That song that keeps playing in your head

Fortunately, it's a great one. For some reason I started humming Ketty Lester's "Love Letters" last night - for no particular reason, ya' buncha' snoops - and I can't seem to shake it. Maybe my brain's keeping it front and center because it is such a great song. If you're like me, your brain usually latches on to "Candy Man" from Willie Wonka (the old one) or the Barney Theme Song. But "Love Letters," I can definitely live with for a while.

When it popped into my head, I was surprised to find that I remembered all the words. Now, this tune hit #5 on the pop charts and #2 on R&B in 1962. 1962. Yes, I was hardly outta the womb. OK, I was 11 years outta the womb. Still. Great lyrics and a fine, fine melody stick with you.

As Ketty tells it, the song was recorded in a garage studio in Los Angeles, and her vocals were recorded in a bathroom. If this is the sound you get from a garage bathroom, I say ditch those fancy-schmancy studios and head for the, um, head.

Lots of singers have covered "Love Letters," which was nominated for a Best Song Oscar in 1945 for the film (surprise!) Love Letters, but no one - not Elvis, Diana Krall, no one - can hold a candle to Ketty and that wonderful tink-a-tink-tink piano accompaniment.

And don't you love the way she sang: "I mem-o-o-ri-i-ize every line"?

So, off you go now to sort through your 45s and pull out the great Ketty Lester's "Love Letters." Or find a download online. "Love letters straight from your heart . . . " Must've been great to crank that one up on the car radio on date-night in 1962.

Photo Regurgitation: Amherst MA

Never got to Emily's house. Too busy with the conference. But I had a little time on my hands this morning before I catch the train back to New York, so I took a little hike along the river. Hot, humid, but very green and quiet (except for the Phil-Spector-Wall of Sound cicadas).

And if you're ever in Amherst, The Black Walnut Inn is the place to stay. This B&B has wonderful, comfortable rooms (wi-fi, even!) and the breakfasts are out of this world. They bake their own bread, and we had freshly picked blueberries yesterday morning. (And thanks for leaving the apple pie out last evening - yum!).

Off to the land of Dickinson

Conference in Amherst, Massachusetts, don'cha know. Not sure if my conference digs (or schedule, for that matter) will allow me to post. So I'll leave you with the only line from Emily Dickinson that I can pull off the top of my head: "Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me . . ." Eewww. OK. Erase that. There's another one that goes something like: "just cuz I ain't never seen no ocean, don't mean it ain't there." Only she said it better, I think. Off to Penn Station for a nice little train ride . . . Toodles! (That's Gidget, not Dickinson.)

(And as usual, when I'm in a hurry, Blogger refuses to cooperate on posting a picture. Sigh. Somebody throttle them while I'm gone, OK?)

Oh, give me a home . . .

(But forget about the buffalo-roaming thing.)

Yes, it's that time again. Time for Shorty to try to find a permanent (semi-permanent?), affordable, secure, convenient home in New York City. As you can see from the picture, I've already started my search. (I can't figure out if that is a cat or a very big tenement rat at my feet, but never mind.)

Currently, I'm in a high-priced, cute little studio apartment on the wonderful Upper East Side. It's a sublet (and truth be told, I don't know how up-and-up it is) - the couple I'm renting from own it but live in a larger place a few blocks away. They came to my rescue when I was unable to find something on my apartment-hunting expedition in April (and thanks, craigslist), but now I'm ready to move my stuff up from Atlanta and have a place of my own.

Another impetus (don't you love that word?) for moving now is that I've been presented with enormous utility bills (electricity, telephone, internet, cable TV) - more than twice what I was told they would be - and I just can't afford it. And no, I didn't do anything out of the ordinary electricity-wise to drive up the cost. Don't know if my landlord didn't have a grasp of the utility costs or if he just wanted me to rent so badly that he fudged it. But really - outrageous! Yikes!

So between wanting more space for my own furniture and the high maintenance costs of the studio apartment, I have no choice but to hit the road sooner than I was planning to do. Fortunately, I'm not as squeezed for time as I was in April - I can stay where I am as long as I want, until I find something else. But now I've got the bug and am ready to start searching.

So if you hear of anything near transportation that dumps off into Grand Central Station . . .

Ain't no cure for the Summertime Blogs

My blogs have been so boring lately. Why do I even bother, eh? I have all these brilliant, witty little flashes as I'm walking the dog or waiting in the heat and the stench for the subway train to roll up. But once I sit my large rear-end in front of the computer - poof! - witty flashes evaporate.

Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the humidity. Maybe those brain flashes are really just mini-strokes. That could explain a lot, since I can't seem to concentrate on anything for more than a minute or two. Adult Attention Deficit Disorder, perhaps?

Started a new book over the weekend, The Time-Traveler's Wife. Big mistake. Good book, but it takes a lot of concentration, since the guy keeps meeting himself (and his future wife/wife) coming and going. Problem is, I insist on trying to sort out the years and the logistics of the thing, and it makes my head hurt a little to figure on it so much. Sigh. Maybe I should just stick with Miss Piggle-Wiggle this summer.

And I'm doing my best to ignore the world. Fingers in ears, la-la-la. Not that I don't care that things seems to be getting out of control; I do care. But, 1) there's nothing I can do about it; 2) nobody would listen to me, even if I had a solution; and 3) there's nothing I can do about it. Talk about loss of political efficacy! Sheesh! (Look it up if you don't know what it means - bet you're suffering from it, too.) So, tra-la-la, walk the dog, go to work, do good stuff, eat comfort food. Call me when it's over, friends.

Enough whining. For now, anyway.

The play's the thing

So I get a ticket to The History Boys, but when I hit the theatre I discover that Richard Griffiths and Frances de la Tour are on hiatus from the play. Aw, shoot, thinks I. I like seeing the originals in the cast, and this put a bit of a damper on it for me.

My seat, however, is front and center. (No, really. Front row, center.) What the hell, it's Alan Bennett and won all kinds of Tonys, etc., so Griffiths/de la Tour or no, it's probably worth it. Well, yes, it was. Desmond Barrit and Maggie Steed were marvelous in the Griffiths/de la Tour roles.

The big question "What is education?" soaked up every corner of the script. Is it facts and figures? Artistic impression of the facts and figures? A denial of all facts and figures, giving it a personal spin? "Real" life? A combo of all/some of the above? What do you think?

At any rate, the boys were the real stars of this play. Fabulous performances by all. And any play that offers renditions of "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered," "Bye Bye Blackbird," and "Wish Me Luck As You Wave Me Goodbye," not to mention excerpts from Brief Encounter and Now, Voyager certainly has my vote.

A lot to think about, but not tedious. I want to get my hands on the play and read it for myself. Then see it again. Point is, in this case, it doesn't really matter who is in the play (as long as they are good) - the play is the thing.

Ring-a-ding-ding

The Friday bell has rung. You may put your books away, grab your lunchbox, and head for home. Or elsewhere.

The only decision left to make: a glass of red, or a g&t?

Cheers, my little martini glasses!

(Look closely at the book cover. Something tells me there was no "www." when Cocktail Time was published. Hmm.)

Blogroll Clean-out Time

I've given my blog links the white-glove test, and they seem to be rather dusty.

So, it's blog clean-out time. I've been busy with the Pledge and feather duster, dumping the things I don't read much anymore or that don't speak to me right now and putting them in the trash.

Problem is, I need ideas for mo' fun blogs to freshen the list.

Referrals, anyone? Give me some new blog-reading material. Please.

Hot time in the old town

Because our building is completing a lengthy renovation process, the fire alarm goes off around here on a regular basis. The ear-piercing beeps are usually interrupted by a voice over the intercom telling us to ignore the alarm. (As if!)

But today, after 5 minutes of the alarm and an "ignore, please" announcement, a voice comes back over the intercom with "Leave the building! Leave the building!" OK. Will do. Anything's better than listening to the alarm run amok.

Tar-aroma'd smoke (not much) greeted us in the stairwell as we made our way to the ground floor and out the front door. The fire truck was already out front.

But here's the important news: I'm here to tell you that the reputation of good lookin' FDNY fire-fighters is not just some rumor. I mean, these were the cutest buncha guys I've seen since I hit NYC! Yowser!

They tromped into the building, checked out the situation (torch meets tar on roof, causing smoke, causing fire alarm, etc.), took care of it, and tromped back out.

But they sure were cuties! Just another day in the city.

Subway Karma

Wonder how the universe - or the Metropolitan Transportation Authority - pays back those guys/gals (and gender-unknowns) who stand inside the doorways of subway trains, refusing to move aside to let folks either in or out?

Does the universe summon up retribution for people so completely brain-dead that they can't figure out the simple physics of getting x-number of people at x-height/weight both leaving the train and entering the train through 3-foot sliding doorways? (Wait! I think I had that exact word problem in 4-grade arithmetic! Never thought it would come in handy, though.) Add to the problem the noodle-brained schmuck body-blocking a foot-and-a-half of that doorway, and well, I think the MTA gods would be completely justified in liquidating said drain sludge.

And if they don't come through, I'm sure my laptop-laden briefcase, strategically located around family-jewels height just might serve as subway karma. Then I just smile sweetly and say, Ooh! Sorry! and give a little helpless shrug as I leave the train. . .

Three generations of summer fun

Remember when you were little and loved summer so much that you didn't care how hot it got? Well, try to get back those good thoughts. I've found pictures that span three generations of children in my family enjoying the good ol' summertime.

Mother and Aunt Mildred (we called her "Noonie," though she spelled it "Nunnie," I think) in their fine May Day outfits. Mother looks, what?, 10-11 years old maybe? So it would be around 1926-27, I guess. Don't they look just tickled pink to be wearing such joyous little dresses?

Cousin Steve, me, sister Cindy on a summer's day in Grant Park, Atlanta (Cyclorama in the background, I believe). I'm thinking it must be around 1956, or so. Notice Steve and Cindy still have their cotton candy, and mine's all gone. Typical!

Awwww, I love this one. Nephew Mikey sharing his popsicle with my little Kate at the pool, 1984. These two have been so close since the git-go, and they still hang out together. But again, awwwww!

Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty . . .

And speaking of grits, Liz asked what, exactly, are grits, since I spent a post raving about them. Grits, my friends, are like sausage - in that you don't wanna know how they're made.

Most Southerners eat hominy grits . Hominy grits are made from regular old corn that's been soaked in - get this - lye water, for goodness' sake!, until the kernels swell up to more'n twice their size. These fat, lye-puffed corn kernels are dried and ground up into a sort of coarse meal-like substance that we in the South call - ta-da! - grits. Sure, you can buy organic stone-ground corn grits, but that takes some of the dangerous fun out of it.

Anyway, once you have your ground-up, dried-up, lyed-up corn girts, boil 'em up to whatever consistency you like - thick, runny, or something in between. Add butter, cheese, onion, jalepeno peppers - whatever floats your boat. (Here's a whole list of grits recipes, just in case you're interested.) A nice little cream of wheat-like breakfast dish, only not so wussy.

Grits - like 'em or lump 'em. I agree there's no accounting for taste (good or bad). I do love 'em, medium-runny with butter or with cheese and jalepenos. Yu-um!

Add sausage and you have a completely delicious but please-don't-tell-me-where-it-comes-from breakfast.

We're havin' a heat wave . . .

A tropical heat wave.

How are you staying cool? Is it what you put in your body? Or on/off your body? Is it mind over matter?

Here's one thing I do: pretend it's Christmas. That's right. Close the blinds, crank up the air-conditioner, light the cinnamon candles, whip up some cocoa, and shove White Christmas, A Christmas Carol (any iteration - you know me), Rudolph - whatever - into the DVD player. No presents or parties involved - just you and snow and Bing and cinnamon. Brrr!

Now you. Seems it's hot all over, and we need all the suggestions we can get.

Just hear those sleigh bells jing-a-ling . . .

Vengeance, Art, and Being Just Too Darn Young to Comment

Well, it's been a busy week, so I've been remiss in posting. I'll just throw out three unrelated topics, and see what happens.

Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face! (Or in this case, blowing up yourself and your home to spite an ex-spouse.) Last Monday, this doctor blew up his wonderful little building on East 60-something so his ex-wife couldn't get her hands on it. He killed himself in the process, which I'm sure was the plan, though he lingered for almost a week.

What a gift to UES developers! Land cleared - ready for an ugly high-rise of some kind, ex-wife (if she gets a cut of it) ready to sell for the big bucks - 'way bigger than the building's estimated worth pre-blow-up. Kinda have to wonder what the guy was thinking, given the circumstances. If he managed to tie up legal and financial details of insurance, etc., to ensure "no building = no money," then he surely went the extra mile and a half to keep the woman's hands off the dough. If not - and she manages to get a cut of the action - then he could've used a copy of vengeance for Dummies.

Big news - and big anger - here in NY about the Metropolitan Museum of Art increasing its suggested admission fee from $15 to $20 August 1. Is it worth it? Well, certainly the Met holds one of the most (if not the most) extensive collection in the world - a perfect one-stop-shop, if you will, of arts from every period. I'm sure the upkeep, etc., costs are enormous. Every little penny counts. But. I don't think that's the point. The point is that it's too darn expensive for regular Joes and Janes to frequent the place. Goodness, I'd be there every other day if I had the money to get into the place. The increase has caused much outrage, so much so that the term "suggested admission fee" is getting a lot of play. Did you know, ask many, that you don't have to pay $15 or $20 to get into the Met - the fee is "suggested." You can pay $2 or a dime, for that matter. Good to know. But I hear the ticket-takers at the Met are real snotty to anyone who does it. Still, they're required to accept what you offer and give you an admission button. So, I guess the dilemma is: shame vs. financial cost.

VH1 is currently airing "I Love the 70's Part 2," which always makes me wonder who puts these things together. These compilations often miss the real stuff that was going on at the time - or even the cult stuff - and make a big deal over things that, well, just weren't a big deal. I'm guessing 20- or 30-somethings are putting them together, and it shows.

The other thing that gets me is the folks they choose for commentary. While a few were certainly around in the 1970s (the pre-school years for most of 'em), some couldn't have possibly been old enough to remember fads, movies, etc. And yet, they don't say, "Well, my parents told me . . . " or "I saw Super Fly for the first time a year ago . . . " No, they all talk as if they were actually there and enjoying Studio 54 back in the day. It would be like me waxing nostalgic about "C'mon a My House," which came out the year I was born. It's just silly. Then again, I guess they don't want people who were actually there giving commentary, the old fogies. (OK, they do feature huge 1970s stars like Charo and Allison Arngrim . . . )

So, what we've learned here:

1. Don't go blowing yourself and your house up just for vengeance when there might be a better way to get back at an ex-whatever.
2. You don't have to pay $20 to get into the Metropolitan Museum of Art since that's just the suggested price, but you will have to be woman or man enough to take scorn from Met employees.
3. If you're going to make a big deal out of Billy Jack, "One Tin Soldier" should be playing in the background, not "Everybody was Kung-Fu Fighting."

Grits and Luzianne

As uptown and fun to live in as New York is, there are still a few things I miss about living in the South. With the exception of family and friends, of course, and good ol' All Saints' Church, most of my longings have to do with food.

Fried chicken, for example. Real fried chicken. I'm sure it's here somewhere - betcha' there's a good soul food restaurant or two in Harlem - but not in my 'hood. Grits, too. Hard to find (real grits, not the instant kind). And with the onset of heat and humidity, Luzianne tea bags for iced tea. Yeah, I know you can make iced tea with Lipton or whatever, but it's not the same. Real iced tea - real Southern iced tea - means Luzianne. Can't find it here at the local Gristedes or Food Emporium.

Well, I have received a CARE package from one of my best Atlanta buds who's in NY this week for the Theatre and Theology course taught every summer at General Theological Seminary by friends Harry and Jay. Thanks to Ann, I now have a good supply of Luzianne tea bags and real grits that should last me until I can get back to Atlanta over Labor Day. Um-um. (She wasn't able to fill the fried chicken gap, though.)

I love that I have so many pals in town right now. For me, it's been a week of being treated to lovely dinners and catching up on what's happening at home. Last night there was an extra ticket to The Drowsy Chaperone, and it was offered to (and accepted by) little ol' me. What a fun show! Made even more fun by sitting amidst good friends. It's one of those seemingly lighthearted musicals with - of course - deeper undertones. Very 1920s - all original music, but it all seems familiar somehow. And it's a great tribute to the LP - pre-CD, for you whipper-snappers. Ah, vinyl! In short, the story comes alive as this guy's sitting in his dingy apartment listening to the cast album of a 1928 musical.

So, a week of good friends, fine food, terrific theatre, AND I walk away with my Luzianne and grits! The lap o' luxury, I tell ya'! I'm thinking of throwing a Grits and Iced Tea Party on the fire escape this weekend. Come one, come all!

Sorry, no pics. Blogger's not letting me post them. :-(

Too Darn Hot

It ain't just a Cole Porter number from Kiss Me Kate. I mean, it is truly too darn hot (and too *!#$%!* humid!). Shorty does not do well in heat and humidity. I know, I know - I come from Atlanta, GA and should be immune to this summertime sludge, but, nope. I've never done well in the heat.

One reason is that my own personal body temp is higher than the norm. No 98.6 for me, thank you. I run a steady 99.2. The Red Cross Blood Center in Atlanta has a note of it on my file, since I donate several times a year (just to get the cookies and juice, mind you). So right from the git-go, I'm bakin' a little bit. Shove me out into 80-90-degree weather with 80% humidity and I'm pert-near dead.

Now, in Atlanta, I could go from air-conditioned house to AC car to AC work to AC store, etc. Not that easy here in NYC. The subway cars are nice and cool but the stations aren't. Then there's the hike to and from Grand Central (OK, not long, only a couple of blocks. But in this heat . . . ) that gets me to where I'm going looking just like I stepped out of the shower. Wringing wet. And lots of places here aren't air-conditioned or at least they haven't turned 'em on yet. I feel like a walking sponge inside a plastic bag. My poor 99.2-degree body is cryin' "Uncle!" Nothing I can do about it except wait patiently for autumn.

But I did find an appropriate quote from Henry David Thoreau (not to let Winston get ahead of me on this) regarding heat. And writing. It's more about writing than heat, but I'm making the connection 'tween the two and passin' it on.

Ahem:

"Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with. He cannot inflame the minds of his audience."

- Henry David Thoreau

So I guess it means that while it's really hot outside and I have the "heat" in me, I should get over my writer's block and start burning a hole in something. Or something like that.

You could always Depend on June

A small salute to the late June Allyson, that girl-next-door movie musical icon who died on Saturday.

I actually saw her live and in person once during my Turner days. I was walking through the lobby, and this teeny-tiny woman, who had her back to me, was checking in with the receptionist. I knew who it was the second I heard the voice. And, of course, double-noted the distinctive page-boy hair-do. She was at the studio to be interviewed by Robert Osborne for Turner Classic Movies. Still cute as a button - must've been about 80. But she was so short. Notice that the next time you're watching The Glenn Miller Story or Good News. Or an old commercial for Depend undergarments.

She was no Shelley Winters, but she was June Allyson. Salute - Junie, m'girl!

Hand me a chisel!

I'm chipping away at writer's block.

Oh, be assured that I am writing; I have to - for work, certainly, and for a freelance project (due last week, by the way). But. I'm just writing crap. Like I forgot to plug in the machine labeled "Creative Good Stuff." Am I missing the plug or the outlet? Or maybe it's an AC/DC thing.

All I'm churning out is a buncha' blah-blah-blah. Lukewarm spew-you-out-of-my-mouth stuff of Biblical proportions. Quick, somebody give me a good whack to the head! Aargh!

H - less in Manhattan

Saw this little sign outside a trendy art gallery and couldn't resist documenting it. True art doesn't include correct spelling, I reckon.

Da' Bridge

They say the Brooklyn Bridge is the only place on earth where an airplane can fly over a pedestrian walking on top of a car driving over a boat floating over a subway train ( the train goes under the river between the boroughs here). Whew! That said, I was one of those pedestrians, etc., today. It's a great walk with spectacular views. I walked to Brooklyn, had lunch, walked back. Call me when you get to town, and we'll walk over to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory for some great ice cream and amazing scenery!

Mmmmm, a rooster's hind-feathers

I love passing little bars and restaurants that proudly proclaim "Cocktails" on the outside. There's just something about the word "cocktail" that conjures up Nick and Nora Charles or the Algonquin Roundtable group.

"Let's go for a cocktail" sounds so much more alluring and upscale than "Let's go for a drink," which sounds like you just want to get drunk and throw up on a sawdust floor. A cocktail requires a little black dress and sling-backs. A drink? Running shorts, a sleeveless t-shirt and a mullet.

But where on earth did the term "cocktail" - as a description for a mixed beverage - originate? Everything I've found out so far seems pretty weak and usually ends with "but no one's really sure." Enlighten me, someone. Where do you think the term "cocktail" came from?

And let's go for cocktails later, darling.

Lunchtime in the UN 'hood

I know most people think of fiscal and political incompetence when they think of the United Nations, but I always think of Eleanor Roosevelt, Dag Hammerskjold, and UNICEF. Such a romantic, I know!

Anyway, since it was such a gorgeous day here in New York - sunny, low humidity - I decided to stroll over to the next block to get upclose and personal with the place. (OK, not that upclose - too many guards, doncha' know.) Here are a couple of pics -

Pocket Lint

Odds and ends. Bits and bobs. Stuff and nonsense. Pestering little gnats flying around in my head. This is as good a place as any to get rid of it.

• Having finished The Shadow of the Wind (great book - thanks for the recommendation, Liz!), I'm in a duel-book situation right now, reading both Marley and Me and Balzac and The Little Chinese Seamstress at break-neck speeds. Somehow I picked up both the other afternoon, just to get a taste, and wham! - got sucked into both. So, it's back and forth for me for a couple of days. Both books will be finished tonight, I suspect. Ever do that? Always do that?
• No Emmy nomination for Hugh Laurie? An outrage! A whack on Emmy's head with Gregory House's cane!
• Since all TV is re-runs right now, except for some incredibly inane reality shows (giving "inane" a bad name, even), I've been indulging in Ovation. I love getting the backstory on masterpieces of art and music, or falling right into a Petula Clark retrospective. (Is "Downtown" still not one of the best songs ever? And didn't PC wear the most fabulous clothes in the 60s and 70s? You go, girl!) Ooh. And also a backstage look at Bryn Terfel, that adorable bear of an opera singer. (I have his CD of songs of Welsh songs - "We'll Keep a Welcome." Aaaaah! A round of Cwm Rhondda for everyone!) Anyway, Ovation is keeping me somewhat sane in the heat and humidity that is New York in the summer.
• I'm still getting used to the fact that when I hear, "The UN Security Council meets again today to discuss North Korea," that said meeting is directly across and one block over from where I work. Maybe I'll stroll by the UN during lunch today, just to see if any sparks are flying. (I'll report back.)
• So 3 folks were arrested for trying to steal Coca-Cola secrets for Pepsi. Notice no one from Coke ever tries to steal Pepsi's formula. I rest my case on why Coke is better than Pepsi.

Whew! Good to get that stuff off my chest. Got any pocket lint you need to clean out today?

Why the Fat Lady Won't Sing

And why Hitchcock made horror films, Mao wore loose jackets, and Santa only works one night a year. They're fat.

Here's another one of those studies that somebody probably got all kinds of money to do and traveled to the four corners of the world to research. CNN News Flash: "Fat People Not More Jolly." Wow! Color me surprised. Seems there's a connection between obesity and depression. Why shut my mouth! (No, really, shut my mouth so I won't eat anymore and get depressed.)

I tell ya' friends, doing one of these studies is better than winning the lottery, especially since it seems rich organizations just can't keep from throwing the big bucks at something like this.

Hmm. Three things I'd like to research:

• Are people who frequent 5-star spas less stressed than people who don't?
• Which international city has the best restaurants?
• Does having a massive bank account help you live longer (all health issues being equal)?

But I'm open to other ideas.

I guess tomorrow they'll run the companion piece "Skinny People Not Very Jolly, Either." And the next day: "Jolly: What Nobody is Anymore." Perhaps I could do a study on where all the "jolly" went.

And from Atlanta . . .

Hope someone took my spot in front of Peachtree Battle Shopping Center to cheer on the runners. Raisin' a Mimosa in your honor, all you Peaches!

True Blue Movies

Here's a 4th of July invitation to everyone out there, regardless of where you come from: What film swells your heart with (insert your nationality here) patriotic pride? A war film? A sweeping drama? A knee-slapping comedy?

Personally (and predictably), I'm a sucker for Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942). Well, first of all, it's a musical, and you know I love me a good one of those. Secondly, any movie that features a "Mary" song is A-OK with me. And who doesn't love seeing James Cagney prancing all over creation? His springy style of dancing is infectious. The film is full of sing-along songs, and it's a beautifully crafted work, to boot. Cagney was the first actor in a musical role to take home an Oscar. Interestingly enough, Yankee lost out to Mrs. Miniver (high on someone's British patriotic list?) for Best Picture. Well, it was World War II, after all.

My close second would be Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939). Except it makes me wish somebody - anybody - in Congress would grow a spine. Sigh. Maybe I'll just stick to musical patriotism for a while.

What about you? Are you as predictable as I am, or is your choice more off-beat? Have glorious 4th all!

The Reason for the Season

"When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation."

So begins the masterpiece crafted by the likes of Benjamin Franklin and John Adams and authored by Thomas Jefferson ('cause he could write so purdy). What a collection of great minds were hashing things out in steamy hot Philadelphia that summer!

If you know your US History - or, shoot, even seen the musical 1776 - you know the Declaration of Independence was a thorny, dangerous document to birth. Face it, everyone who had anything to do with it was guilty of treason to the Crown. They knew it and did it anyway.

The signing of the final version of the Declaration is what we celebrate today ( 'nary a hot dog or firecracker was in sight in 1776). Go read the whole thing for yourself here. It isn't long, and it's beautifully written, thank you very much Mr. Jefferson.

And while you're at it, it wouldn't kill ya' to have a go at the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, either. Not as lovely to read as the DoI (Tom was in France at the time, I believe), but even more important. It'll be the most patriotic thing you can do on this 4th of July.

"We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor."

Happy Independence Day 2006!

Happy Thanksgiving!

One Fourth of July my English "mother" called to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving. For some reason - selective English memory? - Jeannie gets Independence Day and Thanksgiving mixed up. I can sort of see why. Both are patriotic holidays. Both involve the consuming of much food. Both have distinctive celebratory hoopla (one has fireworks, the other parades and football).

During the late 1970s, I spent several Julys with Jean and Aubrey in Walton-on-Thames (about 25 miles southwest of London). One Fourth of July I arrived home in the late afternoon to find: 1) a large Confederate flag towel (bought by Jeannie during a trip to Florida) hanging outside their home, and 2) a slap-up turkey dinner awaiting me.

A teachable moment, see? First, wrong (very wrong) flag. I calmly explained how the fledgling colonies declared independence from Mother England, and as brutally shocking as it was, that's what we celebrate on Independence Day. Mind you, I've always felt the English should celebrate getting rid of us, as well, so I don't know why they don't recognize the holiday. And second, wrong food. While I love a good roast turkey, I just can't get into it much in mid-summer. But throw a hot dog or hamburger on the grill and top off the meal with cold watermelon? I. Am. There. Nevertheless, Jeannie and I still get a good laugh out of the Confederate-flag-turkey-dinner 4th of July. It was the thought that counted, after all.

Yesterday, for instance. The Brennan clan gathered at Aunt Kathy and Uncle Rick's lake home for an all-day pig-out-pre-4th-fest. (OK, the Brennan clan, plus 100 of their closest friends.) Lots of people. Lots of food (see above - and that's just a portion of the "main" course, after two rounds of appetizers and dessert to come!) and beer and wine. Lovely waterfront view of Lake Hopatchong (New Jersey is so misunderstood.) A marvelous time had by all. The only thing that put a damper on the day was the 3-hour drive home (normally 1 hour) as Kerry and I got stuck in George Washington Bridge traffic into the City. Aaargh!

Great family, good friends, fabulous food - a perfect way to kick off the 4th. Something to remember when Thanksgiving rolls around.

Mamma Meh-(insert shoulder shrug here)-a

Kentucky Fried Chicken. Barry Manilow. Cool Whip. Bodice-rippers. ABBA. These are things that people profess to hate, while secretly they can't get enough of 'em. I mean somebody's buying McDonald's hamburgers and Sandra Bullock movies, right? So when a friend got a deal on a couple of tickets to the ABBA-songfest Mamma Mia at the Winter Garden, well, sure, I was up for it.

All I can say about it is a lukewarm "meh." The story line was very thin - but it's an ABBA musical, so I wasn't expecting Sweeney Todd or Caroline, or Change. Most of the songs felt forced into their respective slots and lacked any 70's ABBA spark. The cast didn't seem to be having any fun until the curtain call, when the main characters come out resplendent in true ABBA spandex and sparkles to sing "Waterloo."

Had there been any energy in the thing at all, the audience should have been dancing in the aisles at several points in the show, most especially at curtain call. Nope. Not even much rhythmic clapping. (By contrast, folks are dancing, singing, and going wild during Hairspray's closing number "You Can't Stop the Beat.") I expectd the same kind of energy in Mamma Mia as Hairspray and was disappointed. (Well, and Hairspray has a great plot line, too.)

Knowing me, knowing you - much better to watch Muriel's Wedding to get your ABBA on.