A very quick post, to wish everyone the best for this New Year and to alert loved ones and friends who keep in contact through here where I'm (in theory) going for the fateful night, since I refuse to do an 'Aussie celebration' at Outback.
The WWE wrestling show last night was eventful (and I came back with some pictures of mixed quality to boot), but I actually had more delightful exchanges with the die-hard children fans surrounding me than actually watching 'the sport' itself. Let me tease you with this: I was the only one over the age of 14 sitting in my row, which somehow was also in front of some interesting, and highly enthusiastic, females who taught me words for the male anatomy that I had no idea even existed, let alone could and/or would be yelled at ear-numbing levels to grown men wearing overstuffed spandex. Rest assured, a fuller description is to be fleshed out upon my return, for it's quite apparent now I've led a very sheltered life.
The John Edwards rally here this afternoon/evening, though, was a bit to be desired. While the message seemed to hit all the right buttons with the audience (save one platform, though: the wishes of Mr Edwards to help "unionize Americans into getting good and decent-paying jobs again"...that ship has long sailed, Sir, and I'm not sure we have that many job fields left that would lend themselves to new union introduction), the whole pre-speech atmosphere and characteristics of it all clearly indicate the newly-announced campaign will need some immediate organizational retooling. First off, it started more than 1.5 hours late and many early attendees left due to the cold and lack of communication regarding the delay. Secondly, the music...which I can only guess was not supposed to be of a 'theme' like most political campaigns, but rather as some 'background loop'. At least I hope that was the plan. For Pete's sake, people, they played The Eagles' "Life in the Fast Lane" twice to the crowd before Mr Edwards even approached the podium...egads. If part of the 'experience', what, exactly, was the message that song was sending out to the crowd?? Yikes again, but more on that upon my return as well.
Finally, I've found a place on the Carolinas version of The Redneck Riviera (aka Myrtle Beach, aka The Grand Strand) where I can spend a hopefully joyful New Year's Eve. With so many friends out of town and WR sick and staying in, I searched and I searched for an appropriate beach retreat. Apparently the 'slower' beaches were long sought out, and by people with far more discretionary income than I have at present. Given the short turn around time (I must be back at work bright and early on 2 Jan), I couldn't really drive further down south more with the truck...although Charleston and some smaller areas of the live oaks are must-do trips this year. Anywho, I'm out of here in the morning for a 'Zoeism' adventure (a private joke of my old AA co-workers on me...I can never, ever have a normal trip by history), hopefully retiring to a 3.5 star rented resort condo (which was cheaper than a regular room, go figure). Thank God for the heavy discounts dished out by Hotwire...excluding gasoline to and fro, the small condo rental actually prices out less than the wrestling ticket. God and jail willing, I suppose I'll blog on this event as well...unless I get too depressed about being alone again this year. If my next posts include the video and lyrics to Queen's fabulous mantra "(Find Me) Somebody to Love", you'll know I had a somewhat melancholy break.
My very best to you all reading and I will have a silent toast that we will all have a healthier, happier, and wiser year in 2007. Be safe, be joyful, and be blessed. Love and best wishes always to you and yours...wherever that may be.
30 December 2006
29 December 2006
End of year stock taking continues
My deepest apologies friends, family, critics, haters, rebel-yellers, and FOB (friends of blog) for my temporary absence...
A very quick post today to alert you to the following, should anyone care:
I made it through the Christmas holiday, although not as well as I hoped and, in doing so, have also determined that TV selections are only getting worse with each year...when I want to clean more than watch movies, something is wrong.
I am in a 'funk' of sorts, wishing I was with good friends Down Under but cannot be this season (a situation only heightened by the daily travel pics from Becca and Amie, and the frequent webcam pics from Sarah's new house webcam in Rose Bay...oi vey, take mercy, people).
I have made several attempts to get out of the house (and unfortunately away from computer and away from updating, as the laptop is on loan in Spain) and not gain any more weight or feel any more sad for myself, with varying degrees of success.
I am going to go see WWE professional wrestling tonight (laugh all you want, they are the best comedy on TV, hands down...or up, or around) with a friend; and then I'm attending the first local Town Hall meeting with now Presidential candidate John Edwards tomorrow (I'm figuring one event should 'cancel out' the lingering effects of the other one, but I plan to do recaps of each here, come back and read LOL).
I have gotten on and off the 'woe is me' stallion a lot the last few days and have realized I should just shut the hell up and deal with my anger, restlessness, and apathy privately for a change.
I am going to the beach for New Year's...not sure which one just yet, but a beach somewhere along the coast. It may not be Bondi Junction looking over the Sydney Harbour Bridge fireworks display, but damn it, I can take a postcard of the Bridge and put it on the dashboard...and somewhere I surely can find some sparklers to light.
And...
I fully accept and enjoy having some of the best friends, family, and readers in the world, and can only hope some of their good continues to rub off on me.
News update at 11, or as soon as I can. Best wishes and Happy New Year to all.
A very quick post today to alert you to the following, should anyone care:
And...
News update at 11, or as soon as I can. Best wishes and Happy New Year to all.
25 December 2006
A new 'First Christmas' for me, of sorts
Okay, so I'm not the biggest fan of the big hoopla that categorizes Christmas. Let me tell you why...and why Christmas holds a particular painful spot in my psyche.
For years, I've been a big fan of getting 'the Charlie Brown® Christmas tree'...namely, the littlest, scrawniest, saddest looking tree you can find and then decorating it up to the hilt. This dates back to me being just 6 years old and my father, who was in the fight of his life at the time, had been in and out of the hospital. My parents, totally overwhelmed and overworked with his new condition, had 'foregone' Christmas altogether. Until their only child...yours truly...saw a Christmas tree stand closing down on a fateful Eve night. They had 3 trees left, 2 of which we could not afford, but 1 we could get for free as it had already lost most of its needles. My Mama wanted a better one, my Father did not want to get out of the car even to look at my find. I, however, was in love from first sight. I realized many, many years later on that Dad's reluctance to take on something dying must have been a bit of a challenge in and of itself for him...especially since, unbeknownest to me, just three weeks earlier his doctors had given him just six months to live. Choosing a Christmas tree was on the very lowest of priorities to him, I am sure, let alone one that seemed to have no time left itself in which to thrive.
That small, pitiful tree was taken home and decorated with great care that night by Mama and me...and after a good soaking in some water and some prayers, lived on til the middle of January. Besides the tree, all I remember from that year is Dad looking so sick, yet brightening up when I unwrapped this Barbie® hairdressing model he had bought me. God love him, I never liked it but he never knew. But each day, long after the presents were opened and used, I would go stare in wonder at this little tree that could and how it just...shined...like some special, perhaps misplaced star, under all the tinsel and glaring, flashing lights. How I marvelled at just how perfect it looked in the living room of our mobile home, setting pretty, straight, and tall in its green rubber bucket, which sat upon some of the most God-awful orange-yellow shag carpeting ever conceived by man. My Mama, in her wisdom, knew how attached I had become to it and finally removed it when I was at school one day...otherwise, I'd probably kept it until it was literally twigs. That tree was my tree, in my eyes anyway.
My beloved father survived that holiday and luckily for me, many, many more holidays to come. Every time he was told his end was near, he would keep right on walking on with his life. Some years were better, for certain, but the Christmas of 1976 marked a turning point for both he and I. I would never see Christmas the same way as a child again, and he would never see Christmas as a healthy man again. As time marched on, Dad and I became a bit jaded to the whole holiday experience. He would always remember being so ill at that time, and I would always remember having to (what I thought was unfairly) sacrifice my presents so he could get medicine, go to appointments, miss work when he was too ill to go. When you're a child, you don't see 'the big picture', you instead focus on the 'me' close-ups of everything. As I began to understand what my father was fighting for and what he had sacrificed just to stay alive and still support us as the main breadwinner, his resentment and anxiety of the holiday season also transferred onto me. He would wonder how many more seasons he had in him, and I would wonder how we'd pay the bills (like so many Americans, astronomical medical expenses sunk my family's fortunes in very short time). Mama loved Christmas despite it all; Dad and I would just soldier through and nod and smile appropriately.
My father survived more than 20 years in his chronic, and albeit terminally, ill state. Amazingly, it will soon be 10 years since we've lost him. In all of the years since I've been out on my own, I've tried to honour that 'First Christmas' as my family calls it, complete with sad and discouraged little tree. Last year, in prep for my trip to Oz which commenced on 23 Dec, I bought the little tree pictured here and had it in place of a Charlie Brown® one, more out of concern as a fire hazard with my older furnace than as an op-out to tradition. This year, as I finally dug out the few Christmas decorations I do have, I ran across the tree again. And I've decided to put it out and guss it up as best I can.
I'm not 6 years old anymore, but I'll forever be his daughter. Christmas isn't about having it all, it's about appreciating what we can have when things are low. Manger or no, religious or atheist, we all have had the potentially bad memories of the holidays...yet what we actually do with them afterward determines how we will remember them in the years to come. It doesn't matter what the tree looks like, or even how many presents do or do not lie under the branches. What does matter is taking a look and remembrance of those we hold dear here and now...and what we also have lost. And it's equally important to know when, and how, to move on. It's time.
So this year, I have a new, albeit amateur and undersized tree and it glows at night with its equally miniature ornaments and stockings for Mama and me underneath. It's highlights are little Santas and reindeer I've found at thrift stores over the years, some hand blown glass ornaments from my trip to Egypt, and a newly painted green one with palm trees from my dear friend Richard (WR to the regular readers). While I obviously have no way of knowing what he would have suggested in its decoration, the very core of me 'tells' me that Dad would have very much approved. And for the first time since I was that child who begged him to take home a dying fir tree from Oologah, Oklahoma, I love this tree.
For years, I've been a big fan of getting 'the Charlie Brown® Christmas tree'...namely, the littlest, scrawniest, saddest looking tree you can find and then decorating it up to the hilt. This dates back to me being just 6 years old and my father, who was in the fight of his life at the time, had been in and out of the hospital. My parents, totally overwhelmed and overworked with his new condition, had 'foregone' Christmas altogether. Until their only child...yours truly...saw a Christmas tree stand closing down on a fateful Eve night. They had 3 trees left, 2 of which we could not afford, but 1 we could get for free as it had already lost most of its needles. My Mama wanted a better one, my Father did not want to get out of the car even to look at my find. I, however, was in love from first sight. I realized many, many years later on that Dad's reluctance to take on something dying must have been a bit of a challenge in and of itself for him...especially since, unbeknownest to me, just three weeks earlier his doctors had given him just six months to live. Choosing a Christmas tree was on the very lowest of priorities to him, I am sure, let alone one that seemed to have no time left itself in which to thrive.
That small, pitiful tree was taken home and decorated with great care that night by Mama and me...and after a good soaking in some water and some prayers, lived on til the middle of January. Besides the tree, all I remember from that year is Dad looking so sick, yet brightening up when I unwrapped this Barbie® hairdressing model he had bought me. God love him, I never liked it but he never knew. But each day, long after the presents were opened and used, I would go stare in wonder at this little tree that could and how it just...shined...like some special, perhaps misplaced star, under all the tinsel and glaring, flashing lights. How I marvelled at just how perfect it looked in the living room of our mobile home, setting pretty, straight, and tall in its green rubber bucket, which sat upon some of the most God-awful orange-yellow shag carpeting ever conceived by man. My Mama, in her wisdom, knew how attached I had become to it and finally removed it when I was at school one day...otherwise, I'd probably kept it until it was literally twigs. That tree was my tree, in my eyes anyway.
My beloved father survived that holiday and luckily for me, many, many more holidays to come. Every time he was told his end was near, he would keep right on walking on with his life. Some years were better, for certain, but the Christmas of 1976 marked a turning point for both he and I. I would never see Christmas the same way as a child again, and he would never see Christmas as a healthy man again. As time marched on, Dad and I became a bit jaded to the whole holiday experience. He would always remember being so ill at that time, and I would always remember having to (what I thought was unfairly) sacrifice my presents so he could get medicine, go to appointments, miss work when he was too ill to go. When you're a child, you don't see 'the big picture', you instead focus on the 'me' close-ups of everything. As I began to understand what my father was fighting for and what he had sacrificed just to stay alive and still support us as the main breadwinner, his resentment and anxiety of the holiday season also transferred onto me. He would wonder how many more seasons he had in him, and I would wonder how we'd pay the bills (like so many Americans, astronomical medical expenses sunk my family's fortunes in very short time). Mama loved Christmas despite it all; Dad and I would just soldier through and nod and smile appropriately.
My father survived more than 20 years in his chronic, and albeit terminally, ill state. Amazingly, it will soon be 10 years since we've lost him. In all of the years since I've been out on my own, I've tried to honour that 'First Christmas' as my family calls it, complete with sad and discouraged little tree. Last year, in prep for my trip to Oz which commenced on 23 Dec, I bought the little tree pictured here and had it in place of a Charlie Brown® one, more out of concern as a fire hazard with my older furnace than as an op-out to tradition. This year, as I finally dug out the few Christmas decorations I do have, I ran across the tree again. And I've decided to put it out and guss it up as best I can.
I'm not 6 years old anymore, but I'll forever be his daughter. Christmas isn't about having it all, it's about appreciating what we can have when things are low. Manger or no, religious or atheist, we all have had the potentially bad memories of the holidays...yet what we actually do with them afterward determines how we will remember them in the years to come. It doesn't matter what the tree looks like, or even how many presents do or do not lie under the branches. What does matter is taking a look and remembrance of those we hold dear here and now...and what we also have lost. And it's equally important to know when, and how, to move on. It's time.
So this year, I have a new, albeit amateur and undersized tree and it glows at night with its equally miniature ornaments and stockings for Mama and me underneath. It's highlights are little Santas and reindeer I've found at thrift stores over the years, some hand blown glass ornaments from my trip to Egypt, and a newly painted green one with palm trees from my dear friend Richard (WR to the regular readers). While I obviously have no way of knowing what he would have suggested in its decoration, the very core of me 'tells' me that Dad would have very much approved. And for the first time since I was that child who begged him to take home a dying fir tree from Oologah, Oklahoma, I love this tree.
24 December 2006
A Christmas song that hits at the spirit of it all
Okay, forgive the quality of this video...apparently it was lifted from British TV and it dates back almost 30 years on now. The message, though, remains the same after all this time. What we're celebrating at Christmas isn't what we're supposed to at all...but that's not stopped us yet for milking the holiday for all it's worth commerically, year after year. It's a shame this wonderful commentary (like so many of the biting yet real masterpieces that The Kinks cranked out since the early 1960s) never makes it to air...either on television or even radio these days. The message it sends still needs to be heard. (The video, as usual, is from YouTube.)
Truer words were never written than in the third from the last verse (from Leo's Lyrics, as usual, lyrics below): "...but remember the kids who got nothin' while you're drinkin' down your wine." Amen, Brother Davies, amen.
(And for those of you who are too young to know who "Steve Austin" is in the fourth verse, he was the TV character played by Lee Majors on "The Six Million Dollar Man", which was a *huge* hit in the mid-1970s. When I went to first grade, in fact, every boy in my class had the metal lunch box from the show...I can still 'see' them lined up neatly in a row underneath our coats and jackets. And, yes, Lee Majors later was in "The Fall Guy" in th 1980s and is the first ex-husband of Farrah Fawcett...who was called Farrah Fawcett-Majors back in the day. Lord I feel old now, but I know the questions will come otherwise. Suffice it to say that when Ray Davies et al penned this song, the Steve Austin reference was a timely statement about overblown consumerism and kids' toys.)
Makes you wonder if Jesus hit town (not this town exclusively, but any town in the Western world) today, if he'd still recognize, let alone want to celebrate, his birthday.
"Father Christmas"
by The Kinks
from their album titled "Misfits"
Though I knew it was my dad
And I would hang up my stocking at Christmas
Open my presents and I'd be glad
But the last time I played Father Christmas
I stood outside a department store
A gang of kids came over and mugged me
And knocked my reindeer to the floor
They said
Father Christmas, give us some money
Don't mess around with those silly toys
We'll beat you up if you don't hand it over
We want your bread so don't make us annoyed
Give all the toys to the little rich boys
Don't give my brother a Steve Austin outfit
Don't give my sister a cuddly toy
We don't want a jigsaw or monopoly money
We only want the real mccoy
Father Christmas, give us some money
We'll beat you up if you make us annoyed
Father Christmas, give us some money
Don't mess around with those silly toys
But give my daddy a job 'cause he needs one
He's got lots of mouths to feed
But if you've got one I'll have a machine gun
So I can scare all the kids on the street
Father Christmas, give us some money
We got no time for your silly toys
We'll beat you up if you don't hand it over
Give all the toys to the little rich boys
Have yourself a merry merry Christmas
Have yourself a good time
But remember the kids who got nothin'
While you're drinkin' down your wine
Father Christmas, give us some money
We got no time for your silly toys
Father Christmas, please hand it over
We'll beat you up so don't make us annoyed
Father Christmas, give us some money
We got no time for your silly toys
We'll beat you up if you don't hand it over
We want your bread so don't make us annoyed
Give all the toys to the little rich boys
21 December 2006
Better Late Than Never...Feliz Navidad!
Well, it's now December 21 around here. And now, to much the relief of discount retailers everywhere, I'm finally into the Christmas (read: not commercial Christmas) spirit. Approximately three months too late for many of them, but I've still got 4 days to find myself the perfect book and new bubble bath. (I do find myself easier and easier to please as I age). I did bring out the miniature fake tree with irritating little bells...and in five minutes flat, Christmas decorating was done. WR made me a regular size Christmas bulb decoration (complete with palm trees...he knows my heart is heavy for the Southern Land) and it's the about a third of the entire little tree. It won't be Oz for Christmas like last year (er, rather, en route to Oz somewhere over the Pacific), but I'll make the best of it still the same.
If you, too, are having problems getting into the spirit of the season, may I humbly offer up my three all-time fave Christmas songs (all videos from YouTube, as is the standard here)...
Porky Pig®'s "Blue Christmas"
This song actually was done by a comedian in the 1980s, I think, but I have yet to find the gentleman's name...it's just become a cult hit and is just requested around here as "Porky's Christmas" (or something akin to that title, anyway). I'd love to know the full story about this song and the comedian, but I always end up just laughing like the guy in the background every time it comes on. Aside from Chilly Willy® and Pepe Le Pew®, Porky Pig® reigns supreme among male cartoons. (Betty Boop® is the undeniable women's champ.)
Bare Naked Ladies and Sarah McLachlan in "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen"
I happen to really love this song, especially for its harmony. While the BNL boys from Canada are great, Sarah McLachlan really adds something to this. A bit of an odd choice from these musicians, as I always under the impression neither were particularly 'religious', maybe not particularly 'spiritual' even. The ending's a little shaky (like The Beach Boys and Jan & Dean doing "Help Me, Rhonda" after a few takes, errors and all), but it's really a decent song to listen and sing along to. It's even better to whistle to when shopping for the 80% off sales.
And finally, our winner of the season. Practically a state law to play this at Christmas back in my home state in the Midwest...take that as you will.
The Dixie Chicks and Rosie O'Donnell in "Merry Christmas From the Family"
Words fail me to properly describe how great...and accurate...this song is if you've ever been apart of and/or watched holiday get-togethers in mobile home trailer parks across the US. This is the kind of stuff that inspired "The Dukes of Hazzard" to ever be created in the first place. Robert Earl Keen, the songwriter of this masterpiece, knew the 'people' very well indeed...and it shows. Read and follow along with the lyrics below (from Leo's Lyrics) if you're unfamiliar with this tasteful classic. It also clearly represents why American culture may not be as fondly remembered as to that of, well...anybody else...in generations to come.
Merry Christmas From The Family
written by: Robert Earl Keen
Mom got drunk,
And dad got drunk,
At our Christmas party,
We were drinkin' champagne punch and
homemade eggnog.
Little sister brought her new boyfriend,
He was a Mexi-can,
We didn't know what to think of him,
Til he sang 'Feliz-Navidad',
'Feliz-Navidad'
Brother Ken brought his kids with him,
The three from his first wife Lynn,
And the two idenitical twins
From his second wife Mary-Nell,
Of course he brought his third wife Kay,
Who talks all about A-A,
Chain-smokin' while the stereo plays
'No-el, No-el',
The First No-el
Carve the turkey,
Turn the ballgame on,
Mix margharitas when the eggnog's gone,
Send somebody to the Quick-Pack Store,
We need some ice and an extension cord,
A can of bean dip and some Diet-Rite,
A box of tampons, some Marlboro Lights,
Halleluhah, everybody say 'cheese',
Merry Christmas from the fam-i-ly!
Fran and Rita drove from Harlingen,
I can't remember how I'm kin to them,
But when they tried to plug their motorhome in,
They blew our Christmas lights.
Cousin David knew just what went wrong,
So we all waited out on our front lawn,
He threw a breaker and the lights came on,
And we sang 'Silent Night',
'Oh-Silent Night',
'Oh-Holy Night'
Carve the turkey,
Turn the ballgame on,
Make Bloody-Mary's',
'Cause we all want one!
Send somebody to the Stop-&-Go,
We need some celery and a can of fake snow,
A bag of lemons and some Diet-Spite,
A box of tampons, some Salem Lights,
Halleluhah, everybody say 'cheese',
Merry Christmas from the fam-i-leeeeeeeee!
Fel-iz Na-vi-dad!
If you, too, are having problems getting into the spirit of the season, may I humbly offer up my three all-time fave Christmas songs (all videos from YouTube, as is the standard here)...
This song actually was done by a comedian in the 1980s, I think, but I have yet to find the gentleman's name...it's just become a cult hit and is just requested around here as "Porky's Christmas" (or something akin to that title, anyway). I'd love to know the full story about this song and the comedian, but I always end up just laughing like the guy in the background every time it comes on. Aside from Chilly Willy® and Pepe Le Pew®, Porky Pig® reigns supreme among male cartoons. (Betty Boop® is the undeniable women's champ.)
I happen to really love this song, especially for its harmony. While the BNL boys from Canada are great, Sarah McLachlan really adds something to this. A bit of an odd choice from these musicians, as I always under the impression neither were particularly 'religious', maybe not particularly 'spiritual' even. The ending's a little shaky (like The Beach Boys and Jan & Dean doing "Help Me, Rhonda" after a few takes, errors and all), but it's really a decent song to listen and sing along to. It's even better to whistle to when shopping for the 80% off sales.
And finally, our winner of the season. Practically a state law to play this at Christmas back in my home state in the Midwest...take that as you will.
Words fail me to properly describe how great...and accurate...this song is if you've ever been apart of and/or watched holiday get-togethers in mobile home trailer parks across the US. This is the kind of stuff that inspired "The Dukes of Hazzard" to ever be created in the first place. Robert Earl Keen, the songwriter of this masterpiece, knew the 'people' very well indeed...and it shows. Read and follow along with the lyrics below (from Leo's Lyrics) if you're unfamiliar with this tasteful classic. It also clearly represents why American culture may not be as fondly remembered as to that of, well...anybody else...in generations to come.
written by: Robert Earl Keen
Mom got drunk,
And dad got drunk,
At our Christmas party,
We were drinkin' champagne punch and
homemade eggnog.
Little sister brought her new boyfriend,
He was a Mexi-can,
We didn't know what to think of him,
Til he sang 'Feliz-Navidad',
'Feliz-Navidad'
Brother Ken brought his kids with him,
The three from his first wife Lynn,
And the two idenitical twins
From his second wife Mary-Nell,
Of course he brought his third wife Kay,
Who talks all about A-A,
Chain-smokin' while the stereo plays
'No-el, No-el',
The First No-el
Carve the turkey,
Turn the ballgame on,
Mix margharitas when the eggnog's gone,
Send somebody to the Quick-Pack Store,
We need some ice and an extension cord,
A can of bean dip and some Diet-Rite,
A box of tampons, some Marlboro Lights,
Halleluhah, everybody say 'cheese',
Merry Christmas from the fam-i-ly!
Fran and Rita drove from Harlingen,
I can't remember how I'm kin to them,
But when they tried to plug their motorhome in,
They blew our Christmas lights.
Cousin David knew just what went wrong,
So we all waited out on our front lawn,
He threw a breaker and the lights came on,
And we sang 'Silent Night',
'Oh-Silent Night',
'Oh-Holy Night'
Carve the turkey,
Turn the ballgame on,
Make Bloody-Mary's',
'Cause we all want one!
Send somebody to the Stop-&-Go,
We need some celery and a can of fake snow,
A bag of lemons and some Diet-Spite,
A box of tampons, some Salem Lights,
Halleluhah, everybody say 'cheese',
Merry Christmas from the fam-i-leeeeeeeee!
Fel-iz Na-vi-dad!
17 December 2006
Love stinks: another 'perfect man' bites the dust...
It's bad enough my company's Holiday Party (which I spent a good time planning and implementing this past month) was a bit marred by some infighting (and subsequent lackluster attendance) last night. But even my heavy disappointment and cloaked anger couldn't touch the call I got from my girl friend K last night. Some things that happen to good friends make you realize that your problems are truly very, very inconsequential.
We women always complain we want men (read: men, not boys masquerading as men, an absolutely massive difference) who can look after us, work with us on common goals, respect us, protect us, and love us. I would be the first one to admit that all of these wishes in one person may be fantasy...or have been made impossible for some men to achieve, especially as there are no 'hard and fast' rules that apply to all women. I, like so many other American women, was taught such men existed and I could have it all, but have found those teachings faulty, and especially so if you're not the class beauty, nor a single digit size, or not willing to sleep with a guy on the first date. In what must be a version of God's little joke of irony, the men we women frequently consider 'perfect' are only looking for 'perfect' women (at least visually), too...and that takes a good portion of us out of contention. It's a sad day when you come face to face with the reality about this. All the beauty a woman can cultivate on the inside will never be seen by so many men on the outside...because they only judge by the appearance they can see. God knows, we women are just as guilty of committing the same crime towards the men we meet.
But sometimes you hear about a guy who has spent the effort to look beyond the outer shell, to actually have a conversation with a woman in a social setting that didn't constantly feature his eyes drifting to her various body parts. Many of them actually know a good measure of manners, opening doors and the lot. An exceptionally high number are well-read and speak in complete and thoughtful sentences...and expect the women they date to be the same. They come from all corners of the world, and from all professions. Some have money, yet some don't 'need' money to survive. All of them do have some unspeakable level of confidence in themselves, their dreams, and their personal standards...as traditional or as avant-garde as they may be for each man. According to the plot, the 'smart' ones meet a woman who meets their personal needs, and have just some of the aforementioned wants of the woman (contrary to popular beliefs, men don't have to come 'to the table' with all of those characteristics already met), and decide they voluntarily want to get married and have a family. In some circles, this is referred to 'the perfect man' and is highly prized and fought over. In other circles, this is referred to as an 'urban myth'.
My dear friend K thought she had found 'the perfect man', a charming, Old School kind of bloke from the North Island of New Zealand. While he was a gifted conversationalist and avid outdoor enthusiast, he was also very fond of being 'the one in charge' at all times. A mixed bag of tradition and modern ways, and with a volatile temper at times to boot. Wickedly sarcastic and mentally sharp with a verbal attack, too (something that seems to be indicative of all Kiwis, from my experience anyway). At times, I thought K had given up some of herself to be with this guy, but I've never been married and am an only child, so I'm a tad bit unappreciative of compromise. But she seemed blissfully happy to have this headstrong, yet respectful, Kiwi at her side. On her wedding anniversary last year, I sent a card and she called back in reply in full bubble: they had decided they were wanting to start a family soon. Three months ago I got a sweet, almost tearful, voice mail that I would soon be an 'Auntie' again. Things on the Joy Forever and Ever Train were speeding along.
Apparently until this past Friday.
Mr. Auckland apparently wasn't so sick after all, despite being out as such from his work since Tuesday. Although K had been out of town with an ill relative, she decided that her dear hubby needed her more and decided to come home from her trip early...and unannounced. As a person who's never really been savagely cheated on, I can't imagine exactly what she witnessed upon her arrival. But I do know it involved another woman and her 'beloved' husband...in the half-finished room that was to become her first child's nursery.
By the time K called me yesterday, she'd already been on a tear. It would seem that K's 'perfect man' from the great nation of NZ hasn't been such a great wonder after all. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned', indeed. Bank accounts, credit card accounts, clothes, a truck, a motorcycle, an interrupted call to the INS, a completed call to his parents back in Napier (oi vey)...God only knows what else I don't even know about yet. At some point, a mutual friend of ours had hunted K down and brought her back to a reasonably calm state. The dear mama-to-be is still beyond furious and is vowing a 'slash and burn' campaign that would have made General Sherman's march to Atlanta "look like a fire drill".
K, hun, I don't know what to say...and I won't put up what you wanted me to about him here...but my heart bleeds out for you, as you clearly are in as much pain as I've ever known you to have. With your approval, I've put up what I feel I comfortably can as a 'warning' to our sisters, married and unmarried alike. I did find this Carrie Underwood video (from YouTube, as usual) "Before He Cheats"...and, sadly, it fits. I love ya, hun, and will support you and your unborn innocent babe in all of this as best as I can. I'm low on bail money, though, hun...so don't go completely apeshit (though I may be saying that too late and after the fact).
We women always complain we want men (read: men, not boys masquerading as men, an absolutely massive difference) who can look after us, work with us on common goals, respect us, protect us, and love us. I would be the first one to admit that all of these wishes in one person may be fantasy...or have been made impossible for some men to achieve, especially as there are no 'hard and fast' rules that apply to all women. I, like so many other American women, was taught such men existed and I could have it all, but have found those teachings faulty, and especially so if you're not the class beauty, nor a single digit size, or not willing to sleep with a guy on the first date. In what must be a version of God's little joke of irony, the men we women frequently consider 'perfect' are only looking for 'perfect' women (at least visually), too...and that takes a good portion of us out of contention. It's a sad day when you come face to face with the reality about this. All the beauty a woman can cultivate on the inside will never be seen by so many men on the outside...because they only judge by the appearance they can see. God knows, we women are just as guilty of committing the same crime towards the men we meet.
But sometimes you hear about a guy who has spent the effort to look beyond the outer shell, to actually have a conversation with a woman in a social setting that didn't constantly feature his eyes drifting to her various body parts. Many of them actually know a good measure of manners, opening doors and the lot. An exceptionally high number are well-read and speak in complete and thoughtful sentences...and expect the women they date to be the same. They come from all corners of the world, and from all professions. Some have money, yet some don't 'need' money to survive. All of them do have some unspeakable level of confidence in themselves, their dreams, and their personal standards...as traditional or as avant-garde as they may be for each man. According to the plot, the 'smart' ones meet a woman who meets their personal needs, and have just some of the aforementioned wants of the woman (contrary to popular beliefs, men don't have to come 'to the table' with all of those characteristics already met), and decide they voluntarily want to get married and have a family. In some circles, this is referred to 'the perfect man' and is highly prized and fought over. In other circles, this is referred to as an 'urban myth'.
My dear friend K thought she had found 'the perfect man', a charming, Old School kind of bloke from the North Island of New Zealand. While he was a gifted conversationalist and avid outdoor enthusiast, he was also very fond of being 'the one in charge' at all times. A mixed bag of tradition and modern ways, and with a volatile temper at times to boot. Wickedly sarcastic and mentally sharp with a verbal attack, too (something that seems to be indicative of all Kiwis, from my experience anyway). At times, I thought K had given up some of herself to be with this guy, but I've never been married and am an only child, so I'm a tad bit unappreciative of compromise. But she seemed blissfully happy to have this headstrong, yet respectful, Kiwi at her side. On her wedding anniversary last year, I sent a card and she called back in reply in full bubble: they had decided they were wanting to start a family soon. Three months ago I got a sweet, almost tearful, voice mail that I would soon be an 'Auntie' again. Things on the Joy Forever and Ever Train were speeding along.
Apparently until this past Friday.
Mr. Auckland apparently wasn't so sick after all, despite being out as such from his work since Tuesday. Although K had been out of town with an ill relative, she decided that her dear hubby needed her more and decided to come home from her trip early...and unannounced. As a person who's never really been savagely cheated on, I can't imagine exactly what she witnessed upon her arrival. But I do know it involved another woman and her 'beloved' husband...in the half-finished room that was to become her first child's nursery.
By the time K called me yesterday, she'd already been on a tear. It would seem that K's 'perfect man' from the great nation of NZ hasn't been such a great wonder after all. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned', indeed. Bank accounts, credit card accounts, clothes, a truck, a motorcycle, an interrupted call to the INS, a completed call to his parents back in Napier (oi vey)...God only knows what else I don't even know about yet. At some point, a mutual friend of ours had hunted K down and brought her back to a reasonably calm state. The dear mama-to-be is still beyond furious and is vowing a 'slash and burn' campaign that would have made General Sherman's march to Atlanta "look like a fire drill".
K, hun, I don't know what to say...and I won't put up what you wanted me to about him here...but my heart bleeds out for you, as you clearly are in as much pain as I've ever known you to have. With your approval, I've put up what I feel I comfortably can as a 'warning' to our sisters, married and unmarried alike. I did find this Carrie Underwood video (from YouTube, as usual) "Before He Cheats"...and, sadly, it fits. I love ya, hun, and will support you and your unborn innocent babe in all of this as best as I can. I'm low on bail money, though, hun...so don't go completely apeshit (though I may be saying that too late and after the fact).
Men, women, Kiwis and non-Kiwis, cheaters high and low all alike, remember this: The truth will always win out, people...and it probably will be very painful when it does.
Now, what to do with this bastard called her husband...
15 December 2006
Bombshell update in the Duke lacrosse case...UPDATED WITH CORRECTION FROM WRAL-TV
As many of my Friends of Blog (FOB) will attest, I have (and have posted) some very strong opinions about the judicial and media roller coaster that has become the Duke University lacrosse team alleged rape case. For awhile here I was posting fairly regularly about the whole affair...until I was contacted offline from someone who claimed they were 'covering' the story and had happened across my and some other locals' blogs and wanted to incorporate our viewpoints. Initial emails were pleasant enough, but it soon became apparent that this 'journalist' (Jack Marx of the SMH and Nancy Grace from Headline News would have been proud of this one...and I've lost all respect for both after they've decided recently to be the stars of their own 'reporting') had a certain 'angle' to tell...locals (and especially my) viewpoint be damned. So I refused to correspond any longer with this person. I did, however, continue to post some updates.
I posted here at least until I read an article that incorporated (non-credited, of course) my and about 3 others' local bloggers opinions and twisted them around to 'fit a conclusion' that I did not support. After some angry (but unanswered) letters to the Editor, I realized I couldn't stop to what I consider almost total plagiarism and non-credit for my opinion. Nothing new, I know, to the web, but it's a little different if it's happening to you personally, I guess. People will believe what they want to believe (especially when it comes to race, money, and the South) in this country, and unfortunately there are far too many 'media' types these days to give the people exactly what they want...instead of questioning, clarifying or perhaps changing those beliefs. I'm not a professional journalist by any means and have never pretended to be so here, but I remember enough from my days in radio, yearbook and newspaper classes to know when someone else is being lazy and 'molding' a story, regardless of the facts, to fit a certain predetermined mindset. I, luckily, did not deal long with this person...but I know 2 others who unfortunately did. Like me, they learned that what this 'reporter' was doing was not journalism, but instead propaganda.
In the time since I last posted updates, I have had several readers ask me for any current news on the case. I have not gone into the lengthy explanation as above (in many cases, the emails were still going on so I didn't have a good 'read' on this person yet), but did refer those curious readers to sites like Raleigh's News and Observer newspaper...a local paper that has tried to keep up with the events and not overly sensationalize, and compartmentalize, events into a race, sex, and money soap opera. To get a quick recap, go to their link here. To say this whole saga...multiple DNA tests, 'unrevealed' evidence to the defense, conflicting witness statements, an attempted recall effort against District Attorney Mike Nifong, many others... has become something akin to a 1970s prime-time miniseries may be a grave understatement. Just in case anybody missed the memo: in high profile legal cases there are now always two venues...in the press and in the courts. And everybody, guilty and innocent alike, gets convicted in the court of the media.
However, breaking news this morning from local CBS affiliate WRAL-TV (Channel 5) will, I suspect, blow this whole investigation back up onto the front burner again (ed: read BOTH articles below, the afternoon update is damning of the DNA evidence handling and also has a correction to the status of the alleged victim's pregnancy). And while I'd like to think some journalists will take the professional route and not degrade this news into a 'who's the baby's daddy?' attack...after personal experience just on this humble blog, I'm pretty sure I know better.
And the drama will continue, for no other reason than it sells.
UPDATE FROM WRAL-TV LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON...
I posted here at least until I read an article that incorporated (non-credited, of course) my and about 3 others' local bloggers opinions and twisted them around to 'fit a conclusion' that I did not support. After some angry (but unanswered) letters to the Editor, I realized I couldn't stop to what I consider almost total plagiarism and non-credit for my opinion. Nothing new, I know, to the web, but it's a little different if it's happening to you personally, I guess. People will believe what they want to believe (especially when it comes to race, money, and the South) in this country, and unfortunately there are far too many 'media' types these days to give the people exactly what they want...instead of questioning, clarifying or perhaps changing those beliefs. I'm not a professional journalist by any means and have never pretended to be so here, but I remember enough from my days in radio, yearbook and newspaper classes to know when someone else is being lazy and 'molding' a story, regardless of the facts, to fit a certain predetermined mindset. I, luckily, did not deal long with this person...but I know 2 others who unfortunately did. Like me, they learned that what this 'reporter' was doing was not journalism, but instead propaganda.
In the time since I last posted updates, I have had several readers ask me for any current news on the case. I have not gone into the lengthy explanation as above (in many cases, the emails were still going on so I didn't have a good 'read' on this person yet), but did refer those curious readers to sites like Raleigh's News and Observer newspaper...a local paper that has tried to keep up with the events and not overly sensationalize, and compartmentalize, events into a race, sex, and money soap opera. To get a quick recap, go to their link here. To say this whole saga...multiple DNA tests, 'unrevealed' evidence to the defense, conflicting witness statements, an attempted recall effort against District Attorney Mike Nifong, many others... has become something akin to a 1970s prime-time miniseries may be a grave understatement. Just in case anybody missed the memo: in high profile legal cases there are now always two venues...in the press and in the courts. And everybody, guilty and innocent alike, gets convicted in the court of the media.
However, breaking news this morning from local CBS affiliate WRAL-TV (Channel 5) will, I suspect, blow this whole investigation back up onto the front burner again (ed: read BOTH articles below, the afternoon update is damning of the DNA evidence handling and also has a correction to the status of the alleged victim's pregnancy). And while I'd like to think some journalists will take the professional route and not degrade this news into a 'who's the baby's daddy?' attack...after personal experience just on this humble blog, I'm pretty sure I know better.
And the drama will continue, for no other reason than it sells.
(from WRAL-TV's web site):
Duke Lacrosse Accuser Gives Birth
Posted: Dec. 14 5:56 p.m.
Updated: Today at 5:54 a.m.
Chapel Hill — WRAL's Julia Lewis has confirmed that the accuser in the Duke lacrosse case gave birth late Thursday at UNC Hospitals.
Her pregnancy had not been public knowledge until now.
When WRAL called her boyfriend's home Thursday evening, the person who answered the phone had no comment and then hung up.
The 27-year-old gave birth nine months after she alleges she was raped by three Duke University lacrosse players at a March 13 team party.
After the party, she was taken to a local hospital to be examined.
A defense attorney tells WRAL that a test taken at the hospital showed that she was not pregnant at the time of the party and that she was given emergency contraception commonly referred to as the morning-after pill.
The suspects in the case -- David Evans, 23, Collin Finnerty, 20, and Reade Seligmann, 20 -- have denied the allegations.
This week, attorneys in the case filed a motion in which they said male DNA from multiple sources was found on the accuser, but none from their clients. In another motion, they ask that the judge presiding over the case throw out the photographic lineup in which she identified the defendants, saying the IDs were the result of a "tainted procedure."
At the time of the alleged incident, the woman, a divorced mother of two, had worked for an escort service to help support her children and to pay for classes at North Carolina Central University.
* Reporter: Julia Lewis
* Web Editor: Kelly Gardner
UPDATE FROM WRAL-TV LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON...
Paternity Test Ordered in Duke Lacrosse Rape Case
Posted: Today at 9:48 a.m.
Updated: 25 minutes ago
Durham — The judge presiding over the the Duke University lacrosse rape case on Friday approved a paternity test for the three indicted players and the accuser.
WRAL confirmed Thursday that the accuser is pregnant and was admitted to a University of North Carolina hospital. WRAL also reported that she had delivered the baby Thursday night based on information from sources who have been reliable in the past. This time they were incorrect. WRAL has since learned that the accuser is not due to deliver until February.
Defense attorney Joseph Cheshire said a test taken at the hospital after the alleged rape showed that she was not pregnant at the time of the party. The attorney also said she was given emergency contraception, commonly referred to as the morning-after pill.
"It's impossible for any of these young men to have fathered that child because none of them ever touched her," Cheshire said after the court hearing.
Durham County District Attorney Mike Nifong didn't oppose the paternity test, saying he has no reason to believe that any of the players is the father of the woman's child.
The paternity issue was the latest in a series of moves before a packed courtroom Friday. Players Reade Seligmann, 20, Collin Finnerty, 20, and David Evans, 23, appeared in court together for the first time and were joined by their families, lacrosse coach John Danowski, former coach Mike Pressler and scores of Duke students.
Cheshire said the players appreciated the show of support. "The joy that was in their hearts and in our hearts was palpable," he said.
The accuser's father also was in the courtroom.
The woman, a North Carolina Central University student, told police she was beaten and raped by three lacrosse players while performing as a stripper at a March 13 team party. Seligmann, Finnerty and Evans were later indicted on kidnapping and rape charges, but they have denied any wrongdoing.
Also Friday, the director of a private lab that tested DNA samples in the case testified about the testing procedures and the report the lab delivered to Nifong's office.
Defense attorneys maintain that report was incomplete. They said the full report showed DNA samples from several men were found on the woman and her underwear, but none of the genetic material matched any of the players. Their motion also said that some of the lab director's own DNA contaminated the sample.
Brian Meehan, director of DNA Security, said his lab didn't try to withhold information. He said he and Nifong agreed not to release the full report to protect the privacy of lacrosse players who weren't implicated in the case. But he acknowledged that the decision violated the lab's policies.
Cheshire criticized the DNA report, saying the partial report denied the players a chance to prove their innocence.
"They decided they would only report what was a match and wouldn't report what wasn't a match," he said. "We are extremely troubled by that."
But Nifong said he and Meehan did nothing wrong by limiting the scope of the report.
"There was no attempt to hide anything the way the report was done. If anything, we were trying to be fair to all the people who were not going to be involved in this case," he said.
Judge Osmond Smith also sealed the military and medical records of the accuser. In closed-door meeting with prosecutors and defense attorneys, Smith ruled that the defense could review the files but that the information wouldn't be made public.
Defense attorneys also asked Smith to move the trial out of Durham. They said Durham County District Attorney Mike Nifong has polarized the local community with comments he made during the initial stages of the investigation.
Before any arrests were made, Nifong publicly stated that a crime had been committed. Minority groups supporting the accuser later held protest marches in Durham.
"This case, in this community, has torn it apart," defense attorney Jim Cooney said. "It will simply be impossible, if you could find an impartial jury, for that impartial jury to deliberate fairly.
"Everyone -- the accuser, these young men and the community -- are entitled to a verdict we can all have confidence in," Cooney said.
Defense attorneys also asked Smith in a motion filed this week to throw out the photographic lineup in which the accuser identified the defendants. The photo identifications of the Duke players resulted from a "tainted procedure" and were unreliable, a defense motion said.
Nifong had directed that the identification procedure use only photos of the white members of the team who were at the party and that police arrange the photos in a PowerPoint presentation for the woman to view, attorneys said. But the woman also identified players who weren't at the party.
"It's pretty clear the procedure used were flawed," Cheshire said. "There's nothing there. I think this is a false accusation, and I think this whole case ought to go away."
The next pretrial hearing in the case is scheduled for the week of Feb. 5.
Reporters: Julia Lewis, Ken Smith
Photographer: Don Ingle
Web Editor: Matthew Burns
13 December 2006
Hercules Mulligan announces Holiday Tour
Although The Holiday Tour is a bit limited by geographical range this season, we devoted supporters and 'Americana-influenced Irish band' groupies are always hopeful for world domination. These guys are very talented musicians and mesh well together...it's always a very good, and very entertaining, show!
(from the your pseudo-professional PA monitor's and Irish and Scottish band groupie's email LOL)...
As a point of clarification, your faithful blogger here would like to unequivocally deny that I am 'Anonymous'. Yes, dear longtime friends, I know that's what the old band setup with myself and Johnny K and a host of others used to be called. However, somewhere after that messy musical divorce and my carpal neuropathy, all fun and games with that inside joke/name ceased to exist. The lovely blokes with Herx were NOT aware of their unintentional (albeit intentional to them in their context) joke as above. I'm very fond of them, like several other bands I make a determined effort to go see, but much to their benefit, I do not play with them. Those days of playing are far done.
Just come out and see these guys!
(from the your pseudo-professional PA monitor's and Irish and Scottish band groupie's email LOL)...
Hercules Mulligan, the hardest working Americana-influenced Irish band in the Triangle will be playing two dates on their Holiday Tour 2006. The Herx will first ply their trade at the Cary Hibernian on Wednesday, December 13th, (ed: TONIGHT!)from 7-9 P.M. Then, after a 48-hour respite, they will reappear at Tir Na Nog Irish Pub (in downtown Raleigh) on Friday, December 15th, also from 7-9 (ed: P.M. as well, just in case anyone has a hangover...these fellas have day jobs, too).
Come take a break from your hectic holiday planning for two nights of fun. If you know us, bring a friend. If you don’t know us, bring a friend as well so you’ll have something to listen to if you find you’d rather not listen to us. If nothing else, come see what Irish music sounds like when driven by an upright bass. That’s worth the price of admission right there, which, incidentally, is free.
To close, a couple of quotes to up the ante:
“Hercules Mulligan is a splendid blend of The Pogues, The Chieftains, and Bill Monroe and his Blue Grass Boys. Add a splash of The Three Tenors and just a kiss of The Stanley Brothers, and you’re pretty close to the magic that is Hercules Mulligan.” – Anonymous
“Well I’m not sure how to respond to that. It’s all very flattering, really. The Pogues and Bill Monroe? Gosh, and a splash of the Tenors and a kiss…wait a minute, dude, was that Anonymous? He's always saying whatever he thinks we want people to hear. He's still not in the band.” – Dave Cauthorn, Hercules Mulligan
As a point of clarification, your faithful blogger here would like to unequivocally deny that I am 'Anonymous'. Yes, dear longtime friends, I know that's what the old band setup with myself and Johnny K and a host of others used to be called. However, somewhere after that messy musical divorce and my carpal neuropathy, all fun and games with that inside joke/name ceased to exist. The lovely blokes with Herx were NOT aware of their unintentional (albeit intentional to them in their context) joke as above. I'm very fond of them, like several other bands I make a determined effort to go see, but much to their benefit, I do not play with them. Those days of playing are far done.
Just come out and see these guys!
10 December 2006
I'd break for tea and The Ashes if only I could
So it's been a very busy weekend so far. I've done all the dishes, and the laundry (including the linens), and the great closet purge of unworn items, and the donations to the PTA Thrift Stop and the Goodwill®, and some basic rearrangement of the living room, too. Got new tires for the truck, and hung some new drapes, have got to a stopping point on fixing my beloved computer (rant about that the next time). And this all combined with some extra weekend filing and letters for work. Tonight, dear WR and myself will meet up at the Dorton Arena over at the State Fairgrounds and watch The Carolina Rollergirls® in their season finale (nothing like going with a gay friend to watch flat track roller derby). I can get a lot done when I'm motivated, and some weekends are better than others. Perhaps it's only child syndrome, but I do much better when there are few distractions (read: people) around to give me new ideas. I do not have ADD or ADHD, but I do easily shift and cut short my attention span generally. I am the 'honey do' list maker and list 'completer' for this household, and I've been on a roll...after weeks of slacking.
However, this push to 'get motivated and to get things done' is recently born and, in many ways, forced. A couple of Wednesdays ago (over our long Thanksgiving holiday weekend) it was not looking so promising. We had this lingering winter storm that dumped a few inches of rain here (which led to some localized flooding), near freezing temperatures, and some 'junior size' howling winds (30-40mph)...for two, almost three, days straight, starting on that Monday. In short, we got an early blast of winter far earlier than we ever do here (we're normally fairly temperate). I had planned to take pictures of some of the beautiful fall trees that weekend out west in the mountains and then some also here, but by that Tuesday morning there was no leaves attached to anything that quantified the effort. So goes another fall's glory undocumented here. I have pictures of places all over the world during all different seasons, but sadly have very few from here...and none during its most glorious Nature dances, spring and fall. So that Wednesday morning I stood at my patio window and looked out onto a parking lot awash with gold, rose, chestnut, and red leaves fighting for survival in the fast-driven streams of water. I stood there, drinking my cuppa, watching small branches bend and break in the gusty winds and tried to think of some reason...other than money I'd earn from my job...why I should get out in the mess. None came, but I went to work anyway. And besides I was out of tea and would need more.
So sometime this past Thursday 'payday' evening, as I stood in the gargantuan grocery aisle of coffees, teas, and high-energy drinks of Lowes® grocery, I realized I would never find the tea in question over here. The tea, I soon realized, was a gift from a mate in Kensington (or thereabouts) in Sydney, some years ago that I'd kept in a tin all this time, carefully treasuring each brewing. I stood there, holding the empty tin, and had to laugh at myself. This was, as he told he at the time of the gift, the official tea of Australian cricket, after all. I was not as impressed initially as he had hoped apparently, so he further animatedly explained that this was the tea that was served during tea breaks for the Oz cricket matches. After some minutes past (and, I have to admit it, some feigned enthusiasm for a game and tea I could care less about at the time), I realized I was being given a souvenir of some great magnitude (at least to the giver), a memento of my time watching cricket matches on the telly with this fellow at the TAB bar he managed. (Fellow Yanks: the closest thing I can compare this to is maybe being a foreigner watching baseball the first time in a sports bar, impressing the bartend somehow by not making a fool out of yourself, and being given some packaged Nathan® hot dogs to return home with, as a sign 'you'd made the grade' with the locals.)
Not only was I the only American who had ever asked him to explain cricket at his bar, but I was also the only American female...and, being the child of a baseball fanatic and former minor league pitcher, I saw a few similarities and (amazingly) retained some of the instruction. This had impressed him a great deal, as he had a low opinion of Yanks in general and Yank women in specific. While I didn't appreciate it until much later (actually in Melbourne this year, and frankly that would not have happened except that my then traveling companion and I went to Melbourne when the city was virtually dead, half the population gone on holiday, and seemingly nothing to do), I realize now how much this gift of tea and knowledge of his favourite sport meant to him. After this last trip to Melbourne, in fact, I came back a fan of the game. My traveling companion was so enthralled that I bought her a paperback but still quite durable copy of "The Art of Cricket", written by Sir Donald Bradman, while I was visiting Coffs Harbour. (Yanks and other non-cricketers: Bradman is considered to be one of the best, if not the best, cricket player in history. Check this out if you need an introductory primer, under the "can anybody explain cricket to a Yank so she'll understand it?" heading.) No wonder the pimply-faced teenager selling it on Grafton Street there looked at me askance...he probably wondered if I even had a clue.
But now, 3-4 years later after its first receipt, books or no books, Melbourne or Coffs or Sydney or no, I am out of the official Australian cricket tea and cannot find it anywhere. Which, frankly, is absurd given all the options available to US consumers and all of the trade agreements our government has signed over the years. In even the largest supermarkets in Oz, I can maybe find half an aisle side of even the most in-demand items; here, that would fill up an entire aisle, both sides, and be twice as long. For example, I wandered into the largest Coles® supermarket in all of NSW this last trip, and in comparison, but it was only about 70% of the size of just the average Wal-Mart® Supercenter food section. (Which makes me seriously wonder what the hell is all this crap we Yanks are buying in the first place. An entire aisle, stocked from top to bottom on both sides, 50 feet long if not more, of cereal? Another of soft drinks? And another of cookies and crackers? And still we have millions hungry...amazingly shameful.) It's bad enough one cannot get a decent Oz beer here (read: not Fosters®), even if they did raise the alcohol levels in North Carolina last year. Not only can I not find a bottle of my beloved Carlton Crown Lager® here, I also can't even buy its sturdy standby (and unofficial Oz spokesbeer) Victoria Bitter (VB)®. It's worse that a new cricket convert can't listen to and/or watch the The Ashes competition between Oz and England online, because of some obtuse regulation about only broadcasting in only the home countries involved...and Lord knows cricket will never make it to mainstream American airwaves (unless a costly pay per view) in my lifetime. So I can't get the beer, the food, the culture, The Ashes, and God only knows what else here affordably, if not at all. But I love the damn tea, even if my grandmother was heavily involved with the Daughters of the American Revolution and drinking tea here is widely considered 'un-American'. So I decided to look for distributors of the beloved tea...as an early Christmas present to myself.
But the tea is not to be found. Anywhere here (and here is the continental United States, so far), apparently. You can get something similar (or at least what is called "Oz's best seller" from the importer website), and for a rather hefty price for a half-size container and 7-8 weeks' shipping wait. So much for the early prezzie for later this month, but with any luck I might get it for myself for my birthday. Might, I say. Adding all shipping and handling, we're approaching $38 USD for one tin of tea...more if the USD continues to slide...before shipping and taxes. Being the thrifty girl I am, I'm not sure I can't hold out. $38 less on a small tin of tea of the substandard is $38 closer to actually being back on a plane there and indulging in pots of the better variety. I've always said if the Aussies truly wanted to take over the world, they'd massively export their Tim Tams® and their beer here. As gullible as we are at spending money at the Outback Steakhouse® chain with their mounted plastic crocodiles and boomerang collections, Lord knows it would not be hard to get an addiction for their standbys started. Just look how we've taken to "The Bloomin' Onion"® which isn't Aussie at all...yet 3 members of my tour group to Oz in 2003 demanded we find a restaurant that served one. (Christine Kenneally over at Salon.com a few years ago took issue with this well-perpetrated fraud, too.) Untraveled Yanks want Aussies (and Aussie culture) to be some robust, hard-drinking mix of Paul Hogan and Steve Irwin and Mad Max, and that applies to 'their' food, too. Authenticity be damned.
So, in a manner fitting of my sometime (mis)adventures with the Lucky Country, I can't get, experience, view, eat, or reasonably purchase the authentic items when in a crunch of Ozland wishfulness over here. However, this being America, I can get the fakes or the exceptionally overpriced items if I'm willing to shill out the money. It's yet another major difference between us and them, I suppose. So now...temporarily, I hope...I will forgo trying to listen to cricket or eating Tim Tams® or washing with Pears® and continue not going to Outback Steakhouse®. And I've suspended my search for O'Connells tea® (like that of previous searches for lemon-lime Lift® and Nudie's juices®). Some things are obviously best experienced...and enjoyed...in their native lands.
However, this push to 'get motivated and to get things done' is recently born and, in many ways, forced. A couple of Wednesdays ago (over our long Thanksgiving holiday weekend) it was not looking so promising. We had this lingering winter storm that dumped a few inches of rain here (which led to some localized flooding), near freezing temperatures, and some 'junior size' howling winds (30-40mph)...for two, almost three, days straight, starting on that Monday. In short, we got an early blast of winter far earlier than we ever do here (we're normally fairly temperate). I had planned to take pictures of some of the beautiful fall trees that weekend out west in the mountains and then some also here, but by that Tuesday morning there was no leaves attached to anything that quantified the effort. So goes another fall's glory undocumented here. I have pictures of places all over the world during all different seasons, but sadly have very few from here...and none during its most glorious Nature dances, spring and fall. So that Wednesday morning I stood at my patio window and looked out onto a parking lot awash with gold, rose, chestnut, and red leaves fighting for survival in the fast-driven streams of water. I stood there, drinking my cuppa, watching small branches bend and break in the gusty winds and tried to think of some reason...other than money I'd earn from my job...why I should get out in the mess. None came, but I went to work anyway. And besides I was out of tea and would need more.
So sometime this past Thursday 'payday' evening, as I stood in the gargantuan grocery aisle of coffees, teas, and high-energy drinks of Lowes® grocery, I realized I would never find the tea in question over here. The tea, I soon realized, was a gift from a mate in Kensington (or thereabouts) in Sydney, some years ago that I'd kept in a tin all this time, carefully treasuring each brewing. I stood there, holding the empty tin, and had to laugh at myself. This was, as he told he at the time of the gift, the official tea of Australian cricket, after all. I was not as impressed initially as he had hoped apparently, so he further animatedly explained that this was the tea that was served during tea breaks for the Oz cricket matches. After some minutes past (and, I have to admit it, some feigned enthusiasm for a game and tea I could care less about at the time), I realized I was being given a souvenir of some great magnitude (at least to the giver), a memento of my time watching cricket matches on the telly with this fellow at the TAB bar he managed. (Fellow Yanks: the closest thing I can compare this to is maybe being a foreigner watching baseball the first time in a sports bar, impressing the bartend somehow by not making a fool out of yourself, and being given some packaged Nathan® hot dogs to return home with, as a sign 'you'd made the grade' with the locals.)
Not only was I the only American who had ever asked him to explain cricket at his bar, but I was also the only American female...and, being the child of a baseball fanatic and former minor league pitcher, I saw a few similarities and (amazingly) retained some of the instruction. This had impressed him a great deal, as he had a low opinion of Yanks in general and Yank women in specific. While I didn't appreciate it until much later (actually in Melbourne this year, and frankly that would not have happened except that my then traveling companion and I went to Melbourne when the city was virtually dead, half the population gone on holiday, and seemingly nothing to do), I realize now how much this gift of tea and knowledge of his favourite sport meant to him. After this last trip to Melbourne, in fact, I came back a fan of the game. My traveling companion was so enthralled that I bought her a paperback but still quite durable copy of "The Art of Cricket", written by Sir Donald Bradman, while I was visiting Coffs Harbour. (Yanks and other non-cricketers: Bradman is considered to be one of the best, if not the best, cricket player in history. Check this out if you need an introductory primer, under the "can anybody explain cricket to a Yank so she'll understand it?" heading.) No wonder the pimply-faced teenager selling it on Grafton Street there looked at me askance...he probably wondered if I even had a clue.
But now, 3-4 years later after its first receipt, books or no books, Melbourne or Coffs or Sydney or no, I am out of the official Australian cricket tea and cannot find it anywhere. Which, frankly, is absurd given all the options available to US consumers and all of the trade agreements our government has signed over the years. In even the largest supermarkets in Oz, I can maybe find half an aisle side of even the most in-demand items; here, that would fill up an entire aisle, both sides, and be twice as long. For example, I wandered into the largest Coles® supermarket in all of NSW this last trip, and in comparison, but it was only about 70% of the size of just the average Wal-Mart® Supercenter food section. (Which makes me seriously wonder what the hell is all this crap we Yanks are buying in the first place. An entire aisle, stocked from top to bottom on both sides, 50 feet long if not more, of cereal? Another of soft drinks? And another of cookies and crackers? And still we have millions hungry...amazingly shameful.) It's bad enough one cannot get a decent Oz beer here (read: not Fosters®), even if they did raise the alcohol levels in North Carolina last year. Not only can I not find a bottle of my beloved Carlton Crown Lager® here, I also can't even buy its sturdy standby (and unofficial Oz spokesbeer) Victoria Bitter (VB)®. It's worse that a new cricket convert can't listen to and/or watch the The Ashes competition between Oz and England online, because of some obtuse regulation about only broadcasting in only the home countries involved...and Lord knows cricket will never make it to mainstream American airwaves (unless a costly pay per view) in my lifetime. So I can't get the beer, the food, the culture, The Ashes, and God only knows what else here affordably, if not at all. But I love the damn tea, even if my grandmother was heavily involved with the Daughters of the American Revolution and drinking tea here is widely considered 'un-American'. So I decided to look for distributors of the beloved tea...as an early Christmas present to myself.
But the tea is not to be found. Anywhere here (and here is the continental United States, so far), apparently. You can get something similar (or at least what is called "Oz's best seller" from the importer website), and for a rather hefty price for a half-size container and 7-8 weeks' shipping wait. So much for the early prezzie for later this month, but with any luck I might get it for myself for my birthday. Might, I say. Adding all shipping and handling, we're approaching $38 USD for one tin of tea...more if the USD continues to slide...before shipping and taxes. Being the thrifty girl I am, I'm not sure I can't hold out. $38 less on a small tin of tea of the substandard is $38 closer to actually being back on a plane there and indulging in pots of the better variety. I've always said if the Aussies truly wanted to take over the world, they'd massively export their Tim Tams® and their beer here. As gullible as we are at spending money at the Outback Steakhouse® chain with their mounted plastic crocodiles and boomerang collections, Lord knows it would not be hard to get an addiction for their standbys started. Just look how we've taken to "The Bloomin' Onion"® which isn't Aussie at all...yet 3 members of my tour group to Oz in 2003 demanded we find a restaurant that served one. (Christine Kenneally over at Salon.com a few years ago took issue with this well-perpetrated fraud, too.) Untraveled Yanks want Aussies (and Aussie culture) to be some robust, hard-drinking mix of Paul Hogan and Steve Irwin and Mad Max, and that applies to 'their' food, too. Authenticity be damned.
So, in a manner fitting of my sometime (mis)adventures with the Lucky Country, I can't get, experience, view, eat, or reasonably purchase the authentic items when in a crunch of Ozland wishfulness over here. However, this being America, I can get the fakes or the exceptionally overpriced items if I'm willing to shill out the money. It's yet another major difference between us and them, I suppose. So now...temporarily, I hope...I will forgo trying to listen to cricket or eating Tim Tams® or washing with Pears® and continue not going to Outback Steakhouse®. And I've suspended my search for O'Connells tea® (like that of previous searches for lemon-lime Lift® and Nudie's juices®). Some things are obviously best experienced...and enjoyed...in their native lands.
04 December 2006
I'm ready for my yellow blob close-up, Mr. DeMille
Okay, very limited time tonight as a migraine has set in and, in true Southern fashion, 'I am retiring to my chambers'.
The Mama Drama has temporarily halted itself, and any future moving won't be until February (as some sort of birthday reward for me, I surmise). Negotiations, bribery, and compromise apparently can win the day still...maybe we need to this show on the road from the Ozarks to the Middle East. Don't know how that twice a week vacuuming concession will work among the sand dunes, though. Mama is now warm, dry, and relatively happy driving the church bus once again. Amen.
Secondly, for those of you who have cable and watch USA Network, "Patch Adams" will be airing tomorrow (December 5 in the US, 9pm US EST). So for those of you who know of my adventures as an movie extra (which actually is pretty fun to sit on your ass, eat, and get paid maybe minimum wage), you can search me out again in The Graduation Scene (SPOILER: when Robin Williams moons everyone). I'm on the right, in a God-awful yellow and white polyester number that only fat female extras are given to wear. (But, on the positive, that hair on the blob was my own, and was that naturally curly...once.) I suppose I should be thankful that I was not credited or anything, or else I would be 'Yellow Polyester Blob'. Anyway, depending on how they cut it for broadcast, I'm either in there for about 3 seconds to none at all. That may be my 'contribution' to Hollywood, folks, especially as my Crowd Scene Member from "Kiss the Girls" is gone from all US broadcasts and disks (although I'm in the European/UK version for about 2 seconds!...little victories when you can get them, I say).
I still remember Robin Williams fondly from the limited shooting of "Patch" in Chapel Hill, on the UNC-Chapel Hill main campus and along Franklin Street. Actually, in between stealing a few bites of food from Hector's between takes and makeup towel pat-downs (we filmed in July, never a good time for a sweaty actor in NC), he struck me as quite shy...not quite the manic 'on' comedian we are all so used to seeing on the TV and late night talk shows. While I didn't feel the director of "Patch Adams", Tom Shadyac, had a good 'feel' for the film and the extras he was forever wrangling, in contrast Mr. Williams seemed genuinely humbled and adaptive to his environs...and was always imploring the onlookers to get back to studying, or doing laundry, or doing something other than fawn over him as he was just a 'regular guy'. He made jokes, yes, but he also gave a great deal of inspiration to some hopeful actors and writers who watched at 3am in awe. And he was nothing short of fantastic to the kids who came for an autograph. He never glamourized himself nor the job, though. And he made damn sure to come and talk to the extras and the assembled students and townspeople alike...in actions and not by ego, he came across as not above anybody else in attendance. Humility goes a long way, and even when he's in rehab or been in a film 'bomb', that humility is what I remember, and it's what makes me pull for him, too. I'd endure the polyester blob-suit in an heartbeat to experience that professionalism and compassion with him once more.
Well, maybe not in yellow the next time. And, with no disrespect to Mr. Williams, I've seen enough of his ass.
The Mama Drama has temporarily halted itself, and any future moving won't be until February (as some sort of birthday reward for me, I surmise). Negotiations, bribery, and compromise apparently can win the day still...maybe we need to this show on the road from the Ozarks to the Middle East. Don't know how that twice a week vacuuming concession will work among the sand dunes, though. Mama is now warm, dry, and relatively happy driving the church bus once again. Amen.
Secondly, for those of you who have cable and watch USA Network, "Patch Adams" will be airing tomorrow (December 5 in the US, 9pm US EST). So for those of you who know of my adventures as an movie extra (which actually is pretty fun to sit on your ass, eat, and get paid maybe minimum wage), you can search me out again in The Graduation Scene (SPOILER: when Robin Williams moons everyone). I'm on the right, in a God-awful yellow and white polyester number that only fat female extras are given to wear. (But, on the positive, that hair on the blob was my own, and was that naturally curly...once.) I suppose I should be thankful that I was not credited or anything, or else I would be 'Yellow Polyester Blob'. Anyway, depending on how they cut it for broadcast, I'm either in there for about 3 seconds to none at all. That may be my 'contribution' to Hollywood, folks, especially as my Crowd Scene Member from "Kiss the Girls" is gone from all US broadcasts and disks (although I'm in the European/UK version for about 2 seconds!...little victories when you can get them, I say).
I still remember Robin Williams fondly from the limited shooting of "Patch" in Chapel Hill, on the UNC-Chapel Hill main campus and along Franklin Street. Actually, in between stealing a few bites of food from Hector's between takes and makeup towel pat-downs (we filmed in July, never a good time for a sweaty actor in NC), he struck me as quite shy...not quite the manic 'on' comedian we are all so used to seeing on the TV and late night talk shows. While I didn't feel the director of "Patch Adams", Tom Shadyac, had a good 'feel' for the film and the extras he was forever wrangling, in contrast Mr. Williams seemed genuinely humbled and adaptive to his environs...and was always imploring the onlookers to get back to studying, or doing laundry, or doing something other than fawn over him as he was just a 'regular guy'. He made jokes, yes, but he also gave a great deal of inspiration to some hopeful actors and writers who watched at 3am in awe. And he was nothing short of fantastic to the kids who came for an autograph. He never glamourized himself nor the job, though. And he made damn sure to come and talk to the extras and the assembled students and townspeople alike...in actions and not by ego, he came across as not above anybody else in attendance. Humility goes a long way, and even when he's in rehab or been in a film 'bomb', that humility is what I remember, and it's what makes me pull for him, too. I'd endure the polyester blob-suit in an heartbeat to experience that professionalism and compassion with him once more.
Well, maybe not in yellow the next time. And, with no disrespect to Mr. Williams, I've seen enough of his ass.
01 December 2006
Nothing could be finer, than to be in...
...here, in Carolina, apparently.
It's been a very mild week here weatherwise (60Fs-70Fs), but I've found myself drifting over to view the Oz webcams with increasing regularity...wanting a quick return to the heady days of summer days in Sydney, I guess. And just two days ago I was complaining...while cursing the Bondi Beach cam not being consistently operational...how NC has been predicted to have a bad winter to come, which only further advances my longing. Giving up on Bondi, I did find an equally pleasant one to view on Manly Beach, and some slightly-drunken folks there even waved back at us voyeurs yesterday. Ahhh, Oz in the Summertime.
However, as Mother Nature reminded me and so many others here yesterday, it could be worse here in my specific neck of the woods. In fact, it could be much, much worse. I could still be 'back home' say.
Dear Mama (who faces her 'final consultation' with her landlord about her decision to stay or go from her apartment today...the Mama Drama continues) is digging out from a few inches of snow, but worse, several inches of ice underneath the fluffy stuff. And traveling on the curvy rural 'mountain' roads of Arkansas, that's bound to be fun. Especially since she still needs to haul some items off to storage and/or donation centers before that meeting. Even now, she's in command of an automatic all-wheel drive somewhere, with the local farm report blaring from the radio to 'calm her', I am sure. If nothing else, Mama lives to rise to a challenge. I'd feel better if Arkansas only believed in more guardrails.
Further west, our dear Friends of Blog (FOB), Amanda and Melanie, are probably in worse shape. (Moody to FOB...come in, FOB.) They still reside back in my old stomping grounds in the flatlands of Kansas and Oklahoma. They were dead-center in what The Weather Channel last night was calling "the Oklahoma blizzard" (which may be a first for those words to be put together in a single sentence ever). Today, I checked out the nearest TV station of any merit, Channel 8 (KTUL) of Tulsa, and the totals were daunting (see below). Tulsa, definitely an unheralded beautiful city of these United States, apparently got something close to 10 inches. And all of this snowfall comes on top of some earlier ice and heavy rains the region's been having before the snow came a-callin'.
Snowfall totals in NE Oklahoma from 'blizzard' that hit 11/30/06.
Image from KTUL-TV webpage.
Somebody get these people some shovels and a lot of warm cocoa.
It's been a very mild week here weatherwise (60Fs-70Fs), but I've found myself drifting over to view the Oz webcams with increasing regularity...wanting a quick return to the heady days of summer days in Sydney, I guess. And just two days ago I was complaining...while cursing the Bondi Beach cam not being consistently operational...how NC has been predicted to have a bad winter to come, which only further advances my longing. Giving up on Bondi, I did find an equally pleasant one to view on Manly Beach, and some slightly-drunken folks there even waved back at us voyeurs yesterday. Ahhh, Oz in the Summertime.
However, as Mother Nature reminded me and so many others here yesterday, it could be worse here in my specific neck of the woods. In fact, it could be much, much worse. I could still be 'back home' say.
Dear Mama (who faces her 'final consultation' with her landlord about her decision to stay or go from her apartment today...the Mama Drama continues) is digging out from a few inches of snow, but worse, several inches of ice underneath the fluffy stuff. And traveling on the curvy rural 'mountain' roads of Arkansas, that's bound to be fun. Especially since she still needs to haul some items off to storage and/or donation centers before that meeting. Even now, she's in command of an automatic all-wheel drive somewhere, with the local farm report blaring from the radio to 'calm her', I am sure. If nothing else, Mama lives to rise to a challenge. I'd feel better if Arkansas only believed in more guardrails.
Further west, our dear Friends of Blog (FOB), Amanda and Melanie, are probably in worse shape. (Moody to FOB...come in, FOB.) They still reside back in my old stomping grounds in the flatlands of Kansas and Oklahoma. They were dead-center in what The Weather Channel last night was calling "the Oklahoma blizzard" (which may be a first for those words to be put together in a single sentence ever). Today, I checked out the nearest TV station of any merit, Channel 8 (KTUL) of Tulsa, and the totals were daunting (see below). Tulsa, definitely an unheralded beautiful city of these United States, apparently got something close to 10 inches. And all of this snowfall comes on top of some earlier ice and heavy rains the region's been having before the snow came a-callin'.
Image from KTUL-TV webpage.
Somebody get these people some shovels and a lot of warm cocoa.
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