Well, it's been an interesting weekend, kiddies. A three-day respite that was oh SO inconvenient for some people with whom I work. (Yup, that one again, it just doesn't end.)
The neurosis has now extended to the fact that I DON'T jump and run and stop on a dime to check email, IM's or anything "important" instantly. In fact, I am told to look at emails, IM's and anything "important" rather than this person stating to me directly right then and there just what it is that needs to be taken care of so desperately. Apparently, the world revolves only around this person. Snickers, chuckles, and under-the-breath snorts are what I get for being on my time schedule, not this person's.
Um, NEWSFLASH! Maria Callas is dead. So is Taffy, my slinky cat, who channeled Maria's alter-ego. THE DIVA 'TUDE WILL NOW STOP. They did it much better than you, and one of them did it better while covered in fur and on four legs. Snivel, bitch, moan, squirm, and squeal like a brat, I'm no longer listening to you. I have neither the patience nor the time.
In other news, Worlds ended on a high note. The U.S. had 2 men in the top ten, and 2 ladies in the top 5. This sets us up well for next year, a pre-Olympic year. Just some musical choices need to change.
My Top 5 List of Selections that need to be RETIRED NOW
1. "Swan Lake." Take the bird out and shoot it. Pluck its feathers. Chop its head off. You bring the wine, I'll make the stuffing, and we'll have Thanksgiving dinner early this year. PLEASE, MOTHER OF GOD!!! I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!!
(ahem)
2. "Malaguena." Yes, Sasha, you are Miss Firecracker. I dig you completely, but this music is getting stale. A skater of your caliber needs interesting choices. Is there no one out there who would compose something specifically for you? You're an exciting gal, demand special music, baby!
3. "Carmen." Yes, I love Bizet. But not over and over and over. Red and black can only go so far.
4. "Don Quixote." John Curry did this the best way possible. He owns it. It's like ice dancers trying to skate to Ravel's "Bolero." Torvill and Dean did it first. We will always think of them. It doesn't work. At all.
5. "Nessun Dorma." Brian Boitano brought this to life in 1991, and everyone else jumped on it like a Weight Watcher's member going off the wagon in front of a Krispy Kreme shop. Puccini is beautiful, but "Turandot", the opera from which this piece has been lifted, is getting flogged like a misbehaved colt. Leave it alone for a few years and then we can love it again.
And to this, I add ....Music that does NOT grow stale EVER
1. "The Planets" by Holst. And not used enough. Stunning, ripe for edits and strong choreography.
2. "Liebestraum" by Liszt. The translation is "Dream of Love." Need I explain? Perfect for pair teams.
3. "Fantasie Impromptu" by Chopin. Gorgeous, lush, meticulous, and stirring. Excellent for footwork, which we do not see enough skaters utilize.
4. "New World Symphony" by Dvorak. If this doesn't want to make you leap into the air with split jumps, I don't know what will.
5. "Symphony No. 5" by Mahler. Soft, caressing, gentle. Think of a lover cradling you to sleep. Except your lover is a ghost.
6. "The Four Temperaments" by Hindemith. I cannot keep my eyes open when the first notes soar out of my cd changer. It is too much and yet never enough. Sanguinic reaches inside my chest and caresses my heart, with all its cracks and bruises. Hindemith created challenging, moody, fathom-filled layers of memories, tears, and grief. A touch, a smirk, a sharp remark. A stinging comment, an argument remembered tossed in a sea of strings. Joy on the verge of heartbreak, slow-burning anger bubbling to a growl. I have yet to see a high-level skater touch this. Dark, but rife with promise.
7. "Piano Concerto No. 3" by Rachmaninoff. Quintessentially Russian. Truth, concept, gray days, snow. Excellence revisited. Everytime I listen to this, I am understood.
8. "Symphony No. 5" by Tchaikovsky. The Adagietto was brilliantly used by ice dancers Klimova and Ponomarenko back in 1992 to portray Tchaikovsky's love for a woman who died of cholera. It was an actual piece of his life, set by Tarasova. Gorgeous and moving. This one needs to come out of hiding.
9. "Pavane for a Dead Princess" by Ravel. Not necessarily the entire thing, but 2 minutes would be enough for a short program. I hit "repeat" on the cd changer over and over with this one. I can't quite say why.
10. "La Bayadere" by Minkus. Sarah Hughes, our Lawn Guyland Olympic Champion, used this in 2003, her last competitive season. The temple dancer, Nikiya, is wrongfully murdered. Solor, her lover, follows her into the Kingdom of the Shades, a land of forlorn female ghosts cloaked in white. Nikiya is usually draped in burgundy, gold, deep blue, crimson, or aubergine. The costume possibilities alone are enough to make me weep. "A variation on the Orphic myth transposed to India", as Gelsey Kirkland described it in her book. Delicious, seductive, mellifluous music.
And that, kiddies, is what I'd like to hear. If you're unfamiliar with these selections, get yer butt into a library and rent some of them. Your ears will thank me for it.
(and if anyone can find a full orchestral rendering of Tchaikovsky's Snow Queen ? Please send it my way. I only have this with short piano sections. I need it.)
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Friday, March 26, 2004
Happy Friday Everyone!
Well, I'm having a blast with my iTunes.
Secrets will remain secrets.
And now I'm on to cash my Ebay refund from that CD moron!
BWAHAHHAHHAAAAAA!
Thursday, March 25, 2004
I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real...
The last time I heard Disintegration in its entirety, I was in Peter DeVena's car as he lamented his girlfriend Kim leaving him. What a guido was doing with this album, I'll never know, but I was duly impressed that he even knew who The Cure was. We spent time together because there was no one else. I was filling holes. This had to be April or May 1990.
I met him while standing on line at a local video store buying Billy Joel tickets. Bill was set to play Shea Stadium in June. I got my seats and struck up a conversation with a guy behind me. The ticket, which was for my friend Jeanne, made me think of better transportation. Peter turned out to be the answer. Up until that time, he and I drove around in his black Cadillac and spent time on the phone almost nightly. I really don’t know why. His claim to fame was a gorgeous cherry-red Thunderbird with a white leather interior. His garage was the sole place this car lived. Peter claimed to take this thing out “every now and then”, but I’ll be damned if I ever saw it. I actually began to question its existence until I got on my bike and rode to his house. He was washing it in the driveway on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
He seemed surprised, but there it was. His reason for living and working so hard. There’s something exquisitely charming about men who love their cars. It’s an extension of their psyche, and quite precious. As it was glopping wet from soap and a Shawalla, I was unable to sit inside of it, but he did pull the top down. This thing was gleaming and gorgeous. When I do my Christmas “light trips”, I still walk by that house. Who knows if he’s there? I was 18 when I met him, and he was about 21.
In the meantime, I learned about his life. Kim, his guidette girlfriend, had left for reasons unseen. Peter, was crushed and confused. He confessed to me that he had actually turned to a priest for support. “Talk about Italian,” I said to him. His eyes avoided mine, and he smiled. I think he liked my company because I could always nail things right on the head. Even then, when I was right, I was RIGHT. My personal belief is that he wanted things spelled out specifically without much work involved, but we know life ain’t like that. It starts young, and gets old, as we do. I was standing in my kitchen counseling him once again as he was in the middle of a Kim story—how vividly I remember this—and we planned to drive around later that night to check out the opulent houses in Mill Basin. He saw one that caught his eye near 59th place. (Irony of ironies, a boy named Michael I knew lived right down the block. Michael had just turned 16. “He of lush lips and blond curls” was the way I described him. I was good friends with Michael’s sister, Michelle. She was a bartender at L’amours.) Pete drove by Michael’s house with The Same Deep Water as You streaming out the radio. The perfect mood piece for the lack of integration regarding our own lives. I had been hooked on The Cure's The Head on the Door and Japanese Whispers for years, but nothing prepared me for this. The deep, dark ambience of grief. The longing of memory and the trap of after-the-fact realization. Inbetween losses and mediocre results. “Comme ci, Comme ca” as the French would say. Or maybe “ennui.”
The last time I spoke to Peter was in October 1990. He asked me, “So how are you?” I remember my confusing reply, “I’m living in…” I trailed off, but this was a declarative statement. He didn’t know what to make of it. I was already in the midst of being stalked by a real kook. “I’m living in IT, Pete” I said once again. “IT” encompassed all the confusion of a new college, classes I couldn’t deal with but had to take, and this maniac boyfriend I couldn’t ditch no matter how hard I tried. I just didn’t have the patience and couldn’t find the words. I think he felt like I was brushing him off. He didn’t get that I wasn’t, but he also stopped calling pretty soon after. I went on to fill another hole, but this time it was with cement. An emotional grave, if you will. Not pretty. I should have told him to replay The Same Deep Water again. He might have understood.
Years later, my favorite South Park episode became the one where Robert Smith defeats the Barbra Streisand monster. Nothing against Babs, but Trey and Matt are really too damn clever. Warped children of the 80’s, just like me.
Once more, RD and www.allmusic.com brought me to this memory. We started out yesterday discussing The March Violets’s Turn To the Sky off the Some Kind of Wonderful soundtrack, and for some reason I did a search for this joyful doom (if you can call it that). Don’t ask me why. My subconscious is doing a wiggle-dance again. Wouldn’t Ariana love to know that?
And now, Pictures of You is being used in a Hewlett-Packard commercial, but I found out the actual shots were filmed in Barcelona. Commercialism rules, as we know, but I would reach for a protractor to stab myself if it had been filmed in a back lot somewhere in La La Land.
The memory remains. A Robert leading to a Peter taking me back to a Robert. Goddamn, these things really jump out at me.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
What a LOVELY thing to say!
"Contrary to the assumptions of misinformed "skeptics," real astrology has nothing to do with the stars, except for one star: our sun. The 12 signs of the zodiac don't correspond to constellations, but demarcate symbolic phases of the cyclic relationship between the sun and Earth. Here's another correction of one of the skeptics' many misunderstandings: Astrology is an art, not a science. While it does have a logical coherency and can be of great use in understanding the mystery of our lives, it's not a precise body of facts based on repeatable experiments. It's a mythic language that trains our imaginations to be aware of the links between our inner world and the outer world. Now, Pisces, take inspiration from my words as you fight back against those who judge and criticize you even though they don't understand you."
Courtesy of Rob Brezny, my earthbound muse.
Friday, March 19, 2004
The Reason I Can't Stop
Aha. So that's it. Hate to be literal, kiddies, but I've noticed a huge flaw. One side of my Pattern 99 blades is higher than the other. That's why I can't stop fast. In fact, I can't stop at all on the ice, and last night, I almost went right over the boards into the arms of a Spanish tourist. She barely held onto her video camera during the almost-head "butt". The right outside edge on my right skate is higher than the left. Her son thought it was funny. Mama thought it was NOT.
That explains why my right knee is sore (the tendon is pressing inward), and it explains my back pain for the last two weeks. Where my center should be? Feh. That's disappeared without the possible grinding down of the steel to make this damn thing equal again. A hollow should be even to create what we call "edge bite". That's the blade's grip as you lean down and bend during crossovers and various elements. It also explains why my backspin sucks right now. $305 blades and they managed to fuck up half the edge for only a $9 sharpening. Oh, I am not a happy camper right now...
Grrr....equipment problems. Certainly makes me feel for Timothy Goebel and all his horrors this year. Like me, he is in SP Teri's, and he's gone through pair after pair. Now, his back, legs, hips, and knees are falling under what was likely an improperly made boot with an even poorer mounted blade. Poor Tim. I don't think he's going to Worlds, either.
I'll just have to stock up on BenGay and bubblebath, and let Calgon take me away.
Another trip to Target tonight after work. My coupon snipping netted me some really good things this week. I love the Daily News. Let's see what my exciting lunch with Gloria leads to later today. I wonder if we're doing pizza or Chinese. Either way, it's a carb-fest. Between coffee and carbs, I'm surprised I haven't keeled over yet. I remember my lazy college days of eating salads and having time to chop veggies and stir fry. Now? I go home to Quaker oatmeal, that's how tired I am. I threw out my wok, too. The Rusty Wok. Sounds like a good name for a new Asian restaurant. Not like we don't have enough in my neighborhood. Between that and all the Italian restaurants? I'm surprised every person in Bay Ridge doesn't have Type II diabetes yet, LOL.
Well, it's the end of my sign, and tomorrow is Spring. Not that you'd know it with Mother Nature throwing her little tantrums this week. Time to grab my silk shirts and light jackets out of the closet! Won't that be fun. Even MORE cleaning and folding and dusting I don't want to do.
Sigh......it just doesn't end, does it.
That explains why my right knee is sore (the tendon is pressing inward), and it explains my back pain for the last two weeks. Where my center should be? Feh. That's disappeared without the possible grinding down of the steel to make this damn thing equal again. A hollow should be even to create what we call "edge bite". That's the blade's grip as you lean down and bend during crossovers and various elements. It also explains why my backspin sucks right now. $305 blades and they managed to fuck up half the edge for only a $9 sharpening. Oh, I am not a happy camper right now...
Grrr....equipment problems. Certainly makes me feel for Timothy Goebel and all his horrors this year. Like me, he is in SP Teri's, and he's gone through pair after pair. Now, his back, legs, hips, and knees are falling under what was likely an improperly made boot with an even poorer mounted blade. Poor Tim. I don't think he's going to Worlds, either.
I'll just have to stock up on BenGay and bubblebath, and let Calgon take me away.
Another trip to Target tonight after work. My coupon snipping netted me some really good things this week. I love the Daily News. Let's see what my exciting lunch with Gloria leads to later today. I wonder if we're doing pizza or Chinese. Either way, it's a carb-fest. Between coffee and carbs, I'm surprised I haven't keeled over yet. I remember my lazy college days of eating salads and having time to chop veggies and stir fry. Now? I go home to Quaker oatmeal, that's how tired I am. I threw out my wok, too. The Rusty Wok. Sounds like a good name for a new Asian restaurant. Not like we don't have enough in my neighborhood. Between that and all the Italian restaurants? I'm surprised every person in Bay Ridge doesn't have Type II diabetes yet, LOL.
Well, it's the end of my sign, and tomorrow is Spring. Not that you'd know it with Mother Nature throwing her little tantrums this week. Time to grab my silk shirts and light jackets out of the closet! Won't that be fun. Even MORE cleaning and folding and dusting I don't want to do.
Sigh......it just doesn't end, does it.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Yellow and Green Snow
Well, no vomit on my boots from yesterday, but people were walking their dogs. Ok, it's a lame title for today's entry. I'm trying to be good with no caffeine. It ain't helping.
It looks like another laundry & coupon clipping weekend ahead of me. I've got too much stuff to do.
A very silly photo appeared on CNN's site today: a baby poodle dyed green in honor of St. Paddy's. Don't poodles come from France? And if it's so cute, who asked this dog if he/she wanted to be green? Poor thing.
My favorite mental defective Jayson Blair's at it again: lying, lying, back-pedaling and lying. I'm particularly enjoying Slate's commentary of his book. I don't even read Slate except for "Dear Prudence", but I clicked on the link. Apparently Jay Jay is angry because someone told him his book is no good! He's apparently an expert on ethics now that he's come "clean." That's like Mengele giving a class on proper medical techniques. Asshole narcissist can't even remember his lies! It's hilarious. Plus it turns out that the publishing house is actually partially owned by the NY Times. That means every copy of his book that sells has a bit o'money trickling into their pockets. And all the pissing and moaning about him never wanting to give them another thing ever again---how about your royalties, dickhead? I'm lovin' it!
I think my attitude about this unexpected weather has improved somewhat. I was pretty bummed about the mini-storm after a nice weekend like the one we had. Still, it's the end--literally--of winter. I guess Mother Nature wants to go out with some authority. I mean, it IS pretty. I just don't want to slosh around in it.
The highlight of my day yesterday was seeing three teenagers with towering Cat-in-the-Hat type green headwear with a single word emblazoned across the front: "DRUNK." Well, isn't that special? (Pardon my sneering like the Church Lady on SNL.) For more thoughts on this, just scroll down to yesterday's entry and re-read.
I'm wearing an extra-scratchy sweater today in the hopes that I keep warm. I don't know if it's helping yet. I am itching, though. This might become a Dexter Donation Couch sweater. He can drape himself across the front while watching Animal Planet.
Well? I think I'm going to bite the bullet and get myself some coffee. Who am I kidding? I can't possibly get through this morning feeling so BLAHHH.
And my cd from eBay STILL hasn't arrived. It's been a week. Sigh....
It looks like another laundry & coupon clipping weekend ahead of me. I've got too much stuff to do.
A very silly photo appeared on CNN's site today: a baby poodle dyed green in honor of St. Paddy's. Don't poodles come from France? And if it's so cute, who asked this dog if he/she wanted to be green? Poor thing.
My favorite mental defective Jayson Blair's at it again: lying, lying, back-pedaling and lying. I'm particularly enjoying Slate's commentary of his book. I don't even read Slate except for "Dear Prudence", but I clicked on the link. Apparently Jay Jay is angry because someone told him his book is no good! He's apparently an expert on ethics now that he's come "clean." That's like Mengele giving a class on proper medical techniques. Asshole narcissist can't even remember his lies! It's hilarious. Plus it turns out that the publishing house is actually partially owned by the NY Times. That means every copy of his book that sells has a bit o'money trickling into their pockets. And all the pissing and moaning about him never wanting to give them another thing ever again---how about your royalties, dickhead? I'm lovin' it!
I think my attitude about this unexpected weather has improved somewhat. I was pretty bummed about the mini-storm after a nice weekend like the one we had. Still, it's the end--literally--of winter. I guess Mother Nature wants to go out with some authority. I mean, it IS pretty. I just don't want to slosh around in it.
The highlight of my day yesterday was seeing three teenagers with towering Cat-in-the-Hat type green headwear with a single word emblazoned across the front: "DRUNK." Well, isn't that special? (Pardon my sneering like the Church Lady on SNL.) For more thoughts on this, just scroll down to yesterday's entry and re-read.
I'm wearing an extra-scratchy sweater today in the hopes that I keep warm. I don't know if it's helping yet. I am itching, though. This might become a Dexter Donation Couch sweater. He can drape himself across the front while watching Animal Planet.
Well? I think I'm going to bite the bullet and get myself some coffee. Who am I kidding? I can't possibly get through this morning feeling so BLAHHH.
And my cd from eBay STILL hasn't arrived. It's been a week. Sigh....
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Get Yer Galoshes Out
The roving band of potential drunks is ready and waiting. Yes, I'm talking about the farce that St. Patrick's Day has become. Hordes...no....SCORES....FATHOMS...of people are descending on 5th Avenue today in the slush and snow in an excuse to get drunk, pick fights, vomit profusely on trains, and paint little shamrocks on their faces (I just don't get that.)
Never mind that St. Patrick actually brought Christianity into Ireland at a time of absolute brutality--if you looked outside the window, you'd think it was just cops in kilts standing around waiting to play bagpipes (the Banshee Instrument, as I call it.) Never mind that he incorporated pagan elements into the rituals so that a little familiarity could mask the deeper ideas of peace and compassion, it's about green bagels and beer. What a joke!
Never mind that in a time of near-total illiteracy, he stepped in to teach the word of God and have monks preserve and transfer the great Roman and Latin texts into huge tomes, thereby saving written history, and subsequently planting the first seeds of Irish culture: the love and respect for the written word, and the history that it implies. It's about hot chicks in Budweiser ads wearing kelly green bikinis enticing you to "party" at the local bar.
We have, in the U.S., the NAACP, the Anti-Defamation League, and Italian-American Alliance to stand tall and step in when they feel "discrimination" and "image-tarnishing" hurting their respective nationalities. What do the Irish have? Ted Kennedy, Guinness, and maybe Denis Leary when he's in a good mood. We get "drunks-with-red-noses" jokes, shamrock cut-outs in windows, and low-brow leprechaun humor. It's insulting, people. KNOCK IT OFF! Overweight people and Catholics (many Catholics are Irish) are still the #1 targets for comedians, snide comments, and cruel humor, if you can call it that. Since I am both fat and Catholic (just TRY and take my Krispy Kremes away, I dare you), I find this particularly amusing that no one rises up and simply says "FUCK OFF, EVERYONE!" I do, but that's just my way.
Let me speak for all of us: We are more than red hair, freckles, and sunburns in July! We are NOT all alcoholics! We laugh at you when you kiss the Blarney stone, because a dog has most likely just PEED on it! We are NOT all hot-tempered, bar-brawling animals ready to throw a punch after one beer! We are not soccer hooligans (although the English very well may be) roving the land, ready to jump on people during the World Cup! We do NOT believe Michael Flatley represents step-dancing in its true form by the overwrought garbage that is Riverdance! We are NOT all Smiths and McDonalds (and I don't mean Big Macs and fries!) We despise hearing Enya when we go to a beauty salon! Who the hell decided she was the voice of facial steaming and moisturizer??? I'd like to have their heads on a stick.
We are a passionate, romantic bunch who loves to read and enjoys Waterford crystal. Did you know some of the finest wool is imported from Ireland? We invented sarcasm (Oscar Wilde) and defiance (Michael Collins.) There is more to our cuisine that just corned beef, potatoes, and cabbage. Get yer asses to a library and read How The Irish Saved Civilization. It'll knock you over. Get a newspaper and start reading Pete Hamill and Dennis Hamill (no relation.) Go to the theater and see some plays--NOT musicals! Many of the great playwrights are Irish (it's that 'word' thing again.) Look at the history of the land, visit some beautiful pubs---many are in right here in Queens, and have full name "maps" citing just how and where surnames evolved and where they are populated in the Emerald Isle. Do an internet search for family clans, crests, and conquests. The Druids weren't just a bunch of tree-lovers, you know.
We are conviction, myth, beauty, sadness and truth. Curls, green eyes, mystery, and laughter. The pinkness of pale skin and real cashmere in winter. A quick laugh, a great novel, a biting remark. 400 years of war, famine, alliances, neglect, and anger wed itself into an incredibly sharp culture. We may appear wan and gentle. This is evolution's clever mask for what really lies underneath. (Challenge us in an argument and see what I mean.)
And this, is what I'd like you all to think about the next time you pass a bar, see a cop, or walk by a church. We are much more than the sum of our parts, and way beyond stereotypes. Perhaps such humor is easier since we're so difficult to easily categorize. We are multi-faceted, very much like that crystal I mentioned above.
NOW you may grab a Guinness, wear a bulky sweater ('jumpers' as they say over there), have bangers and mash for lunch, and find out who Loreena McKinnett is.
Play nice, and be well, kiddies.
(and wear something green .)
Never mind that St. Patrick actually brought Christianity into Ireland at a time of absolute brutality--if you looked outside the window, you'd think it was just cops in kilts standing around waiting to play bagpipes (the Banshee Instrument, as I call it.) Never mind that he incorporated pagan elements into the rituals so that a little familiarity could mask the deeper ideas of peace and compassion, it's about green bagels and beer. What a joke!
Never mind that in a time of near-total illiteracy, he stepped in to teach the word of God and have monks preserve and transfer the great Roman and Latin texts into huge tomes, thereby saving written history, and subsequently planting the first seeds of Irish culture: the love and respect for the written word, and the history that it implies. It's about hot chicks in Budweiser ads wearing kelly green bikinis enticing you to "party" at the local bar.
We have, in the U.S., the NAACP, the Anti-Defamation League, and Italian-American Alliance to stand tall and step in when they feel "discrimination" and "image-tarnishing" hurting their respective nationalities. What do the Irish have? Ted Kennedy, Guinness, and maybe Denis Leary when he's in a good mood. We get "drunks-with-red-noses" jokes, shamrock cut-outs in windows, and low-brow leprechaun humor. It's insulting, people. KNOCK IT OFF! Overweight people and Catholics (many Catholics are Irish) are still the #1 targets for comedians, snide comments, and cruel humor, if you can call it that. Since I am both fat and Catholic (just TRY and take my Krispy Kremes away, I dare you), I find this particularly amusing that no one rises up and simply says "FUCK OFF, EVERYONE!" I do, but that's just my way.
Let me speak for all of us: We are more than red hair, freckles, and sunburns in July! We are NOT all alcoholics! We laugh at you when you kiss the Blarney stone, because a dog has most likely just PEED on it! We are NOT all hot-tempered, bar-brawling animals ready to throw a punch after one beer! We are not soccer hooligans (although the English very well may be) roving the land, ready to jump on people during the World Cup! We do NOT believe Michael Flatley represents step-dancing in its true form by the overwrought garbage that is Riverdance! We are NOT all Smiths and McDonalds (and I don't mean Big Macs and fries!) We despise hearing Enya when we go to a beauty salon! Who the hell decided she was the voice of facial steaming and moisturizer??? I'd like to have their heads on a stick.
We are a passionate, romantic bunch who loves to read and enjoys Waterford crystal. Did you know some of the finest wool is imported from Ireland? We invented sarcasm (Oscar Wilde) and defiance (Michael Collins.) There is more to our cuisine that just corned beef, potatoes, and cabbage. Get yer asses to a library and read How The Irish Saved Civilization. It'll knock you over. Get a newspaper and start reading Pete Hamill and Dennis Hamill (no relation.) Go to the theater and see some plays--NOT musicals! Many of the great playwrights are Irish (it's that 'word' thing again.) Look at the history of the land, visit some beautiful pubs---many are in right here in Queens, and have full name "maps" citing just how and where surnames evolved and where they are populated in the Emerald Isle. Do an internet search for family clans, crests, and conquests. The Druids weren't just a bunch of tree-lovers, you know.
We are conviction, myth, beauty, sadness and truth. Curls, green eyes, mystery, and laughter. The pinkness of pale skin and real cashmere in winter. A quick laugh, a great novel, a biting remark. 400 years of war, famine, alliances, neglect, and anger wed itself into an incredibly sharp culture. We may appear wan and gentle. This is evolution's clever mask for what really lies underneath. (Challenge us in an argument and see what I mean.)
And this, is what I'd like you all to think about the next time you pass a bar, see a cop, or walk by a church. We are much more than the sum of our parts, and way beyond stereotypes. Perhaps such humor is easier since we're so difficult to easily categorize. We are multi-faceted, very much like that crystal I mentioned above.
NOW you may grab a Guinness, wear a bulky sweater ('jumpers' as they say over there), have bangers and mash for lunch, and find out who Loreena McKinnett is.
Play nice, and be well, kiddies.
(and wear something green .)
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Faire Mon Devoir
That was the logo I noticed on a bronze pin stuck in my godmother's coral vest as I knelt and prayed for her last night. She had received many honors in her nursing career, medals, citations, degrees. She was an excellent administrator since diplomacy came so natural to her. She spoke many times of how interesting it was that my mother and she had even struck up a friendship, such is the silent antagonism between hands-on Registered Nurses (RN's) as my mother, and people at the top of hospitals, fighting for supplies and insurance carriers.
It was a very Irish bunch: somber, some laughter, and many tears. Walls of photos were placed on either side of the room. An incredible bouquet of white and mint-green carnations was the centerpiece, probably sent from Bea's relatives in Ireland, and there were many. I'd estimate about 100 people were there. It was quite shocking to realize she would not be bringing in a plate of cookies or sandwiches, laughing and flitting around the room with a smile and a funny story. 64 is the middle and not the end of a life, I said. The priest who led us in a final prayer, said it exactly the way I did. When I'm right, I'm right. I don't know how, but I am sometimes.
I sat down next to her husband and realized I hadn't really seen him since my high school graduation on June 11, 1989. Rheumatoid arthritis has hunched him over, although he is still quite startling at 6 ft 4 inches tall. His hands are now gnarled and twisted, like tree branches closing in on themselves. I was careful not to shake his hand too forcefully. And always, the intense blue-green eyes that matched Bea's own. He knew who I was immediately, such is the startling resemblance between my mother and I. I was introduced to Bea's brother and some other family members. I couldn't find the strength to stand, so I sat as they towered over me. Her husband told me a funny story about my father, which is fitting, since that's the last extended period of time Bea spent with me. My life is filled with tiny circles, I guess. They're little, they come around, and they end.
I walked back home from McLoughlin's on 93rd street, where it was held, with no intention of getting on a bus or a train. My feet would take me where they would take me. I covered all of 3rd Avenue, and crossed to 4th at 74th Street. How funny the Ides of March is, biblical almost, with its reminders of loss, fear and death. My birth started with a death: James Francis Kennedy. How clearly this thought came to me, again.
He was my grandfather. My father's father. My mother, after a very dangerous labor and c-section, was able to access a phone and call him on that cold Wednesday night in 1972 to inform him that he had a granddaughter. Jim was thrilled! I was two weeks early, went from pink to blue to pink and struggled to breathe. I was sluggish and so was my heartbeat. My father was there, the doctors, and she proceeded to make two more calls. Of course, Bea was one of them. When my mother tried again to reach Jim about 2 hours later, the phone kept ringing. "I'll check on him, " my father said. He got to the old apartment on 82nd street to find his father slumped behind a chair. A massive heart attack had killed him. Dad went from seeing me emerge to seeing his dad cocooned in a sheet by the coroner. My heart, by sunrise--and I was born at 1:53 am--was now beating steadily. Two spirits passing each other? Maybe. But it never changed the fact that my birthday was a bittersweet day for those that knew my parents, and Jim. Birth and death condensed into one day, one family. It's a very strange scar.
I've gotten better about my birthday, and the ghosts surrounding it, but not completely over it. It will never be about cake or gifts, however much I bitch and complain. It's the people, and the memories. So many of these people are no longer with me. The continuing cycle, I guess, but never easier.
And is that why I'm safe? Could there possibly be a niche of angels, these people I've known that protect me from unforseen disaster? I've got a band of them and how lucky I am.
I just wish, and only once, that they would make themselves seen. That would be a nice reunion, all of us together again.
(And we'd have cake, of course.)
It was a very Irish bunch: somber, some laughter, and many tears. Walls of photos were placed on either side of the room. An incredible bouquet of white and mint-green carnations was the centerpiece, probably sent from Bea's relatives in Ireland, and there were many. I'd estimate about 100 people were there. It was quite shocking to realize she would not be bringing in a plate of cookies or sandwiches, laughing and flitting around the room with a smile and a funny story. 64 is the middle and not the end of a life, I said. The priest who led us in a final prayer, said it exactly the way I did. When I'm right, I'm right. I don't know how, but I am sometimes.
I sat down next to her husband and realized I hadn't really seen him since my high school graduation on June 11, 1989. Rheumatoid arthritis has hunched him over, although he is still quite startling at 6 ft 4 inches tall. His hands are now gnarled and twisted, like tree branches closing in on themselves. I was careful not to shake his hand too forcefully. And always, the intense blue-green eyes that matched Bea's own. He knew who I was immediately, such is the startling resemblance between my mother and I. I was introduced to Bea's brother and some other family members. I couldn't find the strength to stand, so I sat as they towered over me. Her husband told me a funny story about my father, which is fitting, since that's the last extended period of time Bea spent with me. My life is filled with tiny circles, I guess. They're little, they come around, and they end.
I walked back home from McLoughlin's on 93rd street, where it was held, with no intention of getting on a bus or a train. My feet would take me where they would take me. I covered all of 3rd Avenue, and crossed to 4th at 74th Street. How funny the Ides of March is, biblical almost, with its reminders of loss, fear and death. My birth started with a death: James Francis Kennedy. How clearly this thought came to me, again.
He was my grandfather. My father's father. My mother, after a very dangerous labor and c-section, was able to access a phone and call him on that cold Wednesday night in 1972 to inform him that he had a granddaughter. Jim was thrilled! I was two weeks early, went from pink to blue to pink and struggled to breathe. I was sluggish and so was my heartbeat. My father was there, the doctors, and she proceeded to make two more calls. Of course, Bea was one of them. When my mother tried again to reach Jim about 2 hours later, the phone kept ringing. "I'll check on him, " my father said. He got to the old apartment on 82nd street to find his father slumped behind a chair. A massive heart attack had killed him. Dad went from seeing me emerge to seeing his dad cocooned in a sheet by the coroner. My heart, by sunrise--and I was born at 1:53 am--was now beating steadily. Two spirits passing each other? Maybe. But it never changed the fact that my birthday was a bittersweet day for those that knew my parents, and Jim. Birth and death condensed into one day, one family. It's a very strange scar.
I've gotten better about my birthday, and the ghosts surrounding it, but not completely over it. It will never be about cake or gifts, however much I bitch and complain. It's the people, and the memories. So many of these people are no longer with me. The continuing cycle, I guess, but never easier.
And is that why I'm safe? Could there possibly be a niche of angels, these people I've known that protect me from unforseen disaster? I've got a band of them and how lucky I am.
I just wish, and only once, that they would make themselves seen. That would be a nice reunion, all of us together again.
(And we'd have cake, of course.)
Monday, March 15, 2004
4:15, and not even cake!
I'll take it they're NOT getting me a cookie, a cake, or even a card in here. The next birthday is next month--oh, can't wait to rub it in!
NICE.
This place is turning into a fucking Dilbert strip, I swear to God.
NICE.
This place is turning into a fucking Dilbert strip, I swear to God.
Happy Birthday to ME!
I've Loved These Days
Now we take our time, so nonchalant
And spend our nights so bon vivant
We dress our days in silken robes
The money comes
The money goes
We know it's all a passing phase
We light our lamps for atmosphere
And hang our hopes on chandeliers
We're going wrong, we're gaining weight
We're sleeping long and far too late
And so it's time to change our ways
But I've loved these days
Now as we indulge in things refined
We hide our hearts from harder times
A string of pearls, a foreign car
Oh we can only go so far
On caviar and cabernet
We drown our doubts in dry champagne
And soothe our souls with fine cocaine
I don't know why I even care
We'll get so high and get nowhere
We'll have to change our jaded ways
But I've loved these days
So before we end and then begin
We'll drink a toast to how it's been
A few more hours to be complete
A few more nights on satin sheets
A few more times that I can say
I've LOVED these days
© 1976 Blackwood Music Inc. & Joelsongs (BMI)
Words and Music by Billy Joel
And no one's gonna ruin this day. I'm feeling too goddamn GOOD!
Now we take our time, so nonchalant
And spend our nights so bon vivant
We dress our days in silken robes
The money comes
The money goes
We know it's all a passing phase
We light our lamps for atmosphere
And hang our hopes on chandeliers
We're going wrong, we're gaining weight
We're sleeping long and far too late
And so it's time to change our ways
But I've loved these days
Now as we indulge in things refined
We hide our hearts from harder times
A string of pearls, a foreign car
Oh we can only go so far
On caviar and cabernet
We drown our doubts in dry champagne
And soothe our souls with fine cocaine
I don't know why I even care
We'll get so high and get nowhere
We'll have to change our jaded ways
But I've loved these days
So before we end and then begin
We'll drink a toast to how it's been
A few more hours to be complete
A few more nights on satin sheets
A few more times that I can say
I've LOVED these days
© 1976 Blackwood Music Inc. & Joelsongs (BMI)
Words and Music by Billy Joel
And no one's gonna ruin this day. I'm feeling too goddamn GOOD!
Sunday, March 14, 2004
It's Only Love that Gets You Through
Just the song I needed to hear. Bea is being buried Tuesday morning.
Girl you are rich
even with nothing
You know tenderness
comes from pain
It's amazing how you love
And love is kind
and love can give
and get no pain
It's down a rugged road
you've come
Though you had every reason
you didn't come undone
Somehow you made it to
the other side
You didn't suffer in vain
You forgive those who have
trespassed against you
And you know tenderness
comes from pain
It's amazing how you love
And love is kind
and love can give
and love needs
No gain
It's down a rugged road
you've come
Though you had every reason
you didn't come undone
Somehow you made it to
the other side
You didn't suffer in vain
You didn't suffer in vain
You know it's only love
that gets you through
only love love
only love that gets
you through
Lyrics by Sade Adu
Music by Sade Adu & J. Podrazik
©2000 Angel Music
Girl you are rich
even with nothing
You know tenderness
comes from pain
It's amazing how you love
And love is kind
and love can give
and get no pain
It's down a rugged road
you've come
Though you had every reason
you didn't come undone
Somehow you made it to
the other side
You didn't suffer in vain
You forgive those who have
trespassed against you
And you know tenderness
comes from pain
It's amazing how you love
And love is kind
and love can give
and love needs
No gain
It's down a rugged road
you've come
Though you had every reason
you didn't come undone
Somehow you made it to
the other side
You didn't suffer in vain
You didn't suffer in vain
You know it's only love
that gets you through
only love love
only love that gets
you through
Lyrics by Sade Adu
Music by Sade Adu & J. Podrazik
©2000 Angel Music
Saturday, March 13, 2004
Remembering Beatrice Hickey 1940-2004
Well, I got the phone call yesterday evening while while walking through Times Square: my godmother has died. She was 64. She was also my mother's best friend, and the one who got her through the serious lung surgery Mom nearly died from back in 1975.
Gloria (my co-worker) had just turned down 44th Street to find a FedEx, and my phone rang. Instinctively, I knew. It was my mother, crying. Bea died of heart and kidney malfunction along with diabetes. The fluid she retained was too great for her body to pass. I am now trying to find out where the funeral is, since neither Mom nor I can get her husband on the phone. He is greatly distressed (of course) since they were inseperable throughout almost 40 years of marriage. They had no children, just each other.
My first memory of Bea was my communion back in 1979. She wore a pineapple hairdo with curls and a long floral dress. I always remember her smiling, never a bad thing to say about anyone, never a sarcastic joke. She was the straight guy to my mother's perennial Gracie Allen Antics and general silliness. In recent years, we did not keep in touch that much (although I did speak to her last Easter), but she managed to show for all the major events in my life. She liked to say to my mom that I was the daughter she never had, and Bea took it as a great honor to be my godparent. My christening, my communion, birthdays, my grammar and high school graduations, and most recently, my father's death in 2001.
My last memory of mom, me and Bea together is a very funny one: we sat in Polonica, a great Polish restaurant near me. It had been 2 days since my father's funeral, and my mother was thinking of diversions to get her mind off the grief. Bea suggested we rent a movie or something. My mother stated she wanted to see "Shrek", and enthusiastically enlisted Bea to get the tape and come over (despite my cats) to watch it. Bea's face was priceless. "WHAT? Oh, Philly! I'm not gonna watch that! That 's a kid's movie!" I chimed in about how great it really was and that it had enough jokes for both kids and adults. Bea could not be persuaded. She was a "Dr. Zhivago" kind of movie-goer, if it wasn't classic, she wouldn't see it. Still, we had a good laugh. We always had good laughs.
Even though she was terrified of cats for most of her life, Bea gladly accepted photo Christmas cards both my mom and I made for her of our little fuzzers attacking the tree, or rolling around, or playing with yarn. Understanding us meant understanding them, but that was as close as Bea could get to these creatures, such was her fear. It was a terror that ran deep and prevented many holidays and such being held at our apartment, but there were always phone calls and birthday cards.
When both Bea and Mom hit rough patches within their families, they had each other to lean on. I don't think I could count the times my mom has said, "She was the one who always most kind to me. You wish and pray for a friend like that. Just once." The respect and love ran so deep. And today is my mom's birthday. She's 42. Again. (Has been, too, since 1978, lol!)
Well, I guess both of us can look at it another way: we have yet another angel to protect us and visit us in our dreams.
Billy Joel was right again: only the good die young. 64 is the middle, certainly not the end of a life.
Bea, you were a GEM. We will not forget you.
Gloria (my co-worker) had just turned down 44th Street to find a FedEx, and my phone rang. Instinctively, I knew. It was my mother, crying. Bea died of heart and kidney malfunction along with diabetes. The fluid she retained was too great for her body to pass. I am now trying to find out where the funeral is, since neither Mom nor I can get her husband on the phone. He is greatly distressed (of course) since they were inseperable throughout almost 40 years of marriage. They had no children, just each other.
My first memory of Bea was my communion back in 1979. She wore a pineapple hairdo with curls and a long floral dress. I always remember her smiling, never a bad thing to say about anyone, never a sarcastic joke. She was the straight guy to my mother's perennial Gracie Allen Antics and general silliness. In recent years, we did not keep in touch that much (although I did speak to her last Easter), but she managed to show for all the major events in my life. She liked to say to my mom that I was the daughter she never had, and Bea took it as a great honor to be my godparent. My christening, my communion, birthdays, my grammar and high school graduations, and most recently, my father's death in 2001.
My last memory of mom, me and Bea together is a very funny one: we sat in Polonica, a great Polish restaurant near me. It had been 2 days since my father's funeral, and my mother was thinking of diversions to get her mind off the grief. Bea suggested we rent a movie or something. My mother stated she wanted to see "Shrek", and enthusiastically enlisted Bea to get the tape and come over (despite my cats) to watch it. Bea's face was priceless. "WHAT? Oh, Philly! I'm not gonna watch that! That 's a kid's movie!" I chimed in about how great it really was and that it had enough jokes for both kids and adults. Bea could not be persuaded. She was a "Dr. Zhivago" kind of movie-goer, if it wasn't classic, she wouldn't see it. Still, we had a good laugh. We always had good laughs.
Even though she was terrified of cats for most of her life, Bea gladly accepted photo Christmas cards both my mom and I made for her of our little fuzzers attacking the tree, or rolling around, or playing with yarn. Understanding us meant understanding them, but that was as close as Bea could get to these creatures, such was her fear. It was a terror that ran deep and prevented many holidays and such being held at our apartment, but there were always phone calls and birthday cards.
When both Bea and Mom hit rough patches within their families, they had each other to lean on. I don't think I could count the times my mom has said, "She was the one who always most kind to me. You wish and pray for a friend like that. Just once." The respect and love ran so deep. And today is my mom's birthday. She's 42. Again. (Has been, too, since 1978, lol!)
Well, I guess both of us can look at it another way: we have yet another angel to protect us and visit us in our dreams.
Billy Joel was right again: only the good die young. 64 is the middle, certainly not the end of a life.
Bea, you were a GEM. We will not forget you.
Friday, March 12, 2004
Bubblegum Pink (and mauve, and purple, and red, and orchid)
Britney Spears to Develop Arden Line
NEW YORK (AP) _ Pop star Britney Spears has signed a deal with Elizabeth
Arden Inc. to develop and market her own line of perfumes and cosmetics, the
company said Friday. Spears' first product will be a fragrance, which will be
launched in the fall at department stores, the New York-based company said,
adding that Spears is ``personally involved'' with all aspects of developing
the product.
And the perfume will smell like Sweet Tarts.
Oops! Was that redundant? My bad.
NEW YORK (AP) _ Pop star Britney Spears has signed a deal with Elizabeth
Arden Inc. to develop and market her own line of perfumes and cosmetics, the
company said Friday. Spears' first product will be a fragrance, which will be
launched in the fall at department stores, the New York-based company said,
adding that Spears is ``personally involved'' with all aspects of developing
the product.
And the perfume will smell like Sweet Tarts.
Oops! Was that redundant? My bad.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
We are always what our situations hand us...
It's either sadness or euphoria... as Billy Joel sang.
Don't ask me why the hell "Summer Highland Falls" would pop into my head, but there it is. I guess the rip in my psyche came in the form of photos sent to me by Nancy! Just too damn funny. And yet, not. This boy was but a blip in my life.
Back to my lyrical reverie...
Yesterday morning, Stiletto popped into my head while I was in the shower: she cuts you down/ she cuts you out she carves up your life/ but you stand there pleading with your insides bleeding/ 'cause she knows you love the knife... I remember how I was in this situation so many years ago, except I was the guy from the song in this scenario. I kept going back and getting cut. I found a photo of this person while cleaning Saturday, but strangely, it doesn't hurt anymore. Now I can play the old songs, the ones I haven't touched in years.
Billy Joel, Stevie Nicks, and Prince always seem to be the ones I reach for. The Every Day Joe, the Goddess, and the Enigma. There's a little bit of each one in each of us right now. Always. When the pain of the past is gone, it's time to mine that past again. Nuggets, vignettes, moments of truth. Scuffed gems with much color in them now that the bleeding is finished blazing like diamonds in our laps. The songs and the memories are suddenly imbued with a different hue. The difference between winter sunrise and summer sunset.
An amazon search led me to the header of this blog, a lyric I have not heard, sung, or played since 1990. RealPlayer hooked me up, and 30 sampled seconds of pure memory streamed out of my pc. I got to the photo of Glass Houses from 1980, and the cleverness of Billy holding a rock in front of his then-mirrored mansion was (and still is) a sight to behold. I thought to myself, "Side 1 of this was the hits. Side 2 is my life."
I think, and I might be right on this, you start with Billy at Turnstiles, you make a right down 52nd Street, then you meet The Stranger and you have a drink together with The Piano Man. You go home, and pull The Nylon Curtain closed. You have another drink, wake up and cross The Bridge. Billy Joel is best studied emotionally, not chronologically. The words, the music, the images follow their own time stamp. He really is the soundtrack to my days. All the useless bullshit of the last three years of my life may have very well kept me from facing this plain fact. These songs are new again, filled with old pictures, but brand-new promises. I think I had the answers all along, I just listened to the wrong people.
Gotta knock that off asap.
Don't ask me why the hell "Summer Highland Falls" would pop into my head, but there it is. I guess the rip in my psyche came in the form of photos sent to me by Nancy! Just too damn funny. And yet, not. This boy was but a blip in my life.
Back to my lyrical reverie...
Yesterday morning, Stiletto popped into my head while I was in the shower: she cuts you down/ she cuts you out she carves up your life/ but you stand there pleading with your insides bleeding/ 'cause she knows you love the knife... I remember how I was in this situation so many years ago, except I was the guy from the song in this scenario. I kept going back and getting cut. I found a photo of this person while cleaning Saturday, but strangely, it doesn't hurt anymore. Now I can play the old songs, the ones I haven't touched in years.
Billy Joel, Stevie Nicks, and Prince always seem to be the ones I reach for. The Every Day Joe, the Goddess, and the Enigma. There's a little bit of each one in each of us right now. Always. When the pain of the past is gone, it's time to mine that past again. Nuggets, vignettes, moments of truth. Scuffed gems with much color in them now that the bleeding is finished blazing like diamonds in our laps. The songs and the memories are suddenly imbued with a different hue. The difference between winter sunrise and summer sunset.
An amazon search led me to the header of this blog, a lyric I have not heard, sung, or played since 1990. RealPlayer hooked me up, and 30 sampled seconds of pure memory streamed out of my pc. I got to the photo of Glass Houses from 1980, and the cleverness of Billy holding a rock in front of his then-mirrored mansion was (and still is) a sight to behold. I thought to myself, "Side 1 of this was the hits. Side 2 is my life."
I think, and I might be right on this, you start with Billy at Turnstiles, you make a right down 52nd Street, then you meet The Stranger and you have a drink together with The Piano Man. You go home, and pull The Nylon Curtain closed. You have another drink, wake up and cross The Bridge. Billy Joel is best studied emotionally, not chronologically. The words, the music, the images follow their own time stamp. He really is the soundtrack to my days. All the useless bullshit of the last three years of my life may have very well kept me from facing this plain fact. These songs are new again, filled with old pictures, but brand-new promises. I think I had the answers all along, I just listened to the wrong people.
Gotta knock that off asap.
Monday, March 08, 2004
Back is hurting back is hurting back is...
Ok, that's my mantra, because it's true. I don't know if it was too much bending, too much stretching, or too much lifting (my kitchen is now spotless, though) but I'm in agony. Sitting all day don't help it, either, kiddies.
There's an emtpy office where I can do "downward dog" to pop these vertebrae into place, but I don't know if I'll bonk my head on the chairs.
So much for this "snow", too. It's wet, soppy, gloppy flakes. I think the powdery heaven I love so much is good and gone. Spring's coming. Sigh....I get to pack up my sweaters and coat and watch as they sit like neglected children in my closet. V. depressing, when I think of it.
Thanks to Shen Min lotion, my scalp is sprouting fuzzy little hairs. This stuff is good. I also bought a big ass bottle of kelp supplements to kick-start my thyroid. What I was using just wasn't working. I counted 5 hairs on my brush this morning as I ran it through my hair, as opposed to the usual clump. NOW that's improvement! Maybe I won't look like Mr. Clean after all...
Well, it's my last week as a 31 yr old. Seemed like an odd number to me, although the odd years were surprisingly entertaining. I'm ready to move forward. 32 just seems more balanced, more "ready" somehow. I'm not worried, though--Patrick said the nicest thing to me as we flew around, "You look younger every time I see you, how do you do that?!" (Believe me, it sounds much nicer with a Haitian patois.) When you do what you love, that joy comes through. Well, that and some really good moisturizer, lol.
Two weeks to spring!
There's an emtpy office where I can do "downward dog" to pop these vertebrae into place, but I don't know if I'll bonk my head on the chairs.
So much for this "snow", too. It's wet, soppy, gloppy flakes. I think the powdery heaven I love so much is good and gone. Spring's coming. Sigh....I get to pack up my sweaters and coat and watch as they sit like neglected children in my closet. V. depressing, when I think of it.
Thanks to Shen Min lotion, my scalp is sprouting fuzzy little hairs. This stuff is good. I also bought a big ass bottle of kelp supplements to kick-start my thyroid. What I was using just wasn't working. I counted 5 hairs on my brush this morning as I ran it through my hair, as opposed to the usual clump. NOW that's improvement! Maybe I won't look like Mr. Clean after all...
Well, it's my last week as a 31 yr old. Seemed like an odd number to me, although the odd years were surprisingly entertaining. I'm ready to move forward. 32 just seems more balanced, more "ready" somehow. I'm not worried, though--Patrick said the nicest thing to me as we flew around, "You look younger every time I see you, how do you do that?!" (Believe me, it sounds much nicer with a Haitian patois.) When you do what you love, that joy comes through. Well, that and some really good moisturizer, lol.
Two weeks to spring!
Saturday, March 06, 2004
The First Great Movie of the Year
The last movie I saw was Underworld back in October, but I had a feeling about Miracle, the story of the 1980 Olympic hockey team. Could Kurt Russell really inhabit the mannerisms and quirks that made Herb Brooks the incredible coach he was?
The answer is a resounding YES.
How he convinced the American Hockey Association to take on a bunch of college guys and use a hybrid of Canadian/Soviet conditioning techniques could possibly be fodder for one turkey of a film, if it was fiction. But it isn't--this is what Brooks did, and it really happened. 26 unknowns were chosen for their ability to fuse as a team, and then the hellish training began. These kids learned how to fly, pass, check, shoot. Most of all, they learned to despise their coach (although he did garner their respect, ultimately) and love each other. 6 final cuts were made, and USA Hockey had their requisite 20 athletes in time for Lake Placid. They had less than a year to pull together. They did, and this is perhaps the greatest component of the movie--the actual skating scenes are breathtaking.
Using similar camera techniques that made SeaBiscuit so memorable, your eyes are up close near the action. The spray of their blades as they stop, slow-mo shots of the puck flying, love taps into the boards, even the ref's whistle resonates with power on the big screen when they get down to that final, famous game against the USSR. If you've never given a hockey a chance, this is the movie that might get you to an actual game. The action is stunning.
When 2 hours fly by quicker than a slapshot, you know you've seen something really special. This is, without a doubt, this year's most memorable film. Before the final credits roll, a photo of Brooks himself is flashed on the screen with a dedication. Sadly, he never got to see this film due to the fatal car accident that took his life last August. But he didn't really have to see it, he lived it. He revitalized hockey in this country, and many of those players followed suit by becoming coaches themselves.
We owe you a hell of a lot, Herb. Thanks for giving us one of the greatest Olympic moments ever on American soil. This movie captures his spirit, and his dedication. He didn't go out and play the game, he embodied the game.
This one's definitely going into my movie collection. It's a gem.
The answer is a resounding YES.
How he convinced the American Hockey Association to take on a bunch of college guys and use a hybrid of Canadian/Soviet conditioning techniques could possibly be fodder for one turkey of a film, if it was fiction. But it isn't--this is what Brooks did, and it really happened. 26 unknowns were chosen for their ability to fuse as a team, and then the hellish training began. These kids learned how to fly, pass, check, shoot. Most of all, they learned to despise their coach (although he did garner their respect, ultimately) and love each other. 6 final cuts were made, and USA Hockey had their requisite 20 athletes in time for Lake Placid. They had less than a year to pull together. They did, and this is perhaps the greatest component of the movie--the actual skating scenes are breathtaking.
Using similar camera techniques that made SeaBiscuit so memorable, your eyes are up close near the action. The spray of their blades as they stop, slow-mo shots of the puck flying, love taps into the boards, even the ref's whistle resonates with power on the big screen when they get down to that final, famous game against the USSR. If you've never given a hockey a chance, this is the movie that might get you to an actual game. The action is stunning.
When 2 hours fly by quicker than a slapshot, you know you've seen something really special. This is, without a doubt, this year's most memorable film. Before the final credits roll, a photo of Brooks himself is flashed on the screen with a dedication. Sadly, he never got to see this film due to the fatal car accident that took his life last August. But he didn't really have to see it, he lived it. He revitalized hockey in this country, and many of those players followed suit by becoming coaches themselves.
We owe you a hell of a lot, Herb. Thanks for giving us one of the greatest Olympic moments ever on American soil. This movie captures his spirit, and his dedication. He didn't go out and play the game, he embodied the game.
This one's definitely going into my movie collection. It's a gem.
Friday, March 05, 2004
Back in the (amazing) Groooove...
I couldn't resist being on the ice after work last night. The Rock, as we call it, has instituted a DJ on Thursday nights, and I have succumbed to the temptation of OutKast, Christina, Britney (you're toxic and I'm slippinnn undahhhh), and old skool goodies like Earth, Wind & Fire, even PINK has my attention blaring at 100 decibels!
Last night did not disappoint.
First, I walk down minutes before the ice cut and realize Bach was playing. One of my favorite pieces, too--Toccata & Fugue in D Minor. Classical may rule in the afternoon, but we were itching to wig out as I watched the DJ get his records ready as the 'boni swerved around and put on my Teris. I hit the ice to Pink's "You're Making me Ill" and who do I see on the ice flying? Patrick Guerriere my mad Haitian! Imagine D'Angelo on a diet and that's Patrick. He wished me an early Happy Birthday, and I did the same, since his is two days after mine, March 17. He told me he was named after St. Patrick, too. Cool!
I'm twirling and swirling, and go inside for a tissue (runny nose--the by-product of damp weather.) The cashier, who I know by face only, stops me and says, "Marie's on her way down, stick around." I haven't seen her since September, so this was great. Soon, Alex, Melanie and a host of teenagers from UK were out there. What a time! Marie had no idea I was going to be there, so she screeched and hollered. A steady stream of requests ensured a boogie nite for us all with The Managerial Ogre nowhere to be found. Plans were made to get together at Wollman (which is much bigger and has an even better DJ) and we will. I can't believe we were all on the ice at the same time. Between that, and yesterday morning starting on the ice, my day was "bookended" with ice and joy. I stayed away from the ice for so long, it's like I forgot about these friends. I feel like I've come back to life or something. I even got a nice email this morning from Rob Shmalo, a recently retired ice dancer. He passed the bar, and is now practicing law. This is all such a surprise!
Cake and coffee later today for my new boss, Mr. S. This is also the birthday of Borgia, that idiot that got married on my birthday last year. Like his name (and he WAS a descendant of Lucretia), he turned out to be a poisonous element in my life. Thankfully, many people share this same birthdate, so I have a new perspective. Mr. S. has a beautiful picture of his golden retriever and his son near his desk, which is a beautiful thing to see when I walk past his office.
Ten more days to 32 for me. I can't wait.
Last night did not disappoint.
First, I walk down minutes before the ice cut and realize Bach was playing. One of my favorite pieces, too--Toccata & Fugue in D Minor. Classical may rule in the afternoon, but we were itching to wig out as I watched the DJ get his records ready as the 'boni swerved around and put on my Teris. I hit the ice to Pink's "You're Making me Ill" and who do I see on the ice flying? Patrick Guerriere my mad Haitian! Imagine D'Angelo on a diet and that's Patrick. He wished me an early Happy Birthday, and I did the same, since his is two days after mine, March 17. He told me he was named after St. Patrick, too. Cool!
I'm twirling and swirling, and go inside for a tissue (runny nose--the by-product of damp weather.) The cashier, who I know by face only, stops me and says, "Marie's on her way down, stick around." I haven't seen her since September, so this was great. Soon, Alex, Melanie and a host of teenagers from UK were out there. What a time! Marie had no idea I was going to be there, so she screeched and hollered. A steady stream of requests ensured a boogie nite for us all with The Managerial Ogre nowhere to be found. Plans were made to get together at Wollman (which is much bigger and has an even better DJ) and we will. I can't believe we were all on the ice at the same time. Between that, and yesterday morning starting on the ice, my day was "bookended" with ice and joy. I stayed away from the ice for so long, it's like I forgot about these friends. I feel like I've come back to life or something. I even got a nice email this morning from Rob Shmalo, a recently retired ice dancer. He passed the bar, and is now practicing law. This is all such a surprise!
Cake and coffee later today for my new boss, Mr. S. This is also the birthday of Borgia, that idiot that got married on my birthday last year. Like his name (and he WAS a descendant of Lucretia), he turned out to be a poisonous element in my life. Thankfully, many people share this same birthdate, so I have a new perspective. Mr. S. has a beautiful picture of his golden retriever and his son near his desk, which is a beautiful thing to see when I walk past his office.
Ten more days to 32 for me. I can't wait.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
My golly goodness, birthdays are around the corner!
Mom on March 13!
Me on March 15!
and then
St. Patrick on March 17!
(Some of you may be wondering if he really drove the snakes out of Ireland. For the record, he made them take the BUS!)
Carry on, kiddies...
Mom on March 13!
Me on March 15!
and then
St. Patrick on March 17!
(Some of you may be wondering if he really drove the snakes out of Ireland. For the record, he made them take the BUS!)
Carry on, kiddies...
Strange reminders
It's a funny, funny thing: I went to bed last night thinking of my father's laugh. It was clear as a bell in my head. I said out loud in my half-sleep state, "I tried to save you, you know." Then I fell into the dark pool of sleep for 6 hours.
I get up, get to the rink (in a cab since it was raining), and what pops on? A perfect edit of the love theme from Ice Castles. My dad used to bug me when this movie was on tv. "It's on again, you know. You had a dress just like it." And he was right, although I couldn't see it until about 5 years ago. My grammar school uniform looked exactly like the navy blue dress in the film.
The song was playing for a little girl who digs the rhinestones glued to my skates. We've had many conversations about this, why my skates are beige and hers are white, and what does coffee taste like because she's never had any. I think she must be about 8 or 9, tops. Her father takes her almost every Wednesday and Thursday, and her interpretive program is to this popular clunker sung by Melissa Manchester. Rink rats are weird creatures, almost none of us know each other's names, and yet we're involved (however marginally) in each other's lives. She went through her program (nice layback, too) and went to turn it off. Well, we leaped to the cd changer to keep it going! All of a sudden there were about five "Lexie Winstons" on the ice. (That was the girl in the movie.) Spinning, spirals, just total hams we were! This poor girl just looked at us like why do people do that when this comes on? Ah, the power of Lexie and at 6:30 am, to boot...
The session ends and I sit, drying off my blades. As if on cue, she takes my skate in her tiny hands and holds it up to the light. "I love when it twinkles," she said, referring to the rhinestones. And then, the strangest thing: her coach says to her, "Ya know when it's time to go to the dentist?" She shakes her head. I get a chill.
"When it's tooth hurty." (2:30, ha ha ha.) My father used to tell me that joke over and over.
I begin to smile, her father is hysterical, and she tilts her head to one side and says, "I don't get it." With that, we start to roar. A nice start to a rotten day.
It's amazing sometimes: my old man gone 3 years almost. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's listening.
You're still a crazy goat, Thomas Francis!
It's a funny, funny thing: I went to bed last night thinking of my father's laugh. It was clear as a bell in my head. I said out loud in my half-sleep state, "I tried to save you, you know." Then I fell into the dark pool of sleep for 6 hours.
I get up, get to the rink (in a cab since it was raining), and what pops on? A perfect edit of the love theme from Ice Castles. My dad used to bug me when this movie was on tv. "It's on again, you know. You had a dress just like it." And he was right, although I couldn't see it until about 5 years ago. My grammar school uniform looked exactly like the navy blue dress in the film.
The song was playing for a little girl who digs the rhinestones glued to my skates. We've had many conversations about this, why my skates are beige and hers are white, and what does coffee taste like because she's never had any. I think she must be about 8 or 9, tops. Her father takes her almost every Wednesday and Thursday, and her interpretive program is to this popular clunker sung by Melissa Manchester. Rink rats are weird creatures, almost none of us know each other's names, and yet we're involved (however marginally) in each other's lives. She went through her program (nice layback, too) and went to turn it off. Well, we leaped to the cd changer to keep it going! All of a sudden there were about five "Lexie Winstons" on the ice. (That was the girl in the movie.) Spinning, spirals, just total hams we were! This poor girl just looked at us like why do people do that when this comes on? Ah, the power of Lexie and at 6:30 am, to boot...
The session ends and I sit, drying off my blades. As if on cue, she takes my skate in her tiny hands and holds it up to the light. "I love when it twinkles," she said, referring to the rhinestones. And then, the strangest thing: her coach says to her, "Ya know when it's time to go to the dentist?" She shakes her head. I get a chill.
"When it's tooth hurty." (2:30, ha ha ha.) My father used to tell me that joke over and over.
I begin to smile, her father is hysterical, and she tilts her head to one side and says, "I don't get it." With that, we start to roar. A nice start to a rotten day.
It's amazing sometimes: my old man gone 3 years almost. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's listening.
You're still a crazy goat, Thomas Francis!
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
I just looooove allergies
It's official: my sinuses and entire nose are at war with me. They are determined to undermine any breathing or comfort I might have, hence this very late post. Or should I say early?
With leftover dustbunnies from Saturday's cleaning attack under my bed and couch, there ain't much room left in my nose for the mites to invade. Clean my living space may be, but it's a bit much. Thank god I've got leftover flu medicine. It'll help me breathe and make me sleepy.
My apologies to Duane and Jenn yesterday, I just couldn't get tickets to your show, but yes, I thought of you. SmartTix just sells out that little space so fast, I can never seem to get in. That and the fact that dustbunny madness was starting in just as the Oscars came on. I decided that Billy Crystal and all those gorgeous gowns were easier on me than trying to get on the D train. Turns out some moron hurled flaming debris and stopped the trains at West Fourth Street, so I might not have made it home in time. Oh well.
At least I know what I want for my birthday thanks to this year's broadcast: Jude Law on toast.
With honey.
(hey RD: JLT! Jude Law Toast, Joe Lynn Turner...ha ha ha they got a pepppahhh barrrrrr)
It's official: my sinuses and entire nose are at war with me. They are determined to undermine any breathing or comfort I might have, hence this very late post. Or should I say early?
With leftover dustbunnies from Saturday's cleaning attack under my bed and couch, there ain't much room left in my nose for the mites to invade. Clean my living space may be, but it's a bit much. Thank god I've got leftover flu medicine. It'll help me breathe and make me sleepy.
My apologies to Duane and Jenn yesterday, I just couldn't get tickets to your show, but yes, I thought of you. SmartTix just sells out that little space so fast, I can never seem to get in. That and the fact that dustbunny madness was starting in just as the Oscars came on. I decided that Billy Crystal and all those gorgeous gowns were easier on me than trying to get on the D train. Turns out some moron hurled flaming debris and stopped the trains at West Fourth Street, so I might not have made it home in time. Oh well.
At least I know what I want for my birthday thanks to this year's broadcast: Jude Law on toast.
With honey.
(hey RD: JLT! Jude Law Toast, Joe Lynn Turner...ha ha ha they got a pepppahhh barrrrrr)
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