It's been awhile but some good things have happened.
Our friends, Mark and Anne, had their annual party and we had a blast. It was a New Orleans theme and I had my first piece of alligator. Yes, it tastes like chicken!
Ended up the evening talking about art, movies, especially The Ghost Writer, directed by Roman Polanski. Everyone has just got to see it - everyone, with a brain, that is. And of course, talking about our favorite show, Mad Men, which won the Emmy again, for the third year in a row but the Emmy bigwigs don't seem to understand that the actors are suberb also. At least, they finally gave it to Kyra Sedgwick for The Closer.
Love you Anne and Mark.
I launched my show on area24radio.com called Power and Glory after the Phil Ochs song.
For my readers, my first show was in memory of the great Russian Poet, Andrei Voznesensky with poet, Kenneth Pearson and my second show was on the Iroquois Confederacy with great music provided by Joanne Shenandoah, Grammy Award Winner, and her family and Robbie Robertson and many great Native American Artists. It was really fun.
Since then I have been pounding the pavements. My first interview was a dud while the second was okay. Today, I returned from my third and I'm a bit hopeful. We'll see what happens.
Not one thing I voted for in the last presidential election has come to fruition. Gitmo is still open. The Iraq War, although we're making a show of pulling out, has left the country in a mess and let's not even discuss Afghanistan where more Americans were killed today.
We happened to be in Italy, two years ago. We went for two reasons: one was to show that I had recovered from my mastectomy and the other was that my husband could find his relatives in the Dolomites. Cool on both!
We were at my cousins in Genova when Lehman crashed and my cousins are both reporters and Luigino is the editor of a newspaper. They both turned and said, "Your next president is Obama". In fact, the night he won, after that fabulous speech in Chicago, they called me on the phone and we were all so happy. It was 3:30 AM and we were all so happy.
That was then and this is now. It seems his first priority was the banks and I guess it still is. He has surrounded himself, with the exception of Hillary Clinton, with the worst advisors I can recall, some of them, holdouts from Bush 2, the worst administration in my lifetime.
And so, not only me, but millions are pounding the pavements. And going to Unemployment for help is like going nowhere. They gave me a password to go onto their job site and there were job listings from 2008 and 2009. There's my tax dollars at work.
Perhaps, someone should tell the President. I'm still waiting to see how that health plan is going to benefit my husband and me. Where is it?
So, we decided to do something this weekend to forget everything and we saw Avatar, the extended one, at the IMAX in 3D. It was astonishing and that's how it should have been presented from the inception.
As for last night, I turned off the Emmys when I did not get to see Betty White give her acceptance speech. Got sick of Jimmy Fallon, too. Sorry, Jimmy.
I am in a strange head, a bit of a strange head because I cannot ever remember the United States in such a mess. I know that it's not all Obama's fault. Don't you love the Tea Party Claque, backed by oil money, which is really concerned about them. They want to take their government back. From Whom?
The Republicans are blubbering about the deficit. Well, it's their deficit and their boy, Bush 2 and the real president, Cheney in his bunker, who by the way said "that deficits are unimportant" started this money mess. Clinton handed them a surplus.
So my one question to the tea baggers is "Where were you during the Cheney-Bush Administration?"
I now avoid the corporate news and get my info from Jon Stewart, who also won another Emmy, and Stephen Colbert, who also deserved one and MSNBC. I read the intelligent conservative commentators, of which there are so few, and see such a great divide and feel the country wallowing in hatred, self-hatred, although the self-hatred is being directed at others. We're back to the old cliche of who's really an American.
That's easy: the Native Americans.
The rest of us are all immigrants and the children of immigrants. We are the hyphenated ones.
My show this week is going to be a lot of music that you may have never heard and some anecdotes. So tune in!
Let's stick together and fight the hate that is now calling itself the Republican Party. As for the Democrats, who the hell are you?
I should have voted for Hillary.
We, once again, are living in the age of Thomas Paine, "These are the times that try men's souls". Women, too, Mr. Paine and most of all, children.
As Phil Ochs sang about our country, "Oh, her power shall rest on the strength of her freedom, glory shall rest on us all, on us all".
Let's hope!
Ciao for now!
Monday, August 30, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Tabbie
It is one year since the death of our cat, Tabbie. It hurts as much now as it did then.
We still love you, Tabbie.
We still love you, Tabbie.
From the moment I first saw you, in the closet, in the cardboard box, being ridiculed as stupid, I saw a poor creature that no one wanted.
And when Lou adopted Patch, Mary T. sent you home with him insisting that my mother said that Lou needed two cats for company. My mother, of course, said no such thing.
There we all were with you, a little runt, who cowered with every glance and every caress.
We didn’t have a name for you and so we called you Tabbie.
TabbieRoo - Tabber
Beanie - Beanbag
Eeny of the Beanies - and Tabberini.
You weren’t stupid. You were King of the Yard and won many battles, bringing home much booty. No one had street smarts like you. Often victorious, you always knew where home was and although the street rang with “Tabbie come home”, you would put up a fuss and answer back but you always returned.
You were quite a talker, getting us up every morning to do your bidding. With you around, there was no real need for an alarm clock.
You loved thunderstorms and always sat in the window to catch each bit of action, thunder peals, lightning bolts and raindrops.
You loved your towels and Lou’s shoes and my purses.
You really never asked for anything but we saw the suffering in your eyes. We saw it every time you climbed to the window and looked out at a world that you could no longer have.
So Goodbye, Tabbie.
Be King again. Reign over a kingdom, filled with the best thunderstorms.
May you find the best bush for shelter and observation.
We wish that now you need never cower again and be frightened by every glance and every caress and we send you all the kisses and caresses that we tried to give you, here, on this earth.
But most of all, we wish you peace, little friend, best buddy and all around cool cat.
Vaya con Dios, Tabbie and may the first person you meet be St. Francis of Assisi and you will never fear anything, anymore.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
An Open Letter to the Association of Ass Lickers
I think I've mentioned several times that I was unemployed and grateful, especially when I was able to watch every game of the World Cup.
The circumstances, however, I kept to myself.
Well, tonight, that's over.
I left a job because I was forced out of it. A new administrator was hired to do the ass licking bidding of owners who are only interested in making money for themselves.
Four years ago, when I was hired, the place was a fun place to work and my best friend was there. Shortly after, my friend was promoted Assistant Director of Nursing. Within a month, she lost the position because she didn't fit into the "blonde and blonder" group, this dump's version of an upper echelon.
She was sent back to the floors as a nurse manager, clearly a demotion, and there were weekends when she was the only RN on duty during her shift.
I tried to cheer her on and say that it was only temporary but I really knew better. Last March, she died and a part of me went with her but not far enough from the dump.
I stayed because I needed the money like everyone else. Meantime, a new administrator was hired and I can admit that I never had a "read" on her. She pretended to hate the owners but talked against them every time they came. Yet she did their bidding.
One can only imagine the salary of an ass licker, but a duplicitous ass licker!!!!!
Those of us who are older (and I only admit that in age) knew that the handwriting was on the wall.
However, younger people were fired first because they were making "too much money" or had been there a long time.
Like Phil Ochs, "when I've got something to say, I'm going to say it now".
I did not do the ass licker's bidding and soon realized with all the work being heaped upon me (and it was stupid work, stupid assignments) that my time had come. Some would say, "Let them fire you so you can collect unemployment".
I have always believed in saving myself because you see no one will save you if you don't make the first move.
Tonight, I heard from a friend, a friend I have to admit, that I knew the ass licker would fire. She is a beloved woman, loved by everyone who ever worked with her, unless you're an ass licker.
Her time to leave has come and, probably, been decided upon months ago.
The best part was that she was asked to come in next week and help the new hire. She said "No".
The second best part was that she was asked if she wanted to come back next week so the staff could give her a farewell party.
Ass Licker, this isn't a farewell.
You fired her.
What are you smoking or has all that blonde bleach gone into any brain that you might have had?
All businesses have the right to terminate any employees who do not fulfill their obligations. They also have the right to terminate their employees when they can no longer afford to keep them or their businesses viable.
However, to fire people whose loss destroys the morale of the business working place is not good business.
I don't regret one moment of my decision. After all, I got to watch every game of the World Cup.
I do regret not seeing the people that I cared for and respected for a period of 4 years.
That last statement does not apply to ass lickers.
The Bible says, "This, too, shall pass".
Shakespeare has Hamlet say, "Every dog shall have his day".
And, then, there's Karma.
However, there is something the ass licker might consider especially when she sneaks out early because she fired a beloved employee.
Your owners, and they own you, will find someone to lick their posteriors (and they are massive) and that person will have a longer tongue and do it better than you. And when they find that someone, she will work cheaper than you.
My only question to you, then, will be did the flavor hold up and was it worth it?
The circumstances, however, I kept to myself.
Well, tonight, that's over.
I left a job because I was forced out of it. A new administrator was hired to do the ass licking bidding of owners who are only interested in making money for themselves.
Four years ago, when I was hired, the place was a fun place to work and my best friend was there. Shortly after, my friend was promoted Assistant Director of Nursing. Within a month, she lost the position because she didn't fit into the "blonde and blonder" group, this dump's version of an upper echelon.
She was sent back to the floors as a nurse manager, clearly a demotion, and there were weekends when she was the only RN on duty during her shift.
I tried to cheer her on and say that it was only temporary but I really knew better. Last March, she died and a part of me went with her but not far enough from the dump.
I stayed because I needed the money like everyone else. Meantime, a new administrator was hired and I can admit that I never had a "read" on her. She pretended to hate the owners but talked against them every time they came. Yet she did their bidding.
One can only imagine the salary of an ass licker, but a duplicitous ass licker!!!!!
Those of us who are older (and I only admit that in age) knew that the handwriting was on the wall.
However, younger people were fired first because they were making "too much money" or had been there a long time.
Like Phil Ochs, "when I've got something to say, I'm going to say it now".
I did not do the ass licker's bidding and soon realized with all the work being heaped upon me (and it was stupid work, stupid assignments) that my time had come. Some would say, "Let them fire you so you can collect unemployment".
I have always believed in saving myself because you see no one will save you if you don't make the first move.
Tonight, I heard from a friend, a friend I have to admit, that I knew the ass licker would fire. She is a beloved woman, loved by everyone who ever worked with her, unless you're an ass licker.
Her time to leave has come and, probably, been decided upon months ago.
The best part was that she was asked to come in next week and help the new hire. She said "No".
The second best part was that she was asked if she wanted to come back next week so the staff could give her a farewell party.
Ass Licker, this isn't a farewell.
You fired her.
What are you smoking or has all that blonde bleach gone into any brain that you might have had?
All businesses have the right to terminate any employees who do not fulfill their obligations. They also have the right to terminate their employees when they can no longer afford to keep them or their businesses viable.
However, to fire people whose loss destroys the morale of the business working place is not good business.
I don't regret one moment of my decision. After all, I got to watch every game of the World Cup.
I do regret not seeing the people that I cared for and respected for a period of 4 years.
That last statement does not apply to ass lickers.
The Bible says, "This, too, shall pass".
Shakespeare has Hamlet say, "Every dog shall have his day".
And, then, there's Karma.
However, there is something the ass licker might consider especially when she sneaks out early because she fired a beloved employee.
Your owners, and they own you, will find someone to lick their posteriors (and they are massive) and that person will have a longer tongue and do it better than you. And when they find that someone, she will work cheaper than you.
My only question to you, then, will be did the flavor hold up and was it worth it?
Monday, July 19, 2010
Musings on Andrei and Power and Glory
Welcome to all.
It's been so hot that I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone episode where the world is ending and everyone is cold - but it's really bloody sweltering heat!
If Dante's Inferno really exists, we're already in it.
On to new adventures and, hopefully, an end to this infernal humidity.
On Thursday evening, July 22, 2010, my first show of Power and Glory will debut on area24radio.com from 7PM to 9PM. Once you get to the website, just press in the center and it will take you to the show that is currently playing.
Power and Glory will be a little bit of everything: storytelling, stories that you were never told or taught, music, fun and guests.
The first show is a tribute to Russian poet, Andrei Voznesensky, whose passing was announced on June 1, 2010. My guest for our premiere show is poet Kenneth Pearson.
The sixties and seventies didn't just happen. It was as if everywhere in the world we were all awakening from the nightmare that had been World War II.
Krushchev had announced that Stalin was nothing but a bloody murderer. In the U.S.,we had just passed from the oldest elected president (Dwight Eisenhower) to the youngest elected president (JFK). The tragedy of the assassination pierced us all.
And people of all ages were realizing that our society was not exactly perfect and the War in Vietnam globalized protests against all forms of war everywhere.
I don't believe in nostalgia. I don't believe in glorifying the past. In fact, Andrei entitled one of his books of poetry, Nostalgia for the Present. I like that but the sixties and seventies had traits of a Renaissance when it came to Music, Literature and, certainly, movies.
The Russian people have poetry in their blood and young poets filled arenas like rock stars and they had a lot to say. One of Andrei's poems has the following lines:
Life is a series of burned-out sites.
Nobody escapes the bonfire:
If you live - you burn.
We all felt a lot like that - we were all on fire for whatever cause we supported.
We were young and we were going to change the world.
After all these years, I really don't know what we changed. The capitalistic materialism we allegedly renounced is smothering us all. The U.S. isn't fighting one war: it's fighting two and in certain areas of the country, we are more apart than we have ever been.
And Sony and the Jackson Family sell the songs of the Beatles to anyone who pays them the right price.
But the one thing that remains is the art that we loved and cherished. What remains is what it meant to us.
The one thing that always remains is art, literature, music and our own twentieth century art form: the movies.
There are certain people, always artists, who although we have never met them belong to us. I met Andrei Voznesensky for a brief moment and the autograph he gave me is fading away. His words, however, will never fade away.
And so to all artists out there and all of us who love them, I wish you a glorious goodnight.
Or as Andrei wrote in OZA:
I know that people consist of atoms and particles, just as rainbows consist of shining specks of dust, or as sentences consist of letters. You only have to change the order and your meaning changes.
For me, Maria, it's time to change those shining specks of dust again.
It's time to go in search of new rainbows.
It's been so hot that I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone episode where the world is ending and everyone is cold - but it's really bloody sweltering heat!
If Dante's Inferno really exists, we're already in it.
On to new adventures and, hopefully, an end to this infernal humidity.
On Thursday evening, July 22, 2010, my first show of Power and Glory will debut on area24radio.com from 7PM to 9PM. Once you get to the website, just press in the center and it will take you to the show that is currently playing.
Power and Glory will be a little bit of everything: storytelling, stories that you were never told or taught, music, fun and guests.
The first show is a tribute to Russian poet, Andrei Voznesensky, whose passing was announced on June 1, 2010. My guest for our premiere show is poet Kenneth Pearson.
The sixties and seventies didn't just happen. It was as if everywhere in the world we were all awakening from the nightmare that had been World War II.
Krushchev had announced that Stalin was nothing but a bloody murderer. In the U.S.,we had just passed from the oldest elected president (Dwight Eisenhower) to the youngest elected president (JFK). The tragedy of the assassination pierced us all.
And people of all ages were realizing that our society was not exactly perfect and the War in Vietnam globalized protests against all forms of war everywhere.
I don't believe in nostalgia. I don't believe in glorifying the past. In fact, Andrei entitled one of his books of poetry, Nostalgia for the Present. I like that but the sixties and seventies had traits of a Renaissance when it came to Music, Literature and, certainly, movies.
The Russian people have poetry in their blood and young poets filled arenas like rock stars and they had a lot to say. One of Andrei's poems has the following lines:
Life is a series of burned-out sites.
Nobody escapes the bonfire:
If you live - you burn.
We all felt a lot like that - we were all on fire for whatever cause we supported.
We were young and we were going to change the world.
After all these years, I really don't know what we changed. The capitalistic materialism we allegedly renounced is smothering us all. The U.S. isn't fighting one war: it's fighting two and in certain areas of the country, we are more apart than we have ever been.
And Sony and the Jackson Family sell the songs of the Beatles to anyone who pays them the right price.
But the one thing that remains is the art that we loved and cherished. What remains is what it meant to us.
The one thing that always remains is art, literature, music and our own twentieth century art form: the movies.
There are certain people, always artists, who although we have never met them belong to us. I met Andrei Voznesensky for a brief moment and the autograph he gave me is fading away. His words, however, will never fade away.
And so to all artists out there and all of us who love them, I wish you a glorious goodnight.
Or as Andrei wrote in OZA:
I know that people consist of atoms and particles, just as rainbows consist of shining specks of dust, or as sentences consist of letters. You only have to change the order and your meaning changes.
For me, Maria, it's time to change those shining specks of dust again.
It's time to go in search of new rainbows.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Thoughts on the End of the World Cup
The World Cup has ended and I am disappointed because the best team did not win.
Uruguay and Diego Forlan and his great team deserved the victory. He was awarded The Player of the World Cup Award and, of course, he said that he would not have received it without the entire support of his team. I said it before: the man's a class act.
Viva Uruguay!
As for Spain, my second wish came true in that I hoped that if Italy could not win, then a country that had never won the Cup should win it this time in the continent of "Firsts", Mother Africa.
However, a few truths have to be recognized.
Spain didn't exactly get off to a brilliant start. They were beaten by the Swiss in their first attempt. And, Honduras and Chile were no match for Spain.
They beat Portugal 1-0 and then, Paraguay, who put up quite a fight, by 1-0. The only major team they faced in the entire tournament was Germany and I, frankly, am surprised that they won.
Spain never played Brazil or Argentina or Uruguay. I believe that had they faced any of the latter, they would have been eliminated.
South American soccer is so right-on; European soccer, which is purely defensive, is so boring.
The Uruguay-Germany match was far more exciting than Spain vs. the Netherlands.
Incidentally, who was that Dutch team who took the field on Sunday? A bunch of thugs?
I didn't know that soccer is played by hitting a member of the opposite team in the chest with your foot. Many more red cards should have been given to the Dutch and had the English referee done it from the onset, the game would have been better.
Of course, I watched Univision for the first part of the closing ceremonies and saw Nelson Mandela and his wife in the little golf cart. Mandela's grandson said that the great one was badgered and badgered by FIFA to make an appearance. And he did although he was still in mourning.
Shame on FIFA but when you are as corrupt as FIFA, shame is not in your lexicon.
We watched the game on Channel 7 and had a telephone conference with our friend Paul in Connecticut throughout the whole match. That was fun.
When 4:30 came, however, Channel 7 had to transmit Nascar Angels so I switched back to Univision and saw the players get their medals and the fireworks.
Incidentally, did you catch the manager of the Dutch team after he got his second place medal? He ripped it off his neck and stuffed it into his pocket.
That's the way to act, man! Perhaps, if you hadn't told your team to win by any means, the Netherlands might have won. Most of the time, I thought I was watching a high school wrestling tournament instead of a World Cup game.
My last thoughts on what was accomplished in South Africa:
1.) The unemployment rate is still 25%-30% and so is Spain's.
2.) Millions, if not billions, were spent to build unnecessary stadiums in the shadows of slums.
3.) Regular street merchants with their food and craft stands were placed one kilometer away from all the stadiums. You know who took their places? Coca Cola, McDonalds, etc. Like they need the money! Did you catch all the ads surrounding the playing fields? The changing of colors, the shine and sparkle? That costs a bloody fortune. I wonder how many schools and hospitals and affordable housing could have been made for the poor with those expenditures. Do I really need to see another VISA ad?
4.) The best game of the match was Uruguay vs. Ghana and I hate to tell the Ghana fans but any player would have done what Suarez did by using his hand to offset the goal.
5.) Booing Suarez was stupid and petty.
6.) My friend, the poet, Kenneth Pearson called it for the Netherlands. His dad, also Ken, called it for Spain at 1-0. Congratulations, Dad!
7.) I want to get my hands on that octopus and see if he can predict the lotto numbers for me.
All in all, it was fun and I honor the memory of my father who took me to my first games when I was a teenager and fell in love with the sport and the camaraderie in the stands. We used to go to Randall's Island and is was like being with family.
I never dreamed in my life that I would see every game of a World Cup and so I have to thank my unemployment, ESPN, Univision and Channel 7.
Incidentally, the best commercial of the World Cup belongs to Geico who showed that even a chess match can be exciting if Andres is reporting it and yelling out "GOAL".
May we all be better off in 2014 in Brazil and may this begin today.
Peace and Love and Viva Uruguay and Diego Forlan.
Uruguay and Diego Forlan and his great team deserved the victory. He was awarded The Player of the World Cup Award and, of course, he said that he would not have received it without the entire support of his team. I said it before: the man's a class act.
Viva Uruguay!
As for Spain, my second wish came true in that I hoped that if Italy could not win, then a country that had never won the Cup should win it this time in the continent of "Firsts", Mother Africa.
However, a few truths have to be recognized.
Spain didn't exactly get off to a brilliant start. They were beaten by the Swiss in their first attempt. And, Honduras and Chile were no match for Spain.
They beat Portugal 1-0 and then, Paraguay, who put up quite a fight, by 1-0. The only major team they faced in the entire tournament was Germany and I, frankly, am surprised that they won.
Spain never played Brazil or Argentina or Uruguay. I believe that had they faced any of the latter, they would have been eliminated.
South American soccer is so right-on; European soccer, which is purely defensive, is so boring.
The Uruguay-Germany match was far more exciting than Spain vs. the Netherlands.
Incidentally, who was that Dutch team who took the field on Sunday? A bunch of thugs?
I didn't know that soccer is played by hitting a member of the opposite team in the chest with your foot. Many more red cards should have been given to the Dutch and had the English referee done it from the onset, the game would have been better.
Of course, I watched Univision for the first part of the closing ceremonies and saw Nelson Mandela and his wife in the little golf cart. Mandela's grandson said that the great one was badgered and badgered by FIFA to make an appearance. And he did although he was still in mourning.
Shame on FIFA but when you are as corrupt as FIFA, shame is not in your lexicon.
We watched the game on Channel 7 and had a telephone conference with our friend Paul in Connecticut throughout the whole match. That was fun.
When 4:30 came, however, Channel 7 had to transmit Nascar Angels so I switched back to Univision and saw the players get their medals and the fireworks.
Incidentally, did you catch the manager of the Dutch team after he got his second place medal? He ripped it off his neck and stuffed it into his pocket.
That's the way to act, man! Perhaps, if you hadn't told your team to win by any means, the Netherlands might have won. Most of the time, I thought I was watching a high school wrestling tournament instead of a World Cup game.
My last thoughts on what was accomplished in South Africa:
1.) The unemployment rate is still 25%-30% and so is Spain's.
2.) Millions, if not billions, were spent to build unnecessary stadiums in the shadows of slums.
3.) Regular street merchants with their food and craft stands were placed one kilometer away from all the stadiums. You know who took their places? Coca Cola, McDonalds, etc. Like they need the money! Did you catch all the ads surrounding the playing fields? The changing of colors, the shine and sparkle? That costs a bloody fortune. I wonder how many schools and hospitals and affordable housing could have been made for the poor with those expenditures. Do I really need to see another VISA ad?
4.) The best game of the match was Uruguay vs. Ghana and I hate to tell the Ghana fans but any player would have done what Suarez did by using his hand to offset the goal.
5.) Booing Suarez was stupid and petty.
6.) My friend, the poet, Kenneth Pearson called it for the Netherlands. His dad, also Ken, called it for Spain at 1-0. Congratulations, Dad!
7.) I want to get my hands on that octopus and see if he can predict the lotto numbers for me.
All in all, it was fun and I honor the memory of my father who took me to my first games when I was a teenager and fell in love with the sport and the camaraderie in the stands. We used to go to Randall's Island and is was like being with family.
I never dreamed in my life that I would see every game of a World Cup and so I have to thank my unemployment, ESPN, Univision and Channel 7.
Incidentally, the best commercial of the World Cup belongs to Geico who showed that even a chess match can be exciting if Andres is reporting it and yelling out "GOAL".
May we all be better off in 2014 in Brazil and may this begin today.
Peace and Love and Viva Uruguay and Diego Forlan.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
The Octopus is Paul
Happy Birthday to Ringo Starr, even if I am one day late.
Peace and Love to All.
Anyone of my generation has a Beatles' Story and, of course, I'm no exception.
When I was 18, my father took me to Italy to introduce me to his homeland and to his friends and relatives. Pop was born in Sampierdarena which is part of Genova.
I do recall the happy times meeting all the strangers, some of whom, looked like me or rather, I looked like them. It was great to see one's own face and to feel part of a people and a country.
Having grown up in the America of Madmen, that is, the blondes like Grace Kelly and Marilyn Monroe, I never did really feel as if I fit in anywhere. Italy, however, was home and my father was a different person there, rediscovering what he had left behind. Perhaps, I felt that, too, but there were times when he was still the same old crank. At 18, I could not understand what he had also lost.
There were ten years between my father and his brother, my uncle, Zio Andrea. My grandmother had lost 5 children between them. My father was drafted when my uncle was just 13 and he did not see him again until 1960. I wasn't on that trip but I guess, now, they were brothers in name only and that's not an insult to either of them.
War had separated them and it separated them forever.
There was tension between them and I couldn't wait to leave Genova and return to Rome where my father's friends were. The Rosetti's are a great family and to this day Sandra and Roberto and I are still friends, as close as brother and sister. In fact, I sent Roberto his first Bob Dylan record when Dylan was unknown in Italy, but that's another story.
Back to dying to leave Genova: we were all set to go and the Beatles came to town. My uncle, was a journalist and he knew, not my father, that an 18 year old would give her wisdom teeth (if she had any) to see the Beatles. He got tickets for me and my cousins and the trip to Rome was postponed for a few days.
I still remember that Saturday night. The theatre was small and there were no girls crying, screaming or pulling out their hair. You could actually hear the Beatles and their songs. Paul learned a few Italian words and everyone was shouting and thrilled each time he spoke.
My cousins were so happy and we were on our feet the entire time. They kept hugging me because they knew they never would have seen the Beatles if I had not wanted to stay and begged my uncle to intercede. I had a family at last.
I retain my ticket that says Beatles: Genova and my souvenir program and an Italian LP of the Beatles. The feeling, however, of being part of a family is still with me in memory only.
The last time I saw my cousins they were now married with adult children of their own. The first words to escape their lips was "Do you remember when we saw the Beatles?"
I always will.
I shall also always remember the father who took me to his homeland and the uncle who, for one moment in time, made his 18 year old niece's dream come true.
Happy Birthday, Ringo!
Many, many more - making music.
Incidentally, the psychic octopus of the World Cup has a name.
The octopus is Paul.
Peace and Love to All.
Anyone of my generation has a Beatles' Story and, of course, I'm no exception.
When I was 18, my father took me to Italy to introduce me to his homeland and to his friends and relatives. Pop was born in Sampierdarena which is part of Genova.
I do recall the happy times meeting all the strangers, some of whom, looked like me or rather, I looked like them. It was great to see one's own face and to feel part of a people and a country.
Having grown up in the America of Madmen, that is, the blondes like Grace Kelly and Marilyn Monroe, I never did really feel as if I fit in anywhere. Italy, however, was home and my father was a different person there, rediscovering what he had left behind. Perhaps, I felt that, too, but there were times when he was still the same old crank. At 18, I could not understand what he had also lost.
There were ten years between my father and his brother, my uncle, Zio Andrea. My grandmother had lost 5 children between them. My father was drafted when my uncle was just 13 and he did not see him again until 1960. I wasn't on that trip but I guess, now, they were brothers in name only and that's not an insult to either of them.
War had separated them and it separated them forever.
There was tension between them and I couldn't wait to leave Genova and return to Rome where my father's friends were. The Rosetti's are a great family and to this day Sandra and Roberto and I are still friends, as close as brother and sister. In fact, I sent Roberto his first Bob Dylan record when Dylan was unknown in Italy, but that's another story.
Back to dying to leave Genova: we were all set to go and the Beatles came to town. My uncle, was a journalist and he knew, not my father, that an 18 year old would give her wisdom teeth (if she had any) to see the Beatles. He got tickets for me and my cousins and the trip to Rome was postponed for a few days.
I still remember that Saturday night. The theatre was small and there were no girls crying, screaming or pulling out their hair. You could actually hear the Beatles and their songs. Paul learned a few Italian words and everyone was shouting and thrilled each time he spoke.
My cousins were so happy and we were on our feet the entire time. They kept hugging me because they knew they never would have seen the Beatles if I had not wanted to stay and begged my uncle to intercede. I had a family at last.
I retain my ticket that says Beatles: Genova and my souvenir program and an Italian LP of the Beatles. The feeling, however, of being part of a family is still with me in memory only.
The last time I saw my cousins they were now married with adult children of their own. The first words to escape their lips was "Do you remember when we saw the Beatles?"
I always will.
I shall also always remember the father who took me to his homeland and the uncle who, for one moment in time, made his 18 year old niece's dream come true.
Happy Birthday, Ringo!
Many, many more - making music.
Incidentally, the psychic octopus of the World Cup has a name.
The octopus is Paul.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
World Cup, Ken and the German Octopus
Now that I've seen every qualifying game, quarterfinal and semifinal, we're ready for the big games on Saturday and Sunday: Uruguay vs. Germany and Spain vs. the Netherlands.
I should have listened from the getgo to my friend and favorite poet, Kenny Pearson, who told me that the final was going to be Spain vs. the Netherlands. I might have even won my nephew's office pool except that I'm still not certain of the final outcome: Spain? The Netherlands?
Well, I did get one of my wishes anyway. I hoped that if Italy or Argentina could not win, then a nation that had never claimed the Cup would be the winner. We have that now. Can you imagine how exciting it is right now to be in Spain or the Netherlands? The parties have already started.
And we have the World Cup being staged in Mother Africa which is a first. And we have the outcome of Spain and the Netherlands: another first!
However, I do have to say a word about Diego Forlan and Uruguay. I knew nothing about him or the team but every game that Uruguay played, especially the last one with Ghana, was fabulous.
Diego Forlan is a class act and so is Uruguay. Good Luck on Saturday, guys!
As for today's game, my favorite part preceded the game. One of the ESPN commentators (and they even had a clip of it) told the story of the German octopus. It seems that there is this huge octopus in some store or restaurant in Germany and they placed two boxes with clams in the cage with it before each match that Germany played.
One box had the German flag while the other had their opponent of the day's flag. Well, each game that octopus picked the winner. And, today, before the game, the octopus chose Spain.
The octopus got it right. If only I had that octopus for my nephew's office pool.
As for soccer, "the beautiful game", every four years it unites the world (except for one nation). Years ago, a British historian wrote that the nations of Europe no longer need to go to war with each other: they have soccer and they can battle it out on the football fields and at the World Cup.
Wouldn't that be great for everyone?
We could set up giant screens in piazzas everywhere and miss work, just like they've been doing all over the world to support our team. Maybe, we could spend billions on our people and not on wars. This is and would be Nationalism at its best.
On the local level, however, we have a journalist who writes for the local paper who was bored by the games and the World Cup. He had lists and lists and lists of what he didn't like. However, he forgot to list the two key elements that make soccer unpalatable for the United States.
It's a World Game. The whole world plays it, number one, and we don't play well with others. We don't know how to play the game and if we can't play the game, then, we can't win. And that's all the U.S. is ever interested in accomplishing, number two, winning, that is.
Now, I believe that each of us has the right to his or her opinion, even this local scribbler. However, to denigrate something because you do not understand it or do not like it is not exactly the highest form of intelligence. As Wiley Miller wrote in "Non Sequitur", "Stupid is a condition. Ignorance is a choice".
With all the horror going on, it's just wonderful to able to forget one's surroundings and problems of the day, even if it's just for 90 minutes.
Now, this brings me back to our American Soccer Team. One iota of advice: the game is played for 90 minutes and consists of two 45 minute sessions. You cannot expect to win if you only play the second half. Next time, try playing the entire game.
On the personal level, I send all my love and good thoughts to my friend, Paul. Last Thursday, his mother died and although she's passed from this world, she will always be a part of him and his life.
Love never dies, after all.
And on that note, I wish everyone a good night.
These past few days have been as hot as the proverbial Hades.
So turn off the corporate news and the lying infotainers who make millions a week by spreading hate and turn on Seinfeld reruns and laugh. If you're a murder mystery fan, that's okay, too.
If you have someone you love near you, cherish them.
If someone is not with you, think of that person and remember the good things.
Have an Italian Ice and fall asleep watching the television reruns.
Tomorrow, we will be just two days away from the big games and the end of the work week.
That thought alone should get us through the night.
And one more thing, Happy Birthday, Ringo Starr!
You were part of my youth and still part of my life. I love you, Ringo.
I should have listened from the getgo to my friend and favorite poet, Kenny Pearson, who told me that the final was going to be Spain vs. the Netherlands. I might have even won my nephew's office pool except that I'm still not certain of the final outcome: Spain? The Netherlands?
Well, I did get one of my wishes anyway. I hoped that if Italy or Argentina could not win, then a nation that had never claimed the Cup would be the winner. We have that now. Can you imagine how exciting it is right now to be in Spain or the Netherlands? The parties have already started.
And we have the World Cup being staged in Mother Africa which is a first. And we have the outcome of Spain and the Netherlands: another first!
However, I do have to say a word about Diego Forlan and Uruguay. I knew nothing about him or the team but every game that Uruguay played, especially the last one with Ghana, was fabulous.
Diego Forlan is a class act and so is Uruguay. Good Luck on Saturday, guys!
As for today's game, my favorite part preceded the game. One of the ESPN commentators (and they even had a clip of it) told the story of the German octopus. It seems that there is this huge octopus in some store or restaurant in Germany and they placed two boxes with clams in the cage with it before each match that Germany played.
One box had the German flag while the other had their opponent of the day's flag. Well, each game that octopus picked the winner. And, today, before the game, the octopus chose Spain.
The octopus got it right. If only I had that octopus for my nephew's office pool.
As for soccer, "the beautiful game", every four years it unites the world (except for one nation). Years ago, a British historian wrote that the nations of Europe no longer need to go to war with each other: they have soccer and they can battle it out on the football fields and at the World Cup.
Wouldn't that be great for everyone?
We could set up giant screens in piazzas everywhere and miss work, just like they've been doing all over the world to support our team. Maybe, we could spend billions on our people and not on wars. This is and would be Nationalism at its best.
On the local level, however, we have a journalist who writes for the local paper who was bored by the games and the World Cup. He had lists and lists and lists of what he didn't like. However, he forgot to list the two key elements that make soccer unpalatable for the United States.
It's a World Game. The whole world plays it, number one, and we don't play well with others. We don't know how to play the game and if we can't play the game, then, we can't win. And that's all the U.S. is ever interested in accomplishing, number two, winning, that is.
Now, I believe that each of us has the right to his or her opinion, even this local scribbler. However, to denigrate something because you do not understand it or do not like it is not exactly the highest form of intelligence. As Wiley Miller wrote in "Non Sequitur", "Stupid is a condition. Ignorance is a choice".
With all the horror going on, it's just wonderful to able to forget one's surroundings and problems of the day, even if it's just for 90 minutes.
Now, this brings me back to our American Soccer Team. One iota of advice: the game is played for 90 minutes and consists of two 45 minute sessions. You cannot expect to win if you only play the second half. Next time, try playing the entire game.
On the personal level, I send all my love and good thoughts to my friend, Paul. Last Thursday, his mother died and although she's passed from this world, she will always be a part of him and his life.
Love never dies, after all.
And on that note, I wish everyone a good night.
These past few days have been as hot as the proverbial Hades.
So turn off the corporate news and the lying infotainers who make millions a week by spreading hate and turn on Seinfeld reruns and laugh. If you're a murder mystery fan, that's okay, too.
If you have someone you love near you, cherish them.
If someone is not with you, think of that person and remember the good things.
Have an Italian Ice and fall asleep watching the television reruns.
Tomorrow, we will be just two days away from the big games and the end of the work week.
That thought alone should get us through the night.
And one more thing, Happy Birthday, Ringo Starr!
You were part of my youth and still part of my life. I love you, Ringo.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Edward
I was going to write about the World Cup results but something else happened today.
My dear friend, Marion, called and told me that someone we both knew had died. We don't know the circumstances of his death and I don't care if I ever know them. I just know that he's gone.
I hadn't seen Edward in years.
Our first meeting was at Bobbie's house over a wonderful dinner. There were always wonderful meals, good company and even better conversations at Bobbie's.
That's where I first met Edward. He was shy and sweet but when I told him I was Italian, he started relating tales of his first visit to Italy.
He was trekking through Umbria and a group of Franciscans stopped their car and offered him a ride. Edward took them up on the proposition and they brought him to their monastery and offered him lodgings.
He told them that he was Jewish and they replied, "So was Jesus".
Edward had a wonderful time.
Our extended families always met at Bobbie's (Marion's Mom) and again the food and the conversation were always the best. We were Jews, Italians, Irish, etc. but at Bobbie's house, we were all a part of Bobbie and Irwin's family.
Well, time and life have a way of breaking up the best intentions and the best gatherings.
Bobbie and Irwin moved to North Carolina because Burlington had moved their headquarters and Irwin was the only New Yorker they brought with them.
We kept in touch through the phone, back and forth, but it wasn't the same.
Bobbie was like a mother to me and had always been there for me. I'd arrive at her house, not needing any sort of appointment) to discuss my latest tales of woe. She always listened and when she gave advice there was no criticism attached to it.
I missed her terribly.
In the interim, my parents died and just when Bobbie and Irwin were about to return to NY, she got sick. They lived with Marion and her family but Bobbie's diabetes worsened. Although she never complained, and she had reason to complain, her great heart was still open to all of us.
After her death, I started to write a book about mothers: my mother and all the women I had known who had been an inspiration to me. It's a book about their lives and their sayings, their own words of wisdom and it's entitled Mama Says: When A Wolf Is Chasing You, Throw Him A Biscuit But Don't Stop To Bake Him A Cake.
Well, with no money for publicity and no book distribution, my husband and I independently traveled to Book Conventions and to local bookstores.
It was fun, especially when we sold out but it was awful when at some of the bookstores, no one even stopped by our table. I guess they were afraid that if they spoke to me, they would be obliged to buy a book.
I still recall our first appearance at BEA in Chicago. I was quite hesitant but I started talking to a Buddhist nun who put me at immediate ease. As the book was being given away for free and our dear friend, Fruteland Jackson, the great Blues singer was going to accompany me, the nun assured me that all would go well. I'll never forget her words, "The book is free and Americans are grabbers".
One night, we were at Borders and a few people stopped and then ran away as fast as they could so we knew it was going to be one of those awful gigs.
Suddenly, I looked up and there was Edward. We hadn't seen him in years but there was the same shyness and the same sweet smile. He sat down and he picked up the book, leafed through it and saw the chapter on Bobbie.
We were so glad to see each other that it didn't matter that no one else came. We picked up right where we had left off so many years before. It was just like being back at Bobbie's and time flew and it was actually one of my best book tour stops, although I only sold one book.
I wanted to give it to Edward but he bought it. We gave him our phone number and told him to stop by but he never did.
A great writer, possibly Stephen Crane, (I can't remember now), once wrote that "most people live quiet lives of desperation".
With all the noise around us, it's difficult to hone into those quiet lives and with all that's happening to us, we become part of that noise, too.
There are scientists who believe that we live in parallel universes.
I hope that's true. I also hope that acts of kindness, somewhere, reward us for all the cruelties that happen to us in this world.
Edward, my friend, you walked in and out of my life and I choose to keep the memories of you in my life.
Somewhere, however, in a parallel universe, you are trekking through the hills of Umbria and having the time of your life.
Shalom, my friend.
My dear friend, Marion, called and told me that someone we both knew had died. We don't know the circumstances of his death and I don't care if I ever know them. I just know that he's gone.
I hadn't seen Edward in years.
Our first meeting was at Bobbie's house over a wonderful dinner. There were always wonderful meals, good company and even better conversations at Bobbie's.
That's where I first met Edward. He was shy and sweet but when I told him I was Italian, he started relating tales of his first visit to Italy.
He was trekking through Umbria and a group of Franciscans stopped their car and offered him a ride. Edward took them up on the proposition and they brought him to their monastery and offered him lodgings.
He told them that he was Jewish and they replied, "So was Jesus".
Edward had a wonderful time.
Our extended families always met at Bobbie's (Marion's Mom) and again the food and the conversation were always the best. We were Jews, Italians, Irish, etc. but at Bobbie's house, we were all a part of Bobbie and Irwin's family.
Well, time and life have a way of breaking up the best intentions and the best gatherings.
Bobbie and Irwin moved to North Carolina because Burlington had moved their headquarters and Irwin was the only New Yorker they brought with them.
We kept in touch through the phone, back and forth, but it wasn't the same.
Bobbie was like a mother to me and had always been there for me. I'd arrive at her house, not needing any sort of appointment) to discuss my latest tales of woe. She always listened and when she gave advice there was no criticism attached to it.
I missed her terribly.
In the interim, my parents died and just when Bobbie and Irwin were about to return to NY, she got sick. They lived with Marion and her family but Bobbie's diabetes worsened. Although she never complained, and she had reason to complain, her great heart was still open to all of us.
After her death, I started to write a book about mothers: my mother and all the women I had known who had been an inspiration to me. It's a book about their lives and their sayings, their own words of wisdom and it's entitled Mama Says: When A Wolf Is Chasing You, Throw Him A Biscuit But Don't Stop To Bake Him A Cake.
Well, with no money for publicity and no book distribution, my husband and I independently traveled to Book Conventions and to local bookstores.
It was fun, especially when we sold out but it was awful when at some of the bookstores, no one even stopped by our table. I guess they were afraid that if they spoke to me, they would be obliged to buy a book.
I still recall our first appearance at BEA in Chicago. I was quite hesitant but I started talking to a Buddhist nun who put me at immediate ease. As the book was being given away for free and our dear friend, Fruteland Jackson, the great Blues singer was going to accompany me, the nun assured me that all would go well. I'll never forget her words, "The book is free and Americans are grabbers".
One night, we were at Borders and a few people stopped and then ran away as fast as they could so we knew it was going to be one of those awful gigs.
Suddenly, I looked up and there was Edward. We hadn't seen him in years but there was the same shyness and the same sweet smile. He sat down and he picked up the book, leafed through it and saw the chapter on Bobbie.
We were so glad to see each other that it didn't matter that no one else came. We picked up right where we had left off so many years before. It was just like being back at Bobbie's and time flew and it was actually one of my best book tour stops, although I only sold one book.
I wanted to give it to Edward but he bought it. We gave him our phone number and told him to stop by but he never did.
A great writer, possibly Stephen Crane, (I can't remember now), once wrote that "most people live quiet lives of desperation".
With all the noise around us, it's difficult to hone into those quiet lives and with all that's happening to us, we become part of that noise, too.
There are scientists who believe that we live in parallel universes.
I hope that's true. I also hope that acts of kindness, somewhere, reward us for all the cruelties that happen to us in this world.
Edward, my friend, you walked in and out of my life and I choose to keep the memories of you in my life.
Somewhere, however, in a parallel universe, you are trekking through the hills of Umbria and having the time of your life.
Shalom, my friend.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Thursday Thoughts
It's been a few days since I wrote my thoughts of the day or night.
The World Cup has been tremendously exciting and am just thrilled that the U.S. has advanced to the next round. On the other hand, I am very disappointed that Italy chose to put together a team that was not a team. Like the French, their coach was on his last legs and their best player was in Italy and not even assigned to the team.
In 1996, the Italians were pelted with rotten fruit when they arrived home. I wonder what delights await them this time.
Back to the excitement, however. It is great to see nations like Paraguay, Mexico, South Korea, Ghana and Japan advance. It, now, truly is a World Cup.
In between the games, I am reading my stacks of books that have been waiting for me.
When I was employed in my heinous job, I didn't have the chance to even peruse their tables of content let alone read them. I would come home so exhausted that I didn't want to do anything except put on the television and fall asleep to the babblings of the infotainers.
Just finished Sherman Alexie's The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. It's a teen book and I would recommend it to all English teachers for their classes. Doesn't sugar coat anything and certainly not life on the reservation or the poverty or the alcoholism but like all great writers, you get to love the characters.
First discovered Sherman Alexie with a fantastic book called Indian Killer. Then, my husband and I had the luck to meet him at the Chicago and New York Book Expos. Great writer and a great guy and I predict a future winner of the Nobel Prize.
Now, I guess, still in honor of Father's Day, I'm tackling the 640 page biography (tackling is the right word) biography of Eugene O'Neill entitled Life With Monte Cristo.
Arthur and Barbara Gelb had previously written about O'Neill but years later they were able to interview more people and to uncover more sources and writings. They determined to rewrite their former biography. That's a task and a half.
The last thing O'Neill asked of his fourth wife, Carlotta, was to release "Long Day's Journey Into Night" 25 years after his death. The other proviso was that it never be staged.
Thank God that she had a mind and will of her own. Although, O'Neill is the only American Playwright to win the Nobel Prize, by the time of his death, his plays were no longer being produced. Twenty five years would have placed him in oblivion.
It took that magic and sublime combination of Carlotta, Jose Quintero and Jason Robards, Jr. to return the words of a genius to a time that was so in need of them.
So, returning to the theme of Father's Day, it was my father, again, who introduced me to Eugene O'Neill.
We had a restaurant for one year and we failed because we were ahead of our time and the location sucked.
Of course, there was a bar. In the bar, there was the ever present television, black and white, of course and for one week (when I was 13, that magical 13) they were advertising an upcoming play to be televised for the first time.
My father was born in Italy and always trying to learn about American and English Culture. When I was 8, and came home from school crying because my fellow schoolmates, made fun of my father's accent, he plopped me in front of the television one night.
He was on his way to work but the ever present Million Dollar Movie was showing Laurence Olivier's "Hamlet" for the entire week. As he was running out the door, he said to me, "I may not be able to speak English, but he can - so listen to him and learn".
I did.
And, now, there was another moment for learning.
I went upstairs to our small black and white TV and left the drunks at the bar. I traded in our drunks for O'Neill's drunks.
The play was "The Iceman Cometh" and my first introduction to both O'Neill and Jason Robards, Jr.
Although, I can honestly say that I watched the entire play and was mesmerized, I don't think I could tell you what it was completely about. However, it was my first introduction to denial and I can still recall the sound of the young man who kills himself and the sight of Larry, the philosopher, at the corner table who still denies that the young man is his son. And all the other characters of Harry Hope's saloon who just wallow in their own fantasies.
Years later, Jason Robards, Jr. reprised the role of Hickey, the salesman and Mom and I went to see the new production. To be in the theatre, on this occasion, wasn't just part of being an audience member. Each of us was a denizen of Harry Hope's Saloon and as we left, shaken yet exhilarated, I wondered how many of us were still clinging to our delusions.
When I was a child, I always held on to the delusion that through my prayers or some divine intervention, my brother would be cured of his brain damage. Or short of prayers, the Blue Fairy would come and make him a real boy. My brother, my twin, died when we were 28. No prayers and no Blue Fairy ever released him from pain. Death released him.
I was grateful to Death. My mother, however, never saw my brother for what he was. For her, he was fine and, perhaps, the only person in her life who gave her unconditional love. She never ceased to grieve for him. Perhaps, we all carry a bit of Harry Hope's Saloon in us.
The greatest American works of art deal with "Family"; certainly, the plays do. From O'Neill through Arthur Miller to Tennessee Williams to Edward Albee, the concept of family has been grabbed, like some giant tree, by both hands and shaken to its last leaf.
As Carlotta O'Neill once said, "The Past is the Present" and as O'Neill said through Mary Tyrone, (his mother in Long Day's Journey) "None of us can help the things that life has done to us".
I think we can. We can never forget them but I think we can accept them. Then, we have to move on.
They are always with us, always lurking behind us, in the shadows. The trick is to just keep on walking and not to look back.
Good night and on to the next games.
The World Cup has been tremendously exciting and am just thrilled that the U.S. has advanced to the next round. On the other hand, I am very disappointed that Italy chose to put together a team that was not a team. Like the French, their coach was on his last legs and their best player was in Italy and not even assigned to the team.
In 1996, the Italians were pelted with rotten fruit when they arrived home. I wonder what delights await them this time.
Back to the excitement, however. It is great to see nations like Paraguay, Mexico, South Korea, Ghana and Japan advance. It, now, truly is a World Cup.
In between the games, I am reading my stacks of books that have been waiting for me.
When I was employed in my heinous job, I didn't have the chance to even peruse their tables of content let alone read them. I would come home so exhausted that I didn't want to do anything except put on the television and fall asleep to the babblings of the infotainers.
Just finished Sherman Alexie's The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. It's a teen book and I would recommend it to all English teachers for their classes. Doesn't sugar coat anything and certainly not life on the reservation or the poverty or the alcoholism but like all great writers, you get to love the characters.
First discovered Sherman Alexie with a fantastic book called Indian Killer. Then, my husband and I had the luck to meet him at the Chicago and New York Book Expos. Great writer and a great guy and I predict a future winner of the Nobel Prize.
Now, I guess, still in honor of Father's Day, I'm tackling the 640 page biography (tackling is the right word) biography of Eugene O'Neill entitled Life With Monte Cristo.
Arthur and Barbara Gelb had previously written about O'Neill but years later they were able to interview more people and to uncover more sources and writings. They determined to rewrite their former biography. That's a task and a half.
The last thing O'Neill asked of his fourth wife, Carlotta, was to release "Long Day's Journey Into Night" 25 years after his death. The other proviso was that it never be staged.
Thank God that she had a mind and will of her own. Although, O'Neill is the only American Playwright to win the Nobel Prize, by the time of his death, his plays were no longer being produced. Twenty five years would have placed him in oblivion.
It took that magic and sublime combination of Carlotta, Jose Quintero and Jason Robards, Jr. to return the words of a genius to a time that was so in need of them.
So, returning to the theme of Father's Day, it was my father, again, who introduced me to Eugene O'Neill.
We had a restaurant for one year and we failed because we were ahead of our time and the location sucked.
Of course, there was a bar. In the bar, there was the ever present television, black and white, of course and for one week (when I was 13, that magical 13) they were advertising an upcoming play to be televised for the first time.
My father was born in Italy and always trying to learn about American and English Culture. When I was 8, and came home from school crying because my fellow schoolmates, made fun of my father's accent, he plopped me in front of the television one night.
He was on his way to work but the ever present Million Dollar Movie was showing Laurence Olivier's "Hamlet" for the entire week. As he was running out the door, he said to me, "I may not be able to speak English, but he can - so listen to him and learn".
I did.
And, now, there was another moment for learning.
I went upstairs to our small black and white TV and left the drunks at the bar. I traded in our drunks for O'Neill's drunks.
The play was "The Iceman Cometh" and my first introduction to both O'Neill and Jason Robards, Jr.
Although, I can honestly say that I watched the entire play and was mesmerized, I don't think I could tell you what it was completely about. However, it was my first introduction to denial and I can still recall the sound of the young man who kills himself and the sight of Larry, the philosopher, at the corner table who still denies that the young man is his son. And all the other characters of Harry Hope's saloon who just wallow in their own fantasies.
Years later, Jason Robards, Jr. reprised the role of Hickey, the salesman and Mom and I went to see the new production. To be in the theatre, on this occasion, wasn't just part of being an audience member. Each of us was a denizen of Harry Hope's Saloon and as we left, shaken yet exhilarated, I wondered how many of us were still clinging to our delusions.
When I was a child, I always held on to the delusion that through my prayers or some divine intervention, my brother would be cured of his brain damage. Or short of prayers, the Blue Fairy would come and make him a real boy. My brother, my twin, died when we were 28. No prayers and no Blue Fairy ever released him from pain. Death released him.
I was grateful to Death. My mother, however, never saw my brother for what he was. For her, he was fine and, perhaps, the only person in her life who gave her unconditional love. She never ceased to grieve for him. Perhaps, we all carry a bit of Harry Hope's Saloon in us.
The greatest American works of art deal with "Family"; certainly, the plays do. From O'Neill through Arthur Miller to Tennessee Williams to Edward Albee, the concept of family has been grabbed, like some giant tree, by both hands and shaken to its last leaf.
As Carlotta O'Neill once said, "The Past is the Present" and as O'Neill said through Mary Tyrone, (his mother in Long Day's Journey) "None of us can help the things that life has done to us".
I think we can. We can never forget them but I think we can accept them. Then, we have to move on.
They are always with us, always lurking behind us, in the shadows. The trick is to just keep on walking and not to look back.
Good night and on to the next games.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
My King
In speaking and remembering the passing of friends and people (although never met) who have influenced my life, I came across the newest issue of Vanity Fair with the beautiful Elizabeth Taylor on the cover.
It seems that now she has decided to release some of the letters sent to her by Richard Burton.
All of us of a certain age remember the tremendous scandal when Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor ran from their respective spouses and ran off with each other. It was the love affair of the era.
When Richard Burton died, there were many critics who said that he had wasted his talents by relinquishing the theatre for million dollar movie roles starring "Liz and Dick".
The one thing that remains certain in life is that no matter what decisions we choose, there will always be those who will criticize. The choice or decision has no relevance; the criticism will always be there.
For me, Richard Burton was a King.
As a child, I had one real friend.
The rest of my time was spent with my books, dreaming of the adventures that I would have when I was grown. I couldn't wait to grow up for there were no adventures to be had in our small town except for re-enacting in our neighborhood swamp every movie that we devoured on "Million Dollar Movie".
Directly across the street was the home of Edna and Clyde Wilson. Mrs. Wilson was crippled with arthritis yet she never complained. The only drawback was that she had this awful boxer, Suzie, who never actually attached me; she just drooled all over me.
Mrs. Wilson, like my mother was another staunch New Englander and my mother would send me there to help her. We soon realized that we both shared a passion for books and she became more of a help to me than I ever was to her.
Because she had a beautiful New England accent, she would have me read aloud poems and Shakespearian verse and gently correct my diction. It was at her feet that I first learned about King Arthur and Camelot.
I can still recall reading "The Idylls of the King" with her and running across the lines that described Sir Galahad:
"My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure".
Many a rainy afternoon, that little house became the setting for legends, myths, damsels in distress, heroes and villains. In those moments, even Suzie' sat still and I did not have to contend with any drool.
My own home was often a center of sadness. My twin brother was brain damaged and any dreams my mother and father may have had were put on hold in caring for both of us. I, of course, always believed that I got the short end of things so whenever I could escape, I would bolt.
But escape meant only three places: the home of my best friend, Mrs. Wilson's house, and the library.
Every week, I would carry a bag and walk to the library with two paper cards: one for Mrs. Wilson and one for me.
She delighted in mysteries and I just grabbed anything that looked like it was an epic. With both cards, hand stamped, I would make my way home.
There is no joy quite like opening a book and losing yourself within its pages.
Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table and Robin Hood were my first heroes. I certainly spoke enough about them to the annoyance of everyone. I felt I knew them. I made them a part of my lonely life.
Yet, when I was 13, an amazing thing happened. The world, at least what I knew of it, was catching up with me.
Alan Lerner and Frederick Loewe followed their hit "My Fair Lady" with a new show called "Camelot". It wasn't an immediate smash but on Sunday Ed Sullivan had the cast on his show and all of America tuned in to Ed Sullivan.
The next day there were lines around the theatre for tickets.
My father, who had once been my childhood hero had begun to be a distant creature to me. Yet, he was one of those people who stood on line.
When he came home and announced that he had bought the tickets for us, I was astonished. I thought that he had tuned me out of his life and never listened to a thing I said except to yell at me. I couldn't believe what he had done and I couldn't wait for that particular Saturday matinee.
And then the date arrived and we drove into New York. We ate lunch and walked to the Majestic Theatre. Along the way, we bumped into Roddy McDowell, (who played Mordred). With camera in hand, he was looking up, seeking something that was camera worthy to photograph. I was so shy, if anyone who knows me can believe that, and I didn't say a word to him.
I can still remember the thrill of the first notes of the Overture. I can still recall the first words I ever heard in any theatre spoken by one of the greatest actors who ever lived who just happened to possess one of the greatest voices that has ever been heard.
It was Richard Burton, my King Arthur.
I remember them all: Julie Andrews, Robert Goulet, Roddy McDowell but, above all, I remember the King, the brokenhearted king who spoke the precious words that ended the performance with "Don't let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment, that was known as Camelot".
The tears that stained my face that afternoon have long dried and the child who shed them has gone through many metamorphoses.
But for one brief shining moment, my father, who had once been the world to me, had reclaimed his place in my heart. I still have the ripped tickets, the old Playbill and the original vinyl Broadway cast recording.
As the years passed, it would not always be that way. My father and I both grew distant and only after his death did I realize that he was a man who never had a dream come true.
Life had defeated my father and in those letters in Vanity Fair, it seems that Richard Burton's life was not always a million dollar showcase either. He, too, was haunted by family obligations and he did all that he could to fulfill them.
Perhaps, Burton felt that he had never truly lived up to his potential. I know my father felt that way and the bitterness that claimed him destroyed him.
In seeking my own path, I could not help him.
I can only say, now, after all these years that my father did the best that he could under very tragic circumstances. It wasn't my way but it was his way.
My brother, my mother and my father are all buried together. My best friend is buried near them.
Richard Burton is buried in Switzerland with a large stone that bears just his name and his years of birth and death.
Still the romantic, I want my ashes scattered to the winds. I want to become as Tennyson once wrote "a part of all that I have met".
I want to be remembered in some other time and place where legends and myths abound.
Let it be written in eternity that once I had a father that I adored and he made one of my dreams come true.
And once there was an actor who still lives in my memory as My King.
He was and always will be My King.
I am grateful to my father and to Richard Burton.
I have had my share of these "brief, shining moments".
May they occur in every child's life and as the years pass may the memory of those moments
light up what remains of our place in time.
It seems that now she has decided to release some of the letters sent to her by Richard Burton.
All of us of a certain age remember the tremendous scandal when Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor ran from their respective spouses and ran off with each other. It was the love affair of the era.
When Richard Burton died, there were many critics who said that he had wasted his talents by relinquishing the theatre for million dollar movie roles starring "Liz and Dick".
The one thing that remains certain in life is that no matter what decisions we choose, there will always be those who will criticize. The choice or decision has no relevance; the criticism will always be there.
For me, Richard Burton was a King.
As a child, I had one real friend.
The rest of my time was spent with my books, dreaming of the adventures that I would have when I was grown. I couldn't wait to grow up for there were no adventures to be had in our small town except for re-enacting in our neighborhood swamp every movie that we devoured on "Million Dollar Movie".
Directly across the street was the home of Edna and Clyde Wilson. Mrs. Wilson was crippled with arthritis yet she never complained. The only drawback was that she had this awful boxer, Suzie, who never actually attached me; she just drooled all over me.
Mrs. Wilson, like my mother was another staunch New Englander and my mother would send me there to help her. We soon realized that we both shared a passion for books and she became more of a help to me than I ever was to her.
Because she had a beautiful New England accent, she would have me read aloud poems and Shakespearian verse and gently correct my diction. It was at her feet that I first learned about King Arthur and Camelot.
I can still recall reading "The Idylls of the King" with her and running across the lines that described Sir Galahad:
"My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure".
Many a rainy afternoon, that little house became the setting for legends, myths, damsels in distress, heroes and villains. In those moments, even Suzie' sat still and I did not have to contend with any drool.
My own home was often a center of sadness. My twin brother was brain damaged and any dreams my mother and father may have had were put on hold in caring for both of us. I, of course, always believed that I got the short end of things so whenever I could escape, I would bolt.
But escape meant only three places: the home of my best friend, Mrs. Wilson's house, and the library.
Every week, I would carry a bag and walk to the library with two paper cards: one for Mrs. Wilson and one for me.
She delighted in mysteries and I just grabbed anything that looked like it was an epic. With both cards, hand stamped, I would make my way home.
There is no joy quite like opening a book and losing yourself within its pages.
Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table and Robin Hood were my first heroes. I certainly spoke enough about them to the annoyance of everyone. I felt I knew them. I made them a part of my lonely life.
Yet, when I was 13, an amazing thing happened. The world, at least what I knew of it, was catching up with me.
Alan Lerner and Frederick Loewe followed their hit "My Fair Lady" with a new show called "Camelot". It wasn't an immediate smash but on Sunday Ed Sullivan had the cast on his show and all of America tuned in to Ed Sullivan.
The next day there were lines around the theatre for tickets.
My father, who had once been my childhood hero had begun to be a distant creature to me. Yet, he was one of those people who stood on line.
When he came home and announced that he had bought the tickets for us, I was astonished. I thought that he had tuned me out of his life and never listened to a thing I said except to yell at me. I couldn't believe what he had done and I couldn't wait for that particular Saturday matinee.
And then the date arrived and we drove into New York. We ate lunch and walked to the Majestic Theatre. Along the way, we bumped into Roddy McDowell, (who played Mordred). With camera in hand, he was looking up, seeking something that was camera worthy to photograph. I was so shy, if anyone who knows me can believe that, and I didn't say a word to him.
I can still remember the thrill of the first notes of the Overture. I can still recall the first words I ever heard in any theatre spoken by one of the greatest actors who ever lived who just happened to possess one of the greatest voices that has ever been heard.
It was Richard Burton, my King Arthur.
I remember them all: Julie Andrews, Robert Goulet, Roddy McDowell but, above all, I remember the King, the brokenhearted king who spoke the precious words that ended the performance with "Don't let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment, that was known as Camelot".
The tears that stained my face that afternoon have long dried and the child who shed them has gone through many metamorphoses.
But for one brief shining moment, my father, who had once been the world to me, had reclaimed his place in my heart. I still have the ripped tickets, the old Playbill and the original vinyl Broadway cast recording.
As the years passed, it would not always be that way. My father and I both grew distant and only after his death did I realize that he was a man who never had a dream come true.
Life had defeated my father and in those letters in Vanity Fair, it seems that Richard Burton's life was not always a million dollar showcase either. He, too, was haunted by family obligations and he did all that he could to fulfill them.
Perhaps, Burton felt that he had never truly lived up to his potential. I know my father felt that way and the bitterness that claimed him destroyed him.
In seeking my own path, I could not help him.
I can only say, now, after all these years that my father did the best that he could under very tragic circumstances. It wasn't my way but it was his way.
My brother, my mother and my father are all buried together. My best friend is buried near them.
Richard Burton is buried in Switzerland with a large stone that bears just his name and his years of birth and death.
Still the romantic, I want my ashes scattered to the winds. I want to become as Tennyson once wrote "a part of all that I have met".
I want to be remembered in some other time and place where legends and myths abound.
Let it be written in eternity that once I had a father that I adored and he made one of my dreams come true.
And once there was an actor who still lives in my memory as My King.
He was and always will be My King.
I am grateful to my father and to Richard Burton.
I have had my share of these "brief, shining moments".
May they occur in every child's life and as the years pass may the memory of those moments
light up what remains of our place in time.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Bette Davis Eyes
It's Friday and Pizza Night and Salad at our house. Pizza always makes the week make sense.
The World Cup Games were astonishing today and I didn't even take one nap.
Serbia beat Germany who had trampled the Aussies, the Socceroos, in a 4-0 debacle. Well, Serbia beat them 1-0.
England was a bore with a tie but Algeria really kept the place rolling and played really well. The English fans showed their class by booing their team off the field.
The shocker, however, was the U.S. game that ended in a tie but they really deserved to win although they were dead in the first half. It seems the referee from Mali invalidated the U.S. third goal and everyone watching said that from every camera angle, no one could see a foul.
I couldn't see one either. In Italian, we call that sort of referee, "Arbitro Venduto" (Sold Out Referee - it sounds much better in Italian).
Again, FIFA, one of the most corrupt organizations in the world, has a rule that a referee can make any decision and not have to explain it or give any particular reason for his stupidity.
Going back to some good things about being unemployed, I look better and I look younger with the stress of working gone from my face. Thinking about money brings a little stress back but I'll deal with it.
The best thing about being unemployed and watching the World Cup is that unemployment has also given me time to read again. I've got stacks of books just awaiting me and each one is a new adventure.
I finished Shutter Island and thought the movie was better although Scorsese followed the book hook, line and sinker.
Today I finished The Girl Who Walked Home Alone by Charlotte Chandler. It's a bio of Bette Davis in her own words.
Kate Hepburn and Bette Davis were the two greatest actresses Hollywood of the Golden Era ever produced. Both were New Englanders and true to themselves and their own personalities.
She took instant dislikes to fellow actors, like Errol Flynn and Lillian Gish, but could be quite gracious to newcomers.
And, yes, it was Bette Davis who uttered the immortal phrase "What A Dump!" in one of her movies which was used in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" She even said "What A Dump!" as her opening line in NYC when she was honored at Lincoln Center.
The book was filled with lots of quotes and lots of one-liners but, like Hepburn, she danced to her own tune although it meant broken marriages and even estrangement from her daughter.
Beneath the sarcasm, her life was one of sadness which she never allowed to defeat her. All her life, she took care of her mother, her sister and a mentally challenged child with no complaints or pity pot seeking.
She fought for her artistic integrity and was suspended by Warner Brothers when they gave her stupid roles to play. A two time Academy Award Winner, she lived to act. Although she didn't save her money and had to resort to some ghastly roles, in the end, she acted to live.
And like her arch rival, Joan Crawford, she never let her fans down.
I still recall when the then President Reagan honored her as one of the Kennedy Center Artists, she kept interrupting him as he spoke going on and on about "Little Ronnie Reagan and the fact that he was now the president". (He had appeared in one of her most famous films "Dark Victory". )
Reagan, in his finest role as president, didn't miss a beat when he responded, "Bette, if I had been given your roles, I would have stayed in Hollywood". (Or something to that effect - I'm paraphrasing).
What's it like to devote yourself to one ideal, although it destroys everything else that could bring you happiness?
What's it like to keep on going although each role isn't a success?
What's it like to be deliberately unaware of those around you as long as you achieve the one thing that you believe in?
I guess, it's your life force. Davis called it her aura. It could also been her own particular brand of courage, with all caution thrown to the winds.
My favorite Davis quote is the last one she gave to Ms. Chandler:
"Happiness should never be postponed. Life is the past, the present, and the perhaps..."
I believe we all have our own forms of "perhaps", the forks in the roads that tell us we have no other choice at that particular moment in time.
Sleep well and on to Saturday's games.
The World Cup Games were astonishing today and I didn't even take one nap.
Serbia beat Germany who had trampled the Aussies, the Socceroos, in a 4-0 debacle. Well, Serbia beat them 1-0.
England was a bore with a tie but Algeria really kept the place rolling and played really well. The English fans showed their class by booing their team off the field.
The shocker, however, was the U.S. game that ended in a tie but they really deserved to win although they were dead in the first half. It seems the referee from Mali invalidated the U.S. third goal and everyone watching said that from every camera angle, no one could see a foul.
I couldn't see one either. In Italian, we call that sort of referee, "Arbitro Venduto" (Sold Out Referee - it sounds much better in Italian).
Again, FIFA, one of the most corrupt organizations in the world, has a rule that a referee can make any decision and not have to explain it or give any particular reason for his stupidity.
Going back to some good things about being unemployed, I look better and I look younger with the stress of working gone from my face. Thinking about money brings a little stress back but I'll deal with it.
The best thing about being unemployed and watching the World Cup is that unemployment has also given me time to read again. I've got stacks of books just awaiting me and each one is a new adventure.
I finished Shutter Island and thought the movie was better although Scorsese followed the book hook, line and sinker.
Today I finished The Girl Who Walked Home Alone by Charlotte Chandler. It's a bio of Bette Davis in her own words.
Kate Hepburn and Bette Davis were the two greatest actresses Hollywood of the Golden Era ever produced. Both were New Englanders and true to themselves and their own personalities.
She took instant dislikes to fellow actors, like Errol Flynn and Lillian Gish, but could be quite gracious to newcomers.
And, yes, it was Bette Davis who uttered the immortal phrase "What A Dump!" in one of her movies which was used in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" She even said "What A Dump!" as her opening line in NYC when she was honored at Lincoln Center.
The book was filled with lots of quotes and lots of one-liners but, like Hepburn, she danced to her own tune although it meant broken marriages and even estrangement from her daughter.
Beneath the sarcasm, her life was one of sadness which she never allowed to defeat her. All her life, she took care of her mother, her sister and a mentally challenged child with no complaints or pity pot seeking.
She fought for her artistic integrity and was suspended by Warner Brothers when they gave her stupid roles to play. A two time Academy Award Winner, she lived to act. Although she didn't save her money and had to resort to some ghastly roles, in the end, she acted to live.
And like her arch rival, Joan Crawford, she never let her fans down.
I still recall when the then President Reagan honored her as one of the Kennedy Center Artists, she kept interrupting him as he spoke going on and on about "Little Ronnie Reagan and the fact that he was now the president". (He had appeared in one of her most famous films "Dark Victory". )
Reagan, in his finest role as president, didn't miss a beat when he responded, "Bette, if I had been given your roles, I would have stayed in Hollywood". (Or something to that effect - I'm paraphrasing).
What's it like to devote yourself to one ideal, although it destroys everything else that could bring you happiness?
What's it like to keep on going although each role isn't a success?
What's it like to be deliberately unaware of those around you as long as you achieve the one thing that you believe in?
I guess, it's your life force. Davis called it her aura. It could also been her own particular brand of courage, with all caution thrown to the winds.
My favorite Davis quote is the last one she gave to Ms. Chandler:
"Happiness should never be postponed. Life is the past, the present, and the perhaps..."
I believe we all have our own forms of "perhaps", the forks in the roads that tell us we have no other choice at that particular moment in time.
Sleep well and on to Saturday's games.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
June 15th World Cup Musings and More
The three World Cup games for Tuesday, June 15th are over and there were some surprises.
New Zealand vs. Slovakia ended in a tie with a thrilling last minute goal by a Kiwi.
Japan vs. Cameroon ended in a 1-0 victory for Japan.
Brazil played as expected with a 2-1 victory but again in the last minutes North Korea made a thrilling goal.
Soccer as it is known in the U.S., Calcio as it is known in Italy and Football as it is known everywhere else in the world is the beautiful game. Like living, it combines balance, choreography, excitement, defense, attacks, and sometimes, boredom. Whether it will ever be acknowledged here as the world's greatest sport is not for me to decide but once every four years, and I don't mean the Olympics, it is a great feeling to belong to the entire world.
ESPN is doing a fabulous job and intertwining their comments with some of South Africa's history. One of their reports showed a return to Robben Island where Nelson Mandela and the freedom fighters of modern day South Africa were interred for demanding equality.
It took three years for the Apartheid government to give permission for the prisoners to have their own soccer league and a Soccer Constitution was written. Years later, the same prisoners would write the new South African Constitution with this preamble:
"We, the people of South Africa, recognize the injustices of our past; honour those who suffered for justice and freedom in our land; respect those who have worked to build and develop our country; and believe that South Africa belongs to all who live in it, united in our diversity."
Actually, we could add that statement to our Constitution as more words of hate seem to be creeping into the American vocabulary, especially on some of the so called cable news channels and the rantings, I mean, real rantings of "the infotainers" as Frank Rich so rightly called them and defined them.
It is a strange sensation to be living in small town America and pass the post office and see people waving petitions to sign against the President (whether you agree with him or not) and see him depicted as Hitler. I mean for eight years we had a vice president who was really a co-president and we never saw him because he was formulating all of his machinations from his sealed bunker. Where were these petition seekers then? Why were they not demanding an open government eight years ago?
It is a strange sensation to be unemployed and watching all these World Cup Games. On one side, I need a job and a paycheck. On the other side, I left a position which had become heinous to me with no balance or choreography, stress (not excitement), lots of attacks and playing defense and in the end acceptance (not boredom) that I could not change anything or even have my thoughts appreciated.
It is a strange sensation to be aware of the passing of time. It is happening more to me now with the deaths of friends and people whom I have admired since I was a teen.
One of them, Andrei Vozneshensky passed just recently. He was one on the great rebel poets of Russia during the period of Krushchev, et.al and before Gorbachev.
He could fill arenas with recitations of his poetry. He was a rock star of literature and we followed him like groupies. One night, at Carnegie Hall, I wedged my way backstage and got his autograph which is now, sadly, fading.
Poetry is revered in Russia and hundreds of thousands of people can recite verse.
Actually, this is a real tradition in Russia. During the horror years of Stalin, the verses of banned poets, such as Mayakovsky and Essenin and Mandelstam and Tsetayava and my favorite, Anna Akhmatova, were set to music or memorized by ordinary people, like us, to pass down to their children.
I have always wondered if Ray Bradbury got his inspiration for Fahrenheit 451 from them.
Of the rock star poets, Yevgeny Yevtushenko is still my favorite but Andrei Vozneshensky wrote my favorite poem.
It's called Divagation About Me
I am a family, a spectrum.
There are seven of me inside of me: unbearable.
And the bluest of these keeps whistling through his pipe.
But when spring comes, dreams come, that I'm the eighth.
May I wish you all for this evening dreams that you, too, are the eighth.
New Zealand vs. Slovakia ended in a tie with a thrilling last minute goal by a Kiwi.
Japan vs. Cameroon ended in a 1-0 victory for Japan.
Brazil played as expected with a 2-1 victory but again in the last minutes North Korea made a thrilling goal.
Soccer as it is known in the U.S., Calcio as it is known in Italy and Football as it is known everywhere else in the world is the beautiful game. Like living, it combines balance, choreography, excitement, defense, attacks, and sometimes, boredom. Whether it will ever be acknowledged here as the world's greatest sport is not for me to decide but once every four years, and I don't mean the Olympics, it is a great feeling to belong to the entire world.
ESPN is doing a fabulous job and intertwining their comments with some of South Africa's history. One of their reports showed a return to Robben Island where Nelson Mandela and the freedom fighters of modern day South Africa were interred for demanding equality.
It took three years for the Apartheid government to give permission for the prisoners to have their own soccer league and a Soccer Constitution was written. Years later, the same prisoners would write the new South African Constitution with this preamble:
"We, the people of South Africa, recognize the injustices of our past; honour those who suffered for justice and freedom in our land; respect those who have worked to build and develop our country; and believe that South Africa belongs to all who live in it, united in our diversity."
Actually, we could add that statement to our Constitution as more words of hate seem to be creeping into the American vocabulary, especially on some of the so called cable news channels and the rantings, I mean, real rantings of "the infotainers" as Frank Rich so rightly called them and defined them.
It is a strange sensation to be living in small town America and pass the post office and see people waving petitions to sign against the President (whether you agree with him or not) and see him depicted as Hitler. I mean for eight years we had a vice president who was really a co-president and we never saw him because he was formulating all of his machinations from his sealed bunker. Where were these petition seekers then? Why were they not demanding an open government eight years ago?
It is a strange sensation to be unemployed and watching all these World Cup Games. On one side, I need a job and a paycheck. On the other side, I left a position which had become heinous to me with no balance or choreography, stress (not excitement), lots of attacks and playing defense and in the end acceptance (not boredom) that I could not change anything or even have my thoughts appreciated.
It is a strange sensation to be aware of the passing of time. It is happening more to me now with the deaths of friends and people whom I have admired since I was a teen.
One of them, Andrei Vozneshensky passed just recently. He was one on the great rebel poets of Russia during the period of Krushchev, et.al and before Gorbachev.
He could fill arenas with recitations of his poetry. He was a rock star of literature and we followed him like groupies. One night, at Carnegie Hall, I wedged my way backstage and got his autograph which is now, sadly, fading.
Poetry is revered in Russia and hundreds of thousands of people can recite verse.
Actually, this is a real tradition in Russia. During the horror years of Stalin, the verses of banned poets, such as Mayakovsky and Essenin and Mandelstam and Tsetayava and my favorite, Anna Akhmatova, were set to music or memorized by ordinary people, like us, to pass down to their children.
I have always wondered if Ray Bradbury got his inspiration for Fahrenheit 451 from them.
Of the rock star poets, Yevgeny Yevtushenko is still my favorite but Andrei Vozneshensky wrote my favorite poem.
It's called Divagation About Me
I am a family, a spectrum.
There are seven of me inside of me: unbearable.
And the bluest of these keeps whistling through his pipe.
But when spring comes, dreams come, that I'm the eighth.
May I wish you all for this evening dreams that you, too, are the eighth.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Maria's First Rant and Rave
Hello World! I know that's a cliche as I have no knowledge to whom I am writing and who will be reading my musings.
As for today's musings, being unemployed has its advantages. Thus far, I have been able to watch every single World Cup Game and to the disappointment of all the hypers of the English-USA Game, I found that one to be the most boring one of them all and I fell asleep after the first 4 minutes when the English made their goal.
It is amazing! A world cup - with a real world and not just Boston playing New York City or one American football city, such as the Green Bay Packers playing another football city, i.e. the New England Patriots.
However, in all fairness, FIFA which oversees the World Cup may be one of the most corrupt organizations in the world alongside the New York State Legislature and the U.S. Congress. FIFA forced South Africa to build at least seven stadiums alongside hovels and shanties and did nothing to improve the lives of the native South Africans, not even going through the townships and handing out a few free tickets!
But we love the sport and although the deck is stacked towards Brazil or Germany or Argentina or Italy, etc., it would be wonderful if one of the little guys managed to win the cup!
As for my further unemployment musings, you will just have to come back.
Sleep well until tomorrow at 7 AM and tune in to ESPN for the next game.
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