Small, gnat-sized insects tap the surface of the backyard pond. Hard to believe a few weeks ago I could see the sky through the bare branches of the trees now nearly fully leaved.
Mountain phlox and mayapple blooms peak up out of the underbrush.
The purple dogwood has seven blooms this year. Last year several dozen.
The hawk finds a spot to perch above a feeding squirrel.
Life under the canopy of suburban woods.
The more efficient the automation, the faster the response time of the superorganism.
Ears buzzing so loud these days, I can't hear a clock alarm or a cat purr.
How deep is black? When you can't tell the difference between real life and a book of fiction. Can Elvis Cole solve this one? A peaceful overthrow in one piece, one fell swoop, for once.
How depressingly funny or mildly humourously depressing can a flick be? When it feels like a cross between others you've seen, mixing a last married couple scenario, an out-of-towners out-of-water feel, a touch of Soho after hours and an adult adventure in babysitting called Date Night. A bird on a wire and all those others, too.
The cure for the blues? Seeing chocolate bunnies at the Chocolate Crocodile after drowning one's liver in a tall mug of Guinness with a Red Robin because P. F. Chang's was full.
One day soon I'll be deaf. What kind of bionic ear should I wish for, since LASIK has worked so well for my sight about six years now?
Do I want to read the Book of the Future today? Not really.
Kenny Chesney, Dolly Parton and Megan Fox - entertainment products of east Tennessee birth.
When was the last time you sat next to Mandy Moore at a UFC event?
In which/what world do I live? Am I an IndyCar/NASCAR/F1/Rally fan, a Lowe Mill fan, a pop cinema fan, a woodlands/jungle hike fan, a football/rugby fan or ... any and all of the above?
I live - I'm a fan of everything.
Seduced by my senses, unaware of what's really around me. What do I don't know I know I almost know?
When the superorganism is ready, will it rip the fabric of spacetime space and step across the threshold? Can it solve the puzzle of why no other superorganisms are visible in this universe?
Why can some people find simple pleasure in repetitive tasks and weekend backyard BBQ parties while others will not be happy until this planet's creatures are safely ensconced in another spot outside of this universe?
How many times can we laugh at the barbarians who show their primate selves in the fearmongering about one-world government? Can we not see we're one people already?
If you feel out of control of the situation, admit the fact and go on.
How many caves have you explored?
Can you tell the difference between a person who has killed another person and one who has not?
Do you know the definition of risk?
Do you know the definition of life?
The Book of the Future ... the crystal ball ... the bag of other tricks yet unused ...
Don't worry about one-world governments forcing you to change your lifestyle/culture. We need you to maintain your subcultures so that dichotomies occur all along the borders between "pure" subcultures for change to happen seemingly spontaneously. From discord, confusion and conflict rise unique solutions to problems that haven't been invented yet.
The Balance of Power. We know what's going to happen next because you predict your own unpredictability predictably. Like tuning an engine. When all aspects of living are known and your unique limited combination of aspects observed and recorded, the world of our species within the well-studied ecosystem of this planet provide measurable parameters upon which one can depend reliably.
The "mysteries" of life are slowly revealed to you for proper dissemination and absorption by the subpopulations of the superorganism. Pockets of resistance are natural responses by the environment and expected (although never welcomed by purists in the field of efficiency expertise).
You accomplish so much more when you trust the future's already been formed for you. Quit seeing it in hindsight and let your foresight be your guide.
If we think we have to wait for a Contact-like moment, a deus ex machina, to rescue us from ourselves, then we'll keep waiting. We are our own alien species, so to speak, with the ignorance of knowledge about the future already in us.
What's next? Hmm ... to know that I know what I'm going to see in the Book of the Future before I look at it is the sign that I'm believing the message of this fictional blog too much.
In one hand, fiction. In the other hand, nonfiction. In one's knowledge, the knowledge that others fulfill futures presented to them as if they're assignments and by others subconsciously through the power of subtle persuasion. Thus, are the futures fact or fiction or both and when were they one, the other or both?
The Book of the Future doesn't say because the Book of the Future is its own self-referential conflict, spirals within spirals looping back and forth within and out of themselves with no discernible beginning or end in sight of our localised lives.
Time to step out of the local culture again and show what the Book of the Future says about other subcultures in the superculture/superorganism called us, our species, our one-world self governing body, if you will accept that definition gladly (or at least without wincing). You might just find out if you're a "Yes" or a "No" and why.
Showing posts with label review. Show all posts
Showing posts with label review. Show all posts
11 April 2010
17 November 2009
Celtic Crossing
Have you ever hunted orchids in Borneo or kayaked through bioluminescent water in Puerto Rico? Have you ever attended Protestant services in Ireland? How about all three? Throw in skydiving over Antarctica and you've got some stories to tell, I'm sure.
Tonight, upon the invitation of my Alabama-bred nephew, my wife and I attended an evening service associated with the 187th annual meeting of the Alabama Baptist State Convention at Whitesburg Baptist Church in Huntsville.
At the service, we watched the singing performance of the secondary school church choir and a Irish-born couple called The Gettys (of course, their being Protestant, you can guess they grew up near Belfast, not Dublin) and their Irish-style band.
Through the years, my wife and I have sat at the church and watched our niece and nephew in various church-related activities (my wife and I are not members of the church but her deceased brother was and his family still are). The church's main seating area, the sanctuary, can accommodate several thousand people. Like many large sanctuaries, the church includes projection screens, videographers, professional sound system, orchestra pit area and other refinements tuned to the needs and desires of today's religious audiences/congregations.
Many years ago, in the same venue we saw a concert by a group centered on the singing performance and celebrity of Lisa Whelchel, a child star from the TV show, "The Facts of Life." We've seen several versions of the church's annual summertime show based on patriotic themes.
In other words, we're used to seeing the room as much for its role as a concert hall as a place for religious worship.
I've mentioned being in a small singing group called Sing Out Kingsport when I was a secondary school student, haven't I? You know, the one based on the international traveling singing group(s) called Up With People. Well, tonight I watched a 30-year slide in time, as if Up With People still existed but had hidden itself in the student body of a local church. The same upbeat music, the same rock band ensemble, everything including the sensitive choir director who had to compete with the kids watching themselves on the big screen instead of watching his hand movement for tempo and volume control.
What is the purpose of religion? You tell me your version - I'll seek first to understand, then try to be understood. Okay, I'm listening...I'm listening...oh well, sorry, you're taking too long. I'll listen to the rest of what you have to say later on. Anyway, religion, as my wife and I constantly discuss, is a way to develop a moral compass for people so they can agree with the social direction their subculture is headed and can turn nearby, interested people around who are headed in a different direction.
The youth singing group tonight sang songs and performed a skit to demonstrate their well-developed moral compass. I'm sure many, if not most of them, will carry on the traditions of their parents and their peers in this subculture. In fact, I'm more than sure. I know they will. All cultures train their members to comfortably conform to and comply with cultural standards, including religious practice. Barring major disasters or wars, cultural offspring carry on the habits of their ancestors. Well, then there's that other annoying inconvenience for cultures wanting to perpetuate themselves - the competing subcultures around the offspring.
I believe all cultures that promote positive reinforcement of our species are equal. I'm just as willing to review events tied to this Southern Baptist tradition as I am to sit and watch Inuits or Hindus or football worshipers (a late happy birthday nod to Nehru, by the way). By discussing them here, I realize there's the chance that those I discuss appear to get a level of higher importance than the ones I haven't discussed yet. I cannot control your impression but if you hang out here long enough, you'll catch me covering an ultrawideband variety of events about people interested in preserving our species for future generations.
After the youth choir finished, the main stars, Keith and Kristyn Getty and their backup band, performed.
Some of you may be familiar with a phenomenon known as Celtic Woman, an ensemble of five Irish women singing soft lullabies and other tunes you could imagine the "greatest singer in all the world" (at least so I'm told), Celine Dion, belt out on stage. Well, Kristyn and her crew are to the Christian music entertainment scene what Celtic Woman is to PBS/NPR fundraisers - a sure moneymaker and a fun evening of singing, handclapping and general joy.
I'll be honest with you here, whatever that means (probably that I want to throw in a side comment that contradicts what I know to be a generally well-liked something or other). I'm not a big church kind of guy. In fact, I don't attend many events tied to large numbers of people (except for American football, as many of you know) - not musical ones, anyway. I like intimate musical settings where you can see and hear and smell musicians passionate about their performance. I don't want to have to squint to see the performers' faces or join in singing a single melodic line for lyrics projected on a wall.
Thus, I find myself fighting against my cynical self to stay focused on the positive elements of tonight's performance, which was designed for people who like to gather in large groups and celebrate life. After all, they are what my goal for our species is all about, choosing lifestyles that may run counter to mine but point our species to one of many safe, reliable methods to ensure our future survival.
In this country, we have what we call retirement centers, nursing homes, assisted living facilities and other euphemisms for places where people who cannot or do not want to live independently are housed together. In these locations, you find people from all walks of life. They may be mentally challenged from birth. They may have been well-known CEOs, military veterans, housewives, or religious leaders. However, they all share the same life, with community activities geared to keep them as mentally and physically active as possible.
When I was in Sing Out Kingsport, we sang at these senior citizen housing units. We also sang at small churches, including pentecostal churches where no one was allowed to leave until everyone had stepped forward, confessed sins and declared an eternal love for Jesus. We performed at shopping malls. We stood on top of a flatbed trailer and sang in holiday parades passing through downtown urban centers.
They say that youth is wasted on the young. I disagree. After having been both a young singer in a youth group and an audience member watching young people sing their hearts out tonight, I believe that youth is what you make of it. You can spend your youth practicing sports skills, developing scientific knowledge sets, caring for the sick and the elderly, and putting your public singing/acting abilities to social use. You can also spend your youth playing video games and texting - socialising with your peers, in other words.
It's true what they say - you're only young once. You can be young at heart your whole life.
Tonight, I wanted to write a review of the Gettys. They were both entertaining and emotionally moving (after the show, we ended up buying and had them autograph three CDs of theirs) but in my thoughts they were overshadowed this evening by the youth choir I watched and heard.
I've focused my belief in moving our species forward mainly on the adults of this world. However, I've missed a large part of how a species' goal is accomplished - the future of our species belongs to the young.
I'm already middle-aged. My generation is running this country and flying from this country into space. We are the flag bearers carrying the standards of our youth. We are also the inspiration for tomorrow's leaders.
The 1960s and 1970s produced the folk rock music that created Up With People and groups like Sing Out Kingsport. Today, many religious groups are using that folk rock music style to attract young people to develop their moral compasses. What will the music and thought set of today's multimedia leaders generate 30, 40 or 50 years from now? I don't know but I sure would like to find out. I'd like to see the great accomplishments of the smiling faces of today's youth when they're middle-aged and leading their generation's political, industrial and multimedia machines of tomorrow. Some, like the ones tonight, will get there by following the moral compass of their ancestors. Some, like my wife and me, will get there by creating their own automatic robotic drum machine to develop a unique beat of their own. We can have a lot of fun along the way.
The fun's in the adventure of getting there. The adventure's in you.
Tonight, upon the invitation of my Alabama-bred nephew, my wife and I attended an evening service associated with the 187th annual meeting of the Alabama Baptist State Convention at Whitesburg Baptist Church in Huntsville.
At the service, we watched the singing performance of the secondary school church choir and a Irish-born couple called The Gettys (of course, their being Protestant, you can guess they grew up near Belfast, not Dublin) and their Irish-style band.
Through the years, my wife and I have sat at the church and watched our niece and nephew in various church-related activities (my wife and I are not members of the church but her deceased brother was and his family still are). The church's main seating area, the sanctuary, can accommodate several thousand people. Like many large sanctuaries, the church includes projection screens, videographers, professional sound system, orchestra pit area and other refinements tuned to the needs and desires of today's religious audiences/congregations.
Many years ago, in the same venue we saw a concert by a group centered on the singing performance and celebrity of Lisa Whelchel, a child star from the TV show, "The Facts of Life." We've seen several versions of the church's annual summertime show based on patriotic themes.
In other words, we're used to seeing the room as much for its role as a concert hall as a place for religious worship.
I've mentioned being in a small singing group called Sing Out Kingsport when I was a secondary school student, haven't I? You know, the one based on the international traveling singing group(s) called Up With People. Well, tonight I watched a 30-year slide in time, as if Up With People still existed but had hidden itself in the student body of a local church. The same upbeat music, the same rock band ensemble, everything including the sensitive choir director who had to compete with the kids watching themselves on the big screen instead of watching his hand movement for tempo and volume control.
What is the purpose of religion? You tell me your version - I'll seek first to understand, then try to be understood. Okay, I'm listening...I'm listening...oh well, sorry, you're taking too long. I'll listen to the rest of what you have to say later on. Anyway, religion, as my wife and I constantly discuss, is a way to develop a moral compass for people so they can agree with the social direction their subculture is headed and can turn nearby, interested people around who are headed in a different direction.
The youth singing group tonight sang songs and performed a skit to demonstrate their well-developed moral compass. I'm sure many, if not most of them, will carry on the traditions of their parents and their peers in this subculture. In fact, I'm more than sure. I know they will. All cultures train their members to comfortably conform to and comply with cultural standards, including religious practice. Barring major disasters or wars, cultural offspring carry on the habits of their ancestors. Well, then there's that other annoying inconvenience for cultures wanting to perpetuate themselves - the competing subcultures around the offspring.
I believe all cultures that promote positive reinforcement of our species are equal. I'm just as willing to review events tied to this Southern Baptist tradition as I am to sit and watch Inuits or Hindus or football worshipers (a late happy birthday nod to Nehru, by the way). By discussing them here, I realize there's the chance that those I discuss appear to get a level of higher importance than the ones I haven't discussed yet. I cannot control your impression but if you hang out here long enough, you'll catch me covering an ultrawideband variety of events about people interested in preserving our species for future generations.
After the youth choir finished, the main stars, Keith and Kristyn Getty and their backup band, performed.
Some of you may be familiar with a phenomenon known as Celtic Woman, an ensemble of five Irish women singing soft lullabies and other tunes you could imagine the "greatest singer in all the world" (at least so I'm told), Celine Dion, belt out on stage. Well, Kristyn and her crew are to the Christian music entertainment scene what Celtic Woman is to PBS/NPR fundraisers - a sure moneymaker and a fun evening of singing, handclapping and general joy.
I'll be honest with you here, whatever that means (probably that I want to throw in a side comment that contradicts what I know to be a generally well-liked something or other). I'm not a big church kind of guy. In fact, I don't attend many events tied to large numbers of people (except for American football, as many of you know) - not musical ones, anyway. I like intimate musical settings where you can see and hear and smell musicians passionate about their performance. I don't want to have to squint to see the performers' faces or join in singing a single melodic line for lyrics projected on a wall.
Thus, I find myself fighting against my cynical self to stay focused on the positive elements of tonight's performance, which was designed for people who like to gather in large groups and celebrate life. After all, they are what my goal for our species is all about, choosing lifestyles that may run counter to mine but point our species to one of many safe, reliable methods to ensure our future survival.
In this country, we have what we call retirement centers, nursing homes, assisted living facilities and other euphemisms for places where people who cannot or do not want to live independently are housed together. In these locations, you find people from all walks of life. They may be mentally challenged from birth. They may have been well-known CEOs, military veterans, housewives, or religious leaders. However, they all share the same life, with community activities geared to keep them as mentally and physically active as possible.
When I was in Sing Out Kingsport, we sang at these senior citizen housing units. We also sang at small churches, including pentecostal churches where no one was allowed to leave until everyone had stepped forward, confessed sins and declared an eternal love for Jesus. We performed at shopping malls. We stood on top of a flatbed trailer and sang in holiday parades passing through downtown urban centers.
They say that youth is wasted on the young. I disagree. After having been both a young singer in a youth group and an audience member watching young people sing their hearts out tonight, I believe that youth is what you make of it. You can spend your youth practicing sports skills, developing scientific knowledge sets, caring for the sick and the elderly, and putting your public singing/acting abilities to social use. You can also spend your youth playing video games and texting - socialising with your peers, in other words.
It's true what they say - you're only young once. You can be young at heart your whole life.
Tonight, I wanted to write a review of the Gettys. They were both entertaining and emotionally moving (after the show, we ended up buying and had them autograph three CDs of theirs) but in my thoughts they were overshadowed this evening by the youth choir I watched and heard.
I've focused my belief in moving our species forward mainly on the adults of this world. However, I've missed a large part of how a species' goal is accomplished - the future of our species belongs to the young.
I'm already middle-aged. My generation is running this country and flying from this country into space. We are the flag bearers carrying the standards of our youth. We are also the inspiration for tomorrow's leaders.
The 1960s and 1970s produced the folk rock music that created Up With People and groups like Sing Out Kingsport. Today, many religious groups are using that folk rock music style to attract young people to develop their moral compasses. What will the music and thought set of today's multimedia leaders generate 30, 40 or 50 years from now? I don't know but I sure would like to find out. I'd like to see the great accomplishments of the smiling faces of today's youth when they're middle-aged and leading their generation's political, industrial and multimedia machines of tomorrow. Some, like the ones tonight, will get there by following the moral compass of their ancestors. Some, like my wife and me, will get there by creating their own automatic robotic drum machine to develop a unique beat of their own. We can have a lot of fun along the way.
The fun's in the adventure of getting there. The adventure's in you.
14 November 2009
Prawn Shop Special
R&B. Rhythm and blues. Flies and lobsters and Episcopalians. Brass candlesticks. Isodora jewelry. In the moment in the moment. Foot pedal loops. Beats. Riffs. Traffic cones. Projection TV. Book sale. A lobsterfest of a support team. Guitar box or cigar box? Electrified strings. In, in the, in, the in, in the moment, mo...mo...moment. Microwave Dave in solo heaven, preaching with chords, not rosary beads.
Repeat.
Bake sale. Silent auction. The guru, the wunderkinder, the kind gardener, tending the frets, leading and following himself in some farout place with all of the ritual and none of the guilt. We freely bow to someone's freedom to be, the master of his universe, Europe can't have him, he's our hometown hero.
Cut and paste.
Bake sale. Silent auction, he's our hometown hero. The guru, the wunderkinder, R&B. Flies and lobsters and Isodora jewelry and none of the guilt. Foot pedal loops. Beats. Riffs. Europe can't have him, traffic cones lobsterfest of a support team. Guitar box or cigar box Episcopalians? Electrified strings in the moment. In, in, the in, in the we freely bow to someone's freedom to be in the moment, mo...mo...moment. Microwave Dave in solo heaven, not rosary beads. Book sale. The kind gardener, projection TV. Rhythm and blues tending the frets, brass candlesticks leading and following himself in some farout place with all of the ritual, the master of his universe preaching with chords in the moment.
Repeat and rewind. Peter and winder.
= = =
Blue chicory curtains. Another blues set, a variation on "White Christmas," the musical, the Alabama premiere.
Rewind 30 years. I was president of the secondary school drama club my junior and senior years. I was not the best singer or the best actor. I was funny enough to be popular enough to get elected to an honorary title of an office. Some people looked up to me. I looked out for humour. I oversaw an eclectic group of troubadours and cast and crew (a/k/a the troublemakers).
Fast-forward 30 years. I have a nephew who'll direct a comedy opera at his magnet school in 2010. In 2009, on the 14th of November, I joined my wife and friends for a musical performance at a magnet secondary school whose coordinator is a friend of ours.
Two approaches to a critical review. One, write an alternative view, riffing on the actors' performance as if their show was a satirical riff on the play within the play (first, figure out what riff is - the word sounds interesting but holds no meaning to me other than its sound). Second, hold the actors' capabilities and performances to the highest standards and judge them accordingly, throwing in side comments about such observations as the costumers admiring their work during the intermission ("will the white vests appear in the second act?").
Lee Lyric Theatre. New director. New direction. How do you get the players to feel the words of their memorized lines instead of speaking them? How do you make them absorb their characters and project their lines as if they're ad-libbing in the moment?
When I wrote for the Huntsville Times newspaper for a season or two of secondary school sports back in the mid-1990s working for John F. and Chris W., the point was made that we never say one team was trounced, smashed, beaten or in any negative form should we state that they lost. The other team won. Focus on the positive. Get a quote from the winning coach. Include key stats of the game and comments about the plays of the best players.
Think about this situation for a moment. I have covered secondary school sports, including football, baseball, and basketball. I covered college and professional hockey. I reported on the college women's national basketball championship for a weekly publication. I was a member of the Alabama sports writers association so I got to vote for the Alabama secondary school and professional player of the year. Now I sit here looking over a similar set of notes from another secondary school event.
Secondary school students spend their waking hours thinking about other secondary school students. They also find time to study school assignments and devote their thoughts to extracurricular activities.
A stageplay. A musical. Memorizing dialog. Blocking. Dancing. Singing. Entrances. Exits. Costume fittings. Auditions. Rehearsals. Face makeup.
Just like an American football or international basketball game. Drama. Teamwork.
Some of these students will continue their studies. They will take their new skills to the next level. Which one? Jacobi Hall, the Bing Crosby crooner? Thomas Najjar, the Danny Kaye character? Anna Quirk and Julia Erwin, the Haynes sisters? Chris Sebastian, the modern twist on a modern major general? Forest Bonner, the Martha Washington of Joan Rivers' take on Martha Watson? Lauren Bakke, playing little Susie? Toryn Washington, the real estate agent turned TV producer?
Flashback. I remember sitting in the green room 30 years ago. Flirting backstage while waiting for my next scene, quietly whispering sweet nothings and other carrying on. Turning my back so fellow actors who happened to be female could make quick costume changes. The hard work by the stage manager and the propmakers. The repeated rehearsals by the pit orchestra.
Where is everybody now? One of the orchestra members is the Microwave Dave of my hometown, performing gigs at blues clubs and running website info for the local newspaper, writing his own column, too. The main female leads are both teachers. One of the male leads is a television news anchor. Another male lead is a singer/songwriter in Nashville, having appeared on the TV show Star Search hosted by Ed McMahon. Most of us lead lives in which musical performance or stageplays are ancillary to what we mainly do - church choirs, community theater, occasional cruise ship gigs.
Back to the future. Tonight's performers will find themselves in similar situations. Rare is the sports figure in secondary school who plays professional ball. Just as rare is the secondary school stage star who becomes a movie icon or Broadway legend. Instead, we live for the moment, pushing past who we are to be who we are not.
Outstanding moments tonight:... Anna Quirk in a stunning dress, Gossip Girl style, in the Regency Room scene. Anna and Jacobi Hall reprising "How Deep is the Ocean." Thomas Najjar, Julia Erwin and the chorus in their tap-dancing vests for "I Love a Piano," smiles all around. Anna, Julia and Forest Bonner in their trio singing "Falling Out of Love Can Be Fun." Scooter (Justin Jordan?) and his wig dancing at the piano. Jacobi and Thomas singing "Sisters." Everybody in the scene singing/dancing "Blue Skies." Forest in just about any scene. Lauren Bakke being cute without being too cute. Christina Crutcher and Emily Bannister strutting their stuff. Jonathan Long doing his best impression of "Hi, I'm Larry. This is my brother Darryl, and this is my other brother Darryl," from the Bob Newhart TV show. Jessica Jones shining in her roles. Others whose faces I can't put with names - you were still enjoyable to watch. The orchestra being clear and crisp and not too loud.
Of course, what is this production without the audience joining in singing the signature song while snow falls in the picturesque scene on stage?
Did the ensemble score a touchdown or sink a three-pointer from half court tonight? No, because this wasn't a sports competition. Even so, they won astoundingly. They competed against their worst fears and stage fright and miscues that the audience will never know about and made us smile and laugh and sing along.
= = =
I will happily fall asleep humming "Blue Skies" to myself and call this a successful day, bookended by the intricacies of Microwave Dave playing against and with his thoughts in musical form; secondary school students, production staff and professional pit orchestra cooperating to lay down another set of memorable tracks later on, a blend of other adventures in between. I put my hands together and bow in thankful peace. Today was a moment in the moment worth remembering. Thanks, y'all. G'night.
Repeat.
Bake sale. Silent auction. The guru, the wunderkinder, the kind gardener, tending the frets, leading and following himself in some farout place with all of the ritual and none of the guilt. We freely bow to someone's freedom to be, the master of his universe, Europe can't have him, he's our hometown hero.
Cut and paste.
Bake sale. Silent auction, he's our hometown hero. The guru, the wunderkinder, R&B. Flies and lobsters and Isodora jewelry and none of the guilt. Foot pedal loops. Beats. Riffs. Europe can't have him, traffic cones lobsterfest of a support team. Guitar box or cigar box Episcopalians? Electrified strings in the moment. In, in, the in, in the we freely bow to someone's freedom to be in the moment, mo...mo...moment. Microwave Dave in solo heaven, not rosary beads. Book sale. The kind gardener, projection TV. Rhythm and blues tending the frets, brass candlesticks leading and following himself in some farout place with all of the ritual, the master of his universe preaching with chords in the moment.
Repeat and rewind. Peter and winder.
= = =
Blue chicory curtains. Another blues set, a variation on "White Christmas," the musical, the Alabama premiere.
Rewind 30 years. I was president of the secondary school drama club my junior and senior years. I was not the best singer or the best actor. I was funny enough to be popular enough to get elected to an honorary title of an office. Some people looked up to me. I looked out for humour. I oversaw an eclectic group of troubadours and cast and crew (a/k/a the troublemakers).
Fast-forward 30 years. I have a nephew who'll direct a comedy opera at his magnet school in 2010. In 2009, on the 14th of November, I joined my wife and friends for a musical performance at a magnet secondary school whose coordinator is a friend of ours.
Two approaches to a critical review. One, write an alternative view, riffing on the actors' performance as if their show was a satirical riff on the play within the play (first, figure out what riff is - the word sounds interesting but holds no meaning to me other than its sound). Second, hold the actors' capabilities and performances to the highest standards and judge them accordingly, throwing in side comments about such observations as the costumers admiring their work during the intermission ("will the white vests appear in the second act?").
Lee Lyric Theatre. New director. New direction. How do you get the players to feel the words of their memorized lines instead of speaking them? How do you make them absorb their characters and project their lines as if they're ad-libbing in the moment?
When I wrote for the Huntsville Times newspaper for a season or two of secondary school sports back in the mid-1990s working for John F. and Chris W., the point was made that we never say one team was trounced, smashed, beaten or in any negative form should we state that they lost. The other team won. Focus on the positive. Get a quote from the winning coach. Include key stats of the game and comments about the plays of the best players.
Think about this situation for a moment. I have covered secondary school sports, including football, baseball, and basketball. I covered college and professional hockey. I reported on the college women's national basketball championship for a weekly publication. I was a member of the Alabama sports writers association so I got to vote for the Alabama secondary school and professional player of the year. Now I sit here looking over a similar set of notes from another secondary school event.
Secondary school students spend their waking hours thinking about other secondary school students. They also find time to study school assignments and devote their thoughts to extracurricular activities.
A stageplay. A musical. Memorizing dialog. Blocking. Dancing. Singing. Entrances. Exits. Costume fittings. Auditions. Rehearsals. Face makeup.
Just like an American football or international basketball game. Drama. Teamwork.
Some of these students will continue their studies. They will take their new skills to the next level. Which one? Jacobi Hall, the Bing Crosby crooner? Thomas Najjar, the Danny Kaye character? Anna Quirk and Julia Erwin, the Haynes sisters? Chris Sebastian, the modern twist on a modern major general? Forest Bonner, the Martha Washington of Joan Rivers' take on Martha Watson? Lauren Bakke, playing little Susie? Toryn Washington, the real estate agent turned TV producer?
Flashback. I remember sitting in the green room 30 years ago. Flirting backstage while waiting for my next scene, quietly whispering sweet nothings and other carrying on. Turning my back so fellow actors who happened to be female could make quick costume changes. The hard work by the stage manager and the propmakers. The repeated rehearsals by the pit orchestra.
Where is everybody now? One of the orchestra members is the Microwave Dave of my hometown, performing gigs at blues clubs and running website info for the local newspaper, writing his own column, too. The main female leads are both teachers. One of the male leads is a television news anchor. Another male lead is a singer/songwriter in Nashville, having appeared on the TV show Star Search hosted by Ed McMahon. Most of us lead lives in which musical performance or stageplays are ancillary to what we mainly do - church choirs, community theater, occasional cruise ship gigs.
Back to the future. Tonight's performers will find themselves in similar situations. Rare is the sports figure in secondary school who plays professional ball. Just as rare is the secondary school stage star who becomes a movie icon or Broadway legend. Instead, we live for the moment, pushing past who we are to be who we are not.
Outstanding moments tonight:... Anna Quirk in a stunning dress, Gossip Girl style, in the Regency Room scene. Anna and Jacobi Hall reprising "How Deep is the Ocean." Thomas Najjar, Julia Erwin and the chorus in their tap-dancing vests for "I Love a Piano," smiles all around. Anna, Julia and Forest Bonner in their trio singing "Falling Out of Love Can Be Fun." Scooter (Justin Jordan?) and his wig dancing at the piano. Jacobi and Thomas singing "Sisters." Everybody in the scene singing/dancing "Blue Skies." Forest in just about any scene. Lauren Bakke being cute without being too cute. Christina Crutcher and Emily Bannister strutting their stuff. Jonathan Long doing his best impression of "Hi, I'm Larry. This is my brother Darryl, and this is my other brother Darryl," from the Bob Newhart TV show. Jessica Jones shining in her roles. Others whose faces I can't put with names - you were still enjoyable to watch. The orchestra being clear and crisp and not too loud.
Of course, what is this production without the audience joining in singing the signature song while snow falls in the picturesque scene on stage?
Did the ensemble score a touchdown or sink a three-pointer from half court tonight? No, because this wasn't a sports competition. Even so, they won astoundingly. They competed against their worst fears and stage fright and miscues that the audience will never know about and made us smile and laugh and sing along.
= = =
I will happily fall asleep humming "Blue Skies" to myself and call this a successful day, bookended by the intricacies of Microwave Dave playing against and with his thoughts in musical form; secondary school students, production staff and professional pit orchestra cooperating to lay down another set of memorable tracks later on, a blend of other adventures in between. I put my hands together and bow in thankful peace. Today was a moment in the moment worth remembering. Thanks, y'all. G'night.
13 November 2009
Camping in Campuchea
Here. Ici. Sketching the outlines of the portrait of this moment using words. Beams. Welds. Pencil lines. Musical notation. Coloured lighting. Motions of a mechanical clock. The planet imperceptibly spinning. Tidal pools draining. Breathing. Mentally walking a friend's flat where every step, every motion is a living Tesla coil of exploding light and sound, a telharmonium wrapped around a theremin looped into holographic homemade commercial adverts for imaginary products in a prehistoric future lost in a space warp folded in on itself.
Being and unbeing. Olfactory nerve in overdrive from artificial flavour factories sensing scents, flaring nostrils and changing colour palettes stuck on retinal images of desktop wallpaper. Dusty, musty book covers mixed with cigarette residue favourable to chemical engineers familiar with prefixes and subprefixes and postsuffixes filling stuffy dictionaries. Digging deeper, past Eco's lists listing to one side of the Louvre. Past the Big Kahuna leaning right in ironman contests or three kings staring at goats like Jedi nightfalls.
Post. Posit. After the irony. Filtering out the satire. When modern is antique, antiquated, quaint, nostalgic.
Beyond the beyond. Myst in the mist. Fantasy sports free but costly.
Stripping away the layers, the Formica no longer cool, retro, glued particles pressed pressure pushing cushioned falls down.
Take off the hood, lift off the mask, peel away the skin, crack open the skull, look through the looks, no more gestures, no more jesting, jest in pun not punny where the sun doesn't shine shiny, no node, no personality, no feelings, no emptiness, no void, no universe. No mirrors oN. Madam I'm Adam.
Without these words, without this structure, without this brain, without this, without, with, out. Old world games. Old words.
Beyond asking. Beyond seeking. The answers behind us. The solutions in play, satisfying, soothing, comforting, calming, sleepy, sleeping, asleep, dreaming.
The moment, this moment, wondering. If not why now, then what now? If not what, then why? If not the sketch of this moment, then what is this moment unsketched? When did we say we had to be more than be in the moment?
Be. To exist. Is. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. In this place. In this time. No other place. No other time. No other person but you in the now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now. Monotonal pitch. Monocolour sketch. Peace? Contentment? Freedom? Breath. Heartbeat. Incomplete thoughts. Slower breath. Slower heartbeat. No thoughts. No moment. No time. No place. Nothing, not even nothing. Wordless. Absent of canvas. Nothing to sketch nothing. The moment yours and nobody's. Never remembered, never forgotten. No body, no concerns. You in motion with the universe for one long, endless moment.
Call it prayer. Call it meditation. Call it relaxing. Call it what you like and the way you see it. Anyway way you are, be it.
Being and unbeing. Olfactory nerve in overdrive from artificial flavour factories sensing scents, flaring nostrils and changing colour palettes stuck on retinal images of desktop wallpaper. Dusty, musty book covers mixed with cigarette residue favourable to chemical engineers familiar with prefixes and subprefixes and postsuffixes filling stuffy dictionaries. Digging deeper, past Eco's lists listing to one side of the Louvre. Past the Big Kahuna leaning right in ironman contests or three kings staring at goats like Jedi nightfalls.
Post. Posit. After the irony. Filtering out the satire. When modern is antique, antiquated, quaint, nostalgic.
Beyond the beyond. Myst in the mist. Fantasy sports free but costly.
Stripping away the layers, the Formica no longer cool, retro, glued particles pressed pressure pushing cushioned falls down.
Take off the hood, lift off the mask, peel away the skin, crack open the skull, look through the looks, no more gestures, no more jesting, jest in pun not punny where the sun doesn't shine shiny, no node, no personality, no feelings, no emptiness, no void, no universe. No mirrors oN. Madam I'm Adam.
Without these words, without this structure, without this brain, without this, without, with, out. Old world games. Old words.
Beyond asking. Beyond seeking. The answers behind us. The solutions in play, satisfying, soothing, comforting, calming, sleepy, sleeping, asleep, dreaming.
The moment, this moment, wondering. If not why now, then what now? If not what, then why? If not the sketch of this moment, then what is this moment unsketched? When did we say we had to be more than be in the moment?
Be. To exist. Is. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. In this place. In this time. No other place. No other time. No other person but you in the now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now. Monotonal pitch. Monocolour sketch. Peace? Contentment? Freedom? Breath. Heartbeat. Incomplete thoughts. Slower breath. Slower heartbeat. No thoughts. No moment. No time. No place. Nothing, not even nothing. Wordless. Absent of canvas. Nothing to sketch nothing. The moment yours and nobody's. Never remembered, never forgotten. No body, no concerns. You in motion with the universe for one long, endless moment.
Call it prayer. Call it meditation. Call it relaxing. Call it what you like and the way you see it. Anyway way you are, be it.
21 October 2009
Weedy Decision
As a frugal spender, I look for ways to conserve spending. If it also conserves resources, so be it. Here's another person's take on one area to conserve:
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/10/21/DDS51A378K.DTL
My lawn is not a meadow but the edge of a suburban forest. My lawn mowers, including a hand-pushed reel mower, hand-pushed motorised mower and a small tractor, have sat idle for years - I could sell them but then it means I'm promoting someone else's lawnmowing. Anybody have a creative use for former grasscutting machines?
Time for lunch and class prep - have a great day!
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/10/21/DDS51A378K.DTL
My lawn is not a meadow but the edge of a suburban forest. My lawn mowers, including a hand-pushed reel mower, hand-pushed motorised mower and a small tractor, have sat idle for years - I could sell them but then it means I'm promoting someone else's lawnmowing. Anybody have a creative use for former grasscutting machines?
Time for lunch and class prep - have a great day!
18 October 2009
A Moment Alone Together
Felt like I visited a hippie commune tonight, complete with '60s-era interpersonal communications issues enhanced by frequent drug use, a common theme of movies from my childhood in the '60s. In other words, my wife and I saw "Where The Wild Things Are." When the hero is a child psychologist, or rather a child pretending to be a group leader, then the monster in the closet is the ego, not blood dripping off teeth or coat buttons reflecting like flesh-eating dragon's eyes. I credit the acting and CG facial effects of the Wild Things for giving the movie the sort of depth "Pan's Labyrinth" showed that "Labyrinth" didn't.
Afterward, we ate a late dinner at Tony's Little Italy restaurant. Our server, Elizah P, shared my love of two main courses - lobster-stuffed ravioli and Italian sausage and peppers - and the rum-soaked cake for dessert. At the table next to us a mother hugged and rocked her son sitting on her lap. She leaned over to get bites of bread while her husband seemed to sit there as if his brain was in another time zone, totally disinterested. After while, the boy went to an empty table and was king of the feast, eating fried potato strips from a large red McDonald's cardboard box. The boy played funny faces with his mother.
I chose the lobster ravioli, splitting a cup of olives with my wife while drinking a glass of house Chianti; she ate baked ziti with meatballs (for my dessert, rum cake; for hers, chocolate-covered cannoli). At another table, a young couple drank diet Pepsi and Mr. Pibb, the woman ordering a grilled chicken salad.
We debated the ceiling light fixture covers. To me, they look like glass punch bowls in the colour of 1930s pressed glass. To my wife, they looked like upside-down sunny-side up fried eggs with glass door knob finials stuck in the middle.
We have one life here to share with each other. Tonight, the young mother with the French fry boy, her long hair a mix of blonde and brunette down to the bottom of her shoulder blades, wearing a black-and-white striped sweater over a svelte, small frame, kept glancing my way but never making eye contact with me until the moment her husband had taken their son to the toilet.
A smile. A quiet, shared moment. Never long enough. And never longer than you want it to be. We know these moments when we reveal our beings, prepared to share our weaknesses, dropping the masks as if to say, "I do not know who I look like to you. I wish that all the problems of my life and that of yours is forgotten in this moment we give each other." Romance novels hover over scenes like this, page after suspense-filled page. Serial soap opera TV shows freeze camera shots on these looks just before going to commercial breaks. We get one shot. We give one shot. Like a photograph or woodcut engraved in our memories.
I always wish there was more time; time to mold the image of the face, the shape of the nose, the curve of the eyebrows, the variation of the eye colours, the upturned smiling lips; time to read and write thoughts by facial expression only; time to breathe in the aromas of the room, the tomato sauce, the garlic salad dressing, the olive oil, the perfume; and time to savour thoughts like these in the moment.
Tonight, I had the time and shared it with the woman who loves her son with all her heart and wants her husband to give her just a few minutes' attention at dinner, a hug with her son a joy but not the same as hugging the man with whom she brought her son into the world. Yes, that's what her smile told me - "give me what I seek: recognition" - that she begged and demanded at the same time.
In our rush we forget ourselves. By forgetting ourselves we forget those around us who are themselves because of us. We forget that our problems are there to be shared with empathy for those listening empathetically. I love my wife and sometimes we forget each other even when one is talking and the other hearing but not listening. We have the ability to listen and think at the same time but it takes patience to slow down our thought process to listen to others. When we take time to listen, the love between us feels infinite.
The more I love my wife by telling her that I love her, both privately and publicly, the more I love those around me and the better I can listen, talk and think. Thanks goes out to the woman sitting nearby who listened to the conversation between my wife, the server and me and heard me tell the server how much I love my wife by the compliments I gave my life partner through what I said to Elizah.
A shared look is a look of love and an appreciation for one another. I appreciate my wife, and the mother next to us tonight appreciates her husband and son. Together, with a moment of infinity captured in one look, the young mother and I shared our appreciation for one another that we share with the ones we love.
I read that a globally popular musician wrote that she was a geek in primary and secondary school. I don't know what else she said but I know what she means. One's dedication to one's life begins at an early age. We drive ourselves forward and the harder/faster we drive, the farther we get. How far we get depends on factors outside our determination, including luck/fate/god's(gods') will, but if we aren't driving ourselves we'll probably get nowhere fast. I look at all sorts of people who've reached great heights in our societies - Madonna, Peyton Manning, Hu Jintao, Barack Obama, Angela Merkel, to name a few - and know that they are where they are because of their drive, determination and willingness to share with others, giving everyone they meet the feeling that the moment they shared together was special.
Tonight's movie shared a similar message but not as direct - be yourself, unselfishly. I hope Elizah and the mother at the next table saw the same message from me. Don't wait to be yourself - when you are yourself and when you share yourself, give wholeheartedly, knowing that your love is infinite when you give unselfishly.
Afterward, we ate a late dinner at Tony's Little Italy restaurant. Our server, Elizah P, shared my love of two main courses - lobster-stuffed ravioli and Italian sausage and peppers - and the rum-soaked cake for dessert. At the table next to us a mother hugged and rocked her son sitting on her lap. She leaned over to get bites of bread while her husband seemed to sit there as if his brain was in another time zone, totally disinterested. After while, the boy went to an empty table and was king of the feast, eating fried potato strips from a large red McDonald's cardboard box. The boy played funny faces with his mother.
I chose the lobster ravioli, splitting a cup of olives with my wife while drinking a glass of house Chianti; she ate baked ziti with meatballs (for my dessert, rum cake; for hers, chocolate-covered cannoli). At another table, a young couple drank diet Pepsi and Mr. Pibb, the woman ordering a grilled chicken salad.
We debated the ceiling light fixture covers. To me, they look like glass punch bowls in the colour of 1930s pressed glass. To my wife, they looked like upside-down sunny-side up fried eggs with glass door knob finials stuck in the middle.
We have one life here to share with each other. Tonight, the young mother with the French fry boy, her long hair a mix of blonde and brunette down to the bottom of her shoulder blades, wearing a black-and-white striped sweater over a svelte, small frame, kept glancing my way but never making eye contact with me until the moment her husband had taken their son to the toilet.
A smile. A quiet, shared moment. Never long enough. And never longer than you want it to be. We know these moments when we reveal our beings, prepared to share our weaknesses, dropping the masks as if to say, "I do not know who I look like to you. I wish that all the problems of my life and that of yours is forgotten in this moment we give each other." Romance novels hover over scenes like this, page after suspense-filled page. Serial soap opera TV shows freeze camera shots on these looks just before going to commercial breaks. We get one shot. We give one shot. Like a photograph or woodcut engraved in our memories.
I always wish there was more time; time to mold the image of the face, the shape of the nose, the curve of the eyebrows, the variation of the eye colours, the upturned smiling lips; time to read and write thoughts by facial expression only; time to breathe in the aromas of the room, the tomato sauce, the garlic salad dressing, the olive oil, the perfume; and time to savour thoughts like these in the moment.
Tonight, I had the time and shared it with the woman who loves her son with all her heart and wants her husband to give her just a few minutes' attention at dinner, a hug with her son a joy but not the same as hugging the man with whom she brought her son into the world. Yes, that's what her smile told me - "give me what I seek: recognition" - that she begged and demanded at the same time.
In our rush we forget ourselves. By forgetting ourselves we forget those around us who are themselves because of us. We forget that our problems are there to be shared with empathy for those listening empathetically. I love my wife and sometimes we forget each other even when one is talking and the other hearing but not listening. We have the ability to listen and think at the same time but it takes patience to slow down our thought process to listen to others. When we take time to listen, the love between us feels infinite.
The more I love my wife by telling her that I love her, both privately and publicly, the more I love those around me and the better I can listen, talk and think. Thanks goes out to the woman sitting nearby who listened to the conversation between my wife, the server and me and heard me tell the server how much I love my wife by the compliments I gave my life partner through what I said to Elizah.
A shared look is a look of love and an appreciation for one another. I appreciate my wife, and the mother next to us tonight appreciates her husband and son. Together, with a moment of infinity captured in one look, the young mother and I shared our appreciation for one another that we share with the ones we love.
I read that a globally popular musician wrote that she was a geek in primary and secondary school. I don't know what else she said but I know what she means. One's dedication to one's life begins at an early age. We drive ourselves forward and the harder/faster we drive, the farther we get. How far we get depends on factors outside our determination, including luck/fate/god's(gods') will, but if we aren't driving ourselves we'll probably get nowhere fast. I look at all sorts of people who've reached great heights in our societies - Madonna, Peyton Manning, Hu Jintao, Barack Obama, Angela Merkel, to name a few - and know that they are where they are because of their drive, determination and willingness to share with others, giving everyone they meet the feeling that the moment they shared together was special.
Tonight's movie shared a similar message but not as direct - be yourself, unselfishly. I hope Elizah and the mother at the next table saw the same message from me. Don't wait to be yourself - when you are yourself and when you share yourself, give wholeheartedly, knowing that your love is infinite when you give unselfishly.
15 October 2009
Help, I'm Fallon and I Can't Get This Flying Circus Off The Set
In my youth, a playmate of mine introduced me to the comedy right of passage, including an album with a matching tie and handkerchief. Somewhere I have a book by those boys of British humour. Now, 30+ years later, we get a glimpse of the madcap teamwork of the partial Monty on late night U.S. TV. Still having fun and staying out wheelchairs for now, including a stint on IFC later this month.
Pop. Pop. Pop Music. Humour. Television programming.
What about local entertainment? Do we find joy in our own communities?
Of course we do. But we don't get national adverts to pay for them very often. In and around my wife's hometown, international entertainers have roots - Diana Ross, Charlie Chase, "Doc" McConnell, Archie Campbell, Tennessee Ernie Ford. However, local performers are just as talented, musical and funny (sometimes, all three!), carrying separate day jobs and night gigs in their thoughts and actions.
I have played the role of a news junkie lately, using my personal connections and headline news to create a blog to entertain myself. This morning, I sat in the garage, watching chipmunks stopping at my feet and Carolina wrens flying around my head looking for food and shelter inside my domicile. Their lives were my moment of fun, relaxation, humour and entertainment for a couple of hours. They taught me that I've been repeating myself in ways that may not add to advancement of my species. But then again, it might. If the 40-year old genius of the Monty Python writers/actors can keep them going and going and going (cue up the pink Energizer bunny beating a drum), then repetition is not a bad thing, I suppose.
We are who we are and can be who we are not. We can never be who we were but can appear to repeat the actions of our previous selves. In other words, time for more humour - pardon my Scottish - look on the shite side of life.
Pop. Pop. Pop Music. Humour. Television programming.
What about local entertainment? Do we find joy in our own communities?
Of course we do. But we don't get national adverts to pay for them very often. In and around my wife's hometown, international entertainers have roots - Diana Ross, Charlie Chase, "Doc" McConnell, Archie Campbell, Tennessee Ernie Ford. However, local performers are just as talented, musical and funny (sometimes, all three!), carrying separate day jobs and night gigs in their thoughts and actions.
I have played the role of a news junkie lately, using my personal connections and headline news to create a blog to entertain myself. This morning, I sat in the garage, watching chipmunks stopping at my feet and Carolina wrens flying around my head looking for food and shelter inside my domicile. Their lives were my moment of fun, relaxation, humour and entertainment for a couple of hours. They taught me that I've been repeating myself in ways that may not add to advancement of my species. But then again, it might. If the 40-year old genius of the Monty Python writers/actors can keep them going and going and going (cue up the pink Energizer bunny beating a drum), then repetition is not a bad thing, I suppose.
We are who we are and can be who we are not. We can never be who we were but can appear to repeat the actions of our previous selves. In other words, time for more humour - pardon my Scottish - look on the shite side of life.
02 October 2009
Tip O' The Day
If you ever find yourself wandering the backroads of northern Alabama, follow my path (and the current advice of Southern Living magazine that we discovered as we paid our bill just before leaving the place) and stop by Wildflower Cafe and Country Store, built in 1867 in Mentone, Alabama, USA.
Sweet potato biscuits. Tomato pie. Spinach quiche. Strawberry crepes. Orange cinnamon tea. Organic coffee. Chess pie. Hummingbird cake. The owner in Bohemian attire. Woodstock, Southern style.
Read a free paper while we looked over the menu - The Historical News for September 2009 - like dipping your toes in DeSoto Falls, feeling an icy chill and the thrill of fast-flowing data surrounded by local sights and smells.
= = =
A nod to Felicia at the corner grocery market - your smile and immediate service keep bringing me back for more fresh fried chicken and banana puddin'. You can take the boy out of the country but you can't take good country cookin' out of a boy's stomach.
= = =
A nod, also, to Barbera and the unknown barista (tattoos included on more than one person, too) at Blue Willow. My wife'll let her friends know about the little girl dressup tea parties that they're giving upstairs now - I know she wishes she had a young niece to take to the cafe.
Thanks to Chris Walker and her son for the bus ride; to Lori M and Amanda for the midnight snack at Applebee's - maybe we can play with glow-in-the-dark necklaces again soon.
= = =
Recent movies: "The Color Purple," "Brazil," and "Defending Your Life."
Sweet potato biscuits. Tomato pie. Spinach quiche. Strawberry crepes. Orange cinnamon tea. Organic coffee. Chess pie. Hummingbird cake. The owner in Bohemian attire. Woodstock, Southern style.
Read a free paper while we looked over the menu - The Historical News for September 2009 - like dipping your toes in DeSoto Falls, feeling an icy chill and the thrill of fast-flowing data surrounded by local sights and smells.
= = =
A nod to Felicia at the corner grocery market - your smile and immediate service keep bringing me back for more fresh fried chicken and banana puddin'. You can take the boy out of the country but you can't take good country cookin' out of a boy's stomach.
= = =
A nod, also, to Barbera and the unknown barista (tattoos included on more than one person, too) at Blue Willow. My wife'll let her friends know about the little girl dressup tea parties that they're giving upstairs now - I know she wishes she had a young niece to take to the cafe.
Thanks to Chris Walker and her son for the bus ride; to Lori M and Amanda for the midnight snack at Applebee's - maybe we can play with glow-in-the-dark necklaces again soon.
= = =
Recent movies: "The Color Purple," "Brazil," and "Defending Your Life."
19 September 2009
Three Caves Moon Juice
Moon Pie seat cushions. Huntsville Land Trust. Tabled with Dennis, Phillip, Kathy, Henry and the Handi-Ride manager. Table #7. High-power lights, pillow cloud cover and one star peeking out to say hello.Canvas tents. Grasshoppers and katydids getting free rides. Limestone caves, social strata, aged rocks rocking, silent auction, tiki torches.
Dancing geeks, no togas required.
Fans of southern hues - Miss. St., USF, UA, UT, UGA. Magnolia leaves, Olde Towne Brewing Company (amber and Oktoberfest), Carrabba's Italian Grill.
Stories of people wrecking in the neighbourhood woods. Another going to '82 UT-UA game as photog/reporter for Decatur Daily. Dennis here for birthday tonight, along with 600 of his closest friends, getting a CD of the subdudes as wrapped gift.
Juice's juiced sax playing in the crowd, the drummer and the ensemble like The Commitments.
No famous rocket scientists about but plenty of pocket protector players. Proof once again tonight that a true Southern lady knows the college football scores before her man does, holding it from him like the last drop of Jack or Jim. My team lost but played respectably, 13-23, preventing the highly touted field general from throwing a TD.
On the bus ride from the caves, just who was poking and who was playing, hands hard to see in the dark?
Gotta go back to Miller's store, now under Mary's tutelage, and try the suggested Yeti's or dark Unibroue. Also get down to the Nook, where "OVER 200 BEERS ARE SERVED."
Guess it's time to see how the world is having fun, the G20 gearing up for more gambling sessions in Pennsylvania, I hear. Indonesia and Brazil should get in a three-way race with South Korea to see who gets to play second fiddle to the Big Eight next year. I never laid any mortar on the BRIC alliance, knowing as I do who's keeping whose hands out of someone else's pocket and signalling different plays behind the back - it ain't cheatin', it's bending the rules like a sprig of spring bamboo.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
