blue girl

Special Edition: The Apologies

At the press conference yesterday where Terri Schiavo's brother was speaking, he apologized. Not sure exactly what he was apologizing for and who he was apologizing to.

Also, on Joe Scarborough last night, after he compared Terri's passing to that of John Lennon and Princess Diana, he also apologized, but again -- about what and to whom?

Also, why the "Special Edition" added to a broadcast that comes on at the exact same time every night?

Hopefully, this sorry situation has come to an end.

Because I Love You, Honey Bunny

You’ve got to know what kind of great, if somewhat shrewd kid I have.

Gorgeous and a little bit too smart for his own good, he’s an only child and is always included in adult conversation.  Because we’re total news junkies and pretty much debate politics non-stop, he knows when Tim Russert is pitching softballs and completely understands why I get aggravated when Imus jokes around with Rick Santorum.

We have never been what I would call strict with him regarding video games, music or movies.  He loved the movies Twister and Jurassic Park when he was 4.  He’s gone from The Backstreet Boys to rap to most recently, The Doors and Jimi Hendrix, which has opened up conversations about the 60’s and drugs. 

“Mom, did you ever puff the magic dragon?”  Yes, he loved Meet the Parents.

When he was 9 he begged me to watch Saving Private Ryan.  So, on the evening of September 10, 2001 we watched it together.  Thank God he fell asleep in the middle of the movie.  He was way too little to experience the scene where the American is begging not to be stabbed.  The next morning, as we were eating breakfast we talked about war and sacrifice and freedom.  And how lucky we were. 

That meaningful discussion turned out to be very important when later in the day we had to sit down and talk about why people would fly planes into buildings on purpose.

When Madonna kissed Brittney Spears a couple of years ago, I turned to him and asked him:  “Why do you think she just did that?”

His answer, “because her career is in the toilet.”

So, yes, I’ve got a very cool kid. 

And now he wants to plaster his bedroom walls with posters.  So, for his 13th birthday, I let him go to allposters.com and put the ones he wanted into a shopping cart.  When he was done, I looked through his choices and noticed that he had included one from Pulp Fiction. 

A huge, black and white poster of the scene where John Travolta (Vincent) and Samuel L. Jackson (Jules) are stiff-armed, pointing their guns, 3/4 angle, shooting those boys, right after eating a Kahuna burger.  (At least I think it’s that scene)

To my knowledge, he’s never seen the movie.  He knows I don’t want him to see it yet, so if he watched it at a friend’s house, he’s never admitted it.  The thought of him watching that movie flips me out.  I don’t want him to know yet that there are people with lifestyles like Eric Stoltz and Rosanna Arquette.  The rednecks in that pawnshop.  That scene?  Oh God, I don’t want to have to even get into that one at all. No. No. No.

I don’t want to explain that maybe there are people like “The Wolf.” (Are there I wonder?)

Although it would give me a great opportunity to say, “See? Quentin Tarantino is a great director, a great writer, but a terrible actor!”

But I understood the attraction to the poster. 

It brought to mind the scene where Paul Newman and Robert Redford come running out of that building at the end of Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid with guns blaring.  I loved that movie.  I also loved Bonnie and Clyde. 

I’ve always loved the bad buys.  I have a highly developed morbid side.

I said no to the poster.  He said I was treating him like a baby.  He pressed the issue.

I explained that it was just too violent.  I didn’t want him thinking something so violent was so cool. 

“But, I’ve seen the Matrix!  You’ve let me watch The Sopranos!”

“Fuhhgetaboutit!”

I did a “search” for Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid.  The poster popped up and I said he could get that one.

“I don’t want that one!  They die in the end!  It’s too sad.  And anyway, that’s violent too.  What’s the difference?”

“I don’t know.  There just is.” 

We moved on quickly to other things and I’ve thought often about what that difference is. 

Each movie poster you’ve got two guys with guns.  All bad guys, shooting at people.  I know, a poster is just a flat piece of paper covered in ink, but it portrays an image and each one has a story behind it.  You look at Vince and Jules and you see cold blooded killers.  They’re likable, but you don’t really care that much.  You look at Butch and Sundance and you see kindred spirits who never really wanted to hurt anybody.  By the end of the movie, you’ve fallen in love.

It’s Scum Bag World vs. Dreamy Nostalgia Paul Newman Robert Redford Burt Bacharach Ya Gotta Love ‘em World

I find no romance at all in Pulp Fiction. 

Although born of someone’s quirky imagination and each scene pushed to the limit, it’s too realistic. 

Vince and Jules are hit men.  Granted, smart hit men exchanging witty dialogue, but guys with a grisly job to do, that comes way too easily.  When they kill that poor guy in the back seat, do they feel bad about him dying?  Kind of, but not really.  No, they’re worried about getting the car cleaned up.  When Mia overdoses, Vince only wants to revive her to save his own behind.

Although I got a kick out of Vince and Jules, did I care when Butch killed Vince?  No, it was more about the scene “set-up” than emotional investment.  Vince in the bathroom, Butch sneeking back into his apartment to find the gun on the counter.  The pop tarts popping up.  Bang.  He’s dead.  On to next shocking scene.

Pulp Fiction was never really about any emotional connection as much as how creative they could get.  The dialogue was great.  The storylines were outrageous.  The acting was phenomenal.  It was a work of art.  But it was also pathetic. 

And besides, I’ve spent 13 years teaching my son that when they rely on cursing and sex in a movie or TV show, where it just seems out of place, the only reason they are doing it is because either the writers are too lazy or the people making the show are too focused on making money.

How then could I explain Pulp Fiction to my 13 year old?  My head hurts just thinking about it.  They say the “F” word more than 700 times and it’s right on the money each and every time.  It was great writing. 

Now onto Butch Cassidy and Sundance.  This movie was nothing but romance.  The romance of soulmates, kindred spirits who really just wanted some dough.  Clever dialogue between buddies with magical chemistry.  And the golden boys were so damned gorgeous.  Romantically lit.  Funny, smart and in the end they lose.  The bad guys lose.  Not a bad lesson for a 13 year old.  Even if you are heartbroken when it happens.

Sundance: What's your idea this time?
Butch: Bolivia.
Sundance: What's Bolivia?
Butch: Bolivia. That's a country, stupid! In Central or South America, one or the other.
Sundance: Why don't we just go to Mexico instead?
Butch: 'Cause all they got in Mexico is sweat and there's too much of that here. Look, if we'd been in business during the California Gold Rush, where would we have gone? California - right?
Sundance: Right.
Butch: So when I say Bolivia, you just think California. You wouldn't believe what they're finding in the ground down there. They're just fallin' into it. Silver mines, gold mines, tin mines, payrolls so heavy we'd strain ourselves stealin' 'em.
Sundance: (chuckling) You just keep thinkin', Butch. That's what you're good at.
Butch: Boy, I got vision, and the rest of the world wears bifocals.

In the end my son did not get the Pulp Fiction poster.  I can glamorize violence all I want, in my own way that to me is acceptable.  Bottom line:  I'd much rather him fall in love with Butch Cassidy and Sundance than the twisted ideas of Quentin Tarrantino.  My choice.  I'm the mom.  Too bad.  End of story.  Because I said so.

He did get a poster that I really get a kick out of.  It’s a photo of a skateboarder and underneath it says, “Because bones heal and chicks dig scars.”

I can just picture Sundance, with a twinkle in his eye, tipping his hat and winking at my son, saying, “you’ll get ‘em son, don’t worry, you’ll get ‘em.


View this photo

Which Team is David Brooks Really On?

Baseball as metaphor. This boy is crying out.

So, in the spirit of outward reflection, below is a revised column by David Brooks that appeared in Tuesday's New York Times.

***********

If you chanced upon the front door of Grace Church School on lower Broadway on a sunny morning in the early winter of 1968, you might have come upon a radiant boy clutching a brown paper bag that contained the newly devised and very successful talking points of the “Southern Strategy.” An especially ingenious document that helped Richard Nixon win the World Series of American elections.

That boy grew up, slightly, and in the early spring of 1986, he vowed that he would ask his girlfriend to marry him the day Congress obtained a Republican majority. Something that hadn’t happened in 40 years. Luckily for him, it didn’t happen for another eight years. But, he followed through with it, and the marriage has even endured what his wife sometimes calls his Extremistsomnia. And other times calls his Hyprocrisomnia -- his tendency to toss and turn sleeplessly after his favorite party has been exposed, yet again, for what they truly are.

And yet we are the playthings of fate and lead lives filled with strange twists, and I (for it is time to throw off the artfully constructed mask) now find myself contemplating the uncontemplatable: that I will switch my allegiance from my beloved GOP to the more meaningful, if somewhat lost, party of my adopted town. I am increasingly becoming a fan of the Democratic party. But, alas, they just can’t seem to get their shit together.

Already I feel the tug, the love that dare not speak its name. After all, look who employs me. And secretly, some friends and I went to see Fahrenheit 911. Twice.

In the midst of this spiritual crisis I have begun to ask the fundamental question. What is the nature of the loyalty that binds us to our parties? Can a party be tossed aside even though it has given you (especially during the 1970’s) some of the worst years of your life?

Certainly our loyalty to a party has everything to do with the players who happen to be on it at any given moment. Look at Ronald Reagan! He convinced even me that ketchup was a vegetable.

No, the love of a party comes in three flavors. For some people, the love of a party is like the love of one’s nation. The party is the embodiment of the place we are from, our community and volk.

If my love for the GOP is of this sort, then it is not proper that I transfer my affection to the Democrats. After all, the Democrats now control squat. Republicans run the place, so as an immigrant I am obliged to indulge myself in nostalgia, as most Republicans do.

But I am extremely concerned by something Marshall Wittman wrote on his Bull Moose blog:

“It is evident that Republican rule is not about principle, but rather raw power. With the probable collapse of social security privatization, W. will likely leave office in '09 having failed to accomplish any significant domestic reform and greatly expanding the scope of federal power along with a huge government debt. Contrast that record to Clinton who left office with balanced budgets and welfare reform.”

Egads!

For other people, the love of a party is primarily a psychopathic connection. It is a bond forged during a lifelong string of shared emotions -- the way I felt when Ronald Reagan cried, “Tear Down That Wall!” The way I suffered through the many disappointments and government shutdowns of Newt Gingrich.

If my love of the GOP is of this sort, then it would be wrong to abandon the party, for to abandon the GOP would be to abandon myself. It would be to abandon a string of formative experiences, a core of my identity. It would send me off on a life of phoniness and self-alienation.

Finally, a love for a party can be a philosophical love, a love for the Platonic ideal the party embodies. For parties not only lie, cheat and steal; they come to represent creeds, a way of living in the world. The GOP ideal is: Talk out of both sides of your mouth. Say you believe in principles. States rights, smaller government, balanced budgets. The sanctimony of marriage. But only when it gets you votes.

The Democrats ideal is: God smiles upon his bleeding hearts. The history of the Democratic party teaches that miracles happen. You can work hard and earn a living wage. You can have health insurance. Older people can depend on social security. All it takes is true leadership and keeping our priorities straight!

My own love is mostly of this third type, and I have endured this spiritual crisis because the GOP, with all their big-money donors, have come to seem less like darlings. Perhaps the young Representatives, Johnny Isakson of Georgia and John Thume of South Dakota, will rekindle the flame, but I go into each day adrift and uncertain, with an open, and sometimes bleeding heart, worried about something I once heard Woody Allen say: “Do I want to belong to any club who would have me as a member?”

***********

A Little Slice of Heaven

At Easter dinner, I heard a story that made me stop. And be still.

When my husband and I were engaged, his grandmother was dying of cancer. And two weeks before our wedding, she passed away in the dining room, set up like a hospital room, in my mother-in-law’s home.

On the evening she died, not knowing this would be her last day on earth, my husband was playing golf. And on the 18th green, he looked up and noticed that the sunset was more beautiful than he had ever seen before. Such colors. Deep gold and pale yellow. Baby blue and magenta. Aqua and emerald, melting together behind silhouettes of fall trees reaching up to the horizon, as if they were praying for strength to make it through another harsh winter.

He knew in that instant that Flo was gone.

Flo had suffered with cancer for more than 5 years. The doctor asked my mother-in-law whether she thought she could take her home.

She said yes.

The feeding tube was removed and Flo was taken to Wildthorne Lane.

When we hear that Terri Schiavo is gone, we will hear the black art of voices from blondes and brunettes, superimposed before a peacock logo. Yellow copy streaming to the left warning of higher gas prices and falling poll numbers. We might notice a typo as they break for commercial. Some spot pushing a sexy black Mercedes or a little yellow pill to make us happy.

I pray that Terri Schiavo’s family has silence in that moment to notice the magic around them. That they can block out the voices, like barking dobermans, they have let into their lives.

I hope in that moment they can stop. And be still.

FLA Woman and the Many Sides of Joe Scarborough

We’ve come to know Husband Joe, Father Joe, Bad Back Joe, and Bermuda Shorts Joe rummaging through hurricane debris.

We also know Political Analyst Joe, Lawyer Joe and Congressman Joe, too.

And I’ve actually witnessed Common Sense Joe. Maybe I’ve been brainwashed by his tagline, but I’d swear on a stack of holy bibles, that I’ve heard him say things that make sense. Whether or not I agree with them.

But not last night. The entire show was about poor Terri Schiavo. (I’m not being sarcastic here. I mean it. Poor......Terri.....Schiavo.)

After the first few guests, pontificating about this family’s personal tragedy, that has become our nation’s newest past time on steroids, Joe interviewed Michael Schiavo’s brother, Brian.

Joe immediately switched from Right Wing Republican Joe to Calm Interviewer Joe. He listened respectfully, as Brian Schiavo answered all his questions, making perfect sense each and every time.

Brian Schiavo said, (paraphrasing, going from memory here because transcript is not up yet) “....Michael just does not get what is so hard to understand about this being Terri’s wish. Terri was his wife, his friend. They had discussed this matter. It is what she wanted.”

I thought maybe Husband Joe might show up and quickly morph into Common Sense Joe. I figured he might just understand, just a little bit, that husbands and wives might discuss such issues and come to agreements.

But no.

At the end of the show, Religious Right Joe showed up, dressed in his Sunday best. Lecturing us on the evil liberals at work trying to murder poor Terri.

He railed against the liberal judicial system and the fact that one judge has had so much authority in this case. I don’t remember if he talked about that judge by name, but I can only imagine that he was talking about Judge George W. Greer, who’s been involved in this case for years. And has repeatedly ruled in the favor of Michael Shiavo, in spite of his first name and middle initial.

Here’s a little background on the “liberal” Judge Greer.

He is 63 years old.

He is a conservative republican.

He is a southern Baptist, and until recently was a regular at church. (He stopped going to his church because of the reactions of some at his church to his Schiavo decisions)

But, here's the kicker. Maybe the real reason he's now been vilified as an evil liberal:

According to the St. Petersburg Times on-line, he was once the college roommate of none other than.......Jim Morrison, lead singer of The Doors!

A-Ha! Here we go again! These Republicans just cannot get over the 1960’s.

As they sit in their country clubs, they remember their younger selves fondly, drinking sodas at the the corner store while imagining Judge Greer jamming with Morrison and writing poetry in bell bottom jeans.

Granted, Judge Greer was not particularly fond of Morrison (at all) -- but, what do facts have to do with it.

So, as Religious Right Joe continued to lecture, all I could think about was Rock and Roll Joe.

And I thought to myself. People are strange.

To write or not to write for a friendly demographic

Before I created my actual blog, I assumed I would write specifically about politics. I envisioned a space where I could blast an opinion about David Brooks’ most recent column. Or maybe a little essay about how happy I am that I’ve discovered James Wolcott’s rants about GWB.

But, now that my blog is set up, I’m not so sure. I am concerned that no one will read it! I haven’t published yet and I’m concerned about cyber-circulation! I want my friends to support me. I even want them to use my blog as their home page. (One can wish.) But I can only think of a few who even care about politics.

My mind has been churning. Should I also discuss celebrity trials? The most recent episode of The Apprentice? How about the trials and tribulations of being a working mom? Gourmet recipes that are also easy to make? On-line dating services for my single friends?

This list can go on and on.

I’ve decided that I’m going to stick with politics and throw in some current events for good measure.

Whether that means I’ll be writing about Michael Jackson (doubt it), the joy of motherhood or how poor Christine Todd Whitman is called a RHINO by her fellow Republicans, I’ll just write what interests me most at the time and hope that my friends play along.

And hope that I make new friends, too.