacting me after letting me know he was alive, probably because I was so emotional about hearing from him after a protracted silence. For four months I thought he was dead.
There has been a PBS series aboutRonald Reagan on American Experience. The show pointed out that the CIA was supposed to be adept at assessing the Soviet strengths during the Cold War. But it was when we discovered the Soviet weaknesses that we understood how vulnerable they might be. Interesting that the CIA didn't know much about Soviet weaknesses at all.
Which makes me wonder -- Why in the heck can't we find Osama bin Laden. Does it go back to 911, when the news scroll along the bottom of the coverage asked people who knew Farsi and Arabic to contact the FBI? I laughed out loud reading that. I wish I had TIVO back then. What a bunch a rubes we looked like.
Do we still have the inability to find people who can walk among the terrorists and infiltrate their groups, because our deepseated religious and ethnic prejudices have precluded hiring anyone who isn't one of US?
Just contemplating my navel.
THE BULLSHIT FACTOR
I get crap -- that's
the correct word -- crap in my email all the time from well meaning,
but sometimes alarmist friends, who don't bother to check the CRAP they're
sending to me. My bullshit button goes off when I read this stuff and I
immediately start tracking down whether it's a hoax or not. It
takes only FIVE FREAKING MINUTES PEOPLE!!!
Needless to say this past week there were two such instances. One was a transcript about the alleged video that purports to show Ollie North warning us about Osama bin Laden when he testified before Congress. Well, it wasn't bin Laden you lazy ass victims of misinformation, it was Abu Nidal.
The second was The Last Will of an alleged attorney from Chicago named Charles Lounseberry [sic], which was found in his coat pocket or some such, after he died in a mental institution. It was recently printed as real in an AOL journal and linked to by a blogger I actually respect and like. Help me here, folks. Didn't anybody teach you how to check facts?
FIRST: I Googled "Ollie North and Osama bin Laden" and found the debunking from Urban Legends and Folklore, along with the email that keeps going around.
Here it is:
http://urbanlegends.about.com/library/blnorth.htm
LIKE SOME POOR MOPE IN AN INSTITUTION COULD HAVE WRITTEN THIS. NOT LIKELY.
Needless to say this past week there were two such instances. One was a transcript about the alleged video that purports to show Ollie North warning us about Osama bin Laden when he testified before Congress. Well, it wasn't bin Laden you lazy ass victims of misinformation, it was Abu Nidal.
The second was The Last Will of an alleged attorney from Chicago named Charles Lounseberry [sic], which was found in his coat pocket or some such, after he died in a mental institution. It was recently printed as real in an AOL journal and linked to by a blogger I actually respect and like. Help me here, folks. Didn't anybody teach you how to check facts?
FIRST: I Googled "Ollie North and Osama bin Laden" and found the debunking from Urban Legends and Folklore, along with the email that keeps going around.
Here it is:
http://urbanlegends.about.com/library/blnorth.htm
Subject: We should have listened to Ollie
You know, it's funny. I remember very vividly the Oliver North hearings, but did not recall the name of Osama bin Laden as the terrorist that North was threatened by. Has this slimeball been around that long? It's pretty evident, in hindsight that we should have listened to OLLIE!
In a lecture at UNC the other day where they played a video of Oliver North during the Iran-Contra deals during the Reagan administration. In this particular clip. There was Olie in front of God and Country getting the third degree. But what he said was stunning, as he was being drilled by some senator, who asked him;
'Did you not recently spend close to $60,000 for a home security system?'
Oliver replied, 'Yes I did sir.'
The senator continued, trying to get a laugh out of the audience, 'Isn't this just a little excessive?'
'No sir,' continued Oliver.
'No. And why not?'
'Because the life of my family and I were threatened.'
'Threatened? By who.'
'By a terrorist, sir.'
'Terrorist? What terrorist could possibly scare you that much?'
'His name is Osama bin Laden.'
At this point the senator tried to repeat the name, but couldn't pronounce it, which most people back then probably couldn't. A couple of people laughed at the attempt. Then the senator continued.
'Why are you so afraid of this man?'
'Because sir, he is the most evil person alive that I know of.'
'And what do you recommend we do about him?'
'If it were me I would recommend an assassin team be formed to eliminate him and his men from the face of the earth.'
The senator disagreed with this approach and that was all they showed of the clip.
It's scarywhen you think 15 years ago the government was aware of
Osama
bin Laden and his potential threatto the security of the world. I
guess
like all great tyrants they start small but if left untended spread like
the
virus theytruly are.
Comments:
Sorry, wrong terrorist. When Colonel Oliver North defended his
government-purchased home security system before a Congressional
committee in 1987, he cited threats on his life from the infamous
Palestinian terrorist Abu Nidal,
not Osama bin Laden. The latter was busy fighting the Soviet occupation
of Afghanistan at the time. Bin Laden's fervent hatred of the U.S. is
said by most sources to date from 1990, when American troops were
stationed in his home country of Saudi Arabia in response to Iraq's
invasion of Kuwait.
SECOND: The next load of crap -- Charles Lounseberry's [sic] Will was actually sent out this year in a holiday card to someone
who printed it in her journal. Come on folks, aren't you in the least
bit curious when something seems too good to be true?
When I Googled Charles Lounseberry, I found an interesting discovery about a Charles Lounsberry:
http://www.wvculture.org/history/0602news.html
DO YOU REMEMBER
"THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF CHARLES LOUNSBERRY"?
In the July 2000 issue of Archives and History News, we printed "The Will
of Charles Lounsberry Made While He was in the Asylum at Dunning." Our staff
found it included in a 1930's WPA transcription of Mineral County, West Virginia,
documents andfamily Bible records, and enjoyed reading it.
However, being
suspicious of the literary essence ofthe prose, we asked if any reader could
identify this as a published work of fiction or prose, rather than as an
actual legal document. Readers responded that they had enjoyed reading the
"will," but did not know of a published source.
Subsequent Internet searches show that this essay pops up all over, including
an on-line audio recording of a dramatic reading of the will by Gene Barry
on his fan Web site! It was read into the record of various state legislatures
and bar associations over the years. It was reprinted in Cougar Scream, the
shipboard newsletter of the U.S.S. Washington
in January 1942 with the heading "A Scrapbook Favorite." An "Ethical Wills"
Web site includes it as an example of an ethical will, said to have been
written in the early 20th century and found in the pocket of an old ragged
coat belonging to a former lawyer who was then an insane patient in the Chicago
poorhouse.
A printed copy, probably once framed, is cataloged in the Lilly
Family Collection in the archives of Eastern Kentucky University. It is translated
into German on a Web site based in Germany. Many people have posted it as
a favorite inspirational piece on personal Web sites.
Then, a few months
ago, I was clipping old newspapers that had been recently microfilmed, and
found an article titled "Poetic last will from 1907," in the Mountain Messenger,
November 21, 1989, published with the following "Editor's Note": About 1907,
The Chicago Record-Herald
printed this 'last will and testament of Charles Lounsberry.' At that time
it was thought this 'will' was written by an inmate of the Cook County Asylum
at Dunning, Illinois. For years, the will cropped up in newspapers and magazines
throughout the country.
Many years later, The Saturday Evening Post
reprinted the Lounsberry Will and said the writer 'was once a prominent member
of the Chicago legal profession, who lost his mind and was committed to the
insane asylum where he died penniless.'
It wasn't until much later that the
true author of the will was discovered to be a writer by the name of Williston
Fish. Mr. Fish created the character of Charles Lounsberry and wrote the
will for his imaginary character. Regardless of the origins of this piece,
the sentiments are worthy and hopefully of interest to modern-day readers.
The Mountain Messenger then reprinted "the text, reproduced from the original 1907 printing."
Armed with the author's name, I searched the Internet and found that the
work of Williston Fish is included in a number of poetry and prose anthologies.
The most enlightening entry is from the library catalog of the Lillian Goldman
Law Library at Yale Law School: Ostensibly the will of one Charles Lounsbury,
this work by Williston Fish was written in 1897 and published first in Harper's Weekly,
Sept. 3, 1898, under title, "A last will"; subsequently published under titles,
"A legacy to mankind", 1907, "A last will", 1908, and "The happy testament",
1913. Slight textual variations in different editions and printings.
Next I looked up Williston Fish, author, in the Library of Congress on-line
catalog. The first entry listed is the autobiography of his father, Job Fish,
which was "partially narrated to his sons, Williston Fish and John Charles
Lounsbury Fish." (Well, now we know where he got the name!) The Library of
Congress holdings include the ones listed above, plus several more, including
a 1935 edition located in the Law Library Reading Room and cataloged asif
it were a genuine legal document. It seems to have been a popular gift item,
either published in a decorative book or as a framed print. Together with
the story of Mrs. O'Leary's cow, Chicago was ahead of its time in terms of
developing "urbanlegends!" If you would like to read this famous testament,
you will find it in the text of the June 2000 issue of the Archives and History News posted on our Web site.
Here's the supposed will:
I, Charles Lounsberry, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, do hereby make and publish this my Last Will and Testament, in order, as justly as may be, to distribute my interests in the world among succeeding men.
That part of my interests which is known in law and recognized in the sheep-bound volumes as my property, being inconsiderable and of no account, I make no disposition of in this, my Will. My right to live, being but a life estate, is not at my disposal, but, these things excepted, all else in the world I now proceed to devise and bequeath.
ITEM: I give to good fathers and mothers, in trust to their children, all good little words of praise and encouragement, and all quaint pet names and endearments; and I charge said parents to use them justly, but generously, as the deeds of their children shall require.
ITEM: I leave to children inclusively, but only for the term of their childhood, all, and every, the flowers of the field, and the blossoms of the woods, with the right to play among them freely according to the custom of children, warning them at the same time against the thistles and the thorns. And I devise to the children the banks of the brooks and the golden sands beneath the waters thereof, and the odors of the willows that dip therein, and the white clouds that float high over the giant trees.
And I leave the children the long, long days to be merry in a thousand ways, and the night and the moon and the train of the Milky Way to wonder at, but subject, nevertheless, to the rights hereinafter given to lovers.
ITEM: I devise to boys jointly all the idle fields and commons where ball may be played, all pleasant waters where one may swim, all snow-clad hills where one may coast, and all streams and ponds where one may fish, or where, when grim winter comes, one may skate, to have and to hold the same for the period of their boyhood. And all meadows, with the clover-blossoms and butterflies thereof; the woods with their appurtenances; the squirrels and birds and echoes and strange noises, and all distant places, which may be visited, together with the adventures there to be found. And I give to said boys, each his own place at the fireside at night, with all pictures that may be seen in the burning wood, to enjoy without hindrance and without any incumbrance of care.
ITEM: To lovers, I devise their imaginary world, with whatever they may need, as the stars of the sky, the red roses by the wall, the bloom of the hawthorn, the sweet strains of music, and aught else they may desire to figure to each other the lastingness and beauty of their love.
ITEM: To young men jointly, I devise and bequeath all boisterous inspiring sports of rivalry, and I give to them the disdain of weakness and undaunted confidence in their own strength. Though they are rude, I leave them to the powers to make lasting friendships, and of possessing companions, and to them exclusively I give all merry songs and brave choruses to sing with lusty voices.
ITEM: And to those who are no longer children, or youths, or lovers, I leave memory, and bequeath to them the volumes of the poems of Burns and Shakespeare, and of other poets, if there be any, to the end that they may live the old days over again, freely and fully without tithe or diminution.
ITEM: To the loved ones with snowy crowns, I bequeath the happiness of old age, the love and gratitude of their children until they fall asleep.
LIKE SOME POOR MOPE IN AN INSTITUTION COULD HAVE WRITTEN THIS. NOT LIKELY.
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