Halloween Horror Hits: Week of October 23

Double your pleasure, double your fun. For this week leading up to October 31, let me suggest a few seasonal pairings (plus one tripling) to help you ward off the evil spirits well into the night. Pull your chair a little closer to the warm glow of your computer screen or 60" plasma TV and stock up on popcorn and "fun size" Snicker bars. Here we go.

The Shining (1980) and The Shinning (1994). One stars Jack Nicholson and Shelly Duvall, the other stars Bart and Homer Simpson. Nicholson's a nutcase and Shelly needs to wash her hair. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. Shivery stuff. Until you watch the Simpsons' version. Memorable line: "Usually the blood gets off at the second floor." My suggestion is to watch the scary one first, then enjoy the parody. Bart and Homer really take the edge off Nicholson.

Halloween (1978) and Carrie (1976). Jamie Lee Curtis in one, Sissy Spacek in the other, P.J. Soles in both. Do not mess with high school girls. Trouble seems to follows these little darlin's wherever they go. The teenage boys don't stand a chance - they are all doomed from the start. Pumpkins, predators, periods, and proms - terrifying stuff. Totally.

The Bride of Frankenstein (1935) and Gods and Monsters (1998). And if you want a real film-fest, toss in Young Frankenstein (1974). If you can only watch one James Whale Frankenstein movie, go for Bride. It's got everything you need to get the gist of Gods and Monsters, Young Frankenstein, and any good Carol Burnett sketch. Elsa Lanchester's coif alone is worthy of timeless honor and praise, but Bride is loaded with iconic images and quotes that ripple through the other two films. "To a new world of gods and monsters!"

Now go make friends - or do I mean, "fiends"? - with crazy cabin-fevered writers, knife-wielding teenage girls, and monsters with fabulous hair.

Book Bind

I'm fresh out of reading material - actual books, virtual books, audio books - and so I turn again to you, dear blog-buddies, for suggestions.

Here's what I don't want:  I'm not in the mood for non-fiction, unless it's a rip-roaring read (like, oh, say, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil), and I don't need anything that's going to tax my brain at this particular time of year, so no existentialistic, uber-cerebral junk. Oh, and no romance crapola, either. In short, I'm looking for a plain, ol' good story.

So, I put it to you, friends: What's the last good book you read, the one that you didn't want to put down?

I'll even contribute to the conversation. A few weeks ago I read Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen, a book I'd put off reading for a while. Well, little Shorties, I couldn't read the thing fast enough! I highly recommend it if you've been putting off reading it, too.

Don't feel compelled to write a book review; a title and author are sufficient. Raves and book reviews are always welcome, however.

Please, please send me something that will make me read late, late into the night.

Klutz Day

Ever have one of those days where you run into things, trip over invisible objects, and drop everything you pick up? Sure you have. And so have I. Today.

I dropped everything from brushes to pens to a bowl of spinach (which I managed to catch just before it hit the floor - whew)!. Stuff just slid through my fingers all day long. But that's not the worst of it.

The worst of it was running full-speed-ahead into a whacking great iron air-conditioner cage on my way to work. These may just be New York head-bangers. No one in my 'hood wants their street-level a/c stolen from the window, so they encase them in thick iron-barred cages that protrude a couple of feet from the side of buildings. At least, that's how it works in Spanish Harlem.

Anyway, I was walking - which, if you know me, means a marathoner's running speed - head down, so I wouldn't trip over something on the sidewalk, when - bam! One of these a/c iron-barred cages slapped me upside the head. My first thought was "Who hit me with a shovel?" The corner of the thing bit me right at my forehead and hairline. Bit is not strong enough, unless the bite is coming from a Great White Shark.

Color me one stunned klutz. A single trickle of blood made its way down my forehead, but I had no idea how bad it was. I was close enough to my apartment to stagger back to survey the damage. Fortunately, the cut was minor, but I do have a lump the size of, oh, somewhere between a golf ball and tennis ball. Yeah, big. And, yeah, I put ice on it immediately.

Even knowing that it was my Klutz Day, I went on to work. I needed folks to keep an eye on me, in case I went to sleep and didn't wake up. Ibuprofen helped. A lot. And it was a fairly productive day, despite all the time spent picking up stuff I'd dropped.

Here's hoping tomorrow is my Graceful Day. I can't afford another lump on my head. I'm fuzzy-brained enough, as it is.

Halloween Horror Hits, Week of October 16

Another October week has passed, and though I spent four of the last seven days at a conference in Colorado, I managed to view some pretty good scary movies via my trusty netbook. I'm dying to see PT's suggestion of "Dead of Night," but it's not offered on Netflix or Hulu. I'm on the look-out and will find it before Halloween. It's obviously a classic I've missed along the way.

Here are this week's suggestions:

The Fog (1980) - A John Carpenter film with Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, Janet Leigh, John Houseman. Better than I thought it would be (why am I suspicious of Adrienne Barbeau movies?), in fact it was darn good. Not John Carpenter/Jamie Lee Curtis/Halloween good, but scary just the same. Weird revengeful-zombie-filled fog takes over a Northern California fishing town. Choose this one, not the 2005 remake. I mean, wouldn't you rather watch Adrienne Barbeau and Jamie Lee Curtis?

Knife Edge (2009) - Standard busy-professionals-move-to-big-creepy-county-house thing, but I kinda like standard busy-professionals-move-to-big-creepy-county-house things, so it held my interest. Took me a while to figure out who the baddie was (I thought it was the Joan Plowright character for a while), so it held my interest. If you like standard busy-professionals-move-to-big-creepy-county-house things, too, you might like it.

Burn, Witch, Burn (1962) - Lousy title for a pretty good little movie. Professor who teaches about psychological effects superstitions finds his wife engaging in various forms of voodoo and witchcraft, claiming to do it to protect her husband from jealous colleagues. A few twists and turns, plus a giant stone eagle comes to life. A nice cozy little black-and-white movie, perfect for the season of Halloween.

Move that bowl of candy corn a little closer, and be prepared to be . . . mwah-ha-ha . . .spooked!

Halloween Horror Hits, Week of October 9

You know how much I love my Halloween movies. Only scary stuff radiates from my television, DVD player, and computer screen during the month of October. I mean, if you can't dig down into the depths of your twisted psyche during the season of ghosties and ghoulies, when can you, eh?

I stand by my list of Halloween film fare criteria and my favorite Halloween movies posted in 2005. Do your homework, and check it out here. But every year I find new classics (oxymoron?) to add to my annual Film Fear Fest. So each week for the rest of the month,  I'll post three movies worthy to add to my Halloween list that I've discovered/re-discovered, thanks to streaming video on the web.

Here are the Halloween Horror Hits, week of October 9

Dr. Terror's House of Horrors (1965): Here's a British offering, starring the UK's equivalent of Boris Karloff/Vincent Price, Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing. The token American is a young Donald Sutherland. Six strangers on a train, tarot card readings, bizarre glimpses into the future, and a Twilight Zone-y kind of ending. What's not to love? 

The Bat (1959): This one surprised me, in a good way. I was expecting the standard Vincent Price thing, but Agnes Moorehead rules this one. She's a mystery writer staying in an old spooky mansion where the owner has hidden cash he stole from his own bank. Agnes is fearless. No squealing, frightened woman is she! Bonus: a grown up Darla Hood puts in an appearance. It's a good little thriller. And, yes, bats - the flying kind - are involved.

Ghost Story (1981): Hadn't seen this film in years, and I'm so glad I watched it again. Four old guys (Fred Astaire, John Houseman, Melvin Douglas, and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr) must pay for a great sin they committed as young men. Lots of creepy, scary stuff, perfect New England setting. Good stuff!

OK. Go forth and stream a good scary flick. I'll see if I can find three more good 'uns by next week. Now, pass the candy corn.

The Spooklie Awards 2011

The Spooklie Awards are back! I created them in 2006 with the idea of turning them into an annual awards - much like those Nobel thingys - but, hey, things happen, and here it is five years later. Perhaps these awards are so special that they only come around every five years. Gives us a chance to get perspective on what's really scaring us. Anyway, that's my rationalization, so deal with it.

The purpose of the Spooklies, according to my brilliantly written 2006 post:

Scary things are all around us - not just in October - so I am hereby instituting awards that hold aloft the everyday creepy, spooky, and downright blood-curdling stuff of life - past and present, personal and collective, specific and general.

I'll have to shake the categories up a bit, since some of them will forever be won by the 2006 winners. For example, algebra is still the scariest school subject and always will be, so I'll retire that one. Now, drumroll - er, piercing scream - please, for this year's Spooklie Award winners:

Childhood Spooklies

Scariest Toddler Experience:

Life without Yo Gabba Gabba!. The world is just too scary without DJ Lance.

Scariest Words a Child Can Hear:
We're on our way to the doctor. And, yes, there'll be shots.

Scariest School Experience:
Throwing up in class. Disrupting class, disgusting your classmates, and pissing off the school custodian does wonders - in a scary way - for your formerly cool reputation.

"In The News" Scary
Scariest Current Events Tale:
9.1% unemployment. Unemployment means no money for rent and food, no benefits like health care, and constant self-doubt. Terrifying stuff.

Scariest US Politician (ensemble award):

Everyone currently in office and/or running for office, all parties, all political persuasions. You're scaring us to death, all y'all!

Scariest World Leader/Politician:

The Duchess of Alba. Not sure how much world-leading she does, I only know that I've had nightmares ever since I saw her wedding pictures. From extreme plastic surgery, good Lord, deliver us.

Scariest Weapon of Mass Destruction:
Reality television. We're doomed.

In the Privacy of Your Own Home Weirdities

Scariest Thing in the Refrigerator:

That two-month old sack of basil, now liquefied and sending off toxic fumes.

Scariest Bathroom Event:

A rat in the toilet, discovered during a middle-of-the-night trip to the loo. (Don't sit down!)

Scariest Television Show:

The last hour of the Today Show with Kathie Lee and Hoda. (see Duchess of Alba nightmares) The frightening thing about Kathie Lee is, well, Kathie Lee. The scary thing about Hoda is that she sticks around.

Scariest Room in the House:
3-way tie: Attic. Basement. My closet. {Shiver}

Out-and-About

Scariest Public Transportation Experience:

Entering a taxi filled with driver-farts, with farts continuing from LaGuardia to Midtown. And you have to travel the entire way with your head out of the window. I smell a remake of "The Fog."

Scariest Restaurant Experience:

Finishing up an excellent meal and discovering that the restaurant only takes cash (not unusual in NYC, BTW) and you have only $2.16 on you.

Scariest Work Experience:

Being constantly interrupted while trying to lunch at desk and play a scratch-off lottery game. Oh, the heartburn!

Scariest Vacation Experience:

A week at a spa run by Dr. Conrad Murray. Ah, those Propofol massages!

Do you have a few nominees of your own? You're welcome to add them to the list. Happy October!

Autumn Crush

I have not deserted you, dear readers. It's just that the past few weeks have required travel, energy, money, and a sparkling (well, at least, half-fizzy) personality, leaving me little time to collect pithy Shorty PJs thoughts.

Since my 9/11 post I've traveled to Florida for nephew Mike's wedding, spent a week telecommuting from Atlanta, attended the All Saints' Atlanta parish retreat to Kanuga in the mountains of North Carolina, and shuttled back and forth from New York to Atlanta and back.

All that stuff just used up any creative spirit or sheer physical will to tap out a blogpost.

Things always speed up when September rolls around, even after busy summers. I'm not complaining, though. Autumn is my favorite season. I love the cooler temperatures, the gradual color change of the trees, and the smell of dried leaves. I love pumpkins, jack o' lanterns, and roasted pumpkin seeds. Black and orange. Orange, yellow, and brown. Red and green. But try as I might to slow things down in order to savor this time of year, it's just impossible to do.

But I'm not complaining. I've loved everything packed into the past month and look forward to all the other things that will be crammed into the next three months. Hangin' on for dear life! Next week: Estes Park, Colorado. I'll try to do better.

I don't know about you, but I think I'll settle in with a hot cider and a good book.

Happy Autumn!

What is in a name?

It was hard to listen to the names of those killed in the 9/11 attacks being read at the site of the World Trade Center this morning. The readers were people who'd lost a loved one - wives and husbands, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, grandchildren, friends. Some of the readers were stoic, some in tears. But each name was read with the solemnity and gravitas it deserved.

It was particularly moving to see the reaction to the names engraved around the fountains in the footprints of the towers. The tears, the distress was just heart-breaking. Mothers and fathers traced the letters of the names of children with their fingers. Flowers and little flags were wedged into the engravings. Many people made rubbings of their loved one's name. Each letter of each name so precious. Each name representing a life - the joy, the quirks, the laughter, the day-in/day-out responsibilities, the love - of a single person who is no longer around to hug, toil beside, share a drink, walk the extra mile.

A firefighter in uniform sat in front of me at the 11:00 service at St. John the Divine. I noticed he had a small laminated picture of someone that he held in his hands and took with him when we went up for Communion. That struck me so hard. I didn't personally know anyone who died, but this firefighter did. My prayers were for this man's loved one. After the service I asked him about it. It was a dear friend, he said, and showed me the metal bracelet he wears engraved with his friend's name. The man said he came to the Cathedral every anniversary in honor of his friend. His faithfulness and devotion were inspiring.

I cried my way through the closing hymn, O God Our Help in Ages Past, just as I cried my way through it 10 years ago when we sang it at All Saints' in Atlanta. I do believe that we must move toward the future rather than dwell on the horrors of the past. But when people say get over it and move on, I think of my own tears and emotions. I did not lose a loved one. The names being read are all strangers to me. And yet, tears. I cannot fathom the profound sadness that the families and friends bear, yes, even 10 years later.

Each name is precious. Each name being read aloud. Each name etched in stone. Each name carried on a card tucked inside the dress cap of a firefighter. Each and every name.

What is in a name? An entire life. That's what's in a name.

The Answer to World Peace

An afternoon cartoon break. So simple, why haven't we thought of it before?

Our department has a big screen TV monitor that usually showcases the new website we're creating. My little office is directly across from the monitor, which has led to my pleas of showing cartoons in the afternoon to liven things up a bit. Well, today, my request was honored.

To the delight of all, the classic Bugs Bunny cartoon "What's Opera, Doc?" rang out into all the nooks, crannies, and cubbies of our 4th floor offices. Lots and lots of laughter ensued for, oh, 7-8 minutes. And then it dawned on me. If everybody would just take a short, afternoon cartoon break (with ensuing laughter), I can't help but think world peace would take over.

Normally, "Kill the wabbit! Kill the wabbit!" set to Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries wouldn't bring world peace to mind. Except when Elmer Fudd is singing it. Impossible to wage war and foment hate when tears of laughter are rolling down your face.

So there. I've solved it. I'll await my Nobel Peace Prize. "Kill the wabbit!"

I Have a Little List

How much do the little lists we make, day in and day out, reveal about us? A grocery list, a to-do list, a list of what you want to sell at your garage sale, a list of books you want to read, a list of expenses. Think about it. If you kept all the little scraps of paper and Post-It notes, what would those little bits say about what is important - maybe not important, but necessary - to you?

The Morgan Museum & Library has a fascinating exhibition about Lists.

Yesterday, I got to spend a wonderful afternoon at the Morgan with friend Barbara from Atlanta, finally getting to drink in the newly-renovated opulence of J.P. Morgan's library, books, works of art, which were all off limits the last time I was there. Another exhibition explored medieval dress and fashion. (Did you know the two "horns" medieval women piled their hair into and draped with scarves were call "temples"? Me, neither.)

But it was the collection of lists from the Smithsonian that proved the most fun to poke through:

"The exhibition celebrates this most common form of documentation by presenting an array of lists made by a broad range of artists, from Pablo Picasso and Alexander Calder to H. L. Mencken, Eero Saarinen, Elaine de Kooning, and Lee Krasner. With examples such as Picasso's picks for the great artists of his age (Gris, Léger, etc.), H. L. Mencken's autobiographical facts ("I never have a head-ache from drink"), and Robert Smithson's collection of quotations about spirals, the items on view are intriguing, revealing, humorous, and poignant."

OK, so you can see where even the shopping list of a famous person might be interesting, but looking deeper, these lists really reveal a lot about the list-maker. Lists tell us about priorities. Priorities of time, money, attention, passion. Some of the lists are official - a list of teapots (in the form of drawings) for an art exhibition or an accounting of a sales receipt. Some are ordinary and personal - likes, dislikes, things to do today, things to buy at the grocery or hardware store. But all the lists boil down to priorities. What's important. What comes first. What must be done.

Are you a list-maker? I am. And even in this age of making lists and taking notes electronically on a smartphone, I still find a hand-written list the most efficient and easiest to access.

So, what do your "priorities" say about you? Mine obviously say I really need mayonnaise and milk. Priorities, dear. Priorities. Thank goodness, I have a little list.

Postscript: Hurricane Irene

All is calm, though not bright, this afternoon in Spanish Harlem. It's gloomily overcast, breezy, but dry. There's a lovely quiet, as the Metro North trains aren't up and running under my windows. The streets are still empty of cars and people. My hope is that everyone got so caught up in playing Monopoly or gin rummy with their families - or actually holding meaningful conversations (shock, horror!) - that they've forgotten to emerge from their apartment buildings.

I could tell you that I sat up all night, monitoring Hurricane Irene, watching the wind and rain do its best - or worst - to stir up trouble. I won't, though. Truth is, I slept through the whole thing. I went to bed around 1pm and didn't wake up until 9:30. Must've needed the sleep. So no Irene war-stories for you, dear readers. Sorry.

No broken windows. No lost power/water. I don't even see much debris on the streets.

Perhaps it was a Chicken Little response by New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut, imposing mandatory evacuations and preparing for the worst. However, the devastation that could have taken place if Irene had hit at the right spot and the right strength would have been catastrophic. It's a gamble either way. That said, the local media was way over the top, even if the event had proved apocalyptic. Alas, it was ever thus.

I like to think it proved that New Yorkers can make rational decisions, prepare for potential chaos in an orderly fashion, and follow directions. These are traits not often attributed to New Yorkers, so a collective pat on the back for your solid reason and lack of panic, fellow citizens.

My favorite Mayor Bloomberg moment was when he was asked if preparations were in place to handle looters. He gave the questioner a sort of puzzled, but cock-sure, look and replied, "New Yorkers don't loot. That's not what we do nowadays." Yes, leave that to the likes of Londoners, Los Angelenos, and New Orleansters. It was then I realized that the main qualification of being mayor of New York is that core cock-sureness in New York City and its citizens. Thank you for having such faith in us, Mr. Mayor. (And I hope we would've lived up to your expectations re: looting.)

Now, back to normal. Goodnight Irene, thank you very much.

A Hurricane with a Theme Song

For all you young'uns who don't understand why everyone keeps painting "Goodnight, Irene" on the plywood going up over windows in the hurricane's path, here's the reason.

As we wait for Irene to show us who's boss, we can gather around the old flashlight, grab a guitar and banjo, and sing a few rounds of "Goodnight, Irene," first recorded by Huddie "Lead Belly" Ledbetter in 1932 but made enormously famous by The Weavers in 1950. My daddy used to sing this all the time.

The song has been recorded by everyone from Frank Sinatra to Tom Waits. But for your listening and learning enjoyment, here are the versions by The Weavers and Lead Belly.

You'll be humming this for days to come. Stay safe and start singin'. Goodnight, Irene.

The Gathering Storm

I live on the island of Manhattan, New York City. We get heat waves in the summer, snow storms in the winter. But earthquakes and hurricanes? Pretty darn rare. However, we're ticking off both of those weather boxes this week. Tuesday's earthquake? Meh. The approaching hurricane lovingly named Irene? Mamma mia!

It looks like Miss Irene is heading straight for the World's Biggest Apple. There are mandatory evacuations of hospitals and residents in low-lying areas. The entire public transport system shuts down at noon tomorrow. (So if you're leaving, you'd better get going.) Most Broadway shows have been cancelled Saturday and Sunday. (OK, now things are getting critical.) And if you have the urge to do a little gambling in Atlantic City? Fuggitabahtit. Everything's closed.

My fifth-floor apartment is located just inside Hurricane Zone B. I've never had to gear up for a hurricane, though I've had to get ready for a lot of tornadoes over the years. However, I'm not particularly worried. I'm a mother and a Girl Scout. I've been a PTA president and a television producer. "Prepared" is my middle name (except legally, it's Frances). Anyway.

My biggest fear is losing electrical power and/or water. No. Wait. My biggest fear is loss of life and property. Then my biggest fear is losing power and water. And maybe having the windows blow in on me. But I promise to stay away from those.

But Shorty "Prepared" PJs has plenty of water, non-perishable food stuff (bread, peanut butter, fruit, etc.), flashlight/batteries, candles/matches. I have a land-line phone. (I know! But don't you wish you had one now?) I will keep my BlackBerry, netbook, and iPod plugged in and charging until the power goes, and hope against hope that my little techno-toys maintain power throughout any outage.

My Kindle's clip-on light should allow me to read, whether the power's off or on. (No complaints, there.) Our landlord has asked residents to fill our bathtubs in case we need the extra water for flushing toilets. So I'll do that tomorrow evening. In short, whatever the officials advise me to do, I will do. Plus, anything else I think will keep me safe and comfortable.

This sort of event is where social media shines. Following friends via Facebook, Twitter, and blogs will keep everyone up-to-date minute-by-minute on the emergency and its effects. At the very least it will let friends and family know who's safe or who needs help. Should be an interesting weekend up here.

I can't do a thing about the weather, but I can prepare as best I can. And not be stupid as the wind and rain blow across this island.

Shorty PJs Guide to Audience Etiquette

Follies Performers = +10
Follies Audience = - 492

To Bernadette Peters, Ron Raines, Jan Maxwell, Danny Burstein, Elaine Paige, Jayne Houdyshell, Mary Beth Peil, Terri White, and everyone else in this marvelous cast: Let me apologize for the atrocious behavior of the audience at the Friday, August 19th, 8pm performance.

I estimate at least 40 late seatings in orchestra throughout the first act and a fairly steady stream of folks coming and going on bathroom breaks during the entire show. Was this as distracting to you, Dear Cast, as it was for those of us non-late-bathroom-goers who'd come to bask in the glow of your performances? I have never witnessed such disrespectful behavior by an audience ever in my years of theatre-going.

Who are you people who'd plopped down mucho dinero for prime orchestra seats, only to walk in, out, and around like you were in the middle of watching reality TV in the privacy of your fake-paneled dens with barcaloungers? Well, dearies, it seems you need to brush up on your theatre audience etiquette. So, here are the rules:

1. Never arrive late. Never. The performance time is right there on the ticket. You have plenty of time to get to the theatre, so implement some planning skills. If you arrive late, sit or stand quietly in the back (no chit-chat with the ushers) until intermission. Sorry. If you're late you forfeit your right to a comfy up-close seat for the first act.
2. If you have a cough, allergies, or a tendency to clear your throat every 15 seconds, come prepared. Bring a bottle of water. Unwrap all your cough lozenges before the show starts.
3. Do not guzzle gallons of water, iced tea, or martinis at your pre-theatre pre fixe dinner, unless you have the pee-holding characteristics of a camel. Your need to relieve yourself does not take precedence over the rest of us who get views blocked and concentration broken by your traipsing up and down the aisle during a fabulous number or quiet dialogue. Practice your pelvic muscle control and wait until intermission to hit the loo.
4. If you have incontinence problems, see #3. And get your seats near the back of the theatre, on far left or far right aisles. You'll still be distracting to the rest of us, but I'll cut you a little slack for health/age reasons. However, you get no sympathy from me if you insist on sitting in the middle of rows A-W.
5. The overture is part of the show. Shut up and listen. Any time the orchestra strikes up, pre-show or intermission, there should be no talking. Conversations must cease. These fine folks have more talent in their little string-plucking finger than you could ever hope to have. Honor those gifts and show due respect.
6. For goodness sake, people, dress appropriately. I've written about the appalling lack of respect for the orchestra and performers before. Do not turn up wearing cut-offs, tube tops, wife-beaters, and tee shirts. This is Broadway, folks! Broadway! Dress like you care! Dress like you have a date with Bernadette Peters or Daniel Radcliffe after the show. Do your homes, hotel rooms, or flop houses have no mirrors? Hmph.

It's all about respect for your fellow-audience members and the outrageous, unbelievable talents of the performers. Do not interfere with the delicate dance between audience and cast. Those of us who love, love, love theatre expect to be drawn into story, song, emotion - whatever is being offered to us from the stage. Talking, coughing, walking around, and rattling paper all break the magical thread that ties those of us in the seats to the folks treading the boards.

You do not have Shorty PJ's permission to attend another performance of anything (including your daughter's dance recital or your son's 3rd grade play) until you've memorized the rules. Yes, it's that serious.

Now, everyone who caused such an audience ruckus during Follies on August 19th, 8pm performance, please send a hand-written apology to everyone in the cast and orchestra. It's only right.

Lord, Lord, Lord, That Woman Is Me.

Friday night, I saw the 40th anniversary production of Stephen Sondheim's Follies at the Marquis Theatre on Broadway. I've loved, loved, loved this show's music since I first really got to know it in the late 70's. When I heard the show was hitting New York, it took me about 14 seconds to decide to plop down my hard earned bucks to see this whacking great container of brilliancy and to bask in the glory of the likes of Bernadette Peters torching up the stage.

One of my great theatrical regrets is to have missed seeing with my very own eyes/hearing with my very own ears the original cast of this 1971 gem. It ranks right up there with having missed Julie Andrews in My Fair Lady and Camelot, Gwen Verdon in Damn Yankees, and the original Broadway cast of Guys & Dolls. (Damn! Sigh.) I can only imagine what it must've been like to hear the wonderful Dorothy Collins belt out "Losing My Mind," Alexis Smith throw out the sarcastic "Could I Leave You?," or Yvonne de Carlo dredge up her past in "I'm Still Here."

But 40 years later I got to see the whole thing unfold with another superior cast of thousands (or so it seemed), a full blown 28-piece orchestra (rare these days), and an eerie, crumbling theatre set on stage. It's a crazy, sad, tragical show, with lots of humor thrown in. Every song is a jewel. There were very few disappointments. The first act drags a little, in spite of all the fun musical numbers. And Elaine Paige, like most singers, oversells "I'm Still Here," though the rest of her Carlotta was endearing.

Two strong questions threaded their way through this particular Follies for me.

One: which Mary from the past is shadowing me?  In the musical the retired showgirls are shadowed by their former glamour-girl selves. I found myself caught up in the way the young selves studied their future, older selves and began thinking about what young Mary is thinking of aging Mary. And is that younger me 8? 15? 26?

And two:  do you have to be over 60 to finally get this show? Well, having loved it since my late 20's, I can testify that this 60-year-old heard songs like "The Road You Didn't Take," "The Story of Lucy and Jessie," and "Who's That Woman?" with different ears. I think you can understand the regret, the pain, the ego held up to the light in this show at any age, but, boy, the older you are the more you absolutely know what's being put to you in Sondheim's lyrics. Yeah, that woman is me.

OK. I'll shut up now, because this is one show I could talk about for hours. Never fear, I'll spare you that folly.

Who's that woman.

That cheery, weary woman

Who's dressing for yet one more spree?

Each day I see her pass

In my looking-glass--

Lord, Lord, Lord, that woman is me!

A Lady Passes

My Aunt Frances was a true Southern lady. One who loved the color blue, sending cards, and living out the Golden Rule.

She died last week. At 88, she'd lived a good long life, so her passing came as no surprise. She was my daddy's little sister, and my middle name is compliments of her. She was not famous - or infamous, but she was a kind soul whose concern for others marked a life of neighborly-ness and service. Aunt Frances took her Christian faith seriously and put it to work everyday.

The first vivid memory I have of her was at a clean-up day at the cemetery next to our family farm in Henrietta, Tennessee. I was perhaps 4 or 5 years old. She gave me little jobs to do and seemed pleased that I stuck to her side. Then there was the time that her family visited us in Chattanooga and came to our elementary school fall carnival. Aunt Frances won a large turkey platter at one of the carnival raffles. She'd always point that platter out to me when we'd visit her home in Bordeaux. My growing up years are filled with summer and Christmas memories of her and being on the receiving end of her kindness.

Frances never missed sending birthday and Christmas cards. We used to talk on the phone frequently, but her hearing failed her over the last few years, making calls frustrating for both of us, I suspect. I resorted to sending her cards. She liked cards.

Her favorite color was blue. I think everyone in our family makes some subconscious connection between Aunt Frances and the color blue, even today. She had three wonderful sons - my cousins Jack, Tommy, and Terry - whom she loved to no end. They lovingly looked after her and my Uncle Horace, who died in 1998, throughout years of declining health.

However, another part of Aunt Frances' mythology is the fact that she always wanted a daughter. I'm not speaking out of school on this, because everyone I talked to at her funeral - family members, neighbors, church friends - mentioned it. Cousin Tommy even talked about it in his eulogy (he was supposed to be Beverly, not Tommy, by the way). My sister and I were the recipients of her mother/daughter attention whenever we visited, ranging from home permanents to hand-made clothes. Fortunately, Aunt Frances had marvelous daughters-in-law and three lovely granddaughters, in addition to two fabulous grandsons, so she ended up with lots of girls.

It was important for me to attend her funeral last week in Nashville. As her namesake-niece and daughter of her big brother, I couldn't imagine not being there. The funeral was a celebratory affair. Tommy did an outstandingly hilarious job of a eulogy that captured my aunt's humanity, humility, and love and made us laugh as well as cry. He also played her favorite hymns (good old Gospel-style).  I loved seeing my Nashville cousins again and getting reacquainted with their families. At the cemetery, I got to see my grandmother and granddaddy's graves, which I hadn't seen in years. All in all, it was a nice homecoming/home-going.

So I honor, with much love, my blue-loving, daughter-envying, card-sending, Christian-living Southern Aunt Frances. Make way as a lady passes.

Shuckin', shellin', stringin'

We didn't grow up on the family farm, but believe it or not, we all did our share of shucking corn, shelling peas, and stringing beans during the summer. Daddy would come in from the farmers market or grocery store with sacks or baskets of vegetables that required a little preparation before they were ready to cook or store in our huge chest freezer.

I was remembering those times as I was shucking a few lovely ears of sweet corn that I got at the market on Friday. Back when the corn came right off the farmer's truck, it wasn't unusual to find a little worm in the corn silks, and as I kid I saw this as a little pay-off excitement to an otherwise boning task. No worms on my New York corn, but it is delicious, worm or no worm.

Shelling field peas seemed to be Mother's domain, with the occasional help from our little hands. It was always gratifying ripping open the pods and hearing the peas - ping-ping-ping - hit the large metal bowl. And once in a while, you'd pop a raw pea or two into you mouth. Sneaky. Daddy seemed to rule the green bean stringing - usually while in front of the TV, though Mother and the rest of us snapped off the ends and pulled the long strings many a time.

Does anybody sit around with the family shuckin', shellin', or stringin' these days? No? Pity.

Summer Spice

Just because they are so pretty in the sunlight. Homegrown peppers (thanks, Greg!) drying on the window sill. The colors make me smile. Can't wait to enjoy them in my food.

Early Morning at the Met with McQueen

I have the day off, so I thought I'd take advantage of the members-only early admission to the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Alexander McQueen exhibit. I've tried to get in twice this summer, but it's always been jam-packed. The thought of a calmer, less crowded view of the designer's work appealed to me. Alas, this member-only entrance had us packed in like sardines. Next time, I'll sleep in and see the premier exhibitions with the riff-raff.

Crowds notwithstanding, the displays were incredible. Here are a few pictures taken (without flash) before the guard said "no photos" (as flashes were going off all around me).

It Could Be Worse

Yeah, things look pretty bleak right now.

Every single person entrusted to represent us in City Halls, state legislatures, and in Washington DC is hopped up on clueless idiot pills. News organizations (and who know who else) are hacking the phones of murder victims and soldiers. Outrageous indignities must be suffered just to pay a whole lot of money to fly from Point A to Point B. Unemployment is high, pensions are disappearing, and mind-numbing reality TV has us in its grip.

I'll grant you, the second decade of the 2000's is off to a rousing start. But it could be worse.

Whenever I think life is going to hell in a handbasket, I pull out Barbara Tuchman's A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century. No, really, I do.

I first read this book back in 1979. Last century, doncha' know. For those of you who lived through it, cast your memory back to that dreary year. Ayatollah Khomeini and the Iran hostage crisis. Three Mile Island. Assassinations and bombings. Crowd stampede at The Who concert in Cincinnati. The dollar goes down, down, down on the world market. USSR invades Afghanistan. The President of the United States fights off a killer rabbit. Disco. And the usual weather calamities of storms,  tsunamis, tornadoes, and snow lasting 30 minutes in the Sahara Desert. All in all, a perfectly horrible, dispiriting year.

But after reading Tuchman's book about the 14th century? Shoot, 1979 seemed like the best of times.

The Black Plague. Hundred Years' War. Three popes (and, goodness knows, one is enough trouble). Pillaging mercenaries. The Little Ice Age. The Great Famine. The Peasants Revolt. No air conditioning, microwave ovens, or computers.  And, one more reminder, the Black Plague. Times were dire, and there was no escape. Most people couldn't read, so entertaining oneself with a good novel was out of the question. Couldn't lose yourself in a movie or PBS television series. And just think of the smell!

So if you're feeling low about the Casey Anthony trial or raising the debt ceiling, thank your lucky stars that you don't have to fight off the Black Plague, three popes, a Little Ice Age, and a famine without being able to check email and while smelling absolutely revolting. Or, that you don't live in 1979.

See? Chin up, there, friend. Things could be so much worse.

Flavor of the Season

Throughout all those long, lazy summer days of childhood - thousands of years ago, nothing brought such delight as an ice cold Popsicle. We'd wait and wait and wait for the sound of the tinkly little bell heralding a truckful of every flavor Popsicle ever dreamed up, plus Fudgesicles and Creamsicles and the occasional Push-up or NuttyBuddy.

Decisions, decisions. Cherry? Grape? Blueberry (just blue, nothing very berry about it)? Or the very exotic . . . banana?

If I were feeling silly, I'd choose the blue one, just because it turned my teeth, tongue, and lips blue, and that's funny to a 5-year-old. If I were feeling a little outrageous, I'd choose banana - it was just so odd-tasting, in a good way, but not like a real banana. Once in a while I'd go all conservative and choose grape. But mostly, I'd choose cherry, my personal favorite.

But never orange. Orange was so NOT special. It was just OK, and if we'd waited for the truck all that time, the choice needed to be spectacular, not just OK.

So what's your favorite Popsicle flavor? Is there an orange-lover out there? Hm? Or are we all banana and cherry fans?

And do speak up if you're a NuttyBuddy.

(In case you didn't catch it, the picture's not vintage Popsicle. It's the ad Peggy Olsen came up with for a campaign on Mad Men.)