I saw a commercial for this on the Today Show this morning, and it FREAKED ME OUT! All I could think about was so much peeled fruit, exposed to the air; how many fingers would have touched it before and during the arranging; the different rooms and hallways it would have passed through...
I imagined a disgruntled worker (who might have had to search the couch cushions for the kid's lunch money that morning) picturing what kind of Christmas-sweater-wearing-QVS-watching-beBotoxed person would spend $90 on such hideous fly-bait and then licking each piece of cantaloupe and sticking the grapes up his/her nose.
I had to rush home from work to help Lola with her 'Above and Beyond' project for her Target class. She started the project on Friday, and it required no fewer than three trips to the comic book store "for research." In the past, we did these assignments on poster board, but some future flugelhorn player (and his MBA parents) set the bar a little higher this year. So we had to finish putting together her Power Point presentation on Spiderman and Batman supervillains before I had to take her to softball practice at 6:45.
Biggy, who is coaching her team, met us at the park and complained about the camping shorts I'd brought him (He forgot to take a change of clothes to work) and accused me of being passive aggressive. I suggested that he was mistaken if he thought his Tiny Dancer Shoes (the cleats he bought off a clearance rack three years ago that make his feet look three inches long) looked any better with coaching shorts (WHICH WERE DIRTY ANYWAY...) Then it was off to Target to buy Lo a memory stick, because it costs more than even neon-colored poster board. Honestly, I think that was the whole appeal of the PP anyway--that the kid who did the first one brought this magic gadget in and all these little geeks-in-training had to have one.
I went looking for the cheapest memory stick I could find, considering it was going to fall out of Lola's pocket on the monkey bars and get lost in the quicksandesque pile of shredded recycled tires that probably releases more toxins than Kerr-McGee. I was in luck, though, because over by the digital cameras was a little rack of Hannah Montana and Highschool Musical memory BRACELETS that were on sale for 7.98. They looked like the yellow rubber Livestrong bands, but rather than inspiring children to persevere, these memory things came with a digi-folder full of karaoke. Score.
I knew Lola would die if I bought her Hannah Montana anything, so I grabbed the other one, paid, went to Publix to pick up a prescription and buy Jack some pop tarts, and ran home to cook Gorditas before Dad and Daughter were due from practice.
I was very proud of how smoothly the day had gone until Lola got home and asked, "Did you get it?!" I pointed to the counter where the bracelet lay, with Zack and Vanessa and Ashley--their smiling faces so tiny they might as well have been the Golden Girls. But Lo knew exactly who they were, and her face imploded upon the sight. I don't think I'd seen this kind of reaction from her since we asked her to switch to panties instead of boxers. And because we never repeated that mistake, I can't remember how long ago it happened.
I had no intention of going back to Target, but she was NOT taking that High School Musical memory bracelet ANYWHERE. I showed her how she could wear the bracelet upside down, but that didn't appease her. Her teacher would still SEE it when it was plugged in. She said she'd wait till next week to make her presentation so she could redo it on poster board.
In a brainstorming panic to avoid having to search under the beds for glue and Sharpies; the inevitable trip to Office Depot for a new ink cartridge; and the epic standing-in-the-aisle-at-Walgreens choice between green, orange, or yellow poster board, I remembered that Georgia had an old box of scrapbooking materials in her room, so I rummaged through it and found some Halloween stickers--black and white stickers of eyeballs in the dark and the word BOO in various sizes. I covered the offensive picture in those and trimmed the sides, during which time she'd calmed herself down a bit by watching Beach Patrol. When I showed it to her, she smiled as big as Hannah herself. The world was right again, and it was bedtime.
Biggy and I got to see him (for free!) last night at Chastain. Second row, no less. I'd never seen him live before--had never wanted to either. But, wow. What a wonderful, fun, inspiring show. Here is a man who, at 56, can rock the house and dance like a fiend--with a zen-like bearing. I even enjoyed the modern dance, which, as many of you know, usually just cracks me up/makes me want to puke.
Here is a review I read today that captures the spirit of the performance.
I've read so many references to McCain calling his wife a C U Next Tuesday lately, that I had to google it to get the scoop. It was a story I'd never heard. During my research, I came across another story I was unaware of.
A couple of things have happened recently that are in the same category as looking for my cell phone while talking on my cell phone:
1. The other day, I was looking at the number of a missed call on my cell phone. I couldn't see the number clearly, so I put my glasses on, but they didn't make it any better. I took them off, cleaned them, and put them back on, trying again to make the number out. I was extremely frustrated, thinking my eyes were getting worse and, besides, my phone is a cheap piece of shit, with its scratched face and dim light... I was cursing loudly over all this and finally threw the glasses in the passenger seat, at which point I realized I'd been using my sunglasses.
2. Yesterday, our newlywed tenant (we have a basement apt) came up and asked to borrow my can opener. He told me both he and his wife were sick and could only eat soup. Unfortunately, they'd forgotten to buy a can opener. Being charitable when it's easy, I gave him mine and said they could just keep it for a couple of days, because I wouldn't need it until I made tuna casserole.
Well, I don't know what I was thinking, because I did end up needing it last night, for the hamburger casserole. But instead of bothering them, knowing they felt bad, I went next door and used my neighbor's. This afternoon, though, when I needed it to open cream of chicken for my chicken casserole (That's right), I decided to go down and ask to use mine. I grabbed the can of soup and went to knock on the door.
Mrs. Tenant opened it in her little pajamas, saw the can in my hand, and started apologizing for not bringing the can opener back. I explained, effusively, how sorry I was that she didn't feel well, and how much I hated to bother her. I said she could just let me use the can opener, and they could keep it for a while longer, or forever. I used the can to air-punctuate my sentences.
She kept looking at me and the can of soup with a funny look on her face but told me her hubby was picking up a can opener at the store, so I could have mine back. It wasn't until I got back into my kitchen that I noticed the can's BIG-ASS PULL TAB.
In order to help my boss with a speech, I'm reading a book on converging media by Henry Jenkins, a big brain in media studies at MIT. He talks a lot about the idea that 'no one knows everything, but everyone knows something,' and how much more we can "know" if we share information. This concept plays out in all matters of our lives, including politics.
This research got me thinking about a quote I heard years ago from writer Sally Hogshead, "Aspire to be the dumbest person in the room." I'm surrounded by people who know and believe in that philosophy, people who would rather be stretched and challenged by those around them rather than hold court as know-it-alls, people who realize that smart people working FOR you make you even smarter.
And that got me thinking about McCain and his choice for VP. Seriously. With all the smart people he had to choose from--people who could have lifted him, stretched him, truly enhanced his position, he chose that dummy Sarah Palin.
Everyone who knows me well is aware that I don't eat sweets--except for the occasional treat made with Splenda. So when Jack came home from a friend's today and saw a half-wrapped Riesen sitting next to me on the counter, he wondered:
JackMan: Are you eating candy?!
TR: No. I caught Fay chewing on it. I don't know where she found it.
JackMan: It's a Riesen! Those are awesome. I'll take it.
So the Republicans have decided to run against themselves. The bums have tiptoed out the back door and circled around to the front and started yelling, "Throw the bums out!" They've been running Washington like a well-oiled machine to the point of inviting lobbyists into the back rooms to write the legislation, and now they are anti-establishment reformers dedicated to delivering us from themselves. And Mayor Giuliani is an advocate for small-town America. Bravo.
They are coming out for Small Efficient Government the very week that the feds are taking over Fannie and Freddie, those old cash cows, and in the course of a weekend 20 or 50 (or pick a number) billion go floating out the Treasury door. Hello? Do you see us out here? We are not fruit flies, we are voters, we can read and write, we didn't just fall off the coal truck.
It is a bold move on the Republicans' part -- forget about the past, it's only history, so write a new narrative and be who you want to be -- and if they succeed, I think I might declare myself a 24-year-old virgin named Lance and see what that might lead to. Paste a new face on my Facebook page, maybe become the Dauphin Louie the Thirty-Second, the rightful heir to the Throne of France, put on silk tights and pantaloons and a plumed hat and go on the sawdust circuit and sell souvenir hankies imprinted with the royal fleur-de-lis. They will cure neuralgia and gout and restore marital vigor...
I've been a fan of George Lakoff since I came across some of his articles while researching the power of storytelling and metaphor for a class a few years ago. Thanks to Jeneva at Busily Seeking...Continual Change, I just saw this piece on Tikkun. I'm pasting it here to save you all the trouble of clicking a link. Also, it keeps you on my blog longer, which inflates my stats and hence my ego.
Here 'tis:
George Lakoff argues that the Republican choice of Palin makes total sense if you truly understand the strategy of the Republicans in this election.
The Palin Choice The Reality of the Political Mind by George Lakoff
This election matters because of realities-the realities of global warming, the economy, the Middle East, nuclear proliferation, civil liberties, species extinction, poverty here and around the world, and on and on. Such realities are what make this election so very crucial, and how to deal with them is the substance of the Democratic platform .
Election campaigns matter because who gets elected can change reality. But election campaigns are primarily about the realities of voters' minds, which depend on how the candidates and the external realities are cognitively framed. They can be framed honestly or deceptively, effectively or clumsily. And they are always framed from the perspective of a worldview.
The Obama campaign has learned this. The Republicans have long known it, and the choice of Sarah Palin as their Vice-Presidential candidate reflects their expert understanding of the political mind and political marketing. Democrats who simply belittle the Palin choice are courting disaster. It must be t aken with the utmost seriousness.
The Democratic responses so far reflect external realities: she is inexperienced, knowing little or nothing about foreign policy or national issues; she is really an anti-feminist, wanting the government to enter women's lives to block abortion, but not wanting the government to guarantee equal pay for equal work, or provide adequate child health coverage, or child care, or early childhood education; she shills for the oil and gas industry on drilling; she denies the scientific truths of global warming and evolution; she misuses her political authority; she opposes sex education and her daughter is pregnant; and, rather than being a maverick, she is on the whole a radical right-wing ideologue.
All true, so far as we can tell.
But such truths may nonetheless be largely irrelevant to this campaign. That is the lesson Democrats must learn. They must learn the reality of the political mind.
The Obama campaign has done this very well so far. The convention events and speeches were orchestrated both to cast light on external realities, traditional political themes, and to focus on values at once classically American and progressive: empathy, responsibility both for oneself and others, and aspiration to make things better both for oneself and the world. Obama did all this masterfully in his nomination speech, while replying to, and undercutting, the main Republican attacks.
But the Palin nomination changes the game. The initial response has been to try to keep the focus on external realities, the "issues," and differences on the issues. But the Palin nomination is not basically about external realities and what Democrats call "issues," but about the symbolic mechanisms of the political mind-the worldviews, frames, metaphors, cultural narratives, and stereotypes. The Republicans can't win on realities. Her job is to speak the language of conservatism, activate the conservative view of the world, and use the advantages that conservatives have in dominating political discourse.
Our national political dialogue is fundamentally metaphorical, with family values at the center of our discourse. There is a reason why Obama and Biden spoke so much about the family, the nurturant family, with caring fathers and the family values that Obama put front and center in his Father's day speech: empathy, responsibility and aspiration. Obama's reference in the nomination speech to "The American Family" was hardly accidental, nor were the references to the Obama and Biden families as living and fulfilling the American Dream. Real nurturance requires strength and toughness, which Obama displayed in body language and voice in his responses to McCain. The strength of the Obama campaign has been the seamless marriage of reality and symbolic thought.
The Republican strength has been mostly symbolic. The McCain campaign is well aware of how Reagan and W won-running on character: values, communicatio n, (apparent) authenticity, trust, and identity - not issues and policies. That is how campaigns work, and symbolism is central.
Conservative family values are strict and apply via metaphorical thought to the nation: good vs. evil, authority, the use of force, toughness and discipline, individual (versus social) responsibility, and tough love. Hence, social programs are immoral because they violate discipline and individual responsibility. Guns and the military show force and discipline. Man is above nature; hence no serious environmentalism. The market is the ultimate financial authority, requiring market discipline. In foreign policy, strength is use of the force. In fundamentalist religion, the Bible is the ultimate authority; hence no gay marriage. Such values are at the heart of radical conservatism. This is how John McCain was raised and how he plans to govern. And it is what he shares with Sarah Palin.
Palin is the mom in the strict father family, upholding conservative values. Palin is tough: she shoots, skins, and eats caribou. She is disciplined: raising five kids with a major career. She lives her values: she has a Downs-syndrome baby that she refused to abort. She has the image of the ideal conservative mom: pretty, perky, feminine, Bible-toting, and fitting into the ideal conservative family. And she fits the stereotype of America as small-town America. It is Reagan's morning-in-America image. Where Obama thought of capturing the West, she is running for Sweetheart of the West.
And Palin, a member of Feminists For Life, is at the heart of the conservative feminist movement, which Ronee Schreiber has written about in her recent book, Righting Feminism. It is a powerful and growing movement that Democrats have barely paid attention to. At the same time, Palin is masterful at the Republican game of taking the Democrats' language and reframing it-putting conservative frames to progressive words: Reform, prosperity, peace. She is also masterful at using the progressive narratives: she's from the working class, working her way up from hockey mom and the PTA to Mayor, Governor, and VP candidate. Her husband is a union member. She can say to the conservative populists that she is one of them-all the things that Obama and Biden have been saying. Bottom-up, not top-down.
Yes, the McCain-Palin ticket is weak on the major realities. But it is strong on the symbolic dimension of politics that Republicans are so good at marketing. Just arguing the realities, the issues, the hard truths should be enough in times this bad, but the political mind and its response to symbolism cannot be ignored. The initial Democratic response to Palin - the response based on realities alone - indicates that many Democrats have not learned the lessons of the Reagan and Bush years.
They have not learned the nature of conservative populism. A great many working-class folks are what I call "bi-conceptual," that is, they are split between conservative and progressive modes of thought. Conservative on patriotism and certain social and family issues, which they have been led to see as "moral", progressive in loving the land, living in communities of care, and practical kitchen table issues like mortgages, health care, wages, retirement, and so on. Conservative theorists won them over in two ways: Inventing and promulgating the idea of "liberal elite" and focusing campaigns on social and family issues. They have been doing this for many years and have changed a lot of brains through repetition. Palin will appeal strongly to conservative populists, attacking Obama and Biden as pointy-headed, tax-and-spend, latte liberals. The tactic is to divert attention from difficult realities to powerful symbolism.
What Democrats have shied away from is a frontal attack on radical conservatism itself as an un-American and harmful ideology. I think Obama is right when he says that America is based on people caring about each other and working together for a better future-empathy, responsibility (both personal and social), and aspiration. These lead to a concept of government based on protection (environmental, consumer, worker, health care, and retirement protection) and empowerment (through infrastructure, public education, the banking system, the stock market, and the courts). Nobody can achieve the American Dream or live an American lifestyle without protection and empowerment by the government.20The alternative, as Obama said in his nomination speech, is being on your own, with no one caring for anybody else, with force as a first resort in foreign affairs, with threatened civil liberties and a right-wing government making your most important decisions for you. That is not what American democracy has ever been about.
What is at stake in this election are our ideals and our view of the future, as well as current realities. The Palin choice brings both front and center. Democrats, being Democrats, will mostly talk about the realities nonstop without paying attention to the dimensions of values and symbolism. Democrats, in addition, need to call an extremist an extremist: to shine a light on the shared anti-democratic ideology of McCain and Palin, the same ideology shared by Bush and Cheney. They share values antithetical to our democracy. That needs to be said loud and clear, if not by the Obama campaign itself, then by the rest of us who share democratic American values.
Our job is to bring external realities together with the reality of the political mind. Don't ignore the cognitive dimension. It is through cultural narratives, metaphors, and frames that we understand and express our ideals.
George Lakoff is the author of The Political Mind: Why You Can't Understand 20th Century Politics With an 18th Century Brain
Lola moved up to 10-and-Under slow pitch softball this season. In this age bracket, the girls actually pitch--no more coach-pitching.
So it goes like this: First, the pitcher rolls the ball around in her glove until she can get it just the way she likes it in her hand. Next, she puts one foot behind the other, leans back and adjusts her knees until she achieves a perfect keep-on-truckin' stance. After that, she holds her arm out, closes one eye, and aims the ball. Finally, she takes a step forward while swinging her arm backward then forward, and releases the ball.
The ball then rolls over the plate or lands three feet in front of it, whereupon it is retrieved by the catcher, who throws it back to the pitcher, who misses it.
The short stop and third baseman chase the runaway ball and then each kindly waits for the other to pick it up. One finally steps to the task and throws the ball to the pitcher, who catches it 50% of the time on this second toss.
The pitching ritual begins again, and so it goes until the batter walks. Every fifth batter or so, there is some deviation to the routine as someone who's in a hurry to get to Chic-fil-A swings at everything and strikes out.
The game lasts for an hour, during which time only three innings are played.
Last night, Lo and I were watching Super Nanny, an episode where the family had twin six-year-old boys and a five-year-old girl who pitched epic fits at the dinner table and couldn't wipe their own asses. As appalled as Jo was, Lo was fascinated.
Lo: How old was I when I started wiping myself?
TR: Too old. Four, I think. You could skate and ride a bike.
Lo: Wow. How long do you think that kid will sit at the table not eating her carrots? Just eat 'em already.
TR: You're one to talk. Look--she's starting to nod off. That's right; send her straight to bed.
(Cutting to commercial, they flash the website and call to apply for the show)
TR: Ooh, I'm SO gonna sign us up. See if she can straighten you out.
Lo: Whatever. I would just behave while she's here. You'll look like the one with the problem.
When I was a kid, I'd hide (hoard) my cookies or pop-tarts or whatever until my sister was finished with hers, and then I'd brag about still having mine, eating slowly in front of her. I was such a bitch.
Oh, that's Biggy's nice white dress shirt, by the way. If only he could remember what the hamper is for.
So a two-and-a-half hour bus ride from the Denver airport landed us at the Beaver Creek Resort. Biggy and I will be renting mountain bikes and taking to the hills. This is OK. BUT all the stress has given me a fever blister. Add it up:
>Hair the color of your grandpa's army boots.
>No warm clothes, because when they said to pack jeans, I just packed what I always wear for jeans occasions--sun dresses.
So I haven't posted about this, because it's somewhat traumatic for me. I'm sitting at the airport right now, waiting with about a hundred of Biggy's coworkers plus their SO's or guests, to catch a flight to Denver (why?), a destination we just found out this morning after boarding the charter buses (on which Jello shots were consumed, but not by me) to the airport. We were informed about this shindig back in December but not told where we were going. Guesses ran the gamut from Atlantis to Dollywood, but no one pegged it. We were given t-shirts, suitcases, and a packing list.
Does this sound like fun to you? Then you are not me.
To make this even better (Rupert, you will love this), I colored my hair last night, and it looks like a used shoe polish. So picture it--me, in a bad-hair ponytail, wearing a bad logo t-shirt and a name tag, waiting to fly somewhere that is NOT the beach.
Here is the conversation Biggy and I had in regard to two school events scheduled on the same day:
Biggy: Would you rather go to Jack's Open House or Lola's Target Orientation?
TR: Well, at Jack's, I'd have to change classrooms every five minutes, which means a lot of walking the halls, so I'd just as soon go to Lola's and sit in the trailer.
Biggy: That's fine. I'll go to Jack's then. Anyway, it will be good for Lola's teacher to know she actually has a mother.
(Beat)
Biggy: If you want, I can draw you a map to the classroom.
Because of the monsoon here in Marietta, I had to take JackMan to school today. (When he drives his big boy car, he has to park about 3/4 a mile away at a friend's house.) On the way, I had the radio turned to Q100, as always in the morning.
TR: Wow, they really crack themselves up, don't they?
Jack: Do you listen to the Bert Show just so you can hate on 'em?
TR: Yeah.
(beat)
(beat)
TR: Do you hear that cackle?! Doesn't Melissa's laugh make you want to pull all your hair out?
Jack: Pretty much.
TR: It's like biting into aluminum foil.
(beat)
TR: Let's count the grammatical mistakes. Last week, she said the drinking age was RISEN instead of RAISED. Like Jesus.
Number one: Thanks for telling me to google Harlequin babies, because now I'm gonna have nightmares for the REST OF MY LIFE!
Number two: I'm having pains in my leg that feel like restless leg syndrome mixed with a migraine mixed with a toothache, so call me back and let me know if you think it's nothing or if I'm going to die from a blood clot or something.
I came across this image of the old Cobb Center, which was all we had before the mega-mall phenomenon. I grew up shopping at its Woolworth's, which had a diner and a pet department with goldfish and parakeets. For really special occasions, we bought dresses at the anchor store, Rich's, pictured above.
When I was a teen, I worked there at a clothing store named Saul's, which sold women's and men's clothes. Saul's catered to the Polident crowd and had the biggest Sansabelt slacks selection north of the panhandle. I was one of about ten 16-19-year-olds they employed, and we were managed by a handful of housemothers in cat-eye glasses and sweater sets. Further up the totem pole was Mr. Warbell, a stern-looking middle-aged man whose dour expressions inspired us to see how much we could get away with.
We acted like a bunch of rowdy cousins, sneaking around behind the racks, sticking each other with push pins, and messing up each other's stations. We were always getting fired and rehired. We partied together, went to the beach, and dated each other until we split up to go to college. One of the boys, a beautiful blond I used to go parking with (necking only) by the lake, went to UGA like I did, but he ended up being a cheerleader and all that implies. (And I'd always thought he was scared to "do it.")
My friend Ann, whom I'd grown up with, got me the job at Saul's. She also convinced me to use her hair stylist, Mr. Lee, at the mall salon. Mr. Lee was kind enough to stay open late for us, so we'd go after work and be the only two clients in the shop. He always made us scoot forward in the chair and stood right between our legs to cut. He also had to measure an important hairstyle angle distance by placing his thumbs on our nipples.
We discussed his methodology, Ann and I, but decided he was like a doctor, so it was okay. A little less okay was the good-bye kiss he gave each of us, trying to slip us tongue. I swear, if my girls were as stupid as Ann and I were, I'd beat their meager brains out. Then I'd go kill me a pervert. Our hair looked great, though.
I was Youtubing for a new diabetes meds commercial I wanted to make fun of, one where this 45/50-ish dad claims he's gonna dance at his four-year-old's wedding. (Not to imply he won't live that long, but rather to quip along the lines of how he also has a daughter from his first marriage, who's the same age as his second wife, with whom he had the four-year-old...) I never found the tv spot I was looking for, but I came across this, which makes me feel better about marriage in general:
When I came downstairs this morning, I found the usual collection of glasses and bowls in the sink, with the tell-tale film of protein shake and peanut butter that is Biggy's hallmark. So after I got Lo off to school and fed the dogs, guinea pigs, turtle, and hamsters, Biggy sashayed in freshly showered, trying to decide what he wanted to eat:
TR: I've come up with an analogy that might be helpful.
Biggy: Let's hear it.
TR: Your leaving your dishes in the sink, which is right next to the dishwasher, which I always unload, is the equivalent of my leaving trash on the floor by the pantry door instead of opening the door and putting it in the trashcan--because the trash is your job.
Biggy: Let me think about that one a minute.
(beat)
Biggy: That's a good analogy, but we still don't have any paper towels.
TR: Don't go off subject.
Biggy: Maybe it's more like: My leaving the dishes in the sink is like your leaving your shoes all over the closet floor instead of putting them on the shoe shelves.
TR: As an analogy, that doesn't work, because you don't have to put the shoes on the shelves in order for something else to happen. The dishes HAVE to go in the dishwasher in order to be washed. My leaving my shoes on the closet floor is the equivalent of your leaving your shoes in our bedroom floor. I put your shoes up EVERY DAY.
Biggy: (Who's been writing something on a piece of paper as we chat.) Here, read this out loud. (Turns paper around, on which is written " I AM A WEE TODD. I AM SOFA KING WEE TODD IT.")
This is my response to a comment I received on this past Friday's "Nostalgia" post. First, let me be clear: I feel great gratitude mixed with sorrow for those who serve this country.
Second, I actually appreciate and value the tradition of the yellow ribbon--the same way I understand and appreciate the impulse to hang wind chimes near a loved one's grave in a cemetery. Feeling so powerless against certain powers, we must, sometimes, express our grief, fear, or hope through gestures and objects.
But I was indeed poking fun at our ignorance of the ORIGINS of our symbols. In my previous post on the subject, I didn't go back very far into the roots of the yellow ribbon, which go well retro-beyond the 70's classic, harkening back to an old folk song of dubious subject matter. This from Wikipedia:
In the United States military, the symbol of the yellow ribbon is used in a popular marching song. The first version copyrighted was the 1917 version by George A. Norton, which he titled 'Round Her Neck She Wears a Yeller Ribbon (For Her Lover Who Is Fur, Fur Away). While he tells in the song about the love between Susie Simpkins and her soldier lover Silas Hubbard, his chorus goes:
'Round her neck she wears a yeller ribbon, She wears it in winter and the summer so they say, If you ask her "Why the decoration?" She'll say "It's fur my lover who is fur, fur away.'
The lyrics were altered and the song was titled She Wore a Yellow Ribbon by Russ Morgan for the 1949 movie of the same name. This was performed by several popular musicians of the 1940s, including Mitch Miller and The Andrews Sisters. The text of the Army version approximates the following, with local variations:
Around her hair she wore a yellow ribbon She wore it in the springtime In the merry month of May And if you ask her why the heck she wore it She wore it for her soldier who was far far away
(Chorus) Far away, far away She wore it for her soldier Who was far, far away
Around the block she pushed a baby carriage She pushed it in the springtime In the Merry month of May And if you ask her why the heck she pushed it She pushed it for her soldier who was far far away
(Chorus)
Behind the door her daddy kept a shotgun He kept it in the springtime In the merry month of May And if you ask him why the heck he kept it He kept it for her soldier who was far far away
(Chorus)
On the grave she laid the pretty flowers She laid them in the springtime In the merry month of May And if you asked her why the heck she laid them She laid them for her soldier who was far far away
(Chorus)
The fact that we get so far away from the origins of our symbols is funny--and poignant-- to me, because it says so much about our NEED, and how we pick and choose what we appropriate--and what for: Besides "Support Our Troops," the yellow ribbon is also used to raise awareness for bladder cancer, endometriosis, hydrocephaly, teen suicide, "Boycott Aruba," and "Free Harry Wu," among others. A comprehensive list of ribbons and their meanings says much about how desperate we are for symbols, as well as our taste for kitsch. Not to mention our ability to capitalize on all of this.
I could trace certain aspects of Christmas and Easter, whose symbols have their roots in pagan rituals, but I'll save that for another post (over the holidays!). I'll say, however, that I believe it's what's in our hearts that really matters, as we glom onto our ritual and symbology, that what we BELIEVE we are celebrating is the important thing.
Furthermore, knowing (and facing) the truth about these traditions doesn't change anything--any more than the truth about how this war started has changed the fact of our fighting it.
May all our young men return home to us safely. Let the yellow ribbons make it so.
Yesterday, at lunch, I was telling my fellow writers about the time my cat gave birth to a two-headed kitten, which led to a discussion about how cats can have a litter of kittens who have different fathers, which led to the question of whether that occurs with humans. Turns out, twins can have different fathers, but the odds for it happening are just slightly better than for my winning a Nobel Peace Prize.
Just a reminder about the origins of our 'yellow ribbon' tradition here in the USA. While yellow ribbon folklore dates back to the Civil War or earlier, it was the 1973 Tony Orlando and Dawn song, which made a dramatic comeback eight years after being recorded, that is responsible for the ribbon's current ubiquitousness. When the 52 American hostages held in Iran returned home after 444 days of captivity on January 20, 1981, the song--about a convict who's served his time-- was played throughout the land as a joyous homecoming theme.
It's true, boys and girls. You gotta love this country!
I'm grateful to be here. Aside from two days of rain, I've got no bloggable complaints. And the classes have been great. I mean, where else could I go for a class on nothing but interjections and how they work in poems? It made me happy.
But I'm homesick. It's true. Just call me 'Georgia.'
I'm ready to come home. A week is too long to be away. I need Biggy and the kids in slapping distance. I miss Fay's constant rebound off my shins and the end-of-week smell of the guinea pigs' cage.
Until now, I've attended every official function of the conference--all readings, workshops, classes, and lectures. I don't want to miss anything, because I want to take advantage of this rare opportunity to learn more from people I admire.
BUT, I am, at the very moment, ditching an event. Not because it's an unworthy one, but because I never acquired the maturity to sit still and appreciate certain types of theater or performances. Interpretive dance, for instance, or poetry that's accompanied by drummers, dancers, or a chorus. Or anything at all with nudity--even partial. I'm also given to fits of giggles during weddings and funerals, occasions I cannot always simply opt out of. I don't know how that's connected, but it seems to be, so I put it. The maturity thing, I guess.
Anyway, one of the alums does characters. She dresses up like Emily Dickinson or, in today's case, Zelda Fitzgerald, and inhabits that personality for an hour or so. There's a monologue, and then she takes questions from the audience (as Zelda).
Once, I accidentally saw a woman in Marietta who does the same thing with Mary Todd Lincoln. Mary showed up at a reading, surprising everyone. It turns out, the lady was a pretty well-known historical impersonator. I hadn't even known there was such a thing. As was inevitable, I had to sneak out in the middle of her monologue, faking a coughing fit to disguise my snorts of laughter.
I can't explain why these types of things lead to paroxysms--or why they make me so uncomfortable, which is more likely the case. All I know is it's a huge risk for me to attend, and I'm not doing anyone any favors if I do.
Today, a great class given by Babo Kamel and Alex Pierce on the Glosa, a form of poetry that requires one to borrow four lines from another writer's poem. Besides learning the rules of this form, the discussion centered on the ethics of such appropriation and borrowing in general, a subject I find fascinating as it relates to all of us who create anything in this culture of media bombardment. And I don't mean to sound critical with that last statement--just making an observation. We ARE bombarded with media, for good or bad, and as so much information lodges into our subconsciousness, we're going to see more blurring of the lines between "original" work and derivative. That's why it is SO important to find our authentic voices in the midst of it all. But I do think we can borrow from one another, to the extent that we inspire one another, giving credit where credit is due. I once came across (online) a collage in which the artist had used the text of one of my poems. I was honored.
Anyway, during the class, they played this Leonard Cohen song, based on his own translation of the Frederico Garcia Lorca poem, Little Viennese Waltz. See if you can hear the differences in the Cohen lyrics.
Little Viennese Waltz
In Vienna there are ten little girls, a shoulder for death to cry on, and a forest of dried pigeons. There is a fragment of tomorrow in the museum of winter frost. There is a thousand-windowed dance hall.
Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this close-mouthed waltz.
Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz, of itself of death, and of brandy that dips its tail in the sea.
I love you, I love you, I love you, with the armchair and the book of death, down the melancholy hallway, in the iris's darkened garret,
Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this broken-waisted waltz.
In Vienna there are four mirrors in which your mouth and the ehcoes play. There is a death for piano that paints little boys blue. There are beggars on the roof. There are fresh garlands of tears.
Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this waltz that dies in my arms.
Because I love you, I love you, my love, in the attic where the children play, dreaming ancient lights of Hungary through the noise, the balmy afternoon, seeing sheep and irises of snow through the dark silence of your forehead
Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this " I will always love you" waltz
In Vienna I will dance with you in a costume with a river's head. See how the hyacinths line my banks! I will leave my mouth between your legs, my soul in a photographs and lilies, and in the dark wake of your footsteps, my love, my love, I will have to leave violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons
All this college talk has me thinking about my own undergrad days at UGA. This was my house on Milledge Terrace. Well, the right side of the bottom floor, with the screened porch. I'm working on an essay about the house, but I'll mention that Kathy's garage apartment was directly behind me, on the next street over, and there was a trail through the little bit of woods between us. Too bad I can't tell all the stories.
There was fried chicken for dinner, so no complaints there. But during the meal, the subject of manuscript titles came up, and I mentioned that I needed to change mine--to which someone in the group, who's read my manuscript, readily agreed and suggested, "I was thinking Princess Diaries." Ouch is all I gotta say.
Anyway, we heard some inspiring readings tonight, and now it's time for me to watch Lawrence Welk. Not really, but someone else at dinner mentioned nervous breakdowns, which reminded me of my schizowack grandmother, who always watched it on Saturday nights, 8 o'clock.
TR: Did you listen to the Bert Show yesterday morning?
Biggy: NO. Why?
TR: It was a "best of." I swear, they don't work more than they do. Anyway, I turned on just in time to hear a re-run of "Annie," the stupid 13-year-old they have on to give advice. What do they think it is, Radio Disney? It was boring enough the first time. Like, like, like....
Biggy: You know how, when you bite into a food you hate, you don't go back for seconds--
TR: --Yeah, yeah, well, I turned it to the The Real Guys, but that was like listening to three Jeff Daulers. Idiots.
Biggy: That show is FUNNY.
TR: No, THEY think they're funny. They crack themselves up. Just like Jeff. Ugh!
Biggy: MEN think they're funny. Trust me.
TR: No, 14-year-old boys think they're funny. Not smart boys, either. The kind of boys who light their farts.
Biggy: Well, I guess I have a 14-year-old's mentality.
TR: Exactly. Hey, I ran into my old AA sponsor at Publix the other night.
Biggy: Did she have alcohol on her breath?
TR: (stares out the window.)
Biggy: What did you WANT me to say?!
TR: You didn't have to say anything! It was just nice to see her.
Except for the beautiful Cirque Du Soleil, which isn't really one at all, I've always hated the circus--the clowns, the freaky carnies, the smell of elephant shit. Not for me. I'd rather stay home and clean out the guinea pigs' cage.
Once, when I was visiting various churches, trying to find one I could tolerate, I went to the Unity Church in Atlanta. It was in a huge contemporary building (cedar, high ceiling, lots of exposed wood) that reminded me of my friend Josie's house when we were growing up. Everything was going okay (in spite of the slobbery old man stationed on the front steps whose job it was to hug the newcomers), until about halfway through the service, when they decided to promote their upcoming carnival. A flock of clowns descended from the balcony--my idea of Hell on earth, and I was out of there. Really, I should be safe from clowns at church.
I felt the same way tonight when I saw a unicyclist on the bike trails. I felt violated. It might as well have been a mime or a juggler.
