There are days I drop words of comfort on myself like falling rain & remember it is enough to be taken care of by myself.
Won't You Be My Neighbor?
Oscar, Oscar 2009
Auf der Strecke Australia
Baader Meinhof Complex
Betrayal Bolt Changeling
Class
Conscience of Nhem En Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Dark Knight Defiance
Departures Doubt Duchess Encounters at the End of the World
Final Inch Frost/Nixon Frozen River
Garden Happy-Go-Lucky
Hellboy II: The Golden Army In Bruges Iron Man Kung Fu Panda
Lavatory - Lovestory
Maison en Petits Cubes Man on Wire
Manon on the Asphalt Milk
New Boy Oktapodi
Pig Presto Rachel Getting Married Reader
Revanche Revolutionary Road Slumdog Millionaire
Smile Pinki
Spielzeugland
This Way Up
Tropic Thunder
Trouble the Water Vicky Cristina Barcelona Visitor Wall-E
Waltz with Bashir
Wanted
Witness - From the Balcony of Room 306 Wrestler
According to any non-bill paying child, the need to have a cellphone ranks up there in importance with food and water and unlimited sleeping rights on the weekend. In reality, it probably ranks higher than both food and water, because "water is gross" and food can always be procured one way or another, often by engaging in the great food bartering system found in any school cafeteria.
The desperate wailings for a cellphone began in middle school. TeenTuna opted for a double-barreled approach, by combining pathetic pleas with humiliating digs. I would hear something along the line of "when can I have a cell phone? I really, really, reeeeeeeeeeaaaaalllly need a cellphone...." and her whining would be topped off with an icy, "So-and-so has a cellphone and they are in ELEMENTARY SCHOOL."
I rejected out of hand her need to have a cell-phone as a seventh grader. I scoffed at the mere thought of elementary school kids having cellphones. And even though I was entirely correct on the first count, and shockingly wrong on the second count, I was undeterred. The child did NOT need a cellphone. She didn't drive. She wasn't a latch-key child. She didn't have meetings to schedule or bosses to answer to. Most importantly? She didn't pay the bills. Ergo, she didn't need a phone.
Mean mom? Maybe. But I was comfortable with the label.
I began to reconsider once high school rolled around. Despite our best planning, it seemed as if her schedule was changing constantly (Can I stay after school to work on a project? Can I stay after school for an extra rehearsal? Can I stay after school to build the float? Can I stay after school because Drama Club changed their meeting?) and it was making after school pickup a nightmare. There are no such things as payphones anymore (because everybody has a cellphone, dontcha know) and she was constantly having to go to the office or borrow a friend's phone (after school only, as they are banned during the school day). I knew I was going to have to reverse my decision, and I wasn't thrilled.
I wanted to lay the groundwork early for the reversal. I didn't want to appear as if I were caving. I wanted there to be clear rules and regulations -- part and parcel of the mean mom's handbook. I began chanting my mantra over and over again in her presence: "A cellphone is a tool, not a toy." Initially it was met with the rolling of eyes and the deep put-upon sigh of the exasperated. It eventually mellowed to a resigned, "I know, I know," and I figured at that point that was as good as I was going to get. So last December, we went to get a cellphone.
Being a normal child attracted to the shiny-pretty, she bee-lined to what was the most expensive phone in the store, and I went directly to the mean mom script: No. No. No. ARE YOU SERIOUS? No. No. No. Her suggestions were rejected right and left. When we finally found a phone in our price range that was sturdy enough to withstand teenage use and still had the most important accouterments she thought she needed, I thought we were set. Surprisingly, she still wasn't happy. She wanted that OTHER phone, and her body language, tone of voice and martyred sighs made it clear that this phone would always and forever in her eyes be second-rate. I shrugged and said fine. And took her out of the store and went home. I wasn't about to lay out money and commit to yet another monthly expense when she made it plain she would be so wildly unhappy. So she could do without. I think she absolutely could not believe I did that.
This photo for illustrative purposes only.
Actually, this phone would be rejected out of hand.
It doesn't have a QWERTY keyboard.
Never underestimate a mean mom. We mean business.
It took her exactly 24 hours to entirely change her tune. She wanted that phone. She loved that phone. That phone would be perfect. It was exactly what she wanted, and it would be a great tool (that last part was pure suck-up, but at this point, I didn't mind). Could we go back and get it that night? Please? We did, and she was thrilled. She loved it and hugged it and petted it and called it George. And all was good.
I have to admit, she has always been quite good about using the phone, and more importantly, NOT using the phone. It has indeed come in handy more times than I can count, and has helped immensely in dealing with her constantly changing school and social schedule. She knows that it is never to be touched during dinner, with family or out in public where she is expected to have her attention on someone or something else. It goes off for movies and concerts, and we've never had a problem with it. It has indeed been a very valuable tool.
This past October, her phone was stolen. I was angry not only because someone went into her belonging and took it, but because now it was gone. I vowed at that point she was simply going to have to do without her phone for a good long while. She didn't have one before, and now she didn't have one again . She'd simply have to deal with it.
Just like the olden days.
My red-hot resolve lasted exactly one week. We needed that tool back. So I sucked it up, bought another one, kept her same phone number (evidently beloved above all others) and made sure this time I had insurance put on the dumb thing. Here's to everybody learning their lesson. And now we have our tool again, and all is well.
The funny thing is, with all the importance she has heaped upon this little rectangular piece of electronics, if I ask her to use the phone to call somebody she practically turns green. We have to go over what she is supposed to say. It's as if she were suddenly allergic to dialing the phone and speaking to people. This cool, confident, poised teenager morphs into AWKWARD-GIRL when she hits "call". I suppose I have to take the hit for that one. Although neither of us possess the talk on the phone for hours gene, we are both experts at interpreting another very important tool: the Caller ID screen.
So nearly a year later, I'll admit it. The cellphone was a good idea. She has used it wisely.
Mission accomplished, mean mom.
Good job, TeenTuna.
Working on and living in close proximity to a lage college campus means I have come to accept certain behaviors, activities and truisms as things that "come with the territory." For example, Thursday night has now become opening night for the weekend drinking set, and it's best to stay away from downtown. I also know that life is insane on football Saturdays. I have learned by one too many close calls that no matter the mode of transportation, students never watch where they are going or whom they are about to run into. I know that one should never expect a campus bus to stop or slow down when you're in the crosswalk. And lastly, I have grudgingly accepted the fact that squirrels are the equivalent of the animal mafia, so it's best to be prepared.
Today as I took my mid-morning walk, I saw a couple of people stationed near the bridge with boxes of stuff. This wasn't surprising because this particular location is well-known as the place where all sorts of people stand and share their opinion on whatever their heart desires. This may happen by talking, arguing or screaming, and with or without a soapbox. It's the spot for preachers, protesters, or students passing out literature in support of their cause du jour. Because these people had positioned themselves in the middle of the sidewalk, and because there wasn't anybody else on the sidewalk except GramTuna and myself, I knew contact was inevitable.
The woman approached me and tried to give me a book. And I'm not talking Gideon pocket New Testament sized, I'm talking BOOK. Usually a book of this size would be the work of Scientology, but not today. It was a full-sized paperback copy of The Origin of the Species by Charles Darwin. While I was declining my copy, my mind was racing, trying to figure out why they were passing out Darwin books, and why, somehow it sounded vaguely familiar. And then I remembered.
"Is this the edition where a bunch of stuff was added in?" I asked. I knew I wasn't being specific, but I wasn't trying to engage in conversation. I was simply trying connect the dots in my sieve-like brain. The woman shot a glance at the man she was with and then said, "Yes it is."
Ahhh... and then it all made sense.
After dashing out for lunch and buffering another hit-and-run booking (and having to find a terribly creative way to return to work without getting accosted a third time) I went back to my desk at work and did some searching to re-familiarize myself with the story behind this story. It turns out that November 2009 marks the 150th anniversary of the publication of this book. A man named Ray Comfort discovered the book was in public domain and decided to have it reprinted and widely distributed for free on college campuses all over the country. That's the story. Or, that is a part of the story. You know there is more.
It so happens that Ray Comfort, along with Kirk Cameron (of the old TV sitcom "Growing Pains" fame) have launched a ministry called The Way of the Master, which makes many claims, including the fact that the earth is less than 10,000 years old, and the banana is definitive proof that God exists. I'm not quite sure if this also means that banana splits are definitive proof that schisms occur within the church, but I suppose we will have to leave that theological discussion for another time.
This one.
Not this one.
So, to put it bluntly, Ray Comfort and his ministry are creationists who decided to reprint hundreds of thousands of Darwin's book on evolution and distribute them for free. But even this can't be the entire story, can it? Of course not. Included in this book is a 50-page introduction "written" by Comfort. What is not included in this book are several chapters of the original book.
Before I go on, let me say a few things in the interest of full disclosure. Do I have an opinion on the issue of evolution vs. creationism? Of course I do. But really, this honestly has nothing whatsoever to do with what I do or do not believe. Nor do I see this as a battle between Darwin and Ray Comfort. I think Darwin is pretty comfortable with what he wrote, and besides that, between the fact that Comfort has no scientific background and Darwin's dead, it wouldn't be much of a debate.
This is my real issue. It's bad enough that chapters were cut out of the original book. It's worse that a large percentage of the introduction penned by Comfort has been shown to be plagiarized from several sources. Yes, there is a section on attributions, but the wholesale lifting of chunks of texts really do require that pesky set of quotes. Comfort also uses the introduction to lambaste Darwin and to preach creationism. But the biggest problem I have with this entire affair is what it doesn't say. It doesn't tell you it includes an introduction by Comfort. It doesn't tell you that the original book has been chopped up and entire chapters eliminated to serve Comfort's needs. It doesn't tell you any of that. It simply says it is The Origin of the Species by Charles Darwin.
Here's what I don't understand. If Mr. Comfort feels so strongly about his beliefs (which I am sure he does), and if Mr. Comfort believes he is bringing the truth that God is the one and only Almighty Creator, then why is he hiding it? Why not publish a book about his beliefs of creationism and put his name on the cover? Why does he hide behind Darwin's work in an attempt to sneak in his own?
One of Mr. Comfort's arguments is that Creationism has not been allowed to be taught in schools, so kids are brainwashed (his words). He wanted to present Darwin's work with his own thoughts so that college kids around the country could make up their own minds. I might be able to accept (at least intellectually) that argument, if Mr. Comfort didn't also feel the need to chop up Darwin's original work in the process. It's impossible to do an accurate compare and contrast if you aren't given the entire body of work to study.
And when it comes down to it, I have to wonder what is Mr. Comfort afraid of? With the less-than-forthcoming inclusion of his introduction, and with the unacknowledged abridgment of Darwin's work, did he think God wasn't strong enough to stand on merits alone? I can't imagine feeling the need to award a handicap to The Almighty. We're taught to let our light shine and not to hide it under a bushel. It seems Mr. Comfort prefers to hide his light in the bushel until he thinks nobody is looking, and then dash out, set everything on fire, and hide once again.
Some have suggested getting as many copies of this free book as possible, ripping out the introduction, and then donating the book to other sources. I rejected that idea since there are still chunks of the original book that are missing. Better instead to buy a real copy of the book -- whole and complete. And if you like (or if you prefer), buy a book on creationism too. Compare each on their merits and your beliefs. But compare each source in its entirety and without vitriolic writings from outside sources. Whether your beliefs fall under the umbrella of creationism or evolution or somewhere in between (or if you can't find your umbrella yet), don't apologize. But if you're not willing to speak your beliefs, if you are not willing to put your name to your argument you work so hard to make, if you feel the only way to convince others is by obscuring and skewing the opposing viewpoint by deleting huge chunks to serve your needs, then by all means, enjoy your beliefs and opinions on your own time. But please, take your light and stuff it right back under the bushel where it belongs.
I find that the most difficult aspect of the Novemeber NaBloWriMo isn't writing every single day. The most difficult aspect is finding the time to write every single day. We are in the heart of November with Thanksgiving breathing down our neck, not to mention Black Friday (of which I am a non-believer). Then comes Christmas with all it's holiday concertizing and gigs here there and everywhere. Without even consulting a calendar, I can tick the following performance commitments for TeenTuna off the top of my head: two solo holiday singing gigs, two school concerts (orchestra and choir), and an all-day Regional Honors choir rehearsal and performance with an audition for States Honors choir thrown into the mix. And all of that is what I remember. There is probably more. We are both the tiniest bit glad that Children's Choir scheduling isn't thrown into the mix, because we'd be investigating either lodging in the funny farm, or cloning ourselves so we could be everywhere we needed to be doing everything we needed to do. I am pleased to report, however, that she has already asked to attend their winter concert this Friday night. She said it would be "more fun than a 'friends movie party'" which is high praise indeed. She misses her friends who remained in the group, and I honestly think she wants to support them and hear them sing. How cool is that?
As for me, I'm still knee-deep in my teaching schedule. Tuesdays are particularly long days for me, and I don't get home until upwards of 10pm. I then have to check in with family members, make sure the homework is completed for the night, the tests and quizzes are prepared for, the "plan" for tomorrow is in place and we all know who's on first in the transportation department.
And THEN I need to write a post, making sure I
Do NOT fall asleep at the keyboard, and,
Keep an eye on the clock.
(Tonight I may have failed item 1, albeit it briefly)
Some days are easier than others, and some days I am certainly more inspired (and hopefully, inspirational) than others. But after working 3.5 hours in my cubicle of doom, commuting two hours round trip, and spending 9 hours teaching, my brain is a little mushy. I tried to stay fresh today, especially since my one class (as opposed to my 16 private voice lessons) was having a test. I was sure to bring a pile of New York Times crossword puzzles, Sudoku and KenKen puzzles to solve, but sure enough not ten minutes into class and the test itself, the last student of the class walked in late and THEN ASKED ME FOR A WRITING UTENSIL.
Figuring that might be a critical component of the test-taking experience, I handed over my pen (yes pen for puzzles. Always and forever. Amen) and then stared sadly at my pile of puzzles begging to be solved. My only choice was to do what anyone in my position would do...I grabbed a dry-erase pen and called it good. It squeaked a bit, but 3 KenKen 2 Sudoku and 2 crossword puzzles later, I was glad to have something...ANYTHING to write with.
So there isn't much to tell about life in my cubicle. And there isn't much to tell about lessons today either, except that nearly everybody had a great lesson, and HolyLordJesus, who knew that Thanksgiving Day was next week? And now, as the clock approaches midnight and both cats have taken their places on the bed and I'm feeling more and more like an exhausted pumpkin, it's time to slap a title on this thing and click "Publish Post." It may not be the most inspiring thing you've ever read, but simply put, there are days like that. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
It's time you and I had a little heart to heart, because I've been making excuses for you, or looking the other way for quite some time now, and I just cannot do it any longer.
To put it bluntly, WHAT GIVES?
You have turned into a Yenta, and a lazy one at that.
Now, don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about. When you went through the last unnecessary redesign number I've-Lost-Count, I thought you would have noticed that this time around I didn't complain, and I didn't join the fracas badgering you to change it all back or threatening to leave. Yes, I will admit I found some tar and feathers the time before this latest unnecessary redesign number I've-Lost-Count, but can you blame me? I was mad. I was hurt. I felt betrayed. But I'm here to tell you, Facebook, if experience has taught me anything, I learned that no matter how many thumbs down I cast in various polls, you really didn't care. You weren't going to change.
Until you changed everything all over again.
Which made people complain all over again, demanding it be put back to the old way.
Which happened to be the old way that we all complained about the time before this time when we demanded it be put back the other-other-way.
Or something.
At any rate, when you changed this last time, the most I uttered was a "how strange" but I figured out how to play the game with your new set of rules, and, being a very live and let live kind of person, resumed my life.
But Facebook, it seems my tacit acceptance was not enough for you. In the past I was never particularly bothered when you suggested friends I should be friends with because someone else was friends with them. I know you're all about peer pressure, and let me tell you, you're wasting your time. I lived through High School and really didn't care much about it then and it's highly doubtful that I'm going to care about it now.
But now you've upped the ante, haven't you Facebook? You're not content with peer pressure so now you're going for full-out guilt. If you can't make me bow to your will on my own account, you'll hold up my Facebook friends and tell me how pitiful they are. I've been told to poke my friends, to send them notes and to reconnect. You've told me some of my friends don't have very many friends and I should do something about it. You've told me some friends don't have a profile picture. You've told me that I should make Facebook better for my friends, and that some are only 65% complete. WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
Here's the thing Facebook. If you have a problem, I think you should take care of it yourself. I'm not the friend police, and I'm not finding pictures or more friends, and I'm certainly not going to POKE MY THIRD GRADE TEACHER. In fact, let me tell you something Facebook. This past Sunday, as an experiment, I spoke to one of my Facebook friends at church -- whom I had actually seen the night before and spoke to IN PERSON about friendly type things -- and I told this Facebook friend in church on Sunday that you thought I should reconnect with her. Do you know what she said, Facebook? She said she dumped Facebook. So yeah, thanks for making me look like an idiot. Do you think next time you could send me a relationship update so I don't go around doing your dirty work for nothing?
The thing is, I like you. I really like you. I'm willing to go along with your rules and not complain when you have a redo. But Facebook, get off your lazy butt and do your own work. Maybe some meditation would help you, or a self-help book on acceptance. We're all doing the best we can in this world and frankly, your passive-aggressive behavior isn't working on anyone. Try a little honesty, Be a little nicer, and send chocolate. That always helps.
And if you have yet another mid-life crisis, instead of changing everything, just buy yourself a corvette, find a buxom young thing and call it good. It will be easier on everybody.
Today she has been toiling in the unforgiving land of the high school special project, and the flavor of the day is French. Her assignment is to write a children's book. Not only that, they have to illustrate it themselves (no cutting and pasting clip-art) AND use vocabulary from the chapter they just finished.
This might explain why it took her 8 hours to finish this assignment. Neatness counts, grammar and vocabulary counts and illustrations count. I hope that insane creativity counts as well, because this particular story has a rabbit, a squirrel, a duck, a cow, a chicken and a horse that are friends and enjoy going to do activities in the future like eating dinner in a restaurant, going to the movies, and taking the metro to the forest to swim in the lake. Given the vocabulary constraints and the language difficulties, Hemmingway could do no better.
This whole project brought back horrific memories of my own ninth-grade English project: An "Old Man and the Sea" diorama. Being profoundly artistically handicapped, I complained loud and hard about having to an art project for English class, but my arguments fell on deaf ears as it was explained to me that this assignment was for "those students who weren't strong writers."
Uhhyeah.
So, I went home and made the saddest excuse for a diorama ever. It looked like "The Old Man and the Sea after the Hurricane" but to put it somewhat indelicately, what it really was was "Shit in a Shoebox." Despite the fact that my grade for this particular project reflected the time and effort put forth (not to mention my lack of artistic abilities) I was pretty bitter about the whole thing. Obviously, I still am.
I should have put Peeps in my diorama.
Peeps make everything better.
I'm pleased to say that TeenTuna has finally finished her project. The rabbit, duck. squirrel, chicken, horse and crazy cow are really cute and their story is full of adventures. I hope the teacher recognizes the effort and creativity in this project. It's a billion times better than my crappy diorama, and Fabio the bunny should thank his lucky stars that he is so very busy. His social calendar could never fit in a shoebox.
It's late Saturday nightand TeenTuna just wrapped another show. Her November offering was the High School production of The Crucible by Arthur Miller. The cast did Mr. Miller proud, as they depicted the Salem Witch Trials of 1692 with the appropriate faux-Satanic hysteria coupled with a goodly amount of Puritan stiff-necked logic and demeanor. TeenTuna played the role of Betty Paris, whom we often described as "possessed girl #1" and did a great job of both laying in a dead faint and the suddenly screaming accusations, calling for her mama, and trying to crawl out a window.
Just another manic Monday, as the song goes.
Possessed teenage girls aside (seems too easy, doesn't it?), I was quite impressed at how these kids were able to present real depth of character within the confines of very little stage movement and next to no arm motions, as novice actors are wont to do. It's a tough play. It's very very VERY wordy in an unfamiliar 1692 kind of way, and deals with complex issues above and beyond witches, which, in the context of normal teenage life would most likely be reenacted as a Monty Python sketch.
One of the many reasons this show was selected was for its educational opportunities, including themes centering on early American history, classical American literature, contemporary American history, government, law, sociology, religion and ethics to name just a few. Those witches...they had something for everyone!
So tonight was closing night, and after the hugs from friends and family, and the pictures with ... everyone, GramTuna and I waited for TeenTuna. When she finally came out of the dressing room (last. again. ugh) she had morphed from Betty Parris, 10-year old Puritan girl wearing black and gray and .. more black, to her normal teenage attire, complete with jeans, a multicolored scarf and large metallic dangly earrings in the shape of a frog. Her accessories, as usual, were a camera and the all-important cellphone. Lest you think she was totally sucked up into the weightiness of the moral dilemmas of the show, she got into the car with her friend, giggled and whispered in the back seat, and recited one of the touchstone lines from the play over and over and over again.
And now, she's at the cast party, fully assumed back into the life of a High School Sophomore, and I'm at home, here on the computer, doing everything necessary to stay awake until it's time to fetch her from the cast party. The performances may be over, but I'm so pleased for her that she got an opportunity to experience this show from an actor's perspective and learn so much about so many things from a student's perspective.
What a lucky kid.
Even better? She just sent me a text and asked me to come pick her up. What a lucky mom!!
When I opened my weekly email full of new cross stitch patterns, I knew I had hit the jackpot for the second week running. Although all commercial outlets are now in full-on Christmas mode, the crafting world is still unwilling to totally turn it's back on Halloween and all things spooooky. I think the theme for this week's cadre of clunkers is either Swing and a Miss (which is baseball) or Right Place, Wrong Time (which is a Dr. John Song). Keeping that in mind, I'd like to share with you a few outstanding goodies.
1. I'm not sure this is what God had in mind...
They call this delightful piece The Garden of Eerie. At the bottom of the picture (in fairly illegible script) it says "This Work Rot by...." Now, I know God created all things, including dead trees, lightning, sickly green clouds and the like, but who thinks a riff on the creation story that includes Frankenstein, Medusa and one cheerful yet horribly out of place sunflower is a good idea? Also, any points that might have been scored for punnery (rot) are immediately disqualified by the fact that the pun is based on a word 75% of the population is unfamiliar with and 99% of the population NEVER USES in conversation. Or cross-stitch.
2. Be wary of anything involving a moose.
Now, here's a pair for you (that's what HE said! baDUMPBUMP!!). Oftentimes in crafting circles someone, some place or something will be glommed onto as the next great obsession. Lately, in the world of cross-stitching, it has been the moose. Why? I don't know. I guess snowmen have been done to death. What I don't see here, is the reason for the moose. Usually with animal novelty pictures they will include some sort of pun that is meant to distract you from how incredibly stupid the picture is. You know, something along the lines of Merry ChristMOOSE or MOOSE be Santa. But in both of these cases, we aren't even given the benefit of a bad joke. All we have is an extremely disturbing picture of a moose in a risque "Santa's Helper" costume (complete with thigh-high black streetwalker boots), and on the bottom, well, I don't even know. The words don't even make sense. They aren't punny. They certainly aren't funny. They aren't logical. It's just a sentence with the word moose thrown in. And as for the actual moose part of the picture, all I can say is the absence of eyeballs makes it a perfect candidate to go inhabit the creepy garden of Eden above.
3. Know the very BIG difference between the words novelty and novel
I can't imagine anyone in their right (or wrong) mind wanting to sit down and cross stitch the entire book of Exodus. Seriously, forty years later, it still probably wasn't finished. The best BEST thing about this picture is the title: Holy Moses! I can't wait to see the companion piece: the entire new testament cross-stitched on a bell-pull, entitled Jesus CHRIST!
4. Be sure to always, ALWAYS read between the lines
Exhibit A
PRO: A lovely SHORT sentiment, with no traces of moose or Medusa.
CON: Wide-ranged marketability for a prostitute's customer service motto is limited at best.
Public Notice: It's 9:15pm on a Wednesday night, and I am NOT watching Glee.
In fact, all televisions in my house are in the upright and OFF position, which is highly unusual for my environs. I like to have some noise going on at all time, but for some reason tonight just whispered it would prefer the quiet. So Glee-free, it is.
What would Robert Shaw do?
Glee is one of the new hit shows of the seasons, and although it is a show about singing, and, you would think, as a singer, I'd love it. I'm a bit embarrassed to admit it, but where Glee is concerned, I'm at best on the fence. I don't particularly like the over-produced numbers, and I can't really warm up to the goofy, frenetic plot. Yet somehow, it is these two elements in particular that people just LOVE. When GLEE comes on, most people turn off the rest of their world, while I can barely muster scattered attention even when chained to the living room sofa folding socks. At best, I'm just lukewarm on the entire affair, and when I hear people raving about an episode, I feel like I've missed the boat.
Truth be told, there are several popular shows that I've never warmed up to. LOST is another prime example. Never care for it. Tried for a few episodes, but gave up. I might blame it on 4-letter titles, but MASH blows that theory out of the water, seeing as how it was awesome from day one until the last "Goodbye" was flashed on the screen, so that can't be it.
It didn't take me long to be lost in LOST and then to just not care.
But thou shalt not speak ill of M*A*S*H.
(E*V*E*R)
I'm not interesting in anything vampire-y either, so I feel as if I should offer my apologies to whatever other vampires shows there are or were or are to come. I am afraid I will never understand your commercial appeal to exist and/or be slain on a weekly basis.
Young Lady, I'd better NOT see you
running through the house with that thing!
It's so interesting what people do and do not cling to in terms of popular entertainment. I certainly have my mental list of like an don't like, and I'm always astounded when the taste of others is so opposite of myself. I know someone who told me once they hated the movie E.T. Seriously, hated. To me, that's unfathomable. What's to hate? Reeses Pieces, cute Drew Barrymore, fingers that light up, glow in the dark heart, and the whole "I'll....be....right...here." It was funny, it was touching and it was a sobfest. I loved it. Still do. But I know those who don't.
I shall call him George,
and I shall hug him and squeeze him....
On the flip side, I hate hate HATE HATE HATE "It's a Wonderful Life," and I know it's beyond scandalous to say such a thing. After all, it's a movie full of good things and nice people and snow and angels and Christmas rolled into one. But NO, PLEASE NO. I will go scrub a toilet before I sit down to watch that treacle, and yet I know lots of people who think I should be institutionalized for evening thinking bad thoughts about George whats-his-name and OHHHHH, that girl with her whiny "Teacher says...." spiel at the end of the movie. I know it's one of the great movie lines ... it's just that I don't want to hear it. I'm really sorry, because I think I'm supposed to love this mess. But no thank you, thank you.
Teacher says, put a sock in it.
There's just no telling, I guess, what will speak to the masses and what will fall flat. GLEE is on a roll, and huzzah for it, says I. I'm keeping a half-eye on it in the hopes that it might lure me onto the bandwagon and I can be a cool GLEE fanatic like the rest. But until then, there is a weapon. The remote control is everyone's ally, and even if nobody agrees on what it good and what it bad, the friendly remote makes it fast and painless to escape the current torture and take a spin around the dial.
There might be something better.
Or, it might be time to -- shhhh! -- turn off the television.
It's scandelous, I know. But swimming against the tide every now and again makes me happy.
You might even say GLEEful.
But then again, I might roll my eyes and warn you not to push it.
Big celebrations have been afoot. It's the 40th anniversary of Sesame Street, and there is no better way to celebrate than to let Sesame Street do what it does best: teach you, entertain you, make you laugh, and yes, even make you cry. All it takes is some music, some muppets and some good friends. Yes, these were the good old days, but the fabulous news is they are the good new days too. Thank you, Sesame Street for teaching and inspiring several generations of children and grownups alike.
Perhaps my favorite clip of all, and I'm not saving it for last. The music on Sesame Street was clever and true to form, and where else were children supposed to learn about proper saxophone technique? Hoots has it DOWN. Will Ernie ever learn to put down the duckie?
Hysterical aside ... The Tuna clan went and saw Itzhak Perlman in concert last night. TeenTuna was absolutely spellbound by his playing and was surprised he was so funny when he spoke to the audience. I told her, "Oh yeah. He's cool. He's been on Sesame Street."
Sesame Street has always had a soft spot for classical music, particularly opera singers. Speaking of cool people, what is cooler than Marilyn Horne singing "C is for Cookie, That's Good Enough for Me."(Answer: Nothing)
Denyce Graves was one of several opera singers assigned the difficult job of trying to put Elmo to bed. It seemed the Operatic zoo did the trick. Gotta love the sheep!
EVERYBODY wants to know if you can tell them how to get to Sesame Street. Making your mark on this show was important to every major star and rock band. And who wouldn't want a chance to hop up and down with the furry happy monsters?
Or sing the alphabet song with Ray Charles?
Or India.Arie?
But it wasn't all singing and dancing and jumping around. Sesame Street was brave enough to tackle real issues with sensitivity and compassion. When actor portraying "Mr. Hooper" died, the show and the cast faced the lost together. The tears in this episode? They were real.
But ultimately the show is about the kids.
The light in their eyes, their wonder and laughter was infectious. Forty years later, it still is.
Thank you Sesame Street, for doing it up right. I loved you as a child, and loved you all over again as a parent. You're a class act, and you're number ... uh ... what was that number again?.....
You can tell the spirit of giving and good cheer is upon us when price wars break out like teenager's acne. A week or so ago it was all about books. Walmart had announced it was slashing its prices, so in retaliation Amazon announced it was slashing its prices more than Walmart, which I believe led Walmart to retaliate with OH NO YOU DIDN'T and then Amazon yelled YO MAMMA and they went back and forth undercutting each other by a penny.
ONE PENNY.
And now it's DVDs. Walmart is going to sell them for $10, so Amazon is going to sell them for $9.99 and now Target is going to sell them for $9.98 Seriously.
Now, maybe I'm supposed to be thrilled with all this free market competition. Maybe I'm supposed to be confused or dazzled by their AMAZINGLY LOW PRICES. Most likely Amazon is praying that while I'm stopping by to buy my El Cheapo version of UP I'll make an impulse purchase of something like a $2000 treadmill. And I'm sure that Walmart is praying that while I'm stopping by to buy THE GREATEST EPISODES OF THE JERRY SPRINGER SHOW, I might some sort of impulse purchse of, .... well, I'm not sure what, exactly, because Walmart gives me the hives on general principals.
So to Walmart...Amazon...Target...and anybody else who is hopped up on this economic merry-go-round, I'm going to let you in on a little secret:
Your plan is not working.
In fact, it is SO not working that it actually IS working...Against you. The more you waste time undercutting each other by a penny here and a nickel there, the more determined I am to walk into a brick and mortar store and give my business to an independently owned local merchant instead of a monolithic chain. Will I pay more? I'm certain I will. But honestly, it's not that much more, and I get so much more from them in return. Bookstores are a little slice of heaven. I love the overstuffed chairs, the table with books set aside for reading groups and the siren song wafting over from the nearly forbidden land of new hardback books (oh, the temptation!). Every pile of books represents possibilities and choices to make, and it's a rare day when I walk out of a bookstore empty-handed. My local bookstore is my oasis. It is the calm in my hectic life, and I don't want it gobbled up by Internet retailers and discount houses.
So, sorry folks. My penny saved is not going to be your penny earned. And honestly, you all just look SILLY fighting over chump change.
However, if you decide to have an all-out knock-down drag-out on 42 inch flat-screen TVs, well then, you'd have my full attention.
Tonight the Tuna clan went out and saw a "staged reading" of a new play at one of our community theaters. I raced to this performance from another rehearsal, and when I walked in (with five minutes to spare), much to my great delight, I discovered the performance space was ABSOLUTELY PACKED. They had run out of programs and run out of chairs, and were grabbing anything "sittable" from the lobby and the office. And that made me smile.
TeenTuna had desperately wanted to go to this show for a variety of reasons. She knew some of the actors directly involved, she knew several of her theater colleagues would be attending, and the play itself was about music, and love and family. That's an unbeatable triple threat -- and one I entirely support on all counts. So, off we went, and had a great time.
After a bit of a hiatus, TeenTuna has returned to the theater scene -- both community and high school productions -- and is as happy as can be. Through theater, just as in music and school and church, she has found yet another family of friends that are encouraging, supportive, interesting, outgoing, and just plain nice. Sometimes I think the theatre world is chock-full of undeserving divas, wannabees, and out-and-out whackadoodles. But having spent more than my fair share treading the boards wearing corsets and singing high C's, I have to admit that the operatic world probably has ten times the number of undeserving divas, wannabees and out-and-out whackadoodles. Come to think of it, so does work, and so does most fast food restaurants, so casting aspersions on one group over another is unfair. (Except, you know, in opera, we have to deal with the damn tenors on a daily basis, and we should get combat pay for that one.)
What I love about the local arts is the unashamed, unabashed LOVE for the arts. For drama. For comedy. For musicals. For the new and avant-garde. For the old and traditional. For the opportunity to take people away from the mundane of the world and the problems of their everyday lives and transport them to another place and time and tell them a story -- sometimes with dance, sometimes with words, and sometimes with music. It's a gift when you have an audience. It's a much greater gift when you are given the opportunity to share something with them in return.
I am reminded of reality-based competition shows like "American Idol" or "America's Next Top Model." When the judges first meet potential contestants, they often ask, "why are you here?" and the answer is a well-practiced definitive "I'm here because I AM the next American Idol/Top Model/etc. etc. etc." And while I think confidence is a great thing, just once I'd like to hear someone say, "I'm here because this is what I do. This is what I love. And I'd do it even if I didn't get paid, because it heals my heart and nurtures my soul."'
I bet any reality show judge wouldn't know what to say to a response like that.
I bet every single person involved in community arts of any kind would know exactly what I'm talking about.
Being child number three in a four-person rotation, I spent the large majority of my childhood and teenage years interacting with my siblings in the usual way, which ranged generally between indifference and contempt, with some select moments of tolerance thrown in, albeit laced with acerbic wit, drowning in sarcasm and generously seasoned with practical jokes.
My older brother, being four years older, really didn't have much use for me one way or another. We were never in middle school or high school together. His bedroom was in the basement, which was creepy (and frankly, smelly), so I never ventured in his lair unless commanded to do so. I remember him working a lot: first as a paperboy with an enormous route, and then at the local IHOP. Later, he worked at a record store in the mall, which was an incredibly cool job in those days. Growing up we existed in separate orbits under the same roof, until that time that he spun off in his own direction. If I had to describe his personality to a stranger, I would tell them not to be fooled by his somewhat quiet personality. He was smart as a whip, and when his infallible logic combined with his razor-sharp wit, he could have you laughing while simultaneously cutting you to shreds, and somehow you'd still thank him and make lunch plans for next week. You could never feel too badly about it, because it was so artfully done.
My older sister, being three years older, had absolutely no use for me whatsoever, and made sure that I knew it every single day. It wasn't just that we didn't get along. We DIDN'T GET ALONG. At. All. It probably didn't help that for many, many, many years we shared a bedroom, which proved to be ample and fertile grounds for contempt. Despite the fact that we shared a common year in high school, if you asked either set of friends, you would have never known that we were related. It wasn't just that we were in different orbits. We were opposites, constantly repelling each other.
My younger brother, being six years younger, enjoyed a much more peaceful relationship. We joked and horsed around together. We recited scene after scene of favorite movies, comedy routines and cartoons, cracking ourselves up at the end, as if it were all new material. He greatly enjoyed my "free family" discount when I worked at the movie theaters, and I greatly enjoyed his naivety as I pulled practical joke after practical joke at his expense.
All in all, an entirely normal existence.
Nowadays, things are a little different. Our topics of conversation generally include complaining about glasses (having them, needing them, needing stronger ones), discussing our respective on-going home improvement projects, and comparing notes on everything from televisions to computers to sports to books to vacations to kids and to pets. Although we're all older, we like to pretend we're not, and in turn, we continually downgrade our actual age to something more palatable. 34. Yes indeed, I'm 34.
But here's a little secret -- I'm glad we're older. We don't live in isolation and we don't exist in separate orbits. We're old enough to have forgotten why we weren't four hand-holdin', Kum-bah-Ya singing siblings, and now we laugh at family photos that show everything -- good, bad and ugly. We're old enough not to care who gets the biggest piece of cake, who gets to sit in the comfy chair, and who controls the television. It's just so much easier this way.
Today the greater Tuna households celebrated three belated birthdays. They say with age comes wisdom, and I would have to agree. But I would also want to include tolerance, patience and understanding in that mix. We all might wish to have less wrinkles, fewer gray hair and days devoid of aches and pains, but the good news is, now we're friends instead of indifferent strangers or enemies, and that is the real bonus.
As for the rest, don't be too worried. In the midst of all these old age perks, our lives continue to be laced with acerbic wit, drowning in sarcasm and generously seasoned with practical jokes. And now that we have children of our own, not to mention nieces and nephews, it's a whole new ballgame.
I'm sure someone out there has never tasted vanilla extract before.
Every Friday afternoon I anxiously await my weekly cross-stitching email that lists new patterns. Now, it's been awhile since I've shared some of my love of the craft, so I thought I'd make up for lost time. Here are some treasures I've selected and annotated just for YOU!
and some Crystal Meth for Sunday Supper!
soon to become an episode of Law and Order, SVU
Sadly, Santa (who appears to be mortally wounded from a cougar attack)
did not heed Bob Barker's advice.
but he found someone naughty, and...HEY!
problem solved. How nice!
Fred the Fairy told Mr. Caterpillar that when he grew up,
what he wanted more than anything in the world
was to be a refrigerator repair man or a plumber.
No ifs, ands, or butts about it.
God Home Bless Our.
God Bless Home Our.
Who In Circles Reads?
"We is Friends! You and Me is Friends!"
...the perfect gift for your middle school English teacher.
Just the thing for the baby's room!
Hey buddy....watch where you're putting those hands!
"Dog can't hold his licker."
Oh No. I'm. Not. Going. There.
I'm not sure if this is a tribute to Viagra or NAMBLA.
According to my fingers and toes, I have just completed round 21 of Parent-Teacher Conferences. Figuring 2 a year for 13 years (don't forget Kindergarten!) I have just passed the 80% completion rate. Good God, this is good news.
For the single, the unitiated, or the just plain lucky, Parent-Teacher Conferences are their own special brand of torture. It's not quite as bad in elementary school, because there you are assigned a time to meet with the teacher. Don't think that's a big deal? Oh, you will when you get to play junior and senior high roulette. But more on that later. The downside to elementary conferences (I discovered as we were nearing elementary school completion) was that the trend was pointing towards having the CHILD attend the conference with the parents. Obviously nobody asked my opinion on that bonehead decision. I mean, who wants their child in the same room? The whole point is to TALK ABOUT THEM. Share funny stories. Laugh ABOUT them (not with them). It's so much harder to openly communicate when you have resort to eyebrow lifts, spelling, or advanced placement pig Latin. In fact, I used to have a bit of fun in elementary school Parent-Teacher Conferences. The teacher would trip all over themselves praising my child up and down until I essentially gave them permission to discuss my child like the FLAWED HUMAN BEING SHE WAS.
("Flawed" may include but is not limited to: mouthy only child, precocious, admitted pain in the butt and all-around highly skilled manipulator and snake-oil salesman)
Once I gave permission for the teacher to speak freely, it was as if the weight of the world was lifted off of their shoulders. I would simply chuckle and say, "Please. I live with her. I am WELL AWARE of her personality traits.
It was a sad sixth-grade kind of day when I learned that the simpler, more genteel Parent-Teacher Conference went the way of kickball, chocolate milk and recess. Gone were the evenly spaced appointments filled with cookies, pleasantries, and macaroni art. Now I was faced with ... THE GYM.
Conferences in the gym were a total free-for-all. The teachers were sitting in alphabetical order around the perimeter of the gym. At each station was a battered card table, two chairs and a pile of papers. Parents would stumble into the gym -- much like condemned Christians at the Colosseum -- armed only with a schedule. Where you went and who you chose to talk to was entirely up to you, but this single decision would determine whether you would be done in a half hour (score!) or spend your entire evening in educational purgatory.
Fall conferences are always trickier, because unless someone gives you the heads up, you might not know the conferencing-style of the teachers on your list. So you wander around the middle of the gym and assess the various tables and lines. You look at the body language of the parents currently in conference and try to determine if they are bored or anxious or in an irreversible coma. You attempt to listen to the conference ahead of you (in a very WHAT?-I'm-not-listening-in) and try to decide if the conversation is business or pleasure. After that you have to make a commitment, get in line, and hurry up and wait.
This routine, sadly, must be repeated for Every. Single. Class.
It's at this point that I would like to raise an enormous NO FAIR protest banner in the general direction of married couples. You people have it made in the shade, and it puts single parents at a distinct disadvantage. Time and time again, while I'm stuck waiting in line, I see married couples dividing and conquering. They pull the old "I'll wait over there while you wait over here" ploy, and when the first one makes it to Valhalla known as the teacher's table, the other one ditches their line and they conference together. Thanks for that. I wish I could wait for two teachers simultaneously and use my aura as a placeholder. Sadly, it doesn't work that way. Much like the grocery store, I have to go with my gut, pick a line and stay there; all the while hoping I made the right choice.
After the wait is over, the teacher finally greets you and you tell them slowly and clearly the name of your student and what hour of the day they have that class. I'm always amused when a teacher asks, "how are you doing?" I really want to say, "I don't know. You tell me. How AM I doing?" I usually end up saying "Fine." It's boring, but true. At this point we resume the "I love your child" festival of praise, which, while nostalgic is not terribly productive. I love my kid too. Now move it along, Poindexter.
Once the tete-a-tete is completed, you say your goodbyes and you're bumped back into the center of the gym like an errant pinball. Then you survey your options, take a deep breath, commit to a new line and pray. Lather, rinse, repeat until you have talked to all the teachers listed on the schedule and you can finally escape this layer of hell as if it were a game of reverse Red-Rover.
21 down. 5 to go.
Red Rover, Red Rover,
send Tuna on over.
CHARGE!
This past Sunday, TeenTuna, along with another high-school aged friend, was asked to give a brief speech at church. Now, this wasn't a "testify, praise Jesus and do some Blues-Brothers back flips down the center aisle" kind of speech, though that would have been COOL in a very alternate-universe kind of way.
I repeat: It wasn't like this.
The assigned topic of the speech was "What does this church mean to you?" This might sound oh-so idyllic in a very "what I did over summer vacation" kind of way, but if you stop and think about it, they were asked to answer the shortest and perhaps hardest question of all: Why?
Why them? Why now? Why this place? Don't just Testify...Justify! And just to make it interesting, please keep the combined remarks under five minutes. ReadySetGO.
Now, I can only speak for my child when I tell you she wasn't doing back flips when she was asked to do this. "I don't like speaking in public!" wailed the Drama Queen. "It's OK. Do it anyway," I answered. "I don't know what to say!" she countered. "You'll figure it out," I said. "Think about all the things you've done, and the people you know. Talk about the things that are important to you. There aren't right or wrong answers. They asked to hear your thoughts...whatever those might be."
I lucked out big time on this assignment because for once I didn't have to remind her twenty seven million times to do it. You see, there were several (yes, plural) terribly important social events the night before the speech, and with TeenTuna's ENTIRE DRAMA-FILLED FIFTEEN YEARS hanging in the balance, it was more than carrot enough. Halloween was credited with the parental assist, and it was much appreciated.
The speeches that Sunday were forthright and honest. Each truly represented the speaker, and they were in turn funny, moving, and thought-provoking. And no, no, emphatically no...the parents did NOT write their speeches. I can easily speak for both mothers when I say these kids were on. their. own. My only request was a single read-through before Sunday, to make sure she wasn't declaring Beelzebub or SpongeBob Squarepants to be her Lord and Savior. Even I have my limits.
Although at the time I downplayed the difficulty of this task, I am quite in awe of these kids for having the courage to answer "why" out loud. A teenager's personal belief system is less like Martin Luther's Ninety Five Theses nailed to the church door and more like Silly Putty smooshed against the Sunday comics. Their beliefs are shaped, changed, skewed, forgotten and then abandoned, only (hopefully) to be found and reworked once again. Like Silly Putty, if you examine these beliefs closely, it can be extremely difficult to get a clear picture. You know something is there, but it's a little hard to tell what exactly it is. Or was. Or might become.
But they were asked, and, willing or not, they stepped up to the plate. Standing in the pulpit amidst a menagerie of stuffed horses and sheep and cows that were serving as a visual reminder of the ongoing church sponsored Heifer project, these kids laid it on the line. They answered 'why' without pretense or apology. If asked, I would imagine that neither one of them would think of themselves as particularly inspiring or brave. But if you ask me, to stand up and speak your own beliefs is one of the bravest things each of us can do.
I'm so proud of both of them for finding their own answers to the big "why" questions. And I'm especially grateful for the people inside the four walls with the pretty windows who not only allowed them, but encouraged them to stand up and speak their own beliefs, and loved them all the more.
Much of my past year can be divided into two distinct eras: BC (Before crash (or cows)) and AD (After death).
2009 was blissfully "BC" until the beginning of May, when Bessie, my old computer, suddenly and most inconveniently died. If she had had the courtesy to check the status of my calendar and my bank account (not to mention my sanity) she would have realized what a really REALLY REALLY REALLY CAPS LOCK LEANED OVER AND BOLD bad time it was to leave me in the lurch, forcing me to change over to both a new computer AND a new operating system. All that was left of the old ways was a nearly defunct internal hard drive that was sitting -- quite externally and with cords akimbo -- on my desk. This was not the way it was supposed to end.
Granted, computers, much like cars and most relationships, never stop working at a particularly GOOD or even convenient time. If they did, country music might never have been invented. But this crash was particularly bad because I was in the middle of a super secret project that had a deadline.
Flashback to February.
Chatting with my siblings, we decided we had better get on the ball and do something for GramTuna's birthday in May. Of course, we do something every year, but that something generally consists of dinner and cake and presents and happy birthday and seeya in 365. This year needed to be a great deal more, because it was one of those years. Of course, it would be bad form to tell you exactly which one of those years it was, so I'll just say she was about to turn six trombones short of a musical.
Being one of four very busy children with obligations that included scurrying chicks and ducks, calendars chock-full of concerts and lessons and soccer and basketball games and lives that were continually interrupted enhanced by home improvement projects, we decided to divide and conquer the various components of the SURPRISE PARTY so we could get everything done. My job -- the one I offered to do -- was to go through the family pictures...the boxes and boxes and boxes and boxes of slides and old photo albums and get them all scanned and loaded onto a digital picture frame.
I volunteered to do this first of all, because it was something we had talked about doing for quite awhile. I also had the easiest access to the stash, because I live in such close proximity to the SURPRISEE. So I took every possible opportunity to break into her house, grab some slide trays or photo albums, cover my tracks, and toss the loot under my bed. I would connect the scanner at night and scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan scan as long as I possibly could. When I finished a batch, I would replace the completed trays of slides and grab more. Twenty one boxes of slides. Times 100. And those were just the slides. I lost track of the picture albums, some with extra clingy plastic, and others with those infernal black corners holding the photos that you would have to remove as if it were the game of Operation!
Sure, they look all pretty and decorative here
but take it from me, they are of the devil.
With four kids and several decades worth of adventures, there were A LOT of pictures. Sometimes at night I'd send select copies to my sister and we'd crack up about this that and the other thing.
My sister calls this my "short bus" picture.
I just happen to think I was special, but not THAT way
This particular Easter propeller head-wear was in.
Shortly after this picture was taken, two people got in
HUGE TROUBLE
But it wasn't anybody wearing a red coat and
KNOWING BETTER
mwah hah hah hah hah
So, you can see where this is going, right? I'm a couple thousand pictures into this project and then Bessie pulls a code moo and DIES....taking weeks of work with her to the big cow pie bog in the sky. Seeing my life flash before me and having several litters of kittens over this one, I take her to the computer doctor at work and tell them I'll do whatever they want, no questions asked, if they can just get the damn pictures off the old hard drive because you know...there is this SURPRISE BIRTHDAY PARTY coming up and the ENTIRE SURPRISE PART is on dead disk.
So, a new computer was purchased ASAP. There was no dickering, and no dealing. There was no research. There was just frantic me running into Staples yelling COMPUTERS! Once purchased, I had to deal with downloading programs, finding my way around Vista (no easy task even when you have your wits about you) and whispering sweet nothings to the flat-lining old hard drive in an attempt to coax the pictures onto the new system. I don't know how, but thankfully we managed to get most of the pictures off. I've never begged, pleaded and bargained with The Lord God Almighty and my IT guy so much in my life, and I believe I still owe both of them something...I just can't remember if it is chocolate chip cookies or my first born.
Fast-forwarding to SURPRISE PARTY day, and everything went off surprisingly well. We concocted a story that worked. Nobody was the wiser. The surprise party was an honest to goodness SURPRISE, and in a good way. Friends and family and other assorted distinguished guests came to help celebrate the day, the weather stopped sucking long enough to be nothing short of fabulous.
It ain't a party until Fabio shows up.
The digital picture frame was great fun, and even though I never completely finished the project, with over 5000 pictures loaded on it, it was enough to keep us all entertained. As for Bessie, she and I made peace, and I still have the wreck of the Bessie Fitzgerald sitting on a shelf. Although my new computer is shiny and wonderful and reliable, I'm happy we were able to transfer the pictures and the documents and family memories off the old computer.
Young heart, old soul. Just the way it should be.
Happy Extremely Belated Birthday GramTuna.
Seeya in 365.
In some aspects of my life, I am a creature of extreme order and habit. You'd never know it from looking at certain places in my house (basement, I'm talking to you) but I jealously horde those tiny pieces of ritual and order that I've managed to carve out of my oftentimes chaotic life.
My computer is a perfect example. Every day I have to open the programs in a specific order, beginning with my email. Email must be first, and no, I do NOT want to auto-archive my old emails. They are my babies and I have no intention of sending them to the old-email home where no one ever visits. My browser of choice is Firefox, and each tab is opened in a specific order: Blog -- RSS reader -- Gmail -- Facebook -- Twitter -- Other diversions as required. Thankfully, browser tabs can be dragged and repositioned, so if something happens and a program crashes or is mistakenly closed, it's easily fixed. There isn't the same happy ending if my prescribed task-bar caste system goes awry. Things have to be closed down and reopened in their proper order. Just as the online comics must be read after the New York times but before Huffington Post; Facebook only precedes Gmail alphabetically speaking, and never in my browser hierarchy.
For the past six months (I'M SORRY) I have opened my blog and been faced with the cold, angry, accusatory stares from of a bunch of cows. I think they've been lonely. And maybe a little bored. And I've been meaning to get to it, I really have. But blah blah blah excuse excuse excuse, and here we are, together again, six months later. During that time though, even when I was swamped at work, or chipping paint of of the last God-forsaken wall in my living room, or on vacation discussing monster trucks with a preschool expert, I still opened my browser and gave my blog the lead-off spot, despite the damn cows pleading with me to do SOMETHING. ANYTHING.
Too bad for the cows, they don't seem to have a Facebook page. I have been able to manage fairly regular status changes during my blog-hiatus. Let me assure you it's NOTHING profound, but if you've kept track of me through Facebook you know that I'm not dead, and I love the Internet too much to become Amish. I have a Twitter account too, though it's sadly obvious from my distinct LACK of posts that I enjoy browsing Twitter far more than I enjoy contributing anything to it myself. Maybe it's a lack of self-confidence, but if I don't care when I'm eating a burrito, I'm pretty sure nobody else does either.
I was ready to kick-start things again (for the 80th time) about a month ago, and just when I was ready to tell those cows to stuff it...they were gone. Every last one of them. In fact, nearly all my images were gone. My banner. My signature. MY COWS WERE GONE. I waited a day, and then two, and nothing changed. What had I done? My cows left and took the blog with them. Maybe to a different computer where someone would do SOMETHING. I even went so far as to send an email to customer support at the website where I store my pictures. I heard nothing in response. I guess the cows got to them too.
But then, just as mysteriously as they were gone, the cows (much like the cat) came back. And we're all back together again...staring at each other wondering what's coming next.
Well, coming next (which has turned to "now") Is NAtional BLOg POsting MOnth (NaBloPoMo), or "Oooo! A Pretty Button!" This is an offshoot of NAtional NOvel WRIting MOnth (NaNoWriMo) which we all know is NOT going to happen, with or without the lure of pretty buttons or the idle threats of cows. So, I'm opting for the essay, not the novel, and I'm rather excited to get back at it. In addition to the here and now, I'm going to spend time this month doing some remembering, because there are some great stories that have not yet been told.
So, for those of you who have periodically checked every now and again to see if I've posted, thank you. For those of you who asked loudly when I might DO SOMETHING, thank you. For those of you who wondered and decided to wait quietly until I decided to DO SOMETHING, thank you. For those of you who aren't familiar with me and my cast of characters, welcome. At The Tuna News, there's something here for everybody.
I remember when I got you, so long ago one spring, You were the latest model. A happy, peppy thing.
I am both happy and peppy. You may call me Bessie.
You grew and grew throughout the years, on you I would depend, Each time I had some work to do, or chatted with my friend.
This is beautiful. Continue.
But time, it marches on and on. Of that, you can be sure. And finally the sad day came when you were....well... horribly outdated...slow to start...prone to viruses...generally obsolete "mature." Uh oh.
It's hard to know just what to do when that sad day draws nigh. What could I do to honor you? How should I say goodbye?
It had better not be with a chorus of "Dry Bones."
I thought that I could honor your great memory with a cake.
Better than Mince Pie.
Or just be in denial, saying you were at the lake.
*Splash*
But you are really gone, and now my life's turned upside down.
Really? Now with the cow-tipping jokes?
Sometimes I look up to the sky and hope you'll be around.
Run away!! Run away!!!
But your work's done. You're free! And your cow-spirit's on the lam.
she said sheepishly
And me? Well, Bessie 2.0 has SIX WHOLE GIGS OF RAM. sweet
Time: 8:30pm Cast: GreenTuna, TeenTuna, GramTuna Scene: GreenTuna and GramTuna have just picked up TeenTuna from a two-hour rehearsal. Our characters are tired and hungry. TeenTuna wants badly to "turn left" which is Tunaspeak for "Go to Tasty-Twist and get ice cream."
TeenTuna:left left left left left left Are we turning left?
GreenTuna: Way ahead of you (turns left)
TeenTuna: Sweet.
GreenTuna: Is anybody hungry, since we really didn't have dinner?
GramTuna: Yes. TeenTuna:YES. GreenTuna: OK Then. Where are we going? ~~~ circular debate ensues with no decisions made ~~~
GreenTuna: Why don't we go to "Amigos." It's right by the Twist and then we can walk and get ice-cream when we're done...
~~~ general rejoicing at the good idea ~~~
GreenTuna: ...and it's nearly 9pm, so the dinner hour is long since past and it shouldn't be crowded.
~~~ our heroes pull into the parking lot only to find NOWHERE to park. We circle once, twice, and make one more pass and luck into a spot. GreenTuna is befuddled by a Tuesday night crowd.
~~~ our heroes walk into the restaurant only to find it jam-packed with a huge line. We stare at each other, confused...and then the realization hits...
It's been awhile, hasn't it? Although most of the answers are self-explanatory, I had to stop for a minute and think about "Do not fold, spindle or mutilate." Was THAT really a problem? Was the general population taking all their return cards and envelopes and impaling them on every spindle they could find? Do companies even print that phrase anymore? What exactly would happen if you DID fold, spindle and/or mutilate something? Is it against the law?
Also -- spindle as a verb is just a funny, funny word. I'm just saying.
About a year ago the Tuna household decided to get a GPS as a family present. Part of the reason for the purchase was practical and responsible and grownup: it is very useful in getting us around busy, unfamiliar areas. We've had a great deal of fun with the technology (thus far we've failed at giving it a name we all like), and have gone so far as to have it on when driving around town. We like to make it mad when we purposefully go the wrong way. We swear it says recalculating with increasing disdain the more we mess up. We have experimented with different voices and nationalities: American Jill is a bit bossy and cranky sounding and British Emily has a softer, quieter voice which is a bit too sleepy to make us pay attention. Right now we're on Australian Emily, who seems to possess the right balance of chipper without being too annoying. The technology also has a wide variety of other functions, including MP3 player (never use it), Oxford dictionary (for those writing their term paper in the car), and helpful phrases in a variety of languages. One day TeenTuna was mucking around with the phrases, and as I was about to pull into my driveway, the technology announced "Now arriving at home....Would you like fries with that?" How did she know? The fun reason we bought the GPS was to have a little fun and go geocaching. Geocaching is a somewhat new (10 years, maybe?) activity that combines the techy-geeky GPS with a bit of old fashioned hide and seek. All you have to do is go to a geocaching website, find out what treasures are in your area (you'd be absolutely amazed at how many there are in your own hometown), input the coordinates into the GPS and off you go!
The first time we tried it out (knowing next to nothing, because who reads directions?) we set out for a walking trail in town. We wandered for awhile, keeping track of the technology as it announced how many hundreds of feet we were away from our target. We quickly learned it's easy to get to the general area, but the last 25 feet are a killer. We stumbled across our very first cache quite by accident. It wasn't the one we were looking for, but it was a cache all the same, and we considered ourselves experts. HA.
We went off in search of the next cache (technically the one we were looking for to begin with) which was supposedly along the same path. The technology claimed we were all around it. So we started to comb through the field. We combed and combed and combed and combed. We searched through bushes and briars and logs and brush piles. Sitting on a fallen tree, we had to admit that we were stumped.
One of the challenges of geocaches is to do it in secret. In other words, you don't want anybody to know or see what you're doing. This can be difficult, depending on the location of the cache. As this was a fairly popular paved trail, people were often walking by. At one point, two women asked TeenTuna if she needed something. Being caught totally off-guard and not having a good story prepared, she said, "I lost my shoe!" When she told me this, I looked at her in disbelief. "And they believed you?" I asked. TeenTuna shrugged and we kept searching, and eventually found it, about an hour later.
Since we first started our treasure hunting, we've learned a lot. Like, bring a compass. And paper and a pencil. Some caches include word or math puzzles to figure out the clue, and believe me when I say patience is the key. We did a multi-stager (go here to find the next clue, now go here, now go here), and everything was ridiculously easy until we hit stage five -- a puzzle clue. We were out in the blazing sun in an open field trying to figure out which sign they were referring to for the puzzle, and then trying to figure out what the puzzle might be. Frustration factors vary from day to day and person to person, and I tend to be the one not willing to give up, no matter how long I have to stand there and stare at something. After about an hour we were hot and tired, so I wrote down the text from the sign word-for-word and line-by-line, and we decided to go get lunch...where I sat and stared at that piece of paper for another 45 minutes. And. Figured. It. Out. Victory was sweet that day, with a side of fries.
While on vacation in Hatteras, NC, we did some more geocaching. At one point we were out of the car near the main road. We knew we were "all around it" (our usual state of so close, no cigar), and I was hesitant to wander in people's yards. Suddenly a pickup truck slowed down. "YOU'RE REALLY CLOSE" he yelled. Busted, we stopped and looked. TeenTuna yelled, "WELL, WHERE IS IT???" That would be the day we were introduced to nano-caches: tiny containers about the size of a bolt, and often magnetic. With their hint, we managed to find it, once TeenTuna climbed on my back to reach it.
Caches can be all different sizes -- as big as ammo boxes or large tupperware containers, down to plastic film cannisters and nanos (do you see the cache in this picture? It's there). The goal really isn't for the treasure inside (although they can be fun), but to just find it, and record your information on the log to let the owners know you were there. Another huge bonus is get get outside, wander aruond and explore. We've found trails and landmarks we never knew existed; sometimes in our own backyard.
This past summer when I spent several weeks in England, I made sure to take a pile of possible geocaching sites with me. It doesn't matter if it is a bustling metropolitan city or a remote hiking path, they're everywhere. During our "off-week" (away from chaperoning duties) we traveled to the Cotswolds and hiked up and down and all around the town.
We found treasures at the "deer jump"
and the four-shire stone
The sheep were baaaaad at giving directions
and sometimes we learned that walls
had secrets of their own.
There were also important pieces of information that we often ignored, and later regretted. Especially that one crucial paragraph that warned about the cow pie-filled bog.
Behold the cow pie.
Behold the bog.
Behold the two idiots who decided after crossing a huge cow pie-filled bog, finding the treasure (it was a great hide) and crossing back again, what we really HAD to do was get the camera and go back in one more time for a photo-op. We may have sacrificed our shoes and socks to the Gods of the Cotswolds, but I have to tell you it was a blast that we'll never forget.
So no matter where you are, even in the farthest reaches of the Upper Peninsula of Northern Michigan (where I was last weekend), there are treasures waiting to be found.
Be on the lookout for signs
Be all the necessary tools. In this case, a Finnish translation guide
And if the clues from the Oldest Resident in the town of Oskar don't stump you, you just might be lucky enough to find yourself a treasure.
I have never had any sort of desire to drive out to the middle of the field and jump into a giant floating bread basket powered by the whims and winds of mother nature. I've seen too many unfortunate accidents from the Macy's Day Thanksgiving Parade, thank you very much.
You WILL have fries with that. Resistance is futile.
Run, run as fast as YOU can!
I HATE TCHAIKOVSKY!!!
GODZILLA!!
Not technically a parade balloon, but you get my point.
Despite my general bemusement of killer floating cartoon figures and my fear of Oz-inspired transportation devices, I still suppose that a a hot air balloon ride must be like a peaceful journey that allows you to float in blissful tranquility over the madness of the earth. (before your impending doom)
I never thought of it as a sudden death overtime match.
~~picture duly and immediately removed due to a rather nasty comment I received from the designer of the banner who is evidently very, very, very proud and rightfully protective of his work and creativity. Here we really don't disagree, because I too think it is truly a wonder. I mean, WHO KNEW it was so action-packed? Please, click on the link below and be just as impressed.~~
So I have to ask, 2009 Battle Creek Field of Flight Air Show and Balloon Festival, is this what you're all about? Sure based on your incredibly long titled event, I would expect there would be both airplanes and hot air balloons, but simultaneously? I had heard that the hot air balloon festival was spectacularly beautiful but I had no idea it was an extreme sport.
Thanks BCFoFASaBF for broadening my horizons and expanding my mind. I think I'll celebrate with a bowl of cereal.
Four years ago, in a land far, far, away (OK, not so far, but it sounds better, right?) the littlest nephew made his family debut. He was killer cute like his mother and had his father's long curly eyelashes. Based on years of experience, I knew the eyelashes in particular were a real danger: powerful enough to melt your heart and turn your steely resolve to Hershey's syrup, even when your little brother was being a total pain in the ass and not eating his breakfast.
He was a long-waited for baby, and when he finally decided to show up, he fit into his family as seamlessly as if he had always been there. "He's so big!" we'd exclaim. "He's such a happy baby!" we'd cry. "He has a wet nose, so he MUST be healthy!" we'd laugh excitedly. "What? Nobody told me I had a brother!" Woof!!
He grew and grew and grew and grew and grew and before we knew it, he was talking a million miles a minute, eating applesauce and macaroni and cheese like he owned stock, and became a perfectly wonderful little boy, as if he was special-ordered from the perfectly wonderful little boy company.
But as perfect as you are, and as happy and cute and wonderful and lethal with those killer eyelashes, I love you just as much for your other side. You know what I'm talking about: the impish grin, the hysterical personality, the being just a little too smart for your own good, the working SO hard to pull one over on a family whose specialty is to pull one over on someone else. I love the fact that you are a total boy and could whip my butt in Double Jeopardy if the category was CONSTRUCTION EQUIPMENT IDENTIFICATION. I love it that you love all the "cheepies" on the farm and can't wait to hold them again. I love it that you love to read books and sing great songs like Manamana and Put the Lime in the Coconut. I love it that you love the sounds of words, and for awhile everything we ate was delicious. I love it that you say a Japanese blessing at the end of a meal, and when I can't say it too (because you say it too fast) I blurt out GHOSTBUSTERS and you laugh. I love it that you still can't tell a knock-knock joke to save your life, but we both crack up every time we try. I love it that you have taken your parents and aunts and uncles and grandparents on a wonderful ride for the last four years, and although I never know what to expect when I see you next, I'm certain it will be fun.
So, keep it up. Keep living and loving and laughing and filling the world with your specialness. And if we're both really lucky, your dad will be silly enough to ask "Hey, what do you have there?....."
...and you'll be just enough of a smart-ass to show him.
After six years (SIX!) I thought a wee redesign was in order. There is nothing scarier than scrapping your previous made-up HTML code and starting over. Hopefully you like it. I think it is a little cleaner and easier to read. I'm also hoping those who said the blog was showing up as a blank page (I have no idea why) now can see for themselves that I've been a fairly lazy contributor to the noise of the Internets.
I checked out screen resolution. I set mine at 1152 x 864 and it looks lovely. The blog also works well at 1024 x 768, but it may be necessary to scroll a bit to the right to see the edge of the right column of links. Sadly, at an 800 x 600 resolution, it just doesn't work so well. For that, I'm sorry, and I suggest you read my witticisms through an RSS reader.
I need to weed my links, but decided I would get to that later. For now, look around, and feel free to let me know what you like or what you hate. Props for the header logo goes to CoolText Graphic Generator (and yes, it is very cool). The basic template ("Lonely") was found at Blogspot Template but be warned, there isn't much left of the original design (not that I didn't like it, it just wasn't Tuna-y enough).
I'm sure I'll run across several things I still need to fix or forgot to include (or get rid of), but for now...party like it's 2009.
Today the one and only TeenTuna, formerly TinyTuna and always my amazingly fabulous daughter turns 15. Sometimes it seems like yesterday, sometimes it seems like a lifetime. All I know is I wouldn't have it any other way.
Happy Birthday Melanie -- may your life be full of music, dancing, laughter, songs, celebrations and all those things you can only see with your heart.
Shortly before the Academy Awards, I was channeling my inner Roger Ebert and sharing my thoughts on many of the movies I had seen during my annual movie blitz before the Oscar Derby rolled around and I lost again. My emails went something like this:
Changeling - Liked Angelina Jolie more than I expected to, but it was depressing.
Milk - Sean Penn was amazing. He was so uplifting, but this world as so far to go, it still seemed depressing.
Doubt - Amazing. And depressing.
Rachel Getting Married - Anne Hathaway surprised me in a good way, but wow. Depressing.
Revolutionary Road - Holy unbelievably depressing movie, Batman. Saw this right after 'Rachel Getting Married' and wow. And ugh. I need to find a happy place, stat.
Duchess - Beautiful costume drama. Depressing circumstances. Life, I guess.
Wrestler - Micky Rourke. Great character who wanted to be different but really only knew how to live a self-destructing life. Depressing.
On and on it went. It seemed to me that the 2009 Oscars had found its theme, and it needed to be sponsored by Prozac. One of the few films I saw that was definitely NOT depressing was Happy Go Lucky, a film about a woman who is happy. And go-lucky. ALL THE TIME. To be completely honest, I sat through more than half of the film utterly confused and wondering what on earth was wrong with her before I broke my "no reading reviews until the movie is done" rule and went in desperation to find out what I was missing.
What I was missing was the utterly foreign concept that she was happy. All the time. It didn't what the situation was, she always maintained a happy-go-lucky demeanor. Critics praised her for deftly pulling off a difficult, seemingly one-sided role. Despite the fact that I misinterpreted "happy" for "certifiably insane", once I looked at it through wiser and more objective eyes, I had to agree.
Looking back on the other films, I discovered that while I was mired in the sea of cinematic depression, I had missed an important character trait that existed in all these movies, and that was strength. These films featured characters that portrayed many different aspects of strength: physical strength, strength of conviction, strength to fight the system, strength to carry on despite the rules of the prevailing culture, strength to want to fight for a better life.
On first viewing, I missed this nearly every single time, because I was so focused on the situation. In most of these films, the result was not a happy ending, and oftentimes there was no discernible ending at all. The meek did not inherit the earth, the underdog did not miraculously emerge as victor and the tortoise, who may have been still pushing along, had long since lost the race by the time the credits rolled. Depressing, right?
It's easy to get lost in the tangled web of circumstance and lose sight of the bigger picture. Every situation, be it good or bad, is only one of the many thousands of scenes we will experience in our lifetime. The question is, do we let situations define our character, or do we recognize our strength of character and let that work to define, refine and even change our situation?
I'm not anywhere near enough of a cock-eyed optimist to believe that a simple attitude adjustment will turn everything from cloudy skies to sunshiny days. Whether it be in film, literature or one of the local newspapers that has not yet folded, at the moment there are plenty of situations that can only be described as depressing. It's so much easier to sit back and moan and wish for the good old days (which frankly, really weren't good old days either. They were just old days when we were complaining about something else). But rather than paint our current situation with a big black brush of depression, how much better would it be to live and recognize our own strength of character? If life is an ongoing story, a happily-ever-after ending might be nice, but isn't realistic and isn't even necessary. All that's really required is to recognize the strength we already possess, and use that to define our character and change the scene.
Now that we've finished gorging ourselves with pancakes and paczki's and parades, the penitential season of Lent has begun with that big bang known as Ash Wednesday. And for the first time in quite awhile, I opted to pass.
It's not that I'm anti-church. It's not that I dislike somber music. It's not that I'm against self-reflection. In fact, I'm heartily in favor of all those things. Bring it on and give me the whole enchilada of forty days and forty nights woefully sung in the key of d minor. The saddest of all keys.
What I don't like is the smudge. What I don't like is walking in and hearing that I'm lower than a worm and a sinner before I was even born. Wii-Fit games aside, how can it be that I'm an epic failure before I've even started the race? I've decided that I'm tired of King James and his band of merry men jumping the judgmental gun at my expense. Give me a chance to screw up first, please?
Not that it's not going to happen. Of course it is. I'm a walking, talking self-fulfilling prophecy and I'm willing to own my flaws. I even reluctantly accept the entire ashes to ashes and dust to dust premise because I know there's no way of getting out of that one either. But somewhere along the line during Lent it seems there is a disconnect between what we are called to be and what we are being called. Wicked and wretched...party of two.
And even if I did go along with the whole "sinner in my mother's womb" idea, does anyone really think that giving up french fries is going to help? Or candy? Or meat on Friday? Does that sort of sacrifice make me less horrible and more Holy? Is a Jolly Rancher really what's standing in the way of my spiritual journey? Why is a cow my religious scapegoat?
Before you get angry, please let me assure you that I'm not making light of the season of Lent, or of anyone who chooses to participate in any or all of the many and varied rituals. There are an infinite number of paths during this spiritual season, and rest assured, if you are walking with confidence in your journey, then you are exactly where you should be doing what you should be doing.
But as for me, this year I'm passing on the smudge. I'm passing on the wickedness and I'm passing on the wretchedness. I'm passing on the epic failure and being a sinner since before the dawn of time. It's bad enough that I'm a pro at beating myself up and tearing myself down. I don't need Lent double-teaming me and making it worse. There has to be a better path for me.
I rediscovered a short but powerful song by Melissa Etheridge that says it all -
We keep thinking Life is what it's not We keep building this impossible facade
Why do we keep trying to turn people into Gods
when God Is In The People
If I spend my days full of self-loathing I'll never recognize the wants and needs of others. If I spend my days with my head bowed in shame I'll never see look up to see the love and the humanity in the faces of all those whose lives touch mine. This Lent I don't want to willingly allow any more black marks to mar my existence. I want to spend my time with open eyes and ears and heart rediscovering the hope, beauty and joy that is found in life, in people, and in me.
I think then, I just might discover God. Smudge-free.
Best Actress -- I have to admit it's pretty cool to see some of the legends that were past winners stand up on stage and praise the work of tonight's nominees. It's pretty amazing and I LOVE the fact that it's not scripted. Or, maybe, less scripted. Cheers for that.
Anne Hathaway (Rachel Getting Married) - 3 Angelina Jolie (Changeling) - 2 Melissa Leo (Frozen River) - 2 Meryl Streep (Doubt) - 4 Kate Winslet (The Reader) - 7
Queen Latifah is classy and looks beautiful on that set.
I have to complain a tiny bit that it's hard to see the screen and the names the way this set is configured. I always wish there was a "bet the last dead guy in the montage" category. My bet is Paul Newman. And of course...I was busy doing something else, so I missed it.
Four categories to go. There is still some room for movement, especially in the Best Actor and Actress categories. Stay tuned....
The Category is Supporting Actor. Why is Phillip Seymour Hoffman wearing a black ski hat? He looks like he has plans to knock off a 7-11 after the show.
Our guesses are nearly unanimous (though not entirely) for the late Heath Ledger.
Josh Brolin (1) Robert Downey Jr. (2) Philip Seymour Hoffman (2) Heath Ledger (11) Michael Shannon (0)
and the winner is ... Heath Ledger
Anne Brittany Copssister Geek36 GramTuna GreenTuna JPowers Katjam Kyara Rob Sherry
And now, Best Documentary. I absolutely love documentaries. Mostly we think Men on Wires should win the Oscar.
Betrayal (0) Encounters at the End of the World (3) Garden (2) Man on Wire (9) Trouble the Water (2)
and the winner is ... Man on Wire
Anne Copssister Geek36 GramTuna GreenTuna JPowers Kyara TeenTuna Donna
And Best Documentary Short. The winner is ... Smile Pinki, and let's just cut to the chase because we all guessed wrong except
Brittany
Current Leaderboard
GreenTuna (8)
Anne (7) GramTuna (7) JPowers (7) Kyara (7)
Geek36 (6)
Brittany (5) Copssister (5) TeenTuna (5) Rob (5) Donna (5)
I sure hope SJP doesn't breathe too deeply because her girls are ready for their close-up, if you catch my drift. The set design to introduce the category of Art Direction is supposed to look all back-stage studio-esque, but really it looks like a craptacular spectacle of lumber.
Our guesses for art direction is all over the map.
Changeling (2) Benjamin Button (4) Dark Knight (5) Duchess (2) Revolutionary Road (3)
and the winner is ... Benjamin Button
Anne Katjam Rob Sherry
The companion oscar is for Costume design. We have guesses in all 5, but the majority feel that a costume drama darn well better win for costume design.
Australia (4) Benjamin Button (2) Duchess (8) Milk (1) Revolutionary Road (3)
and the winner is ... The Duchess
Anne Brittany GramTuna GreenTuna JP TeenTuna Odie Rob
and the nomination for Best MakeUp. We couldn't decide if we should reward curiosity or darkness.
Benjamin Button (7) Dark Knight (7) Hellboy II (2)
and the winner is...Benjamin Button
Anne Copssister Geek36 GramTuna GreenTuna Kyara Sherry
I'm not sure about these motion picture yearbooks. Mostly I look at the film clips and I'm glad I missed them.
OK. Hugh Jackman. Trying to do a funny Billy Crystal musical opening.
*crickets*
Well, if only.
Hugh Jackman just told Mickey Rourke that he looked great. Hugh Jackman now gets the Oscar for biggest liar.
Well, this is an interesting amalgamation of past winners of Best Supporting Actresses. Our Oscar picks are across the boards, with ballots cast for all five:
Amy Adams (3) Penelope Cruz (5) Viola Davis (2) Taraji P. Henson (4) Marisa Tomei (1)
......And the winner is....Penelope Cruz
Brittany BSTuna GreenTuna JP Catjam
Best Original Screenplay...We didn't love either Frozen River or Happy-Go Lucky.
Frozen River (0) Happy-Go-Lucky (0) In Bruges (4) Milke (8) WALL-E (4)
And the winner is.....Milk
Brittany BSTuna Geek36 GramTuna JP Katjam Rob Sherry
And for Best Adapted Screenplay, we had doubt in Doubt, but otherwise,
The accounting offices of Tuna, Tuna and Tuna (also known as Me, Myself and I) have tabulated the Oscar ballots and grabbed some dinner in anticipation of the big night. I haven't seen much of the pregame show, but I am VERY happy to see Tim Gunn calling the shots.
It just occurred to me that I have NO idea who is hosting the Oscars. I think this isn't a good sign.
HAHAHAHA -- They just played a bit of Monty Python's The Meaning of Life with the pirate accounts as the real accounts walked the carpet. CLASSY>
Meryl Streep is wearing steel gray. Don't know that I love it.
Penelope Cruz looks nice. Her dress is a vintage 60-year old dress. Very nice...and different.
Richard Jenkins in a movie nobody saw (I did, though, and it was very good), whom many people will remember as the first dead guy in Six Feet Under.
Jack Black. Why are they talking to him?
Marissa Tomei. Hmmm. Don't love the dress. The skirt is so huge looks like she could power-buff a gymnasium in no time flat.
Oh no. one of the inspirations for the director of this show was old Busby Berkley movies. This does NOT bode well.
OK. Fasten your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy ride.
OK, I'm running this a little close to the wire, but there are still a bunch of days (5) until Oscar 2009 (February 22nd) . So click on the the LINK and VOTE. As always, having seen any of these films is often no help whatsoever, as I believe last year's winner (*cough*GramTuna*) saw maybe two or three, and the large majority of those were cartoons.
We're betting ALL Oscar categories except those scientific ones that are awarded earlier by whichever starlet drew the short straw. You don't have to vote for each one, but no vote will mean no points if you happen to guess right.
This year there might be a prize. But I'm not saying if there will be or not, partly because I haven't decided and partly because if there IS a prize and you only join in BECAUSE there is a prize, then it would be all "pay to play" and recent events have shown us all just how BAD that is for your career.
