I am fortunate enough to belong to a large extended group of friends in which there are friendships and relationships that span from 20 to 50+ years. For the most part we have my housemate, John, and our friend, Steve, to thank (and/or blame) for keeping everyone together. We have "reunions" every four years and sometimes sooner if there is a good reason (or even if there's not). It really isn't hard to convince people to come to Montana in the summer.
The nucleus of this group comes from the drama department here at The University of Montana some 40 years ago. Over the years the group has grown exponentially, adding spouses, partners, friends and friends of friends. Sadly, we've lost a few along the way as well - although they are never too far away since we enjoy telling the old stories over and over again (particularly if we have lured a new person and thus a new audience into our group).
Clearly, we are no longer "new in box" but I fully subscribe to the theory that people remain the same age they were when you met them. I also think that means that our eyes process some things through our hearts. Alas, the camera lens does not. I'll occasionally see a photo and think, "Who are those charming old..wait...oh, FFS it's us!?!"
Given the people who make up this core group - there are, for the most part, two types of personalities: big and bigger. The competition for the spotlight is tough and, in fact, constant - whether we are five or 75 in number at any given gathering. The fact that we remain a people who think that we live in some sort of Judy Garland/Andy Rooney "Come on kids, let's put on a show" movie does not help matters either. At all.
It started with movie remakes that John & Steve did in the 70's and then for many years, at the reunions, there was a Homecoming Queen Pageant/Contest. These events lasted 3-4 hours. The contestants, both male and female, had been announced the night before (from nominations). They were provided with pageant wear and once we got to the talent portion of the evening, unlike most beauty pageants where contestants can choose their own "talent": tossing fiery batons while plate spinning, playing "Rapper's Delight" on the zither, reciting a monologue from Ice Castles or Mother May I Sleep with Danger, etc. our finalists were assigned their talent. In all of the Homecoming Queen Pageants, a girl only won once, the rest were guys; one straight and the rest - gay (big surprise - they're ever so competitive when it comes to pageants plus they take their Queen status much more seriously). Because there were often elements of danger involved in the assigned talents (tap-dancing on a table top while shooting nerf arrows at a target, for example) and we've reached a stage in life where it's all fun and games until someone breaks a hip, we stick mainly to musical numbers these days.
We make up games - some of which have rules that constantly change. Eventually we forget how to play them anyway.
One summer, we produced a play based on a Chekhov adaptation - in our yard (as so many do).
When we sit at large tables and a toast is offered - to those whose glasses we cannot reach, we declare, in our most mature fashion and best stage voices, "Mental clicking!"
And probably the main reason that we have held these relationships so dear for so long: sanity is graded on a curve.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Bachmann-Palin Overdrive
If indeed we "ain't seen nothing yet" as far as the upcoming election season - well then, it is patently obvious that I will be upping my valium dosage.
It's not that I object to these women as Tea Bagging Republicans (ok, wait - I can't stop giggling, I really do object to that) BUT that these two poster children for the Willfully Stupid are the best that the Republican sisterhood has to offer is the part I find so objectionable. I am offended, as a woman, that they too are women.
This would all be very amusing were it a Christopher Guest movie - but it is not.
The fact that Sarah Palin can completely rewrite history and get her supporters riled up enough that they would change the information on the Paul Revere Wikipedia page (repeatedly) to match her misinformation is frightening. She wants to blame the "lamestream media" as always for that "gotcha question" that got her into such a flusteration in the first place. As many of you know, the ambush question that had Paul Revere basically committing treason was: "What did you see today and what do you plan to take away from it?". Yup, that was clearly a trick question posed, no doubt, by the demonic journalistic team of Boris Badenov & Natasha Fatale. Big trouble for Moose & Squirrel. And Caribou Barbie.
And Michele Bachmann?! At the moment every time she opens her mouth it's a fiasco and yet she is building a strong base of like-minded wingnuts. "Pray the gay away"? Umm, has she met her husband for starters? "Children born into slavery had a better chance of growing up in a two parent household"? Are. You. F*cking. Kidding. Me?!? Having the chutzpah to use and mispronounce the word, "chutzpah"? Now that's a shonda!
So, let's see, so far they've both alienated: the LGBT community, African-Americans and the Jews. Oh, and people with brains. And because there are a lot of people who fit into more than one of the above - that leaves a lot, a lot, of people left to follow these two fruitcakes.
Many of them fall into that oxymoronic (and I do mean moronic) group, The Religious Right. The Religious Right are neither. How people can espouse such intolerance for people who are, apparently, not created equal to them and then call themselves Christians in the same breath is beyond the pale. Look, they're the ones that believe in hell so you'd think they'd act a bit better. But then again I've never believed that fear of eternal damnation should be the reason that keeps people from acting like asshats. I could be wrong. It happens.
Unfortunately, willful stupidity is my kryptonite. It works my last nerve and tries my otherwise, well, almost saint-like patience so this is going to be a l o n g election season.
I have already started yelling at my TV way too much.
I keep thinking that my level of incredulity can go no higher, when just like the volume on the amps in Spinal Tap, it goes to eleven.
I am already in Bachmann-Palin Overdrive.
It's not that I object to these women as Tea Bagging Republicans (ok, wait - I can't stop giggling, I really do object to that) BUT that these two poster children for the Willfully Stupid are the best that the Republican sisterhood has to offer is the part I find so objectionable. I am offended, as a woman, that they too are women.
This would all be very amusing were it a Christopher Guest movie - but it is not.
The fact that Sarah Palin can completely rewrite history and get her supporters riled up enough that they would change the information on the Paul Revere Wikipedia page (repeatedly) to match her misinformation is frightening. She wants to blame the "lamestream media" as always for that "gotcha question" that got her into such a flusteration in the first place. As many of you know, the ambush question that had Paul Revere basically committing treason was: "What did you see today and what do you plan to take away from it?". Yup, that was clearly a trick question posed, no doubt, by the demonic journalistic team of Boris Badenov & Natasha Fatale. Big trouble for Moose & Squirrel. And Caribou Barbie.
And Michele Bachmann?! At the moment every time she opens her mouth it's a fiasco and yet she is building a strong base of like-minded wingnuts. "Pray the gay away"? Umm, has she met her husband for starters? "Children born into slavery had a better chance of growing up in a two parent household"? Are. You. F*cking. Kidding. Me?!? Having the chutzpah to use and mispronounce the word, "chutzpah"? Now that's a shonda!
So, let's see, so far they've both alienated: the LGBT community, African-Americans and the Jews. Oh, and people with brains. And because there are a lot of people who fit into more than one of the above - that leaves a lot, a lot, of people left to follow these two fruitcakes.
Many of them fall into that oxymoronic (and I do mean moronic) group, The Religious Right. The Religious Right are neither. How people can espouse such intolerance for people who are, apparently, not created equal to them and then call themselves Christians in the same breath is beyond the pale. Look, they're the ones that believe in hell so you'd think they'd act a bit better. But then again I've never believed that fear of eternal damnation should be the reason that keeps people from acting like asshats. I could be wrong. It happens.
Unfortunately, willful stupidity is my kryptonite. It works my last nerve and tries my otherwise, well, almost saint-like patience so this is going to be a l o n g election season.
I have already started yelling at my TV way too much.
I keep thinking that my level of incredulity can go no higher, when just like the volume on the amps in Spinal Tap, it goes to eleven.
I am already in Bachmann-Palin Overdrive.
Monday, July 11, 2011
By The Hammer Of Thor - Just Sing The One Damn Note!
I don't know when it first happened. When we lost complete control. When suddenly, the single notes that compose a line of melody just didn't seem to be quite good enough anymore. Why sing just the one note as written when a "run" of 73 different notes will do just as well?
I understand the concept of the trill, which has been around for several hundred years and is generally considered to be relegated to two adjacent notes. Two. My housemate, John, has often lamented his inability to trill. It is second only in his life's regrets to the tragic combination of a desire to become a trapeze artist and, well, acrophobia. Alas, he knew there could be no future as a low trapeze artist just as he understood that it took skill to trill - still, he soldiers on. So brave.
If I were to lay blame, and obviously I'm about to, well, Whitney et Celine - j'accuse! It happened somewhere between "I Will Always Love You" (taking Dolly Parton's sweet & lovely original w a y over the top) and that "Near, Far" crap from The Titanic. I will give credit to these two women and say that in their primes they could indeed do these runs beautifully, if too often. The years (and possibly the drugs) have not been kind to Whitney and poor Celine, I can not imagine that beating herself about the head and chest for all of these years hasn't taken its toll on the poor dear. Oui, pauvre Celine!
In any case, it has left the door open for all sorts of aural assasinations. There is a reason that trilling, scatting and running are better left to those who have mastered these techniques. That reason is: the vocally delusional.
They are everywhere. They are on every reality show, in every rink, ballpark and stadium. I don't recall reading or seeing or hearing that our national anthem had been tweaked a bit - but clearly it has. Aside from the fact that this is not an easy song to sing in the first place and we are already stymied by the added syllable in "land" as in "The la-and of the" but WAIT! Now that we have that snazzy "la-and" down let's make the word "free" be 14 minutes long!
I cannot imagine how this run of 62 notes could have possibly been annotated musically. Despite my stubborn refusal to read music (piano lessons at age six from the same woman who had taught mummy and at that time was called "God's older sister" so you can imagine how old she was when she taught me) I do know that it must certainly take the combination of something like, dropping a hallucinogen and then shaking your head back and forth really fast to see 57 notes where previously just the one had been written.
And so to you (who are probably not reading this blog anyway), the vocally delusional who insist on running every third word of every song, ever written: stop it, stop it now. The bleeding ears of a nation implore you: By the hammer of Thor - just sing the one damn note!
I understand the concept of the trill, which has been around for several hundred years and is generally considered to be relegated to two adjacent notes. Two. My housemate, John, has often lamented his inability to trill. It is second only in his life's regrets to the tragic combination of a desire to become a trapeze artist and, well, acrophobia. Alas, he knew there could be no future as a low trapeze artist just as he understood that it took skill to trill - still, he soldiers on. So brave.
If I were to lay blame, and obviously I'm about to, well, Whitney et Celine - j'accuse! It happened somewhere between "I Will Always Love You" (taking Dolly Parton's sweet & lovely original w a y over the top) and that "Near, Far" crap from The Titanic. I will give credit to these two women and say that in their primes they could indeed do these runs beautifully, if too often. The years (and possibly the drugs) have not been kind to Whitney and poor Celine, I can not imagine that beating herself about the head and chest for all of these years hasn't taken its toll on the poor dear. Oui, pauvre Celine!
In any case, it has left the door open for all sorts of aural assasinations. There is a reason that trilling, scatting and running are better left to those who have mastered these techniques. That reason is: the vocally delusional.
They are everywhere. They are on every reality show, in every rink, ballpark and stadium. I don't recall reading or seeing or hearing that our national anthem had been tweaked a bit - but clearly it has. Aside from the fact that this is not an easy song to sing in the first place and we are already stymied by the added syllable in "land" as in "The la-and of the" but WAIT! Now that we have that snazzy "la-and" down let's make the word "free" be 14 minutes long!
I cannot imagine how this run of 62 notes could have possibly been annotated musically. Despite my stubborn refusal to read music (piano lessons at age six from the same woman who had taught mummy and at that time was called "God's older sister" so you can imagine how old she was when she taught me) I do know that it must certainly take the combination of something like, dropping a hallucinogen and then shaking your head back and forth really fast to see 57 notes where previously just the one had been written.
And so to you (who are probably not reading this blog anyway), the vocally delusional who insist on running every third word of every song, ever written: stop it, stop it now. The bleeding ears of a nation implore you: By the hammer of Thor - just sing the one damn note!
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life...
I make no bones about the fact that I have a large streak of cynicism running through me (but in the name of all things holy with the way things are going these days how can one not? Even poor old Mother Teresa would have had a bit of an attitude by now). That said, it doesn't mean that I don't like to give a more positive spin to things when I can.
For example, I'm a little tea pot. Not the handle and spout part, the first bit - although I prefer to think of it rather more as being vertically challenged. I have hit a goal weight and now am just hoping that I'll be growing the additional 16 inches I'll need to even things out.
I was not always the tea pot I am today though - I was reasonably sized and very athletic as a kid and then the trip began through my first visit to and then through a round vessel used for a hot beverage on to "Oh, dear" and finally settling at what I can only refer to as my "Circus Fat" days. Just as I have no recollection of getting there nor do I recall making a conscious decision to try to make it go away. I do think that the calliope music that played in my head whenever I was conscious may have been a catalyst. Who's to say? The good news though is that now I can shop in a regular store, like a real girl, and my cargo shorts are no longer confused with that deal that slows the space shuttle down when it lands.
Next, most of us at this point are either beginning to deal with or continuing to deal with physical challenges - what with our body parts literally attacking us, other parts now having things that end in 'itis", other things that are rudely referred to as degenerative and more than a few movements that can only be accomplished by simultaneously emitting some sort of noise, grunt or string of swear words (and on some days all of the above).
Because I did have a heart attack a couple of years ago (and this was after I had lost enough weight to put me back into clothes shopping at Target range - so, really not the thank-you note from my body for which I was hoping) my "How are you?" is still often met with a concerned "How are you?" Well, I think (I hope) my heart has sorted itself out but my knees and back started taking a dive over 30 years ago (see athletic childhood above) and my hips have recently joined the party so, "Fine" isn't strictly true but who wants to be dreary so I try to respond with a cheery, "Relatively death-free, thank you." Or a hearty, "Continuing to wake up, so that's good - right?" Other days it might be a bright, "Oh, well my arms and head are just tip-top - how nice of you to ask!" and finally, when all else fails and other words elude me, "I feel just like I'm living in a dream" seems to be just the ticket.
At the end of the day, I am still a short, fat, diabetic, middle-aged lady with six stents in my heart and a gait that each day seems to more vaguely resemble that of Walter Brennan in his star turn as Grandpa McCoy, but I prefer to think of myself as vertically challenged and relatively death-free. Always look on the bright side of life...
For example, I'm a little tea pot. Not the handle and spout part, the first bit - although I prefer to think of it rather more as being vertically challenged. I have hit a goal weight and now am just hoping that I'll be growing the additional 16 inches I'll need to even things out.
I was not always the tea pot I am today though - I was reasonably sized and very athletic as a kid and then the trip began through my first visit to and then through a round vessel used for a hot beverage on to "Oh, dear" and finally settling at what I can only refer to as my "Circus Fat" days. Just as I have no recollection of getting there nor do I recall making a conscious decision to try to make it go away. I do think that the calliope music that played in my head whenever I was conscious may have been a catalyst. Who's to say? The good news though is that now I can shop in a regular store, like a real girl, and my cargo shorts are no longer confused with that deal that slows the space shuttle down when it lands.
Next, most of us at this point are either beginning to deal with or continuing to deal with physical challenges - what with our body parts literally attacking us, other parts now having things that end in 'itis", other things that are rudely referred to as degenerative and more than a few movements that can only be accomplished by simultaneously emitting some sort of noise, grunt or string of swear words (and on some days all of the above).
Because I did have a heart attack a couple of years ago (and this was after I had lost enough weight to put me back into clothes shopping at Target range - so, really not the thank-you note from my body for which I was hoping) my "How are you?" is still often met with a concerned "How are you?" Well, I think (I hope) my heart has sorted itself out but my knees and back started taking a dive over 30 years ago (see athletic childhood above) and my hips have recently joined the party so, "Fine" isn't strictly true but who wants to be dreary so I try to respond with a cheery, "Relatively death-free, thank you." Or a hearty, "Continuing to wake up, so that's good - right?" Other days it might be a bright, "Oh, well my arms and head are just tip-top - how nice of you to ask!" and finally, when all else fails and other words elude me, "I feel just like I'm living in a dream" seems to be just the ticket.
At the end of the day, I am still a short, fat, diabetic, middle-aged lady with six stents in my heart and a gait that each day seems to more vaguely resemble that of Walter Brennan in his star turn as Grandpa McCoy, but I prefer to think of myself as vertically challenged and relatively death-free. Always look on the bright side of life...
Friday, July 1, 2011
I won't camp, don't ask me.
Although I've lived in Montana now for almost 20 years and lived in the West Indies for a great many years as well - there is just no getting all of the "city" out of this girl. Had I been born a first generation city-dweller perhaps some of this could have been overcome but my mother also grew up in New York and her mother grew up in Chicago - so you see, it's genetic.
I feel the same way about camping as I do about religion - because there are many people, of whom I am fond, who enjoy one or the other (or both) of these pursuits, I am truly glad that they exist BUT because they are anathema to me, please do not try to involve me. It's kind of you to think of me though.
My needs in life are fairly simple but indoor plumbing and/or there even being a question about a lack thereof, are not a negotiable point. Ever. The very reason I get up every day and go to work is so that I can continue to live in the manner to which I've become accustomed: indoors. To the genetically urban, camping seems rather more like, oh, I don't know, pretending to be homeless.
The closest I've ever come to camping is a place we love called Chico Hot Springs. Great hot (really hot) springs, very good restaurant, delightful bar(s) but no tv/internet/room service. AND for the most part, the bathrooms are down the hall (down the hall!). Normally, because we usually only go for a couple of nights (wait, did I mention that they had delightful bars? Plus, because we are a civilized people, we have of course packed in a couple of travelling bars, hors d'oeuvres, various accoutrements and quelque chose as well), so the pools, food and cocktails keep us entertained (and/or napping) most of the time. This is the closest that the genetically urban come to roughing it.
And so, on this impossibly perfect Montana summer weekend, I am mentally raising a glass and toasting all of my friends who will be sleeping outside, with the bugs, and the bears, maybe mountain lions - we just don't know - and wishing them nothing but the funnest time ever in their faux-homeless (henceforth to be known as "fomeless") games.
But me? I won't camp, don't ask me.
I feel the same way about camping as I do about religion - because there are many people, of whom I am fond, who enjoy one or the other (or both) of these pursuits, I am truly glad that they exist BUT because they are anathema to me, please do not try to involve me. It's kind of you to think of me though.
My needs in life are fairly simple but indoor plumbing and/or there even being a question about a lack thereof, are not a negotiable point. Ever. The very reason I get up every day and go to work is so that I can continue to live in the manner to which I've become accustomed: indoors. To the genetically urban, camping seems rather more like, oh, I don't know, pretending to be homeless.
The closest I've ever come to camping is a place we love called Chico Hot Springs. Great hot (really hot) springs, very good restaurant, delightful bar(s) but no tv/internet/room service. AND for the most part, the bathrooms are down the hall (down the hall!). Normally, because we usually only go for a couple of nights (wait, did I mention that they had delightful bars? Plus, because we are a civilized people, we have of course packed in a couple of travelling bars, hors d'oeuvres, various accoutrements and quelque chose as well), so the pools, food and cocktails keep us entertained (and/or napping) most of the time. This is the closest that the genetically urban come to roughing it.
And so, on this impossibly perfect Montana summer weekend, I am mentally raising a glass and toasting all of my friends who will be sleeping outside, with the bugs, and the bears, maybe mountain lions - we just don't know - and wishing them nothing but the funnest time ever in their faux-homeless (henceforth to be known as "fomeless") games.
But me? I won't camp, don't ask me.
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