I had a doozy of a dream last night. It starred Brittany Murphy, one of my all time favorite actors. She was hosting Saturday Night Live. Here's where things got weird. SNL was in Victoria. Outside. On Yates St. There were kites and remote-controlled PAPER airplanes. And Brittany was actually Sarah Jessica Parker. Even though she was Brittany.
Got that?
It wasn't the strangest dream I've ever had. That honor goes to the night that I dreamed that Ed Asner and I were fighting The Blob in the parking lot of the old Bay store. We were using toy laser guns and leading a whole gang of "Blob fighters." We won.
I've dreamed about improv. Years ago, royally pissed off at what I perceived as a lack of respect for the art from performers and audience members alike, I dreamed that I machine-gunned down everybody in the theatre, actors and audience.
Twice I dreamed this.
I've had many dreams about losing my teeth. Apparently, this is a subconscious sign that one's dreams or plans will crumble. And yes, my teeth did crumble in the dreams. More accurately, they fell out of my mouth like little Chiclets. Or Tic Tacs. I have long worried about losing my teeth, They're not in great shape. I have gum disease, bad fillings, and a lot of cavities. (Ooh! Sexy!)
Sometimes I dream that my teeth are falling out one by one. Or are about to. But something in my subconscious tells me to wake up before the disaster hits, and usually I do.
Sometimes in these "dental dreams" I am very aware that I'm dreaming. I screamed at myself to wake up the last time this particular dream occurred.
Even knowing that I'm experiencing a dream, it's still a relief to wake up and discover that, for one more day at least, I still have all of my teeth.
There are, indeed, few better feelings for me than waking up and realizing that it was all "just a dream."
I once dreamed that my Grade Ten Science teacher (whom I liked) was a child molester. I couldn't look at him in the same way after that.
As a child, my greatest fear was that I would become separated from my mother. Lost forever. Not abducted. That never occurred to me. Just lost, and unable to be found. A recurring dream of my childhood was getting lost in The Bay (yes, it was always The Bay. My mother and I went there a lot.) I would run up - or down - the escalator in a panic. Frantic. Eventually I would fall down the escalator. It was always a slow motion, tumbling fall. Soundless. Soaring through the air. Always waking up before I hit the bottom.
I once jerked awake in the middle of the night, hands clutched tightly around my throat, gasping for breath. Strangling myself in my sleep. At least, that's what I've always believed that I was doing. But I have no memory of what I was dreaming.
Having no memories of my dreams is rare for me. I usually remember at least fragments.
I kept a dream journal for an entire year a few years ago. My plan was to write a play or perhaps several short stories based on my dreams. Never happened. It still remains a plan.
I dream in color.
Another favorite aspect of my dreams is knowing where I am, even though the dream location bears no resemblance to the real life location. The University of Victoria has been a 7 - 11, for example. Nobody in the dreams ever questions the location's change. It's what it is. In the dream world, everything is accepted.
Kind of like improv. Or, at least, what improv SHOULD be.
I'm an actor. Actors have dreams about being late, bombing on stage, being in the wrong play on the wrong night, and many more. Enough to fill a book. (Hey!) I have dreamed most of these, too. Most often it's being late, knowing that I'm late, and just not able to get there. Over the past few years, the "dream me" can't get to the venue because I can't walk. My knees and legs are weighted down and I can only crawl painfully.
My knees do hurt in real life. I may be developing arthritis. Maybe my acting dream is really a "scared of getting old dream?"
I have dreamed that I'm performing drunk, or have forgot my lines. But in these dreams my actions are deliberate. I WANT to get drunk. I WANT to forget my lines.
Rarely do I have sexual dreams. And when I do, they never involve anybody, real or imagined, whom I am actually attracted to.
I cannot remember ever having a dream where I'm naked and nobody else is. Apparently these nude dreams are fairly common. I'm still waiting.
Several years ago, I had a recurring dream in which my mouth was filled with black bile. It would spew out of me like endless lava. I would grab the stuff and break it off, but more would follow. Very scary. I had this dream at least once a month, sometimes more. It was during a relatively bad period in my life, a time when I was feeling alone, remorseful, and guilt-ridden. I've always believed that the "bile dream" was my soul trying to cleanse itself. It's been at least three years now since I've experienced this dream. A good sign?
I don't drive. Have never had my license. Yet in most dreams involving a vehicle, I'm the driver. Occasionally I've "borrowed" a friend's car and gone driving. That's the dream. Me. Driving.
Real life sometimes creeps into my dreams, especially where money is concerned. I usually have the exact amount of money on me in a dream as I do in reality.
I finish dreams, sometimes after I wake up. I've also started dreaming in serial. Episodic dreams have occasionally reran in my head, with some of the same characters. I doubt that this is unheard of, but it sure is awesome.
Since I became an avid reader of detective stories, I sometimes dream the book which I am currently reading. Or I write a new chapter in my sleep.
This is also awesome.
Every now and then, the first thought I have when waking up was the last thought I had before drifting off.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Friday, November 25, 2011
The Loneliness Of Single Socks
I have a collection of unmated socks. They occupy a comfortable corner of my dresser, nestled closely to my t-shirts. Most of my socks are black or grey, but I also own some patterned argyles. In my recent frantic move from my long time residence to my (perhaps) temporary lodgings, I had quickly gathered up all of my pairs of socks and stuffed them into various modes of transport-backpack, canvas carry bags, black garbage bags. Some of the pairs were clean and rolled up, ready to wear. Others were not. But I thought that I'd done a good job of finding mates. They all APPEARED to match.
Appearances are, of course, deceptive.
Laundry done. Socks sorted. Shit! I'm missing some! A quick recheck of both the washer and the dryer, because it's common knowledge that socks will hide. They are the shy children of the clothing world, afraid to come outside and play with the rest of your clothing, scared, perhaps, of being shoved into shoes. But a little coaxing, with promises of better future treatment ("I promise I won't leave you wadded up in the middle of the living room floor for the cat to bat around!") usually works.
But not this time.
This time the socks were gone. And I knew deep in my heart that they were never coming back.
Their abandoned mates miss them. I can tell by the forlorn way in which they lie limply in the drawer, in one big heap. They don't go anywhere anymore because I can't be seen in public with mismatched socks. I haven't told them this, but I know that they know. Socks are the most intelligent members of the clothing world. I do occasionally don them for sleeping, or when I've run out of clean socks to wear around the house. But they do not get along with each other; they miss their mates. I get that. After all, they had grown up together, from the sock factory (or wherever socks are made) to the store shelves to my feet. Presumably, they believed that they would be together forever, either as vital members of my wardrobe or as laundry fugitives, hiding out in dark corners of the house.
What can I do? I have plenty of matched pairs, but I'm forced to keep them apart from the orphans, as I want to spare feelings as much as possible. I wish that everybody would just get along, or that the runaways will someday return. But I'm a realist. I know that, soon, the single socks will outlive their usefulness. I'll buy more pairs. Or go barefoot at home. Whatever my course of action, I know that feelings will be further hurt.
And I know that it will be my fault. After all, if I hadn't washed them, they would still be together. Dirty. Smelly. Relegated to the bottom of the laundry basket.
But happy.
Appearances are, of course, deceptive.
Laundry done. Socks sorted. Shit! I'm missing some! A quick recheck of both the washer and the dryer, because it's common knowledge that socks will hide. They are the shy children of the clothing world, afraid to come outside and play with the rest of your clothing, scared, perhaps, of being shoved into shoes. But a little coaxing, with promises of better future treatment ("I promise I won't leave you wadded up in the middle of the living room floor for the cat to bat around!") usually works.
But not this time.
This time the socks were gone. And I knew deep in my heart that they were never coming back.
Their abandoned mates miss them. I can tell by the forlorn way in which they lie limply in the drawer, in one big heap. They don't go anywhere anymore because I can't be seen in public with mismatched socks. I haven't told them this, but I know that they know. Socks are the most intelligent members of the clothing world. I do occasionally don them for sleeping, or when I've run out of clean socks to wear around the house. But they do not get along with each other; they miss their mates. I get that. After all, they had grown up together, from the sock factory (or wherever socks are made) to the store shelves to my feet. Presumably, they believed that they would be together forever, either as vital members of my wardrobe or as laundry fugitives, hiding out in dark corners of the house.
What can I do? I have plenty of matched pairs, but I'm forced to keep them apart from the orphans, as I want to spare feelings as much as possible. I wish that everybody would just get along, or that the runaways will someday return. But I'm a realist. I know that, soon, the single socks will outlive their usefulness. I'll buy more pairs. Or go barefoot at home. Whatever my course of action, I know that feelings will be further hurt.
And I know that it will be my fault. After all, if I hadn't washed them, they would still be together. Dirty. Smelly. Relegated to the bottom of the laundry basket.
But happy.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Ranking The First Overall NHL Draft Picks: Part I
The first NHL Draft was held in 1963. A grand total of twenty one players were selected, led off by Garry Monahan, who was chosen by Montreal. The following Draft saw twenty four players selected. And so on it went, in the NHL's pre-Expansion, six team era, which mercifully ended in 1968. It was in 1970 that the Draft took on meaning. This was the year of the "roulette wheel," when the Vancouver Canucks and its expansion brethren the Buffalo Sabres spun a wheel in order to determine which of them would select first. As any diehard Canucks fan will know - and if you don't know this, then you're not a true fan, sorry - Buffalo won the spin, selected Gilbert Perreault, and never looked back. The Canucks were left with the consolation prize, Dale Tallon,a decent player but one who never reached the stardom envisioned for him. That 1970 Draft was the first time when the hockey world and its observers saw a palpable result; realized that the Draft DID matter. It was also the period of ferocious expansion. The NHL had brought in six new teams in 1967. Two followed in 1970. Two more would appear in 1972. With this expansion of the league came the corresponding expansion of the Draft.
I have tried to reflect this in my rankings. I started with that 1970 Draft and continued on through to the 2008 Draft. I stopped at that year as it is still too early to judge the careers of John Tavares (2009), Taylor Hall (2010), and Ryan Nugent-Hopkins (2011.)
I settled on five criterion for these rankings:
1) Production. The numbers. Goals, Assist, Points. Simple.
2) Impact on the team which drafted them. Were they the "face" of the franchise? Did their being drafted improve the team's fortunes?
3) Hardware. Scoring Champions and MVPS received a higher rank than those whose careers were bereft of awards. Ditto for any Rookies Of The Year (of which there have been surprisingly few.) Stanley Cup championships were given priority because, in theory, the number one pick is meant to be the foundation on which winning teams are built. As we shall see, this often turns out not to be the case. But it's the reason why Vincent Le Cavalier is ranked ahead of Joe Thornton, even though Thornton is the more productive player.
4) Intangibles. Did they live up to the hype? Who was chosen after them? Did they have the "feel" of a number one pick? Was the draft year strong? The 1996 class was so legendarily abysmal that nobody truly deserved to go first.
5) The last consideration I used was simple. Would this player be the first choice if the draft were done over? This is the "hindsight test." Guy Lafleur would still have been the first pick; Dale McCourt would not have been.
These rankings are one man's opinion, and will no doubt be open to much debate. In several cases it was simply too close to call.
Eric Lindros over Dale Hawerchuk? Flip a coin. Pierre Turgeon better than Mats Sundin? If you wish. Who is REALLY the worst of them all? Your choice is as good as mine.
The Rankings:
1) Denis Potvin (Islanders, 1973) This took some soul searching, as Potvin and Mario Lemieux are clearly the two best Number One picks of all time. But I have to give the (very) slight nod to Potvin. Both he and Lemieux won The Calder Trophy Rookie Of the Year.) Both were captains of Stanley Cup teams. But Potvin's impact on the Islanders was immediate. In his first season, the team improved by twenty six points and cut its goals against by one hundred. It became a playoff team in his second season and did not miss the post-season until after his retirement, a streak of fourteen years. In contrast, Mario's teams missed the playoffs in five of his first six seasons. And his two Cup winning teams were hardly in the class of Potvin's dynasty, which won four in a row and NINETEEN consecutive playoff series, marking it as the greatest dynasty in League history. And Potvin had all the rest: Three Norris Trophies as Best Defenceman. Lived up to the hype and then some. Changed the landscape of the organization. Durable. (another edge over Mario.) He was still close to the top of his game when he retired. Plus he was a defenseman, a more challenging position.
Also, I'm an Islanders fan. Biased bonus points.
2) Mario Lemieux (Penguins, 1984) Two Stanley Cups. Three time MVP. Six time scoring champion. An Olympic Gold Medal. Captain. Cancer survivor. Owner. The most exciting offensive player of his generation (Sorry Gretzky fans.) The Penguins all time leading scorer. Mentor to Sidney Crosby. And like Potvin, he never left his team for another. But he lacked, in the early part of his career, Potvin's intense desire to win, and his championship teams never reached the Islanders' level of greatness. But it's closeohsoclose.
3) Guy Lafleur (Canadiens, 1971) For six years, 1974 - 1980, there was not a more dominant and exciting player than "The Flower." Six consecutive 50 goal and 100 point seasons. Four championships. Two MVP awards. Three scoring titles. The Playoff MVP award. The most recognizable hockey personality of his era. The Habs' all time leading scorer. But he wasn't durable later in his career, his numbers and the team faded badly after the retirement of Ken Dryden, and I'm not liking his ill-fated comeback so much. Still, an obvious great. He, Potvin, and Lemieux are the epitomes of what a first overall pick should be.
4) Sidney Crosby (Penguins, 2005) Normally, I would say "too soon," but "Sid the Kid" is a special case. His early career is actually BETTER than Lemieux's: A scoring title and MVP award, an Olympic Gold Medal, a championship AND a second Finals appearance. He makes all those around him better. And, he has avoided the mistakes Mario made at the start of his career (the selfishness and aloofness, the indifference to defence) thanks in no small part to "Le Magnifique" himself. How his concussion issues will play out is a matter of speculation, but few players have accomplished more in such a short period. Keys to the pantheon which houses The Big Three await him.
5) Gilbert Perreault (Sabres, 1970) But he never won a Stanley Cup! True,but he WAS the face of the franchise for fifteen years, he won a bunch of hardware,and he was, after Lafleur, the most dynamic offensive player of his generation. Over two decades after his retirement, he remains Buffalo's career leader in goals, assists, and points. Buffalo was a terrific team and Perreault was its leader. He was certainly flawed, but there have been few better number one picks.
6) Mike Modano (North Stars, 1988) I am not really a Modano fan. He may be the highest scoring American born player in history, but I've always considered him to be somewhat overrated. He never had that "one big season." His career numbers are mostly the result of playing forever. And I hate that he played a final and fruitless season with Detroit rather than retiring as a career Star. But, he did win a Cup, he was easily the most recognizable and popular player in franchise history, and did everything which he was drafted to do. So it's with a grudging reluctance that I rank him this high.
7) Dale Hawerchuk (Jets, 1981) Never won a championship. Never really came close. Was a moody, complaining "coach killer." But the team improved by an NHL record 48 (!) points in his rookie season. That matters. As does his Calder Trophy, his 103 point rookie season (he was the first rookie to achieve this) and his status as THE Winnipeg Jet. He was drafted to produce points, and he did. The franchise's all time leading scorer. A Hall Of Famer. Just not quite at that super elite level.
Part II to follow.
I have tried to reflect this in my rankings. I started with that 1970 Draft and continued on through to the 2008 Draft. I stopped at that year as it is still too early to judge the careers of John Tavares (2009), Taylor Hall (2010), and Ryan Nugent-Hopkins (2011.)
I settled on five criterion for these rankings:
1) Production. The numbers. Goals, Assist, Points. Simple.
2) Impact on the team which drafted them. Were they the "face" of the franchise? Did their being drafted improve the team's fortunes?
3) Hardware. Scoring Champions and MVPS received a higher rank than those whose careers were bereft of awards. Ditto for any Rookies Of The Year (of which there have been surprisingly few.) Stanley Cup championships were given priority because, in theory, the number one pick is meant to be the foundation on which winning teams are built. As we shall see, this often turns out not to be the case. But it's the reason why Vincent Le Cavalier is ranked ahead of Joe Thornton, even though Thornton is the more productive player.
4) Intangibles. Did they live up to the hype? Who was chosen after them? Did they have the "feel" of a number one pick? Was the draft year strong? The 1996 class was so legendarily abysmal that nobody truly deserved to go first.
5) The last consideration I used was simple. Would this player be the first choice if the draft were done over? This is the "hindsight test." Guy Lafleur would still have been the first pick; Dale McCourt would not have been.
These rankings are one man's opinion, and will no doubt be open to much debate. In several cases it was simply too close to call.
Eric Lindros over Dale Hawerchuk? Flip a coin. Pierre Turgeon better than Mats Sundin? If you wish. Who is REALLY the worst of them all? Your choice is as good as mine.
The Rankings:
1) Denis Potvin (Islanders, 1973) This took some soul searching, as Potvin and Mario Lemieux are clearly the two best Number One picks of all time. But I have to give the (very) slight nod to Potvin. Both he and Lemieux won The Calder Trophy Rookie Of the Year.) Both were captains of Stanley Cup teams. But Potvin's impact on the Islanders was immediate. In his first season, the team improved by twenty six points and cut its goals against by one hundred. It became a playoff team in his second season and did not miss the post-season until after his retirement, a streak of fourteen years. In contrast, Mario's teams missed the playoffs in five of his first six seasons. And his two Cup winning teams were hardly in the class of Potvin's dynasty, which won four in a row and NINETEEN consecutive playoff series, marking it as the greatest dynasty in League history. And Potvin had all the rest: Three Norris Trophies as Best Defenceman. Lived up to the hype and then some. Changed the landscape of the organization. Durable. (another edge over Mario.) He was still close to the top of his game when he retired. Plus he was a defenseman, a more challenging position.
Also, I'm an Islanders fan. Biased bonus points.
2) Mario Lemieux (Penguins, 1984) Two Stanley Cups. Three time MVP. Six time scoring champion. An Olympic Gold Medal. Captain. Cancer survivor. Owner. The most exciting offensive player of his generation (Sorry Gretzky fans.) The Penguins all time leading scorer. Mentor to Sidney Crosby. And like Potvin, he never left his team for another. But he lacked, in the early part of his career, Potvin's intense desire to win, and his championship teams never reached the Islanders' level of greatness. But it's closeohsoclose.
3) Guy Lafleur (Canadiens, 1971) For six years, 1974 - 1980, there was not a more dominant and exciting player than "The Flower." Six consecutive 50 goal and 100 point seasons. Four championships. Two MVP awards. Three scoring titles. The Playoff MVP award. The most recognizable hockey personality of his era. The Habs' all time leading scorer. But he wasn't durable later in his career, his numbers and the team faded badly after the retirement of Ken Dryden, and I'm not liking his ill-fated comeback so much. Still, an obvious great. He, Potvin, and Lemieux are the epitomes of what a first overall pick should be.
4) Sidney Crosby (Penguins, 2005) Normally, I would say "too soon," but "Sid the Kid" is a special case. His early career is actually BETTER than Lemieux's: A scoring title and MVP award, an Olympic Gold Medal, a championship AND a second Finals appearance. He makes all those around him better. And, he has avoided the mistakes Mario made at the start of his career (the selfishness and aloofness, the indifference to defence) thanks in no small part to "Le Magnifique" himself. How his concussion issues will play out is a matter of speculation, but few players have accomplished more in such a short period. Keys to the pantheon which houses The Big Three await him.
5) Gilbert Perreault (Sabres, 1970) But he never won a Stanley Cup! True,but he WAS the face of the franchise for fifteen years, he won a bunch of hardware,and he was, after Lafleur, the most dynamic offensive player of his generation. Over two decades after his retirement, he remains Buffalo's career leader in goals, assists, and points. Buffalo was a terrific team and Perreault was its leader. He was certainly flawed, but there have been few better number one picks.
6) Mike Modano (North Stars, 1988) I am not really a Modano fan. He may be the highest scoring American born player in history, but I've always considered him to be somewhat overrated. He never had that "one big season." His career numbers are mostly the result of playing forever. And I hate that he played a final and fruitless season with Detroit rather than retiring as a career Star. But, he did win a Cup, he was easily the most recognizable and popular player in franchise history, and did everything which he was drafted to do. So it's with a grudging reluctance that I rank him this high.
7) Dale Hawerchuk (Jets, 1981) Never won a championship. Never really came close. Was a moody, complaining "coach killer." But the team improved by an NHL record 48 (!) points in his rookie season. That matters. As does his Calder Trophy, his 103 point rookie season (he was the first rookie to achieve this) and his status as THE Winnipeg Jet. He was drafted to produce points, and he did. The franchise's all time leading scorer. A Hall Of Famer. Just not quite at that super elite level.
Part II to follow.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
A Few More Haikus
It's been a while
Since I have made my last post
It's about time, yes?
This blogging business
is fun but time consuming
when life intervenes
Yet I will go on,
to paraphrase Celine
That's Dion, of course
It is the typos,
which need to be corrected,
adding extra time
But I will not post
with any mistakes at all
A Spelling Nazi
Many ideas
for future posting have I
I feel like Yoda
Capitalizing
the letter "Y" in Yoda
makes it a true word
That was a surprise.
Something I did not expect.
Hooray for spell check!
This was a tangent
which I sure knew would happen.
Just go with the flow
But now I must go
This is not my computer
And I am hungry
Plus I grow weary
Well, that was literary!
How fucking artsy!
Has the word "fucking"
appeared in a past haiku?
I've never seen it
I'm trying to stop!
But the words just keep coming
Vocabulary
Okay. That is all
I mean it this time; I do
I'm pressing "publish."
Since I have made my last post
It's about time, yes?
This blogging business
is fun but time consuming
when life intervenes
Yet I will go on,
to paraphrase Celine
That's Dion, of course
It is the typos,
which need to be corrected,
adding extra time
But I will not post
with any mistakes at all
A Spelling Nazi
Many ideas
for future posting have I
I feel like Yoda
Capitalizing
the letter "Y" in Yoda
makes it a true word
That was a surprise.
Something I did not expect.
Hooray for spell check!
This was a tangent
which I sure knew would happen.
Just go with the flow
But now I must go
This is not my computer
And I am hungry
Plus I grow weary
Well, that was literary!
How fucking artsy!
Has the word "fucking"
appeared in a past haiku?
I've never seen it
I'm trying to stop!
But the words just keep coming
Vocabulary
Okay. That is all
I mean it this time; I do
I'm pressing "publish."
Thursday, October 27, 2011
A Little Test
Post started: 1:51 pm.
LOL: Laughing Out Loud
WTF: What The Fuck?
LMAO: Laughing My Ass Off
IMHO: In My Humble Opinion
TTYS: Talk to You Soon
:) Smiling
FB: Facebook
Post Finished: 1:55 pm.
Time spent checking typos, thinking, and dealing with a slow computer: 1min,30secs.
Actual Time It Took To Physically Type This Post: 3min,30sec.
Get It?
STOP WITH THE COMPUTER SHORTHAND! TYPE WORDS WHICH HUMAN BEINGS HAVE BEEN USING FOR CENTURIES! MAKE THE EFFORT!
That is all.
TTYS
LOL: Laughing Out Loud
WTF: What The Fuck?
LMAO: Laughing My Ass Off
IMHO: In My Humble Opinion
TTYS: Talk to You Soon
:) Smiling
FB: Facebook
Post Finished: 1:55 pm.
Time spent checking typos, thinking, and dealing with a slow computer: 1min,30secs.
Actual Time It Took To Physically Type This Post: 3min,30sec.
Get It?
STOP WITH THE COMPUTER SHORTHAND! TYPE WORDS WHICH HUMAN BEINGS HAVE BEEN USING FOR CENTURIES! MAKE THE EFFORT!
That is all.
TTYS
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Haiku Rants
So many air quotes
Fingers wagging up and down
I wish arthritis
Abbreviations
are a sign of laziness
And et cetera
Old ladies in line
slowly putting change away
So oblivious
Cell phones in theatres
Why do you need to be told?
Should be obvious
Extra cigarette?
Last time I checked my package
It came with twenty
The Women's bathroom
What surprise awaits me there?
Use the tampon bags!
A Subway Sandwich
does not require lettuce
Keep those hands off it!
"When's your next show on?"
"I'd really like to see you"
"Sunday? I won't come."
To, two and too, too
Different words! Not the same
It's time t(w)o(o)learn this
Racist You Tube post:
Your words might have some impact
If you learned to spell
Fingers wagging up and down
I wish arthritis
Abbreviations
are a sign of laziness
And et cetera
Old ladies in line
slowly putting change away
So oblivious
Cell phones in theatres
Why do you need to be told?
Should be obvious
Extra cigarette?
Last time I checked my package
It came with twenty
The Women's bathroom
What surprise awaits me there?
Use the tampon bags!
A Subway Sandwich
does not require lettuce
Keep those hands off it!
"When's your next show on?"
"I'd really like to see you"
"Sunday? I won't come."
To, two and too, too
Different words! Not the same
It's time t(w)o(o)learn this
Racist You Tube post:
Your words might have some impact
If you learned to spell
Friday, October 14, 2011
Karen Carpenter And The "Body Image" Myth
Even those people who have never heard a Carpenters song - though I would argue that everybody has, they just may not know it - know that Karen Carpenter suffered from Anorexia Nervosa and that the disorder contributed to her death (technically speaking, she died from a heart attack combined with ipecac poisoning.) She is the "poster woman" for the disease. Most casual observers, and many diehard fans, believe that she had a lifelong problem with her weight. That she was fat, or at the very least, overweight. That she dieted constantly, and was obsessed with "being fat." It doesn't help matters that the 1989 tv movie "The Karen Carpenter Story"- a hideous piece of junk rife with half-truths and outright lies, heavily censored by Big Brother Richard and their mother Agnes - has a scene where a young Karen, reading a review of an early Carpenters performance, sees the words " his chubby sister." This supposedly set her on the path to self-destruction. Which may be possible. Had this incident actually occurred.
But it didn't. "The chubby article," as serious Carpenters fans refer to it, never happened. Randy Schmidt, author of "Little Girl Blue," the (so far) definitive Karen Carpenter biography, and himself a serious Karen fan, has debunked this myth. He did a great amount of research, conducted interviews with dozens of Karen's close friends, acquaintances, and peers. No such story ever appeared. I have conducted hours of my own research, searching through Google archives to find one mention of this story. Nothing. I checked for other articles which may have described Karen Carpenter as "fat," "chubby," "chunky," or "in need of dropping a few pounds."
Nothing. On the contrary, what I DID discover were numerous articles, reviews, and stories which described Karen Carpenter as "foxy," "pretty," "lovely," and "cute." All talked about her voice. Many paid tribute to her prowess as a drummer. A lot of the stories were pop star fluff, of course, describing Karen's "idyllic home life" and talking about her hobbies and future marriage plans. Typical stuff of the day. But not one ever had a mention of her "weight problem."
Not. One.
Fact: Karen Carpenter went on The Stillman Water diet at the age of sixteen. At 5'4", the tomboy Karen weighed 140 pounds. She lost twenty pounds on the diet (done with the consult of a doctor, by the way) and she maintained a weight of 120 lbs. until the end of 1974, when she started to lose weight in a serious, and eventually deadly manner.
The same weight. For nearly eight years. I can't help but gather from this fact that Karen had no serious image or weight issues during this significant chunk of her life.
Fact: Karen Carpenter HATED the Stillman diet. She said this in several interviews in the '70s. She said this long before the Anorexia kicked in, when her words could not be considered a form of denial over her disorder. She hated that she couldn't eat hamburgers and onion rings with the rest of the band.
Fact: Author Schmidt, during the course of his research for "Little Girl Blue," interviewed many of Karen's elementary and high school friends. Not one of them said that they had ever witnessed Karen having any sort of problem with her weight or with eating. All expressed shock that she could become anorectic. Not a single one of her friends, friends to whom she maintained a closeness all of her life, even after she became a worldwide superstar, not a single one of these friends said anything along the lines of "yeah, I kind of saw it coming. She was always dieting and would pick at her food."
Not one.
Fact: Dozens of articles were written about Karen Carpenter in the early part of the '70s. She was everywhere, a sensation. The equivalent to Miley Cyrus and Katy Perry today (though of a completely different caliber of talent.) She was always talking. Not until 1973 did she ever allude to any weight issues. Prior to that time, she spoke of singing, drumming, her family, cooking (she was a gourmet chef, ironically), baseball, and her hopes for the future, amongst other more fluffy subject matter. Her weight, or a desire to lose weight? Never mentioned. Not once.
This does not sound like a woman with a "lifelong" body image issue to me.
Consider: Karen passed away at age thirty two. She began displaying symptoms of eating difficulties at age twenty five. In between, there was The Stillman Diet at age sixteen. By my math, this means that she was seriously ill and losing weight for the last seven or so years of her life. Considering further that she actually made a recovery at age twenty six from her first serious weight loss (not Anorexia, but that will be a future post)we now have six years.
Six years. Out of a life span of thirty two. While certainly a long time to be fighting a sickness, it hardly qualifies as a "lifelong problem."
Many, including poncy psychologists with little or no knowledge of Karen's history, have attributed her being a drummer to the fact that she used the kit to "hide" her body behind. On the surface, this makes perfect sense: a chubby girl with an image problem hiding behind a massive drum set. Until one researches, and discovers that Karen Carpenter LOVED the drums; that she, as I wrote in my first entry, considered herself to be a drummer who happened to sing. She began playing around on the drums at the age of thirteen, following in the shadow of brother Richard. She also wanted an excuse to get out of gym class! She soon became a serious student of drumming, practicing and studying every spare moment that she had. She loved the drums. It was only after much urging from her brother, who told her that "nobody could see her and she needed to be out front," that she finally, reluctantly, gave them up. But she wasn't happy about it and was never the same afterwards. There are ample videos on You Tube showing a laughing and joyful Karen jamming away on the drums. The expression on her face is one of joy, not fearful hiding.
As to Karen's belief in her appearance, well, that's open to interpretation. But in my world, a woman with the severe body image issues she is supposed to have had would not wear a bikini. Would not wear a short skirt with white gogo boots (see "Jerry Dunphy Interviews The Carpenters" and "Carpenters: Battle Of The Bands.") Would not wear a curve hugging, shoulderless dress (see "Carpenters Holland 1974.") She was a beautiful and often sexy woman, and pictures and videos back this up. Throw in her flirtatious manner and the fact that almost every man whom she dated, and many whom she did not, fell head over heels in love with her.
There remains ignorance about Anorexia. It's supposed to be a disease about body image, about sufferers seeing themselves as fat, even when they are skeletal. And in some cases, this is most likely true. But it's a disease, and like any disease, its causes and effects are different. It is a deep and complicated disorder, and its sufferers are often deep and complicated persons. Karen Carpenter was certainly the latter. She had so many layers, and to say that her anorexia stemmed solely, or even primarily, from a desire to "be thin" is to do her a great disservice. In my ideal world, casual and serious Karen fans alike would stop taking things as the gospel truth, would look beyond the diets and the words of her brother, and LOOK, closely LOOK, at so many of the pictures and videos which exist. Would dismiss the tv movie as so much Hollywood exploitation. Would research and read. Analyze. Some do these things, of course. But too many do not.
But it didn't. "The chubby article," as serious Carpenters fans refer to it, never happened. Randy Schmidt, author of "Little Girl Blue," the (so far) definitive Karen Carpenter biography, and himself a serious Karen fan, has debunked this myth. He did a great amount of research, conducted interviews with dozens of Karen's close friends, acquaintances, and peers. No such story ever appeared. I have conducted hours of my own research, searching through Google archives to find one mention of this story. Nothing. I checked for other articles which may have described Karen Carpenter as "fat," "chubby," "chunky," or "in need of dropping a few pounds."
Nothing. On the contrary, what I DID discover were numerous articles, reviews, and stories which described Karen Carpenter as "foxy," "pretty," "lovely," and "cute." All talked about her voice. Many paid tribute to her prowess as a drummer. A lot of the stories were pop star fluff, of course, describing Karen's "idyllic home life" and talking about her hobbies and future marriage plans. Typical stuff of the day. But not one ever had a mention of her "weight problem."
Not. One.
Fact: Karen Carpenter went on The Stillman Water diet at the age of sixteen. At 5'4", the tomboy Karen weighed 140 pounds. She lost twenty pounds on the diet (done with the consult of a doctor, by the way) and she maintained a weight of 120 lbs. until the end of 1974, when she started to lose weight in a serious, and eventually deadly manner.
The same weight. For nearly eight years. I can't help but gather from this fact that Karen had no serious image or weight issues during this significant chunk of her life.
Fact: Karen Carpenter HATED the Stillman diet. She said this in several interviews in the '70s. She said this long before the Anorexia kicked in, when her words could not be considered a form of denial over her disorder. She hated that she couldn't eat hamburgers and onion rings with the rest of the band.
Fact: Author Schmidt, during the course of his research for "Little Girl Blue," interviewed many of Karen's elementary and high school friends. Not one of them said that they had ever witnessed Karen having any sort of problem with her weight or with eating. All expressed shock that she could become anorectic. Not a single one of her friends, friends to whom she maintained a closeness all of her life, even after she became a worldwide superstar, not a single one of these friends said anything along the lines of "yeah, I kind of saw it coming. She was always dieting and would pick at her food."
Not one.
Fact: Dozens of articles were written about Karen Carpenter in the early part of the '70s. She was everywhere, a sensation. The equivalent to Miley Cyrus and Katy Perry today (though of a completely different caliber of talent.) She was always talking. Not until 1973 did she ever allude to any weight issues. Prior to that time, she spoke of singing, drumming, her family, cooking (she was a gourmet chef, ironically), baseball, and her hopes for the future, amongst other more fluffy subject matter. Her weight, or a desire to lose weight? Never mentioned. Not once.
This does not sound like a woman with a "lifelong" body image issue to me.
Consider: Karen passed away at age thirty two. She began displaying symptoms of eating difficulties at age twenty five. In between, there was The Stillman Diet at age sixteen. By my math, this means that she was seriously ill and losing weight for the last seven or so years of her life. Considering further that she actually made a recovery at age twenty six from her first serious weight loss (not Anorexia, but that will be a future post)we now have six years.
Six years. Out of a life span of thirty two. While certainly a long time to be fighting a sickness, it hardly qualifies as a "lifelong problem."
Many, including poncy psychologists with little or no knowledge of Karen's history, have attributed her being a drummer to the fact that she used the kit to "hide" her body behind. On the surface, this makes perfect sense: a chubby girl with an image problem hiding behind a massive drum set. Until one researches, and discovers that Karen Carpenter LOVED the drums; that she, as I wrote in my first entry, considered herself to be a drummer who happened to sing. She began playing around on the drums at the age of thirteen, following in the shadow of brother Richard. She also wanted an excuse to get out of gym class! She soon became a serious student of drumming, practicing and studying every spare moment that she had. She loved the drums. It was only after much urging from her brother, who told her that "nobody could see her and she needed to be out front," that she finally, reluctantly, gave them up. But she wasn't happy about it and was never the same afterwards. There are ample videos on You Tube showing a laughing and joyful Karen jamming away on the drums. The expression on her face is one of joy, not fearful hiding.
As to Karen's belief in her appearance, well, that's open to interpretation. But in my world, a woman with the severe body image issues she is supposed to have had would not wear a bikini. Would not wear a short skirt with white gogo boots (see "Jerry Dunphy Interviews The Carpenters" and "Carpenters: Battle Of The Bands.") Would not wear a curve hugging, shoulderless dress (see "Carpenters Holland 1974.") She was a beautiful and often sexy woman, and pictures and videos back this up. Throw in her flirtatious manner and the fact that almost every man whom she dated, and many whom she did not, fell head over heels in love with her.
There remains ignorance about Anorexia. It's supposed to be a disease about body image, about sufferers seeing themselves as fat, even when they are skeletal. And in some cases, this is most likely true. But it's a disease, and like any disease, its causes and effects are different. It is a deep and complicated disorder, and its sufferers are often deep and complicated persons. Karen Carpenter was certainly the latter. She had so many layers, and to say that her anorexia stemmed solely, or even primarily, from a desire to "be thin" is to do her a great disservice. In my ideal world, casual and serious Karen fans alike would stop taking things as the gospel truth, would look beyond the diets and the words of her brother, and LOOK, closely LOOK, at so many of the pictures and videos which exist. Would dismiss the tv movie as so much Hollywood exploitation. Would research and read. Analyze. Some do these things, of course. But too many do not.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Nothing To LOL About
My favorite comic strip at the moment is "Pearls Before Swine." The gullible pig. The rage-filled croc. The sensible and long suffering goat. All great characters. The best of the best for me, though, is rat. He's arrogant, narcissistic, and cruel. In good ways. He smokes too much and drinks a lot. He's very smart, and he knows it.
In a recent segment of the comic, rat decides that he is going to seriously hurt those who end e-mails and posts with "lol." Did I mention that he's violent as well? In a good way.
In this instance, in a very good way.
Rat hates "lol." And so do I.
Let me add that I dislike all forms of computer shorthand. It's sheer laziness, a by product of the "quick in, quick out" mindset of our current society. Don't take those few extra seconds to actually write the words out, oh no. Heaven forbid that while we're typing out complete sentences, we'll miss being first to download the latest app. Or install that brand new software.
Communication between human beings has been reduced to a continuous stream of unsubtle sound bytes, designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator. Not so many years ago, if I found something to be funny, I would simply say so. I assumed that whomever I was speaking to was intelligent enough to understand me the first time. There was no need to reinforce my feelings by, essentially, NARRATING them.
And you know what? We are all intelligent. Everybody I know, whether friend, foe, or Facebook, is of above average intelligence and perfectly capable of understanding that if I look at a picture of their cat wearing a tuxedo and it gives me the urge to respond, a simple "I like that" or "Cool!" will suffice. It will get my message across.
I see no reason and feel no need to add "lol." Because you know what? Maybe I'm NOT laughing out loud. Maybe I'm merely chuckling. Or maybe I am laughing very hard but trying to stifle it because I'm in a coffee shop. Or maybe I simply don't feel the desire to insult you by reducing my feelings to three letters. Maybe I will tell you that I'm laughing. But if that's the case,I will have the courtesy to take the extra few moments to tell you so. In real words. Without shorthand.
Do you even care that I'm laughing out loud? Is it even true? Maybe I'm just saying that I am. And therein lies another problem with computer shorthand. We don't know for sure what the truth is; we're merely adding letters. But if I see something which reads "this made my day. Thank you" (which, to be fair, I have), than I know that whatever I've chosen to share actually had an impact. It meant something beyond the countless updates and notes and posts we receive daily. It means that the receiver of my message respects me enough to use real words to express them self.
We don't speak to each other in person in this abbreviated manner. We'd be offended if somebody did. We say "nice to meet you" when introduced to a stranger. Nobody would think of saying "NTMY." So why is this acceptable on-line practise?
I do not and will not use computer shorthand. If I enjoy something, I will tell you. If I'm expressing my opinion, I will not write "imho." Because I'm not a ho. I love the English language. Words mean a lot to me. So I will not lessen their impact by cutting them short.
I have to side with the rat on this one.
In a recent segment of the comic, rat decides that he is going to seriously hurt those who end e-mails and posts with "lol." Did I mention that he's violent as well? In a good way.
In this instance, in a very good way.
Rat hates "lol." And so do I.
Let me add that I dislike all forms of computer shorthand. It's sheer laziness, a by product of the "quick in, quick out" mindset of our current society. Don't take those few extra seconds to actually write the words out, oh no. Heaven forbid that while we're typing out complete sentences, we'll miss being first to download the latest app. Or install that brand new software.
Communication between human beings has been reduced to a continuous stream of unsubtle sound bytes, designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator. Not so many years ago, if I found something to be funny, I would simply say so. I assumed that whomever I was speaking to was intelligent enough to understand me the first time. There was no need to reinforce my feelings by, essentially, NARRATING them.
And you know what? We are all intelligent. Everybody I know, whether friend, foe, or Facebook, is of above average intelligence and perfectly capable of understanding that if I look at a picture of their cat wearing a tuxedo and it gives me the urge to respond, a simple "I like that" or "Cool!" will suffice. It will get my message across.
I see no reason and feel no need to add "lol." Because you know what? Maybe I'm NOT laughing out loud. Maybe I'm merely chuckling. Or maybe I am laughing very hard but trying to stifle it because I'm in a coffee shop. Or maybe I simply don't feel the desire to insult you by reducing my feelings to three letters. Maybe I will tell you that I'm laughing. But if that's the case,I will have the courtesy to take the extra few moments to tell you so. In real words. Without shorthand.
Do you even care that I'm laughing out loud? Is it even true? Maybe I'm just saying that I am. And therein lies another problem with computer shorthand. We don't know for sure what the truth is; we're merely adding letters. But if I see something which reads "this made my day. Thank you" (which, to be fair, I have), than I know that whatever I've chosen to share actually had an impact. It meant something beyond the countless updates and notes and posts we receive daily. It means that the receiver of my message respects me enough to use real words to express them self.
We don't speak to each other in person in this abbreviated manner. We'd be offended if somebody did. We say "nice to meet you" when introduced to a stranger. Nobody would think of saying "NTMY." So why is this acceptable on-line practise?
I do not and will not use computer shorthand. If I enjoy something, I will tell you. If I'm expressing my opinion, I will not write "imho." Because I'm not a ho. I love the English language. Words mean a lot to me. So I will not lessen their impact by cutting them short.
I have to side with the rat on this one.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Anagrams
I have posted an "anagram of the day" as my Facebook status update almost daily for nearly three years. I've skipped only about five days in total during this period of time.
Why did I start this? A couple of reasons. First, I wanted to do something a little different than the typical Facebook post, a break from "Hey, come and see my cat performing great scenes from Neil Simon!" and "Going for lunch with Ron and Roy. We're going to eat lynx tongue. Finally!" Second, and more important, I hoped that this might lead to fame. The People Magazine kind of fame. You know what I mean. "Roberta Powell of Truscott, Arizona has ate beans every day since 1988." That kind of fame. And in this era of easy accessibility, it's not as if I'd have to seek People Magazine out. Somebody from the publication would find out about "that Facebook anagram guy," right?
Not yet.
But...I am known, sort of, as "that Facebook anagram guy." My friends do read them. Some even comment. Many seem to "like" the anagrams.
It's become a fun sort of game. I post an anagram-for example, today's was "Asp Spa"- and then a definition in the comments bar. Today was "Cleopatra THOUGHT that she was going to relax." Others can, if they wish, come up with their own definition, phrase, or alternative anagram. It's a great deal of fun, and I receive a strange satisfaction from posting. In fact, when I skip a day, I feel emptier, less complete, as though I've failed to complete a daily chore. I've found that I go through periods when I obsess over anagrams. I see them everywhere. They pop into my head with no warning. I strive to turn every word which I read into an anagram. I often write down a months worth of posts, and I feel an odd sense of pride, or maybe triumph, when I post an anagram which receives several likes and comments. Sometimes I'm too clever ("Sinatra: Art, A Sin" received no airplay) and sometimes some of what I believe are my least inspired and boring ones generate a lot of activity.
I've (re)learned that simple is often best.
So, if People Magazine-or Leno, or Letterman- haven't come a'callin', why haven't I stopped by now?
Simple: I NEED to do this. It's a form of discipline, making that time every day, no matter my physical or emotional state, to post. Sometimes I have to force myself. Good. I need that. Too often in my live I have taken the easy way out, avoided or put off things which I don't want to do.
The anagrams keep my artistic juices flowing. It's a form of creative calisthenics, like a daily visit to the mind gym.
The anagrams make people happy. And I like to put a smile on somebody's face, or a laugh in their heart. Lots of bad news out there today. If I can provide even a one or two minute distraction from all of the unpleasantness, well, that makes me happy.
The anagrams make me look a lot more clever than I am, I hope. So, yeah, they're an ego boost as well.
I love words and wordplay. Very few things give me more pleasure. So, yeah, they're personal and somewhat self-indulgent, too.
I like the fact that I refuse to use one of the myriad anagram finders available online. To me, that's cheating. The anagrams must come from my head. But,....
...occasionally I receive suggestions. I do use them, with due credit. I will not say that something is mine when it isn't. I like reading suggestions. It means that people are playing, and thinking, and engaging in creative talk. All good things.
I've had to google some words to make sure that what I was posting was accurate. I was pretty sure that I knew the definitions of "scion," "pocks," and "monde," but I wasn't comfortably sure. Now I am. I liked doing that little bit of research.
I've read that playing word games may help to stave off Alzheimer's Disease. Nothing frightens me more than the prospect of losing my mind, which I believe to be my strongest suit. If the "anagram game," as some call it, helps to keep my brain strong, I'm all for it.
That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
Why did I start this? A couple of reasons. First, I wanted to do something a little different than the typical Facebook post, a break from "Hey, come and see my cat performing great scenes from Neil Simon!" and "Going for lunch with Ron and Roy. We're going to eat lynx tongue. Finally!" Second, and more important, I hoped that this might lead to fame. The People Magazine kind of fame. You know what I mean. "Roberta Powell of Truscott, Arizona has ate beans every day since 1988." That kind of fame. And in this era of easy accessibility, it's not as if I'd have to seek People Magazine out. Somebody from the publication would find out about "that Facebook anagram guy," right?
Not yet.
But...I am known, sort of, as "that Facebook anagram guy." My friends do read them. Some even comment. Many seem to "like" the anagrams.
It's become a fun sort of game. I post an anagram-for example, today's was "Asp Spa"- and then a definition in the comments bar. Today was "Cleopatra THOUGHT that she was going to relax." Others can, if they wish, come up with their own definition, phrase, or alternative anagram. It's a great deal of fun, and I receive a strange satisfaction from posting. In fact, when I skip a day, I feel emptier, less complete, as though I've failed to complete a daily chore. I've found that I go through periods when I obsess over anagrams. I see them everywhere. They pop into my head with no warning. I strive to turn every word which I read into an anagram. I often write down a months worth of posts, and I feel an odd sense of pride, or maybe triumph, when I post an anagram which receives several likes and comments. Sometimes I'm too clever ("Sinatra: Art, A Sin" received no airplay) and sometimes some of what I believe are my least inspired and boring ones generate a lot of activity.
I've (re)learned that simple is often best.
So, if People Magazine-or Leno, or Letterman- haven't come a'callin', why haven't I stopped by now?
Simple: I NEED to do this. It's a form of discipline, making that time every day, no matter my physical or emotional state, to post. Sometimes I have to force myself. Good. I need that. Too often in my live I have taken the easy way out, avoided or put off things which I don't want to do.
The anagrams keep my artistic juices flowing. It's a form of creative calisthenics, like a daily visit to the mind gym.
The anagrams make people happy. And I like to put a smile on somebody's face, or a laugh in their heart. Lots of bad news out there today. If I can provide even a one or two minute distraction from all of the unpleasantness, well, that makes me happy.
The anagrams make me look a lot more clever than I am, I hope. So, yeah, they're an ego boost as well.
I love words and wordplay. Very few things give me more pleasure. So, yeah, they're personal and somewhat self-indulgent, too.
I like the fact that I refuse to use one of the myriad anagram finders available online. To me, that's cheating. The anagrams must come from my head. But,....
...occasionally I receive suggestions. I do use them, with due credit. I will not say that something is mine when it isn't. I like reading suggestions. It means that people are playing, and thinking, and engaging in creative talk. All good things.
I've had to google some words to make sure that what I was posting was accurate. I was pretty sure that I knew the definitions of "scion," "pocks," and "monde," but I wasn't comfortably sure. Now I am. I liked doing that little bit of research.
I've read that playing word games may help to stave off Alzheimer's Disease. Nothing frightens me more than the prospect of losing my mind, which I believe to be my strongest suit. If the "anagram game," as some call it, helps to keep my brain strong, I'm all for it.
That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
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