I doubt many of the people who read this will have ever heard of Evelyn Gandy. She died last week in Mississippi, and the Los Angeles Times had a brief obituary of her that mentioned some of her accomplishments (and included a small picture). She was the first woman ever to be elected to three different statewide offices in Mississippi, eventually becoming the lieutenant governor.
Perhaps that's enough for some people to indicate just how important she was to Mississippi's history. Since the time that Miss Gandy served in public office, there has been another female lieutenant governor, Amy Tuck, someone I actually went to school with at Mississippi State University. However, there is usually quite a significant drop-off in quality from the first to the second of anything. I certainly think that's true in this case.
What made Miss Gandy's achievements remarkable to me is that they occurred in the 1970s. This was a time in America when the battle over the Equal Rights Amendment was still raging. And Mississippi isn't especially known for its support of liberal causes or the people who espouse them. The people of my home state don't do things that are "different." Change doesn't come swiftly in my home state; it's much more glacial in pace. To have a woman rise to such a prominent position of authority in that context? It's almost inconceivable that it happened.
Yet Evelyn Gandy was chosen by the voters of Mississippi to be the second most powerful person in the state (after she'd already served in two other offices, including state treasurer, where she was known for her integrity and intelligence). Admittedly, she was a Democrat at a time when the South was still predominantly Democratic (perhaps, that should be "democratic"), and she was certainly smarter than any of the people who ran against her. Still, one has to admire what she achieved; she was a remarkable person, and thankfully, enough people at the time recognized her skills and talents.
She had two unsuccessful campaigns to become governor of the state, losing in the primaries each time to better connected men. Looking back at the accomplishments of the men who defeated her, it's tough to imagine that she wasn't the better choice then and wouldn't have accomplished a great deal more even in those days. I remember voting for her the second time she ran; I wasn't yet eligible the first time. I don't think I was particularly aware of how significant it might have been had she been chosen as governor at the time, but it's interesting to speculate about it now.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
No More Christmas Songs, Please
I'm not overly fond of Christmas music. It's played almost nonstop for the month before Christmas, and most of it is pretty dreadful. As much as I love Brenda Lee (and even Hall & Oates), I never want to hear "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" again. And how many different singers come out with Christmas albums each year? How many versions of "Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer" do we need nowadays?
However, there are a couple of songs that still have the power to make me feel a bit nostalgic (yes, even me). One is "White Christmas." Unlike almost everyone else, though, I like the version with the original lyrics. Most singers don't do that version because, in their minds, the words limit the appeal of the song. However, a few people besides Bing Crosby (most notably for me, Barbra Streisand) have stuck to what Irving Berlin originally had in mind:
What I like about the original lyrics, that first stanza in particular, is the image of an outsider, someone who's not a native of California, who's looking around and seeing just how unlike the pictures of Christmas the Southern California region tends to be this time of year. We won't have snow here, and it probably won't even be cold (although the wind is helping in that respect tonight). But we can remember how it was when we lived elsewhere, some place that had snow this time of year. To fully appreciate the first stanza, you need to be from somewhere else, somewhere very much unlike Beverly Hills or Los Angeles. You need to be a stranger here.
It didn't always snow in Mississippi at Christmas time, and I'm not overly fond of the cold anyway. However, when I hear the full version of "White Christmas," I still think of those days of big overly decorated trees and lots of presents and the family making a lot of noise. I don't think it's possible to recreate those times now. Most of the time my family just gets on my nerves when I visit them during the holidays, and I can't wait to get to my home here in California. It certainly won't be a white Christmas for me this year, but the memories are still there to comfort me and keep me warm anyway.
However, there are a couple of songs that still have the power to make me feel a bit nostalgic (yes, even me). One is "White Christmas." Unlike almost everyone else, though, I like the version with the original lyrics. Most singers don't do that version because, in their minds, the words limit the appeal of the song. However, a few people besides Bing Crosby (most notably for me, Barbra Streisand) have stuck to what Irving Berlin originally had in mind:
The sun is shining.
The grass is green.
The orange and palm trees sway.
I've never seen such a day
In Beverly Hills, L.A.
But it's December the 24th,
And I am longing to be up north.
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know
Where the treetops glisten
And children listen
To hear sleigh bells in the snow.
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
With every Christmas card I write.
May your days be merry and bright,
And may all your Christmases be white.
What I like about the original lyrics, that first stanza in particular, is the image of an outsider, someone who's not a native of California, who's looking around and seeing just how unlike the pictures of Christmas the Southern California region tends to be this time of year. We won't have snow here, and it probably won't even be cold (although the wind is helping in that respect tonight). But we can remember how it was when we lived elsewhere, some place that had snow this time of year. To fully appreciate the first stanza, you need to be from somewhere else, somewhere very much unlike Beverly Hills or Los Angeles. You need to be a stranger here.
It didn't always snow in Mississippi at Christmas time, and I'm not overly fond of the cold anyway. However, when I hear the full version of "White Christmas," I still think of those days of big overly decorated trees and lots of presents and the family making a lot of noise. I don't think it's possible to recreate those times now. Most of the time my family just gets on my nerves when I visit them during the holidays, and I can't wait to get to my home here in California. It certainly won't be a white Christmas for me this year, but the memories are still there to comfort me and keep me warm anyway.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Getting Back in Touch with My Vanity
I went to the dermatologist yesterday. Most of you will know that probably means another skin cancer scare. And, yes, that's exactly what happened. Apparently, 3-7 percent of the patients who have a basal cell carcinoma removed experience a recurrence of it. Guess who falls into that tiny percentage? I do so love being a statistic.
The doctor excised (such a nicer word that "cut," isn't it?) a piece of it to have it biopsied. However, this time, rather than remove it entirely, this dermatologist decided to refer me to a surgical facility in Panorama City for a more complicated procedure that apparently can last an entire day. My friend J has had this procedure done--something like Mohs?--and it doesn't sound like a lot of fun. There's cutting and biopsies and chemotherapy involved in several stages. The goal is to preserve as much of the healthy tissue as possible, which is admirable, I suppose, but I doubt I'm going to feel very comforted by that approach after I get home and have to look at the results. I may need to request a plastic surgeon be on standby.
I recall having the first visit to the dermatologist in April 2004. I was just going to have this spot on my face checked, a bump on the side of my nose that had been flaking and peeling and bleeding occasionally. I walked out looking like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown. Or the Phantom (as in ...of the Opera). Or maybe Claude Rains in The Invisible Man. Or perhaps Lee Marvin in Cat Ballou (you haven't seen it? you should). Maybe Joan Crawford in A Woman's Face (not that one either? you gotta catch up). I can laugh about it now, but I still recall the first time I had to change the dressing (so much nicer than saying Band-Aid, isn't it?) later that day. I saw how much of my nose had been cut out in an attempt to remove the carcinoma, and I almost fainted. I didn't want to go out of the house. I cried for days. I didn't realize how vain I am, but when someone cuts a piece of your face off, it's tough not to get emotional.
Unfortunately, that was in the middle of the semester, and I had to go back to work. I spent the next couple of days explaining skin cancer to my students and being the object of a great deal of pity and sympathy from colleagues. I quickly found out how many people just in the English Department have also had skin cancer. It's surprising how many of us have been affected by this particular disease.
What was most remarkable about my previous experience was the healing process. After some time with ointment and bandages, I could let the skin be exposed and scab over. That scab lasted for quite a while. (Well, not the same one exactly, but you know what I mean.) I still recall accidently knocking it off one day in the office and spending 10 minutes looking in the mirror until I was certain that I wasn't going to bleed again. It wound up healing so nicely that I don't think anyone could really tell that I'd had anything done to my nose (unless they knew already, of course).
Of course, I shouldn't have been surprised to get skin cancer. I have almost all of the risk factors. I was sunburned pretty severely several times when I was a child or a teenager. In fact, I couldn't tan unless I had first been sunburned, it seems. I have light blue eyes. I am somewhat fair-skinned. I have moles. And I'm the fourth generation in my family to be diagnosed with it (as is my brother). That's mother, both maternal grandparents, and my maternal great-grandmother. All I'm missing is the light hair. It's odd to think that sun exposure 20-30 years ago (or perhaps even longer ago) and genetics are responsible for this. What can I do about it at this point to prevent a future occurrence? I already try to stay out of the sun as much as possible. Sunscreen makes my glasses slide off my face, and I'm not sure I can single-handedly revive the wearing of hats for men (fedora, anyone?). I suppose a full-body suit like the one Tony Roberts wears in Annie Hall is the only answer.
This time, the cut is not so wide as a church door nor as deep as a well, to borrow a phrase, but it will do. I plan to keep my bandaged self (perhaps it's the Elephant Man I most resemble) hidden from public view as much as I can until it begins to heal. I've already stocked up on food for the holidays in the hopes that I could hibernate and avoid the crowds of people in the stores.
I did have a second spot removed yesterday, by the way. Turns out it was just an oddly colored freckle, or that's what the doctor thinks at this point. It's on my back so I don't mind as much if it leaves a tiny scar. My only problem is putting a bandage on it. Have you ever tried to apply a Band-Aid to your own back? I've had some interesting times with that one so far. Let's just say it's not been in the same place twice yet.
Please take care of your skin. Stay out of the sun as much as you can. Don't face your vanity this way.
The doctor excised (such a nicer word that "cut," isn't it?) a piece of it to have it biopsied. However, this time, rather than remove it entirely, this dermatologist decided to refer me to a surgical facility in Panorama City for a more complicated procedure that apparently can last an entire day. My friend J has had this procedure done--something like Mohs?--and it doesn't sound like a lot of fun. There's cutting and biopsies and chemotherapy involved in several stages. The goal is to preserve as much of the healthy tissue as possible, which is admirable, I suppose, but I doubt I'm going to feel very comforted by that approach after I get home and have to look at the results. I may need to request a plastic surgeon be on standby.
I recall having the first visit to the dermatologist in April 2004. I was just going to have this spot on my face checked, a bump on the side of my nose that had been flaking and peeling and bleeding occasionally. I walked out looking like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown. Or the Phantom (as in ...of the Opera). Or maybe Claude Rains in The Invisible Man. Or perhaps Lee Marvin in Cat Ballou (you haven't seen it? you should). Maybe Joan Crawford in A Woman's Face (not that one either? you gotta catch up). I can laugh about it now, but I still recall the first time I had to change the dressing (so much nicer than saying Band-Aid, isn't it?) later that day. I saw how much of my nose had been cut out in an attempt to remove the carcinoma, and I almost fainted. I didn't want to go out of the house. I cried for days. I didn't realize how vain I am, but when someone cuts a piece of your face off, it's tough not to get emotional.
Unfortunately, that was in the middle of the semester, and I had to go back to work. I spent the next couple of days explaining skin cancer to my students and being the object of a great deal of pity and sympathy from colleagues. I quickly found out how many people just in the English Department have also had skin cancer. It's surprising how many of us have been affected by this particular disease.
What was most remarkable about my previous experience was the healing process. After some time with ointment and bandages, I could let the skin be exposed and scab over. That scab lasted for quite a while. (Well, not the same one exactly, but you know what I mean.) I still recall accidently knocking it off one day in the office and spending 10 minutes looking in the mirror until I was certain that I wasn't going to bleed again. It wound up healing so nicely that I don't think anyone could really tell that I'd had anything done to my nose (unless they knew already, of course).
Of course, I shouldn't have been surprised to get skin cancer. I have almost all of the risk factors. I was sunburned pretty severely several times when I was a child or a teenager. In fact, I couldn't tan unless I had first been sunburned, it seems. I have light blue eyes. I am somewhat fair-skinned. I have moles. And I'm the fourth generation in my family to be diagnosed with it (as is my brother). That's mother, both maternal grandparents, and my maternal great-grandmother. All I'm missing is the light hair. It's odd to think that sun exposure 20-30 years ago (or perhaps even longer ago) and genetics are responsible for this. What can I do about it at this point to prevent a future occurrence? I already try to stay out of the sun as much as possible. Sunscreen makes my glasses slide off my face, and I'm not sure I can single-handedly revive the wearing of hats for men (fedora, anyone?). I suppose a full-body suit like the one Tony Roberts wears in Annie Hall is the only answer.
This time, the cut is not so wide as a church door nor as deep as a well, to borrow a phrase, but it will do. I plan to keep my bandaged self (perhaps it's the Elephant Man I most resemble) hidden from public view as much as I can until it begins to heal. I've already stocked up on food for the holidays in the hopes that I could hibernate and avoid the crowds of people in the stores.
I did have a second spot removed yesterday, by the way. Turns out it was just an oddly colored freckle, or that's what the doctor thinks at this point. It's on my back so I don't mind as much if it leaves a tiny scar. My only problem is putting a bandage on it. Have you ever tried to apply a Band-Aid to your own back? I've had some interesting times with that one so far. Let's just say it's not been in the same place twice yet.
Please take care of your skin. Stay out of the sun as much as you can. Don't face your vanity this way.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Back to Back
My back is finally feeling better tonight. I'm hoping it may be back to "normal" tomorrow (or as close to "normal" as it can get at this point). I twisted it somehow and have spent the better part of the weekend lying down and filled with painkillers.
I know how it happened, to some extent. On Thursday, I dragged home a set of papers for each of my five classes--that's a briefcase and another satchel full, one on either side, about 115 essays--and some of the pottery I purchased at the campus art sale. I should have known better. I didn't feel any pain that night, though.
I was still fine on Friday morning when I got up, but as I was drying off in the shower, I felt my lower back tense up. I knew I was in for trouble then, and I hadn't even moved in any unusual way. Foolishly, I went ahead and did my laundry for the week. All of that bending over and straightening up while loading the machines undoubtedly complicated things. I started my painkiller regimen that afternoon and kept it up at regular four-hour intervals.
Friday's highlight was probably the delivery of the annual package of Christmas presents from my mother. I had to tell the postal carrier three times to wait for me while I grimaced my way to the front door. The package looked enormous, but he swore it wasn't heavy. I asked him to put it down by the door while I signed for it. After he left, I used my foot to move it out of the way, and that's where it still sits today. I just don't want to bend down and pick it up yet.
Saturday was a day primarily devoted to lying down and staying under the influence of painkillers. I did watch some TV on Saturday, but since I couldn't bend down to pick up the essays I had put on the floor Thursday night, I accomplished very little of substance.
On Sunday, I had to get some milk and bread, something, anything to eat since I hadn't gone grocery shopping as usual on Friday. I managed to ease myself into and out of the car a few times, but there was no joyous feeling upon either entering or exiting the vehicle. When you have back pain, sitting still feels okay most of the time. Standing still can sometimes be all right. Lying down and staying very still is usually when your back is most at ease. Bending, however, that's another story. Walking can even be painful because you're moving your back in small but significant ways. Apparently, lack of movement is the key.
Throwing my back out did lead to a few other interesting moments. (That's an odd phrase--"throwing my back out"--as if it's somehow useless and must be discarded.) I got all kinds of advice from people in the laundry room and the elevator, all of whom had no trouble telling that I had hurt my back from the way I walked. Getting acupuncture, going to see a chiropractor, lying flat on the floor for a day: you name it and I was given the advice to do it.
But the oddest experience had to be getting dressed. It would probably make for a funny YouTube video if it hadn't hurt so much. You forget how much you bend to put on your socks and shoes. I almost went barefoot for three days just to avoid the pain. And I don't even want to tell you how I managed to get into my Underoos for the past couple of days.
Today I did go back to work. I just didn't know how I would get someone else to proctor a 7 a.m. exam for me, so I got up at 4 a.m. and trudged my way through the morning. I stopped the painkillers Sunday afternoon so I wouldn't continue to fall asleep about an hour after taking one of the pills. I turned up the seat warmer in the car (such a nice feeling). And I managed to stay seated for most of the morning and early afternoon, with only a few minor episodes of walking here and there. Tonight when I came home, however, it was back to lying down. I'm going to have to figure out how to grade papers while flat on my back, obviously.
I know how it happened, to some extent. On Thursday, I dragged home a set of papers for each of my five classes--that's a briefcase and another satchel full, one on either side, about 115 essays--and some of the pottery I purchased at the campus art sale. I should have known better. I didn't feel any pain that night, though.
I was still fine on Friday morning when I got up, but as I was drying off in the shower, I felt my lower back tense up. I knew I was in for trouble then, and I hadn't even moved in any unusual way. Foolishly, I went ahead and did my laundry for the week. All of that bending over and straightening up while loading the machines undoubtedly complicated things. I started my painkiller regimen that afternoon and kept it up at regular four-hour intervals.
Friday's highlight was probably the delivery of the annual package of Christmas presents from my mother. I had to tell the postal carrier three times to wait for me while I grimaced my way to the front door. The package looked enormous, but he swore it wasn't heavy. I asked him to put it down by the door while I signed for it. After he left, I used my foot to move it out of the way, and that's where it still sits today. I just don't want to bend down and pick it up yet.
Saturday was a day primarily devoted to lying down and staying under the influence of painkillers. I did watch some TV on Saturday, but since I couldn't bend down to pick up the essays I had put on the floor Thursday night, I accomplished very little of substance.
On Sunday, I had to get some milk and bread, something, anything to eat since I hadn't gone grocery shopping as usual on Friday. I managed to ease myself into and out of the car a few times, but there was no joyous feeling upon either entering or exiting the vehicle. When you have back pain, sitting still feels okay most of the time. Standing still can sometimes be all right. Lying down and staying very still is usually when your back is most at ease. Bending, however, that's another story. Walking can even be painful because you're moving your back in small but significant ways. Apparently, lack of movement is the key.
Throwing my back out did lead to a few other interesting moments. (That's an odd phrase--"throwing my back out"--as if it's somehow useless and must be discarded.) I got all kinds of advice from people in the laundry room and the elevator, all of whom had no trouble telling that I had hurt my back from the way I walked. Getting acupuncture, going to see a chiropractor, lying flat on the floor for a day: you name it and I was given the advice to do it.
But the oddest experience had to be getting dressed. It would probably make for a funny YouTube video if it hadn't hurt so much. You forget how much you bend to put on your socks and shoes. I almost went barefoot for three days just to avoid the pain. And I don't even want to tell you how I managed to get into my Underoos for the past couple of days.
Today I did go back to work. I just didn't know how I would get someone else to proctor a 7 a.m. exam for me, so I got up at 4 a.m. and trudged my way through the morning. I stopped the painkillers Sunday afternoon so I wouldn't continue to fall asleep about an hour after taking one of the pills. I turned up the seat warmer in the car (such a nice feeling). And I managed to stay seated for most of the morning and early afternoon, with only a few minor episodes of walking here and there. Tonight when I came home, however, it was back to lying down. I'm going to have to figure out how to grade papers while flat on my back, obviously.
Laughing to Beat the Band
Today I lost it in class. I started giggling uncontrollably. Luckily, I wasn't teaching. But I have no doubt that it was still somewhat distracting to my Intro to Lit students, who were busy taking their final exam, an in-class essay on poetry. I did apologize, and I also promised never to bring a funny book to a final exam again.
I've never quite had such a fit of laughter in class before, but the cause of my outburst is understandable. My friend N had loaned me her copy of Nora Ephron's I Feel Bad about My Neck, and I was reading the chapter on how difficult it is to maintain ourselves at a certain age. You should pick up a copy and read it for yourself. What Ephron says about hair--in particular, her mustache--was the last straw. She does indeed know how to write funny.
It's a very quick read. I finished it during the two-hour final exam period, and I thoroughly enjoyed it (obviously). She does make you laugh, but she also makes some pretty trenchant observations along the way. I can't believe I've waited this long to read the book. N loaned it to me months ago (after I made some comment about how I was worried about Sally Field's neck on Brothers & Sisters--watch it and tell me I'm wrong). Only one student asked me which book I was reading, but I doubt he's going to pick it up for himself. Too bad.
I've never quite had such a fit of laughter in class before, but the cause of my outburst is understandable. My friend N had loaned me her copy of Nora Ephron's I Feel Bad about My Neck, and I was reading the chapter on how difficult it is to maintain ourselves at a certain age. You should pick up a copy and read it for yourself. What Ephron says about hair--in particular, her mustache--was the last straw. She does indeed know how to write funny.
It's a very quick read. I finished it during the two-hour final exam period, and I thoroughly enjoyed it (obviously). She does make you laugh, but she also makes some pretty trenchant observations along the way. I can't believe I've waited this long to read the book. N loaned it to me months ago (after I made some comment about how I was worried about Sally Field's neck on Brothers & Sisters--watch it and tell me I'm wrong). Only one student asked me which book I was reading, but I doubt he's going to pick it up for himself. Too bad.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Reliving History
Last Sunday I went to the Ahmanson Theatre downtown to see The History Boys, and tonight I watched the movie again on cable. I remember seeing the film last year about this time at the Arclight. Hardly anyone else was in the movie theater, and the film itself got very little attention at the time (although I thought it was one of the best movies I saw last year). The play was somewhat well attended, but there were plenty of seats available and it was the last performance. And this for a production that won six Tony Awards.
I wonder if it's the subject matter that puts people off. It is about sexuality, of course, and I suspect the "ick factor" of a grown man, a teacher, who gropes his students (who, admittedly, put up with the groping out of their pity for someone they consider to be old and foolish) is just a bit too much for most people to bear. Certainly, it still makes me uncomfortable that even though the play is set in the 1980s, only one character (well, perhaps two) self-identifies as gay and he's pretty much a mess, falling in love with a straight boy who will never reciprocate and growing up to be just as sad and lonely as the teacher with repressed homosexual longings whose class he took years before.
Yet the play is about much more than sexuality, and that's the part that perhaps intrigues me more. It's a play about education and the ways that we learn. It's about conflicting ideologies and theories. One of the teachers, Hector, teaches in what appears to be a most haphazard way, letting his students re-enact scenes from old films, memorize poems, sing songs from the World War II era, even perform skits in French--using the subjunctive--about bordellos (even though he is an English teacher and the class is known as "general studies"). One begins to wonder what use all of this activity has, but of course, that is entirely his point. Education shouldn't be about usefulness or practicality. It should be for the development of a sensibility, a sensitivity, if you will. He tells Posner, the gay Jewish student from Sheffield, at one point: "The best moments in reading are when you come across something--a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things-- that you'd thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it's as if a hand has come out, and taken yours." For Hector, education is about emotion, about feelings.
His rival , Irwin, treats education as if it were a game. He advocates that in taking the entrance exams for Cambridge and Oxford, the students make their answers interesting rather than factual, that they attempt to see history from an alternative perspective. He emphasizes the critical thinking aspect of education. Are we merely to accept the answers that are passed on to us--the best example in the play or film has to do with whether or not the Holocaust can be taught or even examined--or do we question the supposed "wisdom" of others? He even suggests that the information the boys glean from Hector's class (what he calls "gobbets") might be useful in helping them to get the interest of those reading their exams or those who are interviewing them for admission. A quote from Irwin illustrates his ideology: "But this is history. Distance yourselves. Our perspective on the past alters. Looking back, immediately in front of us is dead ground. We don't see it, and because we don't see it, this means that there is no period so remote as the recent past. And one of the historian's jobs is to anticipate what our perspective of that period will be. . . even on the Holocaust." For Irwin, there are no "right" answers; there are no "facts" or "truth" in history. There is only the perspective on it that we are willing to present, and the more eccentric the interpretation, the better, it seems to him.
Of course, the headmaster has a completely different philosophy. He wants tangible results: students being accepted to prestigious universities, test scores, that sort of thing. What the boys do in Hector's class cannot be "quantified" and is, thus, of little or no use to him. That's why her hires Irwin, to help the boys "polish" themselves for the competitive admissions process. He reminds me of so many people in the academic world these days. Everything must be written down, and there must be a number attached to it to show some vague concept of "success."
Some of the best lines in the play (and film), I think, belong to the lone female voice, that of the history teacher, Dorothy Lintott. During a set of mock interviews, she assails the boys with the following: "Can you, for a moment, imagine how depressing it is to teach five centuries of masculine ineptitude? . . . History is a commentary on the various and continuing incapabilities of men. What is history? History is women following behind with the bucket." (She also gets one of my other favorite lines. In talking about her college days, she says, "Durham was very good for history. It's where I had my first pizza. Other things too, of course, but it's the pizza that stands out.") She takes a much more pragmatic view than either of the men or the headmaster, for that matter, in terms of her role as teacher.
I can't quite determine whose approach I most admire, and I think that's what I like about this play and film. The characters are complicated, not easily likeable, and the ideas they espouse are, at times, both enticing and foolhardy. Each time I see The History Boys, I wonder anew about my own teaching philosophy, the way that I attempt to teach. I'm not sure that it's as well defined as any one of those described above.
Maybe Rudge has it right all along. He's the rugby player who, in the midst of the mock interviews, describes history as "just one fucking thing after another."
I wonder if it's the subject matter that puts people off. It is about sexuality, of course, and I suspect the "ick factor" of a grown man, a teacher, who gropes his students (who, admittedly, put up with the groping out of their pity for someone they consider to be old and foolish) is just a bit too much for most people to bear. Certainly, it still makes me uncomfortable that even though the play is set in the 1980s, only one character (well, perhaps two) self-identifies as gay and he's pretty much a mess, falling in love with a straight boy who will never reciprocate and growing up to be just as sad and lonely as the teacher with repressed homosexual longings whose class he took years before.
Yet the play is about much more than sexuality, and that's the part that perhaps intrigues me more. It's a play about education and the ways that we learn. It's about conflicting ideologies and theories. One of the teachers, Hector, teaches in what appears to be a most haphazard way, letting his students re-enact scenes from old films, memorize poems, sing songs from the World War II era, even perform skits in French--using the subjunctive--about bordellos (even though he is an English teacher and the class is known as "general studies"). One begins to wonder what use all of this activity has, but of course, that is entirely his point. Education shouldn't be about usefulness or practicality. It should be for the development of a sensibility, a sensitivity, if you will. He tells Posner, the gay Jewish student from Sheffield, at one point: "The best moments in reading are when you come across something--a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things-- that you'd thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it's as if a hand has come out, and taken yours." For Hector, education is about emotion, about feelings.
His rival , Irwin, treats education as if it were a game. He advocates that in taking the entrance exams for Cambridge and Oxford, the students make their answers interesting rather than factual, that they attempt to see history from an alternative perspective. He emphasizes the critical thinking aspect of education. Are we merely to accept the answers that are passed on to us--the best example in the play or film has to do with whether or not the Holocaust can be taught or even examined--or do we question the supposed "wisdom" of others? He even suggests that the information the boys glean from Hector's class (what he calls "gobbets") might be useful in helping them to get the interest of those reading their exams or those who are interviewing them for admission. A quote from Irwin illustrates his ideology: "But this is history. Distance yourselves. Our perspective on the past alters. Looking back, immediately in front of us is dead ground. We don't see it, and because we don't see it, this means that there is no period so remote as the recent past. And one of the historian's jobs is to anticipate what our perspective of that period will be. . . even on the Holocaust." For Irwin, there are no "right" answers; there are no "facts" or "truth" in history. There is only the perspective on it that we are willing to present, and the more eccentric the interpretation, the better, it seems to him.
Of course, the headmaster has a completely different philosophy. He wants tangible results: students being accepted to prestigious universities, test scores, that sort of thing. What the boys do in Hector's class cannot be "quantified" and is, thus, of little or no use to him. That's why her hires Irwin, to help the boys "polish" themselves for the competitive admissions process. He reminds me of so many people in the academic world these days. Everything must be written down, and there must be a number attached to it to show some vague concept of "success."
Some of the best lines in the play (and film), I think, belong to the lone female voice, that of the history teacher, Dorothy Lintott. During a set of mock interviews, she assails the boys with the following: "Can you, for a moment, imagine how depressing it is to teach five centuries of masculine ineptitude? . . . History is a commentary on the various and continuing incapabilities of men. What is history? History is women following behind with the bucket." (She also gets one of my other favorite lines. In talking about her college days, she says, "Durham was very good for history. It's where I had my first pizza. Other things too, of course, but it's the pizza that stands out.") She takes a much more pragmatic view than either of the men or the headmaster, for that matter, in terms of her role as teacher.
I can't quite determine whose approach I most admire, and I think that's what I like about this play and film. The characters are complicated, not easily likeable, and the ideas they espouse are, at times, both enticing and foolhardy. Each time I see The History Boys, I wonder anew about my own teaching philosophy, the way that I attempt to teach. I'm not sure that it's as well defined as any one of those described above.
Maybe Rudge has it right all along. He's the rugby player who, in the midst of the mock interviews, describes history as "just one fucking thing after another."
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
If You Say It Fast...
A grown man probably shouldn't admit it, but during this past week or so, I've been rereading some books from my childhood. Yes, I know people do that sort of thing all the time, but I expect they're probably reading material that's a bit more... substantial or literary or "grown-up" than what I've been choosing to read: the series of Pippi Longstocking books by Astrid Lindgren.
I'd actually forgotten that I had these books. I've moved several times over the years, and you do tend to lose track after you've packed and unpacked hundreds of books several times. I ran across them the other day while I was looking for a different book and decided to see how they stand up after all these years. I realized today after finishing the last one that it's probably been at least 30 years since I last read them.
There are three books in my collection (and I think only three books in all): Pippi Longstocking, Pippi Goes on Board, and Pippi in the South Seas. They aren't truly narrative in form. Each book is more of a collection of descriptions of adventures that Pippi and her two friends (Tommy and Annika) have. There are some links between the various events that occur in the books, but for the most part, it's a string of vignettes. I recall that the movies based upon the books were very similar in structure: loose, sort of rambling, not really focused on a strong narrative line. They're really more about character, it seems, than plot.
When I picked up the first book (and I did read them in order just like a good little boy should), I started to remember almost immediately why I enjoyed them when I was younger. Pippi is a hoot. She lives alone and pretty much determines what happens to her. She's got superhuman strength and the ability to outsmart almost everyone who's supposedly wiser than she is. She is extremely devoted to her friends and incredibly generous with her money and her worldly possessions. She isn't educated--in fact, she only attends school twice, the first time with disastrous results--and she's prone to lying. Oh, and she loves adventure, no doubt a result of all those years on board her father's ship traveling to distant lands. Each day with her is an unexpected joy. What kid wouldn't want to read about someone like that? And what kid wouldn't want someone like that as a role model? And what kid wouldn't want someone like that as a friend?
I even like the way she introduces herself to strangers: "Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Efraim's Daughter Longstocking, daughter of Captain Efraim Longstocking, formerly the Terror of the Sea, now a cannibal king. But everybody calls me Pippi." Of course, they do, dear.
Reading these three short books was such a blast. Again, I know a 44-year-old doesn't often pick up children's books (unless he's teaching Children's Literature or something akin to that), perhaps especially books there were undoubtedly written with young girls in mind, but it's pretty rare these days for me to have a chance to read just for the sheer pleasure of it. I had a lot of fun this past week reliving a few moments from my childhood. The kid in me got to make an appearance, however briefly.
You're probably wondering why I even have these three books (or perhaps why I still have these books). My mother took us kids (me, my brother, my two stepsisters, and my stepbrother) to see all of the Pippi movies in the early 70s (available for purchase or rental on DVD). We loved their weird antic spirit, and I guess she figured the reader of the family (that would be me, naturally) would probably enjoy having the texts to go with the memories of the movies. I don't know if my family truly realizes how much they encouraged me to read when I was younger (and how unusual that was at the time for boys in Mississippi). I do owe them a great deal of thanks for that. Even to this day, I tend to have a book handy in case I have a few minutes to read. (My family says I have my "nose stuck in a book" all the time--I love that.) And I always have a list of more books I'd like to pick up and read. Now that I've had a chance to reread the Pippi Longstocking books, I won't have to add them to that list, but what a pleasure it was to add them to the list of books that I've read this year.
I'd actually forgotten that I had these books. I've moved several times over the years, and you do tend to lose track after you've packed and unpacked hundreds of books several times. I ran across them the other day while I was looking for a different book and decided to see how they stand up after all these years. I realized today after finishing the last one that it's probably been at least 30 years since I last read them.
There are three books in my collection (and I think only three books in all): Pippi Longstocking, Pippi Goes on Board, and Pippi in the South Seas. They aren't truly narrative in form. Each book is more of a collection of descriptions of adventures that Pippi and her two friends (Tommy and Annika) have. There are some links between the various events that occur in the books, but for the most part, it's a string of vignettes. I recall that the movies based upon the books were very similar in structure: loose, sort of rambling, not really focused on a strong narrative line. They're really more about character, it seems, than plot.
When I picked up the first book (and I did read them in order just like a good little boy should), I started to remember almost immediately why I enjoyed them when I was younger. Pippi is a hoot. She lives alone and pretty much determines what happens to her. She's got superhuman strength and the ability to outsmart almost everyone who's supposedly wiser than she is. She is extremely devoted to her friends and incredibly generous with her money and her worldly possessions. She isn't educated--in fact, she only attends school twice, the first time with disastrous results--and she's prone to lying. Oh, and she loves adventure, no doubt a result of all those years on board her father's ship traveling to distant lands. Each day with her is an unexpected joy. What kid wouldn't want to read about someone like that? And what kid wouldn't want someone like that as a role model? And what kid wouldn't want someone like that as a friend?
I even like the way she introduces herself to strangers: "Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Efraim's Daughter Longstocking, daughter of Captain Efraim Longstocking, formerly the Terror of the Sea, now a cannibal king. But everybody calls me Pippi." Of course, they do, dear.
Reading these three short books was such a blast. Again, I know a 44-year-old doesn't often pick up children's books (unless he's teaching Children's Literature or something akin to that), perhaps especially books there were undoubtedly written with young girls in mind, but it's pretty rare these days for me to have a chance to read just for the sheer pleasure of it. I had a lot of fun this past week reliving a few moments from my childhood. The kid in me got to make an appearance, however briefly.
You're probably wondering why I even have these three books (or perhaps why I still have these books). My mother took us kids (me, my brother, my two stepsisters, and my stepbrother) to see all of the Pippi movies in the early 70s (available for purchase or rental on DVD). We loved their weird antic spirit, and I guess she figured the reader of the family (that would be me, naturally) would probably enjoy having the texts to go with the memories of the movies. I don't know if my family truly realizes how much they encouraged me to read when I was younger (and how unusual that was at the time for boys in Mississippi). I do owe them a great deal of thanks for that. Even to this day, I tend to have a book handy in case I have a few minutes to read. (My family says I have my "nose stuck in a book" all the time--I love that.) And I always have a list of more books I'd like to pick up and read. Now that I've had a chance to reread the Pippi Longstocking books, I won't have to add them to that list, but what a pleasure it was to add them to the list of books that I've read this year.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Why I Love Living in L.A., Part I
Yesterday I went grocery shopping at one of the Ralph's in my neighborhood. In the soda aisle, I noticed this guy looking rather intently in the area where the Pepsi products were, apparently searching for some hard-to-find drink. He was carrying one of the baskets rather than wheeling around a shopping cart, and it was already pretty full. Although he looked somewhat familiar, I kept moving on to the next aisle and the rest of my shopping.
When I finished, I took a place in a checkout line. There are never enough lines open, so I took the one that seemed to be moving the fastest. And the same guy was again in front of me. As he was speaking to the cashier, I realized how I knew him. He's on every Thursday night on CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. That's right. William Peterson was buying a rather obscene amount of beef and quite a few of those little half-cans of Diet Pepsi. I don't even think the cashier or bagger recognized him. He was just wearing a t-shirt and jeans and baseball cap--the uniform of an off-duty actor in this town. Oh, and the sunglasses, of course.
By the way, this is the same Ralph's where I saw Kyle McLachlin shopping in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt and black leather jacket a couple of years ago; this was just before he started on Desperate Housewives. The Trader Joe's across the street is where I saw Dan Futterman the day before the Oscar ceremony when he was nominated for Best Screenplay for Capote; even unshaven, he's still adorable. Jennifer Beals uses the same dry cleaner I do (and is even more heart-stoppingly beautiful in person, if you can believe it). I also ran into Nicholas Brendan, better known as Xander on the TV series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, in (of all places) the 7-11 nearby and at Mani's Bakery a couple of days later; I began to think we were destined to "meet cute," as they say, but such was not the case, alas. And there's no way I could list all of the people who like to go to the movies at the Grove down the block (the most recent was John Krasinski of The Office). The highlight of celebrity sightings for me, though, was going to see Finding Nemo at the now defunct Beverly Connection cinema and standing in line behind Matthew Perry, Hank Azaria, and Craig Bierko. When the promo for The Whole Ten Yards came on the screens above the concession stand, Matthew Perry turned and asked me (me?!) if I thought I'd go see it. I didn't, of course, but at the time, I assured him that it looked funny--they are all rather insecure, aren't they? I think I was still a bit mesmerized by Bierko's eyes; he's a very tall fellow and quite the looker. The list of celebrity sightings could go on: Mr. Blackwell in the produce section with his partner, Ed McMahon and a huge family in tow at the Beverly Center, tiny little Leeza Gibbons on her way to see The Horse Whisperer (don't ask me why), Doug Savant (when he was still on Melrose Place) shopping for Christmas presents at the Glendale mall, former supermodel and extremely high-maintenance diva Janice Dickinson, Robert Urich shopping with his mom at the Farmer's Market (and almost being stalked by my mother, who had never seen a famous person that close to her).
Now perhaps none of these people is the most famous star in the entertainment business (although I did also sit in the same movie theater as Halle Berry once--also stunning enough to take your breath away), but they are all well-known to a degree, certainly. It's a bit disconcerting to see them doing such normal, mundane things as shopping or picking up dry cleaners or going to the movies. You wonder why they have to get their hands dirty the way we do. It really does, to me, reduce the level of mystery surrounding "celebrity status" when you know that they too need a chocolate fix and have to run to the neighborhood 7-11 in the middle of the night. Or even that they have to stock up on meat products for the week ahead. Yet there is something that sets them apart from us, even when they are engaging in the same kinds of chores and errands we are. I'm not prone to fawning--in fact, other than Matthew Perry, I've never spoken to any of the celebrities I've seen--but there's something about them that allows them to maintain a sense of distance from us even in close proximity. I guess that's what they call "star quality."
When I finished, I took a place in a checkout line. There are never enough lines open, so I took the one that seemed to be moving the fastest. And the same guy was again in front of me. As he was speaking to the cashier, I realized how I knew him. He's on every Thursday night on CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. That's right. William Peterson was buying a rather obscene amount of beef and quite a few of those little half-cans of Diet Pepsi. I don't even think the cashier or bagger recognized him. He was just wearing a t-shirt and jeans and baseball cap--the uniform of an off-duty actor in this town. Oh, and the sunglasses, of course.
By the way, this is the same Ralph's where I saw Kyle McLachlin shopping in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt and black leather jacket a couple of years ago; this was just before he started on Desperate Housewives. The Trader Joe's across the street is where I saw Dan Futterman the day before the Oscar ceremony when he was nominated for Best Screenplay for Capote; even unshaven, he's still adorable. Jennifer Beals uses the same dry cleaner I do (and is even more heart-stoppingly beautiful in person, if you can believe it). I also ran into Nicholas Brendan, better known as Xander on the TV series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, in (of all places) the 7-11 nearby and at Mani's Bakery a couple of days later; I began to think we were destined to "meet cute," as they say, but such was not the case, alas. And there's no way I could list all of the people who like to go to the movies at the Grove down the block (the most recent was John Krasinski of The Office). The highlight of celebrity sightings for me, though, was going to see Finding Nemo at the now defunct Beverly Connection cinema and standing in line behind Matthew Perry, Hank Azaria, and Craig Bierko. When the promo for The Whole Ten Yards came on the screens above the concession stand, Matthew Perry turned and asked me (me?!) if I thought I'd go see it. I didn't, of course, but at the time, I assured him that it looked funny--they are all rather insecure, aren't they? I think I was still a bit mesmerized by Bierko's eyes; he's a very tall fellow and quite the looker. The list of celebrity sightings could go on: Mr. Blackwell in the produce section with his partner, Ed McMahon and a huge family in tow at the Beverly Center, tiny little Leeza Gibbons on her way to see The Horse Whisperer (don't ask me why), Doug Savant (when he was still on Melrose Place) shopping for Christmas presents at the Glendale mall, former supermodel and extremely high-maintenance diva Janice Dickinson, Robert Urich shopping with his mom at the Farmer's Market (and almost being stalked by my mother, who had never seen a famous person that close to her).
Now perhaps none of these people is the most famous star in the entertainment business (although I did also sit in the same movie theater as Halle Berry once--also stunning enough to take your breath away), but they are all well-known to a degree, certainly. It's a bit disconcerting to see them doing such normal, mundane things as shopping or picking up dry cleaners or going to the movies. You wonder why they have to get their hands dirty the way we do. It really does, to me, reduce the level of mystery surrounding "celebrity status" when you know that they too need a chocolate fix and have to run to the neighborhood 7-11 in the middle of the night. Or even that they have to stock up on meat products for the week ahead. Yet there is something that sets them apart from us, even when they are engaging in the same kinds of chores and errands we are. I'm not prone to fawning--in fact, other than Matthew Perry, I've never spoken to any of the celebrities I've seen--but there's something about them that allows them to maintain a sense of distance from us even in close proximity. I guess that's what they call "star quality."
Working for the Weekend
I've been grading all weekend. Again. Third weekend in a row. I don't know why this semester is so work-intensive. I don't feel as if I've had much free time since we began school in August. I have taught the same number of classes and the same number of students (roughly) before, and it's never taken me this long to get through a stack of papers. Each weekend, I slowly make my way through the stacks I have laid out on the rug in the living room, and then I pick up more papers during the week to add to the stack. I'm trying to finish up the out-of-class essays and impromptus for the ENGL 100 classes this weekend because I know I'm picking up two more sets of papers from my ENGL 059 classes on Tuesday. Happy Thanksgiving, indeed. Some of what I'm missing: going to the movies and eating dinner with friends and watching old movies on Turner Classics and reading books of poetry (or reading anything that isn't a student paper) and catching up on my favorite shows and sleeping (I think I miss you most of all, old friend). The DVR is full (as always), I have magazines collecting dust (I just keep throwing them away unread), and the apartment looks as if no one has bothered to clean it since I moved in 11 years ago. I'm very much looking forward to the end of the semester and the few weeks that we have off until the spring semester begins (a week earlier than usual).
Monday, October 29, 2007
No More Wagonmaster
When I was growing up in Mississippi, we had several country music-themed TV shows that we watched every week: Hee Haw (did you miss the part where I said I was growing up in Mississippi?), Live from the Grand Ole Opry, and the Porter Wagoner Show. Porter's passing was announced today, and almost all of the obituaries mentioned him as being the man who "discovered" Dolly Parton. I certainly remember watching Dolly on the show each week--she was a marvel to behold even then--but Porter deserves some attention in his own right. He was a masterful songwriter and a gifted singer. I had the privilege of seeing him perform live at the Grand Ole Opry several times, and I can also say that he was a remarkable showman. Those suits certainly drew a lot of attention his way, but he had the musical talent to back it up. I can still remember the first time I realized that "The Carroll County Accident" was about adultery; it was quite a shock to the young boy that I was then. And no one ever sang "The Green Green Grass of Home" as well as Porter did, in my opinion. So many of the people I grew up listening to are gone now. Porter's death is just another reminder of the tremendous gift we lose when someone devoted to the craft of music passes away. I'm going to listen to the songs of his that I have downloaded on my iPod and remember fondly those Saturday afternoons in Mississippi when we would all be sitting in the living room of my Grandmother's house watching him sing and talking about what stunning outfit (always with matching sequined boots) he had on that week.
Friday, October 26, 2007
What We Learned During the Fire
I returned yesterday from four days in San Diego County. While I wasn't directly endangered by the fires throughout the county, I was close to several of them at various points during the week. The hotel (a resort, they called it, complete with golf course) was about 7 miles from one fire, and the college I was visiting as part of an accreditation team was about 5-6 miles from another one. Each day the members of the team I was on would awaken to a sky filled with smoke and ash, and each night we would return to the resort and see the mountains backlit by the flames of infernos. To describe it as surreal would perhaps not do it justice.
I drove down to San Diego on Monday. The news was already reporting that fires had broken out near Malibu and in Orange County. I hadn't heard yet about the ones in San Diego County, but when the Accrediting Commission asks you to visit a college, you show up and do your job. I drove on even when confronted by a thick wave of smoke in the northern part of San Diego. When we held our first team meeting that afternoon, we found out that the college had actually be closed at 1 p.m. due to the poor air quality from the heavy smoke in the area. We went about preparing ourselves for a visit, not knowing if we would actually be able to go onto the campus the next day.
On Tuesday we got up and drove toward one of the fires because that was the direction of the campus. Imagine choosing to head in the direction of a blaze. When we got to campus, we were met by about twenty-five employees: faculty, staff, and administrators. The college was still closed due to the air quality although the wind had shifted and was blowing the smoke in the opposite direction, away from the campus. We met with and interviewed as many people as we could, and we toured a campus that has two new buildings open and one more soon to open (with a gorgeous theater and an entire half of a large, beautiful building devoted to the English Department--sigh). Yet we visited a campus without students. It was eerily deserted. We could only imagine what the cafeteria looks like when it's filled with people. The new lab space must be packed with students at all hours of the day, but we will never know because they were told to stay home. Even the bookstore looks great, but we couldn't go inside because those employees were probably either evacuated from or worried about their own homes. At about 3 p.m., one of the campus police officers arrived with the college president to tell us that we had to evacuate. The college had gotten what is known as a Reverse 911 call (where the system calls you to warn you of an emergency rather than the other way around). The wind had changed again, and the smoke was once again threatening the air quality. Within 10 minutes, we had packed everything up and were on our way back to the hotel. We spent the rest of the day talking with each other, eating dinner with each other, and writing some notes for what promised to be a most unusual team report to the commission.
Wednesday promised to be another strange day. By this point, college officials decided that the campus would remain closed the rest of the week. We, however, needed to review documents that the college had gathered if we were going to attempt to finish our evaluation. Some of us, myself included, got to take a trip to the other college in the district to meet with the chancellor and his staff and to attend a special meeting of the Board of Trustees. By this point in the week, you could feel the heat from the fires no matter where you went. The sun was shining, of course, but the heat was not the kind you feel from sunshine. And ash was everywhere. I was wearing a black shirt that day, and it looked like I was having the worst ever case of dandruff, a case so bad that it had spread to everyone else's clothes too. We finished at the district offices, returned to the campus, and proceeded to review documents and write drafts of our individual sections of the report that we would submit to the Accrediting Commission. Again, we spent much of the rest of the day in each other's company. We certainly bonded as a team during those four days of the fires.
I should mention that all of the San Diego television stations were broadcasting the news of the fires around the clock. We never went into the restaurant or bar or hotel office, anywhere with a television set, without the latest news reports. Each day we would wake up not knowing if we might even be able to return home. One morning the I-5 was closed because of a fire near Camp Pendleton. The next day it was open again, but the I-15 (the only other major route north) was closed. The news would be contradictory at times too, just as you might expect when so much is happening at the same time all over a county as large as San Diego. Some stations would say a freeway was closed while others were saying that it was open. Not knowing the region well myself, I could only watch and wonder if any of the blazes they were discussing were anywhere near me. I only knew the one way home to Los Angeles, and that's the I-5. I had to know what was going on for my own safety, of course, but at some point, you become so immersed in the stories of the lives of the many, many people who were evacuated to the stadium or whose homes were lost, in the stories about the attempts to evacuate the animals, ranging from house pets to horses and livestock to even the ones at the Wild Animal Park north of San Diego, and in the stories of the little ways we care for each other. One of the more memorable images for me was the stack of water bottles that had been donated for the people who had been relocated to Qualcomm Stadium. You wouldn't think such a little thing as that would be moving to someone as cynical as I am, but at the bottom of the screen, the news read that so many people had donated fresh water that no more was needed at the stadium. That's a generosity of spirit we don't see too often.
There are other images that I won't soon forget. On our way to campus one morning we were stopped at an intersection so that the next shift of law enforcement agencies could leave. After about twenty police vehicles passed in front of us, we were able to continue on. One night, about the time we decided to go to the drive-thru for Taco Bell, we had to stop for about half a dozen fire engines racing at full speed. On our final day, before we could leave the campus for the last time, we had to stop for about twenty evacuees who had been relocated to one of the parking lots at the school and were crossing the street to get some of the food that had been donated for them. Sometimes it's just the sheer number that overwhelms you.
Of course, not everyone was focused on the fires during that time. My stepfather is a golfer, so I know a bit about how much golfers love the game. I was not prepared, however, to wake up one morning and see several dozen people waiting for the official course start time of 7 a.m. It's as if nothing could stop them from playing a round of golf, not even the threat of a wildfire or the possibility of inhaling too much smoke. When they were asked to leave the course in the middle of the afternoon one day because of the poor air quality, they actually grumbled. We learned later that the resort was hosting some sort of college tournament with players from all over the United States, but it did seem strange to me that they were apparently more interested in getting in a game rather than trying to get home from a region engulfed in a series of deadly fires.
Our final day was Thursday. We had done much of the writing the night before and just had some final revisions to make. It's kind of like writing a 10-page research paper in two days, using mostly written evidence and interviews. At least, the section I took responsibility for was about 10 pages. We knew we were leaving, but we were still unsure how. At around noon, we presented our brief "exit report" to a dozen brave people who had come to campus to hear what we had learned about their beloved school. We said our goodbyes (hugs all around from this team who had shared so much) and got into our vehicles and headed north (most of us, anyway) on the I-5. We passed the charred roadsides near Camp Pendleton. We drove through thick smoke still billowing across the freeway in Orange County. I actually stopped in Mission Viejo for gas and couldn't believe how many people were out and about, mostly young people whose schools had been shut down. They seemed to be completely oblivious to the layer of smoke that surrounded them. I did stop on my own campus for about an hour, but even there the smoke still hung too thickly. When I finally got home last night, I dumped the luggage in the living room and fell asleep on the bed.
I know it's a cliche to think about how good it feels to return home. But I was exhausted and very grateful to be able to sleep in my own bed and use my own shower. We don't realize how much energy we expend when our stress levels are elevated. I guess spending four days with that heightened sense of awareness, always wondering if we would need to be evacuated from the college again or perhaps even from our hotel, takes a great deal of energy. At this point, I have no idea how I'd feel if asked to serve on another accreditation visiting team. This one was so unlike the others I've been on. All I can say for certain is that last night was the first time I've had a good night's sleep since Sunday.
I drove down to San Diego on Monday. The news was already reporting that fires had broken out near Malibu and in Orange County. I hadn't heard yet about the ones in San Diego County, but when the Accrediting Commission asks you to visit a college, you show up and do your job. I drove on even when confronted by a thick wave of smoke in the northern part of San Diego. When we held our first team meeting that afternoon, we found out that the college had actually be closed at 1 p.m. due to the poor air quality from the heavy smoke in the area. We went about preparing ourselves for a visit, not knowing if we would actually be able to go onto the campus the next day.
On Tuesday we got up and drove toward one of the fires because that was the direction of the campus. Imagine choosing to head in the direction of a blaze. When we got to campus, we were met by about twenty-five employees: faculty, staff, and administrators. The college was still closed due to the air quality although the wind had shifted and was blowing the smoke in the opposite direction, away from the campus. We met with and interviewed as many people as we could, and we toured a campus that has two new buildings open and one more soon to open (with a gorgeous theater and an entire half of a large, beautiful building devoted to the English Department--sigh). Yet we visited a campus without students. It was eerily deserted. We could only imagine what the cafeteria looks like when it's filled with people. The new lab space must be packed with students at all hours of the day, but we will never know because they were told to stay home. Even the bookstore looks great, but we couldn't go inside because those employees were probably either evacuated from or worried about their own homes. At about 3 p.m., one of the campus police officers arrived with the college president to tell us that we had to evacuate. The college had gotten what is known as a Reverse 911 call (where the system calls you to warn you of an emergency rather than the other way around). The wind had changed again, and the smoke was once again threatening the air quality. Within 10 minutes, we had packed everything up and were on our way back to the hotel. We spent the rest of the day talking with each other, eating dinner with each other, and writing some notes for what promised to be a most unusual team report to the commission.
Wednesday promised to be another strange day. By this point, college officials decided that the campus would remain closed the rest of the week. We, however, needed to review documents that the college had gathered if we were going to attempt to finish our evaluation. Some of us, myself included, got to take a trip to the other college in the district to meet with the chancellor and his staff and to attend a special meeting of the Board of Trustees. By this point in the week, you could feel the heat from the fires no matter where you went. The sun was shining, of course, but the heat was not the kind you feel from sunshine. And ash was everywhere. I was wearing a black shirt that day, and it looked like I was having the worst ever case of dandruff, a case so bad that it had spread to everyone else's clothes too. We finished at the district offices, returned to the campus, and proceeded to review documents and write drafts of our individual sections of the report that we would submit to the Accrediting Commission. Again, we spent much of the rest of the day in each other's company. We certainly bonded as a team during those four days of the fires.
I should mention that all of the San Diego television stations were broadcasting the news of the fires around the clock. We never went into the restaurant or bar or hotel office, anywhere with a television set, without the latest news reports. Each day we would wake up not knowing if we might even be able to return home. One morning the I-5 was closed because of a fire near Camp Pendleton. The next day it was open again, but the I-15 (the only other major route north) was closed. The news would be contradictory at times too, just as you might expect when so much is happening at the same time all over a county as large as San Diego. Some stations would say a freeway was closed while others were saying that it was open. Not knowing the region well myself, I could only watch and wonder if any of the blazes they were discussing were anywhere near me. I only knew the one way home to Los Angeles, and that's the I-5. I had to know what was going on for my own safety, of course, but at some point, you become so immersed in the stories of the lives of the many, many people who were evacuated to the stadium or whose homes were lost, in the stories about the attempts to evacuate the animals, ranging from house pets to horses and livestock to even the ones at the Wild Animal Park north of San Diego, and in the stories of the little ways we care for each other. One of the more memorable images for me was the stack of water bottles that had been donated for the people who had been relocated to Qualcomm Stadium. You wouldn't think such a little thing as that would be moving to someone as cynical as I am, but at the bottom of the screen, the news read that so many people had donated fresh water that no more was needed at the stadium. That's a generosity of spirit we don't see too often.
There are other images that I won't soon forget. On our way to campus one morning we were stopped at an intersection so that the next shift of law enforcement agencies could leave. After about twenty police vehicles passed in front of us, we were able to continue on. One night, about the time we decided to go to the drive-thru for Taco Bell, we had to stop for about half a dozen fire engines racing at full speed. On our final day, before we could leave the campus for the last time, we had to stop for about twenty evacuees who had been relocated to one of the parking lots at the school and were crossing the street to get some of the food that had been donated for them. Sometimes it's just the sheer number that overwhelms you.
Of course, not everyone was focused on the fires during that time. My stepfather is a golfer, so I know a bit about how much golfers love the game. I was not prepared, however, to wake up one morning and see several dozen people waiting for the official course start time of 7 a.m. It's as if nothing could stop them from playing a round of golf, not even the threat of a wildfire or the possibility of inhaling too much smoke. When they were asked to leave the course in the middle of the afternoon one day because of the poor air quality, they actually grumbled. We learned later that the resort was hosting some sort of college tournament with players from all over the United States, but it did seem strange to me that they were apparently more interested in getting in a game rather than trying to get home from a region engulfed in a series of deadly fires.
Our final day was Thursday. We had done much of the writing the night before and just had some final revisions to make. It's kind of like writing a 10-page research paper in two days, using mostly written evidence and interviews. At least, the section I took responsibility for was about 10 pages. We knew we were leaving, but we were still unsure how. At around noon, we presented our brief "exit report" to a dozen brave people who had come to campus to hear what we had learned about their beloved school. We said our goodbyes (hugs all around from this team who had shared so much) and got into our vehicles and headed north (most of us, anyway) on the I-5. We passed the charred roadsides near Camp Pendleton. We drove through thick smoke still billowing across the freeway in Orange County. I actually stopped in Mission Viejo for gas and couldn't believe how many people were out and about, mostly young people whose schools had been shut down. They seemed to be completely oblivious to the layer of smoke that surrounded them. I did stop on my own campus for about an hour, but even there the smoke still hung too thickly. When I finally got home last night, I dumped the luggage in the living room and fell asleep on the bed.
I know it's a cliche to think about how good it feels to return home. But I was exhausted and very grateful to be able to sleep in my own bed and use my own shower. We don't realize how much energy we expend when our stress levels are elevated. I guess spending four days with that heightened sense of awareness, always wondering if we would need to be evacuated from the college again or perhaps even from our hotel, takes a great deal of energy. At this point, I have no idea how I'd feel if asked to serve on another accreditation visiting team. This one was so unlike the others I've been on. All I can say for certain is that last night was the first time I've had a good night's sleep since Sunday.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Hollywood Bowling
It's been more than a week since I saw Rufus Wainwright's alleged last performance of Judy Garland's music. The details of that night are just as fresh and magical as ever, though. I think it's going to be one of those nights that people discuss years from now: "Oh, you were there that night too? Wasn't it a wonderful evening?" I've had the privilege of attending a couple of nights like that now, and Sunday's performance belongs up there with Streisand's last night at the Arrowhead Pond during her first "farewell" tour.
I saw Rufus once before when he played at the El Rey Theatre in May. He has, as one reviewer of the Hollywood Bowl concert commented, almost an excess of charm. I luckily heard about him at the time of his first major CD; I have all of the ones he's released, and I'm looking forward to the December release of the Carnegie Hall show that began all of his Garland concerts. He has such a different sound; his vocal quality is just spellbinding. I'd never had a chance to see him before the May concert, and I wasn't disappointed with his singing of all the music from Release the Stars.
Nothing prepared me for Sunday night, though. It was my first time back to the Bowl since my friend M took me many years ago to an Evening of Jazz. It was the year after Ella Fitzgerald had passed away, and M only went to this concert halfheartedly. I enjoyed it, but he never returned after that. He'd rather remember summers at the Bowl when Ella was still there. Since that night, the Bowl's shell (that looks strange--"the Bowl's shell") has been renovated and large video screens have been installed. I could see Rufus as clearly on Sunday as I did back in May, thanks to the great seats strategically located near one of those large screens.
He sang beautifully, even if he doesn't have Judy's range. Of course, he can't hit a high note the way she could. Few can. He apologized for that several times, but he and we were having far too much fun to care. He sang uptempo numbers like "San Francisco" and "Chicago" with such energy that many in the crowd felt compelled to sing along. He devoted songs to various people, including the gay men in the audience at Judy's Carnegie Hall concert all those years ago. His dedications seemed sincere, and he sang those songs tenderly.
A few highlights: His mother, Kate McGarrigle, joined him onstage for "Over the Rainbow." After some very funny mother-son banter, she played the piano while he sang sitting cross-legged on the ramp (just the way Judy did). Rufus did only one "drag" number: "Get Happy." He was wearing Judy's outfit from Summer Stock, the black jacket and tights--you know the one I mean--and he looked great (amazing legs, by the way). The crowd, predictably, went wild. He brought Lorna Luft on stage to sing with him, and later she sang one of her mother's favorite songs. Lorna's appearance prompted a very young guy a couple of seats away from me to ask, "Who's Lorna Luft?" I'm shocked he made it out of the Bowl alive. Rufus, ever the generous performer, also gave his sister Martha one of the best songs of the night. She sang a blistering rendition of "Stormy Weather." (You can see for yourself on YouTube.) It's hard to believe that she's not a bigger star, but then again, I still find it hard to believe that Rufus isn't either. She got some of the loudest applause of the evening--several times--even while she was still in the middle of the song. If you could have a continuous standing ovation throughout a song, Martha would deserve it.
But the best moment of the night was when he sang what he called his favorite song in the show: "If Love Were All." He sang it back in May too, but something about his performance of this number on Sunday brought tears to my eyes. Maybe it was the knowledge that this was probably his last time to sing it on stage. Maybe it was the fact that J, my date for the evening, held my hand while Rufus sang it. Perhaps it's just the beauty of those lyrics, the sad, knowing detail of them. Whatever the reason, I will never forget it.
I liked how Rufus kept positioning his arms the way that Judy did. It was a nice homage, and I hope some others recognized it as well. I also liked how he told stories about her performance years ago, such as the appearance in her audience of Rock Hudson. (Rufus had star power in the audience too. Am I one of the few who still gets star struck when someone like Debbie Reynolds stands up and waves?) He also mentioned how it had rained during her performance back in 1961. It had rained on Saturday, and Rufus kept noting a drip from the roof of the Bowl, as if to suggest that Judy's spirit was reminding him of her presence. But most of all, I liked his singing. He should do an album of standards at some point. Unlike everyone else who's done a Great American Songbook (and you know who I'm talking about), he would bring that unique voice and a fresh approach to some amazing songs.
I left the Hollywood Bowl with J, talking about all of the great moments of what we had just seen. I must admit that I hate stacked parking. The last time I had gone to a stacked parking lot was at the John Anson Ford Amphitheater years ago for an Outfest screening, and after being stuck there almost an hour after the performance had ended, I vowed never to do that again. Yet here we were in the stacked lot. It didn't matter. Rufus had put me into such a good mood, and I'd had such a marvelous night, that I was ready to wait if necessary. Instead, the magic of the evening continued. J and I were able to back up my car just a few feet and drive around all of the other cars still parked in the lot. We were on the way out of the Bowl and driving back to West Hollywood in mere minutes. Thank you, Rufus. Not only did you keep the rain away, but you also made stacked parking a delight. I can't wait until you come back to Los Angeles to perform again.
I saw Rufus once before when he played at the El Rey Theatre in May. He has, as one reviewer of the Hollywood Bowl concert commented, almost an excess of charm. I luckily heard about him at the time of his first major CD; I have all of the ones he's released, and I'm looking forward to the December release of the Carnegie Hall show that began all of his Garland concerts. He has such a different sound; his vocal quality is just spellbinding. I'd never had a chance to see him before the May concert, and I wasn't disappointed with his singing of all the music from Release the Stars.
Nothing prepared me for Sunday night, though. It was my first time back to the Bowl since my friend M took me many years ago to an Evening of Jazz. It was the year after Ella Fitzgerald had passed away, and M only went to this concert halfheartedly. I enjoyed it, but he never returned after that. He'd rather remember summers at the Bowl when Ella was still there. Since that night, the Bowl's shell (that looks strange--"the Bowl's shell") has been renovated and large video screens have been installed. I could see Rufus as clearly on Sunday as I did back in May, thanks to the great seats strategically located near one of those large screens.
He sang beautifully, even if he doesn't have Judy's range. Of course, he can't hit a high note the way she could. Few can. He apologized for that several times, but he and we were having far too much fun to care. He sang uptempo numbers like "San Francisco" and "Chicago" with such energy that many in the crowd felt compelled to sing along. He devoted songs to various people, including the gay men in the audience at Judy's Carnegie Hall concert all those years ago. His dedications seemed sincere, and he sang those songs tenderly.
A few highlights: His mother, Kate McGarrigle, joined him onstage for "Over the Rainbow." After some very funny mother-son banter, she played the piano while he sang sitting cross-legged on the ramp (just the way Judy did). Rufus did only one "drag" number: "Get Happy." He was wearing Judy's outfit from Summer Stock, the black jacket and tights--you know the one I mean--and he looked great (amazing legs, by the way). The crowd, predictably, went wild. He brought Lorna Luft on stage to sing with him, and later she sang one of her mother's favorite songs. Lorna's appearance prompted a very young guy a couple of seats away from me to ask, "Who's Lorna Luft?" I'm shocked he made it out of the Bowl alive. Rufus, ever the generous performer, also gave his sister Martha one of the best songs of the night. She sang a blistering rendition of "Stormy Weather." (You can see for yourself on YouTube.) It's hard to believe that she's not a bigger star, but then again, I still find it hard to believe that Rufus isn't either. She got some of the loudest applause of the evening--several times--even while she was still in the middle of the song. If you could have a continuous standing ovation throughout a song, Martha would deserve it.
But the best moment of the night was when he sang what he called his favorite song in the show: "If Love Were All." He sang it back in May too, but something about his performance of this number on Sunday brought tears to my eyes. Maybe it was the knowledge that this was probably his last time to sing it on stage. Maybe it was the fact that J, my date for the evening, held my hand while Rufus sang it. Perhaps it's just the beauty of those lyrics, the sad, knowing detail of them. Whatever the reason, I will never forget it.
I liked how Rufus kept positioning his arms the way that Judy did. It was a nice homage, and I hope some others recognized it as well. I also liked how he told stories about her performance years ago, such as the appearance in her audience of Rock Hudson. (Rufus had star power in the audience too. Am I one of the few who still gets star struck when someone like Debbie Reynolds stands up and waves?) He also mentioned how it had rained during her performance back in 1961. It had rained on Saturday, and Rufus kept noting a drip from the roof of the Bowl, as if to suggest that Judy's spirit was reminding him of her presence. But most of all, I liked his singing. He should do an album of standards at some point. Unlike everyone else who's done a Great American Songbook (and you know who I'm talking about), he would bring that unique voice and a fresh approach to some amazing songs.
I left the Hollywood Bowl with J, talking about all of the great moments of what we had just seen. I must admit that I hate stacked parking. The last time I had gone to a stacked parking lot was at the John Anson Ford Amphitheater years ago for an Outfest screening, and after being stuck there almost an hour after the performance had ended, I vowed never to do that again. Yet here we were in the stacked lot. It didn't matter. Rufus had put me into such a good mood, and I'd had such a marvelous night, that I was ready to wait if necessary. Instead, the magic of the evening continued. J and I were able to back up my car just a few feet and drive around all of the other cars still parked in the lot. We were on the way out of the Bowl and driving back to West Hollywood in mere minutes. Thank you, Rufus. Not only did you keep the rain away, but you also made stacked parking a delight. I can't wait until you come back to Los Angeles to perform again.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Conclusions
At times in my life, I've managed to reach a few conclusions about myself. I'm 44 years old, and at that age, you just realize certain things about yourself. Among the observations that I've made recently:
- I'm never going to get a tattoo. So many of my students have been permanently inked, and they're barely 20 years old. I look at their new tattoos and listen to them talk about how they love getting their bodies altered, and I realize that this just isn't for me. I do find them somewhat intriguing on other people, but even then, it's not a particular turn-on.
- Likewise, I'm never going to get anything pierced. Maybe I'm just too vanilla; perhaps that's the realization I should be having. I don't know. I just don't feel as if I'm missing any holes in my body at this point. I know one student who has a ladder of piercings up her neck. Others have noses and lips and eyebrows and god-only-knows-what-else pierced. Perhaps these are the province of the young only, but then I didn't particularly want to be pierced when I was younger either.
- I'm never going to work at a research university, teaching only a couple of classes a year and devoting the rest of my time to writing academic books with the hope of receiving tenure. At one point, when I was still taking classes in graduate school, that was the dream. Now I think I'd much rather teach a lot of people, try my best to help as many students as possible become better writers. I don't think I'll ever desire the solitary life of the academic, devoting hours and hours to the writing of critical essays and collections of my thoughts to put on the bookshelves of libraries everywhere to collect dust.
- I'm never going to get my hair back. The pelt is slowly vanishing. I miss it already. I've tried some products (some ointments and so forth--such a strange word, "ointment"), but nothing really works. I'm too blase about my hair loss to get plugs or transplants or whatever terminology is in vogue these days. At some point, I guess it's going to necessitate shaving off what's left of my hair. I used to have such thick hair. Those days are long gone now. Even though my hair never "did" anything except hang there or stick out at the wrong places, I would love to have it all back again the way it was 10 years ago.
- I'm never going to become a manager or administrator. I see friends of mine who are, and they seem to be rather unhappy people. They have so much stress in their lives, and they seem forever overwhelmed by bureaucratic detail. And they must deal with some of the most disagreeable people. At least with teaching I can see individual or group progress, and some of the students are grateful or even happy. I'm not sure managers or administrators ever see that.
- I'm never moving back to Mississippi or Alabama. I can barely stand to spend more than two or three days there at Thanksgiving. In fact, it's been several years now since I've gone home for Thanksgiving. I do miss some of the people there, and I do still have family there. But I have no desire to be there permanently myself. My heart truly is in and with Los Angeles. Who knew that a guy who was born in the country of northeast Mississippi would grow up to realize that he's truly a "city boy"?
- I'm never going to have a 28-inch waist again. I like to eat, but I don't particularly care to exercise. I have a waistline of about 35 inches these days. I never thought that was particularly fat, but I do live in the Los Angeles area. That means that I'm "California fat" to people here--or "skinny fat," as they say on Rick and Steve. I suppose if the workload ever permits, I'll get back to going to the gym and running and all of the other things I used to have time to do. Maybe I could shed a few pounds that way, but it's never going to be 28 inches again. I suppose it's not possible to return to one's college weight easily these days (unless you've been steadily working on it since college, and I haven't).
I'm sure as I get older, I'll come to even more realizations. A friend and I discussed recently how every decade seems to bring a new set of surprises. When you turn 20, you start to realize things about yourself, ways that you are vastly different from when you were a teenager. At 30, you have new revelations that you couldn't have anticipated in your 20s, a truer sense of maturity. And now after having passed 40, I've gotten to the seven listed above. Undoubtedly, there are more to follow. Stay tuned.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Thoughts on the King of/and DVRs
After Time Warner took over as the cable provider for my area, they included an intriguing feature as a part of the package to which I subscribed: a digital video recorder. I realize I'm late to this game, that everyone has been using Tivo for years now, but this metal box has turned out to be a new obsession of mine. I have more hours of stuff recorded now than I could probably watch by the end of the year if I stopped working and just devoted myself fulltime to what I have stored already. Earlier this year, I started trying to watch all of the films that have ever been nominated for Best Picture (winner or not), and the DVR just makes it too easy. About 30 such films are broadcast each week so you can imagine that I fill up the recorder all the time, and I get behind very often too. (No, I'm not watching thirty films each week. Rest easy. I still have a semblance of a life away from the TV.)
Occasionally, however, I find space and time for something other than an allegedly "award-worthy" film. Such was the case with a documentary that I recorded in August and finally watched this past weekend: Elvis: That's the Way It Is. I have a complicated history with the King (or "Alvin," as a friend and I used to call him). We're both from the same region of Mississippi, although I'm from a little town even farther north and east than Tupelo. So I grew up with the story (the legend? the myth?) of the poor boy who made good. My mother was always a fan (still is); when she was a teenager, she had a skirt covered with images of him (an article of clothing that would undoubtedly be worth a lot on Ebay these days but which was cut into pieces years ago to be used in making a quilt). I can also recall watching "Elvis: Aloha from Hawaii" with my grandmother. The day he died in 1977 (the 30-year anniversary of which prompted the showing of Elvis: That's the Way It Is and various other of his films) members of my family managed to get their hands on several copies of the Memphis Press-Scimitar, a newspaper long since defunct but the one that "broke" the news first that late summer day when I was 14 years old.
I've seen Elvis performances on film many times, including his "comeback special" where he wears that black leather outfit (don't act like you don't know the one I'm talking about). But this particular documentary was new for me. I thought I had seen it before, but I couldn't recall any of it once I started watching it. Reportedly, this concert at the International Hotel in Las Vegas was a return to live performing for Elvis after all of those years in Hollywood toiling away at films like Clambake, Harum Scarum, Change of Habit, et al. The film starts with rehearsals here in Los Angeles at the old MGM studios. Elvis sports those huge, wicked sideburns he grew in the early '70s, and he looks incredibly fit and very tan when he walks into the rehearsal studio. With that disheveled black hair and that perpetual impish twinkle in his eye, he manages to sing and joke his way through a variety of songs. Before he even steps onto the stage for the live performance, you're entranced.
I know he became a parody of himself toward the end. I know the drugs and the drinking led to his demise. I know that so many people today only know the "fat Elvis" of later years, not realizing that was a very, very brief period of time in his life. People go to Graceland and see the gaudiness of his home; they buy the vials of "real Elvis sweat" and alleged fragments of his gold lame outfit as if they were paying for indulgences during the Middle Ages. People go to the Nixon Museum in Yorba Linda just to buy a t-shirt featuring him and Nixon shaking hands. But you forget all of that--at least I did--while you're watching him perform live.
I'll admit that I wasn't a huge Elvis fan when I was growing up. Truthfully, I don't even remember many of his songs being played on the radio because he wasn't the hottest singer on the charts at the time. I'm sure I must have occasionally seen him on TV, but none of those appearances resonate with me now save for the Hawaii concert and that's because it was "live via satellite": a big deal in those days because it was still new technology. I don't even know that he was a truly remarkable singer for most of his career. Sometimes he would exercise those muscles and perform in a way that made you realize how much power he had, but he often chose pretty lousy material and frequently sang it haphazardly. (In that way, he reminds me a great deal of Dean Martin, another man with a remarkable voice who never really seemed to stretch himself enough artistically.) In my mind, the only song in the film that even approaches greatness in terms of his performance is "Suspicious Minds." (Maybe "Poke Salad Annie," but that has a lot to do with his physicality rather than his voice.) There's certainly an exciting rawness to his early recordings, but he was reaching a peak in his talent during the late '60s and early '70s in terms of his vocal quality; listen to some of his gospel recordings from that time if you want the proof.
But this movie reminded me of some things about him that I had forgotten or perhaps not even realized. He's wearing a series of those white jumpsuits that would become so iconic. There's a different one for each night at the International. And they're pretty wild: fringed, belted, embellished. And each one has a v-neck that's split down to his navel. You can see the definition of his chest and just how tan he is. (I kept thinking how he would fit right in today in West Hollywood; he has that same body type that is so prized nowadays, and he was fond of showing off his body to its best advantage.) These outfits are pretty form-fitting, and Elvis looks amazing in them. Say what you will about how ridiculous he might have looked in later years when he gained weight, but he knew how to fill out that white polyester in 1970. He's sexy, and when he flashes that crooked grin or half-smile of his, you can easily see why so many people screamed when they saw him perform live. He doesn't need to swivel his hips--although he can't keep that left leg still--to draw the crowd's attention any longer.
Elvis was also willing to take some gambles in his shows. He had back-up singers who were black (The Sweet Inspirations) and white (The Imperials). And watching him rehearse with them, you realize just how at ease he was with people of different races. He also chose songs outside of his own repertoire. He sings music from the Righteous Brothers, the Beatles, even the Bee Gees. This was not some rehashed traveling greatest-hits package he's singing. This was a man showing that he was still "current." And even though he's singing someone else's hits, he performs them in his own way; he reinterprets these tunes rather than merely copying them.
What most struck me about Elvis in this film, though, was his rapport with the audience. He is so clearly at ease with them; you can see that he loves them, that he needs them. He plays with them throughout the concert, making jokes and messing up lyrics just to get a laugh or a smile from them. He's pretty risque at times too; he makes several off-color remarks throughout the film. And he kisses dozens of people in the audience--on the mouth, directly, not a peck on the cheek. He goes out into the audience while singing "Love Me Tender," and the women line up to kiss him and be kissed by him. It's astonishing. I can't imagine any performers doing that today. They'd be too afraid.
I'm not sure what compelled me to record this film, and I can't really figure out what has compelled me to write about it and/or Elvis now. About a decade after he passed away, I did write a poem about visiting his birthplace in Tupelo. It was a pretty somber poem about the emotions you feel as you see just how little he started life with and then realize just how ridiculously out of control his life became. So maybe this film was another way to remember him in a good way, as a man enjoying himself in his chosen profession. Maybe I was just wondering what Elvis was like during that time, how he looked, how ready he was for performing--whether he still had "it" at that point. I record a lot of stuff now on this DVR and oftentimes never return to it. Things stay trapped in that machine for months. Sometimes I even delete a program I've recorded because I can't recall what possessed me to think I wanted to see it in the first place. However, I'm glad I took a chance on this one.
Occasionally, however, I find space and time for something other than an allegedly "award-worthy" film. Such was the case with a documentary that I recorded in August and finally watched this past weekend: Elvis: That's the Way It Is. I have a complicated history with the King (or "Alvin," as a friend and I used to call him). We're both from the same region of Mississippi, although I'm from a little town even farther north and east than Tupelo. So I grew up with the story (the legend? the myth?) of the poor boy who made good. My mother was always a fan (still is); when she was a teenager, she had a skirt covered with images of him (an article of clothing that would undoubtedly be worth a lot on Ebay these days but which was cut into pieces years ago to be used in making a quilt). I can also recall watching "Elvis: Aloha from Hawaii" with my grandmother. The day he died in 1977 (the 30-year anniversary of which prompted the showing of Elvis: That's the Way It Is and various other of his films) members of my family managed to get their hands on several copies of the Memphis Press-Scimitar, a newspaper long since defunct but the one that "broke" the news first that late summer day when I was 14 years old.
I've seen Elvis performances on film many times, including his "comeback special" where he wears that black leather outfit (don't act like you don't know the one I'm talking about). But this particular documentary was new for me. I thought I had seen it before, but I couldn't recall any of it once I started watching it. Reportedly, this concert at the International Hotel in Las Vegas was a return to live performing for Elvis after all of those years in Hollywood toiling away at films like Clambake, Harum Scarum, Change of Habit, et al. The film starts with rehearsals here in Los Angeles at the old MGM studios. Elvis sports those huge, wicked sideburns he grew in the early '70s, and he looks incredibly fit and very tan when he walks into the rehearsal studio. With that disheveled black hair and that perpetual impish twinkle in his eye, he manages to sing and joke his way through a variety of songs. Before he even steps onto the stage for the live performance, you're entranced.
I know he became a parody of himself toward the end. I know the drugs and the drinking led to his demise. I know that so many people today only know the "fat Elvis" of later years, not realizing that was a very, very brief period of time in his life. People go to Graceland and see the gaudiness of his home; they buy the vials of "real Elvis sweat" and alleged fragments of his gold lame outfit as if they were paying for indulgences during the Middle Ages. People go to the Nixon Museum in Yorba Linda just to buy a t-shirt featuring him and Nixon shaking hands. But you forget all of that--at least I did--while you're watching him perform live.
I'll admit that I wasn't a huge Elvis fan when I was growing up. Truthfully, I don't even remember many of his songs being played on the radio because he wasn't the hottest singer on the charts at the time. I'm sure I must have occasionally seen him on TV, but none of those appearances resonate with me now save for the Hawaii concert and that's because it was "live via satellite": a big deal in those days because it was still new technology. I don't even know that he was a truly remarkable singer for most of his career. Sometimes he would exercise those muscles and perform in a way that made you realize how much power he had, but he often chose pretty lousy material and frequently sang it haphazardly. (In that way, he reminds me a great deal of Dean Martin, another man with a remarkable voice who never really seemed to stretch himself enough artistically.) In my mind, the only song in the film that even approaches greatness in terms of his performance is "Suspicious Minds." (Maybe "Poke Salad Annie," but that has a lot to do with his physicality rather than his voice.) There's certainly an exciting rawness to his early recordings, but he was reaching a peak in his talent during the late '60s and early '70s in terms of his vocal quality; listen to some of his gospel recordings from that time if you want the proof.
But this movie reminded me of some things about him that I had forgotten or perhaps not even realized. He's wearing a series of those white jumpsuits that would become so iconic. There's a different one for each night at the International. And they're pretty wild: fringed, belted, embellished. And each one has a v-neck that's split down to his navel. You can see the definition of his chest and just how tan he is. (I kept thinking how he would fit right in today in West Hollywood; he has that same body type that is so prized nowadays, and he was fond of showing off his body to its best advantage.) These outfits are pretty form-fitting, and Elvis looks amazing in them. Say what you will about how ridiculous he might have looked in later years when he gained weight, but he knew how to fill out that white polyester in 1970. He's sexy, and when he flashes that crooked grin or half-smile of his, you can easily see why so many people screamed when they saw him perform live. He doesn't need to swivel his hips--although he can't keep that left leg still--to draw the crowd's attention any longer.
Elvis was also willing to take some gambles in his shows. He had back-up singers who were black (The Sweet Inspirations) and white (The Imperials). And watching him rehearse with them, you realize just how at ease he was with people of different races. He also chose songs outside of his own repertoire. He sings music from the Righteous Brothers, the Beatles, even the Bee Gees. This was not some rehashed traveling greatest-hits package he's singing. This was a man showing that he was still "current." And even though he's singing someone else's hits, he performs them in his own way; he reinterprets these tunes rather than merely copying them.
What most struck me about Elvis in this film, though, was his rapport with the audience. He is so clearly at ease with them; you can see that he loves them, that he needs them. He plays with them throughout the concert, making jokes and messing up lyrics just to get a laugh or a smile from them. He's pretty risque at times too; he makes several off-color remarks throughout the film. And he kisses dozens of people in the audience--on the mouth, directly, not a peck on the cheek. He goes out into the audience while singing "Love Me Tender," and the women line up to kiss him and be kissed by him. It's astonishing. I can't imagine any performers doing that today. They'd be too afraid.
I'm not sure what compelled me to record this film, and I can't really figure out what has compelled me to write about it and/or Elvis now. About a decade after he passed away, I did write a poem about visiting his birthplace in Tupelo. It was a pretty somber poem about the emotions you feel as you see just how little he started life with and then realize just how ridiculously out of control his life became. So maybe this film was another way to remember him in a good way, as a man enjoying himself in his chosen profession. Maybe I was just wondering what Elvis was like during that time, how he looked, how ready he was for performing--whether he still had "it" at that point. I record a lot of stuff now on this DVR and oftentimes never return to it. Things stay trapped in that machine for months. Sometimes I even delete a program I've recorded because I can't recall what possessed me to think I wanted to see it in the first place. However, I'm glad I took a chance on this one.
Friday, August 31, 2007
The Fire This Time
Last week Mickey's, a nightclub in West Hollywood, caught on fire. A couple of days after the fire, I got to climb onto the roof of the building next to it and see how extensive the damage was/is. From the roof all you can see are these large black gashes from the fire, charred holes open to the sky. The inside of the club must be completely gone. It was a shock to see what had happened to this place that I have probably known longer than almost anywhere else in Los Angeles.
I'm no longer a club-goer. I don't really care for drinking at this point in my life, and all of the men in the clubs seem to be either teenagers or just out of their teen years, far too young for me to find them attractive or appealing (and vice versa). I had only been to Mickey's once in the past 15 years. I wound up there on an ill-fated date one night a couple of years ago; I knew he wasn't "the one" when he kept ogling the strippers and checking out the rest of the club patrons all night long instead of talking directly to me. (Sometimes the signs are subtle; sometimes they aren't.) So I'm not feeling nostalgic for Mickey's because I was a "regular" there. Actually, I only went to Mickey's a few times before I found the club that I would call "home": Rage. That was the club that I eventually considered a regular part of my weekends in my late 20s.
However, Mickey's was the first club I went into after I got here in 1990. I can't recall why I picked it out of all of the rest of them on Santa Monica Boulevard. I paid my fee and walked in. Then I proceeded to be so overwhelmed by the number of gay men in one place that I didn't speak to anyone else all night long. At one point, a handsome guy walked up to me and said, "If you don't move soon, someone is going to hang a picture on you by mistake." All I could manage was a weak smile; I didn't recover the power of speech for another few days. I guess I didn't realize just how young and very naive I still was, even at the then-age of 27 (an age at which most gay men are almost considered "over the hill" nowadays).
I had been to gay clubs before, even quite a few of them in Alabama (a fact which will, no doubt, surprise some people). So it wasn't the shock of the new. I think it really was the number of people in one place. Here was one club on a street of clubs, and it was packed. Here was a large group of gay men while outside in the other clubs and in A Different Light and the restaurants and coffeehouses, there were many, many others. I truly began to feel like there was a community for me here. It's as if I had a sense even then that I had found a place where I could feel comfortable being who I am, a feeling I never fully seemed to have in Mississippi or Alabama; in fact, I still feel completely out of sorts in many ways when I return to either state. But I did feel that way in this city on that night. Oddly, it took a place with strippers and a disco ball (I remember a disco ball, but that may be my overactive imagination) and loud music and a full bar and handsome men to make me feel a sense of comfort.
Now it's 17 years later, and Mickey's is no more. I have no idea if it will be rebuilt or not. I've been unable to find out much about the place since the fire. Even if they (whoever "they" are) rebuild, I'm not really likely to go back. Still, I'm feeling a sense of loss. A part of my past--a small part, perhaps, but still a significant one--is gone. I have no memorabilia from the place, no flyer or photos or keepsake or totem. All I have now are the memories of that slightly scared Mississippi boy walking into a bar in the city that he would eventually come to call home.
I'm no longer a club-goer. I don't really care for drinking at this point in my life, and all of the men in the clubs seem to be either teenagers or just out of their teen years, far too young for me to find them attractive or appealing (and vice versa). I had only been to Mickey's once in the past 15 years. I wound up there on an ill-fated date one night a couple of years ago; I knew he wasn't "the one" when he kept ogling the strippers and checking out the rest of the club patrons all night long instead of talking directly to me. (Sometimes the signs are subtle; sometimes they aren't.) So I'm not feeling nostalgic for Mickey's because I was a "regular" there. Actually, I only went to Mickey's a few times before I found the club that I would call "home": Rage. That was the club that I eventually considered a regular part of my weekends in my late 20s.
However, Mickey's was the first club I went into after I got here in 1990. I can't recall why I picked it out of all of the rest of them on Santa Monica Boulevard. I paid my fee and walked in. Then I proceeded to be so overwhelmed by the number of gay men in one place that I didn't speak to anyone else all night long. At one point, a handsome guy walked up to me and said, "If you don't move soon, someone is going to hang a picture on you by mistake." All I could manage was a weak smile; I didn't recover the power of speech for another few days. I guess I didn't realize just how young and very naive I still was, even at the then-age of 27 (an age at which most gay men are almost considered "over the hill" nowadays).
I had been to gay clubs before, even quite a few of them in Alabama (a fact which will, no doubt, surprise some people). So it wasn't the shock of the new. I think it really was the number of people in one place. Here was one club on a street of clubs, and it was packed. Here was a large group of gay men while outside in the other clubs and in A Different Light and the restaurants and coffeehouses, there were many, many others. I truly began to feel like there was a community for me here. It's as if I had a sense even then that I had found a place where I could feel comfortable being who I am, a feeling I never fully seemed to have in Mississippi or Alabama; in fact, I still feel completely out of sorts in many ways when I return to either state. But I did feel that way in this city on that night. Oddly, it took a place with strippers and a disco ball (I remember a disco ball, but that may be my overactive imagination) and loud music and a full bar and handsome men to make me feel a sense of comfort.
Now it's 17 years later, and Mickey's is no more. I have no idea if it will be rebuilt or not. I've been unable to find out much about the place since the fire. Even if they (whoever "they" are) rebuild, I'm not really likely to go back. Still, I'm feeling a sense of loss. A part of my past--a small part, perhaps, but still a significant one--is gone. I have no memorabilia from the place, no flyer or photos or keepsake or totem. All I have now are the memories of that slightly scared Mississippi boy walking into a bar in the city that he would eventually come to call home.
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