Purple Bunny pointed out today that it's possible that YHWH's wreck on Friday was an attempt by the transportation curse to get me. Her theory is not without merit since YHWH was driving my car. Hmmm... I'm getting a donkey.
I'm having World Cup withdrawals. I've gotten used to following the games during the day and now I can't remember how I made it without them to get me through the day.
Super Giant Killer asked me yesterday if Kashmir was still contested (not exactly sure where she picked up that it was or when she mastered the use of the word 'contested'). I told her it was still contested and she said, "Good! I've decided to be the queen of Kashmir when I grow up and it will be much easier to take over if it's divided." I used to joke that she was going to take over the world someday and now I'm starting to worry.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
Poor Ol' Bess Is Dead
I had intended to simply comment on Gouldie's post about mixtapes, but it caused such a wellspring of memories and emotions, I had to glom on and make a whole new post. At first, when I read Gouldie's post, I was like, "Yeah. Exactly. I could've written this." I was at the desk and I didn't really digest it at at the time except to be reminded of a funny episode on This American Life that Sarah Vowell did on mixtapes (she's from near Muskogee, y'know).
But then after work I had to go to the Volvo place to clean out our newly demolished car. Friday afternoon YHWH and both girls and a friend were involved in a pretty bad crash. They were cruising along on a main street and a truck barrelled out in front of them from an apartment complex and almost cleared them - almost. Airbags deployed, windows shattered, the whole thing. The cop said it was pretty bad; if they hadn't been in a Volvo, he'd hate to think how bad. The only injury was a broken finger from the airbag. The perp fled the scene - 'twas a hit and run. So, I had to go get all the belongings out of it. Man, I loved that car. Well, anyway I'm rooting around under the seats amongst the rotting french fries and sticky lint-covered gum, Barbie shoes, pennies, and straw wrappers and I reach way under the front passenger seat and feel a tape (the car didn't have a CD player, but I had XM, so I hadn't listened to tapes in forever). I pull it out and whaddayaknow...
It's a mixtape from Adjective Queen! Oh my God that was the worst tape ever made. I couldn't stand one song on there. And this is from a woman who adored DeeeLite! (I will find my video of the Queen dancing to "Groove Is In the Heart" and post it on here.)
On the way home I thought more about mixtapes. I have made hundreds of them. I'm with you, Gouldie, there's nothing like getting out every album you own and sitting in front of the stereo for hours making mixtapes. You have to listen to every song while it records; there's no other way. You get to hear songs you haven't heard in forever. Songs you thought you hated, but now you like. You tape, erase, retape; it goes on for hours. Clicks never bothered me and I got pretty good at making it go seemlessly between songs. It was a skillful endeavor. Not like these young whippersnappers today with their pods and their shiny silver things. It's just not the same. People just throw any old song on a CD mix these days and geez with shuffle, CDs and mp3 players lose the whole mood of the thing. It's like turning the Mona Lisa at a 90 degree angle or something. I make them on CD now, too, but it's just not as fun.
My friends and I frequently tried to DJ over the songs which got pretty hilarious. I still have one called Poem Break my college pal and I made which features really sick poems between all the songs. It was so awesome to listen to the playback after you were all finished. It was as though you were in control of the radio and it only played the songs you loved to hear. Kind of like those sick people who blog so that everyone in the whole world can read their petty little ... oh ... wait. Somewhere around high school age I started naming all of my tapes after wack character actors I loved like Clu Gulagher and Charles Napier. Dirk Bogarde - now that was a hell of a tape. I name my CDs after actresses I like now.
Gouldie, I used to have mix duels with people, too. I always won the dark ones because of my extensive Joy Division collection. And I could usually hold my own on the cheery ones because I retained all of my old 45s from childhood. Huckleberry Hound's "Laugh Your Troubles Away" was the clencher. But I need a date on your duel with Jeff. I remember the first time I hung out with you, the Queen and you and I went to see the revival of Casablanca and while we were waiting for the movie to start you went on and on about the new Michelle Shocked album (Arkansas Traveler, I think) and I remember thinking, hmmm, nawww, she's married. I didn't say anything, though. Come to think of it, were our spouses there? I just remember the three of us for some reason. Mainly because Queen was in her third person mode. You know how when she has a party or something with new people she spends the whole time referring to you in third person like you're not there. It's cute, Queen; don't take offense.
You ought to share some song lists from your favorite mixtape gifts, Gouldie.
But then after work I had to go to the Volvo place to clean out our newly demolished car. Friday afternoon YHWH and both girls and a friend were involved in a pretty bad crash. They were cruising along on a main street and a truck barrelled out in front of them from an apartment complex and almost cleared them - almost. Airbags deployed, windows shattered, the whole thing. The cop said it was pretty bad; if they hadn't been in a Volvo, he'd hate to think how bad. The only injury was a broken finger from the airbag. The perp fled the scene - 'twas a hit and run. So, I had to go get all the belongings out of it. Man, I loved that car. Well, anyway I'm rooting around under the seats amongst the rotting french fries and sticky lint-covered gum, Barbie shoes, pennies, and straw wrappers and I reach way under the front passenger seat and feel a tape (the car didn't have a CD player, but I had XM, so I hadn't listened to tapes in forever). I pull it out and whaddayaknow...
It's a mixtape from Adjective Queen! Oh my God that was the worst tape ever made. I couldn't stand one song on there. And this is from a woman who adored DeeeLite! (I will find my video of the Queen dancing to "Groove Is In the Heart" and post it on here.)
On the way home I thought more about mixtapes. I have made hundreds of them. I'm with you, Gouldie, there's nothing like getting out every album you own and sitting in front of the stereo for hours making mixtapes. You have to listen to every song while it records; there's no other way. You get to hear songs you haven't heard in forever. Songs you thought you hated, but now you like. You tape, erase, retape; it goes on for hours. Clicks never bothered me and I got pretty good at making it go seemlessly between songs. It was a skillful endeavor. Not like these young whippersnappers today with their pods and their shiny silver things. It's just not the same. People just throw any old song on a CD mix these days and geez with shuffle, CDs and mp3 players lose the whole mood of the thing. It's like turning the Mona Lisa at a 90 degree angle or something. I make them on CD now, too, but it's just not as fun.
My friends and I frequently tried to DJ over the songs which got pretty hilarious. I still have one called Poem Break my college pal and I made which features really sick poems between all the songs. It was so awesome to listen to the playback after you were all finished. It was as though you were in control of the radio and it only played the songs you loved to hear. Kind of like those sick people who blog so that everyone in the whole world can read their petty little ... oh ... wait. Somewhere around high school age I started naming all of my tapes after wack character actors I loved like Clu Gulagher and Charles Napier. Dirk Bogarde - now that was a hell of a tape. I name my CDs after actresses I like now.
Gouldie, I used to have mix duels with people, too. I always won the dark ones because of my extensive Joy Division collection. And I could usually hold my own on the cheery ones because I retained all of my old 45s from childhood. Huckleberry Hound's "Laugh Your Troubles Away" was the clencher. But I need a date on your duel with Jeff. I remember the first time I hung out with you, the Queen and you and I went to see the revival of Casablanca and while we were waiting for the movie to start you went on and on about the new Michelle Shocked album (Arkansas Traveler, I think) and I remember thinking, hmmm, nawww, she's married. I didn't say anything, though. Come to think of it, were our spouses there? I just remember the three of us for some reason. Mainly because Queen was in her third person mode. You know how when she has a party or something with new people she spends the whole time referring to you in third person like you're not there. It's cute, Queen; don't take offense.
You ought to share some song lists from your favorite mixtape gifts, Gouldie.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Still In Love With Hayley Mills
Who am I? Many of us, if we ever ask that question, answer by listing nouns that reflect our daily occupations - mother, wife, fireman, knitter. Depending on what we think of ourselves, we might even throw in some adjectives like 'damn good' or 'awesome'. That's how we describe ourselves externally, but who do we really tell ourselves we are? I recently realized that I rarely think about who I am (why would I? I'm me, right?) and most of the time I only even ponder it when I have been accused of something or had something attributed to me that elicits the internal response, "That's not me! I'm not like that!"
I mention all this because it's seems to be at the nexus of things I've been going through lately with family dynamics. I hear myself more and more telling myself and others in my family that they don't really know me. My dad doesn't know anything about my work, let alone how good I am at it. My sister thinks I'm still five years old. And at home YHWH and Co. think I'm admirable, honorable, diligent, efficient, but also gruff and disapproving - rather like Mount Rushmore. To which I proclaim, "That's not me! You guys just don't know me!"
Last week I was reminiscing with The Cheerleader who I knew from Cult School days and I said I needed her to come over for dinner and tell the family what I was like; in other words, the real me. She said, "Are you sure? You were the guy all us girls' dads warned them about. All the guys wanted to be you and all the girls wanted to be with you." Drew and other people who knew me back when talk about how hilarious I am. And smart; always smart. But that's not the husband and father that lives in my house.
One of the more interesting things about my recent posts about my dad and his family is the fact that I even know those stories. He isn't the most talkative guy in the world after all. For some reason - likely the reason that made me a historian - I was constantly asking my parents what things were like when they were young, what were their interests, who were their friends, who did they date and what did they do, etc. I got a pretty clear picture of their lives and times after a while. Now, here's the funny thing, for me, the Paul Newmanesque, street-racing, two-fisted guy who grew up unloved in the Fifties is my dad. Everything after that - the salesman, the preacher, the hotelier - was done by that guy. It made him a far more convincing evangelist to know that he used to be a hell of a guy.
Since we hear all the time that our personalities are set at age two and by eighteen we have, most of us, come to a realization of 'who we are', then isn't that my dad? And isn't the funny, sentimental, risktaker who I am? And yes, before you say it, also arrogant, know-it-all, and opinionated. And if so, then why doesn't anyone around me know this? YHWH says that's who I used to be, that it's at best unrealistic to think that's still my identity; people change. I see her point, but I still feel like I may do different things, but it's still the old me doing it.
If you've stuck with this post, don't think I moaning, "Woe is me. Nobody knows me." I'm just intrigued by the nature of our identities, be they fluid or immutable. I'm sure I would be horrified to know what people really thought; they may have the opposite reaction I have, "That's not you! You have no idea who you are!" I was in that place a decade ago when my Old Wife left and never really gave me a reason why. Just before that our close friends started breaking dates and disinviting us and I was just clueless as to what I was doing that was so dastardly. Still don't know. By the way, thanks, Tex, for sticking with me. You, too, Queen, even though you were busy and neutral. And thanks for trying as long as you did, Gouldie.
So, like a tiger chasing it's tail, I go round and round trying to figure out who I am. It's just as well because if I ever figure this out, I'll have to move on to 'why am I here'. For now, I find solace in Popeye's mantra: "I yam what I yam."
I mention all this because it's seems to be at the nexus of things I've been going through lately with family dynamics. I hear myself more and more telling myself and others in my family that they don't really know me. My dad doesn't know anything about my work, let alone how good I am at it. My sister thinks I'm still five years old. And at home YHWH and Co. think I'm admirable, honorable, diligent, efficient, but also gruff and disapproving - rather like Mount Rushmore. To which I proclaim, "That's not me! You guys just don't know me!"
Last week I was reminiscing with The Cheerleader who I knew from Cult School days and I said I needed her to come over for dinner and tell the family what I was like; in other words, the real me. She said, "Are you sure? You were the guy all us girls' dads warned them about. All the guys wanted to be you and all the girls wanted to be with you." Drew and other people who knew me back when talk about how hilarious I am. And smart; always smart. But that's not the husband and father that lives in my house.
One of the more interesting things about my recent posts about my dad and his family is the fact that I even know those stories. He isn't the most talkative guy in the world after all. For some reason - likely the reason that made me a historian - I was constantly asking my parents what things were like when they were young, what were their interests, who were their friends, who did they date and what did they do, etc. I got a pretty clear picture of their lives and times after a while. Now, here's the funny thing, for me, the Paul Newmanesque, street-racing, two-fisted guy who grew up unloved in the Fifties is my dad. Everything after that - the salesman, the preacher, the hotelier - was done by that guy. It made him a far more convincing evangelist to know that he used to be a hell of a guy.
Since we hear all the time that our personalities are set at age two and by eighteen we have, most of us, come to a realization of 'who we are', then isn't that my dad? And isn't the funny, sentimental, risktaker who I am? And yes, before you say it, also arrogant, know-it-all, and opinionated. And if so, then why doesn't anyone around me know this? YHWH says that's who I used to be, that it's at best unrealistic to think that's still my identity; people change. I see her point, but I still feel like I may do different things, but it's still the old me doing it.
If you've stuck with this post, don't think I moaning, "Woe is me. Nobody knows me." I'm just intrigued by the nature of our identities, be they fluid or immutable. I'm sure I would be horrified to know what people really thought; they may have the opposite reaction I have, "That's not you! You have no idea who you are!" I was in that place a decade ago when my Old Wife left and never really gave me a reason why. Just before that our close friends started breaking dates and disinviting us and I was just clueless as to what I was doing that was so dastardly. Still don't know. By the way, thanks, Tex, for sticking with me. You, too, Queen, even though you were busy and neutral. And thanks for trying as long as you did, Gouldie.
So, like a tiger chasing it's tail, I go round and round trying to figure out who I am. It's just as well because if I ever figure this out, I'll have to move on to 'why am I here'. For now, I find solace in Popeye's mantra: "I yam what I yam."
Sunday, June 11, 2006
The Queen's Gusset
I should clarify one thing about my reference (no pun) to the Do-Nothing Desk in several previous posts. That's not a jaded view of my own work, but rather sarcasm based on the oft-stated opinion of people below (and some above) my pay grade. I guess manual labor and workspaces that produce lines of people waiting for service are the only work that gets 'noticed'. It's kind of like being middle class in America. I'm really not that jaded about it, and the desk is only half of my job anyway! Don't let that discourage you Gouldie or Shank.
I watched a really good movie last night. Saints and Soldiers. I was intrigued because I had never seen a Mormon war movie (that I know of) and I knew that the Mormon film industry, while still Indie and low-budget, has been making some pretty good movies that our wide age-range family can watch together without it being too much or too little for any one person. It was well-made for it's budget and I would say it's about like a post-war movie of the 40s or 50s with no cursing and action is not the centerpiece, but rather the interaction of the characters. The very interesting thing is that the Mormon character never identifies himself as such and never proselytizes, but leads by example. The great thing was that it shows some universal traits of a religious life no matter what the religion, ie things we should all live by. In fact, a couple of lines received a thumbs up by our resident arbiter of theology. "You know he's Mormon, don't you?" I had to reveal. Definitely a chick war movie as well, so give it a try.
I'm enjoying the World Cup so far. I've only gotten to see one half of one game so far, but I've been watching them statistically on the web. I predicted England would choke despite their easy group and I almost proved out - their 1-0 win came as a result of a Parguayan scoring an own-goal. As I told Overcoat, England hasn't been that lucky since Dunkirk. My pick of Poland as one of my darkhorses is looking bleak right now, though...
Gotta go knit the Queen's gusset...
I watched a really good movie last night. Saints and Soldiers. I was intrigued because I had never seen a Mormon war movie (that I know of) and I knew that the Mormon film industry, while still Indie and low-budget, has been making some pretty good movies that our wide age-range family can watch together without it being too much or too little for any one person. It was well-made for it's budget and I would say it's about like a post-war movie of the 40s or 50s with no cursing and action is not the centerpiece, but rather the interaction of the characters. The very interesting thing is that the Mormon character never identifies himself as such and never proselytizes, but leads by example. The great thing was that it shows some universal traits of a religious life no matter what the religion, ie things we should all live by. In fact, a couple of lines received a thumbs up by our resident arbiter of theology. "You know he's Mormon, don't you?" I had to reveal. Definitely a chick war movie as well, so give it a try.
I'm enjoying the World Cup so far. I've only gotten to see one half of one game so far, but I've been watching them statistically on the web. I predicted England would choke despite their easy group and I almost proved out - their 1-0 win came as a result of a Parguayan scoring an own-goal. As I told Overcoat, England hasn't been that lucky since Dunkirk. My pick of Poland as one of my darkhorses is looking bleak right now, though...
Gotta go knit the Queen's gusset...
Saturday, June 10, 2006
They Buy Books, Don't They?
I flew solo on the Do-Nothing Desk today and decided to list all of my questions just for the heck of it.
Is my Tom Sawyer reserve in?
I looked up the youngster's account and she had reserved some thing called Tom Sawyer, but it wasn't the Twain book. I could've said, "No," and left it at that. But, no, I said, "Let me see if we have a copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer..."
After that I had a homeless guy that sat down in front of our big dictionary and began to read the dictionary out loud in Shakespearean dramatic tones. Captivate! Captivating! Captivation! Captive! It was pretty funny for about five minutes. Security quelled his ardor.
Reserved a study room.
Reserved another study room.
Here's how the next one went: "I wanna know. Do they buy books?" "Uhhh. Do you mean can you buy books here?" "No." "Uhhh, well, I mean we do buy books. Are you wanting to sell a book to us?" It went on for awhile before she said she had a book called The Life and Times of Frederick Douglass. Eureka! "And you want to know it's value?!" I said. That was it. I looked it up in Alibris. I said mostly they're worth about $2-5 unless it's original. It is. Well, I said, here's one for $40,000 signed by Douglass himself. Well, this one is, too she said - and Abraham Lincoln. Oh, I said. You'd probably better take it to a rare book dealer and gave her the info on that.
Reserved another study room.
Where are your love poem books? 800s here we come...
What is the meaning of the word herlamic? That one defeated me.
Where are your books on Jingis Khan? 950s here we come...
What is the meaning of apricentric? Do you mean afrocentric? That word fit the bill.
What is the meaning of essessist? Do you mean essayist? No. Ethicist? That was it.
Did a shelf check and placed a temp tracer
How do you spell ethos? No problem.
How do you pronounce eunuch? Asked and answered.
What is the meaning of polemical? Got it.
Can I return my books anywhere? Any of our libraries...
Where are the stairs?
Where can I do homeschooling in OKC? Is that a trick question? I found some local clubs.
Do you have an Evinrude repair manual? We did.
Can I get a card if I live in Piedmont? Only one way...pay for it.
Is there an Orbis Books? Yes and I gave them the number
Can you tell me if there is a chemistry professor at Stanford named XXXXXX? There wasn't.
He could be dead, can you tell me that? If he is, he didn't get Social Security benefits.
Do you have a book that can tell me who will buy a book I wrote? Writers Market is what you need.
Do you have a list of acrylics businesses in the region? Thomas Register
Where are your bible commentaries? Let me show you the 200s
Where are your astrology books? Let me show you the 130s
Where are the Alexandra Stoddard books? Let me show you the 746s
Can you show me a book on engraving tools?
What is the meaning of archaic?
Can you help locate Lund University? I have a citation from a Mr. Munga there. It's in Sweden...
How do you pronounce 'rhys'? Reese
Where are the firefighter books? Are you taking a test or just want to read about them? Just read them...628s
What is martyrdom?
What is the meaning of shariah?
Do you have books on immigration law in Oklahoma? No, but I found them some elsewhere
Can you define enculturation?
Do you have project management books?
Did a shelf check and placed a tracer
Is there a seminary in Ivory Coast? Yep.. in Abidjan
Do you have anime books? On first floor
Reserved a meeting room for 10.
Is the Grandmother of Europe there? On first floor
How many books can you check out? 30
Do you have any ghost stories? 398s
Do you have any Broadway show scores? 782s
Can you give me the number for XXXXX in Rogers, AR?
Looked up another for the same guy
I have heard there was an airport buried underneath Lake Hefner. Is that true? Not according to the information I have but there was one next to it...
Can you give me the number for XXXXXX in Moore? I can't find it in the book.
Do you have an OKC business directory? Not exactly, but I showed her a much better source than that
My last one for the day was a 70 something guy who asked one of the most agonizing questions in the library world, "How do I research my family tree?" It was near closing time, but I found him on the 1930 census and told him to come back next week...
Sorry so long and boring, just thought I'd give you a glimpse of a day at the Do-Nothing Desk!
Is my Tom Sawyer reserve in?
I looked up the youngster's account and she had reserved some thing called Tom Sawyer, but it wasn't the Twain book. I could've said, "No," and left it at that. But, no, I said, "Let me see if we have a copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer..."
After that I had a homeless guy that sat down in front of our big dictionary and began to read the dictionary out loud in Shakespearean dramatic tones. Captivate! Captivating! Captivation! Captive! It was pretty funny for about five minutes. Security quelled his ardor.
Reserved a study room.
Reserved another study room.
Here's how the next one went: "I wanna know. Do they buy books?" "Uhhh. Do you mean can you buy books here?" "No." "Uhhh, well, I mean we do buy books. Are you wanting to sell a book to us?" It went on for awhile before she said she had a book called The Life and Times of Frederick Douglass. Eureka! "And you want to know it's value?!" I said. That was it. I looked it up in Alibris. I said mostly they're worth about $2-5 unless it's original. It is. Well, I said, here's one for $40,000 signed by Douglass himself. Well, this one is, too she said - and Abraham Lincoln. Oh, I said. You'd probably better take it to a rare book dealer and gave her the info on that.
Reserved another study room.
Where are your love poem books? 800s here we come...
What is the meaning of the word herlamic? That one defeated me.
Where are your books on Jingis Khan? 950s here we come...
What is the meaning of apricentric? Do you mean afrocentric? That word fit the bill.
What is the meaning of essessist? Do you mean essayist? No. Ethicist? That was it.
Did a shelf check and placed a temp tracer
How do you spell ethos? No problem.
How do you pronounce eunuch? Asked and answered.
What is the meaning of polemical? Got it.
Can I return my books anywhere? Any of our libraries...
Where are the stairs?
Where can I do homeschooling in OKC? Is that a trick question? I found some local clubs.
Do you have an Evinrude repair manual? We did.
Can I get a card if I live in Piedmont? Only one way...pay for it.
Is there an Orbis Books? Yes and I gave them the number
Can you tell me if there is a chemistry professor at Stanford named XXXXXX? There wasn't.
He could be dead, can you tell me that? If he is, he didn't get Social Security benefits.
Do you have a book that can tell me who will buy a book I wrote? Writers Market is what you need.
Do you have a list of acrylics businesses in the region? Thomas Register
Where are your bible commentaries? Let me show you the 200s
Where are your astrology books? Let me show you the 130s
Where are the Alexandra Stoddard books? Let me show you the 746s
Can you show me a book on engraving tools?
What is the meaning of archaic?
Can you help locate Lund University? I have a citation from a Mr. Munga there. It's in Sweden...
How do you pronounce 'rhys'? Reese
Where are the firefighter books? Are you taking a test or just want to read about them? Just read them...628s
What is martyrdom?
What is the meaning of shariah?
Do you have books on immigration law in Oklahoma? No, but I found them some elsewhere
Can you define enculturation?
Do you have project management books?
Did a shelf check and placed a tracer
Is there a seminary in Ivory Coast? Yep.. in Abidjan
Do you have anime books? On first floor
Reserved a meeting room for 10.
Is the Grandmother of Europe there? On first floor
How many books can you check out? 30
Do you have any ghost stories? 398s
Do you have any Broadway show scores? 782s
Can you give me the number for XXXXX in Rogers, AR?
Looked up another for the same guy
I have heard there was an airport buried underneath Lake Hefner. Is that true? Not according to the information I have but there was one next to it...
Can you give me the number for XXXXXX in Moore? I can't find it in the book.
Do you have an OKC business directory? Not exactly, but I showed her a much better source than that
My last one for the day was a 70 something guy who asked one of the most agonizing questions in the library world, "How do I research my family tree?" It was near closing time, but I found him on the 1930 census and told him to come back next week...
Sorry so long and boring, just thought I'd give you a glimpse of a day at the Do-Nothing Desk!
Thursday, June 08, 2006
You Soxy Thang
The Queen's first sock is finished. She proclaims it a perfect fit. Here's hoping I can get the other to match it! It looks a little squishy in this picture, but here 'tis:
In response to the Queen's comment on my last post, I had to call and ask my dad, but he said that the baby's aunt and grandmother assured him that the child was not his step sister and that they would be happy to raise her as their own. After that, we don't know what happened to her.
In response to the Queen's comment on my last post, I had to call and ask my dad, but he said that the baby's aunt and grandmother assured him that the child was not his step sister and that they would be happy to raise her as their own. After that, we don't know what happened to her.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
We'll Have to Muddle Through Somehow
Several people have asked me if my family was really in organized
crime (god forbid the 20 or so people I know who read this thing
ACTUALLY COMMENT on it). The short answer is no. I never said my
grandpa and great-uncle were in the mob. But anyone who's seen The
Sopranos knows that you rarely come out unscathed if you do business
with them. And I think dead counts as scathed.
Actually, I should tie up a couple of loose ends left hanging by several recent posts. One is this mob thing, the other is that I don't blame my dad for how things have turned out between us. I have always given him a free pass when it came to fatherhood and considered myself lucky to have a father at all, given the circumstances. My dad grew up out in western Oklahoma. He was born just before World War II and my grandpa then abandoned his family, as he was abandoned by his father, and left my grandma there to run the family farm and raise the boys. This was at the end of the Dust Bowl and it was still tough farming and she tried a couple of years, but just couldn't do it alone. So she left the boys with their father's aunt and headed to Wichita to build B-29s as a Rosie the Riveter. She got remarried there and came back for the boys after the war. Meanwhile the aunt had been telling the boys their parents hated them and weren't coming back. She had also gone to the local judge and had the boys declared abandoned so she could get legal custody of them. So when my dad's mom showed up one day in 1945 to get the boys they were scared of her. The aunt told my grandma, "You're not taking Older Boy. You can have Younger Boy, but I'm keeping this one." Not quite Sophie's Choice, but my grandma didn't want the boys to grow up not knowing each other, so she gave them up and - sound familiar - started a whole new family a couple states away.
My grandpa, of course, knew none of this and he shows up one day when my dad was in high school. He walked into the classic 50's malt shop place in town where all the teens were - and you have to know my dad was a pretty cool looking, James Dean type - and my grandpa 'called him out' in the street and embarassed him in front of all his friends. Then he disappeared again for about 25 years. My sister was getting married and somehow he heard about it and he showed up the day before the wedding. I mean you can just imagine the emotions in our house. My poor dad. Marrying off his daughter is hard enough, but to have your long lost dad show up, too. And my folks. I have to tell you, it was like the prodigal son story. The minute he came in my mom - who had spewed bile against this guy for 25 years - gets up, gives him a hug and says, "What would you like for dinner? I'll make your favorite meal!" While it's cooking she goes into their bedroom and cleans it, changes the bedding, and gives him the best room in the house. Then he pulls out this huge wad of cash and tells my sister to get in the car, "We're going shopping. I'll buy you anything you want for your wedding."
A week later, we get one of those calls at 3:00 am. It's the New Mexico Highway Patrol. My grandpa had died in a car wreck. So my dad flies down to El Paso to settle the estate. He said it was like a detective movie because he had no idea what his father's life was like. Grandpa had had at least three wives - all very much younger than he - and several kids. Some bank accounts had been emptied. The local police wouldn't talk about him. The bank where he worked as a repo man wouldn't talk about him. Finally, my dad drove out to this lonely stretch of I-10 in New Mexico and tracked down the patrolman who found the crash. He told my dad it was a strange scene. It was quite clear, he said, that the car had been expertly pushed off the road by another car. My grandpa and his female companion had been thrown from the car and killed, but an infant strapped in a car seat was sitting in the shade of the wreck with two bottles at hand. A briefcase my grandpa was known to carry was missing (and never found), but his wallet with several hundred dollars was still there and the woman's purse was untouched so there was no banditry. The police matter-of-factly told my dad it was, "probably the Mexican mob". We'll never know. I do know I inherited a private eye's license and a .25 caliber automatic pistol that would fit in a closed fist. Very cool for a 13 year-old. I know less about my dad's uncle, just rumors - a politician, in Nevada, mysterious car crash.
One day a few years ago I asked my dad if he ever thought about leaving us and he said, yeah, he had. "Why didn't you then?" I asked. He said, "I didn't want you to make excuses for me your whole life." Somehow, despite all of this, he stuck with us. He loved us. He smiled and laughed with us. He hugged us and made us feel secure. And he felt his way through the dark the whole way.
crime (god forbid the 20 or so people I know who read this thing
ACTUALLY COMMENT on it). The short answer is no. I never said my
grandpa and great-uncle were in the mob. But anyone who's seen The
Sopranos knows that you rarely come out unscathed if you do business
with them. And I think dead counts as scathed.
Actually, I should tie up a couple of loose ends left hanging by several recent posts. One is this mob thing, the other is that I don't blame my dad for how things have turned out between us. I have always given him a free pass when it came to fatherhood and considered myself lucky to have a father at all, given the circumstances. My dad grew up out in western Oklahoma. He was born just before World War II and my grandpa then abandoned his family, as he was abandoned by his father, and left my grandma there to run the family farm and raise the boys. This was at the end of the Dust Bowl and it was still tough farming and she tried a couple of years, but just couldn't do it alone. So she left the boys with their father's aunt and headed to Wichita to build B-29s as a Rosie the Riveter. She got remarried there and came back for the boys after the war. Meanwhile the aunt had been telling the boys their parents hated them and weren't coming back. She had also gone to the local judge and had the boys declared abandoned so she could get legal custody of them. So when my dad's mom showed up one day in 1945 to get the boys they were scared of her. The aunt told my grandma, "You're not taking Older Boy. You can have Younger Boy, but I'm keeping this one." Not quite Sophie's Choice, but my grandma didn't want the boys to grow up not knowing each other, so she gave them up and - sound familiar - started a whole new family a couple states away.
My grandpa, of course, knew none of this and he shows up one day when my dad was in high school. He walked into the classic 50's malt shop place in town where all the teens were - and you have to know my dad was a pretty cool looking, James Dean type - and my grandpa 'called him out' in the street and embarassed him in front of all his friends. Then he disappeared again for about 25 years. My sister was getting married and somehow he heard about it and he showed up the day before the wedding. I mean you can just imagine the emotions in our house. My poor dad. Marrying off his daughter is hard enough, but to have your long lost dad show up, too. And my folks. I have to tell you, it was like the prodigal son story. The minute he came in my mom - who had spewed bile against this guy for 25 years - gets up, gives him a hug and says, "What would you like for dinner? I'll make your favorite meal!" While it's cooking she goes into their bedroom and cleans it, changes the bedding, and gives him the best room in the house. Then he pulls out this huge wad of cash and tells my sister to get in the car, "We're going shopping. I'll buy you anything you want for your wedding."
A week later, we get one of those calls at 3:00 am. It's the New Mexico Highway Patrol. My grandpa had died in a car wreck. So my dad flies down to El Paso to settle the estate. He said it was like a detective movie because he had no idea what his father's life was like. Grandpa had had at least three wives - all very much younger than he - and several kids. Some bank accounts had been emptied. The local police wouldn't talk about him. The bank where he worked as a repo man wouldn't talk about him. Finally, my dad drove out to this lonely stretch of I-10 in New Mexico and tracked down the patrolman who found the crash. He told my dad it was a strange scene. It was quite clear, he said, that the car had been expertly pushed off the road by another car. My grandpa and his female companion had been thrown from the car and killed, but an infant strapped in a car seat was sitting in the shade of the wreck with two bottles at hand. A briefcase my grandpa was known to carry was missing (and never found), but his wallet with several hundred dollars was still there and the woman's purse was untouched so there was no banditry. The police matter-of-factly told my dad it was, "probably the Mexican mob". We'll never know. I do know I inherited a private eye's license and a .25 caliber automatic pistol that would fit in a closed fist. Very cool for a 13 year-old. I know less about my dad's uncle, just rumors - a politician, in Nevada, mysterious car crash.
One day a few years ago I asked my dad if he ever thought about leaving us and he said, yeah, he had. "Why didn't you then?" I asked. He said, "I didn't want you to make excuses for me your whole life." Somehow, despite all of this, he stuck with us. He loved us. He smiled and laughed with us. He hugged us and made us feel secure. And he felt his way through the dark the whole way.
Monday, June 05, 2006
You Can't Make New Old Friends
The Self and I just watched The Fog. It's a pretty good ghost story. It's got a sustainable plot and just enough jolts to keep you awake. The acting is pedestrian, but it's more of a plot movie than a character movie, so it's fine. Go ahead and give it a try. Just remember it's a ghost story, not horror.
Knitting update:
The brown outfits bag:
The bag actually looks better than the photo. The middle stripe is a little more blended with brown than the grey that comes out in the flash.
The Queen's heel turned:
Jeez, Queen, what are those, size 5's?
YHWH and the self brought me some nice new incense. Japanese Pine, Nag Champa Shantimalai Red, and Meera Lemon Grass . Smells nice around here!
Knitting update:
The brown outfits bag:
The bag actually looks better than the photo. The middle stripe is a little more blended with brown than the grey that comes out in the flash.
The Queen's heel turned:
Jeez, Queen, what are those, size 5's?
YHWH and the self brought me some nice new incense. Japanese Pine, Nag Champa Shantimalai Red, and Meera Lemon Grass . Smells nice around here!
Sunday, June 04, 2006
She's Meanness Set to Music
Just finished watching Mad Max on DVD. When I first saw this movie in 1980 or so it had been dubbed with American voice-overs because the American distributor thought people would have problems understanding the Australian accents. Being slanted to the historical and being a librarian/archivist type, I generally think you should leave things the way they were. For example, the great film hypocrite Spielberg drives me crazy with his diatribes against colorizing and then he goes and removes guns from the policemen's hands in ET. I see both as the same thing. I'm really not even that much of a purist. Let's just have them both available. Star Wars is the same thing. I'm still upset that the original movie was doctored up 20 years later and is now called A New Hope as though the first one never existed. That's fine if Lucas wants to do that, but why can't I still buy the 1977 version if I want to. It's freakin' Orwellian is what it is. I know Overcoat and some others think it's ridiculous that I think this way, but you never saw Steinbeck come out 20 years after Grapes of Wrath and say maybe I was a little hard on California and take out all the beatings the Okies got. Or he is criticised because he didn't deal with Mexican migrants, so he goes back in 1962 and adds a chapter on them in the middle of his novel. And if they do anything like that in books they call it a second edition and tell you what changes they made, but they don't remove all copies of the first edition from the planet as though they never existed. And by the way anyone who tells me that I can go on eBay and buy some VCR version someone taped off of TV in 1983 gets their ip blocked.
Well, anyway, in the case of Mad Max, the American distributor was right. The dubbed version was actually a lot cooler. Today we would call Mad Max an indie movie. And it definitely had that feel. When I saw it as a young teen it was so amazingly cool. It wasn't released in the theaters where I lived and I saw it at a friends house on HBO back when HBO was only on from like 5pm to 3am. We saw it at about 8pm and then stayed up to watch it again at 1 or 2 am. It was rated R, but I got to see it because my quasi-fundie parents didn't care what I saw as long as it didn't have sex. Violence was no problem; shoot, that was just part of life. I could see a baby mown down by a truck in the middle of a highway, but if the movie had a pair of boobs, it was definitely off limits. But the dubbing made it feel so much cooler. Mel Gibson's character had a voice like Clint Eastwood and in fact I wouldn't doubt if the distributor based his alterations on the success of the dubbing in spaghetti westerns. I mean you know it's dubbed and the mouths don't fit the sound, but those movies are still amazingly raw and cool. And that's how the American release of Mad Max was.
In the Australian version the accents are just so strong it really does lose it's feel. Australians kind of have that golly-gee exuberance that we had 50 years ago and it comes through in this movie that's supposed to be dark and apocalyptic. They also seem kind of hickish in this movie. So the result is that you feel like you're watching an episode of Andy Griffith, except Andy and Barney drive turbo fuel-injected nitro-infused V8 pursuit cars. And Otis and Ernest T. Bass have names like Nightrider and Toecutter. Mel Gibson sounds like Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future and squeaks and squeals throughout the movie. I so much prefer the monosyllabic Marlboro Man Mel I saw first. Another thing they fixed were some of the minor dialog things like windscreen and windshield, and some major things like, and I don't remember the line for certain from the American versions (BECAUSE I CAN'T GO BACK AND WATCH IT), but when Max gets his new pursuit car his friend says something like, "It's a real Mother****er, Max" or something like that, but in the original they say, "You can shut the gate on this one, Max. She's the duck's guts." Somehow I don't hear Steve McQueen saying that in Bullitt. I still love this movie, though, and won't strike it from my favorites list. Maybe someday there will be a boxed set with the American release on it.
I have finished YHWH's second winter bag, this being the brown outfit version, but will wait to post until it is felted. However, since the sewing portion is completed, let the royal sockmaking begin! Here is the Queen's cuff:
Well, anyway, in the case of Mad Max, the American distributor was right. The dubbed version was actually a lot cooler. Today we would call Mad Max an indie movie. And it definitely had that feel. When I saw it as a young teen it was so amazingly cool. It wasn't released in the theaters where I lived and I saw it at a friends house on HBO back when HBO was only on from like 5pm to 3am. We saw it at about 8pm and then stayed up to watch it again at 1 or 2 am. It was rated R, but I got to see it because my quasi-fundie parents didn't care what I saw as long as it didn't have sex. Violence was no problem; shoot, that was just part of life. I could see a baby mown down by a truck in the middle of a highway, but if the movie had a pair of boobs, it was definitely off limits. But the dubbing made it feel so much cooler. Mel Gibson's character had a voice like Clint Eastwood and in fact I wouldn't doubt if the distributor based his alterations on the success of the dubbing in spaghetti westerns. I mean you know it's dubbed and the mouths don't fit the sound, but those movies are still amazingly raw and cool. And that's how the American release of Mad Max was.
In the Australian version the accents are just so strong it really does lose it's feel. Australians kind of have that golly-gee exuberance that we had 50 years ago and it comes through in this movie that's supposed to be dark and apocalyptic. They also seem kind of hickish in this movie. So the result is that you feel like you're watching an episode of Andy Griffith, except Andy and Barney drive turbo fuel-injected nitro-infused V8 pursuit cars. And Otis and Ernest T. Bass have names like Nightrider and Toecutter. Mel Gibson sounds like Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future and squeaks and squeals throughout the movie. I so much prefer the monosyllabic Marlboro Man Mel I saw first. Another thing they fixed were some of the minor dialog things like windscreen and windshield, and some major things like, and I don't remember the line for certain from the American versions (BECAUSE I CAN'T GO BACK AND WATCH IT), but when Max gets his new pursuit car his friend says something like, "It's a real Mother****er, Max" or something like that, but in the original they say, "You can shut the gate on this one, Max. She's the duck's guts." Somehow I don't hear Steve McQueen saying that in Bullitt. I still love this movie, though, and won't strike it from my favorites list. Maybe someday there will be a boxed set with the American release on it.
I have finished YHWH's second winter bag, this being the brown outfit version, but will wait to post until it is felted. However, since the sewing portion is completed, let the royal sockmaking begin! Here is the Queen's cuff:
Friday, June 02, 2006
It's Not the Fall That Kills You
Adjective Queen's latest flight of fancy brought to mind some portion of my own youth. I wanted to fly, but I didn't necessarily want to join the Air Force. I was pretty sure I wanted to be a sniper, preferably a paratrooper/sniper, but a Marine LRRP sniper or Thirteen Cent Killer would've been fine. And then after I retired I was going to do freelance work. So, no Air Force for me. I realize that's a long way from being a librarian, but that's another post.
Our cult had two pilots in it and I naturally gravitated to them. One was an ex-Marine aviator who flew corporate lear jets. It wasn't unusual for him to be gone to the Orange Bowl or the Super Bowl or Hawaii, but mostly he was taking oilmen to meetings in Houston and back. The other guy was also a corporate pilot, but he flew turboprops and those were fun. He was also more of a pretty hang-loose guy - probably had a lot to do with with the 3 or 4 million dollar difference in the prices of their planes. When I was about Lego's age, I acted eager enough to learn that the second guy took me under his wing, so to speak. He gave me the flight manuals and the ground school coursework and told me if I could sit in the cockpit and 'fly' the plane in the hangar, he'd let me do it for real and help me get a license. So I studied them. I learned about pitch and yaw and lift and drag and at 14 I actually passed the ground school portion of the licensing process. I was so ready to fly for real.
And then the ol' family curse reared its ugly head. Actually, we have three family curses. One is that any time I was about to embark on some great endeavor, we would have to move. Another one is that any time I wanted to do something fun (i.e. dangerous), my mother's fear factor kicked in and I usually lost out. The last one, the big one, is the Male Transportation Curse. My aviation career was cut short by a perfect storm of all three of these. By way of explanation, the Male Transportation Curse involves the fact that all the men in my direct line of ancestry have died young via some form of transportation accident. My dad is the death cheater, the Ronald Reagan of the Transportation Curse. I hope he broke it anyway.
Here's how the curse plays out in reverse order: one of my dad's stepbrothers died in a car wreck in Montana, the other died in a plane crash in Kansas. My dad's brother died when the parachute of his dragster failed to deploy during a race.
My dad's father was killed in New Mexico when his car was run off the road in the desert in a hit by the Mexican version of the mafia. His brother, my dad's uncle was killed near Reno, in a hit by some sort of organized crime outfit in Nevada. And various male ancestors died in the pre-car age after being hit by wagons in the street and one even died when he was kicked in the head while shoeing a horse. None of them lived past their fifties. My dad is in his sixties. So that, plus my mom's fear of me being dangerous (to be fair, I had already walked away from a motorcycle wreck), lead to the demise of my nascent piloting experience. The final phase was that a couple months after that we moved anyway. Not that you can't be a pilot anywhere else, but I didn't have access to the pilot who had taken an interest in me. I did finally jump out of a perfectly good airplane a few years ago, though. That was sweet. I've never felt that wonderful before or since.
So, Queen, get the boy a flight manual and let him see how he likes the science part of it first. If he doesn't, he'll be buying a lot of passenger tickets. There's something about the air here that makes people achieve great things in the air.
Our cult had two pilots in it and I naturally gravitated to them. One was an ex-Marine aviator who flew corporate lear jets. It wasn't unusual for him to be gone to the Orange Bowl or the Super Bowl or Hawaii, but mostly he was taking oilmen to meetings in Houston and back. The other guy was also a corporate pilot, but he flew turboprops and those were fun. He was also more of a pretty hang-loose guy - probably had a lot to do with with the 3 or 4 million dollar difference in the prices of their planes. When I was about Lego's age, I acted eager enough to learn that the second guy took me under his wing, so to speak. He gave me the flight manuals and the ground school coursework and told me if I could sit in the cockpit and 'fly' the plane in the hangar, he'd let me do it for real and help me get a license. So I studied them. I learned about pitch and yaw and lift and drag and at 14 I actually passed the ground school portion of the licensing process. I was so ready to fly for real.
And then the ol' family curse reared its ugly head. Actually, we have three family curses. One is that any time I was about to embark on some great endeavor, we would have to move. Another one is that any time I wanted to do something fun (i.e. dangerous), my mother's fear factor kicked in and I usually lost out. The last one, the big one, is the Male Transportation Curse. My aviation career was cut short by a perfect storm of all three of these. By way of explanation, the Male Transportation Curse involves the fact that all the men in my direct line of ancestry have died young via some form of transportation accident. My dad is the death cheater, the Ronald Reagan of the Transportation Curse. I hope he broke it anyway.
Here's how the curse plays out in reverse order: one of my dad's stepbrothers died in a car wreck in Montana, the other died in a plane crash in Kansas. My dad's brother died when the parachute of his dragster failed to deploy during a race.
My dad's father was killed in New Mexico when his car was run off the road in the desert in a hit by the Mexican version of the mafia. His brother, my dad's uncle was killed near Reno, in a hit by some sort of organized crime outfit in Nevada. And various male ancestors died in the pre-car age after being hit by wagons in the street and one even died when he was kicked in the head while shoeing a horse. None of them lived past their fifties. My dad is in his sixties. So that, plus my mom's fear of me being dangerous (to be fair, I had already walked away from a motorcycle wreck), lead to the demise of my nascent piloting experience. The final phase was that a couple months after that we moved anyway. Not that you can't be a pilot anywhere else, but I didn't have access to the pilot who had taken an interest in me. I did finally jump out of a perfectly good airplane a few years ago, though. That was sweet. I've never felt that wonderful before or since.
So, Queen, get the boy a flight manual and let him see how he likes the science part of it first. If he doesn't, he'll be buying a lot of passenger tickets. There's something about the air here that makes people achieve great things in the air.
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