Oh, what a little daylight can do

Today, for the first time in what feels like FOREVER, it was actually light outside when I got off work. Light enough that I could walk home–all the way home, all forty-five minutes of it.

This makes me happy, because it’s been a while since I was able to stroll home, hands in my pockets, wind in my hair, without hurrying the six blocks that I ordinarily walk, in the dark, to make my bus connection. With the sun still high enough in the sky to give me plenty of time, I skipped the buses altogether and just strolled all the way home. It was perfect.

And now I’m ready for the rest of winter.

Who gives a crap about football?

Oh, wait. I actually sort of do. Call me fickle, or fair-weather, or what have you, but I kind of like the Seahawks now that they’re really, truly in the Superbowl.

For the first time. Ever. (Right?)

And, in the Superbowl, they’ll be playing the Steelers, the only other team whose name I actually know. Why do I know the Steelers? Because my step-mom’s from Pittsburgh, and she’s been a dedicated Steelers fan since way back when–coats, beer mugs, Terrible Towels, you name it. We’ve got the paraphenalia somewhere.

I don’t think it matters much that I can’t tell a regular down from a touchdown. I’m excited.

Strange Fruit -or- Look Out! She’s on a Rampage

At work, we’ve been listening to the Radio Museum’s station (102.3 FM, KMRE). This is mostly my doing, since I’m an absolute sucker for old jazz and swing recordings, and the choice of music gets mixed reactions from our patients–generally, if anyone comments at all, it’s the older folks appreciating the nostalgic tunes and the fact that at least some of the younger generations still listen to them, or it’s the middle-aged children of the older folks, rolling their eyes at the cheesy lyrics and peppy trumpet solos that they tend to associate with their parents’ nostalgia. But if there’s one comment that I’ve heard that baffles me, it’s the references to those old recordings as “innocent.”

Innocent? I know that some of the love and love-lost songs do sound this way, but I don’t think I could call an era of two World Wars, a Depression and, oh, yeah, some bitter Civil Rights struggles “innocent,” especially not when I take into consideration songs like Studs Terkel’s “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?”, or Billie Holiday’s eerie, chokingly sad “Strange Fruit.” Having sat down several times to listen to the lyrics of “Strange Fruit” (and it’s the sort of song that blindsides you, that makes you sit down and listen to it), I can’t help but hear that eeriness, that anger and sense of ugly injustice, in every one of Holiday’s songs.

I cannot think of a less innocent song, not even taking Marilyn Manson and Britney and 50Cent into account.

But I suppose that’s exactly what “innocent” means in this context–there’s no screaming, no reference to cop-killing or suicide or pimpin’ or drugs (though Billie Holiday worked as a prostitute when she was young, and eventually died of liver disease due to heavy drinking and drug addiction). Maybe Holiday is an exception, given her tulmutuous personal life, but I doubt it. I think many people are inclined, myself included, to view any time other than our own as somehow better–more pure, more innocent, less corrupt–but in doing so, we forget about the atomic bombs, the wars, the poverty and oppression of over half our country’s citizens, based almost solely on the fact that we didn’t live through it. All we have is the memories of parents and grandparents, and these old recordings that sing on about love, and say very little about war.

I wonder, when I’m grown old, what popular songs will be in rotation as oldies? Will my kids listen to Jessica Simpson and sigh and say, “Oh, what a simpler time”? I hope not. I very much hope not. But I suspect that this is not far off the mark–that the most popular songs will show up again and again, while the ones that say an embarrassing lot about our era’s lack of innocence will be forgotten by all but those who lived through whatever it is that will define us. Probably, on the anniversary of September 11, years down the road, they’ll get all misty-eyed and play that god-awful country song about the red, the white and the blue, instead of digging up something more appropriate.

But I’m getting off track. My point is, I don’t think jazz from the ’30s and ’40s is any more or less innocent than our music today–happier, perhaps, more upbeat, but not any more innocent, because to say so is to pass judgement on something that, in many cases, we have never seen. For example: of the people who declared this music evidence of a more innocent time, not one of them was old enough to have seen that “more innocent time.” Not one of them could have known.

Strange Fruit

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

I am not smiling

Somebody in the ad department at McDonald’s had the bright idea of photographing a piece of bacon shaped like a smile, then slapping it on a yellow background and blowing it up to billboard-size.

I cannot think of anything that might make me want a bacon cheeseburger less than a giant piece of smiling bacon.

Seven verses, stacks of lyrics

Last night at church, we sang some really rockin’ older hymns, which always makes me happy. I’m a sucker for “thee”s and “thou”s, and references to the majesty of the mountains, the glory of God displayed in the prettiness of nature; I much prefer these songs to the more contemporary “I’m forgiven because you were forsaken” sort, that unfailingly rhyme “grace” with “face” (or “praise,” if they’re feeling really tricksy), and tend to be about how bad I feel about that whole Cross business. Depressing. And boring as all get out.

The hymns, though, they’re another story. Song with seven verses, and stacks of unusual lyrics! Singing “How Great Thou Art” broadens my vocabulary in a flash (“harken” and “fount” and so on), and the melodies are so fun to sing, and difficult. With all those runs and high D’s, it’s amazing to hear our little congregation belt out the chorus, harmonies and all, and it makes me appreciate what a slew of accomplished musicians we have at Breakwater.

But I’ll tell you what: nothing livens up a drab old worship song like leaving my glasses at home. Given my nearsightedness, there’s a certain element of adventure, a dash of the unexpected, in trying to read the words on the monitor while also keeping time with the music. You end up with “appreciate Your mighty wrath” instead of “mighty worth,” and “He sent His son to lie for me” instead of “die for me.”

Really keeps you on your toes, that does. On the one hand, it makes you think a bit more about the lyrics, and what they actually mean; on the other, it’s just funny. Nothing like giggling in the middle of a nice, quiet, emotional chorus, as you meaningfully hum “your love makes me sin”, instead of “your love makes me sing.”

Won’t you be mine? Won’t you be miiiine?

Well, here we are, having recently passed some big record for consecutive days of “measureable rainfall” in the good ole Pacific Northwest. Whatever “measureable rainfall” technically means, I’ll tell you, to me it means muddy shoes, a chill you can feel right through your coat, and clouds so watery and gray that you can feel the rain coming well before it hits. The air is so damp it makes haloes around porch lights and neon signs at night, and you can feel the moisture beading up on your cheekbones. Bus windows turn silver with condensation. Small parking lots fill with standing water; some lawns resemble swamps. Citizens unaccustomed to (or sick of) the impermeable gray consider wintering elsewhere.

Now, I like the rain, I really do. It’s pretty, and I love gray, overcast skies, but I’ve had about enough of the rain so like mist that it doesn’t feel like the rain falls, but like the rain stands still, and you walk through it.

So, imagine how pleased I was this morning to notice the sun shining in through the blinds, all clear and frosty and winter-like, but there: the clouds broken, the pavement given a split second to dry if it likes (it doesn’t), a light so fierce and invigorating that there’s nothing for it but to take a long walk, no matter that the wind is icy, my fingers frozen, my nose running. Days like this always inspire me to break out into song, but I don’t, and good thing, because the song that invariably comes to mind is “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood…”

Fixin’ to get fixed

Oh boy. Our kitties are fresh back from the vet, where they got their kitten-making parts removed, and the anethesia has yet to wear off. Since the lady recommended that we keep them in separate rooms ’til the kitties get their sea-legs back (our apartment only has two rooms), I’m holed up in the bedroom with Sparrow, while Gunner and Mitch hang out in the living room, chasing toy mice and computer animated orcs, respectively. Sparrow’s flight pattern looks a bit like this: step – step – weave – step – step – stumble. Lots of mewling and mild crashes ensue. Watching her makes me feel all sad inside.

In other news, I finally (finally! Ha ha! Victory is mine) got my replacement iPod. In what I hope is the last chapter of a lengthy saga, I’m stepping back up from my 6 GB mini to a full-blown 20 GB (3rd generation) studmuffin of an iPod. At last. At last.

Movie Review: Pound your chest and roar (King Kong reviewed)

I’m glad that I went into the theater expecting King Kong to be absolutely over-the-top. Knowing that the movie is a full three hours long, with an hour each dedicated to build-up, Skull Island, and New York, was also helpful, because, with that knowledge, I was able to sit back and enjoy the spectacular ride that is King Kong unhindered by bad moods, headaches or my short attention span–and hallelujah for that.

The film itself is gorgeous, start to finish. The rhinestones, flashing lights and evening gowns of 1920s New York contrast marvellously with the slick vines, scary natives and giant beasts of Skull Island; the camera pays attention–almost lovingly–to every detail of the scenery, and to the slightest expression on each actor’s face. Watching King Kong is like experiencing a movie as it should be, with intense time spent inside every scene, so that close-ups become profound and meaningful, and the smallest rise of an eyebrow or twitch of a smile carries great weight inside the story–as does the presence of, say, dinosaurs, and great slithering monsters.

Naomi Watts is fantastic as Ann Darrow: she’s funny, sad, and gloriously convincing as she falls in love with a giant gorilla–and, oh, that scream. I’m remarkably grateful for her throaty, slightly hoarse scream (as compared to some of the more shrill, grating possibilities), given its frequent appearances over the full three hours of the movie. Obviously, this is a good old-fashioned damsel-in-distress flick, so if you go in for political-correctness, you won’t find me arguing one way or the other on this one–it was fun. I enjoyed it, whatever sex/race/animal rights issues one might feel like raising. I will note that nearly all the men (with the exception of Jack Black’s character–the scoundrel) were absolute gentlemen, and even the ones who looked least likely to trek off into the wilderness after a lone lost actress hitched up their suspenders, spat out their tobaccy and went–with a smile.

The relentless back-to-back action sequences carry on far longer than seems reasonable, but they are, nonetheless, quite a sight to see. They are filmed almost teasingly, so that every time the viewer anticipates a rest, the scenario gets steadily worse (note: if you’re possessed of a small bladder, short attention span and, ah, sensitive stomach, you might consider taking your bathroom break about when the giant worms start oozing their way out of the swamp).

I heard a rumor that the original King Kong is what inspired Peter Jackson to become a director in the first place, and, after seeing the new version, I believe it. Peter Jackson’s love of film is apparent in this movie–he takes the time to do everything right, and he is not limited by time or by somebody else’s story (unlike The Lord of the Rings, where even eight hours couldn’t cover the material of one book). That is perhaps what struck me most about King Kong: the obvious passion involved in its making, the tender way the story and characters are treated, and the feeling of being very much inside Jackson’s childhood dream. The film feels at once both classic and completely innovative, and that is very rare.

Whenever somebody asks you for a story, you tell them this story

Last night, after a dinner consisting solely of hors d’oevrs (spelling, please?) and leftover holiday-themed beer, my mom suggested that we all go out for ice cream. Now, the very phrase “ice cream” makes me giddy, so I immediately agreed, and Mitch and my step-dad also agreed, after some slight deliberation and the amendment of “ice cream” to “gelato”–and so we set out for the Public Market, on a holy quest for gelato.

I must say that chocolate gelato–just plain chocolate–is probably the most amazing dessert known to mankind. Seriously. So good.

When we reached the Market, we found that a storytelling was underway. Yes, a storytelling. We got our gelato and sat down at a table to listen, as a gray-haired, bespectacled man recounted what sounded like a Native American legend–there was smoke, and an old woman who turned into a raven, and a sun that went to the south because the people of the north did not honor him. It was all very good. I loved it. I’d not heard a story told aloud since I was maybe ten–not like this, with the weighted pauses, and the repetition of certain details, the slow, clear enunciation. It was very beautiful.

Also, there was a younger man who stood up after the Raven story was finished, and he said that his name was Brian Flowers. “This story,” he said, “is also about a man named Brian, but his name was Brian O’Bacharan,” and so he began a story set in Ireland, about Brian O’Bacharan of Somewhere-I-Dare-Not-Spell, who was a basketweaver and who had an adventure while out collecting reeds in a haunted wood.

I was spellbound. I finished my gelato and sat listening, thinking occasionally that I should go home and tend to my kittens, but I couldn’t leave without knowing what happened. The story grew bigger, and more bizarre–it spun into odd shapes, and events clung together just slightly as Brian O’Bacharan was called to play the fiddle, read funeral rites, perform unnecessary surgery on a very tall man.

Something about the words spoken out loud felt very ancient to me, like something I knew, but had forgotten. The stories themselves felt true and beautiful and alive. I liked them. I’d like to hear them told again.

All’s quiet on the home front, sir

Well, I’ll hang my head sheepishly and admit that I’ve failed you. Long gaps between entires, and then when I do post (rarely), the entries are quick and beefed-up with photos–nothing of the rambling, several screens-long posts I boasted of two months ago…

Alas.

I can at least claim that NaNoWriMo ate up my November–as well as a significant portion of my writerly brain, and nearly all of my annual word count alotment (allotment? Wow, NaNo ate up my spelling brain, too)–and then there were, um, Christmas-y family things happening in December, so I was left, essentially without those three, crucial, blogging ingredients: inspiration, motivation and time.

But enough excuses. Really. Now I’ll say some funny things.

Like this: pumpkin. Pumpkin isn’t so much a funny thing as it is a funny word, but I like it all the same. Pumpkin. And “bunny”. That’s a good one, too.

Speaking of bunnies, on New Year’s Eve, Mitch and I bought our first pets as semi-competent adults, and right now they’re running circles ’round my computer chair, wrestling each other with their little needle-sharp kitten claws and making cute, angry cooing noises. In case you missed the last entry (I think I might start purring), we got kittens. And they’re precious. And funny. It’s a non-stop cuteness channel at our house these days as Gunner and Sparrow run amok in our apartment, pouncing on play mice, each other, and our toes, fingers, legs, faces and backs.

Like I said, precious.

In other news, I saw Serenity finally, and That One Guy was right–I was so, so wrong to have waited this long. Serenity is amazing. Stop reading this right now and go see it. Unless you want to watch the series, Firefly, first (which I would recommend)–then you can go do that.

Also, for an amusing anecdote, I’ll share this: last night, I hopped on the bus after work, and the driver was sitting in his seat, looking all cozy and reading while he waited at my stop (back story: I ride a bus that is significantly influenced by whether or not Western is in session. When it’s not, I often have the bus all to myself, and, because he only stops once or so per route when there aren’t any students, the driver generally waits at my stop for ten minutes before take off to get back on schedule).

I sat down, took my book out and settled in to read for a few minutes, when the driver stood up and did a quick sweep of the bus to check for trash. Noticing the cover of my book (A People’s History of the Unites States, by Howard Zinn), he chuckled to himself, grabbed his book and held it up so I could see, then asked, “So? How you do like it?”

Because, ha! We were reading the same book! Only two people on the whole bus, and we were reading the same book! Seriously. Weird.