Feb. 27-29
*When it's warm enough outside to throw open windows, even for a brief spell, the positive impact on one's psyche is profound indeed. It's as if the square footage of our lives increased about five times over, just by raising the sash.
*OD and I, in preparation for our coming trip to England, did the passport thing, so one more thing to tick off the list. Three months to go.
*For the first time in way too long, I was able to get in a brief but highly enjoyable, productive even, jam session with Robin. Actually, about a third of the time was spent in well-earned and well-needed parental commiseration. Worked out, more or less on the spot, what could be a damn good backing to "The Dunmore Lasses."
*And here and there, LW and I put some more work into the kids' room: new flooring today, new wall next week, maybe?
*Then on Sunday, I developed a badly clogged-up ear, to the extent that any time I played an instrument it sounds as if it's in another room with the door half-closed. Trying to jam with my pianist friend was less than enjoyable; I had to raise the mandolin practically to my other ear so as to be able to distinguish it from the piano. Fortunately, LW is able to provide reassurance, along with ear-wax medicine and subsequent flushings, that I will not be known as "Old One-Ear."
*Viewings:
=="Philadelphia" -- Director Jonathan Demme and writer Ron Nyswaner skillfully blend genres as they tell the story of a talented young attorney and AIDS sufferer (Tom Hanks) who is fired from his firm after his illness is discovered, and has to convince an ambulance-chaser (Denzel Washington) to take his lawsuit. Besides the legal-forensic dynamic, the film also has the buddy-buddy quality and the coming-to-terms-with-mortality aspect as well. But none of this would work unless Hanks and Washington clicked, and they do, especially when Hanks -- bathed in soft light and shot from above, as if watched by God -- provides a mesmerizing commentary and analysis of a Mozart opera.
=="Get Real" -- English teen (Ben Silverstone) trying to come to terms with his gayness discovers, lo and behold, that one of the most popular guys in his school (Brad Gorton, who resembles an adolescent Evan "Joe Millionaire" Marriott) apparently has the same feelings. The two try to pursue a romance even as their individual fears and insecurities, of which there are many, get in the way. There are some substantive issues raised here about honesty, to one's self as well to one's friend or lover, but you end up wishing the film could have been lighter in spots -- such as the opening scene in which we hear how Silverstone's character first learned about the birds and the bees and men and women and ice cream.
Feb. 24
*Musical acquisitions:
==Richard Thompson, "The Old Kit Bag" -- "Back to basics" is such a tired, and tiring, phrase. But no question that's what RT has done here. The instrumentation is sparer, mostly his guitars (plus the odd accordion, mandolin and dulcimer) and a straight-ahead rhythm section; the whole thing sounds simply crisp, as if someone turned up the treble. Perhaps the most intriguing element is Judith Owens, who provides superb backing vocals on several tracks, notably a blues-rockin' mama chorus on "Jealous Words" and entrancing harmonies for the spiritually infused "One Door Opens." And once again, RT comes up with songs that speak of a sort of impotent yet disconcerting menace, "I'll Tag Along" (with a rivetingly jangly guitar riff on the chorus) and "Mr. Pearly Jim."
== Muzsikas, "The Bartok Album" and "Morning Star" -- An indulgence, perhaps, in deference to the latent Hungarian blood my late grandmother insisted ran in our family. Or maybe I just really, really like the singing of Marta Sebstyn, the Dolores Keane of the Eastern Europe. She also surrounds herself with some top-notch musicians, who are especially prominent in the salute to Bartok (which includes actual recordings of village singers and musicians made by himself).
Feb. 20-22
*The climactic event of the weekend? Our Saturday afternoon trapped in Home Depot. So many memories:
==The attendant in the power tool department who, after looking in vain for the saw we described for him, said, "Well, you know, the time to come in here is really during the week. That's when the people who know where everything is are likely to be here." Yes, nothing I'd rather do than spend my office lunch hour schlepping to HD and wandering the aisles looking in vain for a customer service rep.
==I asked a kind gentleman cashier to scan a trowel for me, since we were uncertain as to its price. Well, gee whillikers, it's apparently not in their current store inventory! So we just stand there for several seconds. I guess I was supposed to (A) just fork over whatever amount this item cost or (B) absolutely forget about purchasing this trowel -- BECAUSE IT'S NOT IN THE CURRENT STORE INVENTORY! -- put it back where I found it, then walk over to the PVC section, lie on the ground and curl into a fetal ball. But I gently persisted, and he looked further into the vast electronic archives to find the price I was looking for. Hurray!
==With absolutely no one in sight, not a customer nor even a lost child, my wife lugged over the Special Employees-Only Stepladder so as to reach some corner bead. And wouldn't you know it, a customer service rep catches her in the act and she got in TROUBLE! Well, not really -- he just semi-politely called her attention to the "employees-only" sign on the ladder, to which my wife replied, "Well, try and _find_ an employee when you need one." Then they had a generally amicable conversation about how accidents sometimes happen, and she flashed her winning smile, and we went away.
Oh, by the way, we made extensive use of the store's "Free Twine for Customers Who Need to Tie Stuff On Top of Their Vehicle" offer.
*So, our front stairs are strewn with 2-by-4s and a large sheet of plywood, and if you close your eyes you can imagine you're in a lumber yard. But at least we have most all the materials we need to get this freekin project done.
*Viewing: "The Baby Dance" -- Worlds and socioeconomic perspectives collide when an upscale, and childless, LA couple (Stockard Channing, Peter Riegert) reach out to trailer-park Louisiana for surrogate mother Wanda (Laura Dern), dealing with an unwanted pregnancy, four other children and a husband (Richard Lineback) who, to put it diplomatically, doesn't appear to appreciate the dynamics of family planning. The tension, ambient and otherwise, between the two couples is very well depicted, and our sympathy for one over the other is continually challenged: Whatever the bad judgment of Wanda in pre-natal care and other such issues, there's a nagging feeling that this baby-in-waiting is, in the end, a commodity.
Feb. 13-15
*Gingerly, slowly, we approach rapprochement with our Angry Youths, and the tension and self-conscious avoidance of the past week ebbs, thankfully. Nothing really resolved, mind you, but at least we are able to talk, laugh and be in the same room.
Not so incidentally, we embarked again on our long-running renovation project, which means we're down once more to three rooms (not including kitchen and bath). Reckon we'd best make this move along, or the last several weeks of this winter are going to seem longer than the first couple of months.
*Viewings:
=="Catch Me If You Can" -- Steven Spielberg returns to one of his enduring themes, the kid in search of parent/family; the kid in this case being Frank Abagnale Jr. (Leonardo DiCaprio), who following his parents' financial difficulties and divorce (not necessarily mutually exclusive events) adopted phony disguises -- ranging from an airline pilot to a lawyer -- and stole millions. While seeking, in a half-baked, adolescent way, to somehow reunite his parents through the wealth he accumulates, Frank Jr. finds a surrogate father of sorts in the dogged, put-upon FBI agent Carl Hanratty (Tom Hanks). Through Hanks, we see Hanratty emerge as someone whose staidness serves him well, especially in the way he comes to understand Frank's motivations, as well as methods.
=="I Am Sam" -- Sean Penn adds to the pantheon of Gallant Mentally-Challenged People Taking On the System, which is a rather flip (and not entirely fair) way to describe his performance as the unlikely single father of a young girl (Dakota Fanning). Inexorably, society -- and more specifically the child protection authorities -- gets in the way, although the film, to its credit, does project through Fanning in particular some uncertainties about the relationship. But ranks close, and Penn finds embattled type-A lawyer Michelle Pfeiffer, whose own domestic situation is crumbling, to help him. It all works, on the whole, but director Jessie Nelson seems inordinately fond of quick cuts and color-washed scenes.
*Book completed: "Atonement," by Ian McEwan -- Thirteen-year-old Briony, fanciful, sheltered and well-indulged youngest daughter of a well-to-do family in pre-WW2 England, is at once a prisoner and wielder of her lofty literary ambitions, and cruel but inevitable limitations of youth's ignorance. Her mistaken impression of actions and characters during a weekend family event have profound consequences that are exacerbated by the arrival of the war -- especially for her sister and the man she realizes she loves. McEwan shifts very well through time and locales, and his depiction of the British retreat from Dunkirk is vivid and gripping, but the pay-off is rather a letdown. Ultimately, we learn, the "atonement" is not only of a moral and ethical nature, but also an artistic one.
Feb. 8, 3:15 a.m.-12
*Teenagers. Computers. Most effective elements with which to bring down a birthday session afterglow.
*�which is restored to some degree, thankfully, by an evening at a Revels Pub Sing, to which I am able to bring along LW, for her sanity as well as enjoyment (to say nothing of mine). A good two hours of essaying the likes of "Country Life," "Angel Band," "New York Girls," "Roll Down," "Ilkley Moor Bah'tat," "The Parting Glass" and many other tried-and-trues. Familiar faces abound, but the one I look at the most is LW's, as we at-times comically try to find harmonies we both agree on. No, we're not entirely successful in doing so, but it's hardly the point.
Feb. 7-8, 3 a.m.
Serendipity is a wonderful thing. Here it is my birthday, and as luck would have it, some musically-inclined friends of mine have a massive house party ("massive" refers to both the size of their house and the party guest list). Naturally, I had no choice -- none at all! -- but to co-opt it for my celebration.
Got there around 6:30ish, and by about 7 or so the session started. There were lulls, of course, during which some people left and others took their place, and I did actually stop for food and conversation.
Part of what made the night so outstanding was the diversity of "groupings" that varied throughout the session. Early on, most of the folks I played with were of my age and station in life, i.e., parents with jobs and mortgages, and we tended to do a melange of Irish and contra dance music "old favorites."
Later, the room was full of people mainly in their 20s and 30s (or younger), some of whom are full-time professional musicians from what might be called the "Boston Urban Ceilidh Crowd," and we wound our way through Scots, Canadian/Cape Breton as well as Irish sets -- some of it familiar to me, some of it not so much.
By the time I left at just after 2 a.m., I figure I had played music a good 5-5 1/2 hours of the 7 total I had been there. As I happily exclaimed to a friend just before departing, "I can't feel anything below my elbows!"
Jan. 30-Feb. 1
*My, how far we've come, my New England Patriots and me. Two years ago, I have to admit I would have probably accepted a hard-fought loss, given the supposedly overwhelming nature of the opposition. All due respect to Carolina, but this time 'round, frankly, I was in far more dread of a loss and its deflating implications. Can't say my fears were totally unfounded, but once Adam Vinatieri assumed the "at-ready" position I was supremely confident the Vince Lombardi Trophy would be on its way to Foxborough.
Not going to go the game-analysis route, but just say that it was a profoundly pleasurable experience watching Tom Brady seemingly will the Patriots forward inch by inch if necessary, and Troy Brown catch a bushel of proverbial clutch passes (third down was invented for him), and Mike Vrabel, Tedy Bruschi and their brethren make the Carolina running game pay dearly for any yardage they earned, and Joe Andruzzi (the pride of Southern Connecticut State), Dan Koppen and company keep Brady free of any Panther hands.
Other things:
==Because my household tends to look down its collective nose at sporting events, I watched the game at our friends' house a few blocks away, so I could let forth my enthusiasm without fear of ridicule. I wasn't paying attention to the half-time show, and specifically the part where Justin and Janice attempted their own malfunctioned-wardrobe version of the Rape of Lucretia, because my friends and I were playing "Cranium" with their 14-year-old son. I think I might take the protestations of CBS and the NFL somewhat more seriously if I hadn't seen a multi-million-dollar commercial that glorified equine flatulence.
==Thanks to the power of TV advertising, I learned that pee-pees shouldn't be pointy for more than four hours.
==After the game was over, I did the Run of Champions down the street (all right, on the sidewalk) back to my house. For about 15 or 20 yards. Then I walked. Then I did Run of Champions Part 2. For maybe 5 yards. Then I walked some more. And breathed deeply. Then I did Run of Champions III for maybe 7 yards, until I realized that I might slip on the ice and killerate myself. So I walked the remaining 20 yards, went inside, breathlessly described the game to my uncaring family, had a beer and a shot (Kilbeggan's) with some leftover salad, and my wife and I talked about teenage romance, and at some point later I went to sleep.
*Football most definitively not being my only passion, I indulged in a brief but satisfying jam session with musical friends Robin and Heather. Fifty minutes never went by so fast.
*Viewing: "S�ance on a Wet Afternoon" -- This 1964 adaptation of Mark McShane's novel about a couple's kidnapping plot is actually more unsettling in this day and age of Elizabeth Smart, especially because of the twisted motivations of Kim Stanley's damaged, delusional Myra. Richard Attenborough's performance as her guiltily attentive, cowed husband progresses to a memorable climax, and Judith (whatever happened to�?) Donner brings some depth to her role as the stolen child.
Jan. 23-25
*Weekend of relative calm, mostly by design as well as circumstance, because running about in near-zero (Fahrenheit) weather really does have its down side. Besides, some time at home and hearth -- crowded and cluttered as it may be -- is a perfectly fine thing, and so I passed up an outing to the Friday night Hugh O'Neill's session and was equally somnolent the following night. Sunday was rather more hectic, what with fetching OD from a friend's house after her excursion to the Snow Ball, clearing the decks for a visit (which didn't happen) from recently returned seafaring Mum, and having the familiar jam session during OD's morris and rapper-sword dance practice, followed by an exuberant meeting to plan the team's forthcoming trip to England. The weeks ahead will not be dull.
*Viewing: "Rain" -- Christine Jeff's adaptation of the Kirsty Gunn novel captures at least some of the book's sensual, through-a-lens-blurry character while sharpening its narrative. Not so much a plot as a widening set of observations and realizations on the part of 13-year-old Janey, watching her parents' marriage ending with a whimper -- and a bang on the part of her dissipated mother, who's keeping company with a beefily handsome photographer -- while her own self-indulgently adolescent eroticism begins to flower, distancing her from her adoring little brother. Alicia Fulford-Wierzbicki is very convincing as Janey, especially in the powerful and disconcerting climax: As David Byrne once intoned, "Water dissolving, water removing."
Jan. 22
*Not that I am, or am not, a Howard Dean supporter, but what does it say about the state of things when a moment of cartharsis -- OK, extreme catharsis -- and unvarnished display of emotion (i.e., Dean's "Uncaged in Iowa" concession speech), in contrast to the controlled, stage-managed political campaigns that are the rule today, becomes major news? That said, there was a primal quality to his talk that reminded me of a blues or gospel singer heeding the call to "Testify!" And I guess I'm not the only one who found a quasi-musical dimension to his performance. (I rather like this one)
*I hesitated to reveal this, but I have to admit to regular viewings of "The Simple Life." I suppose one could lament that, in the end, the Beverly Hills baronesses appeared to have little capability for reflection (or contrition) of a sort that would make their experience meaningful; Arkansas was, perhaps, just a crummy summer camp they went to. Or one could observe the probably unintentional irony in the show's title: The Leding family do not lead a simple life, but rather one fraught with tough, and limited, economic choices. Personally, I'd have combined several "reality show" themes by sending Mmes. Paris et Nicole to a recreation of a 19th-century Yorkshire farm, so they could learn "Country Life."
*MaMa Rosa's, a division of ConAgra Foods, recently rolled out a frozen pizza product that -- to judge by the coupon included in My Local Newspaper -- is aimed squarely at teenagers. We know this because at the top of the advertisement with the coupon it says quite clearly "Hungry Teen?"
Oh yeah, the name of the product?
"Bite My Slice"
Uh huh.
So, if I'm understanding this correctly, the frozen pizza product is supposed to be posited as an irreverent, smart-mouthed food item, that simultaneously draws you to it even as it flips you off. It doesn't so much welcome your patronage as shrug its shoulders, say "Whatever" and lie around until you eat it.
Oh, and it's apparently available in four varieties, which the ad/coupon assures us are "tasty": Besides the rather pedestrian-sounding "Double Pepperoni," there's "Mega Meat" -- which sounds like a name some 1990s sit-com writer would think might be funny for a heavy-metal singer -- and "Ultimate Mozz" (dude, put it on a skateboard and the middle-school boys'll eat it up!) as well as "Spicy Nacho." This latter variety seems rather absurd to me: Look, if you want pizza, eat pizza; if you want nachos, eat freekin nachos. Is there really any point in combining the two? Have they come up with pizza-flavored ice cream yet? Ice cream-flavored pizza? Oh, damn, I hope MaMa Rosa's isn't reading this.
Jan. 16-20
*Kids catch a break, of sorts, as our state's splendid impersonation of the Northwest Territories forces pretty near all public schools to shut down on Friday. No such luck with my employer, which is probably just as well, as that would've tightened our deadlines even more. Ah well, it's a warm place and there's free coffee.
*Saturday is the equivalent of a fine summer's day, and I shepherd OD to various local businesses so she can job-hunt. Not surprisingly, she finds the application process a daunting experience -- and probably won't much like the "we'll-call-you" part of the deal, either. But it's another small step out from childhood, sigh.
*Sunday afternoon, I'm forced to abandon the Patriots' stirring AFC championship match against my once-favored, now-relocated Colts so as to take OD to her dance practice. From there, I strike out for the O'Hanlon's session, listening on the car radio as the redoubtable Ty Law almost single-handedly deflates the Peyton Manning balloon. But yes, I did in fact set football concerns aside to play music with the always affable Eric Merrill and equally genial guitarist-du-jour Matt Heaton, one-half of a Celtic music grass-roots enterprise. Had a chance to "lead" a couple of medleys this time, which is always good for the soul and ego (not necessarily in that order). Afterwards, a fine bit of chatting with a would-be bodhranist in somewhat of a familiar circumstance, i.e., young kids (three, all younger than 6) and a correspondingly finite supply of time and energy.
*Monday sees a spontaneous bit of home renovation contract work, as our occasional snow-removal corps stop by to follow up on an earlier proposal to remake our sadly deteriorated back stairs. Thankfully, I have a missus who can talk the construction talk, and by early afternoon they are on the job. Me, I head off to a house session with mostly morris and contra dance acquaintances, which proves to be warm, homey and delightful. Two of OD's friends and fellow dancers are present, and with increasing animation we speculate on the possibility of putting together a benefit contra dance/ceilidh to fund the group's upcoming trip to England, a suggestion I'd floated via e-mail. Lo and behold, the energy and enthusiasm from kids and parents alike begins to flow through the 'Net, and it's wonderful. Makes me think we could actually pull this all off.
*Viewing: "Lost and Delirious" -- Described by OD as "Gay WB," which seems to fit: highly attractive teen-age characters, with a fair amount of time and personal freedom on their hands; pristine surroundings (an all-girls private school); perfectly placed musical interludes featuring indie or relatively obscure performers; and arch dialogue to go with the high drama. Basic plot: New arrival Mouse (Mischa Barton) finds herself embroiled in the forbidden romance of her seemingly joined-at-the-hip rebel roommates, Paulie (Piper Perabo) and Tori (Jessica Pare), which is ultimately doomed by the latter's insecurities and the former's crazed obsessiveness. And so we learn to be wary of anyone under the age of 25 who quotes Shakespearian tragedies too much and raises raptors in her spare time.
*Book completed: "Girl With a Pearl Earring," by Tracy Chevalier -- An imagined chronicle of the events and background that resulted in the famous Vermeer painting, as told by the purported subject, Griet, in clipped, restrained reminiscences. However poor her upbringing and lowly her station, this daughter of a tile maker, we learn, appears to have an innate artistic sensibility that ingratiates her with Vermeer. But the tension in the book, and its best asset, stems from the uneasy relationships among the females in the house, who are so often left to their devices by the disengaged artist: the wife, whose assumed authority is negated by her perpetual pregnancies; her benevolent-despot mother-in-law ("the kind of old woman who looks like she will outlive everyone"); the loyal and unsympathetic senior maid; and the willful 7-year-old daughter whose behavior goes beyond childish shenanigans. And Griet herself, who has her own streak of pride and sense of self. What would've helped is if Chevalier had, as an introduction or an addendum, explained to us somewhat the interplay of fact and fiction here, and how she arrived at it.
Jan. 9-11
A weekend of very enjoyable revelations about music and generations.
