Blessings

I usually choose to highlight my Italian heritage. After all, my father (technically half-Italian, half-Scots-with-a-hint-of-Cherokee-thrown-in) was raised by his Italian mother and her came-over-from-the-old-country parents. My mother loved her family but didn’t love the way she grew up – she’s a biopsychosocial oddity among the rednecks that are her kin, and so when raising my sister and I, they patterned our upbringing as closely as they could on his. Hence, daughters who were ¼ Italian by blood, but full-blooded third generation Italian-American in almost every other way. So I tend to neglect the parts of my heritage that aren’t consistent with that.

The rest of my heritage, incidentally, is a hodge-podge. My mother is what I call Generic Northern European White Mutt-Puppy, a blend of Scots, Welsh, English, Irish, probably a little French, maybe even some Polish or German. It’s hard to trace, for various reasons. All I can tell for sure, is that somewhere along the line, thanks to my Nana, we have Celtic heritage. (Pronounced KEL-tik, by the way – the NBA has millions of people mispronouncing it.) And there are parts of that heritage that have trickled down, though I’d best not get into the details of that. Still, the only Irish wisdom I remember from my Nana, consists of things like, “If you’re going to kill each other, do it quietly, and for God’s sake don’t leave a mess for me to clean up!”

I get just as sappy and weepy as anyone else, though, when I hear the old Irish blessings. More beautiful still are the rare times when it is heard in the original Gaelic, though even an Irish accent will do. My favorite, of course, is probably the best known of them all.

RCT- 8 will be on their way home soon. They’ve taken a lot of hits throughout their deployment; it seems that every time you hear about four or five Marines getting KIA, it’s some of these guys. One of mine from this group is already home (hi, Bob!!!) and soon to be a civilian. Another, my Baby Bruvver, will spend his 22nd birthday in transit. A third one of my guys, too, is part of this unit and will be heading home. And my favorite Chaplain (okay, my only Chaplain) will be, as well. And so, with every last bit of my Celtic heritage, and the rights and privileges thereof, I say to Naterz, Soup, and Dale:

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Love Dares You

It’s been almost four years now, since I got the e mail from my mother. The timing was perfect; I had recently discovered I was pregnant with my third child, under less-than-ideal circumstances (which, to be honest, describes all three pregnancies) and had no idea how to break the news. A normal person wouldn’t have done it like this, but I’m far from normal.

You see, the e mail was my mother’s notice that her dear friend, Sean Chamberlain, had passed away. Actually, Mama herself didn’t have much to say, other than that he had passed. She was a little shook up – being one of the people at his bedside, helping him be strong until it was time to let go, and comforting his family, well, that takes a toll. The body of the e mail, instead, was a tribute to Sean written by Mama’s best friend, my “Uncle Rod.” Sean was quite a wonderful human being; though I don’t recall if I ever met him (there’s that whole darn geographical distance thing) I know that for Mom, Mike, and Rod to all hold him in such high regard, he was a pretty special person.

So anyway, I get this e mail from my mother about Sean’s passing, and I figure this is a perfect moment. My response to her message, paraphrased: “Well, the Lord taketh away, and the Lord giveth. And it seems the Lord will be givething you a little something special. I’m due right around your birthday. I’ll be in the office for another half hour or so, XXX-XXX-XXXX, if you want to talk.” Ten minutes later, the phone rang, and the first words out of her mouth were, “Sounds like the Lord isn’t the only one who giveth!” (Later I was informed that Rod commented on how hard it must be, how much work, for Mama to live up to the expectation of always making a brilliant sarcastic remark, even in response to the most trying and/or serious issues.)

Speaking of serious issues. This year I will once again do something that, while it hasn’t always been in Sean’s memory (as my first one predated his death by a few years), is still very much an important and special endeavor. I’m walking in AIDS Walk Houston, a 10K charity walk. Now, y’all know me, even when I’m trying to raise money for this, that and the other thing, I never pressure any of you to get involved. I simply invite you to support me if you choose, whether that be financially or with an “attagirl.” So now, I’m extending a two-pronged invitation. If you live in (or visit) the Houston area, and would like to join us on Sunday, March 12th, I am part of the UH Graduate College of Social Work team and we’d be happy to have you be an honorary social work student for a day. If you do not live in the area, or don’t feel like walking, I invite you to support me, and our team, by following this link and making a donation.

http://aidswalkhouston.kintera.org/faf/r.asp?t=4&i=154231&u=154231-72325501&e=486748574

Again, I don’t ask for explanations if you don’t choose to get involved, and it won’t change the way I feel about you one bit. But if you do choose to support us, it will be greatly appreciated.

Much love,
Sara

“Cause love’s such an old-fashioned word, and love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the light and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves, this is our last dance…” – David Bowie and Queen

Luck Be a Lady

So Cole mentioned last night that some football team had won some game. I gathered from the way he said it, that I was supposed to recognize some degree of significance. Well, folks, sports are at least one area in which I am completely stereotypically girly. I know nada. I finally determined (okay, he was quickly kind enough to flat-out tell me) that this past weekend held the AFC and NFC championships, and therefore we now know who will be in the Superbowl. Okay, I must have SOME sports knowledge, since he didn't actually say "AFC" and "NFC," I knew that much on my own. Anywho. So I asked who we were rooting for, since for things about which I have absolutely no clue, I tend to go with the opinion of someone more knowledgable than myself, especially someone whose opinion I actually give a rat's butt about. Basically it's six of one, half a dozen of the other, but then again, Seattle is a prettier place. Okay. I'll go for Seattle.

Now, there was a time that I did give a rat's butt about certain sports, football even being one of them. That was back in my high school days, when... well, I guess the statute of limitations has run out by now, so I'll go ahead and confess. See, up until I moved into Oilers-then-Texans territory, I used to just root for whichever team was my home team. Growing up in the SF Bay Area, that was the 49ers for football, and the Oakland A's for baseball. Both teams were in their collective heyday in the late 80s. And I managed to make a fair chunk of change betting on the Superbowl and the World Series. Okay, it was only $20-$50 a pop, and I didn't have a bookie or anything - my friend who gave me a ride to school was not likely to break my legs if I didn't pay up. As it happened, though, I never needed to.

The baseball story is okay, but I'll save it for another day, I have somewhere I need to be. But the Superbowl... ah, yes, the Superbowl... that would have been in, oh, January of 1990, if I remember right, so let's Google it and see...

Okay, there we go. Yes, Superbowl XXIV, 1990. The Niners were my team, and a friend was rooting for the Broncos. He was sure his team was going to win, and we had $50 on the line. He was so sure, in fact, that he was going to let me set the point spread. Boldly, I declared "10!" Three times, he asked me if I was sure, and three times I assured him I was. "Okay, it's your funeral," he smirked. I went home that afternoon.

"Daddy... what's a point spread?"

Daddy explained it to me and thankfully didn't ask me why I wanted to know, or why my face turned even paler than it normally is after he explained. I had just dug my own grave, for surely a Superbowl would be way too close, and no team, no matter how good, could beat a 10 point spread on the Big Game.

Final Score: San Francisco, 55, Denver, 10. More importantly, Final Score: Sara, pulled a miracle out of her ass, Barry, jaw hit the floor.

Somehow I don't think I'll ever get that lucky again. And maybe that's why that was the last sports bet I ever made.

Retail Therapy

I used to scoff at the notion, but in the last few years I've learned just how true it can be... The other day, I pulled my new work clothes (ahem... and some CDs...) out of layaway. That same night I had to rectify the problem of new brown skirts, but no brown shoes. And with new work clothes, I really did need new makeup too... and I had promised DVDs to one of my soldiers...

So now, tonight, I'm on my way to go birthday shopping for Red - who told that kid she could get so big, anyway? NINE, fer cryin' out loud!! But I also need workout clothes, since I'm going to start going to the gym again. And maybe some more plastic containers, to start organizing my life (read: packing up my crap)... and a new file for just my grant stuff... and if the wait isn't too long, my color needed a touch-up... and... and...

I'm almost done, actually, and all the spending so far has been justifiable, except maybe the CDs and DVDs, which I think count as quality-of-life issues. I do have a trip to the eye doctor on my to-do list, and a trip to the dentist too, but not tonight. One large debt is paid off, another soon-to be. Life... is good.

Innit, though?

Ring of Fiew

So I got my CDs out of layaway today, and now I’m happily ripping them into my library at work. Problem is, for whatever reason, when I rip songs I usually have to enter the song title and artist name manually. Something to do with computer settings that I’m too lazy to learn how to change. And I’m entering in the song titles for my Johnny Cash CD, and mistyping and correcting as I go. Somehow, “Ring of Fire” came out as “Ring of Fiew.” Which immediately got me thinking of the Elmer Fudd version of “Fire,” as recorded by the Pointer Sisters, and written (if I’m not mistaken) by Bruce Springsteen.

Years back, I was hanging at my-drinking-buddy-Anthony’s place, waiting for him to get out of the shower so we could go out and shoot pool or some such thing. And “Fire” came on the radio just as he was coming out. I made a comment that I could never hear that song without thinking of the Elmer Fudd version… and he looked at me like I was crazy. Had no idea what I was talking about, and didn’t seem to believe me when I explained it. Imagine his surprise when, as the song ended, the DJ made the same comment as I had about Elmer Fudd.

So now, take it a step further, and imagine the sound in my mind, as I read my own mistyped words. “Ring of Fiew.” I can see my mother now, clenching her head in agony as Johnny Cash’s voice and June Carter’s lyrics ring in her own ears, forevermore in the lisping bray of Elmer Fudd. Because, of course, I can no longer get that sound out of my head, and may well be scarred for life.

Somewhere, Johnny and June are either rolling over in their graves, or laughing in spite of themselves. I’m inclined to believe laughing.

Just Another Manic Tuesday

Let me start by saying, I am well aware that it’s not cool to make fun of mental illness. In fact, I’m not making fun at all, of my multiple psychological disorders. (So sorry, none of the really fun ones!)

I just happened to notice today that I’m in a manic phase. Yep, lucky me, I have bipolar disorder… a minor case, I’m functional without medication (or any therapy more serious than hot chocolate with Bailey’s or watching “Steel Magnolias” to induce a good cry). I noticed the phase at lunch, when I kept flitting through the break room between two work areas, trying to decide exactly what I was going to do and where I was going to do it.

I love my manic phases. I actually get a lot accomplished during those, so the timing is perfect, as I’m meeting with an organization I’m trying to write grants for tomorrow, and starting classes for the semester tonight. I’m upbeat, which is good since we had corporate-office people in the building today. But mostly, I just love not being depressed. Real simple. Just not being depressed.

This should be a great week.

Cover Girl

This started, as many posts do, with the radio… driving home from a VERY productive meeting for our care package drive (expect more on that one soon), all three of my kids were subjected to a little nostalgia, courtesy of two of my fellow Musketeers and the local 80s station. The cheese was in full swing, and we started talking about memories and music in general. Somewhere along the line, though, the conversation turned to remakes. I think it was when I said something about Metallica doing a cover of Bob Seger’s “Turn the Page.” One of the very few occasions where I was not offended by a remake.

A few years back, Madonna covered Don McLean’s “American Pie.” Sorry to all you Madonna (or as my mom and I call her, McDonna) fans – I like her sometimes, but this particular time was just a big mistake. It was wrong, as only Madonna can be wrong. Heresy. Sacrilege. So, too, is the double-blow dealt with the Britney Spears covers of “Satisfaction” and “I Love Rock n Roll,” but then again, Britney herself is just a crime against talent. To think, there are people like LaToya London out there struggling to get a CD cut, and that little two-bit… but I digress.

I have mixed feelings about the chick who did Bryan Adams’ “Heaven” as an upbeat dance number. And it was recently pointed out to me that Quiet Riot’s career-launching (however short-lived said career was) “Cum on Feel the Noize” was in fact a remake, and I have to admit I really like that song. I loved Billy Idol doing “Mony Mony.” Remakes, in and of themselves, aren’t evil or wrong. It just has to be done carefully… the right way… for the right reasons.

There’s been a rash in the past few years (or maybe I’m just noticing it because my girls are the right age) of “tween” movies that do remakes of songs that were hits when I was young. Frequently I will be watching a DVD with my girls, and interrupting to dig out my own CDs to show them what “Changes” and “Somebody to Love” originally sounded like. I catch myself telling the girls how old their mother was when the song first came out, or how much older than their mother the song is… It really freaks them out when, every now and then, I’ll tell them that a song they like, was popular when their Bita, my mother, was a teenager. Their eyes get wide, as though they didn’t realize there even was music back then. Me, I’m just happy that they like anything other than the flood of country they always hear when they’re with their grandmother. And now that Miah is back with her old babysitter, I’m thrilled to hear her sing along, “Try to set the night on… FY-UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” or ask me, “Mommy, do you know the song with the Twentieth Century Fox?” And the fact that all four of us bop along happily every time “Pour Some Sugar on Me” comes on, makes my heart swell with pride. No matter what, it seems these girls really are my kids…

What's In A Name?

Got this as an e mail from a friend; if you don't like these kinds of things, just skip down to the end, where I actually have something to say...

1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (your pet and street name)
Tabby Irving
2. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME: (grandfather/grandmother on mother's side first name, favorite candy)
Florence Special Dark
3. YOUR "FLY GIRL/GUY" NAME: (first initial of first name, first three letters of your last name)
S-Far
4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite animal, name of high school mascot)
Dolphin Bruin
5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born)
Christine Vallejo
6. YOUR OPPOSITE SEX NAME: (name of opposite sex parent, cell phone Company you use)
Al Cingular
7. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (first 3 letters of your last name, last 3 letters of mother's maiden name, first 3 letters of your pet's name)
Farwiltab

Okay... so... this semi-relates to what I was thinking about this morning on the way to work. The radio was playing "Detroit Rock City" by KISS. Now, anyone who knows me knows that my mind jumps around more than a drop of cold water on a hot griddle, so it's only natural that the song got me to thinking (as any KISS song does) of just how hot Paul Stanley is... which made me think of Gene Simmons, who I wouldn't call hot, so much as eerily attractive. Then I thought, were they all hot? Who were all the members of KISS, anyway? Paul, Gene, Peter Criss... was Peter the one who left for a while and came back, or was that Ace Frehley?

Ace Frehley.

I'm guessing that's not his given name. I'm guessing most people (rock stars not included) don't usually name their kids things like "Ace." Because really, what are you setting that child up for in the future? What kind of job do you have, with a name like "Ace?" Not nickname, but given name. Not many doctors named Ace. Nor lawyers. Nor accountants, or human resource managers, or even teachers. Nope. Naming your child "Ace" limits him to things like race-car driver, heavy metal guitar player, pet detective... daredevil... entry-level auto mechanic (a noble profession, to be sure, but not something most parents wish for their children - make my kid the manager, please!)... adult film star... Yeah. Not many jobs with good earning potential, that it's also easy to break into as a career. Okay, maybe the film thing, but other than that...

So take heed, parents-to-be... leave your Ace's and your Apple's (dear God, Gwyneth Paltrow is pregnant again, are we expecting an Orange?) and your Myrikal's behind... or if you have to give your kid an odd name (says the mother of Coco) at least bury it within a normal one, or give the kid a more stable middle name to use. Because maybe all poor Ace Frehley ever wanted, was to be a CPA.

Country Boys

I'm half-watching an episode of Frontline, and the story tonight is about a couple of teenage boys who are living very, very hard lives in Appalachia. One of the boys has no parents to speak of - apparently when he was 12, his father walked into a strip club with an AK47, shot and killed his stepmother (who worked there) and then turned the gun on himself. The other boy is in some special education classes, and he does have parents - kind of. The boy talks candidly about his father, who is a non-functional alcoholic, can't hold a job, etc. And it struck me as I was listening... most of the people speaking in this story have very thick accents, a lot of twang to their voices. And I noticed how carefully the second boy is speaking. He speaks slowly, deliberately, in measured tones and with very precise diction. In short, he appears to be going to a great deal of effort to supress his own accent. He can't help but have one, I would imagine, but he's just so careful. And that, above everything else, is what grips me.

It's amazing, how some people can struggle through hardships of various kinds and come out of it relatively unscathed. Well, really I guess nobody ever comes out of things like this unscathed, but some certainly remain (or perhaps become?) well-adjusted in life. And I wonder how people have the strength to do it. Me, I've been through some rough spots over the last... oh... twelve years or so. In fact, I think I can accurately say that I've had a few really good months in that span of time, but the majority of it has been a struggle, both external and internal. But I'm a grown woman, and moreover, I'm a mom, who has to maintain some degree of control, of strength, of... I don't know, maybe fortitude is a good word? These boys, they're just boys. Just very young about-to-be-men, who in some ways are already required to be men. At least I got to have a childhood, and a very good one. I was well-provided-for, had plenty of support, good role models of both genders, a good background in general. (I know, what the hell happened?!?!) Yet still it's been difficult for me. How much more difficult must it be, for boys like this? How hard must it be to be 16, hyper-aware of your family's inadequacies, struggling to overcome a perhaps misapplied label of learning disabilities, and struggling to supress something as simple and intrinsic as an accent, as the same accent used by the people who surround you...

I know a few people who have "come up hard." Some of them, I know a lot of the stories and a lot of the past. Others, it's small hints, parts of stories, whatever it isn't too painful to tell. But off the top of my head, I can think of four people who've come out of some pretty tough situations, who have turned out to be some pretty impressive people - people I admire, whose company I enjoy. As for my own struggles, well, I never wanted my own resilience, my own strength, to be gained this way. I look back every now and then and remember the girl I was when I first moved to Texas, when I first left the proverbial nest. I liked that girl; she was happy, optimistic, ambitious, ready to conquer the world. But she was also somewhat sheltered... somewhat fragile... certainly naive... not particularly strong. The girl I used to be is more fun, possibly more likeable - but the woman I've become, is the one I'd rather be with when the chips are down.

Sutherlands

So I'm watching the People's Choice Awards, and that in itself is kinda silly because I hardly ever watch TV, go to the movies, or listen to current music, yet somehow I want to know who and what is popular. They come to the part where they're naming Favorite Actor in a Drama, and the very handsome Keifer Sutherland is up for his role in "24." And I'm thinking, Keifer Sutherland is hot. Doesn't matter that he's getting a little up in years, doesn't matter that he's no longer the cute young vampire in "The Lost Boys," he's still hot. Very hot.

As they were about to announce the winner, the camera flashed to Donald Sutherland... proud papa waiting to see if his boy was a winner. And it crossed my mind... Donald Sutherland is hot. The man could well be old enough to be my grandfather, but he's hot. And for that matter, I'm overly fond of Harrison Ford (who also made an appearance on the show), Tommy Lee Jones, and several other men who are old enough to be, at the very least, my father.

Why am I making this post? Who knows. Probably just because it's fresh in my mind, or possibly just because I find it kinda odd... kinda interesting... and wondering if anyone out there is brave enough to admit that they, too, have Golden Pond Fever...

"A Sign From God is Coming Soon"

Driving to Tomball tonight (Tomball is roughly on the other side of nowhere, but I go there fairly often) I passed a church... well.. passed a lot of churches, but this one frightened me a bit. To get to Tomball you have to drive north of Houston into Spring, which is a decent enough suburb, and then hang a left and drive waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay out, through a lot of countryside and through some little "old town" areas. Kinda sorta country, or at least what passes for it when you're still within the orbit of the fourth largest city in the US. And as I pass this one church, its billboard read, "A Sign From God is Coming Soon."

So anyway... I guess part of what made it creep me out, is that I've been reading a book about Stephen King, and particularly his earlier works. The book itself was published in the early 80s, and so far we've dealt with a lot of short stories, as well as classics like Cujo, Carrie, The Shining, and The Stand. So what, might you ask, does this have to do with the sign on the church? Well, at least one of the short stories that gets its own chapter, is rather apocalyptic, as is The Stand. And, as anything apocalyptic, there are some interesting social observations about religion there. And religious people scare me a little. Or at least, the apocalyptic ones do.

Follow me?

I guess it's just the idea that "a sign from God is coming soon"... seems rather ominous. On the one hand, signs from God come to me all the time. On the other hand, I suspect they're talking about something on a whole other level. Haven't we had enough of the signs from God? Really? I mean, 2005 was kind of a brutal, apocalyptic year, wasn't it? Exactly what more does He have to say?!?!?

Pupcake

It’s the story I know Mama and Chelle have been secretly, silently waiting for since they’ve started reading this blog. It’s the story that must be told. The greatest story ever told. The Story of Pupcake. I warn you in advance, it may just be one of those you-had-to-be-there kind of stories, but I’ll do my best to do it justice (and invite the other involved parties, to toss in their two cents).

So here I was, roughly seven years old. I was a huge fan of the whole Strawberry Shortcake franchise (Strawberry was later unceremoniously dumped for the Care Bears, but we won’t get into the sad, bitter details of that). At some point, I think it was during the summer, I had gotten sick. Not seriously ill, but sick enough that someone (my parents? one of my grandmothers, both of whom would use any excuse to give us presents?) had given me a stuffed toy that was supposed to be a birthday present. Specifically, a stuffed Pupcake. Now, for those of you who only know the franchise in its current incarnation, Pupcake is the little puppy that belongs to Strawberry. Purists from the old days know that Pupcake really belonged to her simpering boyfriend, Huckleberry Pie, to whom a pet frog is now ascribed.

I loved that stuffed puppy. At the time, our beloved dog had run away, a spaniel named Belle who had been part of our family longer than I had. In fact, for most of my infancy she had believed me to be her puppy, and was suitably protective of me. So Belle was gone, and we had yet to run through our succession of cats. Pupcake was all I had.

It had been only one or two years since Shelly had been deemed old enough for a bedroom of her own, so we went from a shared bedroom and a shared playroom, to separate bedrooms. For some reason, the dark green sofa-bed that had once been in the playroom, became part of my bedroom furniture. One night, my sister was expecting company and so she and my mother came into my bedroom, where I was already snuggled up under the covers but not yet sleeping, to liberate the mattress from the sofa-bed. I can still see it in my mind today, in that horrible slow-motion of dreams, where you know something terrible is happening but you are powerless to stop it…

Pupcake was perched across the top of the sofa-bed…

Mama and Shelly opened up the sofa-bed to pull the mattress out…

As they maneuvered it out and closed the bed again, the bed came away from the wall…

Pupcake tumbled into the space between sofa-bed and wall…

Mama and Shelly “accidentally” pushed the bed back up against the wall…

And I screamed in horror, “YOU SQUISHED PUPCAKE!!!!” and burst into hysterical tears.

Mama and Shelly were hysterical too. With laughter. Summoned by the cacophony (which I know how to spell, but still can’t really pronounce), in bounded my Daddy, my hero. With a glare that could stop a Mack truck and a bellow of “What’s going on in here?!?!” he rescued me from their ridiculing laughter. Well… for a few seconds; they just couldn’t stop for long, even in the face of his anger. In retrospect, I suppose I can see how it might have been funny… or would have been, if not for the tormented, tear-stained face of Little Baby Sara, heartbroken that her beloved Pupcake was squished. Yes, my analyst made a small fortune off of that single incident.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration, the analyst part. But the rest of it is true. I’ve forgiven Mama and Shelly, and they’ve more than made it up to me over the years. Daddy was, and remains, my hero and my knight in shining armor… and Pupcake… well… I don’t really know what happened to Pupcake over the years. I know that he recovered fairly well from the incident, though he never quite regained his original shape. And as I mentioned, eventually Strawberry and her cohorts were relegated to the bottom of the toybox, phased out slowly but surely by Tenderheart Bear and Love-A-Lot Bear and Wish Bear. But for that one magical summer, Pupcake and I…

Ah hell… even I can’t say it with a straight face.

Roll Call!!!

Okay, I know there are some of you out there that read this on a fairly regular basis. And every now and then I get surprised by a comment either posted here, or in e mail or conversations, from someone I didn't realize was watching. (Most notable case, if it is indeed true, was when recently my post about the song "Already Gone" received a comment from someone stating he was Jack Tempchin, one of the song's co-writers, thanking me for mentioning him in my blog. I floated, starstruck, for days on that one...)

So, because I am a born ham who loves to have an audience, I'm making one small, simple request. If you're reading this, whether regularly or semi-regularly, please just let me know. Make a comment here, or send me an e mail if you prefer the whole world not know who you are, but I'd love to see just how many people I'm doing this for!

Lineups

I heard on the radio the other day, that The Who will be touring again soon. Hard for me to accept. I came to know them in their post-Keith-Moon days, but it hasn't been that long since John Entwhistle passed. Still, Pete and Roger are still out there and still working together, and I guess that's enough for it to still be The Who. Some bands can survive that. Others can't. Cole says that in an interview with Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr, a reporter once asked if the Beatles would ever get back together. Apparently it was Ringo who said, essentially, that as long as John stayed dead, it wasn't likely. I love that.

A few years back, "The Doors" toured. That was just SO wrong. Initially it was all the surviving members, with the Cult's Ian Astbury stepping in for Jimmy. At some point, for health reasons or something, drummer John Densmore was to be replaced by Stewart Copeland (of the Police), but if I recall correctly the tour was cancelled instead, or cut short. Stewart Copeland I could have accepted. Ian Astbury, I could not. Now, I like Ian Astbury, really I do. It's just that the Doors, couldn't really be The Doors without Jim. The John substitution was only marginally acceptable because John was ill...

The lineup of the Eagles has changed over the years, and between the last two big tours they dropped Don Felder. But the current lineup of Don Henley, Glenn Frey, Joe Walsh, and Tim Schmidt, is pretty well everyone they need in order to be the Eagles. Bernie Leadon was great. Randy Meisner was great. But ultimately, it's Don and Glenn and Joe and Tim, without whom it just wouldn't be the same band.

Zeppelin survived the loss of John Bonham, more or less, but to lose Plant or Page would render them... well... a different band.

The Stones lost Brian Jones. And another one dropped off somewhere along the line, I think, but since it wasn't Mick or Keith, it's hard to say. Come to think of it, a lot of times it's the lead singer, and perhaps also the lead guitarist, without whom the band ceases to be itself. Then again, AC/DC survived the loss of Bonn Scott almost seamlessly. Doesn't hurt that his replacement... Brian someone?... sounds just like him. But still.

No real point to this post, really, and nowhere to go from here. Just an interesting observation at the time, that I'm now just a little too tired to think about any more. 5:45 a.m. comes early.

Guilty Pleasures

You gotta love those VH-1 "Best of" and "Worst of" shows. Right now I'm at my friend's place, semi-watching "The 40 Most Awesomely Bad Dirrty Songs Ever."

My problem? I like some of these songs. In fact, love some of them.

Now, I agree with their assessment on some of the songs. Rod Stewart's "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy," Color Me Badd (or is that Color Me Awfull?) with "Sex You Up"... But on the other hand... Billy Idol's "Cradle of Love" was a fun song, I thought, as was the Divynyls (sp?) "I Touch Myself." And Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me" is a dance floor classic. Especially if the dance floor involves a pole and mirrored tiles, but I digress. My point is, I always walk away from these "Awesomely Bad" shows with a little twinge, because apparently I have a deep-seated tendency to like certain things that many people consider... well.. awesomely bad.

One more note on that: The show is hosted by Janice Dickinson, self-proclaimed World's First Supermodel (wasn't she one of Barker's Beauties on "The Price is Right"?). Have you seen her lately? Apparently she's the victim of the Most Awesomely Bad Plastic Surgery Ever.

Great. KISS made the list twice, once with "Lick It Up" and once with "Let's Put the X in Sex." *sigh* I guess I'm a hopeless case.

Manisms

I lifted this from a friend's blog; I just couldn't help it. Though to be fair, I know a few men who aren't quite this bad.

THE FOLLOWING IS A LIST OF "MANISMS":

"I'M GOING FISHING"

Translated: I'm going to drink myself dangerously
stupid and stand by a stream with a stick in my hand, while the fish swim by in complete safety.

"IT'S A GUY THING"

Translated: "There is no rational thought pattern
connected with it and you have no chance at all of making it logical".

"CAN I HELP WITH DINNER?"

Translated: "Why isn't it already on the table?"

"UH HUH", "SURE, HONEY", OR "YES,
DEAR"

Translated: Absolutely nothing. It's a conditioned response.

"IT WOULD TAKE TOO LONG TO EXPLAIN"

Translated: "I have no idea how it works."

I WAS LISTENING TO YOU IT'S JUST THAT I HAVE THINGS ON MY MIND."

Translated: "I was wondering if that red-head over there is wearing a bra."

"TAKE A BREAK HONEY, YOU'RE WORKING TOO HARD".

Translated: "I can't hear the game over the vacuum cleaner."

"THAT'S INTERESTING, DEAR."

Translated: "Are you still talking?"

"YOU KNOW HOW BAD MY MEMORY IS."

Translated: "I remember the theme song to 'F
Troop', the address of the first girl I ever kissed, and the vehicle identification numbers of every car I've ever owned, but I forgot your birthday."

"I WAS JUST THINKING ABOUT YOU, AND GOT YOU THESE ROSES".

Translated: "The girl selling them on the corner
was a real babe."

"OH, DON'T FUSS. I JUST CUT MYSELF, IT'S
NO BIG DEAL."

Translated: "I have actually severed a limb, but
will bleed to death before I admit that I'm hurt."

"HEY, I'VE GOT MY REASONS FOR WHAT I'M DOING".

Translated: "And I sure hope I think of some pretty soon."

"I CAN'T FIND IT."

Translated: "It didn't fall into my outstretched
hands, so I'm completely clueless."

"WHAT DID I DO THIS TIME?"

Translated: "What did you catch me at?"

"I HEARD YOU."

Translated: "I haven't the foggiest clue what
you just said and am hoping desperately that I can fake it well enough so that you don't spend the next 3 days yelling at me."

"YOU KNOW I COULD NEVER LOVE ANYONE ELSE."

Translated: "I am used to the way you yell at me and realize it could be worse."

"YOU LOOK TERRIFIC"

Translated: "Oh, God, please don't try on one
more outfit, I'm starving."

"I'M NOT LOST. I KNOW EXACTLY WHERE WE ARE."

Translated: "No one will ever see us alive again."

Definitive

I was rushing to buy a pair of shoes and still make it back to work within my lunch hour, and hurried past the ladies’ clothing. It burned me that so many cute things caught my eye and I had neither the time nor the money to do anything about it. But when I had to kill a couple of hours after work, I suddenly remembered that sweetest of retail words… layaway! So, back to Wal-Mart (yes, I know, evil corporate giant, yaddah yaddah yaddah, but it sure helps to shop there when you’re broke) and into the clothing aisles to go on a briefly-delayed-gratification shopping spree. Cute new PJs, five or six tops acceptable for work, two lovely skirts… and then… and then… I headed for the music section.

Several things lately have reminded me just how important music is in my life, and just how much of an effort I really need to make, into bringing it back into my life. So there are now about 6-8 CDs waiting to be paid out of layaway along with the little refresher to my wardrobe. One, of course, is a collection of Johnny Cash. Most of them, in fact, are “best of” or “definitive” collections of some sort, and that got me to thinking about a couple of things. Let’s handle one for now, and then in the interest of me getting to sleep at a semi-reasonable hour, we may come back to the other later. “Definitive” collections.

You see, I doubt there is a single writer, poet, musician, or artist of any kind, for whom there is universal agreement as to which of their works are “definitive.” No collection is really complete unless it has everything they’ve ever done, including the little tangents (i.e. Eric Clapton’s guest work on Phil Collins albums). Related to the concept of definitive, is the concept of an artist’s best single piece of work. In an earlier post, I couldn’t name the best Don Henley song ever recorded, nor could I choose one solo song, one Eagles song, etc. But I did state that there is one best Eagles album ever, and it isn’t “Hotel California.” I know you were just waiting with bated breath for what I had to say on that one so here we go. Best Eagles album ever: “On the Border.” Why? It has a couple of certifiable, recognizable hits that people love. One is (the also previously referenced) “Already Gone,” another is perhaps one of their best ballads ever, “Best of My Love.” But it’s also full of lesser-knowns like “James Dean” and the Tom Waits cover, “Ol’ 55.” And then there’s my absolute favorite, “You Never Cry Like a Lover.” Yep. Fabulous album.

Which also gets me to thinking about other bands, and what album of theirs I would consider the one to buy (if you lived on some weird planet where you could only buy one album by a given artist, and where downloads and the CD equivalent of “mix tapes” did not exist).

U2 – Tough call here, and I’m quite tempted to say “Achtung Baby,” which was just a fabulous album and has a few of my favorite songs by them. But if you really want the band in all their glory, dancing on the fine line between politics and poetry, you can’t beat “The Joshua Tree.” (Or maybe it’s just the take-off of the album cover on a Bloom County collection published a year or two later?)

The Who – “Who’s Next.” No questions asked. Forget the fact that it could probably accurately be called “Theme Songs from CSI, CSI: Miami, CSI: New York and Six Franchises Yet To Come,” it’s still a kick-ass album. And I’m still very proud to be one of the few people my age, who knows that the song everyone calls “Teenage Wasteland” is actually called “Baba O’Reilly.”

The Doors – You have to understand, this is a hard call. I love my Doors. I love my Jimmy. Too much of what they did is really good… and too much of it is really disturbing, too. (I once did a college term paper on Freudian Dream Imagery in the Music and Poetry of Jim Morrison. A-.) But if I had to choose one, it would be their second album, the self-titled “The Doors.” “Break on Through,” “Soul Kitchen,” “Twentieth Century Fox,” and of course the definitive “Light My Fire.” They were never as spot-on, as they were with that album.

Led Zeppelin – Toss up, I think, between "IV" and "II." Though I will say, “Stairway to Heaven,” with arguably one of the best and best-known guitar riffs in the free world, isn’t the reason for IV. “Misty Mountain Hop” and “Going to California” are the ones that grip me from that one. Now, I don’t claim to be a huge Zep fan, nor am I an expert by a long shot, so feel free to argue with me there. But if I had to choose… "IV." Just barely.

Jimi Hendrix – “Axis: Bold as Love.” It just is. Accept that, buy the CD, and move on.

Okay. That’s my lecture for today. Maybe tomorrow, we can discuss two things: the one CD you would HAVE to have if you were ever trapped on a desert island (since that’s so likely), and CDs that you would give someone to broaden their musical knowledge, something that many people have never thought of but would really love. I'm fond of sharing like that. (So if you've never heard any Gipsy Kings or Jonny Lang... do yourself a favor and put them on your shopping list.)

The Obligatory New Year's Post

I’ve never been too good at keeping New Year’s resolutions – who is? They’ve worked for me exactly twice. First in 1997; I resolved to lose 10 lbs. by the end of the month. Now, that may seem like a lofty goal, but then again, I was pregnant with Red at the time and she was due on the 14th. Even coming late on the 22nd, I was still within the deadline. The next resolution I kept, was in 1998. I left Red and the Clone’s father on January 1 of that year, and it was quite probably the smartest move I ever made. (Now if I can just get around to that whole “legal divorce” thing…)

So this year, I’m trying a different kind of resolution, one that I think I can handle. It goes against everything I’ve been taught in my multiple classes dealing with human service organizations, strategic planning, outcome measures, even research and statistics. In there, goals are supposed to be SMART – specific, measurable, action-oriented, reasonable, and timely. These goals aren’t really SMART. They’re vague, esoteric, reachable, comfortable. But who knows what the hell VERC means? Anywho… my goals for 2006:

1) Commit to positive change
2) Pay more attention to the world around me, and to who might need something from me, or who might have something to offer in my quest for growth
3) Learn when to give and when (and how) to receive graciously
4) Give thanks every day
5) When something bad happens, allow myself to feel upset, process the negative emotions – and then let them go
6) When I catch myself doing something self-destructive, stop
7) When I think about the things I wish I could/would/did do, stop stalling and start doing

Sounds simple in some ways, much more difficult in others. But 2005 was a very, very difficult year, for me, for a lot of the people I know – heck, it was a difficult year for the whole planet! And I just can’t help but think that 2006 will be better. Just as much of a shake-up, I think, but a good shake-up.

Blessings to you and yours in 2006!