Booth and Consequences
At Thanksgiving dinner, my beloved aunts
Becky and
Treasure told me that not only do they read The Dawn Patrol every day (always nice to hear), but it's
blatantly inaccurate—at least as far as
my account of my grandparents' courtship is concerned. For one thing, a photo in the post that I stated was of my grandmother at age 21 with a college pal was actually her at age 43 with her brother. Oops.
I've made a number of corrections to the post and have found better photos of my grandparents. Among them are these photo-booth shots of the strikingly attractive couple—I've never seen Grandpa so rakish—which I believe were taken in 1936, during either their honeymoon or their courtship (though I'm afraid to assume anything now).
If you haven't read the post, it's a highly romantic tale of my grandfather's determined pursuit of my grandmother, who was not at all easily swayed. If you have read it, do take another look, if only for the photos.
2:46 AM
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Ain't That a Kicker in the Hed
Last night, I had to write a kicker (the catchy phrase that precedes a photo caption) for a photo of a dour Nelson Mandela next to a beaming Beyonce. I came up with "AGE BEFORE BOOTY".
12:02 AM
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Friday, November 28, 2003
Singular Character
At the wonderful Thanksgiving dinner held by my mother and my stepfather, I unfortunately said something embarrassing to my Uncle Danny.
We were talking about The Dawn Patrol, which he had just read (no, I don't talk about it all the time) and I was telling him how I'm trying to find a way to write about values—particularly as they relate to single people—without constantly turning it back to my faith.
"After all," I said, "there are many singles who care about values and morals who are not Christian."
Danny smiled. "I should hope so."
Ouch. I'd just fallen right into the very thing I hated about Christians before I was one myself: the unconscious, us-vs.-them assumption that "we" have a lock on morality.
I wondered what had even made me think that way, because it's not what I really believe. In fact, some of the least religious singles I know are the most moral.
I also know plenty of singles who are nonreligious and revel in their freedom from rules, as well as some who have faith but seem unable or unwilling to maintain the personal qualities necessary for a marriage-track relationship. I'm not talking about just sexual restraint, but integrity, forthrightness, fidelity, and honesty, as I wrote earlier.
These values-driven singles who are not religious are able to move in more circles than those social life is centered around their faith, but there the advantages end. For, while they meet a wider variety of people, they have to do a lot more filtering.
Meeting a prospective mate at one's house of worship or through a religious dating or personal service is, of course, no guarantee that they'll match your own personal standards. But there's clearly an increased likelihood of shared values compared to meeting someone from the general population—that's why the Jewish personals service JDate has resulted in so many marriages. Think about how much harder it is for a nonreligious values-driven person who has to find their way through a libidinous, superficial, and materialistic singles universe whose god and goddess are "The Bachelor" and Carrie from "Sex and the City."
Don't get me wrong; I don't feel above my unmarried friends who share many of my values but not my faith. I'm in that same singles universe myself, and knowing what I'm looking for doesn't make the right person come my way—nor does it guarantee I'll know what to do when he arrives.
What I find interesting is that there are so many of these values-driven singles out there, religious and non, who don't fit the culture's mold, and who haven't been identified as a group. If someone—a media outlet, a Web site, a coffeehouse—found a way to bring them together, without allowing it to turn into a hook-up fest (there's the challenge), it would force the mainstream media to rethink its ideal of the single as purely sexual and utterly desperate.
5:48 AM
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Bread Alone (Hold the Mayo)
Lately, accomplished cartoonist/illustrator (see left) and old friend David Chelsea (whose cult classic David Chelsea in Love has just been republished) has been spraying the e-mail equivalent of Silly String on the Dawn Patrol's windshield.
First, after I started devoting more effort to faith- and values-related posts, he wrote to ask if I believed in Hell. I realize that an unapologetic apologist should always have a ready response to such questions. But without his asking any related questions as well, I just didn't feel like writing back with the one-word answer, "Yes."
I should have responded, because now he's pulling out the big guns. He just sent me an e-mail with a header that appears calculated to disgust me, since he knows I grew up in a Jewish household where such things are unheard of: "Eat your white bread and mayonnaise." In it, he writes of my post in which I described how I've yet to find a church service as deep and substantive as Jewish services:
"You seem disinclined to reply to e-mails in which I twit you about religion but I can't help myself. If you truly believe that one testament was not enough, then attending Jewish services is harmless but dilettantish, like reading the Bible as literature or putting on a Gregorian chant CD to groove on the harmonies. To carry your World Series analogy further, it's as if you've put your money on the Marlins but are sitting with the Yankees fans because their team has prettier uniforms."
Actually, now that I read it again, it's not such a bad question. Perhaps he's not spraying Silly String so much as giving me an unrequested squeegee.
I believe that what David is saying is that if I attend Jewish services—which I don't except on the rare occasions I go with family—I can't get true religious feeling from them, because I have accepted Jesus. What I tried to say in my post, but apparently did not articulate strongly enough, was that Jewish services do in fact give me a genuine religious experience. Messianic prohecies and references to eternal life run throughout the Jewish service. When I hear them, I think about how they were and are fulfilled in Jesus.
The reason I don't normally go to Jewish services is because I find them ultimately unsatisfying. I can add the words "in the name of Jesus" in my head as I pray, but everyone else there—for all their faith in God, which I don't doubt—is still waiting for a Messiah in whom relatively few of them actually believe. (I'm speaking of Reform and Conservative congregations, which, to my knowledge, have placed Messianic beliefs progressively lower on their articles of faith. Belief in the coming Messiah remains essential to Orthodox Jews.)
What I would like to find, and haven't yet, is a Christian service in which the prayers feel as meaningful as they do in a Jewish service—something I've described more at length in the post that inspired David's e-mail.
4:41 AM
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Thursday, November 27, 2003
Baby You're a Fitch Man
Roy Currlin has asked that I let you know that his e-mail correspondence with me regarding his disagreement with my post on the Stop Abercrombie & Fitch campaign is now available on his own Web site. He says that, when I responded to him on this page, I mischaracterized his reasons for opposing the campaign.
Roy did make one observation that has led to my making a correction. When I responded to him, I did not have his e-mail in front of me, and I thought he had accused me of working for a bottom-feeding newspaper—or words to that effect. In fact, while he did point out that another paper owned by my employer used images that would fit in the Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue, he never said that of the paper for which I work, so I've corrected it in my post.
9:02 PM
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Cub Reporter
They used to keep cartoon characters' floats in the Macy's Parade years after the characters were popular. Otherwise, how could I possibly remember watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV and seeing a float of Linus the Lionhearted go by?
UPDATE: Michael Lynch writes with the startling information that Linus the Lionhearted was in the Macy's parade from 1964 to 1991.
10:27 AM
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The Grateful Fed
Happy Thanksgiving—or, as my friend Caren says, happy turkey day!
I have a great deal of things for which to be thankful this year. The one that's affected my life most dramatically is my job at the paper, which I'd wanted for a long time. I'd started there as a freelancer in January 2002, working one day a week, and kept it up even when I had a full-time job at Women's Wear Daily, in the hope that the paper would someday hire me full-time. They did—but not until September of this year. So, come to think of it, I'm thankful both for the job, and for being given the strength to keep freelancing there even when there was no indication that I'd ever be hired.
I'm very thankful for my family, and sorry I can't be with all of them this Thanksgiving. I will be with my mother and stepfather, which will be great, and I'll miss the rest of my family, including my sister (next to me at right, in gold), brother, father, and stepmother, who are in different part of the country.
I'm very thankful for my friends, both old and new.
I'm thankful for answered prayers, especially the way that God has lately been turning my lemons into lemonade. It never ceases to amaze me how He can change my sadness into joy.
I'm thankful that, unlike my sister, I have never been threatened by a giant ant.
Most of all, I'm thankful that God saved me four years ago, and that He healed me of depression, enabling me to better appreciate the faithfulness and grace that He shows me and everyone in everyday life.
One of my favorite authors, G.K. Chesterton, had some enlightening things to say about gratitude. I'll leave you with a few:
- "Civilization has run on ahead of the soul of man, and is producing faster than he can think and give thanks." (He wrote that in London's Daily News—in 1902.)
- "I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought,
and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder."
- "We all depend in every detail…upon God…The worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful and has nobody to thank. The converse of this proposition is also true…All goods look better when they look like gifts."
6:18 AM
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Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Spreading the News
Yesterday's e-mail brought the kind of shamelessly abrasive and confrontational message that could only come from a valued friend. It was from Roy Currlin, responding to my post in support of the Stop Abercrombie & Fitch campaign. Roy is a 25-year, second-generation employee of the network-television industry who is all too familiar with the Rev. Donald Wildmon's boycotts, as well as Terry Rakolta's campaign against "Married With Children."
Roy asked me how I reconciled my position as a member of the press with my opposition to the Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue—especially when the newspaper for which I work is owned by the same company that puts topless young women on "Page Three" of a London tabloid.
At first glance, I thought it was a perfectly valid question. Although I'm proud to say that I work for the most patriotic and pro-Israel newspaper in the country, one that treats the President with the respect that he deserves, the paper's views on marriage and family are schizophrenic at best. A critical profile of a deadbeat dad could be right next to a feature on a teenage heiress's "sex romp" with a married man. There's a fine line between holding up misdeeds to the light and exposing them for the sake of titillation, and my employer crosses it repeatedly.
However, as I was considering a response to Roy's question, I realized that the question itself was a dodge. Admittedly, my job puts me closer to the seamy edges of the mainstream media world than, say, if I worked in a flower shop. But if one claims that those connected to a company that produces offensive products forfeit their right to complain about other offensive products, then practically no one working in the secular world is safe.
In this day and age, almost every company does business with a company that has some connection with morally offensive TV shows, films, video games, music, clothing, or publications. Even the sweet old lady in the flower shop benefits financially from her connection to 1-800-FLOWERS, which advertises on ABC, which is owned by Disney, which just released a film about a Santa Claus who curses and fornicates.
So Roy's real message is that people with Christian values should stay on the fringes of society, where they have no share in anything immoral—or shut up. (I think he means the latter, because I don't think he wants me to become a nun.) This view, which is shared by many in the secular world, is arrogant in more ways than one. Besides implying that complaining Christians are hypocrites who are not entitled to criticize the world in which they are a part, it shows an assumption that Christians are not essential members of society. Take them out of their secular jobs and into Christian ones, and society would be none the worse.
The good news is that now, more than ever, America's Christians are becoming bolder and more secure in their faith. They are entering the mainstream media, not just with the intention of changing its product, but with the intention of showing their colleagues, through their example, that it is possible to conduct secular business with kindness, integrity, and moral strength.
I'm not in a position to change the world at my job. I just copyedit stories and write headlines. I'd be fooling myself if I thought that writing "Guru's life in the 'fast' lane" (from today's paper) helped bring souls to the Lord.
But I go into work every day thanking God for putting me in the job that I'd longed after for years. I ask Him to bless my employer, my boss, and everyone at the paper, and to let His spirit of peace descend upon the copy desk. I try to smile as much as I can, laugh at co-workers' clean jokes (and sometimes the not-so-clean ones), compliment others' work, and resist the urge to gripe. Admittedly, these things are far easier to do than at any other job I've had, because I genuinely like my job and my co-workers, something else for which I'm thankful.
Of course I can't be Little Mary Sunshine all the time, and I'm not. And it can be depressing composing headline after headline on "knife-slays," "pervs," and two-timing "gal pals." But I consider what I do at work to be a ministry, in the same way that being a Christian anywhere is a ministry. And if anyone asks me the reason for the hope that is in me, I have a miniature Gideons New Testament/Psalms/Proverbs in my desk drawer.
Nobody's asked me yet. Maybe nobody will. But it's there.
2:03 AM
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Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Start Me Up
Do you ever have one of those moments in conversation when you say something that makes perfect sense to you, and the other person has absolutely no idea what you're on about?
It happened to me recently when I was talking with a male friend. We were talking about relationships—always an enlightening topic to discuss with the opposite number—and I commented that, at this point in my life, I believe I should start every relationship as though it were going to resolve into marriage.
And I totally lost him.
I think it must have sounded like I intended every relationship to end in marriage—which thankfully is not the case, otherwise I'd get hurt a lot more often than I do.
I tried to explain to him that it involved not doing anything at the beginning of a relationship that I would later regret. Even if something helps one win a mate, if it involves dishonesty, disrespect, game-playing, or a lack of ual restraint, it's not something one looks back upon fondly after years of marriage.
In the New York City area where I live, whether men and women meet one another in bars, at work, through friends, or through the personals, the for relationships remains the same for many: They become physically intimate to see if they want to be in a relationship.
That used to be my paradigm for a relationship too—the "let's have fun and see if it turns into something" philosophy. The underlying concept is the old Freudian conceit that people ual "needs," and that these needs can exist either on their own, or as the prelude to a relationship, but that it is unnatural to prioritize other types of intimacy ahead of them.
Although I myself do have these "needs"—or, rather, desires—I never really wanted to place them before emotional intimacy. I don't think it's natural for women to operate that way unless they have serious problems with emotional intimacy, and even then, I don't think it makes them happy.
Now that I'm no longer a hopeless fish in New York City's sea of singles, but instead a little ichthus swimming against the current, self-restraint is a priority, as are the other things I mentioned earlier: honesty, respect, and not playing games. Those last three in particular seem obvious, but they go against the nature of dating in a sophisticated urban social world that encourages men and women to hide their true feelings from one another.
The example I should have given my friend is that of drawing a circle. If someone asks you to draw a circle and you agree, you don't get cagey and pretend at first like you're going to draw a square. It messes the whole thing up. If you're a person of your word, you have to start the circle with the same steady curve with which it ends. Otherwise, the whole thing is no good.
Likewise, it's almost impossibly hard to start to draw a perfect circle without a compass, and it's impossible to start a relationship leading to marriage without a moral compass. It's even harder to draw a perfect heart...
12:18 AM
Monday, November 24, 2003
And Now for Something Completely Different
Since last week when WMCA's Kevin McCullough spotlighted my entry about the Stop Abercrombie & Fitch campaign, "Nude, Where's My Country," The Dawn Patrol has been discovered by several other bloggers who purvey a blend of faith-positive messages and conservative commentary, topped with a nonlethal dose of worldly wit. As a result of this unexpected and welcome attention from people whom I'm proud to have as my peers in the blog world, I've been putting extra effort into my posts. This has not gone unnoticed by Eric Siegmund, who sent me a wonderfully supportive e-mail yesterday that nonetheless warned me to pace myself.
With Eric's advice in mind, I do indeed have something completely different tonight, a special treat from the Eden archives. For Monty Python fans, this should be self-explanatory:
12:26 AM
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Sunday, November 23, 2003
The Dawn Patrol Delivers!
Last night at work, I had one of those rare moments where a story hands its own headline to me on a silver platter.
It was a tale of four midwives at St. Vincent's Hospital who quit in anger over what they considered intolerable work rules. For example, they claimed that the hospital insisted that they induce delivery if labor lasted six hours or more.
I know, I know. You can see it coming. Well, I could too. And while I'm not certain that the headline will appear exactly as I wrote it (I get a little comma-happy), I can tell you what I wrote (and my editor approved): "4 midwives quit St. Vincent's, claiming unfair 'labor' practices".
It's a Jungle Out There
After I left work last night, I walked as usual past Sixth Avenue's Rockefeller Center area, which has more tourists each day now that the holiday season is approaching. As I approached 43rd Street, something in front of me caught my eye. A man walking ahead had a metal contraption around his neck that was kind of like a giant version of Bob Dylan's harmonica holder, only there was a horizontal bar where the harmonica would be, and it was in the back. On top of it, above the man's head, was the largest cockatoo I'd ever seen. It was about the size of a small chicken. And it was facing me, bobbing serenely as the man walked along.
As I got within a few feet of the man—a neatly dressed, clean-shaven gent in his 30s with a trendy bangs-across haircut—I noticed some snakeskin hanging off his shoulder. Except...it wasn't snakeskin.
I don't know snakes, but whatever it was, it was about eight feet long. And it looked about as comfortable as the Buddha-like bird. Lucky for me I'm not afraid of those things—at least, not when they're hanging around another person's neck.
I looked over to the man walking beside the snakeman. He too was neatly dressed, clean-shaven, 30s, slightly less trendy hair. And he was holding something that I would not want to find in my apartment.
Saying hello to the snakeman (or should I say birdman), I asked what was that...reptile that his cohort held at his side.
"It's an alligator," he said simply.
He also explained why the walking menagerie. He was a photographer, and they were returning from a photo shoot.
Oh, of course. Silly me. Why didn't I think of that? Don't I know that everyone carries their alligator home from a photo shoot? The night air does them good.
But I didn't get sarcastic with the man. It wouldn't have been advisable under the circumstances anyway. So I said the first thing that came into my head—"That's great!—and went to catch my underground train home.
I did think about whether or not I should report the scene to the police or the paper where I work. But the alligator didn't look like an imminent danger to anyone—it seemed quite calm and content, just like the other creatures—and the man was carrying it in full view, in an area where there was a police presence.
As for reporting it to the paper, well, the truth is, this is New York. Things like that happen all the time. Well, maybe not all the time, but often enough that it's not news.
What I thought, as I walked on past the concrete lions of the New York City Public Library and down through Herald Square, was that when I feel like there's something missing from my daily life, I should remember that at least I work in the most extraordinary city in the world.
12:32 AM
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Saturday, November 22, 2003
Summer of Love
The lovely and enigmatic 18-year-old future "Mamselle X"—also my future Grandma Jessie—surrounded by some of her siblings—clockwise from top: Alma, Marshall, Richard (front), Reggie, and Dan. One of the reasons Clarence Bowles' blog touches me is because it reminds me of the sort of thing my grandfather would have done had he lived to see the age of online journals. Like Clarence, my Grandpa Buddy (Abraham I. Levin) was a nonprofessional writer from a working-class background whose writing had an everyman's touch (though Grandpa was more studiously working-class, having made a conscious effort to come down to earth from his exceedingly cultured upbringing). And while Grandpa was a gruff old man on the outside, when he picked up a pen, he had, like Clarence, the soul of a romantic.
Back in February, I wrote about the unpublished book blending poetry and prose that my grandfather wrote when he was courting my grandmother, Jessica Denenholz, in the summer of 1935, A Fool in Love. (He looks very much in love in the photo-booth shots at left, which I believe were taken on his honeymoon or during his courtship of my grandmother, whose own photo-booth shot is below right.)
As I wrote in that earlier post, when I first rediscovered A Fool in Love, I cried my eyes out. In it, my grandfather, who refers to himself as "Bud" and my grandmother as "Mamselle X," describes how he adored my grandmother from the day they met—June 30, 1935. From that day on, he threw himself into chronicling his love for her, writing poems—often three or more poems per day—which he eagerly presented to her on dates.
Grandma, however, was a tough sell. She was a Cornell graduate, a drama major, who could have had a bright career onstage or as a teacher. Her parents had died and her family had fallen on hard times, so she had financial reasons for needing to get married and settle down. However, she had no shortage of admirers, and I'm sure some were financially stable enough for her to marry (though from what I'm told, Bud was the only one of them, during that Depression era, who had a car).
Although my grandmother was poised and graceful, I think she may have had a youthful wild streak. At any rate, my grandfather seems to have been somewhat cowed by what he perceived as her worldliness and experience.
Bud was a genius who had earned high scores on the Regents (the then-rigorous tests New York City high school students have to take to graduate). On the Spanish test, he actually scored first in his borough (Queens). His scores got him a scholarship to City College, but he sadly had to quit to support his family when his father died (the school cruelly denied him a leave of absence). Although he was a voracious reader with a fine knowledge of the classics (when he and my grandmother were married and didn't want their kids to know what they were saying, they conversed in Latin), he felt clumsy and oafish around the Ivy League-educated and highly cultured Jessica.
OK, enough background. It's three minutes after three and I have a lot of Fool in Love excerpts to type for you before I sleep. Here's Episode 11, the one that made me bawl when I rediscovered the book. As I read it tonight for the first time since February, I thought I could be strong, but I got a few verses down and was all "bwaaaaaaa" again. At the time Bud wrote this, July 23, 1935, he had known Mamselle X for just over three weeks.
Bud to X --
When first the Sun on Eden shone,
And first the Moon was fair,
I think our Love, already grown,
Its roots had planted there.
When Knights in armor made their vows
To flowering Chivalry
I think our Love was growing still
Through ageless History.
And now in Modern times that be
I know in Heart of Mine
Our love has flowered, and brought forth
This Passion so Divine.
And when the Judgement Day shall come
And to Paradise we fare
I know our Loves, shall hand-in-hand
Still be united there.
Flash to Episode 45, Sunday, August 11, 1935:
Weather rainy and drear. May clear up?
* * * *
Mistake #1. Bud calls too early. Goes away to visit friends.
Misunderstanding #2. Bud returns too late.
Unintentional.
(Forgiven??)
* * * *
Off to Jones Beach. Bathe in pool and surf. Sun comes out. Show off before admiring (?) gallery. Wunderbar! Then movies -- and home. Nicest day yet!
* * * *
Ready to say Good Night. Then the bomb-shell! X resolutely throws Bud over -- like a worn-out toy! No more dates -- all FINI!
* * * *
Bud stammers, stutters, pleads, howls, grunts, growls, explains, and more explaining. Finally patches things up -- temporarily anyhow. Everything happy again!
* * * *
Drives home in a daze -- Muttering --
"Whatta girl -- Whatta girl!"
Episode 51, circa August 22, 1935:
Letter
From X
To Bud
Dear Bud:
I do appreciate your swell letters and poetry.
Tomorrow night, as soon as I finish my work, I expect to leave for somewhere with a bathing suit, a toothbrush, and little else.
How would you like a post card?
Don't forget our next date is Sunday, September 8th.
I'll be seein' you.
-- X
Episode 58 (following a series of love poems), August 30, 1935:
Mamselle X Dear:
Just a little note to prove to you that
"An elephant never forgets!"
Of course I ain't quite that heavy yet, but the good times I'm looking forward to may have that effect. Or maybe you'll keep running me so ragget that I'll lose another thirty pounds! We shall see what we shall see.
How you likee sad heart-throb enclosed? If you ever forget me, I hope it'll haunt you. Night and day your every thought will have the weird background of a mysterious voice of dual personality softly sobbing--
"Oh, Dear, who was THAT guy --
Who WAS that Guy --
Who was that GUY ???"
And echo will softly, sweetly, helpfully
Answer --
** BUD --
P?S? Echo will be doing a better job of answering
Then you've been doing to my letters so far!
Relent, Reform, and Repent -- P L E A S E !
Episode 59, August 31, 1935:
From: Mamselle X
To: Bud
Dear Bud:
Returning from my vacation, I found and enjoyed your letters.
But concerning us, I find my feelings are running unmistakeably in the direction of someome else whom I have known for a long time.
Please accept this as the only reason for our not continuing to go out together -- Not even with our next date.
-- Mamselle X
Episode 60, September 4, 1935:
From: Bud
To: Mamselle X
Dear X:
Just got in and of course just read your letter of August 31.
I am thinking primarily of your happiness, Dear, and want to do whatever is best for you.
But I do feel it fair you keep our date for Sunday. I can assure you it will be nothing but a pleasant memory and a last good time together.
Let's do this, and then let the Future be whatever you most desire!
-- Bud
Episode 61, September 6, 1935:
From: Mamselle X
To: Bud
SPECIAL DELIVERY
Dear Bud:
NO!
-- Mamselle X
That is the final chapter of
A Fool in Love. However, there is an Epilogue. (There has to be, or I wouldn't be here.) It doesn't say exactly how my grandparents reconciled, but it does include the following untitled poem, which I think is a nice way to let this sleepy blogger, who is very proud of her romantic grandfather, finish this and get some shut-eye. Please let me know if you've enjoyed reading this entry. This poem actually makes me tear up too, even though it's not really sad—there's something poignant in knowing one is descended from a union that was born of such love:
Oh, I could love Freddie
For Romance so ready --
Or Bessie, so simple and sweet --
Or I could love Molly
So cunning and jolly
Or Frances -- so chic
and petite!
But strictly between us
My love goes to Venus
I've fallen a prey to her charms --
For there's many a Miss
Who's wanting a kiss,
But Venus -- I know
Wants two arms!
POSTSCRIPT: My grandparents' marriage lasted 46 years, until Grandma Jessie died in 1982 at the age of 70. Grandpa was disconsolate and died a few years later. They had six kids, most of whom you can see at left in a 1942 photo. Besides Grandma, still with her Mona Lisa smile, there's (from left) my mother Rachel, Polly, and the twins Becky and Hank.
Both my grandparents placed a very high value on education (as did my father's parents as well). I for one am impressed that, while the family endured many years of hard times and was never what I would call wealthy, every kid in that photo not only went to college, but got a graduate degree—some more than one.
Above right are my grandparents at their 30th anniversary party in April 1966. I love it that even though they've been married three decades, Grandpa still has the body language that says, "Don't even think about it, Mac. She's my girl." You can tell how much it means to him to be able to protect her.
And here's how I remember Grandpa Buddy: as the maker of cardboard carpentry. During the 1970s, he and my grandmother had their own cardboard carpentry workshop in their basement, where they invented all kinds of cardboard toys. They would go into schools to do programs with kids, showing them how they could make and decorate things like a miniature house or car using cardboard and household items. In this photo, Grandpa is holding a school bus and a police car.
2:21 AM
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Friday, November 21, 2003
The Heavenly Hillbilly
I am from tag soap and Robin Hood flour
I am from RC Cola and Moon Pies
The fragrance of the general store at the head of the holler
The pot-bellied stove with it stable of whittlers
Spinning tall tales, spitting ambure* into rusted cans
I am from poverty and want, egg money and wood fired cooking stove, ashes on the floor that are swept through the cracks in the poplar flooring planks
I am from under the house playing with chickens and pups
Searching for Doodle Bugs to call from their pits
I am from Floyd Charles, Lula Marie and Carrie June
I am sturdy stock, strong of back and will
I am bathed in Moonshine, reared in slate piles,
Coal mine grit rubs thin places in my ruddy skin...
In case you're wondering, no, I did not write that remarkable bit of poetry. Despite having spent nine years of my young life in Galveston, Texas, I myself am from underground trains with remants of tabloid newspapers scattered on the seats, all-night Korean delis with fake-crabmeat sushi rolls, and twentysomething women who walk the bar-strewn streets with gangs of friends on Friday and Saturday nights in 50-degree weather wearing jeans and a low-cut top with no cover-up.
No, those verses are from "Where I Am From," by Clarence Bowles, a 63-year-old self-styled "hillbilly philosopher" from Kenton County, Kentucky whose four-week-old Can You Hear Me Now blog is the most unusual and rewarding online read that I've discovered in a long time.
I would almost call Bowles the literary equivalent of a blissfully unaffected folk artist or outsider musician, only he's got just enough blogosphere worldliness that you know he's no fool. He comes from a Southern literary tradition that evokes Carson McCullers and a Pentecostal Harry Golden.** He writes with the sort of disarming candor that blogs are supposed to have but rarely do. Here's a typical gem, from his "About Me" page: "I have four grown children and have been married to the same woman for over 32 years. Can't find anything to complain about where she is concerned and only wish that the same were true for her. She deserves better but seems determined to stick with the choice she made. One tough lady is she."
With the current vogue for authors from down-home, non-literary backgrounds, I wouldn't be surprised if a literary agent (maybe even one who reads this blog, hint, hint) snapped Bowles up. One more excerpt, from an entry that had special meaning for me, titled "Looking at life with one eye":
"I can't see it!" she said.
How can she not see it? It's right in front of her, just a bit over her head, in the upper left corner of the patio door's glass panel. The bright sky as background, and the Ladybug moving along at a good pace for a small bug. Surely she can pick up on the movement.
Gail and I were calling out location coordinates as if we were all involved in a game of Battleship. I could see it so plainly, even from my seat at the kitchen table. It was then I realized that she didn't have on her glasses. It's easy to forget that Maureen has only one good eye and it needs help from a strong prescription lens to help her make her way through life.
I wish I could take responsibility for discovering Bowles, but the truth is, not only have many others discovered him during the short time his blog's been live, but he found me (through Eric Siegmund's Fire Ant Gazette, I think). He wrote with some thoughts on my post on being a Jew who has accepted Jesus and asked, "What in tarnation is super-ultra-new-improved-crunchy Whizzo Christianity?"
What I meant by that was that some well-meaning Christians, in congratulating me for discovering Jesus, act as though I've gone from total unenlightenment to enlightenment. They seem to think of Judaism as something that is simply an ignorant choice—like using the bargain brand of single-ply paper towels—and can't understand why anyone would stay with it when there clearly is a better alternative.
That unwittingly superior attitude offends me, because it ignores the fact that Judaism is a great religion that comes from God, and Jews are upholding a godly heritage that extends back thousands of years. Just because the veil remains over the eyes of the Jewish people (Paul's analogy for the Jews' not recognizing their Messiah) does not take away the great holiness and wisdom of their faith, the foundation of Christianity.
Now I'm annoyed at myself for bringing this back to me, when it's supposed to be about Clarence Bowles. Read his blog. You'll thank me. And if you sign him to a literary agency, my finder's fee is a sushi meal. I wonder how far one has to go in Kenton County, Kentucky to find good sushi.
*"Ambure" is Bowles's spelling for "ambeer," which is tobacco juice. All excerpts used by permission.
**While searching for articles on Harry Golden, I found an excellent, sensitively written article that sheds light on some the problems in Jewish-Christian relations that I discussed in my "Mets Call the Whole Thing Off" post: "The Two Faces of Billy Graham," by Dennis Roddy. If you read it, please read it to the end, as it starts out appearing to be an anti-Graham piece but is actually a nuanced look at the roots of misunderstandings.
2:25 AM
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Thursday, November 20, 2003
Confessions of a Masticator
A NEW DAWN: Me in 1987 (age 19) and today.
Tired of
waiting for that elusive sugar-daddy boyfriend, I took matters into my own hands last night and bought myself a pair of jeans that fit—two, in fact, since they were on sale. (I mention that last bit because my mom reads this blog and I know she will be proud of me.) I won't tell you where I bought them because it's too embarrassing, but rest assured it was
not Abercrombie & Fitch.
The big news is the size: 6. That's the smallest size I've been in my adult life.
Back when the above-left photo was taken, I was 40 pounds heavier than I am now, on a diet that was taking me from an 18 (the largest size I ever wore) to a 16. For most of my adult life, I barely squeezed into a size 12 or 14. My current size is the result of losing 25 lbs. a couple of years ago, and then an extra 10 over the past few months.
Recently, when I read Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson for the first time, one quality of Johnson's resonated with me. Boswell noted a few times that Johnson confessed to being incapable of temperance. He could eat or drink to excess, or he could abstain, but he could do nothing in between. That's my story. Not that I've been starving myself—far from it. But I can't eat many of my favorite foods anymore. My fear is that if I eat one thing that I've been avoiding, the floodgates will open and I'll be unable to stop.
What do I miss? I'm glad you asked. I've mentioned some of these things in an earlier post, but I'm sure I can think of some new ones: Cheez Doodles (serving size=7-oz. bag); Ben & Jerry's ice cream, or any ice cream (serving size=1 pint); milkshakes; anything chocolate; french fries; Kentucky Fried Chicken; fried anything; pasta; muffins that aren't fat-free; pretty much any kind of dessert or pastry (the only ones I can manage these days are Tasti D-Lite fat-free "frozen dessert" and fat-free cookies); butter (especially on bread or baked potatoes); peanut butter (in a sandwich or out of the jar); alcohol (I'm not much of a drinker, but even one drink can cause water retention, according to the Diet Center, where I used to work as a counselor);and the list goes on...
The reason I've made these sacrifices is that I really, really like being thin (or thinner; the message that I am thin never quite made it to my brain, probably blocked by the ghastly "Vegetarian Turkey Salad" thingies that I make myself eat instead of real food). It's gotten to the point where it has spiritual consequences. Clearly, my weight has become not only an obsession, but an idol in my life. And I'm not sure what to do about that, other than what is probably the best thing: pray on it. I need to follow Paul's exhortation that whatever I do, I should do it to God's glory.
It's funny how one's fantasies change over time. I used to fantasize about being thin, thinking that it would make me more attractive to men. Now, I have a new fantasy, and it does involve a man, but it also involves food.
As I said, right now I feel like I can't allow myself to eat any of the foods I miss, for fear that I might lose my resistance and go back to eating the way I used to eat, regaining some or all of that weight. My fantasy is to meet a man who makes me feel so loved and accepted that I could go out for dinner with him, eating all the things I've been avoiding—garlic bread, wine, the goopy dressing on the salad, the big bowl of pasta, the chocolate cheesecake—and not be afraid of what might happen if the floodgates were opened.
I'd have to feel really loved and accepted to take a risk like that...especially with the garlic bread.
5:17 AM
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Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Mets Call the Whole Thing Off
On Sunday, someone at my work was talking about how the paper was going to publish an article in which five people of different backgrounds gave their views after watching a rough cut of Mel Gibson's "The Passion of Christ."
"They should have asked me," I said.
My co-worker, who knew I'm a Jew who's accepted Jesus, said, "They wouldn't have wanted your opinion, because you would have come at it from a religious standpoint."
"That's why they should have asked me," I said. "Because I'm Jewish too. They could have done a 'Tale of the Tape' just with me. 'I think it's anti-Semitic.'/'No, it's not.'"
By this point, both of us were cracking up.
Gibson's depiction of Jews in the film, as described in media accounts, does not surprise me because he is a traditionalist Catholic. I have friends who are traditionalist Catholics, and I know that they believe what non-traditionalist Catholics and some Christian sects also believe—that the body of Christian believers has replaced Israel in God's eyes.
These people do not hate Jews. They look upon Jews as quaint relics. As much as they would like to believe what Paul says in Romans 11:1, that God has certainly not forsaken His people, they cannot conceive of what Paul describes as "a remnant" of Jews who will be saved. At the very least, they think it a very small remnant, and not enough to make it worth their trying to understand that Jews have never lost their importance to God.
I've noticed a pattern when I make friends with a traditionalist Catholic. (I would just write, "when I make friends with a Catholic," but it seems that all my Catholic friends are traditionalists.) After discussing religious and political issues with me for a while, they say something like, "We'll win you over."
I can't blame them for thinking I'm on the path to Catholicism, and I feel bad for disappointing them. I probably come off as a proto-Catholic to a lot of people when I talk about my love of G.K. Chesterton and honorary Catholic C.S. Lewis, and when I espouse my views in favor of family values and against the culture of death. And as far as the traditionalist wing's rejection of post-Vatican II popery goes, one look at my record collection tells you I already believe that practically nothing good happened after 1965.
But while I do in fact have serious reservations about certain Catholic doctrines, the main thing that's kept me from joining the Catholic Church, or any church, is the feeling of being an outsider. When I visit a church and the people there find out I'm Jewish, they tend to welcome me with this attitude of, "Congratulations! You've found something better!" It's as though I switched to New Coke or something. Pity those poor non-choosy Jews out there who haven't yet discovered super-ultra-new-improved-crunchy Whizzo Christianity.
What those well-meaning churchgoers don't realize is that I'm not switching to an aesthetically superior experience just by entering a place where the stained-glass windows depict the crucifixion of Jesus instead of the sacrifice of Isaac. Synagogue services have it all over church services.
At a good Conservative or Orthodox temple, I can pray like they did in Jesus' time, chanting in Hebrew to beautiful melodies. Many of the prayers describe hope for eternal life and the coming of the Messiah. There's also time for silent prayer and meditation. Best of all, the Word of God is brought out and read in the original language from a beautiful parchment roll like the one Jesus read from when he was asked to give the reading from Isaiah. The difference between a Jewish service's long, intense, ancient Hebrew prayers and a Christian service's comparatively lightweight, condensed, Evelyn Wood-like, copyright 1997 (revised 2002) English liturgy, is like the difference between experiencing a two-hour game at Shea Stadium and watching the five-minute coverage of it on the 11 o'clock news.
The catch is that the temple service is Game 4 of the 1969 World Series and the church service is Game 5.
If you're not a baseball fan, what I'm saying is that the temple service is the experience of surviving the battle but not winning the ultimate prize—waiting for a savior who has not yet come—and the church service is the experience of victory through Christ. So for me, in deciding where to worship, the choice is, would I rather have a deep spiritual experience that is ultimately unfulfilling, or a thin glossy one that reminds me of the Truth?
I'm afraid that until I find a church that understands Jews not just as curiosities but as branches from the same olive tree on which Gentiles have been grafted, I'll just stay home.
3:15 AM
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Hed of the Grass
On Monday, when I had to write a headline for a story about a Court TV poll that showed most people believe Lee Harvey Oswald did not act alone, I wanted to write something that would reflect the obsessiveness of JFK-assassination buffs. I'm not putting them down; I have friends who are assassination buffs, and, as an outsider to that world, I'm amused by the depth of their fascination.
I was thinking particularly of an old friend I haven't seen in a while, a talented musician and Sixties-pop superfan named Scott Finter. He was the first person I knew who had a video of the Zapruder film that showed it frame by frame. I don't recall that he actually believed in a conspiracy, but he had a thorough knowledge all the angles from which people had argued conspiracy theories. And that's how, armed with a mental image of him, I had my headline: "Conspiracy knoll-it-alls top JFK poll."
1:40 AM
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Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Nude, Where's My Country?
I've been having a nagging loneliness lately—the kind that, if I'm not vigilant, can devolve into open self-deprecation and self-pity. So I've done a few things to get my mind off it (cue French horns; we are now reverting to point-form):
- Thanked God for saving me from real loneliness.
- Made plans to have dinner this week with my good pals Kittybeat and Michael Lynch to discuss the next installment of our POP GEAR! dance night at Rififi (Dec. 13).
- Bought a pair of the sexy knee-high black leather boots I've wanted for years—and, since they were half-off, bought a second pair too.
- Signed my name to the "Stop Abercrombie & Fitch" online petition.
Now, especially if you know me, you will notice that one of these things is very different from the others.
Since when did I ever desire to waste any brain cells on Abercrombie & Fitch? Since when did I ever allow myself to pronounce the name of that preppy bastion? Since when could I ever conceive of why anyone would see some shapeless gray sweater in its window and think, "My life will be enhanced if only I spend $150 on this item"? When God delivered me from the copy desk of Women's Wear Daily, I thought that Abercrombie & Fitch could be safely relegated to my mental graveyard along with Federated Department Stores, Tom Ford, Pillowtex, "earnings before interest, tax, dividends, and appreciation," and Suzy.
That changed the other day when I heard WMCA "Good Guy" Kevin McCullough exhort listeners to read his WorldNetDaily editorial and join the "Stop Abercrombie & Fitch" campaign. The campaign is in protest of the chain's new Christmas "magalog," which follows its path of recent years by including several dozen photos of partially or totally nude teens and youths. Teens on teens, gay, straight, every which way, naked as jaybirds. Marketed to teens (though supposedly only for those 18 and over), the magalog boasts on its cover of "Group Sex" and includes articles advising teens entering college to have as many sexual partners as possible—and that's the mildest of its many sex tips. McCullough's call to action sounded like just another boycott, but I was curious enough to visit the Web sites he mentioned.
Notice I wrote, "just another boycott." Fundamentalists like the Rev. Donald Wildmon have been trying to clean up pop culture for years, and, like most people, I ignore them. I believe in free speech—short of shouting "theater" in a crowded fire—and I generally think it's useless to try to stem the flood of immoral trash that overwhelms our airwaves, theaters, TVs, computers, bookstores, and newsstands. Moreover, there are gems in that trash—even Playboy had a good interview with John Lennon once—and self-appointed censors aren't known for their grasp of nuance. I'm old enough to remember how Randy Newman was hung out to dry for "Short People."
With that in mind, I viewed the "Stop Abercrombie & Fitch" Web site with suspicion. However, I was soon won over—not just by the campaign's techniques, which eschew Wildmonesque intimidation in favor of a grass-roots petition initiative, but by two words in the petition: "moral relativism." It said, "With over 50 pictures featuring nude or partially nude youth models and a clear message that sexual immorality must be embraced to be cool, A&F has clearly become one of our culture’s most aggressive promoters of sexual hedonism and moral relativism to America’s youth."
My first reaction was laughter. It's quixotic enough to think that one can stop pornography with a petition. How can one even presume to stop moral relativism, which is the religion of our age? Just the idea of telling people that a catalogue promotes moral relativism is like telling a cigarette manufacturer that their products cause global warming. They probably do, but the causal relationship, and the drop-in-bucket effect if the offending action were stopped, seems too minor to contemplate.
But when I thought about it, I realized that the The National Coalition for the Protection of Children and Families, which sponsors the "Stop Abercrombie & Fitch" campaign, had the right idea. We should unmask moral relativism as the real agenda behind this particularly heinous kind of advertising. We should refuse to pay obeisance to the god of our age. And we should give teenagers the message that they deserve to be loved for who they are inside, and they should save their love for someone who will treat them as more than just a body to be used and discarded.
In a letter notifying Abercrombie & Fitch of the petition campaign, National Coalition president Rick Schatz writes, "You diminish the values of many of the catalog’s readers with a philosophy that says personal restraint is a hindrance to happiness."
That's not a media soundbite. That's profound stuff. I signed that petition, and I hope you will too.
1:36 AM
Monday, November 17, 2003
You Must Remember This
I don't go to nightclubs much these days, but when I do, something interesting usually happens—something that's exciting but stops short of "back to my place." That's probably a good thing, considering that I'm a bit too old and moralistic for such hijinks. All right, if you must—it's not probably, but certainly a good thing.
At a nightclub last week, I felt a hand rubbing my fur. Don't worry, it was fake fur—though I reserve the right to wear the real thing if it's been dead longer than I've been alive. I turned around to see the source of the shoulder-stroke and it was a man who had been a good friend of mine for a few years in the early-to-mid-Nineties.
I'd had a crush on him way back when—not an obsessive one, just a wouldn't-it-be-nice-to-kiss-him-and-see-what-happens kind of crush—but nothing ever came of it. He went on to settle down with someone, and we eventually drifted apart for reasons unrelated to my attraction. Since then, I'd occasionally run into him and we were cordial to each other, but, until this occasion, it had been a while since we'd last met.
He greeted me warmly and we talked for a few minutes about old times. Then he let loose with a bombshell—something no man has ever, ever said to me.
"I remember when I first kissed you," he said.
My jaw dropped—noticeably—and my eyes took on that kind of glaze that they take when I'm thinking, "Does not compute."
"Do you remember?" he asked.
Homina homina homina.
I let him remind me of the circumstances and tried to form a mental picture. After a moment, I had enough of an idea of what happened to be able to insinuate to him that I remembered, but I was really at a loss. I remembered imagining kissing him, but not actually kissing him.
Yet I had no doubt that he was telling the truth. People don't usually lie about those things, and this was a man of integrity—one of the reasons I liked him—who was not known for messing with women's heads.
After we parted—with kind words but no smooch—I was left to wonder, how could I forget such a thing? Am I a cad?
Now, having thought about it, my best guess is that I blocked out the "first time" he kissed me [does that mean there was a second? A third?] because I was embarrassed. He was a good friend of mine at the time, yet I couldn't resist flirting with him. It probably took many months of flirting to win that one smooch. Once I got it, I probably felt silly for trying to push the boundaries of our friendship when I knew I wasn't really a love match for him—and maybe even realized he wasn't one for me.
But that he himself should still remember it, and fondly—wow!
So, class, what have we learned?
One lesson I'll take from this is that I should stop assuming that men aren't romantic. I sometimes find myself falling into this stupid New York (Sex-and-the-)City proto-spinsterian cynicism, thinking that men don't experience romantic feelings the way I do. Apparently, on some level, they can experience them even more than I do.
2:23 AM
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If you tried to read Eric Siegmund's blog that I mentioned in a couple of recent posts, or if you tried to read the entry he wrote about The Dawn Patrol, please try again, as I've fixed the links.
1:05 AM
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Sunday, November 16, 2003
Gear Itself
POP GEAR! at Rififi on November 8 was a shining success, with twice the crowd as our Columbus Day weekend debut. People were dancing to the mid-'60s pop platters spun by me, Kate, and Michael Lynch, staring transfixed at the poptastic vintage vids [Overheard: "Is that 'Fantom'?" and, "This is the one where Flint's brainwashed into thinking he's a psychiatrist..."], or just digging the scene.
I should really buy a digital camera so I won't have to rely upon the kindness of strangers—or, in this case, Mom and Ron, who brought a disposable camera. The photo above of me with Bill and this lovely shot pairing me with Kate are the only really good 'uns from the roll. Bill surprised me by being a super dancer—he rivaled my other fave-rave dance partners Michael Lynch and Pat Lozito for best male dancer on the floor. (The best female dancer, myself excluded, was Kelly, who, with her flowing brown hair, floral minidress, and knee-high boots, seemed to have stepped straight off the set of the '60s Europop TV show "Beat Club.")
Beautiful Kate has been told that she looks like silent-screen legend Lillian Gish, and I can't resist the opportunity to do a "Separated at Birth." That's Gish in the photo at right (from the excellent fan site SilentLadies.com).
I unfortunately don't have a shot of Michael, who looked fab that night with his paisley shirt and characteristic Michael Clarke hair (I prefer comparing him to Clarke than to a certain Mr. Jones, because I don't like mentioning That Band if I can help it). But I can share Michael's memories of the evening, which he sent to me and Kate the next day:
My two favorite moments of last night:
1) What a cool moment that was when Dawn first started playing "'Til The End Of The Day." During those three intro chords, there was instantly this vibe of everyone in the room basically stopping what they were doing, as if to say "Ah, I have to dance to this one!" That was great!
2) Hearing Blair recite the intro right along with [Cavern Club emcee] Bob Wooler when I played the Big Three record. I didn't know it was Blair at first...I could tell it was someone sitting near where he was...but I wrote him today and asked him, and his exact words:
"Yes, I'm the geek."
LOL.
Michael also sent a list of every record he played, which follows. The next POP GEAR! is Saturday, December 13—see you there! For more info, drop me a line (e-mail address art left). Michael played:ANIMALS I'm Going To Change The World/BANANA SPLITS You're The Lovin' End/BANANA SPLITS Doin' The Banana Split/BAND OF ANGELS Not True As Yet/BEATLES A Hard Day's Night/BEATLES Help!/BEAU BRUMMELS Ain't That Lovin' You Baby/BIG THREE What'd I Say/DAY BROTHERS I Wanna Be Your Man/ELECTRIC PRUNES Ain't It Hard/ADAM FAITH We Are In Love/ GERRY AND THE PACEMAKERS It's Gonna Be All Right/GUESS WHO Shakin' All Over/JON HENDRICKS Fire In The City/LIVERBIRDS Oh No Not My Baby/MINDBENDERS Off And Running/MINDBENDERS I Want Her She Wants Me/MONKEES Pleasant Valley Sunday/MONKEES Let's Dance On/ MOODY BLUES Go Now/MOVING SIDEWALKS 99th Floor/LOS SHAKERS Break It All/LULU The Boat That I Row/N' BETWEENS Delighted To See You/ADRIENNE POSTA Shang-A-Doo-Lang/POWDER Hate To See Her Go/ PRETTY THINGS Roadrunner/P.J. PROBY Hold Me/RICHARD AND THE YOUNG LIONS You Can Make It/ROLLING STONES Around And Around/ ROLLING STONES Empty Heart/SEARCHERS Doncha Know/SORROWS Let The Live Live/CAT STEVENS Come On And Dance/WARLOCKS (The Grateful Dead, pre name-change) I Know You Rider
1:18 AM
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Saturday, November 15, 2003
Eric the Read
Reading the "About the Publisher" section of Eric Siegmund's blog, I found a section in which Eric described his religious beliefs. It impressed me because it coincided so closely with my own, plus I liked its candor and wit. Eric's given me permission to reprint it below, along with a related item from the same page.
Two caveats: (1) Eric's bolder than I am in noting the relative merits of this world and the next. I normally avoid that because I don't want non-Christians to think I don't care about people who are suffering in this life. I do care. And I can tell from the rest of Eric's blog that he does too. (2) I admire Eric's being able to promise not to beat people over the head with his faith. I have not yet mastered the head-beating urge, though I'm working on it. Other than that, Eric's statements—including those on computer platforms—reflect the views of The Dawn Patrol:
Theology: Notice I chose this term over the more frequently used "religion"? I trust you're perceptive enough to understand the distinction, and the implications. But this area merits a little more detail, as it's important to me (unlike politics). Sometimes labels are helpful, even though no one likes being labeled ("I'm much too, um, complex for that"). In my case, you can label me a "conservative, born-again Christian" if that's something you understand and relate to (whether you agree with it or not). I believe in moral absolutes, and I look to God to help me make distinctions between right and wrong. I believe in Heaven and Hell as real places (as opposed to, say, Orlando and Las Vegas, which are obviously figments of someone's deranged imagination). I believe this life on earth is but a pale foreshadowing of that to come, and I can take great comfort in an eternal perspective of events that only seem to be unbearable at the present time. This also allows me to ultimately be an optimist, even if I present a very cynical view of events and people. And, finally, I'd very much like for you to have this same optimism (aka peace, love, joy and all those good things that sometimes seem just out of reach). But I won't beat you about the head if you decline.
Computer Platform: I suppose I should have included this under "Theology"...I'm a Mac user, of course.
3:41 PM
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P.F. Floater
I haven't had a lot of great headlines since Wednesday's "BLOATED 'ROSIE," but I do have a nice little nod to P.F. Sloan in today's paper. It's for a "floater"—a photo that's not attached to an article—depicting the singers* Eve, Sting, and Mary J. Blige at the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. Since they were there as a sideline to a night of lingerie-clad models, I went for a triple-pun: "Eve of seduction." My editor added a "The" before it, but the musical reference is still clear.
It's a good feeling to be able to use my media power to honor one of my favorite songwriters. Now, if I can just find a way to work "That's Cool, That's Trash" into a headline...
*None of which deserve bold type.
2:06 PM
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Friday, November 14, 2003
Renee's Walk
My friend Linus's enthusiasm for my Left Banke-related posts got me re-interested in Renee Fladen. I was the first writer to ever publish the last name of the inspiration for "Walk Away Renee,"* as well as the group members' description of her as a beautiful, flaxen-haired dancer—which is why she also inspired the group's other Top 20 hit, "Pretty Ballerina." I was also the first to reveal that she dated members of the Left Banke, but not the group's main songwriter, Michael Brown—which is why she reportedly also inspired still another song from their first album, "She May Call You Up Tonight" (though I can't recall offhand if I ever got Brown to verify that).
A Google search for "Renee Fladen" turned up a two-year-old thread on a Left Banke Yahoo group—which I didn't even know existed (and which has an astonishing 221 members!)—about what happened to Renee. Contrary to what a band member told me about her being a housewife in Philadelphia, according to some Web sites, she now teaches voice (including opera) and is a classical singer in San Francisco under the name Renee Fladen-Kamm.
As far as I could tell, the Yahoo group members never actually contacted Renee themselves; they just found Web pages about her. I'm tempted to contact her, only I don't really have reason to do so other than curiosity, and I don't know what she'd think about my having written of what others claim to have been her personal life (though the details are nearly 40 years old).
But I'd like to think that Renee would look favorably upon me, because I confirmed what she has probably been telling people ever since "Walk Away Renee" first hit in 1966: that it's about her. One of the mentions of her on the Web is from a member of a band called Outgrabe who says the Renee from "Walk Away Renee" was his voice teacher. He wouldn't have known that if she hadn't told him (unless he read my articles, that is), so she must be proud of it.
*I wrote about Renee Fladen in my interview-based articles on the Left Banke that appeared in The Bob (1986) and Goldmine (1987), and also in Bob Shannon and John Javna's book Behind the Hits (1986), for which I provided research assistance.
9:58 PM
Read This Only if You Are My Mother
I think many of my readers* read the satirical publication The Onion regularly and have already seen the fictitious story "Mom Finds Out About Blog," but I just discovered it myself and I know it would make you laugh. While I can't relate to the concept of "blog as excuse to write about drugs and sex"—even if I were doing such things, I wouldn't write about them—and you know I don't curse if I can help it, I think you'll agree there are still some similarities to real life. I practically fell over laughing at the mom's concern that her son "looked tired" in his blog phot
