Foolery

I'M Fine

(Photo by Andreas Fuhrmann / Record Searchlight: The Motion Fire makes its way west towards Whiskey Creek on Friday night)

Let me start by saying, "I'M fine."  Really, I am.  Although I'm a little -- no, a lot -- stressed out about my impending vacation, which is currently at T minus 20 hours and counting.  And I have bloodshot eyes and a sore lower back and a couple of mosquito bites.  But no -- I'M fine.

But I've been a tad worried about some folks I know who were not fine, but who are fine now.  I couldn't write one thing about them until I knew all was well, and now I know, so I'm telling you.

You may have heard something about the fires in California, yes?  With a few notable exceptions (like the evacuated towns of Junction City and a very remote mountain town near Hayfork that this life-long resident has never even heard of and, *ahem*, can't spell), things are much, much better than the last time I talked about the fires.  The smoke is mostly gone here in the Great North Valley, although that can change with a wind shift.  Foothill and mountain people who were evacuated are getting back to normal and cleaning up.

My cousin and his wife are getting back to normal.

They were caught by the Moon fire, which devastated the rolling hill country of Ono and Igo.  John and Juanita left just in time, following out the firemen, who raced down the rutted, bumpy gravel road at 35 miles and hour, chased by a wall of flames.  The land they've been clearing for a few years as they prepare to build their dream home glowed orange in their rearview mirror as they escaped.  Escaped.  Cinders as big as their heads fell near the fifth-wheel trailer they called home.  There was no way the home made it, Juanita said.  How could they build there now, on blackened land?

Except that the trailer DID make it, and their new tractor, too.  They lost two sheds full of items collected for their future house: two toilets, which exploded; a riding mower and a four-wheeler; a washer and dryer, which melted; and a new wood stove, which you'd think would have been okay, but there's a lot of stuff on a wood stove that isn't made of iron.  Also, their milk turned in the fridge.  Still, their loss was small, considering.  They are alive.

And my friend who works in the media -- I'll call him Frank, so I don't get him in trouble -- actually got himself into an evacuated area by tagging along on a press pass.  He went straight to his good friend's evacuated home, called the worried friend on his cell, and said, "I'm at your house.  What do you want me to save?"  Frank proceeded to load up his vehicle with his friend's important possessions (they had been away when the evacuation order came down, and couldn't get in to save anything).  He turned out the horses and the chickens into big fields with low fences, giving the animals their best chance at survival.  He loaded up four dogs and two cats, and he soaked the deck and put a sprinkler on the roof.  Cinders were falling; it was time to leave.

The house, all the possessions, and the animals were all survivors.  Still, Frank is my new hero.

And the most pressing thing clamping my heart last week . . . my boss's wife, Deni, had a closer-than-necessary encounter with Nature.

As she fed her neighbor's horses in the fading evening light, Deni felt a sharp jab to the top of her sandaled foot.  She looked down and saw two holes, seeping blood, and then she heard the rattle.

Dumping her wheel barrow on top of the silhouette of a coiled rattle snake, Deni weighed her options.  Lie down here and she would risk that her husband would figure she was just out late, chatting with a neighbor.  Walk back to the house and she would hurry the poison through her system.

She walked.

To shorten a story that is harrowing and not really mine to tell, Deni made it to the hospital, though she couldn't wait for the ambulance.  It was a long 48 hours with only vague information leaking out, but after two days we finally got the news that she was out of the woods.  The holes made by the snake's fangs were an inch and a half apart.  Big-ass snake.

Okay, sorry to unload on you, but these are things that have been crowding my head and heart for a while, and complaining about smoke felt quite callous.  I've been terrifically silly here lately, partly as a defense mechanism; no one needs me to wallow in seriousness more than I'm doing right now.

Oh, and if you'd like some good news?  This cute little bear, no bigger than a human infant at 8 1/2 to 15 pounds (depending upon which source you believe), was rescued Thursday from the Moon Fire, which may have killed its mother.

(Photos stolen from these guys)

The poor little guy has four burned paws and wouldn't have made it much longer, but a CalFire worker found him and saved his life.  Everyone is pulling for Smokey Jr., and the poor firefighter is undergoing rabies shots because of possible rabies exposure.  Still, it's a sign of hope, and the cub is expected to be released into the wild next year.

So in case you were wondering, I'M fine, which is a saying we use here in the Foolery household when the world is coming down around us.  I think the world is done for a while.  And with that, I am now purged of my seriousness, and will be back with the silly soon!  As soon as I get a vacation to the Southlands under my belt.  Not sure I'll be able to blog until we get home, Sunday night, but if I can I will, I promise.  Cheers to all of you, and have a great week!

Your Bloggywood Friend,

Laurie

Ugly Is The New Black

All of the following quotes are true.  How do I know?  Because I found them on the internet, THAT'S how I know!  And yet . . . how can all of these things co-exist?  See if you can help me find the crack in the facade, please; my brain hurts.

-- LOS ANGELES (AP) — Sharon Stone's "karma" comment is having an instant effect on her movie-star status in China.

The 50-year-old actress suggested last week that the devastating May 12 earthquake in China could have been the result of bad karma over the government's treatment of Tibet.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

JERRY FALLWELL [in a partial transcript of comments from the
September 13, 2001 telecast of the 700 Club, discussing with Rev. Pat Robertson the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001]: And, I know that I'll hear from them for this. But, throwing God out successfully with the help of the federal court system, throwing God out of the public square, out of the schools. The abortionists have got to bear some burden for this because God will not be mocked. And when we destroy 40 million little innocent babies, we make God mad. I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way -- all of them who have tried to secularize America -- I point the finger in their face and say "you helped this happen."

PAT ROBERTSON: Well, I totally concur . . .

(Photo stolen from these guys)

 

 

What was Sharon Stone iq? In: Celebrities

Sharon Stone's IQ is 154

"I'm not happy about the way the Chinese are treating the Tibetans because I don't think anyone should be unkind to anyone else," Stone said Thursday during a Cannes Film Festival red-carpet interview with Hong Kong's Cable Entertainment News. "And then this earthquake and all this stuff happened, and then I thought, is that karma? When you're not nice that the bad things happen to you?"




(Photo stolen from these guys)

 

 

"Kissing [ex-boyfriend Dwight Yoakam] is like eating a dirt sandwich." -- Sharon Stone

 

(Photo stolen from o2ma on Flickr)

 

It's comforting to see that hypocrisy and running-on-at-the-mouth are still a fact of human existence.  Even for those with high IQs.

 

(Photo stolen from these guys)

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday

You wake up one glorious May Sunday morning, stretch, yawn and start your day.

 

You check on your 18-year-old daughter to make sure she's safe, since last night was her senior prom.  Her new boyfriend came up Saturday from his town down in the valley to take her to the prom, and he's staying the weekend with your family.  They met a few months ago in honors band camp.

 

Your 20-year-old son is also here for the weekend, and he'll be driving home today.

 

All is well.  You get ready for church.

 

When you come home from church your son has gone.  You go into your daughter's room . . .

 

. . . and that's when your world comes to a stop.  Your daughter and her boyfriend are there in body, but not in spirit.  You find them there, together, murdered.

 

Four hours later the police arrest a suspect -- your daughter's ex-boyfriend and co-worker at the grocery store.  Your son is on his way back to be with you.

 

At dinner time you get the news that there's been an accident.  Your son, in his hurry to get home, took a mountain curve too fast and hit a stand of pine trees.  He's been airlifted down to a valley hospital.  He's in critical condition.

 

Two days later, he dies, never having regained consciousness.

 

Two towns are grieving the loss of three young people whom they knew and loved.  An entire region moans in pain and grief every time the news is updated, because it is worse every time.  Parents everywhere have glazed eyes as they try to -- and then try not to -- imagine your loss.  Prayers are offered, hugs are tighter at bedtime.

 

This is an imagined account of a true story, here in my part of the world.  The tragedy happened Sunday, which was Mother's Day.  Please hold the woman, the mother, the parent, who in a way is all of us, in your minds and hearts this week.

This Beauty Secret Sucks

Casually perusing the day's silly and useless news on Yahoo! I came upon an article today that revealed Demi Moore's bizarre beauty secret.

I'll bite.  Could it be . . . genetics?  Personal trainer?  Many hours a day to devote to the ongoing maintenance and perfection of her body and face?

All of these things were overlooked in favor of one teeny tiny little thing she did recently, apparently -- one little thing that has clearly made her beautiful when she was SUCH. A. HAG. last year.

And that thing is, of course, leeches.



So I guess she hopped a plane for Australia -- they must have really good leeches down there, unlike our average leeches here in the U.S. of A. -- for a "cleansing."  The article referred to it as "leech therapy."

From the article:  "Moore said 'the highly trained medical leeches'* were first placed in her belly button."

Um.  Doctors are highly trained.  Race car drivers are highly trained.  Even snake oil salesmen and hucksters of all stripes are highly trained.  Leeches?  Not so much.  They just suck.

Here's another quote that'll put you on the floor:  ". . . generally you bleed for quite a bit -- and your health is optimized," she added.  The emphasis is mine.  Wow, who knew that to optimize my health, all I'd have to do is BLEED?  I'll bet if I bleed out I'll be REALLY healthy.

Moore also said of the blood-sucking, "It detoxifies your blood -- I'm feeling very detoxified right now."  Golly.  What's that like, exactly?



And she told Letterman that she plans to go back because she "only got 4 leeches and I feel a bit cheated."  Wait -- shhhhhh!  Hear that?  P.T. Barnum is rubbing his hands together.

*Chas's comment:  "A highly-trained leech?  I thought that was her boyfriend."  No, he just sucks, too.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

Sell Me Your Line of Bull

(Photo of bull judging stolen from these guys)

Red Bluff is a 30-minute car trip up I-5 -- 40 minutes if Dad is driving, and he was driving on Saturday.  I was squished into the back seat between two booster seats, not wearing a seat belt because we couldn't FIND it.  Smedley and Sparky filled the booster seats; Mom rode shotgun.

AM I INSANE?

Probably.

But I did what I swore I'd never do again, and I went to the Red Bluff Bull Sale* WITH MY FATHER and two short people.  Mom provided the sanity.

Now, don't misunderstand me:  I was happy to go to the bull sale.  It's the finest bull sale west of the Rockies, I'm told, and I don't doubt it.  The animals appeared to be top-notch (although I'm perhaps the last one on Earth to judge that, so don't listen to me).  I'm not really in the market for a bull, so I was just rubber-necking.  You know, soaking up the local color, learning a bit about bulls, and admiring a cowboy or two.  Well, a rancher or two.

I developed a teeny crush on the auctioneer.

No, the reason I swore I'd never go to another auction with my dad again is that he has a way of stretching what should be a one-hour experience into a half-day extravaganza.  He knows a lot of people in this part of the world, and a few from out of state who he's cornered talked to at past auctions.  Any one of those people could have been marked as his target; he'd start asking them questions you hear only on "Jeopardy," and then we'd never ever ever see home again.  Mom and the girls and I would die of exposure, or boredom, or acute systems failure at the Tehama County Fairgrounds.  But there I was, and there we were, and we had all ridden together -- on purpose --  in my parents' car.  I'll take that dope slap now, please.

I wanted to take pictures for y'all, but I didn't.  It was a gray and muddy day outside, so that was no good.  Inside the auction itself I was guessing I might get thrown out on my rear for using a flash, and I'd rather not be any more of a spectacle than I already was.  Plus, those bulls were a bit riled up, and I didn't want to be the one to send them over the top with my camera flash.


(Photo of bull judging stolen from these guys)

So we watched the auction for a while.  Have you ever been to a cattle auction -- anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?  Okay, so I didn't bring a tape recorder either.  Here's what it kind of sounds like, sort of:


Okay, I made up some of that, but you get the idea.  That guy could TALK!  I feel suddenly very sorry for his wife in an argument.  My teeny crush is waning now that I think about it.

Smedley made a big show of putting her hands up over her ears during the auction.  This caught my attention for two reasons.  First, I really didn't need to take a bull home this weekend, so I told her to put her hands in her lap and try not to move too much, fer cryin' out loud in a bucket.  Second, who is she trying to kid?  She's gonna have his job some day.  That child could outtalk that auctioneer and all of his auctioneer friends any day of the week.

Other than the beautiful bulls, the high-tech squeeze chutes (I'll let you look that one up) and the corn dogs, the most interesting sight of the day was a tiny perky blond woman in low-rise jeans taping a television segment, probably for the RFD network (which I call The Cow Show).  She had apparently wiped out Walgreen's pancake makeup and brick red lipstick supply that morning in preparation for the shoot.  She stood in a busy thoroughfare, a smooth professional amongst the Wranglers crowd, her lines perfectly memorized and injected with sparkle and energy.  These things I notice because my advertising job has sensitized me to them.  But what I couldn't take my eyes off of was the heavy western belt buckle, slung low on her tiny jeans.  The buckle was so heavy that it pooched her jeans out into a faux, um, package.  "Your face is all girl, but your jeans tell me otherwise," I thought.  Yes, I know I'm catty, but I had had enough of looking at the squeeze chutes.  Find your entertainment where you may.

We made it out of there with a bag of salt water taffy, muddy shoes, and no bovines.  And my dad ran into only one random guy to talk to, so the day was a huge success.  I can't wait for next year. 



*It's actually called the Red Bluff Bull & Gelding Sale, but I didn't see a single horse there, with or without testicles.

The Rule of Threes

If you are superstitious and believe that bad things happen in threes . . .

 

. . . and if you've been watching the news vampires media drool all over the story of the missing wife and mother Stacy Peterson . . .

 

. . . and if you remember another missing wife, Lacy Peterson . . .

 

. . . then you'll agree that this is a very bad time to be a married woman named Tracy Peterson.

 
Just had to empty the trash; thanks for playin'.

News From Beyond the Pushing Water Ranch

Since I have last talked to you, not much has happened in my small world.  A lot has happened around me, though.  Here are a few things which stick out:

One of my sisters-in-law is trying to get over pneumonia.  This has not been easy, as you can imagine, especially since two of her family members have gotten horrific colds, and the third got hit by a car.  Now, now, don't worry, the colds are coming along nicely.

I kid, because the truth is just too scary.  Yes, a dear family member was hit by a car last week, and yes, he's home tonight, recovering, with his family.  There were plenty of very frightening turns of events, but he's going to be okay.  That's about all I'll say for the sake of his privacy -- except that we love him and we're gonna stop worrying now and Holy Cow I'd hate to see that car right now!  Kidding.

The preemie baby born into our greater family is also doing well, and gaining weight.  Good news does come from bad.

My boss and his wife are in Germany, watching their son Zack play professional basketball.  Zack spent the last few years playing fantastic college ball for Chaminade University in Hawaii, and now he's playing for the Giants in Leverkusen, Germany.  I looked on the team's web site -- at least I think that's what it was, reading as little German as I do -- and found a picture from tonight's game.  I think they played Ulm and won 87-77.  Either that, or that's part of somebody's phone number.  Perhaps my dear friend Inger Muellenberg will help me to decipher more than the occasional "ja" I am able to pick out.


(Photos stolen from these guys)

Anyhoo, Zack is playing good basketball, enjoying himself, and making his family proud.  It's fun to keep track of his progress (even if I'm only making up half of what I read about him).  This is his rookie card.



I have a real one somewhere at work.  I should probably hang onto it.

And now for some small news from the home front:  Chas went to Smedley's parent-teacher conference Friday.  He held his breath.  I held my breath all afternoon until I heard from him . . . SUCCESS!  Smedley came through with flying colors.  CPS was not called, no psychiatrists held sway, and Chas didn't have to crash through any police barricades to get out of there.  All is well in Smedleyville.

As for Sparky, well, Sparky is alternately the sweetest child you ever met and the biggest jerk you ever met.  I don't know where this fits in, exactly -- you decide:

Sparky:  "Mommy, your bottom is so big, is doesn't even fit on the toilet."

I told you that because I'm paying in advance in case I have some big sins to cover.

Laurie over and out!

Embers, Ashes and Dust

I have been carrying a lot in my heart this week.

 

One of my favorite people in the world had bypass surgery yesterday.  All the news is good.

 

A baby was born into our extended family last week, but he was feisty and showed up very, very early.  I think he didn't want to miss all the Southern California excitement, because just as his little lungs took over from the ventilator, the fires started.  He'll have smoke-free hospital air to breathe for many weeks to come.  We hear that he and his mommy are doing well.

 

And then, of course, there were the many friends and family in the paths of the fires to worry over.  This is part of an e-mail from one of my mother-in-law's many best friends, Judy, from Wednesday:

 

We actually drove up to the back hills of San Clemente and saw the flames of the three Camp Pendleton fires first-hand.  Word travels fast as we could not believe the amount of people accumulating in the same area doing the same thing.  Jerry said there were so many people scanning the situation he could have sold hot dogs . . . We were out celebrating a birthday tonight and all the moms in attendance received calls on their cell phones from the school district informing them there would be no school tomorrow due to poor air quality and various other reasons . . . I saw the look on all the teenage kids faces as the news passed through the game room of the restaurant . . . There was a teacher sitting at the next table.  We could see his response as he received the same cell message from the district.  He smiled and ordered another beer.

 

And she sent this picture:

 

This was taken from above Dana Point Harbor, looking toward Camp Pendleton over the hill.  San Clemente and so many friends and family cower nearby.

 

My friend J.K. lives in the midwest now, but he's from Mission Viejo, with several family members still in the area.  Here's what he wrote Wednesday:

 

I tried to avoid the stupidity of national network and cable not-so-much-news channels, but TVs are everywhere in our lives.  The SAME stupid looped piece of video footage and the same exaggerated statistics keep repeating ad nauseum. 

I finally got to a breaking point, so I called siblings, parents and friends, trying not to sound too concerned (a macho guise so the other person on the line wouldn't worry any more than necessary, given their situation). 

So far, so good -- with all concerned.  But this thing ain't over yet.  FINGERS CROSSED!

I did my part to replenish some of the lost vegetation -- I planted a tree.

Here's a picture over Lake Mission Viejo:

And I'll give my mother-in-law the last word on the subject, again from Wednesday.  We were e-mailing back and forth about the ridiculous questions reporters feel compelled to ask fire victims:

I am so sick of hearing that "how would you feel" question.  I would probably say some smart-mouth comment like, "At least I don't have to dust!"

My favorite TV person so far has been the blond weather girl (the type who gives blondes a bad name) who was giving a serious report this am about the winds, wearing a red dress/mini-smock, trimmed in sequins (yes, sequins at 7:30 am), flowing sleeves with slits that showed her shoulders, etc. and that was worn with black stockings and black stiletto heels!

It is 6 pm here and although we still can't see the sky for the smoke and haze, the winds appear to be gone and no flames in sight from San Clemente.

No matter how much I carried on my heart this week, soooooo many people carried more.  My thoughts and best wishes are with everyone whose week was so much worse than mine.

If Hell Had Stoplights It'd Look Like Southern California Today

This was my sky today, here in Chico, straight up noon.

 

This is the sky today, from any place in southern California you choose.
(Photo stolen from Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

 

Hardly seems fair, does it?

 

I've now heard from everyone, I think.

 

Everyone I was worried about in Southern California, that is.  My cousin Asia and her family are safe, 17 miles from any fires in San Diego.  Frank and Josie and kids had to evacuate from Carlsbad Monday, but Frank just e-mailed me that they are far away and safe.  The friends in Bonita, Hollywood, and Hesperia are okay.  Choking on smoke, but okay.

 

It's the ones I wasn't worried about initially who are making me nervous.  My college roommate J.P. lives in the foothills east of Irvine, where the Santiago fire has been raging.  Her street is right at the base of a steep hill, covered in chaparral, and right where the fire has been reported.  I finally got an e-mail back from her this morning: 

We had to evacuate but we are safe for the moment.  Came back to house today but fire is coming back this way.  Cars are still packed if we need to leave again but there is not much more that can burn.

 

I've been keeping track of Chas's family in San Clemente through Chas's mom, but since they are 15-20 miles from the Santiago fire, I wasn't really worried, and neither were they.

 

Then I got this e-mail from Chas's mom this morning.

 

I am bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and smoke and certainly babbling but I must confess that I was rather blasé about the fires until last night.  I was driving home from chorale practice in Laguna Beach about 9 pm.  When I got to the high point of the freeway, looking south, I could see, at first, an orange glow and heavy smoke and then flames along the ridge line.  I sped home and told Bob who was unaware of the fire.  We went out back.  Our yard faces SE and there is a ridge, then a street, a golf course, and then the county line which separates us from Camp Pendleton.  We could see the glow and a lot of smoke.

 

Bob went to the TV and I went on-line and we found out there were 2 fires on Pendleton.  The closest was 10 miles south of San Clemente.  We didn't do anything yet but about 9:30 there was a knock on the door and we both thought we were going to be evacuated and we hadn't done anything.  It turned out to be a neighbor who had driven down by the golf course and could see the flames in the distance and just wanted to make sure that everyone on our cul-de-sac was aware of it.  Bob said "go pack your papers and your prescriptions."

 

Then, it was kind of funny what each of us did.  Bob packed some papers and got our passports which is rather ironic after our experience this summer [a passport SNAFU with very unlucky results].  (We had heard of people trying to evacuate to Mexico who didn't have their documentation.)  I started doing laundry!  Don't ask me why as there wasn't very much and we certainly had plenty of clean underwear!

 

Next I got the cat carrier down from on top of the Christmas decorations in the garage, took pictures of everything in the house with the digital camera, packed a file box with important papers, family jewelry, pictures and put them in the car along with our blow-up mattress (it was later that I realized that we would need electricity to pump it.  On the other hand, if we descended on one of our children, we would at least have a bed).

 

I packed an overnight bag with a change of clothes, RX's and some makeup (ok, I admit it, I am shallow).  We laid out a change of clothes, walking shoes and flashlights by the bed.  We finally went to bed about 1:30 with the blinds open (our bedroom faces SE) so we could see if fire came over the ridge.  I woke up about every hour and checked.  The smell of smoke was alarming.

 

Sunrise this morning looked like something out of Dante's Inferno but the Santa Ana winds have died down and it is eerily still.  We are again covered in ashes and dust but we are safe so far.  We are keeping the cars packed, the cell phones charged and are taking all this very seriously.  Will keep you posted.

Love, Mom

I think all the blood drained out of my head when I read this.  I wasn't terribly concerned before this morning, but now I am.  And the morning "news lite" shows are grinding two questions into the dirt until I wanna SCREAM: 

 

"How did you feel when you returned and saw that your house of 15 years was a smoking, charred pile of rubble?"

 

and

 

"If it happened to YOU, would YOU be ready?"

 

To the first question I'd look blankly at the reporter for a second, then answer, "Whadda you mean?  My house hasn't burned yet.  This is how it always looks!"

 

I think you know my answer to the second question.

Death of an Opera Icon: King of the High Cs

Luciano Pavarotti will always make me cry.  I cried last night just before heading off to bed, when I read that he had died.  I knew it was coming any day, but it's still like a gut punch when it happens.

 

Pavarotti is most people's only connection to the world of opera, and if you're going to know only one voice, it may as well be the best.  He was not technically the best, I guess -- he had many critics -- but the essence of his voice, the part no amount of training could change, was so magnificent and unmistakable that there is no doubt in my mind, his was the best voice I have ever heard.

 

How many times have I been stopped in my tracks at the first few unexpected notes of some aria or Neapolitan song in Pavarotti's hands?  Too many to count.

 

I often tune in to "Opera Attic" on KCHO Saturday mornings to learn about opera from Steven Schwartz.  My favorite type of Opera Attic show is a comparative listening to part of the same aria sung by six or seven opera stars in succession.  Schwartz doesn't tell you beforehand who you're hearing, in case you'd like to try to guess (like I know enough to do that -- HA!).  Well, on one of these shows, this past spring I think, Schwartz had saved Pavarotti for last, and the difference in dynamism, spark -- the "it" quality -- between Pavarotti's version and those before, was stunning.  Schwartz didn't have to say who was singing; it was immediately apparent.  I was washing a pan and I literally had to put it down and lean on the sink, the piece was so moving.  Smedley bounced in to ask me a question, and I couldn't speak.  I had tears in my eyes.  Smedley was alarmed, then annoyed.  "Some things are just that beautiful, Smed," I told her, once I could speak.

 

I got an e-mail from Mantel Man first thing this morning -- the guy can just whip things out in minutes that take me all evening to write!  It's frustrating -- and I wanted to share it with you.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

This morning I learned of the death of a famous musician who had an early influence on my life -- though not the kind of influence you might expect.

I was just a little rodent when the dust jacket of one of Mom's LP records caught my eye.  On it was a photo of a large, dark-haired man wearing a garish clown suit and beating a bass drum.  I didn't know it at the time, but the man was Luciano Pavarotti, and the album would become Mom's best weapon for chasing me out of the house.  Ironically, I would go outside for the same reason she put on the record: to get some peace and quiet.



Years later I was living in a short-term apartment with no cable TV to entertain me while I cooked dinner.  Desperate, I put on the PBS station and found myself paying more and more attention to the live broadcast of the Three Tenors concert from Europe.  After dinner I was sufficiently amused at my interest that I called the ranch and said, "Mom, I'm watching opera -- and, uh, it doesn't quite suck . . ."  I didn't know what was coming over me.  I feared that I might eat brussels sprouts next.

The concert didn't make an opera fan of me, but it gave me some insights.  Placido Domingo and Jose Carreras would screw up their faces and bear down on the big notes, while Luciano would just stand there and belt out his lyrics with a calm, direct gaze at the audience.  He looked almost menacing.  Watching the other two highly accomplished tenors gave me an appreciation for the great difficulty of their art.  Luciano, however, wasn't like that: he made it look easy.

Mom has been saying for years that Luciano was clearly past his prime, no longer able to sing with his old strength and hit the high "C" note that he used to reach with apparent ease.  Still, the passing of this opera superstar must be a sad event for her.  Maybe I'll call the ranch again.

There Is a God

Hooray!  Common sense has prevailed in a courtroom at last!

 

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070625/ap_on_re_us/67_million_pants

 

That slimy bastard Judge Pearson did not succeed in his attempt to take the Chungs and their dry cleaning business "to the cleaners" for 67 -- no, wait, he revised it to 54 -- MILLION dollars over the loss of a pair of pants.

 

Not only did the ruling favor the Chungs, but Pearson has to pay their court costs as well.  Now, if he has to pay all their attorney's fees, too, I may have to alter my jaded and jaundiced opinion of our legal system.

 

I'd be looking pretty hard for those pants, because I'll bet there was a key to a safe deposit box in the pocket.

I'm Thinkin' Arby's

Did anyone besides me find it funny that Paris Hilton was going to get an In-N-Out burger when she was pulled over and arrested for drunk driving?

 

I'll bet her old pal Carls Jr. didn't think it was funny.

 

I HATE that I know these things.

Are Those Monks Fighting AGAIN?

http://today.reuters.com/news/articlenews.aspx?type=oddlyEnoughNews&storyid=2006-08-17T181046Z_01_COL276316_RTRUKOC_0_US-SRILANKA-MONKS.xml&src=rss&rpc=22

Here's the headline, in case you are not inclined to check out this article:

 

"Monks Brawl at Peace Protest" (Reuters, Thursday, August 17, 2006)

 

Apparently things got a little out of hand in Colombo, Sri Lanka, between hardline Buddhist monks and moderate Buddhist monks.  In the war-torn nation of Sri Lanka, the people are a bit edgy.  Thanks to my friend Gubby for bringing this article to my attention.  (Gubby has $100 on the melee.)

 

In other, less reported news of the world today, Mr. Rogers' uzi was auctioned off for charity, as was Mother Teresa's jujitsu gi.

 

Also, a diary belonging to the late Mahatma Ghandi was unearthed today.  Researchers haven't read it all, but the first entry begins thus:  "I may have to headslap the guy who keeps starching my robes."

 

Jane Fonda is throwing a party next weekend for Donald Rumsfeld.  So far no one has R.S.V.P.'d.

Bruno Kirby

Bruno Kirby died today at the young age of 57.  Made me sad.  I first remember seeing the actor in "Good Morning Vietnam," in a role which must have been fun to play, and he played it well, even though his character was a mean-spirited weasel.

 

I'm no movie buff, so I couldn't begin to list the things Kirby has been in, but I remember him most fondly from his role in "When Harry Met Sally."  Driving to work this morning I heard Nora Romm (sp.?), a reporter for NPR's Morning Edition, list a few of Kirby's movies, but she referred to the above film as "When Harry Met Harry."  Oops.  This would have been an entirely different movie, I would think.

Dwight Is Coming

Found out last week that Dwight Yoakam is performing in Red Bluff in September; Red Bluff is only about 40 miles away, so that's a quick trip.  My best buddy Cheryl and I are planning to go.

Now, you must understand, this is entirely new territory for me.  I have hated most country music most of my life, ask anyone.  Notable exceptions include Johnny Cash, Roger Miller, Willie Nelson, and Marty Robins (but don't tell my dad that last one -- I've made a HUGE stink about being forced to listen to Marty Robins my whole life and I'm not about to stop now).

Then a guy I dated several years ago WHO'S PROBABLY READING THIS RIGHT NOW SO DON'T SAY ANYTHING SNOTTY ABOUT HIM, OKAY? took me to a Lyle Lovett concert at the Greek Theater in Berkeley, and it was all over.  Wow.  I could actually like music that is loosely defined as country music.  Not just like it, but LOVE it.

So here I am a Dwight Yoakam fan.  Who knew it was possible?

But here's the problem:  I'm afraid of his fans.  These people are SERIOUS about the man.  Any given one of them knows his dress shirt size, his weight to the pound, how many teeth he has in his head, what he ate for breakfast on August 14th, 2002, and his insurance agent's name.  So I'm afraid that I, in my naivete, irreverence, and Dwight-inexperience, will say something wrong.  No, I'm SURE I'll say something wrong.  I'm just afraid it'll happen before he gets onstage and I'll be thrown off the grandstand with a thud.

So I have a lot of work ahead of me to get ready for this concert.  Wish me luck, and I'll let you know how it goes.

It Never Rains in California

Two days of warmth, that’s what our spring has amounted to this year. It’s supposed to rain through the weekend, which, of course, includes Easter. The Bunny is bummed. The ground around our house, and pretty much everywhere in the north valley, gave up the ghost this week. About Monday it put itself on the wagon and refused to drink another drop. That didn’t stop the rain, of course, and the end result has been a wet wade out to the car each morning. The levees on the Sacramento River are making headlines lately, and that river is one of the defining features of the valley. We live about six miles from our area’s most compromised levee, in Hamilton City. Used to be you couldn’t even see the river from the country road I take to work, but this morning I surmised that a girl scout tossing a baseball from the road (underhand, of course) would have made a splash. If that levee gives way our home won’t be flooded, but I’ll have to find a different way to work -- maybe a 50 mile commute instead of 20. It’s a bit unpalatable to whine about inconveniences when people in the Gulf region are still homeless. For now I’ll just gripe about the weather.

Consciousness

Did you know that you can get a masters degree in Consciousness?

I did not know that.

I don’t doubt that one could also get a doctorate in Consci