Searching for the Guiding Light during Tomorrow's Secret Storm

Friday, September 18, 2009, will mark another nail in the coffin of real television soap operas. That's the last broadcast of "Guiding Light," which has lived on radio and TV for over 70 years. "As The World Turns" is the last of the old-time soaps still standing. Gone already are greats of the 50's and 60's like "Search for Tomorrow," "The Edge of Night," "Love of Life," and "The Secret Storm," all popular when I was growing up.

My definition of a real soap opera is a program that:

started as a radio show and/or began broadcasting on television before 1960.

started as a 15-minute program. ("As The World Turns" is the only exception, since it began as a ground-breaking 30-minute show. Big news in 1956.)

was recorded at a studio in New York City.

My mother was a big soap fan before she went back into the workplace in the late 50's. I remember she'd fix us our Campbell's Soup and Hi-C to keep us quiet while she watched "Search for Tomorrow" and "The Guiding Light," 15 minutes each. Then we'd go down for our naps, but if we didn't sleep too long, we could catch a bit of "As the World Turns" and "Love of Life." "Secret Storm" and "The Edge of Night" came on a little later in the afternoon, so we could keep up with those, too.

Now, don't get the idea that we sat around watching TV all afternoon. Mother was ironing or sewing or in and out of the kitchen. We'd play inside and out - we were kids, after all, and our world didn't revolve around Mother's soap operas. But they were background noise. And the Tates and Bergmans and Bauers and Hughes, et. al., were like long-lost relatives that could only communicate through TV plots.

As we grew up, went to school, and found other ways to spend our time, we only had to check in occasionally with our soap families to get up to speed with the action. And, alas, as teens we gravitated toward "American Bandstand" and "Dark Shadows," only stopping by Oakdale and Springfield and Henderson during Christmas break or in the summer.

I can't remember the last time I watched "Guiding Light." Funny, but during a news story about its soon-to-be demise, I recognized a goodly portion of the cast - older, portlier, but still familiar. Just like a real family.

I raise a plastic cup of Hi-C to the cast of "Guiding Light." Cheers, you rascals!

The Curious Case of the Never-ending Dirty Coffee Mugs

Gather 'round for a spine-chilling tale of dirty coffee mugs, spoons, and plastic ware that appear out of nowhere in the sink at the office and never disappear. (You're quaking already, I can tell.)

A variety of dirty mugs, cups, containers, and utensils seem to be reproducing before our very eyes in the 4th floor breakroom. Oh, sure, it started off innocently enough - a black mug here, a butter container there. But now the sink is almost full. And it's been over a week. Black mug still there. Container still there. But new little friends have joined them. All rooted firmly to the sink and staring at us. Daring us to wash them; daring us to walk away.

This frightens me on several different levels:

1. What unknown creature(s) put the items into the sink in the first place expecting them to wash, dry, and replace themselves?

2. What else might the co-worker creature(s) leave for me to "clean up" outside of the kitchen?

3. What if the sink gets so full that I can't rinse out my own dirty mug and plate? Do I just throw 'em in there and walk away?

4. Since I never see anyone doing this evil deed, when and how does it happen? Are these creatures invisible or do they feed at night/early morning before the rest of the staff arrives?

5. Because it happens over and over and over, am I caught in a "Twilight Zone" episode or "Ground Hogs Day"?

To be honest, it is not a unique occurrence, this symbiosis between dirty mugs and office sinks. In fact, I don't think I've ever worked anywhere that didn't have dirty dishes magically appear in the sink and sit. And sit. And sit. Until somebody gets so fed up with the science experiments growing in their workplace kitchen laboratory, that s/he dons rubber gloves and a mask and washes all the dishes on their own.

Yes, you're so smug sitting there reading this and thinking, "This will never happen to me!" And maybe you're right. Maybe the co-worker creature only follows me around. But the next time you look into an office break room sink and see one lonely black mug sitting there, beware! You may not be as safe as you think. Mwwaaaahhhaaaaaa.

The usefulness of guilt

Years ago I participated in a Sunday School class for parents with teens. The focus was on the good, the bad, and the incorrigible and was led by a child psychologist. One parent raised the question of using guilt and, hey, wasn't that a bad thing? The teacher laughed and said that guilt is not necessarily bad and often is the only thing a parent has. Finally. Something I could use.

Tuesday's New York Times had a great article about the usefulness of guilt and atonement in raising considerate, conscientious adults. Now, there's a big difference between guilt (about the act or behavior) and shame (about the "badness" or incompetence of a person). Several studies are showing that guilt, properly handled, can really help a child understand undesirable behavior and the importance of making amends.

Of course, much has been made over the years about parents, usually mothers, who instill feelings of guilt children. Literature and jokes are rife with famous "guilt groups" - Catholic, Jewish, Puritan - famous for causing life-long guilt (or shame, depending on how it's handled). The reality in my own life is that, yes, guilt - the stuff tied to behavior - has kept me out of a lot of trouble, especially before the age of 30.

It's funny, but when I was growing up I never considered how bad behavior would effect me; I always thought of how it would hurt and disappoint Mother and Daddy. While it didn't keep me from all unfortunate behavior (I have a long trail of that, goodness knows), it did keep me from doing a lot of stupid stuff in my teens and early 20's. The potential guilt of hurting my parents saved me from making some real blunders. The enormity of bad guilt-feelings just wasn't worth the momentary delight of doing something questionable.

The other side of that coin is that there is behavior I wish I felt guilty for: too much food, not enough exercise, lack of patience, etc. Hmmm. I'll have to work on that.

Just got the news!

Daughter and Son-in-Law expecting a baby boy!

Due date: February 22, 2010

The Write Address

Good penmanship can pay off. A little bit. Thanks to some whip-crackin' elementary school teachers, I have a nice, clear handwriting style. Last year I ran an ad on craigslist offering - for a small price - to hand-address cards, invitations, and thank-you notes, having no idea if anyone would take me up on the offer.

Believe it or not, several folks have hired me. My first job was addressing 100 birth announcements for a couple in Greenwich Village. I sat in the "party room" of their apartment building to complete the addressing assignment. The next job involved writing thank-you notes for a recently married couple. They typed out what they wanted to say in the notes and provided the addresses and cards, and I did the writing. Both of those little jobs helped me buy Christmas presents last year.

Now, there's a trick to hand-addressing envelopes, whatever the size. Especially when the card has to be addressed something like: Mr. Stephen and Dr. Elizabeth Jonesenbergenstein. Sure, I can use an ampersand, unless the customer asks me to spell out everything, but that still doesn't save much space. What I'm saying is, there's a bit of finesse involved in keeping the address neat, readable, and correct (and on one line).

A couple of weeks ago, I posted my ad again and got an immediate request from a high-profile non-profit group who had 500 invitations to address for a big party at one of the Hampton mansions. I was given pages and pages of the addresses, a fistful of green Sharpie pens (to match the logo on the envelopes), and boxes of beautifully-designed envelopes. Quite a nice little weekend job, actually.

This was a fun project. Lots of famous people and philanthropists were on the list. Imagine that Sarah and Matthew, or Liev and Naomi, or designer Donna, or writer Elie - well, I could go on and on, but I won't - got invitations in my very own handwriting! And, no, I do not remember their addresses, so don't ask. I'm trustworthy in that way. It was kind of cool.

But I will tell you this. The #1 zip code for these invitees was 10021, the primo NYC zip. People - well, certain people - vie to land a place between the north side of East 69th and the south side of East 76th and between Fifth Avenue and the East River. And Park Avenue won the prize for street frequency. (Obviously not my end of Park Avenue, zip code 10029. I suspect no one vies for 10029.) Plus, it was fun to get to write "PH" on many of them. I'd love to poke my nose into any penthouse on Park in 10021. Sigh.

I finished the project on time, and the client loved the work, so job well-done. The organization has an even bigger fund-raiser in the autumn and promises to call me again. 4,000 envelopes next time. I think I'll need more than a weekend for that one.

Moral of the story: write neatly. You never know where your handwriting will show up. But stay out of my territory. I own 10021, baby!

Stardust. Golden.

Let me begin by saying, I was not there. More about that later.

This weekend marks the 40th anniversary of Woodstock. The real Woodstock - the muddy, half-a-million-strong, Country Joe/Janis Joplin/Jimi Hendrix Woodstock, not the pale re-creations that followed. Truthfully, I've enjoyed watching all the documentaries and retrospectives, witnessing the fun and hearing the raw music from my own dry, cool place stocked with plenty of food and toilet facilities.

As crazy as Woodstock still looks even in this day and age, I find comfort in the fact that a number of long-term, monogamous, traditionally-married relationships grew out of the festival. Who knew? I guess we figured all those young folk just scampered off to communes and smoked themselves to death.

I find comfort in the fact that Woodstock-attendees are now mainstream journalists, business people, educators, religious leaders. They had a great time forty years ago and yet, survived it and moved on to become productive citizens.

And I find comfort in the fact that the music is still kick-ass. Way more kick-ass than anything that's come along since. Guess you need a real cause to create kick-ass music, and young folks haven't seemed able to find a collective cause big enough to inspire, well, kick-ass music.

Now. Back to me. In August of 1969, I was busy getting ready to head to college. A faraway music festival was barely on my radar until the news about it started hitting television news. And coming from a conservative, Republican, Southern Baptist family, my attending Woodstock - college preparations or no - wouldn't have occurred to me, anyway. So, yeah, I missed the music event of the century. But I found all the stories and film footage about the festival very cool, and the music forced me to think outside of my comfort-zone. (Uh, oh - was this conservative Southern Baptist girl going to be lead astray at some point in the future? Stay tuned.)

Still, even if I had the chance to go back to my 18th summer, knowing what I know now - knowing what a big deal Woodstock would be in the annals of history, I don't think I'd show up. I've never been much of a concert-goer. I don't like long lines, traffic jams, and music-amplification that makes my ears bleed. And I really wouldn't want to spend a couple of days in mud, even for Janis and Jimi. Such a wimp, I know.

But I love living the experience vicariously through films, documentaries, and interviews from my air-cooled, food-laden apartment with indoor plumbing. I salute the hundreds of thousands of kids who showed up for three amazing days of peace, love, and music at Max Yasgur's farm. It could've gone horribly wrong, but it didn't.

Some would say most of those kids eventually sold out, became Establishment. Well, yeah. Eventually, the Establishment becomes you. But, please. Is there anything sadder than an old hippie? I mean, one who still lives like a hippie? Yet, even those of us who were too conservative or too disinterested to attend Woodstock carry some little bit of the philosophy with us, I hope. The reality is, though, that Woodstock didn't change anything. Not in any huge, long-lasting way. Except to demonstrate that 400,000 or so young people could get together for three days of music without violence, government intervention, cellphones, and iPods.

For those of you sick of hearing about it, too bad. I'm sure you're tired of hearing about the assassination of JFK, the moon-landing, and the Beatles. Boomer retrospectives are no different from our own parents' recollections of the Depression or World War II. You'll be the same way about whatever it is you consider history-making for your generation.

The fact is that forty years ago Woodstock stood and delivered. And the music was kick-ass. Stardust. Golden.

Come, October!

Summer. You can have it. I can’t believe anyone over the age of 18 is bemoaning the fact that summer is almost over. OK, I’ll cut the kids and teachers some slack, since I understand the reluctance to return to the old school routine. But summer is my least favorite season, and the sooner it’s gone, the better, in my opinion.

I loved it as a kid, of course. All those long, long days, playing out in the wading pool or – once in a great while – getting to go to an actual swimming pool, making lanyards a thousand different ways at some day-camp or another, eating watermelon (the kind with seeds), seeing how many books I could read in the library’s Summer Book Program. Sometimes I went down to Florida to friends in St. Petersburg or Aunt Nell’s in Orlando (before DisneyWorld – but she had a pool, which was all that mattered).

With the exception of the Great Journey West in 1959, I don’t remember many elaborate family vacations. We traveled enough throughout the year from Chattanooga to Atlanta or to Nashville to see family. Holidays at the beach or some exotic locations happened rarely, if ever. So to child/teen-me, summer was just one long lazy time to goof around and wear shorts.

And then I grew up. College summers were spent working to earn money enough for cute clothes – all those mini- and midi-skirts and coats, hot pants, suede belts and boots (early 70’s, remember) – so I learned pretty fast that those lazy-hazy-crazy days of summer were gone for good. And once into the full-blown workaday world after college, the childhood-summer experience could only be re-created over a 7-10-day vacation to the beach or mountains. Then back to work.

So here’s what summer means to me now: Heat. Humidity. Endless Bad-Hair Days. Work. Bad TV. Silly action movies. Unflattering clothes. High power bills (I refuse to live without air-conditioning, sorry).

My body, mind, and spirit longs to feel that first hint of an autumn nip in the air. Oh, to be able to open the windows and feel a wonderful cool breeze blowing through! To don a turtleneck sweater and jeans and take an energizing walk through the park. To see the first hint of gold or red in the treetops.

I love autumn, winter, and spring. Marvelous seasons! But summer? Meh. As for me, I’ll take cool, crisp air and brilliant fall colors, January’s bitter cold and snow (I love snow!), and the new grass and flowers of spring over the languid heat of summer anytime.

Ah, October – can you get here soon?

Four More Years!

August 9 marked the fourth anniversary of Shorty PJs. I know I've been a slack-blogger of late and promise to get back on track soon. My head is a-swirl with ideas: NYC Zip Code Envy, What Should Be on My Real Resume, Summer of Dead Celebrities - well, a long list, I assure you.

Until I get my act together and regain my blogging momentum, why don't you take a stroll down Shorty PJs Memory Lane and read her posts from August 2005 (see left navigation)? The first posts are tentative and fraught with trying to figure out how blogging works. The last post of the month was about the hurricane that hit New Orleans (before we knew how really bad it was). Yet, I think those early posts are some of my best.

To my faithful readers, thanks for putting up with me for the last 48 months. You're a swell buncha' folks, and I've loved getting to know you better through blogging. Four more years!

The Horror! The Horror!

Don't you love a good scary story? Particularly when somebody else is telling it to you? (Cue moans - wwwooooooo!)

Now that I'm able to keep my ears plugged during commutes with an iPod, I've become addicted to podcasts of old radio shows of the horror persuasion. The stories are just right for my train ride from Spanish Harlem to Grand Central and the hike up to Second Avenue, lasting 25-30 minutes each. Most are from the 1940s and 50s, though a goodly number are from the 1970s, and originate from the U.S., England, Canada, and South Africa.

The plays often feature the likes of Orson Welles, Vincent Price, and a variety of Broadway stalwarts. Sometimes I can see the ending from a mile away, but once in a while the resolution is a complete shocker. Still, I haven't found any real stinkers, yet. The stories go a long way toward keeping me entertained on a crowded subway, though I might be too scared to listen to them once fall and winter set in, and I'm travelling to and from in the dark.

If you're looking for free horror story downloads, may I suggest:

• The Horror! (Old Time Radio)


• Horror Stories


• Vintage Horror Radio

Excuse me while I grab my blankie, plug in my earphones, and put my thumb in my mouth. Now. Start. Wwwwwwoooooooo!

Extremes

Yesterday was a day of extremes. The Hot/Cold kind. I know I said in my previous post that I felt like pulling the covers over my head, but the day was just to beautiful to do that. Wildly craving fresh tomatoes and basil, I ventured down to Union Square and the big Saturday farmers market. Of course, I couldn't be down 14th Street way and not venture to Sarita's Mac and Cheese (S'mac) on E. 12th and Sundaes & Cones on E. 10th, eh? So here's the "extreme" breakdown.


Hot:

The weather. Sunny and warm, felt like upper-80's but I might be stretching it. NYC has had the third-coolest summer on record, so any time the clouds move out and the sun beams down, we all hit the streets. But all that walking and concrete heat things up. This Southern girl was glowing.

Sarita's Buffalo Chicken mac-and-cheese. Like extra spicy hot wings without the bones and with creamy, cheesey macaroni. Hot, hot, hot, but oh, so good. I try something new every time I visit S'mac. This time it was a toss-up between the Buffalo Chicken and the Masala. I've had the 4-cheese, the Cajun (red peppers and andouille sausage), the French (brie and figs), the Swiss (Gruyere and bacon), and now the Buffalo Chicken. Next time, Masala. I promise.

Sundaes & Cones wasabi ice cream. Y'all know it's my favorite. Sweet but with a great little wasabi-burn to it. Mmmmm.

Cold:

Sitting on an ice block in Union Square at the one-day art installation "Burning Ice." I'm glad I took the time to read the explanatory sign, since one of the artists did a video interview with me as I sat cooling my ass. The melting ice has an environmental message. I'm just sorry I couldn't stick around for the big ice block to turn red. Never mind. Those ice-block benches were pretty darn popular in yesterday's heat.

Sundaes & Cones wasabi ice cream. Brrr cold. And especially cool with a scoop of ginger ice cream to beat down some of the wasabi "heat."

Extremes. Worth coming out from under the covers for, I testify - spicy mac-and-cheese and a frozen rear-end.

Oh, by the way, Shorty fans: As I did with my Mother of the Bride experience in MoBster Diaries, I've started a new blog called Confusions of Grandeur rather than boring you with my grandparenting experience here on Shorty PJs. You're welcome.

Cocooning

Life is unsettled on several fronts right now. Significant down-sizing at work has left us an office of the walking dead (those who are losing their jobs) and the walking wounded (those of us left to carry on). The economy is still if-fy, and even though it seems to be improving, I think we’re all gun-shy and protective of what little money and few benefits we have. And, geez, can we stop hearing about Michael Jackson? Sheesh!

So I’ve decided to pull the covers over my head - figuratively, if not literally. It’s all about comfort, friends: comfort food, comfort music/books/movies, comfort experiences. I’m going at things gently, gently. Avoiding as many unpleasant confrontations as possible. Tiptoeing through any potential mine-fields. Plugging in my earphones and listening to music from the early 1960s, when things were “safe” in my little world. I’m trying to eat healthy-ish, but if it’s a choice of raw veggies or homemade mashed potatoes with butter, I’m peeling the potatoes as I write.

In fact, with the heat and humidity in New York, I believe the time is right for my annual “Christmas in July (or August) Weekend.” I’ll stock up on cocoa, cinnamon, and peppermint, turn the air-conditioning down to frigid, and have a Christmas movie marathon Saturday and Sunday. Deck them halls.

Yes, I’m going to my safe place now. Cocooning. Let me know when it’s OK to come out.

The Coolest Thing That Ever Happened

It wasn't Woodstock or the Beatles. It certainly wasn't the Vietnam War. Or bell-bottoms, the 1964 1/2 Mustang, Jimi, Janis, or Twiggy. Nope. The thing that colored everything from education to politics and television (The Jetsons, many a Twilight Zone episode) for my generation was the Space Race.

The Soviet launch of Sputnik in 1957 threw our parents - and by extension, little us - into a tizzy. Not that we didn't have a morbid fascination about the pointy satellite. I remember many a clear night we'd gather outside just to see it pass overhead. But, by gum, it meant that we Americans had better catch up here. I mean, really. Were we going to let the USSR's German scientists beat our German scientists? Hell, no!

The trickle-down effect of Sputnik on those of us sitting in neat rows in a classroom was more emphasis on math and science (I'm blaming the Space Race for "new" math. Still hold a grudge.) . Oh, and suddenly every schoolroom had a television set so that we could watch every satellite-rocket-capsule launch and orbit. Very cool. We were invested in the Space Race at a very young age, friends.

It got more interesting once we passed the monkey-in-spacesuit stage and moved to the astronaut phase. Alan Shepard and John Glenn were (and still are, I reckon) huge heroes to us Baby Boomers. Talk about reality TV! Whoa! The John Glenn flight is still a nail-biter, even though I know it turns out OK.

But, honestly, did anybody take President Kennedy seriously when he challenged us to send a man to the moon and safely return him to earth within the decade of the 1960's? Hm. Well, whether anybody did or not, NASA hopped right on it, and most of us were right there with 'em. We knew the astronauts, the various space programs (Mercury, Gemini, Apollo), and the types of rockets (Atlas, Saturn).

This week we celebrate the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing. Yes. The Coolest Thing That Ever Happened. I never tire of watching coverage of the event. It's still so incredible that human beings ever set foot on that big silver ball in the sky. Who knew what Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin would find there? (And thanks, Michael Collins, for hanging around in the command module to pick them up, by the way.) Sure there was all kinds of science, but, you know - what if there was something science fiction there that we hadn't counted on? (Fortunately, whew!, not.) And a good chunk our our planet watched the whole Coolest Thing Ever on television together. Bump the coolness factor up a notch.

OK. So here's why I thing the Apollo 11 moon landing ranks as the Coolest Thing That Ever Happened:

1. It was the first time that humans touched the surface of the moon. Really. Not some flying saucer sci-fi movie. Really. And I still have a hard time getting my head around it.

2. We were all invested in it - emotionally, educationally, and - yes - financially. We wanted it to succeed because we'd been taken along for the ride from the beginning; we wanted a happy ending. This is true for Americans, but I suspect lots of folks around the world were invested in the event, too. It brought us together in a good way, not in a bad, calamitous way.

3. It worked! It could have been a disaster, but it wasn't. All those little bolts and screws and all that science and astronaut training worked. Very cool.

4. Moon rocks, baby! Moon rocks!

I feel sorry for those of you too young to remember it. Can't imagine what you'd consider the Coolest Thing That Ever Happened, but I bet whatever it is can't begin to compare. Because for 40 years the second thought that enters my head when I see the moon (right after "Wow!") is that earth-bound humans have hopped around in its dust. And that is just the coolest thing that ever happened.

Ode to My Own Bed

Oh it's fine to travel here and yon
For work or rest or play -
To Bombay, Beijing, Bruges, or Bonn.
A change of scene is good, they say.

But whatever the climate or the price
Or wherever I lay my head,
Neither a sleeping bag nor silk sheets entice
In comparison to my own dear bed.

A 5-star hotel offers no finer rest,
Than my mattress that fits me just right.
No pop star or royalty ever possessed,
Such worn soft old sheets that invite.

The down of my featherbed and comfy duvet,
Afford perfect rest for my bones.
My pillows are perfect. I know it's cliche -
But nothing compares to that bed of my own.

So while travel is fun and exciting to do,
More than a few days of it causes such dread,
Because no place on earth can ever renew
Like a night in my very own bed.

If your heart is in your dream . . .

. . . no request is too extreme. Not even going back in time 50 years and being an 8-year-old kid at Disneyland.

OK. I wasn't able to actually be an 8-year-old kid, but I sure acted like one. I screamed my head off during all the "mountain" rides: Space, Thunder, Splash. I talked to all the creatures in Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, Alice in Wonderland, Pinocchio, Snow White, and Peter Pan. I twirled those Teacups at nausea-inducing speed and sang along with the birds and flowers in The Enchanted Tiki Room. In short, I channeled my inner 8-year-old. And it was incredibly therapeutic.

I got to go to "The Happiest Place on Earth" twice during my recent visit to Anaheim: once with Lil Sis and Bro-in-Law - full day fun - and once on a Twilight Pass with a friend from work once all our work-duties were done. I thoroughly enjoyed both visits.

After years of frequenting DisneyWorld in Florida, I finally got to return to the original park that my family ventured to in 1959. Yes, my Golden Anniversary. No matter how many times I was told that DisneyWorld is massively larger than Disneyland, I just couldn't believe it in my 8-year-old-memory head. Once I went back to the original, I can attest that, yes, it is teeny-tiny compared to DisneyWorld.

My recap? Here 'tis:

• Disneyland's Sleeping Beauty castle is almost laughably small. I had forgotten that it looks so different from DisneyWorld's Cinderella castle. All I can say is, when Sleeping Beauty wakes up and sees how gigantic Cindy's castle is, she is going to be right pissed!



• The great thing about little Disneyland is that it's very doable in just a few hours. Things aren't as spread out as the Florida park. It's cozier.



• Disneyland has a few rides that DisneyWorld doesn't, mostly rides I remember from my visit in 1959: Alice in Wonderland, Storybook Land, Pinocchio. Evidently, DW doesn't have a Mr. Toad's Wild Ride anymore (What's up with that? It used to have one.). Of course, DW has rides that Disneyland doesn't have, so I guess it's a wash. But even the same rides are different in the two parks.



• You get to go to Hell and back in Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. There's something satisfying in that. (To DisneyWorld: Put that ride back!)



• Disneyland has New Orleans Square (with Pirates of Caribbean, Haunted Mansion). DisneyWorld has Liberty Square (with Hall of Presidents, Haunted Mansion - Pirates is in Adventureland, I think, at DW). Nice restaurants in New Orleans Square, by the way.



• The Astro Orbiter that brother David loved "shifting gears" in during our 1959 visit has been revamped to look more Jules Verne than the NASA-type rocket orbiter of 50 years ago. So, in a way, the Orbiter looks more 19th-century than Jetson-like. Interesting.



• Loved the Buzz Lightyear ride, shooting my ray gun and racking up points. Woo-hoo!



• No Carousel of Progress. :-( Guess we've just progressed too much (though I think it's still at DisneyWorld).



• Matterhorn - great as it was when brand new in 1959, though I did remind Lil Sis that the thing was 50 years old as we ascended the first hill. Probably not good timing.



• The new E-ticket rides in 1959 were The Matterhorn, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea Submarines, and the Monorail (probably not really an E-ticket) - all still going strong. Alas, the 20,000 Leagues theme has been changed to Nemo - very disappointing. Go back to 20,000 Leagues, Disneyland!



• Worst ride? Indiana Jones and Temple of Doom. A lawsuit (or 50) waiting to happen. I love thrill rides, but this was just jarring and jolting. It hurt! Yuck.



• Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse has been changed to Tarzan's Treehouse. I'm a little sad, but I can live with it.

So, if your dream is to spend a little time as your 8-year-old self, try Disneyland. It's cute as all git-out. And thanks again, Mother and Daddy, for showing us the Happiest Place on Earth fifty years ago.

Hotel Sweet Hotel

Living in a hotel for two weeks is not all it's cracked up to be. Oh, sure, I have floor-to-ceiling windows, a massive down-comfortered king-sized bed, and nice flat-screen TV. Room service at my fingertips. Maid service. All the ice I could possibly want.

But it ain't home. The view from those floor-to-ceiling windows is kind of flat with some brown mountains in the background and a smattering of lights, not my funky Spanish Harlem skyline with spectacular sunsets. I would gladly trade this king-sized bed for my old double bed with perfect pillows, just right for me. And my ancient boat-anchor television set is all I really need - this fancy-schmancy TV is a waste.

Can you tell I'm homesick? Two weeks is too long to put up with complicated alarm clocks, weird bathroom faucets, tiny little shampoo bottles , and a toilet tissue roller that's almost impossible to reach. Or without my own little kitchen, easy chair, and the sound of Metro North trains rumbling under my window.

Maybe it would be different if I could spend my days around the pool or romping about in Disneyland. But this is no vacation. And not even a wonderful hotel room can take the place of my own little apartment, full of familiar things, at the end of a long day.

Believe me, I'm grateful to have a job where a two-week hotel stay is about the only thing I have to complain about. Still, I'm counting the days until those rattling Metro North trains rock me to sleep at night.

From the "Happiest Place on Earth"

Happy Independence Day! More to come about our Disneyland adventure, but for now: Happy Birthday USA!

Gonna take a sentimental journey . . .

In the summer of 1959, two very brave parents loaded their four children (ages 6-14) into a station wagon and struck out from Chattanooga, Tennessee, for California and the vacation of a lifetime. Three weeks of camping out in state and national parks, soaking up the countryside, living on Spam and capping it off with a trip to Disneyland - what were they thinkin'?

The itinerary was impressive. Bro and I worked it out as best we could remember:
1. Chattanooga, Tennessee (home)
2. Chickasaw State Park, Tennessee
3. Sallisaw State Park, Oklahoma
4. Amarillo, Texas
5. Glorieta, New Mexico (a fancy church conference center; yeah, we had to go to church)
6. Mesa Verde, Colorado (cliff dwellings - my favorite!)
7. Grand Canyon (South Rim), Arizona
8. Big Bear, California
9. Anaheim, California (yea! Finally, Disneyland!)
10. Zion National Park, Utah
11. Salt Lake City, Utah
12. Moab, Utah (to see friends of Mother and Daddy)
13. Grand Junction, Colorado (we're unsure of the name of the town)
14. Somewhere close to Kansas City, Kansas (just a big old lonely field in back of that motel)
15. Granite City, Illinois (to see the Nash cousins)
16. Nashville, Tennessee (to see the Frazier/Greene cousins)
17. Chattanooga, Tennessee (home)

Makes me tired to think of it, but only in retrospective. As kids, it was a great adventure. No planning on our part, of course; we just fell in line and piled into and out of the car when told. Imagine the months of organizing that went into this trip! I wish I'd asked Mother and Daddy about it.

So. This year marks the 50th (50th!!) anniversary of that wild Frazier vacation to California. Tomorrow I head for California for 2 1/2 weeks, mostly for work. But I start it off with a visit to Lil Sis, who now lives in Yorba Linda, right next to Anaheim.

And on Thursday, she and I and Bro-in-law will pay a Golden Anniversary Commemorative visit to Disneyland. I haven't been there since 1959, though I've been to DisneyWorld in Florida lots of times. I do wonder how Disneyland of 2009 will stack up against the memories of an 8-year-old Tennessee girl. Will the Matterhorn seem as big? Is the bucket ride still there? Will Mr. Toad's Wild Ride still be, er, wild?

Dear Mother and Daddy: Thank you for stuffing us into that blue and white Chevy station wagon and taking us on the most incredible, memorable vacation that was ever known to four children. It was fun and educational and unforgettable. I'll even forgive the camping and the Spam.

Wonder if I can get a pair of gold Mickey ears?

Ooh, Grandma! What a big mouth you have!

Just got the news from daughter Kate. I'm going to be a grandma! She and Greg are over the moon. Baby due end of February-March (they'll find out more when she goes for the blood test next week). Congratulations to the Mama- and Daddy-to-be!

I told Kate that I'd wait until she gave me the go-ahead to make the announcement, thinking they might want to keep it to themselves for a bit. But she said there wasn't any way she could keep that secret, so I was free to let the world know.

And thanks to Blogger, Facebook, and Twitter, I'm doing just that. Ooh, Grandma! What a big mouth you have!

Girls of Gold

A couple of weeks ago, we had our annual Girlfriends Weekend. Last year's gathering was sort of a 6-day "weekend" in New York, so this year we headed for a more bucolic setting - Blue Ridge, Georgia. As always, it was time spent catching up, gossiping, wondering "where are they now?" - all enhanced with lots of munchies and adult beverages.

Blue Ridge offered lots of advantages (for example, a lovely big cabin with a spectacular view and a hot tub), not the least of which was that we were just up the hill from my brother's mountain home. Bro and Bill - yeah, the two Bills - greeted us with champagne and a cheese tray on Friday and treated us to a splendiferous dinner on Saturday night. As I said, Blue Ridge has it's advantages. And a good time was had by all.

The weekend coincided with my rediscovering of the TV show "The Golden Girls" of late. With the recent death of Bea Arthur, programmers have taken the opportunity to run GG marathons and add the show back to the play list, I suppose. I'd forgotten how laugh-out-loud funny the show is, by the way. Hilarious writing, plus each actress being true to her particular shtick, makes it timeless. Only the massive shoulder pad fashions nail it to the 80s-90s period.

I've been trying to match up my own Golden Girls with the TV counterparts, but I haven't been very successful. OK, let's face it, I'm definitely the Dorothy Zbornak type - bossy, sarcastic - though I wish I had a touch more Blanche Devereaux sexiness and Rose Nylund sweetness. But the Girls? Hmm. I'm not sure they fit exactly. I think each of them are a combination of sweetness, sexiness, and sarcastic. Wonder which GG character my friends identify with?

Maybe it's time for a few more "stereotypes" and another go at a Golden Girls-type program. That said, don't call it The Golden Girls. And it better have some damn funny writing.

I do know this. That I love my own Girls of Gold and treasure our time together. Next year, the beach?

Simma' down!

Imagine being 88 years old and so saturated with anger that you march yourself to the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC and start firing away. White hot anger. Dangerous, soul-splitting anger.

Instead of sitting on the back porch enjoying a bowl of ice cream with his grandkids or training for a community 5K run, James von Brunn preferred nurturing his white supremacist views and his deep hatred of Jews. Taking in big scoops of vileness via the internet and meetings with like-minded souls. Souls who spend every waking minute in twisted anger, blaming whole groups of people for whatever ails them. This is no Angry Young Man. This is a guy who has spent his whole life wrapped/warped in hate.

What a waste of life, health, and love. Who needs sky-rocketing blood pressure, dodgy ulcers, little capillaries just waiting to explode in your brain? More importantly, who wants to miss deep, fun, loving relationships?

When I think of the people I love, I find they belong to all sorts of "groups." White-bread folks. Jews. African Americans. Latinos. Blonds. Yankees. Gay. Straight. Muslims. Rednecks (not the same as white supremacists). Shoot, there may even be a white supremacist in there somewhere (hope not, but I'll love 'em anyway). Why, I wouldn't give up any of them, even if something ticks me off about their particular "group" at one time or another.

People aren't groups. People aren't demographics. People are individuals. True, some are lousy -yeah, we can all name a few of them. But most folks are just wonderful, and life is richer for loving and learning from them.

If you don't like someone, move on. But don't spend your life poking around in the flames of hatred. Don't repeatedly strike a match to kerosene for 88 years, for God's sake. Turn down the heat. Go have some ice cream with somebody you do love. Get a hobby that's not built on hate.

In short, simma' down!