I have to ask this first:
Who in the world thought it would be a good idea to invite actress Rose McGowan to co-host TCM’s THE ESSENTIALS? I’ve been watching it every week. I ADORE Robert Osborne. I love to hear what he has to say about film, the little back stories that have been dug up for the feature presentation. I tune in early when watching films on TCM just so I can hear these little tidbits of who didn’t like to work with whom and which co-stars were secretly in love and strange filming locations and how much they went over budget, etc... I do not want to hear Miss McGowan refer to Steve McQueen as an "It" person, admit that she’s not sexist, and say that films like "The Great Escape" are really escapism.
Um...
In any event.
Now that that’s over, I’m going to escapism right back into my Netflix and watch 4 more episodes of "The Duchess of Duke Street".
Restication News: I’m getting around pretty well. My balance is getting better every single day. Jim takes me on a drive most days, to get me out of the house, so I can get a little bit of sunshine. He took me to Barnes and Noble today so I could pick out some stationary. I picked out a few notecard sets that I liked, but got a little lightheaded before long, so we had to go home. I’m going to be working on wedding stuff all this week from my lovely floral couch and I wanted to have some pretty cards to use in correspondence. I’ll have to see if a Parental Unit can stop back by tomorrow to pick them up. I’ll be gathering guest lists for Wedding Partiness. Email me yours if you believe I may not have it, if you’ve moved in the last two years, changed your name, gotten married, or joined the peace corps and just want me to write to you while overseas. That’s all I want. Lots of addresses from the people I love best.
We’ve another whole week until I see the great Opthamologist (who will tell me "Good! At least it’s not worse!") and the Neurologist (who will make me touch my fingers to my nose and ask me to walk in a straight line and then he will hit me in the knee with a rather small rubber triangle and my leg will kick and he will smile because it means that I have good reflexes) and until then I plan to keep my self busy. Not terribly busy. I’ve still got to rest. But I will be eating well (send me some good vegetarian soup recipies!) and getting enough sleep and will be doing my balance exercises. I’ll be walking down the street with Emilybird a bit in the mornings. Then it will be time to get busy, wedding planning, consolidation of my things, boxing things up for my future, getting rid of all of those things from the past (Don’t worry, the Planet of the Apes dolls go with me) (So does the Baby Smurf doll that Dutch brought me back from France 25 years ago). CD organization, poster framing...
OH! And I haven’t told you of my latest project. I’ve boxes of old show T-shirts, from years around crappy midwest bar bands to Greenville College, and the hardcore scene in St. Louis to the festival circuit, to the south, working for the X and the record stores, seeing bands play in garages, late night parties, later nights at the Nick... The t-shirts I’ve held on to were the ones that meant something, particular show, particular band, particular moment etched in my memory and it didn’t matter how battered or tattered they became, I held on. I held on for old time’s sake. So now I want to take all of these beautiful rags and make a quilt. It would be a quilt of my music soundtrack, my music life. Monica is going to help me with the planning. As far as I can see it helps in so many ways. I’ll be doing something that will help rehabilitate this silly slow and weak right hand of mine. I’ll be emptying out several boxes that I could be using for other purposes. My mother will be so happy that she’ll never have to see me in my off-the-shoulder "Vessels of Sin" t-shirt again. And I’ll have a freaking amazing quilt to use in the start of my new household, my new life as Mrs. Jim.
Now I can’t stop smiling when thinking about it. Yes. It’s been a terrible few weeks. SO much uncertainty, fear of what was to come next. Well, toss all of that fear right out of the window. I’m getting better every day. I’ll do my best. And when you see me next, my dear and lovely friends, I’d better be smiling, because I have so much to look forward to, so much to be happy about!
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday Night Netflix
Someone ought to have a talk with my sleeping medication. Tell it to work...or something. This is the third-billionth night since on these steroids that my eyes just haven't been able to close. So here I am with you, full of Sara Leah Late Night 'roid Rage" and wondering why I just spent two hours watching Frank Capra's "You Can't Take It With You" on Netflix. Lionel Barrymore and his crutches were superb (they both deserved an academy award) (or I guess all three of them). The live kitten paperweight was hilarious and astounding. The "Madcap" antics of this freewilled family - chosen well, and could have had the kind of mix-chaos moments that would have made Uncle Teddy (Arsenic and Old Lace) seem as docile as my Uncle Michael (seminary professor and composer). All of the right elements were there, live birds, portrait painting, candy-tasting, darts and target, ballet dancing while executing household chores, xylophone and harmonica duets, firecracker production in the basement with frequent explosions...
Why couldn't they pull this beautiful mess into something more? The script by Riskin ("It Happened One Night" and Mr Deeds Goes to Town") taken from the Kaufman and Hart pulizter Prize winning play" You Can't Take it with you" was to have been worthwhile. These young men were writing the snappiest, most forward and fun thinking comedy around. Was it Capra? Don't know. The film itself has so many signature Capra moments, speechs, monologues of isms and America. The delivery of lines, the set up of shots seems to falter, awkward silences and rambling conversations.
I wish I could understand why through all of this snail-like dialoque and sober plot twists, in the end....I wish I knew why I was still crying. Maybe because I'm always happy for Jean Arthur to find love. Maybe because I was glad Barrymorre once more played his harmonica and with that signal...everything would be alright. Maybe I was just crying with happiness that it was finally over and I could start downloading the Peter O'Toole flick "My Favorite Year"(1982) which I've heard so much about. And since becoming completely captivated with him in the cheery Christ/Murder/Musical "The Ruling Class" (1972), I thought, might as well.
Why couldn't they pull this beautiful mess into something more? The script by Riskin ("It Happened One Night" and Mr Deeds Goes to Town") taken from the Kaufman and Hart pulizter Prize winning play" You Can't Take it with you" was to have been worthwhile. These young men were writing the snappiest, most forward and fun thinking comedy around. Was it Capra? Don't know. The film itself has so many signature Capra moments, speechs, monologues of isms and America. The delivery of lines, the set up of shots seems to falter, awkward silences and rambling conversations.
I wish I could understand why through all of this snail-like dialoque and sober plot twists, in the end....I wish I knew why I was still crying. Maybe because I'm always happy for Jean Arthur to find love. Maybe because I was glad Barrymorre once more played his harmonica and with that signal...everything would be alright. Maybe I was just crying with happiness that it was finally over and I could start downloading the Peter O'Toole flick "My Favorite Year"(1982) which I've heard so much about. And since becoming completely captivated with him in the cheery Christ/Murder/Musical "The Ruling Class" (1972), I thought, might as well.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Updateness
Hello Dear Ones!
I am home. Doing much better. My balance is improving everyday. I've been trying to rest. That's a difficult task, especially today, since I realized I've exactly two months to get ready for the wedding. Craziness. My vision loss seems to have plateaued. The opthamologist stated on Friday that the steroid infusion may have slowed it down or stopped it from getting worse. We'll know more in the next few days.
Keep me in your thoughts and prayers. And thank you so much for all of your words of encouragement and support. It's been tough. But I know that I am surrounded by love and that's made all the difference.
SL
I am home. Doing much better. My balance is improving everyday. I've been trying to rest. That's a difficult task, especially today, since I realized I've exactly two months to get ready for the wedding. Craziness. My vision loss seems to have plateaued. The opthamologist stated on Friday that the steroid infusion may have slowed it down or stopped it from getting worse. We'll know more in the next few days.
Keep me in your thoughts and prayers. And thank you so much for all of your words of encouragement and support. It's been tough. But I know that I am surrounded by love and that's made all the difference.
SL
Monday, March 17, 2008
"All I Do is Dream of You" by Arthur Freed
I wish that I could express to you the strange and wonderful contentment that I get from from listening to Gene Kelly’s quiet croon send this sweet song into a cloud. Nothing at all like the flash and jump version from the party scene in SINGING IN THE RAIN. It was one of the many surprises that I found in the EMI Music Resource : THE STANDARDS. Amber gave this collection back to me before she left for New York. I can truthfully say that I am glad she held onto it for a while. During it’s furlough, I learned to truly appreciate it. For the last 9 months, I’ve been stumbling happily through a rather large catalogue of Hollywood musicals (thank you Netflix), and pulling Jim kicking and screaming all the way...well maybe not kicking and screaming. He loves Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly, enjoys a good Stanley Donen or George Stevens musical, and the Gershwin, Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, Jerome Kern and Dorothy Fields, and Arthur Freed songs keep bringing smile after smile to his handsomely bearded face. In the midst of this whirlwind of song and dance, I picked up a colleciton of Astaire recordings. I listened to it so much that the words of the silliest tap-dancingest songs stuck in my head for days and days. I listened to it at home, at work in the Cancer Center, in my car. I couldn’t stop. I found my feet tapping along under the covers when I listened to it in bed. I’ve always thought my life a musical filled with these sorts of songs. No one bursts into them in front of me, but Jim can tell you that I definitely burst into them enough for everyone else. The constant flow of Musicals in the mail and the Astaire collection prepared me for the gem that I was returned to me a couple of weeks ago. The Standards... Frank Sinatra? Of course. Dean Martin. Yep. Billie Holliday, Cab Calloway, Mario Lanza, Mel Torma, Ella, Nat King Cole, Tony Bennett...yes. But oh...Sarah Vaughn...Bea Wain with Larry Clinton and his Orchestra....Kitty Kallen...a little bit of Fats Waller...
Awesome. Total Awesomeness.
Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I report to Brookwood Hospital for a short stay. A few days really. For any of you who’ve been missing me at the old St. Vincent’s ER, I’’ve missed you too. I’m in the midst of a relapse. They found some dark spots on my spinal cord. Travmo has suggested that I just get it whitened. Just line up some of those Crest Whitening strips down my back and I’m set. Unfortunately, MS doesn’t work that way. I’ve just got to work through the flare up. The steroid infusion that I’m going to get will help me do it. As is usual with Multiple Sclerosis, there’s no telling what caused the exacerbation, whether it was stress or a seasonal illness set it off. I think that it was the egg sandwich that I got from Whataburger on my way home from the Vulture Whale show a week or so ago. Jim doesn’t quite buy that one.
So. Email me. Call me. Come by. Whatever. Let me know how you’re doing. I’ve spent a good week staring at the TV (mostly TCM, but a little bit of Bravo) (What is up with those Housewives of NYC? Could we not just give them Southern Accents, some Vicoden, and send them to Seaside and say that they are the Housewives of Mountain Brook?) (Dude, Bravo would save like a THIRD in production costs doing that show here.)
As you can see, I’ll be ready for a few friendly faces and some good conversation and you can check out my new Whale patterned PJs. They’re awesome.
Love you!
Awesome. Total Awesomeness.
Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I report to Brookwood Hospital for a short stay. A few days really. For any of you who’ve been missing me at the old St. Vincent’s ER, I’’ve missed you too. I’m in the midst of a relapse. They found some dark spots on my spinal cord. Travmo has suggested that I just get it whitened. Just line up some of those Crest Whitening strips down my back and I’m set. Unfortunately, MS doesn’t work that way. I’ve just got to work through the flare up. The steroid infusion that I’m going to get will help me do it. As is usual with Multiple Sclerosis, there’s no telling what caused the exacerbation, whether it was stress or a seasonal illness set it off. I think that it was the egg sandwich that I got from Whataburger on my way home from the Vulture Whale show a week or so ago. Jim doesn’t quite buy that one.
So. Email me. Call me. Come by. Whatever. Let me know how you’re doing. I’ve spent a good week staring at the TV (mostly TCM, but a little bit of Bravo) (What is up with those Housewives of NYC? Could we not just give them Southern Accents, some Vicoden, and send them to Seaside and say that they are the Housewives of Mountain Brook?) (Dude, Bravo would save like a THIRD in production costs doing that show here.)
As you can see, I’ll be ready for a few friendly faces and some good conversation and you can check out my new Whale patterned PJs. They’re awesome.
Love you!
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
View From An Emergency Department Waiting Room
It is a dark and dreary day outside.
There is a small, quiet, leafless tree right outside my window. It contains, wedged between it's delicate branches, a tiny nest. What an unhappy little home, probably built over the summer when everything was green and leafy. How was the mama bird to know how bleak and barren her resting place was to become?
Across the highway, upon the telephone lines that tower over the Nick, rest about a hundred black birds. They crowd together, close to the pole. They sit there all day, rain or shine. I often wonder why they don't venture out to perch on the lovely, large trees all around them. I guess that sitting above the constant zooming traffic gives them some enjoyment. It would certainly be some entertainment, watching all of the merging and passing. All of the daring stunts that people pull off these days while driving down the highway.
Turning his wee head towards his companion, Benji Pigeon ruffled his wings, "Hey Harold! Did you see that lady in the SUV? She's amazing! She was talking on her cell phone and putting on lipstick at the same time, all while steering with her left knee. That's so incredible! I wish I had knees."
"And hands, fingers, and a cell phone," grumbled Harold, "so I could call her and tell her that she's about to hit that ugly, bright yellow Crown Victoria...Whoa! Dude. That was a close one."
Harold leaned forward, grimacing. "Why DO they call that 'the bird'? That offends me so much. It doesn't even look like one of our feathered friends. I've seen some kids make some shadow puppets that would be appropriately named that. I love shadow puppets. One time I sat outside of the window at this big house on Highland and..."
"That's so weird." Benji hopped to the side and back again.
"What?"
"Peeping in on a human kid's playtime."
"It's fun! They can do so many things that we can't do."
"For instance?"
"Well...draw pictures, play scrabble, eat peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off."
"We can eat peanut butter sandwiches, Harold."
"If you want to call that eating. If I had hands, I'd pick up one of those beautiful sandwiches...you know I love it when moms cut them in triangles. Cutting sandwiches in half, totally boring."
"I think you think about this too much. Seriously, did you see the way that Grandma I-Forgot-To-Take-My-Meds in that boat of an Oldsmobile pulled out in front of the horse-faced guy in the white BMW? If he hadn't stopped with the hair flipping in the rearview mirror, they might have ended up with a real crunch fest. That was awesome."
"Yes. That WAS awesome," sighed Harold, staring at the tip of his wing. "Peanut butter and jelly."
"Did you say something?" Benji leaned forward.
"No. Nothing."
There is a small, quiet, leafless tree right outside my window. It contains, wedged between it's delicate branches, a tiny nest. What an unhappy little home, probably built over the summer when everything was green and leafy. How was the mama bird to know how bleak and barren her resting place was to become?
Across the highway, upon the telephone lines that tower over the Nick, rest about a hundred black birds. They crowd together, close to the pole. They sit there all day, rain or shine. I often wonder why they don't venture out to perch on the lovely, large trees all around them. I guess that sitting above the constant zooming traffic gives them some enjoyment. It would certainly be some entertainment, watching all of the merging and passing. All of the daring stunts that people pull off these days while driving down the highway.
Turning his wee head towards his companion, Benji Pigeon ruffled his wings, "Hey Harold! Did you see that lady in the SUV? She's amazing! She was talking on her cell phone and putting on lipstick at the same time, all while steering with her left knee. That's so incredible! I wish I had knees."
"And hands, fingers, and a cell phone," grumbled Harold, "so I could call her and tell her that she's about to hit that ugly, bright yellow Crown Victoria...Whoa! Dude. That was a close one."
Harold leaned forward, grimacing. "Why DO they call that 'the bird'? That offends me so much. It doesn't even look like one of our feathered friends. I've seen some kids make some shadow puppets that would be appropriately named that. I love shadow puppets. One time I sat outside of the window at this big house on Highland and..."
"That's so weird." Benji hopped to the side and back again.
"What?"
"Peeping in on a human kid's playtime."
"It's fun! They can do so many things that we can't do."
"For instance?"
"Well...draw pictures, play scrabble, eat peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off."
"We can eat peanut butter sandwiches, Harold."
"If you want to call that eating. If I had hands, I'd pick up one of those beautiful sandwiches...you know I love it when moms cut them in triangles. Cutting sandwiches in half, totally boring."
"I think you think about this too much. Seriously, did you see the way that Grandma I-Forgot-To-Take-My-Meds in that boat of an Oldsmobile pulled out in front of the horse-faced guy in the white BMW? If he hadn't stopped with the hair flipping in the rearview mirror, they might have ended up with a real crunch fest. That was awesome."
"Yes. That WAS awesome," sighed Harold, staring at the tip of his wing. "Peanut butter and jelly."
"Did you say something?" Benji leaned forward.
"No. Nothing."
Thursday, January 03, 2008
New Year, New Monster
Introducing:
Sockfield Orestes Fitzcreature
I stitched him together last night while Jim sat at the glass table in the sun room to work on his computer. My parents have commandeered all of the televisions in their house and stacked them one on top of the other to create a Wall of Sports in the living room. So without a television in the sun room and as I was not in the mood to resume one of the fifteen books I have stacked next to my bed, I decided to create something. If any of you are still looking for something to get me as a late Christmas present...I could use a nice, sturdy thimble...actually, I could use ten of them.
--------
song totally stuck in my head today:
Anyone Else But You by The Moldy Peaches
It's been playing on the jukebox in my head ever since Jim and I saw Juno on January 1.
Sockfield Orestes Fitzcreature
I stitched him together last night while Jim sat at the glass table in the sun room to work on his computer. My parents have commandeered all of the televisions in their house and stacked them one on top of the other to create a Wall of Sports in the living room. So without a television in the sun room and as I was not in the mood to resume one of the fifteen books I have stacked next to my bed, I decided to create something. If any of you are still looking for something to get me as a late Christmas present...I could use a nice, sturdy thimble...actually, I could use ten of them.
--------
song totally stuck in my head today:
Anyone Else But You by The Moldy Peaches
It's been playing on the jukebox in my head ever since Jim and I saw Juno on January 1.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Attention Birmingham:
We have been invaded by inhabitants of the Windy City.
But do not be alarmed, we have lured them into the containment unit on Oxmoor Road also known as the HoJo.
Armed with liquid-filled metal projectiles and burning sticks, the Maid of Dishonor and her treacherous Bride guard the doors of this aquarium-like prison.
They are the warriors of the 4th Wedding, filled with spitfire and vengeance and protected by a impenetrable, flame-retardant combination of nylon and polyester handed to them by the Gods. Do not fear, Dear Citizens. You are well protected.
PS....
I can't stop listening to Gene Krupa's Drums, Drums, Drums
But do not be alarmed, we have lured them into the containment unit on Oxmoor Road also known as the HoJo.
Armed with liquid-filled metal projectiles and burning sticks, the Maid of Dishonor and her treacherous Bride guard the doors of this aquarium-like prison.
They are the warriors of the 4th Wedding, filled with spitfire and vengeance and protected by a impenetrable, flame-retardant combination of nylon and polyester handed to them by the Gods. Do not fear, Dear Citizens. You are well protected.
PS....
I can't stop listening to Gene Krupa's Drums, Drums, Drums
New Years Soul Trip
Jim and I are leaving for Oxford, Mississippi this afternoon. We're meeting up with John Ciba and Rachel and Derek and J.D. at the Wiley and the Checkmates New Years Eve show. This will be our first non-family Adventurfication since my birthday.
I'm so excited! Anyone have any suggestions on where to eat once we get there?
I'm so excited! Anyone have any suggestions on where to eat once we get there?
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Um...
I just ate two butterscotch/Chow Mein noodle cookies right before I collapsed into bed. The cookies were made by one of my mother's therapy patients.
1. Does my mother have a good relationship with this patient?
2. Do I really have to reattach my walking boot to trek to the restroom to brush my teeth again, or will the Orbit Gum left in the side pocket of my purse suffice? Shut up. I totally know the answer to that one.
1. Does my mother have a good relationship with this patient?
2. Do I really have to reattach my walking boot to trek to the restroom to brush my teeth again, or will the Orbit Gum left in the side pocket of my purse suffice? Shut up. I totally know the answer to that one.
Friday, December 21, 2007
CTD and O: Myrna Loy -> Luise Rainer
She smiled down at me from yellowed fragile paper trapped in wood and glass. I walked up, gazed at the wall, full of faces, smiling and glazed over, "Gary Cooper, $13.00" "Will Rogers, $13.00" "Eileen Sedgewick, $13.00" and then "Movie Star, $13.00". The faces went on and on, down the wall and spilling out onto the table, but all I could do was look at her. I reached up and pulled her picture down, and turned and walked quickly to catch up with Jim.
"Movie Star, $13.00"
Why does that make me smile so? When we finally gathered all of our spoils onto the checkout table, the snow-white haired, crinkly old lady writing our ticket leaned over as I pointed to the picture. "Can you believe that it just says 'Movie Star'? That's so funny. Myrna Loy? Can you imagine?"
She stared up at me and smiled politely. "Oh IS it? Oh dear, I guess so."
She had no idea. And I guess that scared me a little. And made me a little sad for her.
Myrna Loy solved crimes with William Powell in "The Thin Man series"(1934). Myrna Loy battled brains with Cary Grant in "The Bachelor and the Bobbysoxer" (1947) and "Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House."(1948)
Myrna Loy vamped it up in a Natacha Rambova penned film, "What Price Beauty?" in 1925. (Rambova was the second wife of Rudolph Valentino) She also appeared in Al Jolson's "The Jazz Singer"(1927).
In 1934 she appeared in "Manhattan Melodrama" with Clark Gable and William Powell. The gangster John Dillinger was shot to death after leaving a screening of the film. She also played the part of Billie Burke (Florenz Ziegfeld's wife) in the Academy Award winning film "The Great Ziegfeld". Billie Burke is best known as Glinda the Good Witch in "The Wizard of Oz". Anna Held, Florenz Ziegfeld's common-law wife, was played by none other than two time academy award winner Luise Rainer.
Some November night, shortly after I broke my foot, I sat in the living room watching an array of musical biopics on TCM. I fell in love with Luise Rainer in the midst of the film "The Great Waltz"(1938). As she (Poldi Vogelhuber) becomes aware of her husband's (Johann Strauss II) affair, her eyes fill with tears. She loves him so much and is so devoted to him that she weathers effects of the tumultuous affair. She is brave and amazing. The movie also stars the great French actor Fernand Garvey and opera singer Miliza Korjus (who garnered an Academy Award nomination for her performance).
Luise Rainer
At 97 years of age, Luise Rainer is the oldest living Academy Award winner.
1936 - The Great Zeigfeld
1937 - The Good Earth
Thursday, December 20, 2007
below the surface - July 2007
The rain spills down, buckets tilted from heaven towards the ground. I stand waiting for the light to change, dress weighing down, shoes swimming. Clouds blanket this dark southern summer sky. Clouds form between my furrowed brows. I feel helpless and all at once surrounded by sound. The cracking of water to pavement, the rush of cars two feet from where I stand. I clutch my bag, fingers bound around the handle, twisted with anxious thought.
I've wanted to write about the song that's been rolling through my thoughts for the last few days. I listened to it again and again the other night and thought to myself, that's it...but I'm not sure anymore. The rain does funny things. The rain conjures a spell of winding melodies...
Brown Eyes
tell me and take your time
set free this soul of mine
freeze frame this sedate moment
lie me in your quiet ground
i understand your
tired eyes for these
tired homes and tired trees
i see the pain in those
brown eyes
fires burn in autumn skies
-Mark Kozelek, Red House Painters, Rollercoaster
I've wanted to write about the song that's been rolling through my thoughts for the last few days. I listened to it again and again the other night and thought to myself, that's it...but I'm not sure anymore. The rain does funny things. The rain conjures a spell of winding melodies...
Brown Eyes
tell me and take your time
set free this soul of mine
freeze frame this sedate moment
lie me in your quiet ground
i understand your
tired eyes for these
tired homes and tired trees
i see the pain in those
brown eyes
fires burn in autumn skies
-Mark Kozelek, Red House Painters, Rollercoaster
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
1995
I'm on my guard, quiet and turned. I feel the breeze and the damp of the dawn float across the room, across the right side of my face. The left side is cradled in the warmth of my quilt, one eye closed, and all I can think of is the chatter of dry leaves…and the chill. But I keep watching, waiting. Waiting for the sound of the morning train, I’m waiting for a different sort of day to come.
I am weighted. I am weary. I am 17 years old and wondering if I'll ever stop feeling so alone. I keep listening to Glen Phillips' strange hollow tenor tell me of his every hope and disappointment and I nod my head in the dark. I understand. My adolescent heart is bedraggled. Its edges and outsides are as worn and frayed as the ancient, woven paper that covers the walls of this house.
High on a Riverbed
why try
when everything i do seems half right
how can i be satisfied
writing words from someone's else's lies
but sometimes i'm standing here
high on a riverbed
and light breaks through
everything feels good for a while
high on a riverbed
i see myself sometimes
vision is a mystery half blind
i wander through my life
wondering what i could be if i
if i
- Toad the Wet Sprocket, Pale
I am weighted. I am weary. I am 17 years old and wondering if I'll ever stop feeling so alone. I keep listening to Glen Phillips' strange hollow tenor tell me of his every hope and disappointment and I nod my head in the dark. I understand. My adolescent heart is bedraggled. Its edges and outsides are as worn and frayed as the ancient, woven paper that covers the walls of this house.
High on a Riverbed
why try
when everything i do seems half right
how can i be satisfied
writing words from someone's else's lies
but sometimes i'm standing here
high on a riverbed
and light breaks through
everything feels good for a while
high on a riverbed
i see myself sometimes
vision is a mystery half blind
i wander through my life
wondering what i could be if i
if i
- Toad the Wet Sprocket, Pale
Monday, December 17, 2007
CTD: Meet Me in St. Louis - Lucille Bremer
In the dark, warm glow of the Alabama Theatre, underneath the twinkling Christmas lights, my father turned to my mother and whispered loudly "I know who the sister is! She played the good witch in the Wizard of OZ!"
I clutched Jim's hand and bit my tongue. I turned to Jim and we smiled at each other. Judy Garland was sitting there in her red velvet ball gown and Mary Astor was crying happy tears.
Lucille Bremer, the sister in question (center), did not play Glinda, the good witch (Glinda was played by Billie Burke, more on that later). Meet Me in St. Louis (1944) was only Miss Bremer's second film. (Her first film was the Stan Kenton short "This Love of Mine")
In her next film, she co-starred with Fred Astaire, "Yolanda and the Thief"(1945)
(i love this poster!)
and then again in "Ziegfeld Follies".
By 1948, Lucille had made her last film, "Behind Locked Doors", a black and white B-Movie co-starring Richard Carlson("Creature from the Black Lagoon").
She married the son of former Mexican President, Abelardo L. RodrÃguez, and retired at the ripe old age of 31.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Fuzzy Encephalophagi Authors
Sorry, Loves, about the error in dates on the last post and for the typos and questionable content...
I have an excuse.
James Joyce ate my brain.
This class has been pretty extraordinary. Not because of the excellent teachings, although Bingram was at best quite interesting and informative, but because of how eye opening it was for me. I had taken so much for granted. So often, in my leisure, I've sat for so many hours in front of my computer with a finger forever upon the backspace button and my thumb standing guard by the spacebar. Editing... Thought. Backspace. Cut. paste. Insert thought. Delete. Thought. Thought. Delete. Thought. I love computerness...but - Ohmygod.
I walked out of my final today, the last student out of the room with my hair all crazy, covered from head to toe in the remains of my pencil eraser, actually three pencil erasers...the side of my hand was silver from the lead of my pencil. I'm left handed so I drag my hand across the page when I write. Two hours to write a paper. Two hours to take a simple opinion about a story and turn it in to something wonderful. Let me tell you, folks, that by the end of the paper, my head was lolling in my hand, the other hand was taking turns tearing paper, writing on it and twisting my nervous finger through the front of my hair until I looked like a pale, dirty blonde version of Davey Havok on the Black Sails?Helloween tour, you know, in which he was trying so desperately to be Glen Danzig?
I actually didn't see myself in the mirror, because I was sitting in class writing for my final, but in my head, that's exactly what I looked like, only prettier, in my beautiful new puff-sleeved Bannana Republic winter jacket and instead of combat boots I had one New Balance Tennis shoe (grey and powder blue) and the large metal and foam black boot that I wear because I decided a few weeks ago that it would be a good idea to trip over a roll of tape while walking down the sidewalk in Knowville, Tennessee.
Yes. I am not at Rebecca's party tonight. I am in bed with the covers up to my waist while I listen to Fred Astaire. I am totally exhausted. This has been a crazy few weeks. But my absence from the crazy Sweet 16 + 20 party does not mean I love Bec any less or am any less devoted to helping her conquer the world. 1. I cannot drive and Jim is at home grading papers. 2. James Joyce ate my brain -- after he came to visit me in the ER today.
I have an excuse.
James Joyce ate my brain.
This class has been pretty extraordinary. Not because of the excellent teachings, although Bingram was at best quite interesting and informative, but because of how eye opening it was for me. I had taken so much for granted. So often, in my leisure, I've sat for so many hours in front of my computer with a finger forever upon the backspace button and my thumb standing guard by the spacebar. Editing... Thought. Backspace. Cut. paste. Insert thought. Delete. Thought. Thought. Delete. Thought. I love computerness...but - Ohmygod.
I walked out of my final today, the last student out of the room with my hair all crazy, covered from head to toe in the remains of my pencil eraser, actually three pencil erasers...the side of my hand was silver from the lead of my pencil. I'm left handed so I drag my hand across the page when I write. Two hours to write a paper. Two hours to take a simple opinion about a story and turn it in to something wonderful. Let me tell you, folks, that by the end of the paper, my head was lolling in my hand, the other hand was taking turns tearing paper, writing on it and twisting my nervous finger through the front of my hair until I looked like a pale, dirty blonde version of Davey Havok on the Black Sails?Helloween tour, you know, in which he was trying so desperately to be Glen Danzig?
I actually didn't see myself in the mirror, because I was sitting in class writing for my final, but in my head, that's exactly what I looked like, only prettier, in my beautiful new puff-sleeved Bannana Republic winter jacket and instead of combat boots I had one New Balance Tennis shoe (grey and powder blue) and the large metal and foam black boot that I wear because I decided a few weeks ago that it would be a good idea to trip over a roll of tape while walking down the sidewalk in Knowville, Tennessee.
Yes. I am not at Rebecca's party tonight. I am in bed with the covers up to my waist while I listen to Fred Astaire. I am totally exhausted. This has been a crazy few weeks. But my absence from the crazy Sweet 16 + 20 party does not mean I love Bec any less or am any less devoted to helping her conquer the world. 1. I cannot drive and Jim is at home grading papers. 2. James Joyce ate my brain -- after he came to visit me in the ER today.
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