Because I often write about things Mormon here. And because Mitt's running for president. And just because.............I thought I'd mention the PBS Frontline special about the Mormons to air on April 30th and May 1st at 9 p.m. on WGBH (that's channel 2 in Gloucester).
It looks to be informative. Enjoy ye it. If ye can.
I'll be taping it for future viewing pleasure as missing a Monday night date with the bar to watch it seems, well, sacrilegious. So if you'd like to attend a screening complete with popcorn and chocolate and whiskey and knitting, let me know.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Tired and Sad
I'm starting to feel like I shouldn't be living in this country, that I don't belong. It's taken me a while to feel this way, being the Mormon-raised optimist that I am, I mean, used to be.
The VT massacre has me sad and scared. And sad and scared. Gun ownership/acquisition laws are slow to change, if at all. I read somewhere today that the NRA spent 400,000 a day for more than one day, if not hundreds of days, to try to prevent Kerry from winning the presidency. I don't believe everything I read, and this may not be an accurate statistic, but the NRA is powerful and it is able to spend money lobbying its positions and--bottom line--guns are getting into the hands of those who shouldn't have them, too many of THOSE who shouldn't have them. And Columbine. And Simon's Rock. And the Amish School. And other school shootings. Something's broken. Something's wrong.
You know it's broken when the swimming teacher is shocked that your three year old has never seen a squirt gun. That he doesn't know what to do with it. You know it's broken when kids spend more time indoors or in completely supervised situations than out riding bicycles with friends, or playing with a group of kids where kids watch each other's backs and learn how to be kids and be in the world without a thousand adults constantly reminding them what to do. And not do.
People are scared for their kids. I get that. I'm scared for my kids. But where can a kid go and be a kid? Maybe Lanesville.
I don't agree with the President's approach to the war in Iraq, or lack of approach, to this war. And I don't agree with the Supreme Court's recent decision about abortion. I live in a city that can't properly fund its schools due to an inane state aid formula and special education mandates that require cities to provide, provide, provide without funding, funding, funding. Then there's proposition 2 1/2 and rising health care costs and energy costs for the city--let alone the rest of the uninsured country. It doesn't make any sense.
But here I am. I'm here because I love Gloucester and a lot of the people in it. Because my children can be with their grandparents, people my kids love dearly. And I want to keep caring. I do. I want to go to the 'Up with Children' state rally and talk to the legislators as the city councilman I saw in the coffee shop suggested. I want to do the things that I'm supposed to do, as a concerned parent and citizen. And all of that.
But I'm losing motivation. The people in power and the money that puts the people in power, they're more powerful than I am. I think. I feel insignificant--and I'm tired of feeling this way. I'm tired of feeling like my views don't matter. Basically, I'm just tired. Tired and sad.
The VT massacre has me sad and scared. And sad and scared. Gun ownership/acquisition laws are slow to change, if at all. I read somewhere today that the NRA spent 400,000 a day for more than one day, if not hundreds of days, to try to prevent Kerry from winning the presidency. I don't believe everything I read, and this may not be an accurate statistic, but the NRA is powerful and it is able to spend money lobbying its positions and--bottom line--guns are getting into the hands of those who shouldn't have them, too many of THOSE who shouldn't have them. And Columbine. And Simon's Rock. And the Amish School. And other school shootings. Something's broken. Something's wrong.
You know it's broken when the swimming teacher is shocked that your three year old has never seen a squirt gun. That he doesn't know what to do with it. You know it's broken when kids spend more time indoors or in completely supervised situations than out riding bicycles with friends, or playing with a group of kids where kids watch each other's backs and learn how to be kids and be in the world without a thousand adults constantly reminding them what to do. And not do.
People are scared for their kids. I get that. I'm scared for my kids. But where can a kid go and be a kid? Maybe Lanesville.
I don't agree with the President's approach to the war in Iraq, or lack of approach, to this war. And I don't agree with the Supreme Court's recent decision about abortion. I live in a city that can't properly fund its schools due to an inane state aid formula and special education mandates that require cities to provide, provide, provide without funding, funding, funding. Then there's proposition 2 1/2 and rising health care costs and energy costs for the city--let alone the rest of the uninsured country. It doesn't make any sense.
But here I am. I'm here because I love Gloucester and a lot of the people in it. Because my children can be with their grandparents, people my kids love dearly. And I want to keep caring. I do. I want to go to the 'Up with Children' state rally and talk to the legislators as the city councilman I saw in the coffee shop suggested. I want to do the things that I'm supposed to do, as a concerned parent and citizen. And all of that.
But I'm losing motivation. The people in power and the money that puts the people in power, they're more powerful than I am. I think. I feel insignificant--and I'm tired of feeling this way. I'm tired of feeling like my views don't matter. Basically, I'm just tired. Tired and sad.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Is anyone else creeped out by him, or is it just me?
Cole found this guy in a box of Cheerios. Well, o.k., it was strategic, buying the box with the Spidey in it. And yes he's a water toy. He can spray water out of those holes.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Four o'clock, or close enough
I think that someone invented digital cameras so that mothers who were about to 'lose it' with their children could take photos instead of losing it. Or in addition to losing it.
We have a little tagger in this house. He's three and obviously thinks highly of his place in the universe. Enough so that he wrote his name with orange crayon in as many places as possible before he was discovered. Places like the window ledge in his parent's bedroom. All of the walls in the upstairs hallway. A mirror. The wall. Another wall. And even another wall. The back of a rocking chair. A window. The side of a bureau. And on an original drawing of a bay-brested warbler (sorry Greg!).
I'm going to clean it up--if it can be cleaned. But first I'm going to document it. And then I'm going to tell him that I love him even when I'm angry with him. And then I'm going to have a bottle, I mean a shot, of whiskey.
We have a little tagger in this house. He's three and obviously thinks highly of his place in the universe. Enough so that he wrote his name with orange crayon in as many places as possible before he was discovered. Places like the window ledge in his parent's bedroom. All of the walls in the upstairs hallway. A mirror. The wall. Another wall. And even another wall. The back of a rocking chair. A window. The side of a bureau. And on an original drawing of a bay-brested warbler (sorry Greg!).
I'm going to clean it up--if it can be cleaned. But first I'm going to document it. And then I'm going to tell him that I love him even when I'm angry with him. And then I'm going to have a bottle, I mean a shot, of whiskey.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
This post is about music and friends
One of the most revealing conversations a person can have with another person is the one about music; music then, music now, music once, and music forever. One of my favorite versions of this conversation is the one where I make a verbal list of shows that I've spent money on, money earned by pressing frozen cow patties through a machine with an auger to make nearly edible desserts for people living in the ice cream capital of the world. With this money I was able to splurge on shows at the outdoor venue formerly known as Parkwest, the hippest place to be on a summer night for the 18 and under crowd. It's here that I heard an aging and aged Bob Dylan though I'm pretty sure that I heard Boy George and Tears for Fears in some building somewhere. I also spent money--fresh, green money--to hear Howard Jones and a year later, with my longhaired boyfriend Dave, Scorpions (the 'the' has been removed, thank you to the nonfan Tad) on the tour of their lives. Chicago, only once, pulled at my tender pubescent heartstrings and I rocked out at a Def Leppard show where I nearly got my ass kicked for looking too 'pristine' while belting out the words to "Pour Some Sugar On Me," recently called the greatest strip club song of all time by Bill Simmons. Though I now wince at the sound of Jimmy Buffett, it was at the Salt Palace that I understood and loved the irony that was a bunch of Mormons singing, "Why don't we get drunk and screw?"
And then there was General Public, a band that will some day get its own post, or at least its own paragraph. I wanted to sleep with Dave Wakeling. What more can I say but a little tenderness, please, and it's true that my brother for at least three weeks had me going when he told me that he could get back stage passes to a GP show that never came to be. In high school I listened to, mostly through the loudspeakers of the high school gym and the stereos of a few pimply, wanna-see-my-stereo hormonal boys, the likes of Boston, Rush, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, ACDC, the Eagles, Jethro Tull, The Doors, The Stones and so on.
From what I can tell, I led a sheltered childhood, musically speaking. At a young age my parents introduced me to Neil Diamond, The Mormon Tabernacle Choir (sometimes referred to as MoTab), Beethoven and Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam, not The Vaselines version. I later remember listening to Yanni 'makes me yawn' as well as selections from my mother's collection of hit musicals. Turns out my dad had a thing for Judy Collins, so I learned to play "Send in the Clowns" on the piano, along with the themes to Hill Street Blues and Arthur. On a good day I could be heard practicing "Longer Than" followed by "She's Always a Woman" followed by Bach and Rachmaninoff. I played Christmas tunes and hymns and "The Entertainer." I played a new agey tune at a church service that sent a high school friend off for two years of missionary work; I made people cry. I played and listened and listened and played. I think that I might have taken up violin as an escape, from this, the thing that people called music.
Looking back on it I thank the good lord above, or below, that my taste in music has changed. It's not that I don't or can't appreciate the music or the musicians of my past. I do. I do. I do. But I didn't marry them. I didn't take them in sickness or in health, til death do us part. I took them once. And now I've left some of them. I've left them behind with a lot of stuff, stuff that needs to be left behind.
Call me unfaithful if you will, but I'm not true to any band, anymore. And a fancy music degree or fingers that masturbate along the neck of a guitar or an exquisitely formed fuck face or a 10-week stay at the top of the charts or perfectly pitched octaves or stellar reviews in mainstream music mags can't buy my love. Or respect. Nor do I think that music is 'good' because a musician is 'technically' good. There's music that I like that isn't technically good and there's music that I like that is technically good and there's music that I like because I like what I like. I don't have a formal education when it comes to these things, only the education described above, but it doesn't really matter because in the end what matters it that on some level, the music has got it for me, or for you, or for anyone. The music's got to have that thing that says people are vulnerable, that they're born and that they die, alone. The thing that says people create beautiful things. And that they make and do shit. The thing that says people are tough and build fortresses around themselves. Or that they get hurt but they can still love. That people come and go. Wake up. Together and alone. That they laugh. They love. They hate. They suffer.
Maybe we listen to the same music, but don't hear the same thing. Maybe we listen to different music and hear different things. Maybe my good isn't your good isn't anyone's good. Maybe good isn't good except when it's good. Maybe it's the music that matters, and not the why. Maybe it's the person who matters, and not the why. And maybe this is how it should be, between friends.
And then there was General Public, a band that will some day get its own post, or at least its own paragraph. I wanted to sleep with Dave Wakeling. What more can I say but a little tenderness, please, and it's true that my brother for at least three weeks had me going when he told me that he could get back stage passes to a GP show that never came to be. In high school I listened to, mostly through the loudspeakers of the high school gym and the stereos of a few pimply, wanna-see-my-stereo hormonal boys, the likes of Boston, Rush, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, ACDC, the Eagles, Jethro Tull, The Doors, The Stones and so on.
From what I can tell, I led a sheltered childhood, musically speaking. At a young age my parents introduced me to Neil Diamond, The Mormon Tabernacle Choir (sometimes referred to as MoTab), Beethoven and Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam, not The Vaselines version. I later remember listening to Yanni 'makes me yawn' as well as selections from my mother's collection of hit musicals. Turns out my dad had a thing for Judy Collins, so I learned to play "Send in the Clowns" on the piano, along with the themes to Hill Street Blues and Arthur. On a good day I could be heard practicing "Longer Than" followed by "She's Always a Woman" followed by Bach and Rachmaninoff. I played Christmas tunes and hymns and "The Entertainer." I played a new agey tune at a church service that sent a high school friend off for two years of missionary work; I made people cry. I played and listened and listened and played. I think that I might have taken up violin as an escape, from this, the thing that people called music.
Looking back on it I thank the good lord above, or below, that my taste in music has changed. It's not that I don't or can't appreciate the music or the musicians of my past. I do. I do. I do. But I didn't marry them. I didn't take them in sickness or in health, til death do us part. I took them once. And now I've left some of them. I've left them behind with a lot of stuff, stuff that needs to be left behind.
Call me unfaithful if you will, but I'm not true to any band, anymore. And a fancy music degree or fingers that masturbate along the neck of a guitar or an exquisitely formed fuck face or a 10-week stay at the top of the charts or perfectly pitched octaves or stellar reviews in mainstream music mags can't buy my love. Or respect. Nor do I think that music is 'good' because a musician is 'technically' good. There's music that I like that isn't technically good and there's music that I like that is technically good and there's music that I like because I like what I like. I don't have a formal education when it comes to these things, only the education described above, but it doesn't really matter because in the end what matters it that on some level, the music has got it for me, or for you, or for anyone. The music's got to have that thing that says people are vulnerable, that they're born and that they die, alone. The thing that says people create beautiful things. And that they make and do shit. The thing that says people are tough and build fortresses around themselves. Or that they get hurt but they can still love. That people come and go. Wake up. Together and alone. That they laugh. They love. They hate. They suffer.
Maybe we listen to the same music, but don't hear the same thing. Maybe we listen to different music and hear different things. Maybe my good isn't your good isn't anyone's good. Maybe good isn't good except when it's good. Maybe it's the music that matters, and not the why. Maybe it's the person who matters, and not the why. And maybe this is how it should be, between friends.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
"Ineluctable Modality of the Visible"
She's 88 today and I'm thinking about her. Thinking about her being alive this long. The things that she has seen. The things. The things that she knows.
Some people don't know things. They think that they know. And they have papers to prove it. But they don't know.
Angels know. The angels in America know because they see. Before any of us have eyes. Like the eyes in a dream. Like the dreaming waking dream that I had last night. Waiting for the baby to wake and thinking my way through sleep. Waking up and not knowing if I said it, or dreamt it, or dreamt that I said it.
And it's not because of the drink. Only one drink, last night, from the guy who wouldn't spill it. No story. Not like Dedalus. Dedalus has a story. He scrawls and writes. He writes his story for no one to read. But no one isn't nobody.
Some people don't know things. They think that they know. And they have papers to prove it. But they don't know.
Angels know. The angels in America know because they see. Before any of us have eyes. Like the eyes in a dream. Like the dreaming waking dream that I had last night. Waiting for the baby to wake and thinking my way through sleep. Waking up and not knowing if I said it, or dreamt it, or dreamt that I said it.
And it's not because of the drink. Only one drink, last night, from the guy who wouldn't spill it. No story. Not like Dedalus. Dedalus has a story. He scrawls and writes. He writes his story for no one to read. But no one isn't nobody.
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