And a Little Bit About Some Other Stuff

Aliens (1) Allston Rock City (12) Anxiety (28) Art (10) Books (8) Boston (7) Boy George (4) Cats (3) Christmas (8) Civil Rights (8) College (4) Comedy (5) Depression (29) Drinkin' (2) Drugs (1) Facebook (7) Family (7) Food (5) Friends (10) Generation X (21) Ghosts (2) God (8) Guns (3) High School (1) Home (3) Jury Duty (1) Kids (1) Killers (4) Lexi Kahn (1) LGBT (3) Liars and Thieves (22) Marketing (2) Men (2) Microtia (1) Motherhood (2) Mourning (5) Movies (12) Music (16) Pets (1) Photo Gallery (55) Pickles (4) Poetry (2) Politics (35) Radio (5) Relationships (8) Sci fi (4) Social Contract (6) Sports (2) Technology (4) The Eighties (8) Theatre (1) Throwback Thursday (12) Travel (6) Treason (2) TV (12) Twitter (5) Vampires (1) Weird Shit (1) Women (17) Work (3) Writing (9)

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Sunday, September 17, 2017

A Bitch In Time

I need to sew up some holes in stuff I like. Cuz this is charming.

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Monday, September 11, 2017

Sunday, September 10, 2017

These Are Some People I Don't Understand

Brad is dead. There is no more Brad.

You Named It Brad, and I Don't Know What To Do With That.

Could you please not introduce me to your car? Because unless it's Greased Lightning or something similarly non-anthro, I don't want to meet him. Tell your car that I'm a warm person usually, it's just that I would be more comfortable if we remain strangers while I'm sitting in him and twiddling his knobs. I'm not judging you for naming your car (or your bike, or your coffee maker) but if you bring me into the relationship, I will feel too weird about it. Everything else is so weird right now, I cannot integrate any more information. So help me out, please, and don't tell me your car's name. ∎

Saturday, September 9, 2017

Monday, September 4, 2017

Saturday, September 2, 2017

Friday, September 1, 2017


“Some people have a way with words, and other people...oh, uh, not have way.” —Steve Martin 

Thursday, August 31, 2017

Throwback Thursday: 1985

"Hey, if you get a chance... didn't you say your sister kept the clipping of us in the paper in high school, with my dog?"
Michelle DiPoala, left, and Diana Tramontano, both of Roxbury, chat Tuesday afternoon at the Roxbury tennis courts off of Route 67. Meanwhile Grover tries to take in a bit of the conversation.

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

God is no longer an explanation of anything,

but has instead become something that would itself need an insurmountable amount of explaining. 

“I don't accept the currently fashionable assertion that any view is automatically as worthy of respect as any equal and opposite view. My view is that the moon is made of rock. If someone says to me 'Well, you haven't been there, have you? You haven't seen it for yourself, so my view that it is made of Norwegian Beaver Cheese is equally valid' - then I can't even be bothered to argue. There is such a thing as the burden of proof, and in the case of god, as in the case of the composition of the moon, this has shifted radically. God used to be the best explanation we'd got, and we've now got vastly better ones. God is no longer an explanation of anything, but has instead become something that would itself need an insurmountable amount of explaining. So I don't think that being convinced that there is no god is as irrational or arrogant a point of view as belief that there is. I don't think the matter calls for even-handedness at all.” 
― Douglas Adams

Monday, August 28, 2017

The Great Purge: The Monday After

Dear Diary
Monday. Today I woke up late, ate a buttery English muffin, dropped a whole thing of iced coffee all over the kitchen floor (same floor I'd just washed yesterday, natch) and then I did nothing of any value to anyone the whole rest of the day. Except for cleaning up the spilled iced coffee. If I'd put the coffee into my body instead of onto the floor, maybe I'd have gotten more done today. But here's what I've been doing all week...

Sunday, August 27, 2017

The peach trees are full and gorgeous. Heather and Thalia say they're gonna pick soon!
I said, "I'm gonna just stand underneath this one with my mouth open."

Thursday, August 24, 2017

Hey, that's perfect for Throwback Thursday

Centre Pompidou, Paris (mid-2000s)

Diana's son is 12, and I only just met him yesterday.
In college, she went to the Sorbonne, and stayed.
It was inevitable: in high school, she signed all her notes with a smiley face that was wearing a beret.
I visited her once in Paris, in the early 2000s.
This is us, the only photo from that visit (taken by her *asshole husband).

We forgot to get a photo yesterday.

We look just like this, only 47. 
I loved that ribbed mock turtleneck. It was so soft.
I also bought one in black, red and hunter green.
This one is the color of vanilla bean ice cream.
I insisted on rocking "The Jennifer Aniston" on my head.
Someone should have punched me in the face.

*I'm sure his friends think he's great. But we have never gotten along. 

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

The Originals: "I Can't Believe I Fell For Another Damn Vampire"

Jenny and I are both binge-watching The Originals on Netflix. I called her today to find out where she's up to in the series. I myself have finished all four seasons in record time. I do not recommend pursuing such specious glory. You will rot your brain, plus your eyeballs might fall out the front of your damn skull. It's just that it's hot out, and I am unemployed at the moment. (Please hire me.)

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Friday, August 18, 2017

We are not enemies, but friends.

Monday, August 14, 2017

"Small black coffee, please."
"We don't have small, we only have medium."
"...that's impossible."
(blank stare)
"What's the smallest size?
"We just have the one size."
"What is happening right now?"

What Story Will You Tell A 6th Grader?

Mrs. Dorozinky's 8th Grade Class, 1984
St. Margaret's School, Waterbury CT
I'd say that 5th grade was approximately the age when a poor-to-middling American Catholic education began to escort my group of plaid-clad, doe-eyed whelps outward into the news and talk about how current events connect us to history. We had brains of soft clay when we first began to engage with the outside world. I respect teachers in general, but threefold for those Catholics that helmed the U.S.S. Gen X from 4th through 8th grades. It was a wild, windy, sticky affair.

History was not a real thing before 4th grade. They gave us this Bible as big as our history book. Both books had pictures and stories and dates.

We wove red, white and blue construction paper flags for July 4th and we hunted eggs on Easter, right after singing the "Christ has died, Christ has risen" songs at church. On Christmas Eve we went to bed leaving milk and cookies for Santa, then we squirmed all through mass on Christmas morning.  We played Cowboys & Indians and they had us putting on plays dressed as pilgrims. George Washington and Jesus and Santa all figured into the narrative about the same, more or less. They had us tracing our hands to draw Thanksgiving turkeys and those nuns yadda yadda'd over some key facts. Our world view was a disaster.

The Paragraphs - Rick Berlin (Amazon)
I have a lot to say about overcoming the mindfuck that was my early Catholic education. What I will say right now is that the answers to my questions always led to more questions. Some I'm still asking.

What Story Will You Tell?

I had so many questions. Including why such a big a deal was constantly being made over our knees. They'd line us up and use a ruler to measure our uniform skirt hems. Hey nuns, guess what? At no time in life, as it turns out, were my knees ever the thing about me that got me into trouble. Would that it were so, but thanks for contributing to creepy lifelong body issues for generations of girls. Also, you know what would have covered our knees? Pants. You could have simply given us pants.

In 6th grade, we were given an assignment to write a history essay from a personal point of view. That meant interviewing a person who was there during this Major Event We Children Shall Drone On About Very Importantly.

My mother suggested Grandma DiPoala. My grandmother had apparently been quite a snappily dressed good time gal who liked to go dancing, until she was left alone to raise three kids after the war. Grandpa DiPoala was "shell shocked," in the parlance of the time, and spent the rest of his life hospitalized. None of us ever met him, then he died. To make ends sort of almost meet, Grandma DiPoala had worked in factories, waited tables and did other jobs to put food on the table.

I was thrilled. I was Lois Lane at last. I came up with a studious list of questions for Maggie. I wanted to write the best essay Mrs. Signori had ever read. I had daydreams like Ralphie in A Christmas Story. 

The whole thing turned out to be a disaster.

I think I started by asking my grandmother what was the most memorable headline she could remember from when she was my age? She said "That's when I was a girl." I asked about the places she had worked. She said "That's when I was a girl." I asked what exactly she did there every day, and what she thought about unions. She said she did "piece work." She had no thoughts about unions.

I had to fudge that whole essay. I was pissed. How do you live through those fraught decades and have no story to tell? Didn't you care? Weren't you paying attention?

On every other day, Madge DiPoala was a non-stop talker. A small, doughy banshee of a woman, Maggie kept up a steady commentary. She veered from complaining about the neighbors to the high price of bracciole. She'd make you sit and listen to turn-by-turn directions to places you'll never visit. She'd tell you the whole back-and-forth over a dime with the nun at the church tag sale. On every other day, Maggie had opinions.

Except on the day that I asked her about what it was like to be a poor working single mom in 1950s America with immigrant parents. She had no opinion. In fact, she looked vaguely puzzled. It was as though she had lived on the outside of her own life, isolated in the neighborhood and distrusting anyone and everyone else.

She hated black people. So much. I am scarred for life by the opinions she had about that.

Are You Paying Attention? 

Boston Common, January 21, 2017
This feels like the worst Monday ever, and what scares the shit out of me is that it's not. There will be so many more worse Mondays, and Wednesdays and Sundays and any other days.

Just so it's clear, a growing Trump-emboldened militia has been campaigning for the right to rid America of "defectives." While these people have always been in our country, in our own families even, they have found a new energy in Trump's America. Every person who heard the "Make America Great Again" dog whistle and voted for Mr. Trump is feeling that their time has come at last to hate freely, with the might of the White House on their side. They have no hoods or cloaks this time around.

This weekend they came to Charlottesville brandishing torches and waving the flag of both the Nazi party and the Confederates, who they honor as their patriarchal forebears and whose segregationist traditions they seek to revive and strengthen. They claim they are fighting for their "rights. They equate "rights" and "free speech" with the idea that those freedoms extend to mean "kill Jews" and "kill black people" and by the way, they should have the "right" to feel this way free of consequence.

They call themselves white nationalists. The press calls them Alt-Right. Mr. Trump has obliquely suggested that there are "many sides" to the unfolding story that led us skidding sideways into August 2017. True to his bloviating barrage of campaign promises, here we are barely six months into this fiasco of a presidency and I have to go out to the Boston Common next weekend and literally object to Nazis.

Future grandkids (yours or not) will ask about what is happening right now. They'll look up from their 6th grade homework and ask their elders what it was like going to school in 2017, they'll ask what it was like before Trump. They'll have questions.

Women's March, Boston
January 21, 2017

I'll Just Leave These Boots Right Here By The Door

So about these new Nazis. They've been riled up by the KKK (yes, those people are still around in 2017) and other extremist leaders and they see Trump as their savior, finally "taking back their country," a paranoid carillon call so absurd that it would be funny except that they literally want to kill my friends.

These are awful people who view the concepts of diversity and equal rights as a a direct threat to them, personally. "You will not replace us! Jews will not replace us" is one of their paranoid battle cries. Hey guys? No one is trying to replace you. That's weird. Your heads are not right.

These toxic torch-bearing individuals claim they're coming to Boston next weekend. Boston -- as much trouble as we still have here with race relations -- always gears up. We do have big problems here, but the difference is that we, as a community, strive to do better. We want to be better. A whole new wave of anger, fear and disappointment has been surging all weekend. Right now, people are canceling plans so that we can gather at the Boston Common again on Saturday, August 19th. Now I need to get a Sharpie and write my mom's phone number on my damn arm again, so they can notify her in case something happens to me. I gotta go back down there again and say "no" to Nazis, because enough people voted for Donald Fucking Trump.

You know, in these increasingly fraught days and weeks, the worst of which is still to come, I think about a friend I used to have. Her name is Amy. Her parting shot on a Facebook post was, "Supporting a racist doesn't mean a person is a racist." My reply, "In my opinion, Amy, it does," was enough for Amy to simply end our friendship. Because all this advocating against a divided America was too much for her to bear. She's got a kid and when that kid grows up, maybe a grandkid. What story will Amy tell. What's yours?

In my story, I'm firmly against Nazis. Just so that's clear. ∎

Boston always gears up.
(Photo: Uncredited from the Women's March Boston site)

Sunday, August 13, 2017

These People Are Nazis. We Had A Whole World War About This.

Dear Everyone,
Please stop staying "Alt Right" like it's an actual platform.
There is no "Alt Right." 
The term you're looking for is

Saturday, August 12, 2017

I saw this jacket at Urban Renewals for $4.
I'd never fit into it, even at my smallest, but I asked my Facebook friends if anyone wants me to get it for them.
Nobody said yes. Bitches be trippin'. This is a great jacket.

I think I need to start an Etsy store.

Aw. A purple Croc egg fell out of a Croc nest.

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

Joe had the guys over for a game of Lord of the Rings Risk. It's Risk, but Lord of the Rings.
This game is Jacob's (in the hat). They usually play Star Wars X-wing.

Sunday, August 6, 2017

I admit that I was skeptical about this "garden in a can" thing.
Porch basil! 

Monday, July 31, 2017

I Thought By Now People Would Stop Judging Me For Not Having Children

"You need to give him children. What are you scared of? Responsibility?" 

These are actual words said to me yesterday. By a total stranger. In the park.

It's amazing to me that people still feel entitled to lecture women about something as personal as procreation. I am 47 years old. It is 2017.

Yesterday was such a beautiful Boston day that I took my sketchbook and went for a walk. People were out and about, walking dogs and strollers, riding bikes and generally participating in the pastimes that make up a Sunday in the city. I got a kale smoothie and stopped on a park bench. Before long, a man sat nearby and struck up a conversation. He told me he was from Morocco, he'd just moved to the neighborhood. We made the usual kind of chit chat, until the subject of kids came up somehow. No, I answered. No, my husband and I don't have children. Then the interrogation kicked into high gear.

Why not? CAN you have them? Well then why don't you have children? What about your husband? You need to give him children! What are you scared of? Responsibility? 

Why not? Because I don't want children.

CAN I have them? I don't know. There was never any medical reason to find out.

Why don't I have them? It's not for me. I'm not cut out for it.

What about your husband? He does not want children either.

You need to give him children! There is no such rule. We don't want children.

What are you scared of?  I'm not scared of anything.

Responsibility? Okay, that's just about enough. Actually it was enough five minutes ago. People think it's okay to just outright demand personal information such as "Can you have children?" That's amazing. And the social contract still allows the thing where women get instantly judged as failures unless they've become mothers? That's all I'm here to do, "give" a man children? Still? Yes, sir, sure, why not. I'm a failure. My womb remains barren, my life therefore meaningless.

Come to find out that he has three children by two different ex-wives. They live in New York and West Virginia. He never sees them. He isn't in their lives at all. Please, by all means, tell me more about responsibility.

It's amazing to me that people still feel entitled to lecture women about something as personal as procreation. I am 47 years old. It is 2017.⧫

The Mommy Problem ("I Hate Jake's Turn")

Monday, July 10, 2017

Stone Hearth Pizza.
They got the games on TVs.

Sunday, July 9, 2017

Wow, Misconduct Is A Terrible Movie!

I was looking for something to watch OnDemand one rainy afternoon, and this 2016 movie looked as though it would provide all of the legal drama and corporate intrigue of such thrillers as Enemy of the State, Disclosure, The Firm, et al. "Misconduct?" I said to myself. "How did I miss this one?" 

I fell for the seductive Misconduct trailer. They got me, I admit it. The truth is, I am such a sucker for any movie set in a high-caliber workplace where unscrupulous lawyers, journalists, CEOs and/or politicians would kill each other to either keep or find out some scandalous secret, for money, power, or all of the above.  Are there plush corner offices with skyline views and whiskey on the credenza during the daytime? Fantastic. Does a breathless & bruised power suit make a furtive phone call urging his wife to get out of the house? I'm in, get the popcorn. I hope there's danger music shaping tense scenes over missing files or stolen files or secret files or forged files. Give me at least one hacker, please. I'm an easy sell with this stuff. But in the end, I wanted to punch myself in the face for wasting 106 minutes on Misconduct.

Misconduct wants to be a suspenseful legal thriller starring Josh Duhamel's hair flip, flanked by the asterisked academy award-winning star power of Anthony Hopkins and Al Pacino. Julia Stiles and Alice Eve play two of three blondes, along with Malin Akerman, whose fame I don't even understand.  After my unfortunate decision to watch it, I took to the internet to see if utterly abject disappointment was mine alone. It was not. I read about a dozen reviews penned by film buffs as puzzled and annoyed as me. So thoroughly is Misconduct already panned online, in great detail, that those lovely writers save me the time of doing a play-by-play. I'll sum up and include a couple of specifics, but below, you'll find links to a few well-written reviews for you to read later. I wish I'd read them first. But at least I feel validated: yes, in fact, this is a terrible movie.

No, Seriously. Misconduct Is A Truly, Tremendously Terrible Movie

So here's what's going on in Misconduct. This is what I'm calling the A-story. A workaholic lawyer named Ben Cahill (Duhamel) will do anything for billable hours and another win. When his mentally unstable college girlfriend Emily (Akerman) shows up ten years after an apparently volatile break-up, he unwisely meets her for a drink, because that always works out well for married men. Emily has snooped around where she shouldn't have, and found hard evidence implicating her current boss/boyfriend Arthur Denning (Hopkins). Denning is the decades-older bazillionaire big pharma CEO of Pierson, a company that may have faked clinical trials, knowingly letting their bad drug kill people. With this illegally acquired evidence, Cahill sees dollar signs, plus a chance to be a big shot in front of his even bigger big shot boss, Charles Abrams (Pacino).

Now, that all sounds like fine fodder for a compelling legal thriller, doesn't it? But the tidy way that I wrote about this A-story is not how Misconduct unfolds. An off-kilter storyboard (not in a good way like Memento) is so confusing that it simply ruins whatever it is they were trying to accomplish. Any suspense is awkwardly forced through excruciatingly slow camera pans across nothing for no reveal. Any tension is unconvincing, contrived as it is through needlessly bombastic music. Other weakly contrived attempts at building suspense are merely scenes that take too long. These include all the walking performed by Anthony Hopkins, well-documented elevator rides, hearing only one side of a phone call, and characters that are reacting to something we can't see out of the frame. Just because we don't know what's causing Josh Duhamel to make that face doesn't mean it's "suspenseful." It's merely annoying.

If this story were presented in any sort of logical sequence, there may have been a chance to build tension. If the characters had been developed, their actions may actually trigger some reactions in us, the viewing audience. If we understood what was happening, we may have felt some of the apparent suspense they're trying to build. If the plot elements had been given any real room to unfold, there may have been a chance for some thrilling twists. How can you have a plot twist when no one knows what's happening in the first place? You can't "twist" first. That doesn't work at all.

Misconduct wants so badly to be edge-of-your-seat compelling, but in the end, you get a confusing pastiche of dramatically lit scenery through which a fledgling director (Shintaro Shimosawa) sends a cast of a few big stars plus a whole raft of relative unknowns whose characters possess no discernible motive for anything they do until this movie's puzzling anti-climactic "conclusion."

I Should Have Bailed Five Minutes In...

I should have known. The first shot, through the opening credits, is a close-up of the Louis Armstrong statue at Algiers Ferry Landing in New Orleans. But it's shown from the side. You can't see the face, so you'd have to already be familiar with the statue in order for it to usefully place the action in New Orleans. The camera pulls back from the statue for a long 30 seconds, accompanied by audio of TV news reports that serve to inform us that Pierson is being investigated. Denning dismisses a petulant Emily's suggestion that the two of them leave town for awhile. Then Denning, as he walks (and walks and walks) around his house, gets a text implying that Emily has been kidnapped. Then Denning is walking (and walking and walking) to, and around, the Octavia Gallery. That's where he will pay some un-named kidnappers 2.5 million in cash that he just happened to have laying around. During the ransom drop scene we get the back of Anthony Hopkins' head for an obscene amount of time.

"Do we still have to pay these guys if we only shoot them from behind for many endless seconds?"

The expert security adviser (Julia Stiles) is so visibly barking orders into a communication device that I really wondered if these movie makers have ever seen a surveillance team in any other movie in the history of time. If there WERE kidnappers watching, which this viewer never believed for one single second, they would have spotted these "security experts" in an instant. Mind you, this is barely seven minutes in at this point, so we're assuming this kidnapping is the A-story. It's not. There is no reason at all to open with this scene sequence, except that Anthony Hopkins is in it.

The B-stories are disconnected and never fully play out to any satisfying conclusion. Characters are plunked into the story without exposition, or float in and out of position as protagonist and antagonist, alternating from being victimized to having the upper hand.

There's a sickly nameless Asian guy. We assume he's a soon-to-be-fatal victim of Pierson's bad drug, but otherwise we never really learn his role in all this. Even when we suspect (correctly) that he's a hired hit man, that still doesn't explain his motivation. Why does he hunt down Emily's hapless neighbor? What's his payment for brutalizing the Cahills? Revenge for something we don't even know happened? Money?

There's the Cahill joyless marriage, which seems to have hit the skids after a late-term miscarriage, and may or may not explain the intense weirdness of Charlotte Cahill (Alice Eve.)

There's the unknown nature of Emily's relationship with Charles Denning. It's "unknown" because Emily is an unreliable character. Though she claims to be unhappy when she tells Cahill that Denning "won't let her" leave, there doesn't seem to actually be any such duress in the first scene. In fact, Emily is the one suggesting a trip to London with Denning to wait out the heat from the bad drug scandal.

There's Ben Cahill's stilted dalliance with Emily, utterly devoid of any spark or chemistry. For one thing, she acts surprised to find out he's a lawyer, but then later it seems like she purposely sought him out, for the express purpose of giving him this evidence against Denning. But that's confusing too, because what does she possibly gain? And not only that, but Cahill was the one who made first contact with Emily, by friending her online and making the date to meet for drinks. But that's even more confusing later, when it appears that Ben Cahill and Emily alike were set up by powerful people to take the fall for...wait, for what again?

There's the power dynamic between Cahill and his boss, Abrams. We don't trust that guy for a second, and in the end we find that we were right. That's more about Al Pacino's prowess, probably.

With all these threads, you'd think that any two or three would resolve in the end. You'd think.

Who Are These People?

The relationships between and among all the characters are vaguely rudderless, but none are as inexplicable as Ben Cahill's marriage. Charlotte is an ER nurse who works as many long hours as he does, in theory because they need the money. But why, if he's such a big shot lawyer? Alice Eve's performance as Charlotte is so stone-faced and monotone ("catatonic" as described by one of the reviewers) that I was positive she'd turn out to be a ghost in the end. Misconduct cribs from so many other movies, why not crib from The Sixth Sense. But she's not a ghost. Other characters see her and interact with her. Later I read that the Japanese director, Shintaro Shimosawa, is known for horror. That explains a few things. Japanese horror movies don't have the same A-B-C story progression that American viewers expect, and they rarely make sense in the traditional storytelling way. The accepted storytelling tropes -- the Chekhov plot point principle, the mystery's red herring, characters with actual motives -- none of these are necessary in Japanese horror. How much better would Misconduct have been if it turned out to be an insane psychological thriller where Josh Duhamel was the only one who interacted with Charlotte, because she wasn't really there, and in fact it was he who acted out everything Charlotte did, in the end. Like Norman Bates, because why not, if we're cribbing.

The real ending (which is nothing like what I just said) is just...I tell you what, I don't even know what to say about the ending. And I honestly can't decide whether to advise my movie-loving circle of friends against watching Misconduct, or beg them to watch it, so that next we meet we may collectively unpack this mountain of dreck.∎

Misconduct Reviews Elsewhere

These are some of my favorite pieces written on the 2016 would-be thriller directed by Shintaro Shimosawa. By all means, enjoy yourselves.

The plot is gossamer thin, the twist would take a two-year-old about as many seconds to see coming and it's a miracle there is any scenery left by the time Pacino and Hopkins were done.
- Jamie East (The Sun UK)

A meandering mess, the story lurches from one contrived intrigue to the next.
- Nathanael Hood (The Young Folks)

It shamelessly cribs from 90s potboilers (a last-minute twist is stolen from a notable film of the decade) and Pacino is hammier than a hog roast, but it's too lurid to be dull.
- Benjamin Lee (Guardian)

Terrible thriller wastes great actors in a ridiculous story.
- Sandie Angulo Chen (Common Sense Media)

Friday, June 16, 2017

1313 Days Left

"This is a man who was coddled and spoiled as a child. Then, as an adult, he surrounded himself with people who fed his ego and told him how amazing he was at everything he did. This created a person whose view on the world is so completely warped that he lacks the ability to understand that he’s not a very bright person. But he’s so incredibly ignorant that he truly believes he 'comprehends better than almost anybody,' that he has a 'very good brain,' and he’s a 'really smart person.'" - Allen Clifton

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Losing Our Heroes: Adam West, 1928 - 2017

Some days, you just can't get rid of a bomb. 
Adam West was my Batman. His was the Batman that I knew first, so he's the one whose visage my mind's eye still summons whenever I hear someone say "Batman." In those days, Batman as a franchise was campy. It was a comic book lifted right from the cartoon pages and performed by people doing very silly things in a very serious manner. Decades before the franchise turned so dark and sinister, Batman was good wholesome family fun. Just like Roger Moore was my James Bond out of all the James Bonds, and Christopher Reeve was my Superman, so was Adam West my Batman.

I've decided that this is the hardest part of growing older. It's not the milestones marking your own personal mortality, or the gray hairs, chubby chin or crinkly eyes looking back at you from the mirror. It's having to say goodbye to contemporary heroes, first crushes and pop culture icons.

I remember exactly where I was when Michael Jackson moonwalked on stage for the first time, now he's gone. I saw George Michael perform with Wham UK (later just "Wham") on Dance Fever before anyone had really heard of him yet. The song was "Young Guns" and there were two girls in the band back then. Hard to believe he's gone. When John Ritter died, my mom called me, "How he made you laugh when you were a little girl!" So true. Makes it hard to watch "Noises Off" now, as funny as it is, because we've lost John Ritter and Christopher Reeve. Hard to watch "When Harry Met Sally" because we've lost Bruno Kirby and Carrie Fisher now. Hard to watch "Dirty Dancing," Patrick Swayze was so strong and sexy, and then there's "To Wong Foo...", a movie I love, because now we've lost Patrick, Robin Williams, as well as Chris Penn, delightfully playing the small town homophobic cop. All my guys are dying.

You guys, my Batman died.

Where is the needle that was here?
Cue danger music.
I'm an idiot -- always stick it into a pincushion.
Now I have to go find shoes and go on a needle hunt.

Update: I found it.

Friday, June 9, 2017

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Your princess is in another castle.

Monday, June 5, 2017

Saturday, June 3, 2017


This one time, Joe and I were on a road trip and we stopped at a dumpy little town diner. We walked in the door and heard, from somewhere in the place, "HEY, NOVEMBER RAIN!" Probably there's still some locals in a small Vermont town that tell about the time they saw Axl Rose havin' a Western Omelette.
Axl (L) and Joe (R)
Joe, at 24, Axl'ing up the place pretty good.

Friday, May 26, 2017

I Don't Often Go To Big Stadium Rock Shows

But When I Do, There Is No Line At The Ladies' Room.

All men, and me. Every time.