Sixteen years married! If we weren't stuck between apartment renovations and a weekend trip (OD, friend and me), durnit, some appropriately romantic and loving observation of the event would certainly occur. Stamp it on the rain check, love.
Aug. 26-28
*It's pretty much this: Work at office, go home, see what work, if any, can be done, knock off 9ish or so. Well, there was a respite on Thursday, when OD had door duty at local contra dance, so for the first time in a few weeks I donned sadly deteriorating shoes and went at it.
*Book completed: "Empire Falls," by Richard Russo - - Russo's morality tale, set in a small mill town in Maine, spans years and generations, recounting the deeds and (many) misdeeds of the wealthy Whiting family that seems to own the very souls of the Empire Falls population as well as most of the property. The Whitings' accumulated litany of arrogance, scandal and economic miscalculation is borne on the shoulders of Miles Roby, a soon-to-be-divorced father and manager of one of the few moderately successful local enterprises, the Empire Falls Grill. Miles has no shortage of family members and friends to nurse: an alcoholic but canny rambler of a father; a broken-down younger brother; a sad, vulnerable yet resilient teen daughter; even an estranged wife (probably the book's most unsympathetic character), whose mid-life "awakening" leads her to one bad, impulsive decision after another. Despite some questionable, even melodramatic plot devices (including a small-scale Columbine-like event), Russo effectively manages several narrative strands, as Miles, and we, get at the secret behind his ties to the Whitings.
Aug. 22-25
*Steady, steady, on we go. Ceiling's mostly done, as is one wall. Inevitable delays and tangent mini-projects. But it looks a helluva lot more like an actual room than last week.
*Viewings:
=="Star Trek: Nemesis" -- Hard to avoid this, if like us you regularly tuned in to watch the exploits of Jean Luc et al for so many years. Certainly some promising new ground here: I mean, after all, if there was a planet in the Star Trek universe named Romulus, why wouldn't there be one nearby named Remus? And the plot device of Picard's clone offers up some good potential nature-vs-nurture debates. But it all comes off rather flat, and few in the cast seem to muster up much visible enthusiasm for this production. Makes it rather hard for us viewers to do so.
=="The Ring" -- Newspaper reporter-single mom (an appropriately strong-willed Naomi Watts) investigates mysterious deaths of niece and her friends, exactly seven days after all of them had viewed a bizarre video (which suggests an "Un Chien Andalou" without the subversive humor). Once she views it, and thus places herself in harm's way, the story takes on an urgency that gives the film enough momentum so that you don't mind much the occasional doldrums during Watt's unraveling of the mystery, which leads to a troubled family of horse-breeders. Much to its credit, just when you think its unquiet-grave thread is done, there's a most palpable twist.
Aug. 15-20
*So, OK, there is sheetrock on the studs, but it's the studs in the ceiling, rather than the walls. As is the aggravatingly simple, oft-forgotten (well, forgotten by me, obviously) rule of construction, things don't always work out as planned.
For instance, OD's friend from New York, up here for a Thursday night-Sunday morning visit, wound up staying until Tuesday morning. But this was a Good Thing, since she's a perfectly agreeable, mild-mannered young lady, willing to put up with more-chaotic-than-usual apartment conditions.
Then there was our visit to the National Hardware Franchise local store, to rent a truck and haul the much-discussed sheetrock. We spent a little over an hour figuring out what we wanted and how much, and another hour or so dealing with the rather anal territorial bent of the store personnel ("You need an outside guy for that. I'm an inside guy," was one reply). Then we came to discover the tailgate on the rental truck was not fastening completely, and after rebuffing the blithe, cynically optimistic attitude -- as in, "Aw, I'm sure it'll be OK" -- on the part of one set of store employees, we prevailed upon another set of employees to repair the tailgate frame. As they did so, they regaled us with complaints about their store brethren's appalling lack of consideration for rental property.
Fortunately, OD and friend proved that willowy teenage girls are perfectly capable of schlepping sheetrock slabs, even in hot, humid August weather.
The hours and days all kind of mix together, really, chronicled more as phases of a particular project rather than calculable units of time. Mixed in there were rest breaks, pizza or Chinese take-out, and shuttling of OD's friends -- our occasional co-workers -- back home.
*Meanwhile, LW and I could not fail to notice the double-entendre possibilities of sheetrock installation:
=="You know, if we had another drill, then the two of us could do the screwing."
=="OK, I'm off to drive [daughter's friends] home. Be back in about 45 minutes."
"While you're gone, I'll screw whatever I can around the deadman."
[Note to house renovation neophytes: a "deadman" is a T-shaped brace used, for among other purposes, to help keep a slab of sheetrock in place.]
*Somewhere in there, I had another in a series of dreams in which I return to a place of employment or education. In this instance, I was to be editor at the weekly newspaper in Central Massachusetts where I worked right after college. Most of the dream was taken up with me trying to figure out what my staff writers were capable of doing, and whether the columnists the paper used back in my first stint were still available, or even alive. And at one point, the former editor from another publication I'd worked for showed up: He apparently was now making his living as a local crank, standing around sporting a crudely-made cardboard sign proclaiming whatever injustice it was that so fired his resolve. Well, as I said, it was a living�
Aug. 13-14
So, the ceiling in the kids' room is down (other than a small stubborn patch near the east wall), and if all goes well � please, PLEASE, let it all go well � by the time I update this in the middle of next week there should be sheetrock on the studs. Which doesn't sound as evocative as "frost on the pumpkin," but so it goes.
Aug. 8-12
*A bit-o-fun before the slog: I had my first visit to the Friday night session at Hugh O'Neill's, where I was joined by a couple of new and old acquaintances. Small, intimate, reserved but welcoming, and glad to see that -- on this night, anyway -- there was a concerted effort to integrate more singing into the proceedings. The route there is not the easiest, or most relaxing, but when all is said is done it's about half-an-hour. Well worth my time, at first glance.
*Yes, the aforementioned slog. Slowly, inexorably, we built up our activity in the designated work area that is the kids' room, after having figured out what and where all the circuits are and how we might want them changed in our Kids' Room of the (Near) Future. Then, the preliminary demolition began, chunks of ceiling plaster, lathe and whatever else might have lighted in our attic (rather not think too much about that) falling about us. Am piously hoping for no curves and monkey wrenches these next few days.
*Things I've could have done without during this time: Neighbor's irrational complaint about our compost, which upon our examination actually does houses a far more legitimate and pressing problem, a nest of nasty yellowjackets. Several stings later, OD and I have dismantled the whole thing, for what we strongly believe will be a temporary period. Also, after doing my civic duty and dropping off unwanted electronic gear at Ye Olde Towne Landfill, I find my car does not start. At all. Not even an attempt by the engine to turn over. This is an all-too-frequent occurrence that mystifies not only me but our mechanic as well. Fortunately, I suppose, the landfill includes a small bookswap, so I'm at least able to amuse myself until the tow-truck comes.
*A not-so-bold prediction: The phrase "California governor's race" will be used at least once during the monologue of each major network late-night show every other day for the next two weeks. But Larry Flynt's recent statement may be the Best Rationale Ever for a political candidacy: "Just because I publish pornography doesn't mean I'm not concerned about the problems and needs of our society."
Aug. 1-4
*About a month until the start of school, which means our little renovation project really needs doing, and soon. Laid some of the groundwork for it this weekend, while also taking on some other beautification (relatively speaking) and home improvement-type projects. One such task was to -- finally -- install towel racks on the bathroom door, a job which, given the tight space and other mitigating factors, necessitated a fair amount of exertion on both our parts. We were interrupted with a knock by an inquisitive OD, whose tone of voice suggested her belief that we might be engaged in something rather more illicit.
*Friday night, and YD clumps into the front room complaining of all-encompassing boredom. I respond by putting Firesign Theater's classic "Nick Danger" recording on the stereo, which she enjoys so much I'm encouraged to play the first side of the album as well. This bodes very well.
*Mr. Aesop, white courtesy phone, please: I dreamt I was on the volunteer staff for a pretty good-sized music/performing arts festival held in a rustic setting. (Shades of real life!) In the course of my duties, I heard other staff members use the word "fable" in an entirely unfamiliar way, e.g.:
"Bob definitely is going to fable tomorrow night when [name of performer] is on."
"Yeah, well, _I'm_ so tired from staying up until 2 last night I'm about ready to do a fable myself."
"I would have fabled yesterday afternoon but I couldn't think of a way."
From what I can figure out, "fable" in this setting is supposed to mean something like, "purposefully failing to complete one's shift but coming up with some creative means to disguise this fact."
I don't know if this definition of "fable" is transferable to other kinds of volunteer work. Maybe that's a dream for another night. But my sense is that it specifically applies to volunteer work, not paid employment.
*Viewing: "The 39 Steps" -- What must it have been like to see this way back in 1935? Definitely ahead of its time, what with the murky paranoia experienced by Robert Donat, who stumbles onto a between-the-wars espionage scandal and flees to the Scottish moors ahead of the plotters and the law (the distinction is not necessarily so apparent). There's also the delicious hint of impropriety in Donat's dealings with two married women, a young lass wed to a crusty crofter and, most memorably, Madeline Carroll (as the wife of a minor political candidate), to whom Donat is shackled; her showing of the garter, literally, must have been a bit of sensation, surely. The abrupt ending, meanwhile, offers us little chance to reflect on, and recover from, the suspense. Given the events that lay ahead then, Hitchcock knew what he was doing.
*Book completed: "Buffalo Bill's Wild West: Celebrity, Memory and Popular History," by Joy Kasson -- Somewhat academic, but not completely dry, examination of William Cody and his famous "Wild West" shows, which enjoyed fairly steady popularity from the 1880s well into the 20th century. Kasson is less interested in describing the mechanics of the performances (how did they simulate prairie fires?) than in what they say about the nascent popular culture emerging in America, as well as Europe. The shows, Kasson notes, started out in the public's mind as essentially a recreated news-feature story purporting to underscore current events; but within a decade, the production became a nostalgia piece for a vanishing way of life. Yet, as Kasson shows, the "Wild West" actually served as a means for post-Civil War reconciliation, North and South both finding elements within they could take to heart. Most interesting, however, is Kasson's exploration of the complicated role of Native Americans in these and other Wild West-type shows. And oh yes, Buffalo Bill also was a prototype of the clay-footed celebrity: a celebrated scout and soldier who, supposedly, had been able to settle into the idyllic life of dutiful, domestic husband, father and businessman; in actuality, his family life and business career both foundered considerably.
July 28-31
*Monday is a day of recovery, renewal and return (the rental car, that is). Tuesday, I make my first visit to The Skellig for their Irish music session. Some familiar faces, a generally good atmosphere, but the ambient noise and echo make it rather difficult to hear the other instruments. And singing? Good luck. Still, nice to know it's there. Wednesday, well, is Wednesday. Thursday, I spend part of the day visiting the good people who print the newspaper I help produce, which entails riding the subway there and back. Seems hard to believe that, once upon a time, I was a pretty regular customer on the ol' EmBeeTeeAyh. Chatting with the customer service rep, we move pretty quickly and easily to mutual discussions of families, life and career decisions; odd, perhaps, but enjoyable.
*Viewings:
=="Who Is Cletis Tout?" -- Smirky, amiable honor-among-thieves/mistaken-identity tale, half of it told as flashback, with Christian Slater as two-bit ex-con who holds secret of jewels stolen and stashed decades ago by magician-thief Richard Dreyfus and his now-grown daughter (Portia de Rossi. 'Nuff said.) The plot twists make it fun, but something falls off around the last third.
=="I'll Do Anything" -- Works largely on the strength of its cast, with Nick Nolte, Albert Brooks, Julie Kavner, Joely Richardson and Tracey Ullman, among others. Nolte is the paradigmatic Struggling Actor, saddled with his little daughter Jeannie (Whittni Wright) when the misanthropic Ullman, his estranged wife, is sent off to prison. Jeannie is gleefully stubborn, willful and precocious, but Wright's performance seems so natural and believable you can almost (almost) like her. But the dad-n-daughter bonding subplot is often overshadowed by another inexplicable thread involving Kavner's attempt to court the anti-social Brooks.
=="The Good Girl" -- A Texas panhandle morality tale with Jennifer Aniston as a pushing-30 store clerk married to a dumb-as-bricks housepainter, John C. Reilly, and her affair with a coworker who makes a point of modeling, and naming, himself after Holden Caulfield. Further complications arise when her husband's similarly dim friend stumbles onto her tryst. Zooey Deschanel easily steals her scenes as the acidic store clerk who barely veils her insults, and Reilly eventually lends some poignancy and tenderness to his loutishness. But what gets you is that "Holden" is really no more of a bargain than any other male in town.
July 24-27
*Indulging ourselves with a rental car, I set off for upstate NY and the Falcon Ridge Folk Festival with a very enthusiastic OD and a highly reluctant YD, who brought her school chum along for company and commiseration. A rather animated car ride, with Dar Williams, Liz Phair and Beatles CDs in the back and foreground, brought us to the Taconic State Parkway just around sunset, and a postcard view of the Catskills.
We stayed at my childhood (well, more like late-childhood-through-teens) home, within easy reach of the festival; the girls as usual gravitated to my mother's grand piano and harpsichord, and there was an almost continual backdrop of "Heart and Soul," "Chopsticks," and attempts at picking out the melody of various other, less well-known songs. Looked through some old photo albums, much to the delight of the kids: Oh look, Dad's nekkid; Oh look, Dad's wearing nerd glasses; God Dad, you were such a hippie in high school�
Didn't really have time or opportunity to dwell on it much, but the thought did occur to me on, I think, Saturday morning when I sat out on the back porch -- and there, four feet away, a lovely little hummingbird flitted between the flowers -- that there may not be many visits here left. Sooner or later, my mother is bound to unload the house, and it's hard to imagine us wanting to take it over. Maybe, at some point, I'll want to take one last walk through the surrounding pastures and hills.
*The festival, it turns out, takes place on a farm I used to pass by countless times. Strange to see it swarmed by RVs, campers, tents and speaker towers. There's a certain compactness to the site I quite liked, despite the general lack of shade. The focus is clearly on contemporary folk-acoustic, singer-songwriter performers, and they do an awfully good job in organizing the line-up, which this year had Arlo Guthrie, Tom Paxton, Dar Williams, Richard Shindell, Richard Thompson, Greg Brown, The Nields and Lucy Kaplansky, among others. So, there's not a lot of traditional, British Isles-type stuff (with the exception of the contra dance sessions), nor all that much session-ing in odd corners. (I did find a singalong, but it was being run more or less from Rise Up Singing instead of off the top of the head.)
That said, there were some terrific performances. I am almost ready to put Dar Williams on a pedestal somewhere near Kate Rusby. At her songwriters' workshop session with Tom Paxton, and at her Saturday evening concert, she came off as a very intelligent, down-to-earth, gracious woman who can effectively communicate the complexities of human discourse in a few well-constructed verses. Looking at the thousands of small lights held up by audience members (a ritual at her concerts, I'm told), she remarked on how the illumination made it possible to see the contours of the darkened hillside. And that's wonderful about our country, she said � the way that we, together, form its many contours. Or words to that effect.
OD adores her, and was rewarded with an autograph and a photo-op.
Arlo Guthrie, meanwhile, with his mane of white hair and a slightly deeper voice than back in those "three days in 1969 I can almost remember," was both reassuring and provocative, and while no one would misplace his left-of-center politics, he spoke from a populist standpoint that defied convenient placement on the conventional ideology meter. Perhaps his best comment was his reminiscence of performing with Pete Seeger in Denmark shortly after the Berlin Wall fell, and seeing people from all Europe attend. After Seeger went through the repertoire of popular freedom songs, it was his turn to sing, Arlo recounted ("'Would you like to sing something, Arlo?'"), and somehow it occurred to him to do "Can't Help But Falling in Love with You" � and his instinct was rewarded by the sound of some 30,000 people singing along, in a variety of accents. It was a moment, he said, when the full meaning, and beauty, of freedom hit home.
Oh yeah, he sang pretty well, too.
Afterwards, I made the unsatisfying stop at the aforementioned singalong, then eventually found my way to the scrag-end of the Wild Asparagus contra dance. Two contras, a bit of free-style pseudo-clogging zaniness, very pleasant brief exchanges with OD's friends about the weekend, drive back to the house, four hours of sleep, drop OD and friend at festival, pack up, pick up, and by early evening we had landed home.
One of the best participatory events at the festival had to be The Beatles tribute, with The Nields, Lucy Kaplansky, Eddie from Ohio and several others joining forces to explore the obscure as well as the obvious Fab Four repertoire. The performers were clearly having as much a blast as the audience, and the finale of "Hey Jude" saw everyone perform the tried-and-true ritual during the ending chorus ("Na, na, na, na-na-na-nah" etc.): audience stands up, waves arms back and forth rhythmically, as performer trains the microphone out in their direction.
Archive note
Am restoring several more "D&Q" installments, which are accessible via the archive page.
July 21-24
*Serendipitous reading: I'm in the midst of a biography/study of William "Buffalo Bill" Cody and his Wild West shows, when the Kobe Bryant scandal breaks. Come to find out that Cody, who sought to cultivate an image of the resourceful, enterprising self-made frontiersman domesticated as husband, father, impresario and living literary character, was in fact revealed to be a philandering, distant spouse with rather easily turned loyalties -- a situation that his spin doctors (for that's what they were) fought mightily to keep under wraps. Good thing for him there was no "E!" back then.
*Two guitar string-oriented dreams in the space of a week: A bit much to call them nightmares, per se, but not especially pleasant. In one, I am told by a Guitar Expert Whose Identity Eludes Me that, for best results, I should change my strings after every three hours of playing -- hey, in none of my dreams am I ever wealthy enough to afford a bushel of D'Addario medium gauges. The other is a variation on the performance-anxiety theme, where I pick up guitar in preparation to play a song and discover it has no strings at all. As I start to weigh the prospect of chit-chatting the audience while putting on a fresh six, I wake up. Phew.
*Viewing: "The Arrival" -- Charlie Sheen at full-eyes-wide alert, as a NASA astronomer who stumbles upon a mysterious transmission from Out There, and promptly has his life turned upside down: i.e., fired from job, blackballed, girlfriend transferred to other city, best friend dead under mysterious circumstances. Meanwhile, the Earth's temperature is rising, and something odd is going on in Mexico. A sci-fi thriller asking a bit more suspension-of-disbelief than warranted, but fine for an air-conditioned summer night.
Feature note
In a fit of compassion, I have made it somewhat easier to browse through the most recent installments of "D&Q." A link at the bottom of these entries will take you back to the previous "page."
July 18-20
A mid-summer weekend:
-Quarterly haircut.
-Move stuff from/around in kids' soon-to-be-renovated bedroom.
-Heart-to-heart with spouse.
-Family dinner: split chicken breasts, broccoli, beverage of choice, smart-aleck teenage conversation, younger daughter's imitation of bitter, slightly intoxicated redneck army veteran.
-Harp lager consumption.
-Bouzouki and mandolin practice: partial list of tunes includes "Famous Ballymote," "Free and Easy," "Crooked Road to Dublin" and "Wizards' Walk."
-Crappy Red Sox game on TV.
-Clean bedroom.
-Town dump. Library.
-With kids: Sandy's Music (light-gauge guitar strings, capos). Harvard Square (various locations). Street performer (Lucky Bob).
-Viewing of "Shock Corridor" [see below].
-Sunday Globe.
-Groceries.
-Pick up friend's crappy but functional guitar for older daughter.
-Restring aforementioned guitar.
-Practice on _my_ guitar: partial list of songs includes "Border Widow's Lament," "Since Maggie Went Away" and "The Jolly Soldier."
-Laundromat. Rendezvous with older daughter. Request for 15-minute extension of visit with friend granted.
-Older daughter's 27th plea to see Dar Williams at Falcon Ridge Festival.
*Viewing: "Shock Corridor" -- Wonderfully, ridiculously lurid Samuel Fuller bit-o'-pulp about hot-shot journalist out to investigate murder in mental hospital, and conspires with stripper girlfriend(!) to get himself committed by posing as her incest-consumed brother(!). Fuller obviously had tons of fun fashioning this as a slap upside post-Eisenhower America: incest? strippers? mental illness? To be fair, there's also a serious side � the three patients tied to the case all represent some sociopolitical issues (i.e., bigotry, anti-Communist xenophobia and nuclear-age paranoia) that Americans then were barely ready to confront. Yet you can't help laugh at the echo-y internal monologues, the melodramatic dialogues and over-the-top acting. Nor the justly famous "Nympho Ward" scene.
July 15-17
*Music and dance: I spent one evening at a small jam session at the home of a family I've known for several years through morris dancing, whose sons -- both terrific dancers as well as accomplished musicians -- are nearly grown but are, fortunately, home for at least part of the summer. With full attendance, we mustered three fiddles, a piano accordian, piano/electric keyboard, an occasionally cooperative bodhran (it was rather humid) and yours truly on my favorite fretted-string instruments. It was pure joy: We went through mostly contra dance-type repertoire, essaying the likes of "Evit Gabriel" and "Out on the Ocean" as well as the outrageous "Wizard's Walk." The most fun, however, was veering off the path of convention, sticking in "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" as a counter-melody to "Calliope House," among other things, or simply exploring all manner of improvisations. Experimentation is the spice of tradition.
Twenty-four hours later, I chauffeured a car full of teens to the weekly contra dance in Cambridge. There's something about dancing to the kind of music you've very recently played yourself that makes the whole experience even more enjoyable, especially when you see most of the people with whom you jammed with at the dance in question.
*A few years ago, while at my bus stop, I would regularly glimpse a resident from a nearby retirement community who, at nearly the same time every morning, went out for a walk 'round the block and sat and rested at the same place before completing his constitutional. This was no leisurely stroll; he had a determined, deliberate stride. When I no longer saw him for a period of weeks, then months, I had to assume he was hiking in the Hereafter�but then, lo and behold, this week I've seen him each day. Something reassuring in that.
*Books completed:
=="Black Livingstone" by Pagan Kennedy -- Social and, to some degree, psychological biography of William Henry Sheppard, a black missionary who explored the Congo around the turn of the 20th century and later became embroiled in the controversy over Belgium's exploitation and maltreatment of the Congolese. Sheppard's story is rife with ironies and hard choices -- notably, how to counter the negative effects of colonialism while working within a system that helped make it possible -- and Kennedy does a good job in the telling, despite a paucity of original or useful source material (for which she apologizes). But her attempts at recreating scenes or speculating on a character's inner feelings sometimes are so qualified, or fatuous, as to be unintentionally humorous. Still, at the end, there's no mistaking the tragedy of Sheppard: His professional and personal epiphanies in Africa ultimately proved fatal to him.
=="The Chelsea Girl Murders" by Sparkle Hayter -- Female TV producer and part-time sleuth, her apartment building gutted by fire, bunks friend's rooms in the famous, and notorious, Chelsea Hotel -- and winds up in the middle of a murder mystery somehow related to a young would-be couple apparently fleeing vengeful family and fiends from a former Soviet republic. To Hayter's credit, she interpolates some of the history and mythology of the Chelsea, home to artists and celebs for decades. Genial, occasionally spirited, and easily and quickly digested.
July 8-14
*Gosh, a weekend without either a music festival to attend, a basement to clear or an apartment to make ready. Did make some modest attempts at sorting through rubbish in kids' room, in preparation for the forthcoming renovation. Then treated myself to my first visit in many, many weeks to the the O'Hanlon's session, rather quiet but still very enjoyable.
*Viewings:
=="The Dreamlife of Angels" -- Bittersweet chronicle of a friendship between two young women whose lives are marked by a lack of permanence: jobs, lodgings and what passes for love relationships. While Marie (Natacha Regnier) seems pathologically unable to develop or maintain long-term ties (including with her family), waifish Isa (Elodie Bouchez) finds herself drawn, somewhat to her surprise, to the possibility of such bonds, even reaching out to the comatose young girl in whose apartment she and Marie are squatting. In the end, quite moving.
=="The Castle" -- Affectionately droll Australian film about a family fighting to save their home from being demolished as part of a major business development. The center of the film, and the running joke, is the near-unfettered optimism of paterfamilias Darryle Kerrigan, who seems to have an endless supply of rose-colored spectacles with which to view life. Youngest son Dale serves as the film's putative narrator, his commentary providing a low-key ironic counterpoint to the visuals. Fact is, Darryle and his family live in a dump on the edge of an airport, their "vacation home" is in a wasteland and their kids would seem to have, at best, mixed prospects. But a man who can lavish such praise on his wife's meatloaf is clearly a force to be reckoned with.
=="Hideous Kinky" -- Kate Winslet is Julia, newly separated from her husband, who takes her two young daughters to 1972 Morocco in search of, well, fulfillment, enlightenment and some direction in her life. Suffice it to say, the price for this search is dear, as it no doubt was for other young middle and upper-class Westerners who fled their perceived empty existences to find Something Better through alternative cultures and religions, such as Islam. If Julia's quest seems selfish and wrong-headed -- as witnessed by the puzzled reaction of her Moroccan lover to her attempted explanation -- there is no arguing her zeal. What she fails to see (we do, however) is that her true spirituality lies in the connections with her remarkable daughters: practical, critical Bea, who has stolen a march on pre-teen contrariness, and Lucy, touchingly loyal and resilient (the actresses who portray them, Bella Riza and Carrie Mullan, are superb).
July 5-7
*Kids plus kidfriend in tow, we made our first visit to the New Bedford Summerfest, which like much of the Northeast was unrelentingly hot and humid. Quite like the lay-out, for the most part: A majority of events are set in the historic waterfront area, with several small or medium-sized stages under tents adjacent to the string of various craft booths lining the cobblestone streets; you do have to cross a major intersection to get to the main stage, however.
Shortly after our arrival the girls all departed to pursue their own interests, so LW and I were left to enjoy a highly amusing workshop on humorous and off-the-wall songs (such as Les Barker's spoof on "Roseville Fair") performed by (L-R) Art Tebbetts, Jeff Davis and Joel Mabus:
From there, I took in the set by accordionist John Whelan and his band, whose members this day included session acquaintances Flynn Cohen (guitar) and Eric Merrill (fiddle):
Whelan then went on to join a Squeezebox Summit, with (L-R) Little Johnny England's Gareth Turner -- nursing a spider bite on his "bass hand" -- Benoit Borque of Le Vent du Nord and (far right) Phil Cunningham, all dead-pan demeanor and flying fingers:
Gareth later took his arachnid-savaged hand to join his fellow Little Johnnies for their later afternoon concert:
LW and I were hoping to catch Footworks, but the young-uns complained of imminent heat prostation and left to seek cool shelter from the elements, having extracted a promise from us to leave as soon as LJE were done. On our way to pick them up, however, we could not help but stop and take in Le Vent du Nord's street performance:
�especially with the irrepressible Benoit, who may be the most cheerful Francophone traditional music performer around. In addition to his box and bones duties, he tried to teach a bouree to some of those gathered (including LW and me), smiling all the while.
Eventually, the young ladies were located, we schlepped back to the Route 95/128 belt, friend was deposited back home and at length we all retired to air-conditioned comfort.
*The next day was part 2 of the Basement Project. Part 3 will wait a little longer, but should be a damn sight easier than 1 and 2.
*Book completed: "The Key to My Neighbor's House: Seeking Justice in Bosnia and Rwanda," by Elizabeth Neuffer -- Many tragedies here, not just those recounted in the book, but Neuffer herself: She was killed in a car crash while on assignment in Iraq earlier this year. Perhaps she would have some day been able to tell the "lost" stories of Iraq in the same way she vividly captures the horror of Srebrenica, Kigali, and other flashpoints in two of the more horrific man-made catastrophes of the 20th century, both of which Neuffer also holds up as gross failures of the international community -- suffice it to say that while the United Nations, France and the Netherlands are in particular found wanting for their roles, the US and NATO don't exactly come off clean-handed. But Neuffer works the micro as effectively as the macro, recounting the efforts of persons caught up in their respective conflicts -- Serb, Muslim, Hutu, Tutsi -- to find some measure of solace, as well as those who have the responsibility and the power to help them; her portrait of the scientist in charge of exhuming mass graves is especially gripping.
July 1-4
*After a few days' respite, on Independence Day we continue our struggle to free ourselves from accumulated clutter, this time focusing our energy on the basement. We make very good progress indeed, and then are able to reward ourselves at our friends' annual July 4th BBQ; somewhat sparsely attended this time 'round, but we and the kids have a fine old time of it, right through the fireworks.
*Flushing Nemo: Another urban legend in the making, as children, apparently inspired by a scene in the new Disney movie "Finding Nemo," are turning their toilets into a portal for an aquatic Underground Railroad and sending their finned friends to what they assume is freedom on the open seas. And so, plumbers and their brethren are now being called upon to explain some rather unpleasant facts.
*Speaking of movies, I'm quite glad to see this. (More here--scroll to bottom)
*Goodbye, Katherine Hepburn. Lots of great tableaux from which to choose, of course, but I'll always remember you with net -- and Cary Grant -- in hand, chasing after that leopard.
*Viewing: "No Such Thing" -- Poorly focused, generally pointless yarn about na�ve, wide-eyed TV news staffer (Sarah Polley) who goes to Iceland to confront the reputed monster who killed her camera-man fiance and his crew. And, shocker of shockers, discovers there's More Than Meets the Eye. Obviously, what characterizes the monster is not so much appearance, superhuman strength and fire-breathing ability but the ugliness in his soul. The movie trips itself up in so many ways, not least in how quickly it sheds the bizarro-world atmosphere hinted at early on, when the news staff sort through a melange of off-the-wall national and international events ("Has the President shot himself yet?" asks the producer casually).
