Jazz on a Winter's Day

I don't get out of the house much during these holiday breaks. I'm very close to becoming an elderly shut-in, it seems, but every now and then, someone will request my company and I manage to shower and shave and put on clean clothes and venture forth into the outside world.

Yesterday, the son of one of my friends from work was playing in his five-member band at the Jazz Bakery, located in the old Helms Building on Venice Boulevard (the building where they used to make a lot of bread, apparently). Five of us from work, plus his sister and one of her friends, joined the small but enthusiastic crowd. The group is called the Big Enough Band, which I think is a great name, and they are amazingly talented young men. They're all probably in their early to mid-20s, and all of the songs they performed were written by various members of the band. I feel like such a slacker when I meet young people like this. I could barely manage to string together coherent sentences at that age, and they're already performing their own music at a well-respected jazz venue.

The band includes a tenor saxophone player (the son of the friend from work), an alto sax player (who seems to be the leader of the group), a guitarist (the most talented composer of the bunch, I think), a bass player (who seemed to be having a blast for the whole show), and a drummer (who really knows how to pound the skins). While jazz is not my favorite type of music, I know enough about it to appreciate just how good these guys are. They perform well together, and I hope they start to get some recognition for their talents. They all met through the music program at their university, apparently, and it's good to know that the university system is bringing together and nurturing young talent like this.

After the show, we went to a nearby restaurant in Culver City. The restaurant, called Fraise (I think I got the spelling right), is one of those places where you can have a slow leisurely meal and talk. I enjoy getting a chance to spend time with these friends outside of work and away from all of the little demands that are placed upon us. We talked very little about teaching or our classes or much having to do with the college. We talked instead about books we've read or are reading and movies we've seen or want to see. We had an interesting conversation about Stuff White People Like, with an interesting detour to #116 on that list, Black Music that Black People Don't Listen to Anymore (i.e., jazz). We ate well, although the portions are a bit on the small side, no doubt due to that nouvelle cuisine residual effect. And we had quite an entertaining discussion on how we were going to divide up and/or pay the bill. I hope everyone put in enough money, but who can tell when the total exceeds three hundred dollars?

I was actually out of the house for a bit more than five hours on a Sunday. That hardly ever happens, particularly during the semester when there's always papers to grade or lessons to prepare for the upcoming week. I need to get out more, I know. It's just too easy to stay at home and watch all of the episodes of Life on Mars and The Starter Wife that I've saved on the DVR. But I do miss going to events like this concert, and I would like to go to see more live theater/theatre than I do. Here's hoping the new year brings more opportunities to avoid staying at home all of the time.

A Christmas Wish

I hope you are able to carry a little bit of the Christmas spirit with you wherever you go. (Some of you will recognize this as the cover of one of my Christmas cards in the past. I do love this image.)

Yes I Did

I did manage to take the Christmas tree out of the box this year and display it. (I have two of them, actually, but that seemed to be overkill.) You probably can't see the details here, but the ornaments are all characters from Gone with the Wind. No, I didn't buy them for myself. My mother buys me at least one new Gone with the Wind ornament (sometimes more) and at least two Peanuts ornaments from Hallmark each year. I don't really know why she thinks I am so enamored of Gone with the Wind, but they are well-made ornaments and it's Christmas so why not? Perhaps next year it will be a Peanuts-themed tree. (Yes, I know why she buys the Peanuts ornaments. When I was younger, I loved Peanuts, particularly Linus. I always felt a certain affinity with him.) My ex used to get Marilyn Monroe ornaments each year because he or I once mentioned in the vicinity of my mother that one of his favorite movies was How to Marry a Millionaire. She does sometimes latch on to the oddest comments to remember. By the way, she asked this morning if I had put up the tree and then she wanted to know if I used the Gone with the Wind ornaments. The tree itself is only about four feet tall. It's one of those with the lights already on it. (The other tree-in-a-box has multicolored lights, for the record.) I know an artificial tree isn't "green," but I figure if I do keep using it, that is better than tossing a living tree each year. I can't really plant one, living on the fifth floor of an apartment tower as I do. I may keep this one up for a couple of days more. Then it's back to the box for another year. However, I did want everyone to know that despite my usual Scrooge tendencies, I was somewhat in a holiday mood this week.

Nutty Neighbors: Just a Thought

On Monday night, while trying to watch The Big Bang Theory during a particularly noisy discussion by Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls, it occurred to me that perhaps one of the women in that apartment is Logan's girlfriend/lover/whatever. It struck me that, post-coital, she might say to him, "Oh My God, Logan, that was SO awesome," and I started to giggle.

Overheard

While I was in the Los Angeles airport on Thanksgiving Day, waiting to start my long journey to Alabama, I happened to sit next to an older couple with their grandchildren. The grandmother was busy keeping track of the kids while the grandfather was on the phone. Normally, I try not to overhear phone conversations involving strangers, but some people just talk so loudly that you can't avoid it. And, somewhat surprisingly, there weren't a lot of open seats in the airport that day.

I don't know to whom he was talking, but the grandfather was asking about the recent elections. He was trying to discern the other person's voting pattern, I guess. So he finally just asked, "Well, who did you wind up voting for?" The other person was apparently an Obama supporter. Hearing this, the grandfather replied, "Well, I could never vote for a Democrat. Not with me being Christian and all."

Is this where our country is today? There are people who really believe that Christianity and the Democratic Party are in conflict? Is it any wonder that I'm still worried about the future of the United States?

Am I Missing Something?

I've not shared a lot with you about my classes this semester, but I'm still puzzling over the rough draft submitted by one of my students in the American literature course. It's the second half of American literature, from 1865 to the present, and I tend to divide the course into three historical periods. The second part of the semester covers Modernism in American literature, the period including World Wars I and II, roughly 1914-1945.

I ask students to write one essay and take one exam on each of the three periods that we cover. So the second essay assignment asks them to choose a literary work written in America between 1914 and 1945 to analyze. Sounds like a simple enough assignment, doesn't it? They get to choose the work and determine the critical approach that they want to take toward it. That's really all I ask of them.

When I received the rough drafts for this second set of papers--yes, I still read rough drafts even in my literature courses--I received one or two that were not on American literature from this period. Now, some were just mistakes that could be easily explained. The students had accidently chosen works from earlier or later than the period, but the works were written close to the Modernist era. Once I pointed this out to them, they quickly chose a different subject and were happy with the final results.

One, however, completely puzzled me. I wrote down the thesis statement because I knew I would probably want to talk about it here. This is what it said: "This essay will analyze whether or not the Bible is meant to be read as fully divine, fully human, or a mixture of both elements."

Did I fail to mention that this was a paper written for an American literature class? Did I also note that the period covered was to be 1914-1945? How could anyone so badly misinterpret an assignment to think that the Bible would be a good choice? When I asked the student why he had picked this topic, he said it was because it interested him. When I reminded him that he was supposed to be writing about some work of American literature produced during the era of Modernism, he said he had found a source from the 1930s that talked about the issue of the Bible's divinity. I gave him additional time to write another draft but told him that it had to follow the assignment guidelines more closely.

So, I ask you, am I missing something? Have I gone crazy? Am I the one who just doesn't get it?

He has since submitted an essay on a more appropriate topic for the class. I did not, however, give him credit for the rough draft since it didn't even begin to fit what I had asked the class to do. Now he's requested that I reconsider that decision. He says he did, after all, submit a rough draft even if it happened to be on the Bible. I will probably give him some points just to keep the peace, but I frankly don't feel too inclined to be generous at this point. Should I really be kind to someone who thinks that the Bible is a work of American literature written between 1914 and 1945? Or is it me who's losing touch with reality?

Nutty Neighbors: Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls

I know I haven't blogged in a while. I've had too many papers and rough drafts to grade, and frankly, I've just been feeling a bit overwhelmed lately. I managed to squeeze in a quick trip to Alabama to visit the family for Thanksgiving, but otherwise, it's been work, work, work.

So I haven't even shared with you that I have new neighbors. I can't go into all of the details because I don't even know all of them. They moved in about six weeks ago, but they remain a mystery to me. I don't, for instance, even know how many people live next door. It could be as many as five or as few as two. There's sort of a revolving door on that apartment. I do know that they're all young, early 20s, I'd guess. And they're very restless, it seems. They can't seem to stay put for long stretches of time. Some people in our building come home at the end of the day and just want to relax. Once they're inside the apartment, that's pretty much it for the rest of the night. Not these kids. They go in and out almost all day and all night, never staying in the apartment for more than a couple of hours at a time. I guess I should be grateful that, unlike the previous tenants, these kids don't slam the door each time they walk in or out.

I'm beginning to wonder if any of them have a job. None of them seems to have a regular schedule. If they are students, I don't know when any of them goes to class because they always seem to be here except when they go out at night. If they leave during the day, it's usually only for a couple of hours, and that's not long enough to be work-related (unless, of course, you know...). How could anyone afford an apartment in this building without a job? Mommy and Daddy must be very generous to fund such an extravagance. I'm still living here thanks to rent stabilization, but the going rate for the two-bedroom apartments here must be more than $2000 a month nowadays. (I just checked: the range is from a little more than $2000 to more than $2900 for a two-bedroom. Yikes.)

I've dubbed them "Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls" because they do tend to talk very loudly. (I briefly toyed with calling them Mr. Echo and the OMGs as an homage to a very frequently stated phrase.) Mr. Echo's real name is Logan, apparently. I know this because they talk very loudly, but I think I mentioned that already. He, in particular, has a very deep, resonant voice that seems to echo throughout the apartment and into the hallway. The Woo Girls--number still to be determined--are the kind of girls who like to yell "Woo" whenever someone makes a statement or suggestion. You know the kind or you've seen the recent episode of How I Met Your Mother that addresses this in more depth. These are the girls who, when you say, "Who's ready to party?!" yell back, "Woo!" (Although it's more like "Wooooooooooooo!") Thankfully, so far, this has not been incredibly frequent.

Twice, though, I've had to knock on the door to ask them to turn down the music. Yeah, I know. I'm an old fuddy-duddy. But they do love their bass when they play hip-hop music (yeah, typical suburban white kids), and it's a bit tough to concentrate with the thumping going on next door. What I noticed when they opened the door was a bit surprising. They have no furniture. The living room, which is a very big space in these apartments, is empty. That's why there's such an echo. There's nothing to block the sound. I wonder if they even have beds or if it's just a series of mattresses on the floor. For me, it would be pathetic to have to live that way. I'd find a smaller place and spend less on rent so that I could afford some furniture.

I was duly punished for asking them to turn the music down, just so you know. When Logan showed up yesterday--his arrival announced much like Norm's used to be on the TV show Cheers--they started playing music again. It wasn't quite as loud as in the afternoon, but it was certainly turned up enough to make me aware of it. Sadly for them, I slept through most of it because I was so tired from the work week. The music was either turned off or down by the time the rest of the crowd showed up, and they all talked loudly until late into the night. I went to bed at 11 p.m., so I don't know how long the party went on. The noise level didn't keep me from sleeping yesterday. I guess that will show me, huh?

I'd should add that they're also very fond of the balcony on this end of the hallway. There's a sort of V-shape to the ends of the buildings here, and the balconies are in the middle of those Vs. Sometimes, the kids like to take a drink out to the balcony and have a smoke and talk loudly a lot. There's only a couple of problems with this. Given how loudly they talk, they've disturbed the neighbors a couple of times. I've heard them grumbling as they walk back into the apartment about having the security patrol tell them to be quiet. The other problem is with the cigarettes themselves. Apparently, they've been leaving the butts and ashes out on the balcony, prompting a rather sternly worded memo sent to the residents of our floor about the proper disposal of said waste products. I'm sure that also went over well next door, especially since everyone on our floor now knows about it.

Look, I'm sure on some level they are nice kids. They don't seem to be running a meth lab (although I could be wrong about that). They're just noisy and boisterous, the way kids that age tend to be. Unfortunately, I am getting to an age where I really don't like noisy, boisterous people. I find them annoying. I may start looking for another place to live if this keeps up since the folks who run this apartment complex seem to want to saddle me with the kinds of neighbors who just don't seem to recall that they're living in an apartment, not a dorm room.

On the Other Hand

I went to bed last night very happy knowing that this country had elected Barack Obama as its president. I got the news at about 8:20 p.m. while still at a poetry reading the department had sponsored on campus. It had been a hectic day, but it ended on a very high note with the reading of some beautiful poetry and with the news that we have a president who promises to change the current state of our country. I slept very well last night.

I will freely admit that this election was important to me. I've not blogged about it much, perhaps, but I needed--and I think our country needed--someone in whom we could trust again, someone intelligent enough to work on problems and think them through and get good advice before making a decision rather than someone who will have some sort of knee-jerk reaction to them and then never change his mind. I wanted Obama to win. I really needed him to win in order for me to have some faith that we can still get things right.

My participation this time was greater than ever before. For the first time in my life, I contributed to a presidential candidate's campaign. Somewhere there's a list of Obama donors with my name on it at least once. (I'm assuming you don't get your name listed for each individual donation you make, right?) Even voting took greater effort than before. I had been on an accreditation visit and missed the deadline for applying to vote by absentee ballot. I saw the lines in Norwalk this past weekend that lasted for up to five hours in the rain and decided against early voting. I had to vote on Election Day. So I got up early and went to work at 5:30 a.m., administered two exams, then drove back from Orange County to Los Angeles (eating lunch in the car on the way), stood in line for the first time ever in my life to vote, and then drove back to Orange County to attend a dinner with our guest poet. I think I must have added about 150 miles to my car yesterday, but it was worth it. I was a part of history.

When we left the home where the dinner was held, Obama was in the lead already, something like 174-76 or so. When the poetry reading finished about 90 minutes later, we had a new president. An amazing night in so many ways. I was listening to Obama's acceptance speech on the drive back to Los Angeles, and I had to pull the car over so that I could finish crying before continuing on home.

And yet...

I'm sad today as well. Proposition 8 has apparently passed with 53 percent of the vote. Enough people with bigotry and prejudice in their hearts decided to negate the rights of thousands of gays and lesbians in this state that has been known for so long as a place of tolerance and freedom. Now the constitution of this state specifically limits one of the rights of its people to only certain individuals. All do not share in liberty any longer.

I won't apologize for calling those who voted for Prop. 8 bigots and prejudiced. No one's right to marry should be infringed simply because of your religious beliefs. When it comes to freedom and equality, I'm an absolutist. I had hoped more of my fellow Californians were too.

When I moved here in 1990, California was still very much like a dream to me. It was here that I became the person I'd always felt inside that I could be. I was able to study the literature that I wanted to study. I was able to be friends with a wide range of people, folks of different backgrounds and ideologies and interests. I was able to obtain a full-time job that I loved while being out. I was able to meet and date other men without the sense of tremendous fear that I had felt while growing up in small-town Mississippi. Marriage, of course, wasn't on the horizon for me at the time. Even when I was in a long-term relationship that lasted almost ten years, we talked of marriage as if it were only a fantasy, something to imagine but never attain.

This summer that fantasy came true, though. I've written before about the joy that I felt in watching the weddings of gay and lesbian couples on TV. It was as if the state had finally realized its promise, a true sense of equality and freedom at last. Now it's all been taken away again, and I'm feeling rather crushed.

I'm hurt because more people in California want to protect the rights of chickens and cows than want to bestow equality on me and other gays and lesbians.

I'm hurt because the people who supported Prop. 8 keep saying that it wasn't/isn't about discrimination when there is no other word to describe the exclusion of a group of people from the rights and rites of marriage.

I'm hurt because I live in a country that cannot truly and fully separate what the government owes to its citizens and what religion offers to its believers.

I'm hurt because the people who claimed that they were undecided were apparently just too spineless or gutless (take your pick) to admit to pollsters that they just didn't want gay people to feel equal.

I'm hurt because I fear this will give supporters of Prop. 8 license to continue on this path and that we will see them attempt to erode other rights that gays and lesbians have.

I'm hurt because being told that "domestic partnership" gives you the same rights as marriage is tantamount in my mind to being told that the water in the "colored" drinking fountain is just as good as the water in the "whites only" fountain.

I don't know where to put my rage today. I've tried to keep my anger inside me as I taught three classes, but it's been difficult. I keep thinking about the past few months and the emotional toll that they have taken on me and others. I did what I could to get the word out. I donated money for the first time ever to a campaign involving a ballot proposition. I worked the tables on our campus with the student club to let people know about the dangers of Prop. 8 (sometimes sitting on the other side of the sidewalk from students of mine manning a Yes on 8 table). I asked all of my friends to vote against the measure. I voted against it myself. In short, I did what most of us did, and it just wasn't enough.

I do take a tiny bit of comfort in the fact that the margin this time is 53-47, compared to the 61-39 for Prop. 22 eight years ago. We managed to change the minds of about 8 percent of the electorate, and that's good. I even tried to comfort some of my students who were feeling very crushed by the outcome as well. But it's just not enough.

Stopping a voter-approved amendment to the constitution (even with such a small margin of victory) seems unlikely. Court cases involving the 18,000 gay and lesbian couples and whether or not their marriages will be recognized seem very likely. More campaigning and more money for more advertising seem likely as well. And, still, perhaps it's just not enough.

I'm feeling disillusioned, as you can tell. I still love my adopted state. I won't be moving away; I only have two other options at this point anyway (Massachusetts and Connecticut). Everywhere else, it seems, has followed the same path as California. I don't have anyone to marry, but it now seems as if it isn't even worth looking for someone to marry. Our relationship would never be recognized as equal in the eyes of my fellow citizens, and that is what truly hurts.

I have all of the absurd possible reactions in my mind at this point. I'm thinking of boycotting weddings for straight couples from now on. I may not attend any more weddings until gays and lesbians have the right to marry. I'm thinking of starting my own petition to have all marriages approved by the voters. Perhaps we could have a booklet with all of the couples, and the people of California can decided if they're deemed "fit" to marry on a couple-by-couple basis. Maybe we should have a petition to eliminate marriage altogether, no rights for anyone any longer.

Yes, I know that's silly. I will probably even chicken out of the boycott eventually when a dear friend gets married. However, it wouldn't be a good idea to send me an invitation to a wedding any time soon.

You Should Do This Now

Find and download Keith Urban's version of "Romeo's Tune." It's on his Greatest Hits CD.

Then find Steve Forbert's original version of "Romeo's Tune." It's from the Jackrabbit Slim CD, but you can also find it on several compilations.

Listen to both. Enjoy. Compare and contrast if you must. You might note how the song sounds when presented from a distinctly country perspective (Urban's version) or you might decide you prefer a more classic pop-country blend (Forbert's version).

Repeat until a smile comes over your face. Keep the smile there with further listenings of one of the greatest songs of the late 1970s.

Here's Where I Am

I've been reading prewriting activities for my two literature classes this week. I always have them do a formal prewriting just to get a sense of whether they're even on the right track. It saves time for them if they don't spend a lot of effort writing themselves into a corner.

Most of them are fine. They have a good starting point, and they seem to know what they might be saying in their rough draft (which is due next week). However, I have some students who seem to be at a complete loss for where to turn when it comes to writing about a literary work. One of them in my American literature class, for example, plans to demonstrate that Eugene O'Neill's Long Day's Journey into Night deals with morphine addiction. This isn't something that needs to be argued, is it? Doesn't everyone who reads or watches a performance of this play realize that Mary Tyrone is a morphine addict? How do I (gently) tell this student that he is trying to show something that is not really open to interpretation (unless he's planning to do some elaborate deconstructionist argument--which seems highly unlikely, by the way)?

Most of these students in that same American literature class have not taken a course in how to write an essay about literature. We do offer such a class at my college, and students who have taken it (particularly English majors) tend to write better essays in later classes as a result. Perhaps we should grit our teeth and make it a prerequisite course for literature classes. I have to cover the scope of American literature since 1865 in this class; I don't have time to devote to teaching how to write about a poem or the various elements of fiction or what to examine when reading a play too. That's not even on the course outline for me to do. I'm supposed to be introducing students to the richness of the American literary landscape since the Civil War.

Perhaps part of the problem is that they're just not reading. I'm getting blank quizzes each day, a sure sign that other issues are more important than reading for my class. I'm not so egotistical to think that my class is the center of the universe, but we were meant to discuss William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying on Tuesday. I had been gone the previous week, giving them what I thought was ample time to read the book (only about 100 pages in our anthology). Yet I got lots of blank quizzes back anyway. It's very frustrating. How can you teach a work few people have read (or, perhaps, not yet finished--I'm feeling generous)? How can we have a class discussion if I'm the only one familiar with the text? If I have to lecture, they're going to become bored quickly. If I try to involve them in a discussion, they can't perform.

The lack of reading has led to some interesting answers on the quizzes when people try to guess, though. Today's quiz covered two short stories: Ernest Hemingway's "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" and Kay Boyle's "The White Horses of Vienna." One of the questions I asked was why the older doctor's wife in Boyle's story (published in 1935) was concerned upon the arrival of her husband's replacement. The answer was he was Jewish and this was in Austria between the two world wars, a time of rising anti-Semitism in Europe. I would have accepted "he's Jewish" as an answer to the question. One of them, trying to be clever, wrote that the replacement doctor was "Vietnamese." Sigh. Did you note that the title of the story is "The White Horses of VIENNA"? Just how many Vietnamese people were in Austria between the wars?

This semester's American literature class is just not as strong as ones I've had in the past. There are only three or four students who are doing particularly well, and only one who is truly a star. I can't quite decide if it's because we're teaching it "out of sequence" (offering what is normally a spring semester class in the fall semester) or if there's something else going on. Either way, I'm feeling frustrated and I'm starting to feel glad that we're more than halfway done.

Just for the Record

I'm Joe the Teacher, not Joe the Plumber. I actually know which candidate for president I'm voting for, and I've known for quite some time now. I'm not trying to act as if my mind isn't already made up, and I'm not pretending to be impartial when asked about it. If I were to question one of the candidates about his economic policies, I'd at least be honest enough to say that I'm either supporting or not supporting him.

By the way, who are the people who are still undecided at this point? What would it take to help them make up their minds? Will such people really contribute to the process if they have to wait until the final week of an election to determine which is the better candidate?

Random Thoughts from the Road

Some observations I made while driving back home from my week in northern California and during my first day back in my apartment:

• There are a lot more Obama bumper stickers in the middle part of the state than you might think. On my way up on Sunday and then on my way back on Thursday, I saw only one McCain sticker on a car. I saw dozens of Obama stickers, though. I do understand that California is going to back Obama, but still, you wouldn't expect the more conservative middle corridor of the state to be filled with bumper sticks touting him.
• However, conversely (perhaps), there are lots more Yes on 8 signs in the middle of the state than I encounter here in Los Angeles. It makes me very anxious about what's going to happen in a couple of weeks when people go to the polls.
• A milk truck that has a leak can leave a very long, wide path of white stuff on the highway if the driver is unaware that he's spilling his cargo all over the road.
• You can smell a cattle ranch/farm at least five miles before you reach it. There are a couple of these ranches/farms on the way north, and I began to sense something in the air quite early. Then, suddenly, there are cows everywhere. It reminded me of that wonderful line Jami Gertz has in the truly awful movie Twister: "I gotta go, Julia. We got cows."
• Rest stops are gathering spots for most of the flies of California. Unfortunately, one of them followed me back to the car and made the journey to Los Angeles. She/he is probably very confused right now and is wondering where the rest of her/his family is. I think I'm finally fly-free at this point. Keep your fingers crossed.
• The I-5 should be more than just two lanes in each direction. There are so many trucks on the freeway now that when they try to pass each other, it just slows down the entire state. The last time I drove on it, the 5 was relatively vehicle-free. Not so this week.
• Older men should get their eyebrows clipped when they get a haircut. I stopped at the In-n-Out Burger in Kettleman City for a late lunch on Sunday--big mistake, by the way, given the crowds--and I saw a man with the bushiest eyebrows ever. If you've seen that Grinch movie with Jim Carrey, you might have a sense of what this guy's eyebrows looked like. It's as if they had a life and a mind of their own. You know the old saying about how sometimes one's eyebrows look like fuzzy caterpillars? Well, those caterpillars have nothing on this guy's browline.
• Listening to 1970s disco music helps to keep me awake. I was singing along and even dancing (a bit). The other drivers must have thought I was nuts. Well, as long as they stayed out of my way.
• Does there have to be a fire every time I go on an accreditation site visit? Last year at this time I was in San Diego visiting a college when the fires in that county broke out. This time I was barely out of Los Angeles when the fires north of the city started. And to top it off, there was another fire on Angel Island near San Francisco. Is it just a bad time of year for fires? You wouldn't think October would be prime fire season, but I guess the dryness of the summer and the lingering heat are to blame.
• I knew I was back home last night when I had to give another driver the finger for cutting me off. Twice. Where else but in Los Angeles would someone cut you off twice on the same street? She seemed to be in a hurry until she got in front of me, of course. When I got into the other lane to avoid her, though, she decided that, really, in front of me was the place she needed to be. Then she proceeded to put on her right turn signal at every major intersection, only to decide against turning and continue on. If she could have heard some of my comments...
• I really knew I was back home when, during an elevator ride this morning, I was trapped listening to a discussion between two talent agents. Oy. The nonsense that passes for conversation these days. Something about how one of them has managed to get his client "seen" by a lot of people and yet he wasn't getting jobs and there are all these auditions for parts that he was just perfect for. For some reason, I kept fantasizing about the early scenes from the movie Speed.
• After getting home, I had squashed bug all over the windshield, so I went this morning to have the car detailed. It looks and smells like a brand new car again. I may have to have this done regularly. Usually, I let the car get filthy between oil changes.
• I love when the laundry is done for the week. I only had four loads to wash this morning because I've been gone (no towels or bedsheets to wash), and when everything was folded and put away, I felt like I had truly accomplished something.

Maybe...

...if I rearrange the papers in a horizontal fashion, I'll be more inclined to read them.

It's Official

See that lock? The center is a faint white color, meaning that the maintenance crew have taken over the apartment next door. I got home last night at around 8 p.m. and saw that the lock had been changed. I did a little dance in the hallway before going into my apartment.

The apartment next door will be painted, at least, and perhaps even remodeled. There might be some noise, but it will be nothing compared to the racket that used to emanate from there.

Distance, Not Fences, Makes Good Neighbors

It isn't official yet, but I think my next door neighbor has moved out. This is cause for celebration around here. I've lived in my current apartment for a little more than 12 years. About half of that time, the same person has lived next door with various configurations of family and friends over the years. I'll be incredibly happy if she and the rest never return.

I know I may be setting myself up to have an even worse person or people move in by saying this, but you have no idea what I've had to endure for the past few years. I like to think that there are three distinct stages to her time here in the apartment complex. All of these phases were bad.

Phase I: She lived her with her family: father, mother, and brother. We could easily call them the Drunk and Fighting Years. The father, a rather smelly alcoholic, was prone to yelling. A lot. Mostly at his daughter. I think it might have had something to do with the choices of men she was dating at the time. I don't know for certain, but I always suspected that the boyfriends were not quite what Dad was expecting. A couple of times, he and the daughter decided to have the arguments in the hallway so that we could all enjoy them. My favorite occured not too long after they moved in. It was about 1 a.m., and the yelling just kept getting louder and louder. Even Mom got involved. The three of them stormed into the hallway, perhaps to have more room, and proceeded to yell and slap and pull and god-knows-what-else until the security patrol officers showed up and asked them to take it inside. Of course, that didn't help me a lot, considering that I shared a wall with them. And this was not a one-time-only event, either. This happened quite frequently.

And just to give you some sense of how drunk the father could get... One night I heard a knock on my door. When I opened it, he was standing there. Well, "standing" would be a generous way to describe it. "Swaying" would be more like it. There was another guy behind him, but I didn't recognize this guy. The Dad asked me if I would loan him 200 dollars; he promised to pay me back the next morning. I told him that I didn't keep that much money on me, and he seemed genuinely upset. I suppose he was accustomed to knocking on strangers' doors and getting large sums of money in the middle of the night. I got the impression that the guy behind him was waiting for payment of some kind, but I couldn't help them out. He took Dad and headed toward the elevator. I never knew what happened after that.

During this first phase, I also came to realize that the family must all be hard of hearing. During the Christmas season one year, I could barely hear my television over the loud din of carols from next door. "Mom" was making dinner and had cranked up the stereo. Just for the record, I hate Christmas music, and loud Christmas music is just going to get on my nerves even quicker. I cranked up the TV so loud that she couldn't hear her music any longer, and I guess she got the idea. Keep this notion of loud noise from next door in your mind. We'll revisit it again later on.

Phase II: She and her brother shared the apartment. Apparently, the parents moved out; there was no moving van or anything like that. I just never saw them any more. The brother decided to take over the responsibility for being the family drunk. Well, someone has to do it. Almost every weekend, he and his buddies would get plastered. They'd come back here, naturally, rather than go to someone else's place to crash. The only problem was Younger Brother didn't have a key, so he had to knock on the door until someone answered. That's fine if someone is home. On several occasions, no one was there. Older Sister had gone out for the evening herself. So Younger Brother just kept knocking and knocking and knocking and knocking. Try sleeping with that constant noise next door. I almost felt sorry for him when one of his friends asked him once, "Dude, you don't have a key to your own apartment? How lame is that?" I got over it, though, when his anger led him to pound on the door even harder.

Younger Brother is now in law school, you'll be happy to know. I found that out when Older Sister was talking very loudly in the bathroom last week. Those tile can really make a phone conversation echo. I could be lying in bed and hear every word of what she said. Apparently, she needed to know if he wanted any of the stuff that he left behind in the apartment when he moved to go to law school. Stuff like his surfboard and snowboard and all of his LSAT prep course stuff. There wasn't room at Dad's place, I gathered. Did I mention how easily I could overhear these conversations? Can you imagine how loud you'd have to be talking for that to happen?

Phase III: She lived with a roommate. This was the shortest of the phases, mercifully. It only lasted about a year. It was characterized by two traits: an incessant slamming of the front door and a predisposition on the part of the roommate to play her music very loudly. The door slamming really got to me. It had happened during the first phase of her living here, but I had yelled at her and her mother one day, and they got better. Yes, I couldn't stand it that bad. I always knew what time they came home because of the door. They weren't really slamming it, of course, not with any sense of anger or other emotion. They were just letting it slam shut behind them. The problem was most pronounced on the weekend. Once I counted 18 door slams in one day before I got up and went for a drive to clear my head. (Okay, I went out looking for a weapon, but the drive did help to clear my head.) I asked as politely as I could, but it never seemed to have that much of an impact. The door slams continued.

Both Older Sister and the Roommate liked loud music. It's just that you could call the security patrol, and the Older Sister would turn it down. Her parties were, apparently, legendary here. Everyone in the building, it seemed, called to complain one night. (This led one of her guests--estimated in the high double digits--to exclaim, "But it's Saturday.") The security patrol must have stopped by five times before the party finally disbanded. (Lest you think it's only next door that's a problem, let me share that the people upstairs--whom I've nicknamed The Clydesdales--are well known for their New Year's party, the one where every hour starting at about 9 p.m. generates a cheer for the New Year. Well, it is midnight somewhere, isn't it?) The Roommate, however, was a classic. She would do laundry every Tuesday night. You ask how I know this? That's when she would turn the stereo up the loudest, and then she would spend the next two hours in the laundry room downstairs. Knocking on the door wouldn't help because she wasn't there. Even the security patrol would get frustrated on those nights. I did "rat" her out one time; I told them where she was, and one of the officers "retrieved" her and made her turn the music down.

The Roommate seems to have moved about a month ago. Suddenly, the music stopped playing so loudly. And then two weeks ago, things got very quiet next door. It took me a couple of days to realize that I wasn't hearing slamming doors any more. I thought that she had moved already. Turns out she was probably just looking for a new place. Unfortunately, she returned. I thought my peace and quiet were over again, but then Dad also returned and started taking things out in bags. Apparently, again, no moving van. Just bags. Bags and bags and bags. However, once I sort of realized that she was moving out, I didn't care how many door slams it took so long as she was gone.

Tuesday night (the last night of September) was the end. All of the stuff was gone; I know this because there's a crack under the door large enough to see what's on the floor inside. (Yes, I got down on the floor in the hallway to look. You would have done the same if you thought you were about to get back some of your own solitude at home. So don't judge me.) It's been like a different place since then. I came home even on the hot days last week, and I managed to relax a little bit. I don't have to keep turning up the volume on the TV in order to hear it above the din next door. And no one slammed a door all day long.

This is all still unofficial, as I stated earlier. Whenever someone moves out, the maintenance crew changes the locks on the front door. While there are people cleaning and painting the apartment, the lock has a white core. That's the "master lock" for the maintenance people. When that arrives, then I'll know she's gone for good. It's still a standard gold core for now, though.

I realize that it's probably more than a little bit mean of me to take such joy in someone leaving, but frankly, neighbors should be more considerate of each other. We share a wall and a common hallway space. We have to live next door to each other, and we're not separated like people in homes are. I don't play my music or TV loud. I don't slam the door when I walk in and out. I don't leave garbage in the hallway overnight because I'm too lazy to walk to the other end of the hallway to drop it down the chute. (Oh, yes, many, many times. How'd you like to meet that first thing in the morning when you're on the way to work?) And most of the other people in this building are the same. It's those few who tend to ruin it for everyone, isn't it?

And How Was Your Weekend?

It's late and I'm tired. I've had a few things to do this weekend. The picture is visual shorthand for what I'm about to share. It's not quite the equivalent of a thousand words, but it'll do.

On the right are papers. There's a stack from each of my five classes, and then there are two more sets of essay exams. That's seven sets of papers in all, 144 total. I've been working on them, but I haven't made much of a dent yet. This is the first out-of-class assignment from each class, and I need to get through them before the next set arrives.

The left side has three of the weekend's other tasks. Of course, I have to do reading to prepare for next week's classes. Four of the books are textbooks for my classes. It's going to take a bit of time to read the stories and poems and chapters. I'm about halfway through what I need to finish, but Long Day's Journey into Night (for Tuesday's American literature class) is going to be time-consuming. The rest will be a breeze by comparison. I suppose I could just pop in one of the DVDs I own of the play, but that feels like cheating.

On the very top of that stack are two potential books for the developmental writing classes I'm teaching in the spring. That's right. Textbook orders are due; they have to be turned in by Wednesday. We had almost a week and a half to choose this time. I have to pick a new reader for the developmental classes because all of the ones that I've used before are out of print. Not many publishers have textbooks for that level, so the process gets tougher each time. A couple of really good textbooks, ones that students respond to very well, are no longer available, so I am on a quest for a new book. At least, that's the only class for which I'll have to find a new book, thankfully.

At the bottom of the stack but the first task I need to complete tomorrow is a set of materials for an upcoming accreditation site visit. Yes, I'm on another team evaluating another community college. Another winter in a summer town, as the song goes. This one's in Northern California, near Sacramento, apparently, and I leave next Sunday. Monday morning is the deadline for two reports. First thing tomorrow I have to get those completed, so I can e-mail them when I get to the office early Monday morning.

Behind all of this is the briefcase I use for work. I thought you might want a sense of scale and/or proportion.

So I hope you've had a more relaxing weekend. I'm almost at my wit's end.

"Here I Go Again. My My"

Against the advice of wiser friends, I finally succumbed to a screening of Mamma Mia! No, I didn't go to the sing-along version. Why should I be the one singing after paying money for the ticket? Isn't that what the professionals are there for? Instead, I went to one of the second-run places and paid only about six dollars or so to watch what almost everyone else has already seen.

And now I'm feeling a bit depressed. It isn't that the film is bad (although it certainly isn't good). I mean, I do like the ABBA songs and all, and they seem to fit the storyline much more smoothly than I would have ever imagined. There are even some scenes that border on the truly exceptional, such as Meryl Streep's singing of "The Winner Takes It All." And I do love the musical performances after the ending of the narrative but before the full credits start to roll. If you go, you should stay to see them.

No, what's got me feeling down is seeing yet another Hollywood fantasy and realizing, yet again, how much of a gap exists between it and reality, at least in my case. Of course, movies shouldn't have as much of an impact on our emotions, but they do. We are heavily influenced by these ideas of romance, so much so that many people start to live their lives according to what the movies say about love and devotion and romance and reunions and such. If it's not like they see in the movies, then it must not be love, I suppose.

The plot of Mamma Mia! is simple enough. A young woman who's about to be married writes letters to three men who may be her father. Her mother had romantic evenings with each of them at about the same time, so any one of them could be the father. They all show up together, of course, and much confusion and singing and dancing and overacting occurs. The ending, naturally, has to be happy, and that's perhaps what gets to me the most.

I don't need a lot of sympathy here, and I hope you don't feel that's where I'm headed with this. But I've had dates cancelled on me the past two weekends by the same guy. Last weekend it was the day before we were supposed to meet for dinner. This weekend it was the day--the very day--that we had planned to meet. I do understand that crises arise, and he has been dealing with his mother's health issues of late. She's had to be hospitalized. I'm not so self-centered to think that he should be paying more attention to me than to his ailing mother, so please don't misunderstand. I would do the same thing if I were in his situation.

Here's my dilemma. This is the best I have going for me at the moment: a guy I can't even meet for dinner. There's nothing else on the horizon, and there hasn't been anything on the horizon for quite a long time, frankly. I haven't any old flames--particularly, not three of them--who are likely to show up any time soon. I have friends, sure, and I do love them, but they aren't quite the same as a romance. Maybe I just need to stay away from romantic movies or romantic comedies or lighthearted musicals for a while. I'm still, perhaps foolishly, waiting for a happy ending, and it seems like that's unlikely to occur at this rate.

A friend of mine told me this week that his company has decided to relocate its headquarters to Indianapolis. This is just after he bought a house near where he works. So he faces the prospects of having to sell his new home and relocate from southern California, which he loves, to the Midwest. He told me that he isn't unhappy about his job or his life, but he wishes he were happy about something. I know what he means. I've been feeling like I'm somewhere in the middle of late myself. I'm not unhappy, particularly, but I've known much happier times than this as well.

Yes, I realize that there's nothing wrong with living by yourself. Some of us have gotten used to it, perhaps too much so. However, there's also nothing wrong with finding someone to live life with you either. Another friend of mine suggested to me a few years ago that perhaps I was too anxious about finding someone, that maybe that was stifling my efforts. He said that I should just concentrate on other aspects of life, and the romance would happen when it's supposed to happen. I'm not sure that I agree. I just don't know how I'm supposed to forget that I'm single when even a mediocre film like Mamma Mia! can remind me of it so vividly.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...

This afternoon I went to the Westside Pavillion to see The Duchess (more on that later, perhaps). It's playing at the Landmark Theaters, and they've become one of my favorite venues, what with the reserved seating and all.

On my way to the movie theater, however, I happened to walk through the Macy's store. On display, already, were Christmas items. Yes, dishes and such with poinsettias and other holiday motifs. And some striped peppermint candy. Christmas stuff. Already.

Today is September 28. That's almost three full months before Christmas. Why are we already thinking about this holiday? We still have Halloween and Thanksgiving (and Veterans Day) before us, and I'm not even concentrating on them yet. Is the economy in such dire straits that the stores are pinning their hopes on Christmas even earlier this year?

Is anyone ready for Christmas shopping? It's been 90+ degrees many days this past week. The sun has been blazing down. We're supposed to be thinking of snow and Christmas trees? I guess I'll have to start listening to "White Christmas" even earlier than usual.

Blue Eyes

Consider this (partial) list:

• The Long, Hot Summer
• Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
• The Hustler
• Hud
• Sweet Bird of Youth
• Harper
• Cool Hand Luke
• Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
• The Sting
• The Towering Inferno
• Slap Shot
• Absence of Malice
• The Verdict
• The Color of Money
• The Hudsucker Proxy
• Nobody's Fool
• The Road to Perdition

You could add half a dozen more films to that list and then perhaps begin to understand why the loss of Paul Newman is so great. And then factor in those blue eyes and that smooth chest, and you'll remember what a real sex symbol should look like. How odd that Cinemax was playing Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid early this morning, and I taped it for The Oscar Project. It must have been on at almost the same time that the newspapers announcing Newman's death at age 83 were landing on the doorsteps of the residents of Los Angeles. (Yes, I know hardly anyone reads newspapers any more, but some of us still do.) I don't know now if I am quite ready to watch it yet.

How sad to wake up and discover that one of the best actors of his era is no longer with us. I know he hadn't really taken on many roles in recent years, save for the TV drama Empire Falls, but even hearing his voice in the animated film Cars made me feel nostalgic for the days when he could command your attention with just one of those sly smiles of his. I could sense him smiling almost all the way through that voice performance.

I have a couple of favorite performances of Paul Newman's. One of his best is in the film version of Tennessee Williams' Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Clad only in pajamas for much of the film and playing opposite Elizabeth Taylor in a slip, Newman manages to bring to the surface what the Production Code wouldn't allow: the repressed feelings his character Brick feels for his boyhood friend. It would certainly be a different film if it were made today, but Newman lets us all in on the secret. My other favorite is one that I've not seen in a long time. In The Verdict, Newman plays a lawyer who's obviously past his prime in the courtroom but who takes on what seems like an unwinnable malpractice case against the Catholic Church and its hospitals. It's a stunner of a performance, particularly when you see how Newman has changed over the years, older but still handsome.

Interestingly, both of those roles called for him to portray an alcoholic, but he gravitated toward portrayals of complicated men throughout his career. There's also the cowhand in Hud and the title convict in Cool Hand Luke and the architect of the title building of The Towering Inferno and the hockey player-turned-coach in Slap Shot and the con man (reunited with his buddy, Robert Redford) in The Sting and, of course, Fast Eddie in The Hustler and The Color of Money. Very few actors have brought so many indelible performances to life. Perhaps he was trying to keep the attention averted from his good looks by taking on so many "outsider" parts. By playing against the type that his features would have demanded--romantic leading man--instead he became anti-heroes, men you looked up to even though you shouldn't. It was through Newman's talent that we saw the good in these men. Today's generation should take a lesson. Learn your craft, and apply it well. That's the legacy Newman leaves behind him.

Time's Winged Chariot

I went to the box office today to get tickets to our college's production of Romeo and Juliet. (It's apparently set in modern-day Afghanistan, so I'm curious to see it.) The tickets are free, of course, because I'm a faculty member, but I happened to glance at the prices while I waiting in line. Reasonable, I think, only about $12-$15 or so per person. It is, after all, a college production even though our college has a reputation for the quality of its theatrical offerings. Some are much better than professional performances I've seen.

But back to the ticket prices...

I happened to notice that seniors get a discounted rate. That's no surprise, really. Lots of places offer senior discounts. It was the age that's considered "senior" that caught me off guard: 55. Even that doesn't seem all that unreasonable. I think that's probably about the age that most senior discounts begin.

What caught me off guard was how close I am to being eligible for the senior discount: 10 years now, one decade. Yes, I know I will still be getting tickets there for free. That's not my point. I can't believe that time is going by so quickly. I've fully adjusted to the notion that I'm middle-aged. That doesn't even bother me all that much. However, the thought of being considered a senior? I'm going to need more than a decade to get ready for that.

Of course, my friends who are already above the age of 55 are probably going to be merciless about this, and they probably should be. But I'd venture that even they drew themselves up short a bit when they first realized they were considered "seniors." And it had to be a bit of a shock when they realized that they were getting close to that particular designation.

I'm not saying that it's bad to reach that milestone. It's going to happen whether I like it or not. That's not even an issue for me. I am a pragmatist about growing older. It isn't as if I'm Dorian Gray or even Benjamin Button. I just wish it could slow down just a little bit. That's all. And that I could stop having these moments of startling clarity or, at least, stop having them so often these days.

When I Grow Up...

maybe I'll finally be smart enough to understand why "Cracklin' Rosie" is "a store-bought woman."

To back up a bit, let me share with you what I'm doing this semester for entertainment. I've been bringing my iPod to campus each day, and I listen to it whenever I'm in my office. I know that doesn't sound unusual so far, but I decided before the semester began that I was going to listen to all of the songs in alphabetical order. I just got to the D's today, so you can tell that I've had quite a few songs in the early letters of the alphabet. (Classes started five weeks ago.)

There are always unexpected surprises when you take what should be an orderly approach to a project like this. For example, you might be listening to a couple of pop songs from the 1970s when, suddenly, a contemporary country song will begin. Or perhaps a rockabilly tune from the 1950s. Or maybe a quasi-orchestral piece. Or avante garde rock. You never know. You may go from Sergio Mendes and Brasil '66 to Madonna to the Runaways to Billy Joe Royal (and I did). It's not quite like a Shuffle because it isn't random. Not at all. It's actually quite rigid when you think about it. Yet the same sort of delightful juxtaposition as you find with a Shuffle is happening.

I'm also finding out some very interesting trends. I have a lot of versions of some songs. I have two versions of "After the Gold Rush," both of them exquisite (k.d. lang on one; Dolly, Linda, and Emmylou on the other). I have a country version of "Almost Persuaded" (David Houston) and a blues/soul version (Etta James). I have three versions of "Cry Me a River." Yes, one of them is the Julie London version. I also have three different versions of "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?"--a fact of which I am not particularly proud. The champion, so far, is "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered." Five versions, all different artists: Barbra Streisand and Rufus Wainwright, my two favorites, among them.

There's also the intriguing phenomenom of different songs with the same title. An obvious one would be "Crazy in Love." Perhaps you know the one by Beyonce (with an assist by Jay-Z). However, I also have the earlier country song with the same title sung by Conway Twitty. That's quite the interesting pairing. And I have four--yes, four--different songs--yes, all of them different--entitled "Call Me." Of course, one of them is the Blondie song.

So, earlier today, Neil Diamond showed up singing "Cracklin' Rosie," and I heard again a line that has puzzled me over the years, the one where he tells her that she's "a store-bought woman." My friend C says that it suggests that she is upper class, a better sort of "product" than she might be if she were "homemade." I can see that, but it would sort of depend upon your attitude about "store-bought" versus "homemade," wouldn't it? Store-bought clothes would be preferable to the alternative, but homemade cooking always seems better to me. I'm still puzzling over that one, and I'm sure there are many more puzzles to come.

A New Administration

Apparently, the ability to see Russia from one's home state qualifies a person to be the next Vice President of the United States. With that frame of reference, the Stephanie Miller Show this morning asked people to determine future cabinet posts and other appointments based upon what they can see. There were lots of good, funny answers, but some of my friends felt like contributing to a new administration in ways that draw upon our experiences as well. We just want to help.

My friend C is building a home on an island in Washington State. From that location, she can see Canada. She's a shoo-in for the head of the Immigration and Naturalization Service, don't you think? I mean, she's already fluent in Canadian and everything.

My friend S ordered seafood paella the other night when we out to dinner. I think that qualifies him to be the head of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Services. I doubt he's ever had a mooseburger, but he's pretty open to trying new stuff. I would say he's "game" for a challenge, but that's pushing a bad pun too far, isn't it?

My friend N is spending the semester teaching in Italy, so technically, I guess she's already the ambassador to that country. But with such vast international experience, she's an obvious pick to be the new Secretary of State.

My student facilitator this year has watched TV and, when he still had a truck, often listened to music on the radio. Sounds like a good fit for the head of the FCC.

I myself own a pair of camouflage shorts. In fact, they are clearly visible on top of the dresser in my bedroom. I'm thinking I must be ready to be either the Secretary of the Army or, better still, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Are we as a country seriously going to accept these kinds of answers as legitimate? Aren't we going to question the qualifications of someone who thinks that mere proximity counts as experience and/or knowledge? Especially if the nonsense keeps getting repeated as if it were a significant accomplishment? Look, I live in Southern California. I'm not all that far from the border with Mexico; I've even been to Tijuana a couple of times, and I've drunk my fair share of tequila. However, I would never try to pass myself off as some sort of international expert on, say, immigration policy. And I would expect that someone would point that out as fraudulent if I did.

Yep. Still Southern.

I went to dinner with a friend the other night, and after I placed my order, the waiter asked, "Where are you from?" I get that question a lot. The first two days of classes this fall had me answering that question at least five times from students (five classes, five times). I always tell them a little bit about myself on the first day, but that's the one detail they have to know first. Sometimes, I don't even get through the discussion of the course requirements before someone raises a hand to ask.

Whenever I'm introduced to someone new, the subject comes up. New faculty, new staff members, new managers, a friend of a friend--you name it. And sometimes salespeople can't help but ask. I don't usually talk that much when I'm buying a pair of jeans, but even those few words are often enough to "arouse suspicion." I suppose there is still something unusual or "exotic" about people with regional dialects. Everyone tries to guess your birthplace--most of them incorrectly thinking Texas--as if to clearly indicate to you that you're an outsider. You're definitely not native to California.

I realize that I have a strong accent. I was raised in Mississippi, after all, and lived there the first 27 years of my life. I never tried, after moving here, to get rid of the accent. I know several people who have, thinking that they have to sound like they are from "nowhere" in order to fit in better. I always assumed I wouldn't fit in for one reason or another, so why not let it be for the accent instead of something else? (And, yes, I know that people think those of us with Southern accents are stupid. As comedian Jeff Foxworthy says, most folks want to deduct 100 IQ points when a Southerner opens his/her mouth. I just don't care; I seem to prefer being underestimated these days.)

I do think it has lessened or "flattened out" a bit over the years. However, if I talk to my friend B on the phone for one of our marathon sessions, it comes back pretty strongly. And you probably don't want to be the first person to talk to me after I've returned from a visit with my family. You'd need someone to translate or perhaps subtitles in order to keep track of the conversation.

There are still times I forget that I come from the South. I do think of myself as a Los Angeleno, having spent the last 18 years of my life in or near this city. I live here, I have friends here, I shop here, I eat here, I go to the movies here, I read the Los Angeles Times (though not for much longer, perhaps), and I think of it as my home. I don't have a particular desire to move back to Mississippi or Alabama, and if you asked my family, they'd tell you that I don't even like to visit. Still, whenever I start to imagine myself as having fully become a part of California, someone reminds me that isn't the case.

The question itself always reminds me of the old joke about two freshmen who meet at their university's orientation session for incoming students. One goes up to the other and introduces himself and asks, "Where are you from?" The other student, obviously taken aback, replies, "I'm from a part of the country where we don't end sentences with prepositions." The first student quickly apologizes: "I'm so sorry. Where are you from, asshole?"

Tribute

Del Martin passed away this week. Even if you don't recall the name, you'll no doubt have seen the iconic image above of her marrying her partner of more than 50 years, Phyllis Lyon, in June, the first gay couple to be legally married in San Francisco and one of the first gay couples to be legally married after an historic California Supreme Court decision earlier this spring. Del, who is on the left in the picture above, died at the age of 87. I have seen very little news coverage of her passing, perhaps due to the Democratic National Convention and the announcement of someone's odd choice of running mate. However, I do think she deserves a bit of our attention for what she managed to achieve in a very full life.

Del and Phyllis first met in 1950 and became lovers two years later. Their relationship lasted 56 years in all, a clear testament to the ability of lesbian and gay couples to maintain long-term relationships. They were both long-time activists, having founded one of the first organizations for lesbians in the country, the Daughters of Bilitis, as well as the Alice B. Tolkias Democratic Club. Del was also the first open lesbian elected to the National Organization for Women. And they were both strong advocates for the rights of gay couples to marry, a dream they came close to achieving several times. In fact, Phyllis wrote after a marriage license issued in 2004 had been voided that at their age, she and Del did not "have the luxury of time." How fitting then that they were finally able to spend their last two months together as legal spouses. Pioneers in the truest sense.

San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom, one of my new heroes in the straight world, ordered the city's flags flown at half staff in Del's honor this week. An even more fitting tribute would be the defeat of Proposition 8, the ballot initiative that would repeal the right of gay and lesbian couples to marry legally in the state of California. In honor of Del and Phyllis and all that they accomplished, and in memory of Del and her achievements, please vote against discrimination this November.

Visiting a Revisited Brideshead Revisited

Brideshead Revisited, the new version, is a beautiful movie. It's very evocative of the time period in England "between the wars." The costumes are remarkable, some of the most glorious clothing on screen these days; I expect we might have another revival of that style of dress thanks to this film. The settings are also gorgeous. The filmmakers make the most of the scenery at Castle Howard, which stands in for the Brideshead of the title, and of the grounds at Oxford, where our lead character, Charles Ryder, meets the first of several members of the Flyte family. This seems to be one of those films destined to win the Oscars for design, or at least be nominated for them.

The story is familiar to anyone who's read the Evelyn Waugh novel (I have, a couple of times) and/or who's seen the 1981 miniseries starring a very young Jeremy Irons and Anthony Andrews (I did, back in Mississippi originally, and I now own the DVD). Ryder becomes enamored of Sebastian Flyte and eventually meets other members of his repressive and repressed family, a very Catholic bunch altogether, filled with all of the guilt that their faith prescribes for such things as homosexuality and adultery. It's quite clear to any reader of the book or any viewer of the miniseries that Charles and Sebastian are in love, particularly on the part of Sebastian, and this new version makes it even clearer in case you are unable to discern for yourself why Sebastian is always hanging out with what one character calls "sodomites" in his rooms at Oxford.

The romance involving Charles and Sebastian is handled rather delicately here, as is the relationship between Charles and Sebastian's sister Julia. Of course, Charles and Sebastian get one onscreen kiss, while Charles and Julia are depicted having sex onscreen. (Yes, I realize that Waugh's book is only suggestive about all of this, but if you're going to go beyond mere suggestion, you should do so equally.) I think most viewers still would want Charles to end up with Sebastian rather than Julia, only because it seems that the deeper emotional resonance is with the relationship between the two men. Some viewers might, however, think that the great love of Charles' life is the home itself, so often does he mention its beauty in this new version.

Emma Thompson and Michael Gambon, as Lady and Lord Marchmain, respectively, have what really amounts to cameo roles here. Thompson appears three times, if I recall correctly, and each time is so fleeting. Gambon is only on screen while the three lovers are in Venice, a sequence in the film that lasts only minutes. Both do what they can with the brief time they have, but I feel their enormous talents are somewhat wasted here in such small parts. It's a testament to their skills as actors that I wanted to see them more.

The lead performers are all talented as well. Matthew Goode is a handsome Charles Ryder, but he does look so much like Jeremy Irons did in the TV version that it's a bit eerie. Hayley Atwell is a beautiful Julia. And the standout, for me, is Ben Whishaw as Sebastian; you can sense just how conflicted his character is, what with his obvious feelings for Charles and his mother's stern Catholic fervor competing for his soul. He's perhaps a bit too petulant for most people's tastes, but I think that is in keeping with the character description that Waugh provided.

After watching this film, I have to admit that I was entertained, certainly. I just don't quite see the point in making another film version of this novel. What was wrong with the miniseries? It was almost the perfect adaptation of what Waugh tried to accomplish. And you can't go wrong with any of the performances from the 1981 edition either. You have Laurence Olivier as Lord Marchmain, after all. Did the filmmakers think that we just needed a shorter, an abridged version of the same story, just the outline of events rather than the fully realized details? Did they think that the earlier version was just too long and spectacular looking? They even used the same home to represent Brideshead as the earlier version did. I suppose I couldn't fault them if we'd never seen anyone else tackle this book or if someone else had attempted it and failed miserably. But who was looking around and felt that we didn't already have the definitive take on this classic novel? It isn't as if we can't just rewatch the miniseries on DVD and make the inevitable comparisons. Why subject yourself to that? Find something new or make something original instead. There are other stories to tell.

Wunderkind

The highlight of this past week was going to the Jamie Cullum concert at the Hollywood Bowl with T and N. Although it probably wasn't the best idea to go on a "school night" during the first week of the fall semester, particularly since the show didn't end until almost 11 p.m. and we all had to be up early the next morning, I had a great time and I think T and N did also. T goes to the Hollywood Bowl each summer, and she invited N and me to join her for some of the shows. I was the one who suggested Cullum's show for the three of us.

Cullum is only 29 years old, but he's already an "old hand" at live performing. His musical style is a mixture of jazz and pop, and he's a skilled piano player and an enchanting vocalist. He was playing with the legendary Count Basie Orchestra, and they were in fine form on Wednesday night (despite the bandleader claiming that he'd had a bit too much to drink before the show started). Cullum relished every minute of playing with these pros, and he even did some of his trademark jumps while playing the piano.

Cullum sang several songs that have become associated with him over the years, including a great rendition of Radiohead's "High and Dry." He also delighted the crowd at the end of the show with a version of "Twentysomething," a great song that he says he can only sing for another year before he has to give it up. I also liked "Blame It on My Youth"; it has some incredible lyrics about the ways that we feel when a relationship might be over.

My favorite moment of the night, however, started when Cullum, alone with the piano, started playing "Singin' in the Rain." He even tapped out some of the rhythms on his piano, duplicating (in a way) the sound of someone tap dancing. The best part, though, came when he started singing the lines to a different song. After a couple of lines, we all realized that he had segued into a version of Rihanna's "Umbrella," a somewhat different song about rain. The combination of the songs was fresh and inventive, and I had to smile all the way through the medley. It got pretty big applause from an already appreciative crowd. Perhaps you wouldn't expect Rihanna's song to sound as good without the thumping beat behind it, but it holds its own well.

Cullum has a pretty keen sense of humor as well. In his singing of "I Get a Kick Out of You," he substituted "McCain" for "cocaine," as in "Some get a kick from cocaine/I know that if/I took even one sniff/It would bore me terrifically too." Imagine the reaction that his substitution got from a Hollywood Bowl audience.

There were two opening acts, both of them good in their own ways, but I would have preferred shorter sets by them so that Cullum could have had more stage time. He was really the highlight. The first performer, Elizabeth Shepherd, a Canadian singer-musician, was good in a sort of Joni Mitchell-esque way. Not that she was as good as Joni Mitchell, but she has that sort of vocal quality. She is also an exceptional pianist. The second act was A Christian McBride Situation, an improvisational jazz group featuring the aforementioned McBride and Patrice Rushen (she of the great dance song "Forget Me Nots"), among some other very talented musicians and singers. Let me just state the improvisational jazz is not really my favorite style, and leave it at that.

McBride did come back later to duet with Cullum on an amazing rendition of "Nature Boy," the Bowie song last heard in Moulin Rouge! McBride plays the bass beautifully, and Cullum matched him in enthusiasm during the song. It was another one of the bright spots of the evening. They sang it in honor of Cullum's birthday on Wednesday. I'm glad we were there to share in his day; it was a treat for us as well.

How May I Direct Your Call?

We have a new telephone system at work. It went "live" last Friday, and most of us showed up for work on Monday to a system that now runs through the Internet connection somehow. It's called VOIP or some such nonsense, so if you're a technie, I guess you can appreciate how advanced our campus is now. (More likely, you're laughing that we actually bought what is probably already outdated technology, but that can remain your little secret.) All I know is the cable that connects the phone to my computer is too short, so the new phone has to sit right next to my computer. I've had to rearrange my desk because of this phone.

We had been warned for much of the spring semester that we would be getting the new system, so this isn't exactly a surprise. However, the date was always a bit fuzzy. Turns out the optimum time to change an entire phone system is the week before the fall semester begins. Nothing much going on that week in preparation for the 20,000 students arriving on Monday, I guess. Tomorrow's the first "official" day of work for all of us, so I can imagine a lot of surprised people coming into their offices and finding that the system they're comfortable with is now gone.

(This follows on the heels of our regular "update your computer login password" message, for which you have to be on campus. Anyone not on campus during summer school is probably unaware that you won't be able to log on to the system until your account has been reset. Shame on you for not being here in the middle of July when everyone was "told" that you'd need a new password. You had 14 days then to come up with a new password. You shoulda been here then.)

The new phones themselves showed up last week. I came into my office one day (Wednesday? I think it was...) to find two phones sitting beside my computer: the old one and a new one. The new one looks rather hi-tech and intimidating. It has buttons on it that make no sense to me yet. (Some of them are called "soft buttons," according to an e-mail we received. I hate to imagine which ones are the "hard buttons" and why they're "hard.") We're supposed to have training sessions to learn how to use these newfangled machines, but the training isn't scheduled until the second week of classes--just a couple of days before the Labor Day Weekend, to be exact, and almost three weeks after we got the new phones. One of the training sessions is even scheduled for the Friday before Labor Day. Good luck finding anyone on campus that day. So for the first couple of weeks of the semester, we're on our own with the new phones.

That's a problem. I do have to use the new phone before I can receive any "formal" training on it. Yes, "they" did send out a one-page set of instructions, but those aren't incredibly helpful, being mere bullet points on some incredibly simple tasks such as answering your phone. (I find it amusing that at a college campus we had to have instructions on how to pick up a receiver. That's the first instruction: "Lift the handset." Sigh.) I think I may have set up my new password and I have changed my message for incoming calls, but I'm almost afraid to call the number to find out.

Speaking of numbers, that's probably the best part of the new system. Everyone has a new phone number. Everyone. The entire campus. You're probably thinking that can't be too bad. After all, we all have to learn new numbers for everyone, so it's pretty equal. And it's only several thousand phone numbers, right? However, our campus decided to add a clever wrinkle to the mix. We aren't all actually getting new numbers. Some are, certainly, but most of us are just getting a number that used to belong to someone else. I, for example, have a number that once belonged to a classified staff member in the Music Department. My old number is now in the hands of one of the theater professors. And this is true for almost every number on campus. Instead of having one or perhaps two people be inconvenienced for a week or so putting everyone's existing extensions into the system, the Powers That Be (The Phone Gods?) decided instead just to reassign the numbers we already had, creating a massive number of links across the campus. That way everyone can share in the misery.

How bad could that be, you ask? Well, perhaps you could ask the dean who has spent much of the week responding to calls about veteran's benefits (not at all one of the areas in her job description). Or talk to the vice president who's been fielding calls for financial aid (also not one of the areas in her job description). Or better yet, ask the folks in the campus security department, who spent much of the first couple of days answering calls from students who were having trouble registering for their classes. It seems that the new emergency number for the security department used to be the helpline number for registration problems. That must have been a fun time; they had to shut the number down because it was interfering with actual emergencies. And on and on and on.

We've all been asked to help out. In fact, we've been asked to "please inform the caller of the new extension for the person they are calling" if someone attempts to use a number that has been assigned to someone else for, oh, say, 13 years already (like me). So in addition to my usual duties as teacher and advisor and mentor, I have to add receptionist or switchboard operator. This would, of course, necessitate each one of us knowing whose old number we have, a piece of knowledge I expect very few on campus to obtain. We've also been asked to forward or transfer or whatever the appropriate lingo is nowadays all calls that come to us mistakenly. Did I also mention earlier that we're not going to be trained on these functions until the end of the second week of the semester?

You might have also noted earlier that I said I came back to my office to find two phones sitting beside my computer. That's not a mistake. Each of us is also expected to disconnect our old phones--imagine how much furniture moving that might necessitatein some offices--and put it in a box in our hallway marked for the old phones. At some point, someone is supposed to come by and pick all of them up. I've actually toyed with the idea of taking all of the boxes of phones in the hallways across campus and dumping them in the courtyard of the new classroom/office building as an art installation for tomorrow's convocation. Sort of a monument to ineptitude.

The box for our hallway, by the way, is outside the door to my office. It's already filling up. And no one has yet picked up any of the boxes scattered in hallways in every building across campus. The image above is what we had in the hallway outside the department office.

One more little note. Because the phones are directly connected to our computers and our campus system, each time someone calls, we get a wav message. I don't really need more stuff in my e-mail file, frankly, but that's where all of the missed call messages are going to show up. I suppose some people are so plugged into the world that they want to know all of the calls they've missed, but I don't care. If someone calls when I'm not in the office, they can leave a message or call again another time. I don't need a record of each and every one that I've missed showing up among all of the dozens of e-mails that I already get each day.

This summer, my honors class read Lynne Truss' Talk to the Hand, a book about the rudeness that has become epidemic in society today. One of her chapters is entitled "Why Am I the One Doing This?" In it, she talks about how so much of what used to be considered customer service is now provided by the customer, not the business. Want to activate your new credit card? Punch in dozens of numbers; you won't be getting a person on the phone any longer who will take your information down. Want some help in a store finding an item? Good luck in some stores locating anyone who can help. You can just serve yourself.

I've been asking myself Truss' question since we started this nonsense with the phone system. Why am I the one who has to change my number? Why do I have to get new business cards with a different number on them? Why do I have to notify former students and my family and my doctor and dentist and outside organizations that my number has changed? Why do I have to program my own phone? Why do I have to transfer calls to someone else who had this number just a bit more than a week ago? Why do I have to unplug my old phone myself and put it in the box? Why am I going to have to look at and then delete all of the e-mails telling me that I missed telephone calls? Why, indeed, am I the one doing this?

Yeah, I know it will all settle down at some point. We'll all learn the new system. Eventually, almost all of the people who need my "new" number will have it. And we'll get to the stage where we can all use the phones with some measure of proficiency. However, it's four days until we start the fall semester, and I still don't know how to retrieve messages. It's not that I've received any--at least, I don't think I have--but then again, who knows my new number anyway? I still don't know how to transfer calls if I have any for someone else. I haven't seen the theater professor to explain to him that he might be getting dozens of calls from gay and lesbian students who want to know about the club for which I am the advisor. I'm tired of looking at a big cardboard box of old phones in the hallway. I want to know who's responsible for this nonsense so that he/she/they can be the subject of public ridicule. I guess I have to settle for this rant for now.

Flashback

I've been listening to Elton John's Greatest Hits 1970-2002 in the car lately (along with CDs of Elvis music and a couple of others). While driving home from the movies this afternoon (The Dark Knight, finally, now that the crowds have died down), his duet with Kiki Dee came on. You know, "Don't Go Breaking My Heart." That song was a huge hit in 1976, particularly during the summer that I turned 13. I was listening to the song and had the most vivid memory. Isn't it amazing how much one song can summon forth from your past?

Each summer the County Extension Service, which oversaw (perhaps still oversees) the 4-H program, took a couple of busloads of kids to the Mid-South Fair in Memphis. I went two or three years in a row; I don't recall the exact number, but I do know one of them was in 1976. The Mid-South Fair is enormous--well, at least, it was. I haven't been in a long time, naturally, so I can't vouch for its size nowadays. It featured all of the usual exhibits you might expect from a fair and all of the food and all of the rides and all of the performers. Sometimes we would buy tickets to see whatever singer it was that was headlining at the rodeo that year. If I recall correctly, that's where I saw Mel Tillis perform. Hey, it is the South, after all, and who are you to judge?

No, we didn't see Elton John at the Mid-South Fair. He would have been pretty popular at the time, and the fair circuit, particularly in the South, wouldn't have been his ideal audience, anyway. We just heard him and Kiki. A lot. Everywhere, actually. If you've been to one of these kinds of fairs, you know that there's always music playing at the rides. And this song was so huge, it was playing at every ride. Every one of them. No, not over and over like it was on an endless loop, but it was repeated quite often on each ride. I suppose it's a way of attracting people to the ride. I can't imagine why else they would play contemporary music if not to get the crowd in the right upbeat mood.

So as I'm driving today, I had the clear image in my head of watching one of the rides spinning so fast you can barely recognize there are people on board. There's dust, of course, because the fairgrounds are always just large patches of earth, aren't they? The sun was out, and it was one of those glorious days that you can really only experience in Southern states. I'm sure it was humid, but I was 13 and such things didn't really affect me as much then. The smell of cotton candy and corn on the cob, both staples of fairs in the South, were just as clear today as they were 32 years ago. And it would have been on a Saturday, too, as I recall.

I always had friends from school to hang out with on those trips. Four or five of us would spend almost the entire day going from ride to ride, eating way too much food that isn't good for you, trying to win a prize at those carnival games no one ever really seems to master, going to the exhibits now and then to see the cows and hogs and what not, and even spending some time at the rodeo. And we'd usually try to do some things that only one or two of us wanted to do. I myself could never pass by one of those booths advertising "The World's Smallest Horse" or "The World's Biggest Alligator." I'm a sucker for such nonsense. (Someday, perhaps, I'll write a post about spending good money to see "The Devil Chicken.") We'd climb back on the bus at the end of the day, and on our trip home, a few couples would try to make out in the back of the bus. Surprisingly, they never seemed to get very far, probably due to the dozens of pairs of eyes watching them all the time. (Hey, we were 13 or so, after all.) Our families would be there waiting for us when we got back to the park where we'd started our journey early that morning, and we'd go home exhausted and fall asleep.

I haven't thought about those days at the Mid-South Fair in decades. I can't really believe how powerfully evocative that one song was this afternoon. I must have heard it hundreds of times since its initial release in 1976, but it never brought back such strong memories for me until today. I don't think I still have any souvenirs from those trips and, sadly, I don't have any pictures either--I wish I did--but I guess if Elton and Kiki can make me remember the details this well, maybe I don't need pictures. Maybe the song itself is my souvenir.

Picture It

Picture it. Mississippi. 1985. A country boy turns on his television set in the living room to watch a comedy about four "women of a certain age" in Miami. It's Saturday night, and he's recently started his first real job after graduating (for the first time, at least) from college, having moved from the country to a "big town" (about 17,000 people, but it is Mississippi, after all). The show begins with three of the women already living together in the same house. One of them, Blanche, is getting ready for a date. The other two, Dorothy and Rose, are listening to Blanche talk about her new beau (a word we don't use much any more). The doorbell rings, and everyone assumes that it's the man. Instead, it's a tiny grey-haired woman with a wicker purse. Sophia, Dorothy's mother, has come to stay with her daughter because "the home" has burned down. Sophia has had a stroke that has damaged her ability to censor what she says. When she meets Blanche's date, he says to her that she must be Blanche's sister. Sophia's response: "You must be blind." After he and Blanche leave, Sophia calls him a "scuzzball." And so begins the first episode of The Golden Girls--the way I remember it anyway.

I have watched all of the episodes of this show. I even own a couple of seasons on DVD. I loved the humor that these women displayed. All of them were talented, perfectly cast for the parts that they acted. Rue McClanahan was a quintessential Southern belle, all frills and flirtatiousness. Betty White was always good for a laugh as the innocent Midwesterner with stories of her days in St. Olaf. Bea Arthur had the sass of a New Yorker down to a tee and could make a man--or anyone--wither with just a look. And then there was Estelle Getty. As Sophia, she was a mix of Old World charm, what with her stories about Sicily, and New World realism.

Estelle Getty passed away today. All of the tributes from her castmates on the show mentioned how grateful we should be that we still have the show to remember her. I don't even know that I need to watch any episodes to recall some of my favorite moments. Sophia battling Blanche for the affections of a handsome, older Cuban gentleman, responding to Blanche's announcement that she's going to soak in a tub with just enough water to cover her "perky bosoms" by saying, "You're only gonna sit in an inch of water?" Sophia telling Dorothy about how she and Dorothy's father conceived her at a festival "right behind the sausage and peppers stand." Sophia thinking that she's died and gone to heaven when she's really just injured and lying in a bed in a hospital elevator, suffering from a hernia thanks to having helped a group of older women lift a Volkswagon as part of a practical joke although she has blamed Dorothy for making her move furniture. When Dorothy tries to apologize, Sophia says, "Oh, please. It's wicker." In fact, wicker had quite a place on that show besides the purse that was always at Sophia's side, no matter the outfit. I loved one time when she stood in the middle of the living room and announced, "Enough wicker." Partner At The Time and I used to recite that line every time we went to Ikea and wandered through "that area" of the store. Priceless. Maybe not that funny, but still priceless.

Estelle Getty had been sick for some time, suffering from dementia. She hadn't made public appearances in years, not even when the cast was reunited a couple of times for those specials on Lifetime or the recent TV Land Awards show. It's as if she had the gift of Sophia to give us and then, having accomplished that special feat of generosity, she slowly drifted away from us. I know I've probably been writing too much about these losses we're experiencing in the entertainment business, but I'm not sure where to put the sadness that I feel when someone who has given so many pleasant memories is no longer here. I miss her even if I never met her in person. I really only know her as this character, but I'm still grateful to her for all of the moments that she allowed us to have.

Whenever Sophia told a story, she always began it: "Picture it. Sicily. 1942." The year would change, of course, and once or twice the location, but the lead-in was always the same. So if you were a fan of The Golden Girls and you too treasure the chances for laughter that we were given years ago, picture your favorite involving Estelle Getty. I think that's a fitting tribute.