Tuesday, December 8, 2009
"Essential" Misuse
My husband has picked up on the perennial misuse of the word "essential," looking over my shoulder as I whimsically work my way through the Amazon website. This relates, of course, to all the holiday advertisements aimed at convincing us that each and every item they have to offer is, of course, "essential." A dog grooming brush? A re-fillable Keurig K-cup? A $2K plus LED TV? Certainly one must have new furniture for your holiday guests! I have to confess that it's hard not to fall prey to this illogic...even when I recently aired my incredulity at my suburban friend's Black Friday madness in order to get $200 off the price of a flat screen TV. Need vs. Want. We are sheep, indeed...prone to our whims and the advertisers' wiles...and never is it at a more fevered pitch than these days leading up to one of the most holy times of the year, Christmas. Having a very hairy dog in the house makes me think again about the grooming gadget...
Friday, November 27, 2009
"Name that Tune"...Seventy Years Hence
It's a drizzly cold November day, and I'm “writing” (quotations mine) on my little “Netbook” at the kitchen table while Best of Santana plays...”I ain't got nobody, that I can depend on...” Interesting thing is that my house guest, an 18 year old Turkish student, selected this CD from our vast (okay, not so vast really) collection. He likes the guitar solos and the multi-layered rhythm patterns. So do I. “Classic” Santana.
My job working with the elderly at a day program gives me the opportunity, on occasion, to play a “name that tune” game. There are a number of ways one can play this. One way is to use a pre-recorded cassette tape by the same name. A very pleasant, slightly southern sounding woman is the announcer and, possibly, the Hammond organist, too. Yes, it's about as corny as you could imagine, but many of our elders actually like it. It goes something like this:
“Are you ready to play, 'Name That Tune'?”...pause, pause...
”Good!”
“Let's listen now to our first selection” (home organ begins).
The sample ends and the microphone fumbles on. The pleasant voice returns:
“Can you Name that Tune?”...pause, pause...”
“It was 'The Man on the Flying Trapeze.'”
“ Are you ready for the next tune? Good!...”
Most of the tunes are recognizable by our group, and they are having a fun time together, which is the real object of the activity. They don't seem to notice or care that the musical style is cheesy; it's all about recognition and the memories the music evokes...and maybe the competitive aspect plays a small part. They certainly don't come to blows over it but occasionally a few petty arguments break out.
As my house guest and I, generations apart, enjoy Santana, I wonder if he will someday be playing "Name that Tune" and guessing “Black Magic Woman,” or perhaps “Bridge Over Troubled Water” or a Beatles tune, or Sting? And what might my three year old granddaughter be naming in her senior years? Imagine something by Eminem or Jay-Z...something that begins with a lot of beat, and an angry-sounding urban voice shouting something like, “YO!! YOU (expletive, expletive, expletive) bring-it-down, bring-it-down...” I'd like to hear THAT on the Hammond home organ!
My job working with the elderly at a day program gives me the opportunity, on occasion, to play a “name that tune” game. There are a number of ways one can play this. One way is to use a pre-recorded cassette tape by the same name. A very pleasant, slightly southern sounding woman is the announcer and, possibly, the Hammond organist, too. Yes, it's about as corny as you could imagine, but many of our elders actually like it. It goes something like this:
“Are you ready to play, 'Name That Tune'?”...pause, pause...
”Good!”
“Let's listen now to our first selection” (home organ begins).
The sample ends and the microphone fumbles on. The pleasant voice returns:
“Can you Name that Tune?”...pause, pause...”
“It was 'The Man on the Flying Trapeze.'”
“ Are you ready for the next tune? Good!...”
Most of the tunes are recognizable by our group, and they are having a fun time together, which is the real object of the activity. They don't seem to notice or care that the musical style is cheesy; it's all about recognition and the memories the music evokes...and maybe the competitive aspect plays a small part. They certainly don't come to blows over it but occasionally a few petty arguments break out.
As my house guest and I, generations apart, enjoy Santana, I wonder if he will someday be playing "Name that Tune" and guessing “Black Magic Woman,” or perhaps “Bridge Over Troubled Water” or a Beatles tune, or Sting? And what might my three year old granddaughter be naming in her senior years? Imagine something by Eminem or Jay-Z...something that begins with a lot of beat, and an angry-sounding urban voice shouting something like, “YO!! YOU (expletive, expletive, expletive) bring-it-down, bring-it-down...” I'd like to hear THAT on the Hammond home organ!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
And that's Community Theatre
I enter the swirling, busy, happy-milling-about current in the dressing room to prepare for my chorus role in "The Music Man." Our open dress rehearsal is more than packed, adding to an excited buzz as if it was Opening Night. The company, ages 10 to 60-something, stake out their corner of the studio (some were lucky enough -- but cramped nonetheless -- to be in the "real" dressing room) and get down to the business of shedding their current day personae for their "pretend" River City, Iowa characters of the early 1900s. We've journeyed a fair distance in time together with auditions way back last winter and rehearsals for most of us underway in early September. Now our fabulous crew of props, scene change folks, costumes, make-up and hair stylists are ready to work quickly and efficiently to transport all 47 people back to an earlier, gentler time. I marvel at their good humor and expertise.
Both windows of the studio/dressing room are open wide to the cold night air, with children perched on the deep window sills chatting, laughing and sharing snacks. Five or six different schools are represented in this cast...a fact that has very little bearing on how quickly the children have become friends.
"On stage in 10 minutes...10 minutes...," our Stage Manager intones. We climb up the narrow, circular staircase (20 steps, I count them every time as I wrangle my very full long skirt) and assemble onstage in front of the deep navy blue curtain. Our director, stands with his back to the audience, ready to give instructions before we begin our final dress rehearsal. "Remember, this is a rehearsal. We may have to stop for one thing or another. I've told the audience this..." his voice is calm but direct...and into my mind comes this: "don't look now, but there are 232 silent people watching this!" In some ways it's like getting ready to play soccer or basketball or field hockey. We just need to do a "Goooooo Team!!!" and then "break" to our positions. And, in a sense, we do. Doug finishes his talk and we purposefully leave the stage (trying to appear as professional as possible) to our opening positions.
My position is behind the curtain in the semi-darkness, listening to the overture by our amazing community-assembled orchestra followed by the driving "Rock Island" train scene. It's a great opening bit and our set crew devised a luggage rack that's flown into position over back-to-back benches to create the Pullman car. Brilliant. The actors -- my new friends who have been on this rehearsal journey with me -- file on stage to begin the show.
"Rock Island" is over, the music changes and it's almost my entrance...okay...the curtain is pulled back ("breasted") and it's time for me to enter as Adella Collins, tugging my two unruly boys behind me.
Both windows of the studio/dressing room are open wide to the cold night air, with children perched on the deep window sills chatting, laughing and sharing snacks. Five or six different schools are represented in this cast...a fact that has very little bearing on how quickly the children have become friends.
"On stage in 10 minutes...10 minutes...," our Stage Manager intones. We climb up the narrow, circular staircase (20 steps, I count them every time as I wrangle my very full long skirt) and assemble onstage in front of the deep navy blue curtain. Our director, stands with his back to the audience, ready to give instructions before we begin our final dress rehearsal. "Remember, this is a rehearsal. We may have to stop for one thing or another. I've told the audience this..." his voice is calm but direct...and into my mind comes this: "don't look now, but there are 232 silent people watching this!" In some ways it's like getting ready to play soccer or basketball or field hockey. We just need to do a "Goooooo Team!!!" and then "break" to our positions. And, in a sense, we do. Doug finishes his talk and we purposefully leave the stage (trying to appear as professional as possible) to our opening positions.
My position is behind the curtain in the semi-darkness, listening to the overture by our amazing community-assembled orchestra followed by the driving "Rock Island" train scene. It's a great opening bit and our set crew devised a luggage rack that's flown into position over back-to-back benches to create the Pullman car. Brilliant. The actors -- my new friends who have been on this rehearsal journey with me -- file on stage to begin the show.
"Rock Island" is over, the music changes and it's almost my entrance...okay...the curtain is pulled back ("breasted") and it's time for me to enter as Adella Collins, tugging my two unruly boys behind me.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Does anyone still journal...on paper?
My daughter has joined the league of bloggers...and, I admit, I had one going for a time (where is it in cyberspace now, I wonder?) and so it got me wondering if anyone keeps a journal on actual paper anymore? I'm not the first to realize that our instant communication modes have struck a death knell to more timeless means of saving one's thoughts. I am so grateful to have grown up in an age when letter writing and journal (diary) writing was common. While I mean to save the best, most heartfelt emails, I know that if my computer crashes they'll all be gone...along with my thousands of photos (another topic!). Blogging got me thinking about journaling, which I still do, although much more sporadically. Once upon a time, it was a pretty accurate record of my inner life.
Digging in some storage totes this morning, I unearthed my journals from years ago. Unfortunately I was not able to find my very first one...a small, bright yellow plastic coated one with a little brass colored key & lock...you know the kind, with the date stamped in small gold type at the top of each quarter-sheet sized page? Growing up in a family of seven with at least one inquisitive sister with whom I shared a room, that little brass lock was crucial to my wellbeing! I mean, if she ever found out who my secret love was? This was at age 10, maybe? To quote from a play I'm in, "Ye gads!"
My second journal, at age 15, dated September 1972, has a soft, fuzzy, sepia style photo of a couple holding hands walking along a beach with the profound quote above them: "Memories and love go hand in hand." On September 27th, I recorded a "significant" moment of being noticed....
"Mom said he kept looking at me as though he really appreciated me being there! Imagine, me, practically a 'nobody' with the boys at school, all of a sudden having two boys like me! ...the envy of the girl who introduced me to one of them, and the idol (practically) of the boy who introduced me to the other one (his friend!)."
And then, just to make doubly sure that my sister wouldn't be able to read any further, I switched to Spanish (or, more accurately, Spanglish)! Always hung-up about being chubby, I bemoaned the fact that I needed to lose at least five pounds before the next time I saw him, and ended my day's entry with, "Well, 100 sit ups now!"
And that still might be good advice for today! Nah...I'll take the dog for a walk instead.
Digging in some storage totes this morning, I unearthed my journals from years ago. Unfortunately I was not able to find my very first one...a small, bright yellow plastic coated one with a little brass colored key & lock...you know the kind, with the date stamped in small gold type at the top of each quarter-sheet sized page? Growing up in a family of seven with at least one inquisitive sister with whom I shared a room, that little brass lock was crucial to my wellbeing! I mean, if she ever found out who my secret love was? This was at age 10, maybe? To quote from a play I'm in, "Ye gads!"
My second journal, at age 15, dated September 1972, has a soft, fuzzy, sepia style photo of a couple holding hands walking along a beach with the profound quote above them: "Memories and love go hand in hand." On September 27th, I recorded a "significant" moment of being noticed....
"Mom said he kept looking at me as though he really appreciated me being there! Imagine, me, practically a 'nobody' with the boys at school, all of a sudden having two boys like me! ...the envy of the girl who introduced me to one of them, and the idol (practically) of the boy who introduced me to the other one (his friend!)."
And then, just to make doubly sure that my sister wouldn't be able to read any further, I switched to Spanish (or, more accurately, Spanglish)! Always hung-up about being chubby, I bemoaned the fact that I needed to lose at least five pounds before the next time I saw him, and ended my day's entry with, "Well, 100 sit ups now!"
And that still might be good advice for today! Nah...I'll take the dog for a walk instead.
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