Let it flood. January, I turned fifty, but I’ve been celebrating for six months. Why not? Fifty, after all, means that one, in all probability, has less life to live than life already lived. Last July when my family visited relatives in Seattle, our troop met up at a Mexican restaurant for dinner. "It has to be one of your birthdays," our waitress urged. I stepped up to the platter. I raised my chicken taco. “It’s my birthday,” I said. If there is Christmas in July, why shouldn’t my birthday middle into Julius Caesar’s month? My mother-in-law insisted it could not be my birthday. Maybe it could be her son’s or her granddaughter’s but not mine. True, their birthdays were closer, but no deal. In determined five year old fashion, I got my birthday-way. The waitress delivered a goblet of deep-fried ice cream smothered in hot fudge, and whipped cream. I devoured a spoonful, including the cherry, and sent my free sundae to make the rounds of the rest of the table. The staff and my family sang “Happy Birthday”. I not sure if my defeated mother-in-law joined in the singing, but she did acquiesce. Then, Amy Winehouse crooned over the noisy clatter of enchilada and chalupa-ensconced dishes and too-noisy patrons getting drunk on margaritas. My husband and I jumped up and danced to “Rehab” to the admiring smiles of the Chico Villa’s patrons. There would be three more celebrations.
My daughters made me a gourmet vegan dinner which included, among other culinary delights, glazed tempeh cutlets, fennel and hazel nut salad, and some sort of doubly fudgy cake, and on the real occasion, my husband took me to the best restaurant in town. The gala party would be a month afterward. I reasoned, from years of experience that nobody wants to celebrate right after Christmas and New Years. If I could squeeze in before St. Valentine’s Day, I could be guaranteed a good crowd. My first notion was to have a big bash, fifty people for my fiftieth. Then, I considered a smaller intimate group of ten. Perhaps, the attendees could bring some sage advice like they do for graduates on the threshold of adult life. For me, at this liminal moment, the advice might be how to engage thoughtfully with the rest of my life. But, no. Finally, I decided on a compromise: twenty-five guests at 7:35 PM, wearing red. Why 7:35? Fifty, unlike eighteen which is a time for breaking rules, is a time to make up one’s own rules. Why red? Because green is my favorite color, but they have a holiday for that in March. Having decided on the number of guests, I wrote the invitations, except for the last few. I thought someone besides me should be asking people to celebrate me. My husband was the logical candidate. However, he penned the wrong date on the invitations. He wrote February 7th instead of February 9th, probably due to the fact that my real birthday was January 7th. I had chosen February 9th because it was on a Saturday. Who could blame the poor guy for being mixed up? On the Thursday before my big celebration, the doorbell rang. I ended up having an impromptu pre-party to the post-party. There was beer and popcorn and presents, a nice preview to the pseudo-real thing. All in all, there were five parties to be had.
Some may think me self indulgent and excessive. Perhaps. Yet after fifty years celebrating the miracle of being alive for five days, out of three hundred and sixty-five, doesn’t seem like so very much. It was fun, reminded me of being eighteen, but not my eighteenth birthday party. My birthdays were forgettable or non-existent. Maybe, I'm making up for a lifetime of lost childhood birthdays. Bring on the pinata. The last party—the post, post-party. My elder daughter spent the night. She, my husband and I walked outside the door of our house and ceremoniously released the two week old, red and white helium balloons. We watched the small, merry crowd rise and break the taciturn, February morning with color. Now, I think I ready to let go of “fifty” and get on with the everyday celebration of life.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoise
I just saw the acclaimed movie, The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoise and was about as entertained as when I watch kids swim. The comedy, about a sextet that never get to finish a meal, is over thirty years old (1972). I think Luis Buñuel's brand of humor, over the top then, is common place now: the couple who can't get enough of each other and slip out the window while their dinner guests are waiting, the rifle shot at a mechanical dog, a priest shooting the murderer of his parents after forgiving him, the parody of soldiers telling their sad stories of ghosts and murders and of course the body of a restaurant owner laid out in the back room--the guests are assured they will still get a good meal. None of the characters really seemed to care when their dinner plans went awry, even when they were interrupted by uprisings and arrests. They were never fed, I suppose, because they were essentially soul-less. The main characters are all corrupt. We have drug dealers, friends cheating on friends, a murderous priest and a Neo-Nazi, and a dippy sister, the unkindest cut of all. Thinking it over, The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoise is a well done, understated look at the banal middle class after all.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Swear Words
@#$%*
OK, so I promised swear words, and there haven't been any. Truth is I rarely use 'em. Swear words are verbal pin pricks, even from what I call "secondary" swear words such as shut up, stupid, idiot or moron. My children weren't allowed to use these words, not even the word crap. Furthermore, hostile words were not allowed in my classroom. For many years, I used a quarter jar. If a student said shut up or stupid, s/he paid a quarter or brought a can of food for the food bank. I always offered an alternative punishment to the quarter rule, such as some writing. The students almost always chose the quarter. Quarters went for class supplies or for treats, for which I paid the bulk. When parents became more litigious, I kept receipts. At first the students balked, and then they began self disciplining. "Quarter!" they shouted, whenever an offending words was uttered.
When I worked at an inner city school, it was very difficult for my students not to say shut up. It was a central word to their everyday lives and in our halls, not to mention the word, fuck. I had to provide them with new words, say, “Please, be quiet!” in place of shut-up, etc. Students grabbed hold of these phrases once they were given them. Some cute kids would cover their mouths whenever they let slip the "S" word, as it became known. A tangible difference swept the classroom atmosphere. When our class received new students, the mean words slipped into the air like gaudy darts, until the new students became acclimated.
I had to end the quarter jar, when an administrator told me I could not assign any consequences to students for their actions. All I could do was to have them acknowledge the classroom rule or refer students to her. Of course, the number of referrals figured in negatively to evaluations, *@#$. To everything there is a season.
There is a place for bad language. The trick is to pinpoint the right time and right place. In other words, learn self control. As the only female working at a hardware store, I broke into the group of men by learning and telling the most colorful jokes imaginable, but they learned something from me too. A carousel of postcards sat in front of the store next to the cash register. When we were bored, they let me teach and quiz them on how to recognize the earmarks of Picasso, Degas, Gauguin and Van Gogh.
Another time I thought swear words were called for, was when a female friend wrote a story about a fight between two men in a prison cell. No swear words were used, and the story just did not ring true to me. Nothing makes a person more common than the use of swear words. I once overheard a young lady yield a slew of invectives on a playground. Her speech made her common and unsightly. I learned from Shakespeare insults can have far more pluck: Thou artless, clay-brained codpiece. Look up the word cod, if you are not familiar with it. I told her every time she opened her mouth a little cockroach crawled out. She got quiet after that statement. Looking back, I wish I had instructed with kindness and said something like, You are far too pretty or intelligent or lovely to use such ugly words. Odysseus cut of the cods off of one of the errant, fat-kidneyed malt-worms that invaded his home. I suggest turning out the swear word invaders out of our homes and work places. Instead, invite in some tranquil, high-noted, pictorial pleasures or some reasoned high-ranking (not rank) critique.
OK, so I promised swear words, and there haven't been any. Truth is I rarely use 'em. Swear words are verbal pin pricks, even from what I call "secondary" swear words such as shut up, stupid, idiot or moron. My children weren't allowed to use these words, not even the word crap. Furthermore, hostile words were not allowed in my classroom. For many years, I used a quarter jar. If a student said shut up or stupid, s/he paid a quarter or brought a can of food for the food bank. I always offered an alternative punishment to the quarter rule, such as some writing. The students almost always chose the quarter. Quarters went for class supplies or for treats, for which I paid the bulk. When parents became more litigious, I kept receipts. At first the students balked, and then they began self disciplining. "Quarter!" they shouted, whenever an offending words was uttered.
When I worked at an inner city school, it was very difficult for my students not to say shut up. It was a central word to their everyday lives and in our halls, not to mention the word, fuck. I had to provide them with new words, say, “Please, be quiet!” in place of shut-up, etc. Students grabbed hold of these phrases once they were given them. Some cute kids would cover their mouths whenever they let slip the "S" word, as it became known. A tangible difference swept the classroom atmosphere. When our class received new students, the mean words slipped into the air like gaudy darts, until the new students became acclimated.
I had to end the quarter jar, when an administrator told me I could not assign any consequences to students for their actions. All I could do was to have them acknowledge the classroom rule or refer students to her. Of course, the number of referrals figured in negatively to evaluations, *@#$. To everything there is a season.
There is a place for bad language. The trick is to pinpoint the right time and right place. In other words, learn self control. As the only female working at a hardware store, I broke into the group of men by learning and telling the most colorful jokes imaginable, but they learned something from me too. A carousel of postcards sat in front of the store next to the cash register. When we were bored, they let me teach and quiz them on how to recognize the earmarks of Picasso, Degas, Gauguin and Van Gogh.
Another time I thought swear words were called for, was when a female friend wrote a story about a fight between two men in a prison cell. No swear words were used, and the story just did not ring true to me. Nothing makes a person more common than the use of swear words. I once overheard a young lady yield a slew of invectives on a playground. Her speech made her common and unsightly. I learned from Shakespeare insults can have far more pluck: Thou artless, clay-brained codpiece. Look up the word cod, if you are not familiar with it. I told her every time she opened her mouth a little cockroach crawled out. She got quiet after that statement. Looking back, I wish I had instructed with kindness and said something like, You are far too pretty or intelligent or lovely to use such ugly words. Odysseus cut of the cods off of one of the errant, fat-kidneyed malt-worms that invaded his home. I suggest turning out the swear word invaders out of our homes and work places. Instead, invite in some tranquil, high-noted, pictorial pleasures or some reasoned high-ranking (not rank) critique.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Atonement -- A Review
Atonement, nominated for a slew of awards, falls short of the far superior, 1965, Dr. Zhivago. There are two independent segments in Atonement, the love story and the war story. The love story is the more compelling. A jealous twelve year old, Briony Tallis (Romola Garai), wrongly accuses her older sister’s lover, Robbie Turner (James McAvoy), of a molestation. If the unreliable Briony is to be believed, the older sister, Cecilia Tallis (Keira Knightley), turns to nursing, while Robby goes to prison. Four years later, Robby enlists in the army to escape prison. This movie, which moves both forwards and backwards time, both surprises and exasperates viewers, ultimately being inconsistent in its attempts to do both.
Further, the war movie fails to resolve the problem of this intriguing threesome. Atonement makes an obvious nod to the Dr. Zhivago, when its leading victim, Robbie Turner, stumbles into a forest glade of executed school girls, all seemingly shot in the head. We do not know how or why the girls were shot. Turner has no hand in the business, except to shed a tear. Director Joe Wright seems to be simply pointing out the brutality and pointlessness of war. Robbie steps into the main problem with this overrated film, aimlessness. In Dr. Zhivago, the hero and namesake of the film is forcibly drafted into the Red Army. When his company mows down a group of boys in school uniforms, mistaking them for White soldiers, Zhivago is horrified and tries to help one of them. Unlike the girls slaughtered in Atonement, viewers know why the boys were killed and get the futility and ugliness of war. At the same time, the lead character is advanced. Atonement’s war dwarfs the story of the threesome.
To his credit director, Joe Wright, paints a magnificent, surreal portrait of the beach at Dunkirk. A ferris wheel looms in the background, packs of dogs scramble off the foreground from bursts of explosions, a platoon of war ragged soldiers sing songs, while a ghost-like ship teeters on the sand. The love triangle is replaced by a threesome of soldiers, and even one of these gets lost.
Then, we are zipped decades into the future and the aged Briony (Vanessa Redgrave) give us the real scoop and too neatly summarizes the story. An irritating feature of the film is that the three actresses playing the three ages of Briony all maintain the thirteen year old’s hairstyle. The identifying mole should be enough. It is unclear, whether or not Briony atones for her actions. A successful author of twenty-one books and dying of cancer, Briony concedes the unhappy reality of Cecelia and Robby’s story, but then she indicates that she has constructed a fictionalized, happy ending for the two characters, gag, who hold hands and stroll down a beach on screen. Everything comes into question, including her romantic portrayal of her younger self nursing a dying French soldier. The viewer is left with more questions than answers. Atonement is a movie worth seeing, but not Oscar worthy of best picture.
Further, the war movie fails to resolve the problem of this intriguing threesome. Atonement makes an obvious nod to the Dr. Zhivago, when its leading victim, Robbie Turner, stumbles into a forest glade of executed school girls, all seemingly shot in the head. We do not know how or why the girls were shot. Turner has no hand in the business, except to shed a tear. Director Joe Wright seems to be simply pointing out the brutality and pointlessness of war. Robbie steps into the main problem with this overrated film, aimlessness. In Dr. Zhivago, the hero and namesake of the film is forcibly drafted into the Red Army. When his company mows down a group of boys in school uniforms, mistaking them for White soldiers, Zhivago is horrified and tries to help one of them. Unlike the girls slaughtered in Atonement, viewers know why the boys were killed and get the futility and ugliness of war. At the same time, the lead character is advanced. Atonement’s war dwarfs the story of the threesome.
To his credit director, Joe Wright, paints a magnificent, surreal portrait of the beach at Dunkirk. A ferris wheel looms in the background, packs of dogs scramble off the foreground from bursts of explosions, a platoon of war ragged soldiers sing songs, while a ghost-like ship teeters on the sand. The love triangle is replaced by a threesome of soldiers, and even one of these gets lost.
Then, we are zipped decades into the future and the aged Briony (Vanessa Redgrave) give us the real scoop and too neatly summarizes the story. An irritating feature of the film is that the three actresses playing the three ages of Briony all maintain the thirteen year old’s hairstyle. The identifying mole should be enough. It is unclear, whether or not Briony atones for her actions. A successful author of twenty-one books and dying of cancer, Briony concedes the unhappy reality of Cecelia and Robby’s story, but then she indicates that she has constructed a fictionalized, happy ending for the two characters, gag, who hold hands and stroll down a beach on screen. Everything comes into question, including her romantic portrayal of her younger self nursing a dying French soldier. The viewer is left with more questions than answers. Atonement is a movie worth seeing, but not Oscar worthy of best picture.
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