Saturday, February 21, 2009
the reader, 2008
What we feel isn't important..it's utterly unimportant. The only question is what we do. If people like you don't learn from what happened to people like me, then what the hell is the point of anything?
Friday, February 20, 2009
a retrospective
Thanks, local pals, for making my golden day so much fun through the years. It wouldn't have been the same without ya! Here's clinking a glass to our 4Th Annual Oscars in the Ozarks coming up this Sunday!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
balderdash blockbusters
Now that Joachin's gone off the deep end and Ryan Seacrest may very well be taking over the world..Hollywood is becoming a scary place, ladies and germs! Maybe it's time we little people take the reins. Mama is definately not a sports fan but this..now this is something I can play!
Fantasy Oscar!
Fantasy Oscar!
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
origin of the feces
Well, Valentines Day was heating up to be a fine one. Not in the sex dept. as my husband works all holidays, but when it came to sugar and scandal. it was fab. On my right side were a hot cup of joe and a box of Ferrero Rocher. On my left- the highly anticipated annual February Hollywood edition, Oscar loving Vanity Fair, of course. Hey, when you're a mom in the Ozarks and can't zip your jeans, it's the little things in life that can make you absolutely blissful. And blissful, I was...all cushed up in my soft, fluffy robe, elastic free jammie bottoms, size XL. Yep, I was headed toward a delicious morning. Then noon came, the fantasy ended, hubby took off to work and the kids began bouncing off the walls. I had to think of something quick. So one hour later, we were poolside..indoor poolside, of course. I thought it advantageous for the girls to have some time in the water. in keeping up with their swimming skills for all of the summer hell..er, I mean summer fun that we'll be having before too long. Besides, rug rats have a right to enjoy Heart Day, too, ya know. They completely possess my ole ticker, so it was only fitting the rest of the day would belong to them.
Everything was going pretty good as I kicked back in the chair watching them perform their splashy games and....oh, yeah, Mama is NOT about to get in a swimsuit. No way, Jose. I simply can not go there. I figure that Hillary Duff will most likely win an Academy Award before I ever have the guts to let any of it hang out again. Sadly, I think those days are over. Unless, Big Daddy's bonus check next month can cover about ten grand worth of body sculpting. Yes, even though this was a retirement community pool with no one under the age of 70, a gal's gotta have a little self respect...so I chose to stay fully engulfed in my sweats, cap and henley. As you're reading this, I am sure it is becoming quite apparent that although I've written and complained on this blog about the extra pounds I've been toting around for four months now....the sidewalks and barbells are still calling Mama's name...but she's letting it go straight to voicemail. I hope, eventually, that I'm inspired to do something as my Levi's are very close to stopping mid-thigh on the big tug...much less getting around to the zipping part of the nightmare.
I absolutely do not know what it is about my youngest, but for some odd reason when she gets in the water, her colon kicks into high gear. It's weird. Of course, coupled with her fascination of using every bathroom in town (much to my germ obsessed dismay) we found ourselves, like always, going through the whole spiel of shoes back on, toys put off to the side, towels around shoulders..etc. No sooner had we got back into the pool just minutes later, my little T. hollers from her flaming pink noodle, "Mom-mom, I have to poop again". Before I could swear under my breath and begin the whole song and dance one more time..all the while making a futile attempt to explain to W. why she can not stay alone in the pool while I busy myself with her sissy....T. was standing on the side, having pulled herself up from the ladder, both hands over her rump, grimacing. I quickly gathered the flip-flops, readying all to visit the john a second time when...wham. Or should I say splat. Actually, splat times three. Yep, my wee one couldn't hold back and there ya have it. Not one but three piles of it. Right there. Poolside. With approximately..I dunno..about 25 peeps watching it all unfold. Yes, I was having my Slumdog moment. Except minus the Oscar. Oy triple vey. I announced to the swimmers, that "We have a bio-hazard here, folks"...and then ran like a bat outta hell with the girls to the potty to suds, rinse and raid the joint of all cleaning supplies. I'm sure they probably thought I was going to get in my car and put the pedal to the metal (don't think it didn't occur to me)...but return, we did, in about five minutes or so, to three steaming piles of third-world glop and a stranger who looked a little like Bea Arthur, holding a jumbo can of spray disinfectant in her hand. "Accidents happen", I say. "Yes, they do", she said, shoving the can and about 28 paper towels in my arms.
So it was there I scrubbed. For roughly twenty minutes..on my hands and knees.. while jerking my head up and down like a turkey trying to keep an eye on my two mermaids while also performing an intricate nauseating tango with the swimming mats. They had recently replaced the squarely interwoven, easy to clean kind, with these super tiny slitted ones. A Q-tip and a jet-fueled, high powered spray blower would have been nice but I had to do it the old fashioned way- with elbow grease and utter humiliation. The good news was that everyone was more than happy to accommodate me by using the other ladder on the far side of the pool. T. begged me to go into the hot tub at the end of our Jaws nightmare, but 'uh-uh, no way', I said. 'Let's not bring any heat onto the subject'. Needless to say, I used a water glass for my wine that night after tucking my little love bugs into bed.
Yes, many say Valentines Day is just a commercialized tool for retailers. I say it is definitely all about love...no ifs, ands or butts about it.
Everything was going pretty good as I kicked back in the chair watching them perform their splashy games and....oh, yeah, Mama is NOT about to get in a swimsuit. No way, Jose. I simply can not go there. I figure that Hillary Duff will most likely win an Academy Award before I ever have the guts to let any of it hang out again. Sadly, I think those days are over. Unless, Big Daddy's bonus check next month can cover about ten grand worth of body sculpting. Yes, even though this was a retirement community pool with no one under the age of 70, a gal's gotta have a little self respect...so I chose to stay fully engulfed in my sweats, cap and henley. As you're reading this, I am sure it is becoming quite apparent that although I've written and complained on this blog about the extra pounds I've been toting around for four months now....the sidewalks and barbells are still calling Mama's name...but she's letting it go straight to voicemail. I hope, eventually, that I'm inspired to do something as my Levi's are very close to stopping mid-thigh on the big tug...much less getting around to the zipping part of the nightmare.
I absolutely do not know what it is about my youngest, but for some odd reason when she gets in the water, her colon kicks into high gear. It's weird. Of course, coupled with her fascination of using every bathroom in town (much to my germ obsessed dismay) we found ourselves, like always, going through the whole spiel of shoes back on, toys put off to the side, towels around shoulders..etc. No sooner had we got back into the pool just minutes later, my little T. hollers from her flaming pink noodle, "Mom-mom, I have to poop again". Before I could swear under my breath and begin the whole song and dance one more time..all the while making a futile attempt to explain to W. why she can not stay alone in the pool while I busy myself with her sissy....T. was standing on the side, having pulled herself up from the ladder, both hands over her rump, grimacing. I quickly gathered the flip-flops, readying all to visit the john a second time when...wham. Or should I say splat. Actually, splat times three. Yep, my wee one couldn't hold back and there ya have it. Not one but three piles of it. Right there. Poolside. With approximately..I dunno..about 25 peeps watching it all unfold. Yes, I was having my Slumdog moment. Except minus the Oscar. Oy triple vey. I announced to the swimmers, that "We have a bio-hazard here, folks"...and then ran like a bat outta hell with the girls to the potty to suds, rinse and raid the joint of all cleaning supplies. I'm sure they probably thought I was going to get in my car and put the pedal to the metal (don't think it didn't occur to me)...but return, we did, in about five minutes or so, to three steaming piles of third-world glop and a stranger who looked a little like Bea Arthur, holding a jumbo can of spray disinfectant in her hand. "Accidents happen", I say. "Yes, they do", she said, shoving the can and about 28 paper towels in my arms.
So it was there I scrubbed. For roughly twenty minutes..on my hands and knees.. while jerking my head up and down like a turkey trying to keep an eye on my two mermaids while also performing an intricate nauseating tango with the swimming mats. They had recently replaced the squarely interwoven, easy to clean kind, with these super tiny slitted ones. A Q-tip and a jet-fueled, high powered spray blower would have been nice but I had to do it the old fashioned way- with elbow grease and utter humiliation. The good news was that everyone was more than happy to accommodate me by using the other ladder on the far side of the pool. T. begged me to go into the hot tub at the end of our Jaws nightmare, but 'uh-uh, no way', I said. 'Let's not bring any heat onto the subject'. Needless to say, I used a water glass for my wine that night after tucking my little love bugs into bed.
Yes, many say Valentines Day is just a commercialized tool for retailers. I say it is definitely all about love...no ifs, ands or butts about it.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
i'd like to thank...
Oh, get over yourself. You know you want it. And you know you've done it. In the shower, in front of the bathroom mirror, on the sofa..drunk..after everyone's left your party. Oh, yeah. You dream of holding that bald dude in your hot, sweaty little palms.
And with this recession. Who wouldn't?
And with this recession. Who wouldn't?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
the knob
A woman visited a plastic surgeon who told her about a new procedure called 'The Knob,' where a small knob is placed at the top of the woman's head and could be turned to tighten up her skin and produce the effect of a brand new face-lift. Of course, the woman wanted 'The Knob.'
Over the next few years, the woman continued tightening the knob, and the effects were wonderful...she remained young looking and vibrant.
After about fifteen years, the woman returned to the surgeon with two problems.
"Dr., all this time, everything has been working just fine. I've had to turn the knob many times and I've always loved the results. But now I've developed two annoying problems: First, I have these terrible bags under my eyes and the knob won't get rid of them."
The doctor looked at her closely and said, "Those aren't bags, those are your breasts."
"Oh', she said, 'Well, I guess there's no point in asking about the goatee."
Over the next few years, the woman continued tightening the knob, and the effects were wonderful...she remained young looking and vibrant.
After about fifteen years, the woman returned to the surgeon with two problems.
"Dr., all this time, everything has been working just fine. I've had to turn the knob many times and I've always loved the results. But now I've developed two annoying problems: First, I have these terrible bags under my eyes and the knob won't get rid of them."
The doctor looked at her closely and said, "Those aren't bags, those are your breasts."
"Oh', she said, 'Well, I guess there's no point in asking about the goatee."
Sunday, February 8, 2009
thespis and the golden curl
Well, we lost another goodie. I thought it fitting since February is the month o' the Oscar that I would mourn a little bit over the recent passing of one of our finest actors, James Whitmore. At least one of mine anyway. What a wonderful career..a life of 87 years that worked up until the very, very end. IMDb the dude if ya wanna see a nice resume. He inspired me when my young actor self was emerging and he still does while I sit in the hills of them thar Ozarks, nary a klieg in sight.
Speaking of sitting in the hills, they were ice-covered recently...for almost a week! I guess my pals up North would say, 'wa-wa cry me a river' but, oy, what slippery madness. W. was elated as she got four whole snow days, right at the same time her daddy was off for three...the lucky recipient of an extra day thrown in as the restaurant had to close up shop. Then to make it even cozier, you fold me and a certain corkscrew-topped three year old human/ferret into the mix, and before you know it, you have yourself a family drama that souffles itself right on into a too-close-for-comfort situation. Listen, I love my brood, (and I did get a chance to squeeze in an Oscar nom'd flick or two), but after several days of dwindling fridge contents, sore hip flexors that can't endure the biting cold, a DC 10 indoor decibel level and the booze running dry by day two...well, you get the idea. There's only so much Monopoly and Potato Buds a gal can take. This mama almost went a little hairy-'carrie' with her Piper Laurie self. And the picture couldn't get any more epic for two reasons- my T. cut a huge wad out of her fantastically beautiful, ethereal locks...just above her right ear, exclaiming, "I have short hair now, Mommy!" and then the only thing my pathetic ex-Californian maternal self could provide for my little caged bald bird to sled on, was a lid to one of my plastic storage bins holding 15 years of old tax returns. Yes, no matter how loud you squeal and how hard you try to pretzel yourself atop it, a square edge just doesn't cut it in the aerodynamics department.
But we made it. We survived. No one was murdered. And thanks to global warming, had a nice park day on Friday. In the '60's. Go figure. But getting back to what's really important- acting (at least for this month anyway). Mr. Whitmore....proud possessor of a globe, an Emmy, a Tony and a Academy Award nom, without an icicle among 'em. And he could still go into a restaurant, sit down, and have some nosh in peace. There aren't many peeps who have the luscious karma and career opportunities of pulling off a Truman, a Will Rogers and a Teddy Roosevelt and even get to play in the sandbox of my fave T.V. show ever- Twilight Zone! Once you throw in some Planet of the Apes, a cowboy-booted Western or two and four wives...you have yourself a pretty interesting life and career. And it's always nice, of course, when you can pad the will for your youngins with some Miracle Gro. I can't help but mist up just thinking about him in Shawshank Redemption. That movie slays me. I loved it and he was wonderful in it. I think that quiet, contemplative, sweet performance is what I will remember most about him. Rest well, Mr. W. Come back around and see us again soon. We need craftsman like you. As most days, it seems like we're lost in the plains of Hannah Montana.
Speaking of sitting in the hills, they were ice-covered recently...for almost a week! I guess my pals up North would say, 'wa-wa cry me a river' but, oy, what slippery madness. W. was elated as she got four whole snow days, right at the same time her daddy was off for three...the lucky recipient of an extra day thrown in as the restaurant had to close up shop. Then to make it even cozier, you fold me and a certain corkscrew-topped three year old human/ferret into the mix, and before you know it, you have yourself a family drama that souffles itself right on into a too-close-for-comfort situation. Listen, I love my brood, (and I did get a chance to squeeze in an Oscar nom'd flick or two), but after several days of dwindling fridge contents, sore hip flexors that can't endure the biting cold, a DC 10 indoor decibel level and the booze running dry by day two...well, you get the idea. There's only so much Monopoly and Potato Buds a gal can take. This mama almost went a little hairy-'carrie' with her Piper Laurie self. And the picture couldn't get any more epic for two reasons- my T. cut a huge wad out of her fantastically beautiful, ethereal locks...just above her right ear, exclaiming, "I have short hair now, Mommy!" and then the only thing my pathetic ex-Californian maternal self could provide for my little caged bald bird to sled on, was a lid to one of my plastic storage bins holding 15 years of old tax returns. Yes, no matter how loud you squeal and how hard you try to pretzel yourself atop it, a square edge just doesn't cut it in the aerodynamics department.
But we made it. We survived. No one was murdered. And thanks to global warming, had a nice park day on Friday. In the '60's. Go figure. But getting back to what's really important- acting (at least for this month anyway). Mr. Whitmore....proud possessor of a globe, an Emmy, a Tony and a Academy Award nom, without an icicle among 'em. And he could still go into a restaurant, sit down, and have some nosh in peace. There aren't many peeps who have the luscious karma and career opportunities of pulling off a Truman, a Will Rogers and a Teddy Roosevelt and even get to play in the sandbox of my fave T.V. show ever- Twilight Zone! Once you throw in some Planet of the Apes, a cowboy-booted Western or two and four wives...you have yourself a pretty interesting life and career. And it's always nice, of course, when you can pad the will for your youngins with some Miracle Gro. I can't help but mist up just thinking about him in Shawshank Redemption. That movie slays me. I loved it and he was wonderful in it. I think that quiet, contemplative, sweet performance is what I will remember most about him. Rest well, Mr. W. Come back around and see us again soon. We need craftsman like you. As most days, it seems like we're lost in the plains of Hannah Montana.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
red, white and bruce
When it comes to digging on pig skin and tailgates, I didn't get a gene for either one. And, hell, I don't even like chicken wings but for twelve minutes last night, I couldn't have imagined spending my time any better. Somewhere between the apple pie and Chevrolet is a little guy from Jersey who's big sound helps to define our nation....a hodge podge of color, smarts and chutzpah with the pining of a broken heart and an empty wallet or two thrown in whether we like it or not. That's America, baby. Springsteen proves time and time again why he is The Boss. When you have the big phallic fireworks blowing up behind ya and you can twirl a guitar like that around your 59 year old hip on the downbeat..well, you are da man and there is just nothin' nobody can do about it. Someone who was born to run it, rock it and lift us when we need it most....he's the mascot we can all use right now and a great way to start off the new year with our new leader toward new beginnings. My kids aren't quite there yet, but that will change. Right now, if Belle isn't on the stage, twirling in yellow, then it just doesn't cut it. Besides, boys are stinky, Mom. For this old gal though, that mini-set was exactly what I wanted. And along with my Big Gulp of Merlot, just what I needed. Yessir, between that and our historic election, I may just pull myself out of this seasonal depression yet.
Friday, January 30, 2009
arts and crafts
And the gold dust fell softly..quietly. My movie season has begun. I watched Richard Jenkins in The Visitor the other night and it was a beautiful performance. Understated, reserved, a smidgen of loneliness and deep. Just like a college prof oughta be. I love this guy. He is always consistent, really funny when the time calls for it and has had a lovely career. It’s nice those others who aren’t an actor-type might discover his films and treat themselves to some good, solid stuff. As I said last year, it is often the whispers that end up tougher for a thespian than the tour de force blasters. And, oh yeah, I did it! The impossible happened. Yep, Mama has watched a silly comedy. I had to...Downey was nom’d! I must admit, I laughed a little. Okay, okay..I laughed a few times. He was very funny but I still say Nolte stole the film. And Ben Stiller’s guns were definitely worth the four bucks. The fleshy ones, people. Not the AK’s.
I am looking forward to seeing all of the Best Pictures and am having a ball gearing up for our 4Th Annual Oscars in the Ozarks . Who knew it would become the party of the year? Well, I guess I am pushing the truth just a wee bit, but still, where else can ya win a fistful of of ballot-pool dollars, an irreverent door prize valued at no less than five big ones, laughs, booze and a priceless keepsake party favor..all for the one low price of a cheese platter? At any rate, it sure beats sitting at home on your plump rear end, watching it all by your lonesome, tipsy, embittered and pondering why-it-never-happened-for-you. Wait a second, that was me in 1991 before my boys came along. And thank goodness, their golden gay selves did!
Yes, the hubby and I look forward to it every year and underneath all the silliness and idolatry, it really is about the art and the precious gift of cinema, and not the “best” of anything. It is the one time o’ year, when we can just mellow out over this big, bad crazy world and bathe or right lobes in the art of acting, the grand epic of story and light, and in my case, the cathartic spillage of excess emotion. Yeah, that's me alright. A big ole drama queen with the water works gene. Hey, it’s my best, most therapeutic sob of the year. It gets me all cleared out to deal with the other 11 months of reality T.V. I have to face. Being a Fitzgerald fan, I can not wait to see his little Benjamin Button short story come to life. Since he spent some agonizing years out in Hollyweird trying to find his center through the scotch and all the cutthroats, I am sure he would roll around in that coffin of his, if he knew what a dough making success it has become. Ah..the ironies of life, Mr. F. And it was helmed by the guy who brought us Seven. Who knew?
Yes, Big Daddy is armed with his X-Acto blade and foam core, poised to breathe some life into my brain-warped ideas and loony inspirations. Thank goodness, we have an artist in the fam, or I’d be up crappo creek without him, folks. I'm sure glad I married a Danny Kaye instead of a Brett Favre, for sure. Our girls are also excited to be a part of it per usual. W.’s already fighting me over wanting to watch all the higher than PG-raters. Nope, says Ma. I bribe them with candy to stay in their rooms...it works, too! (Thank the stars for Dum-Dums!) Poor kid only scored one nominee- WALL-E. And they are fast at work picking out what shoes they will step into with their glittered couture. Oh, alright..their WalMart 50% off specials from last years clearance rack. Hey, I’m a stay-at-homer on a budget, what's a gal to do? When one of them grows up and gets to go to the real show and win one of those suckers, they’ll make up for it. And I am most certain they will have their Mama Rose right there watching. First row. Front and center.
I am looking forward to seeing all of the Best Pictures and am having a ball gearing up for our 4Th Annual Oscars in the Ozarks . Who knew it would become the party of the year? Well, I guess I am pushing the truth just a wee bit, but still, where else can ya win a fistful of of ballot-pool dollars, an irreverent door prize valued at no less than five big ones, laughs, booze and a priceless keepsake party favor..all for the one low price of a cheese platter? At any rate, it sure beats sitting at home on your plump rear end, watching it all by your lonesome, tipsy, embittered and pondering why-it-never-happened-for-you. Wait a second, that was me in 1991 before my boys came along. And thank goodness, their golden gay selves did!
Yes, the hubby and I look forward to it every year and underneath all the silliness and idolatry, it really is about the art and the precious gift of cinema, and not the “best” of anything. It is the one time o’ year, when we can just mellow out over this big, bad crazy world and bathe or right lobes in the art of acting, the grand epic of story and light, and in my case, the cathartic spillage of excess emotion. Yeah, that's me alright. A big ole drama queen with the water works gene. Hey, it’s my best, most therapeutic sob of the year. It gets me all cleared out to deal with the other 11 months of reality T.V. I have to face. Being a Fitzgerald fan, I can not wait to see his little Benjamin Button short story come to life. Since he spent some agonizing years out in Hollyweird trying to find his center through the scotch and all the cutthroats, I am sure he would roll around in that coffin of his, if he knew what a dough making success it has become. Ah..the ironies of life, Mr. F. And it was helmed by the guy who brought us Seven. Who knew?
Yes, Big Daddy is armed with his X-Acto blade and foam core, poised to breathe some life into my brain-warped ideas and loony inspirations. Thank goodness, we have an artist in the fam, or I’d be up crappo creek without him, folks. I'm sure glad I married a Danny Kaye instead of a Brett Favre, for sure. Our girls are also excited to be a part of it per usual. W.’s already fighting me over wanting to watch all the higher than PG-raters. Nope, says Ma. I bribe them with candy to stay in their rooms...it works, too! (Thank the stars for Dum-Dums!) Poor kid only scored one nominee- WALL-E. And they are fast at work picking out what shoes they will step into with their glittered couture. Oh, alright..their WalMart 50% off specials from last years clearance rack. Hey, I’m a stay-at-homer on a budget, what's a gal to do? When one of them grows up and gets to go to the real show and win one of those suckers, they’ll make up for it. And I am most certain they will have their Mama Rose right there watching. First row. Front and center.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
air and simple gifts
The inaugural was perfecto. My hubby and I sat with our whiny, wiggling three year old.."Mommy, but you promised me you'd play the Princess Memory Card game! Turn this off!" and watched history being made. Elizabeth Alexander highlighted the inaugural with her poetic splendor and Aretha got it going on with song. John William's quartet piece was perfect, laced with a bit of Copeland, (my fave..played as me and the ole ball and chain walked down the aisle after getting hitched)...and to see a Jew, an Asian, an African-American and a Latina bring it's notes to life moved me beyond measure. That's America, friends!
Dr. Lowery was fab and his words were especially poignant. Just to think...shoulder to shoulder he stood with MLK himself, and on this sunny, crisp, beautiful day in January, after 87 long years on this old ball of rock..got to see everything he's dreamed of and thought he'd never be able to see in his lifetime. Don't even get Mama going on Obama and his magnificent speech. Oh, hallelujah...to have an orator again...it gets this old gal all verklempt. And was I the only one blubbering? I looked for my pal, Jesse, but couldn't find him. I knew he'd be right there with me. I told my hubby if that were his bespeckled self, standing with his hand on Lincoln's 148 year old Bible, no less than 2 million peeps whooping and hollering, I'd be snotting up a storm. Oh, well, I guess that's why I never went into politics. Emotional basket case.
Yesiree, ladies and gents, our new and genuine Mr. President looked hip and cool from head to toe sitting down to chow on his duck breast with cherry chutney and herb roasted pheasant while I munched on some leftover spaghetti and a slice of wheat bread. Oh, yeah..and one tiny slurp of lime Perrier since W. drank it all last night. Blast her. Ms. Michele, all newly birthday-ed, was simply divine in that gold number (just in time for Oscars!) and her munchkins were cutie-patooties in their fashions. Oh, what a glorious morning, and what a red, white and blue Grey Goose fete it will be as the lucky few get to dance and sparkle their way through the Balls. Wish I could be there, but Geez has a closing shift tonight. Bummer.
P.S.) And no, I didn't leave Mr. Warren out of my commentary by mistake.
Dr. Lowery was fab and his words were especially poignant. Just to think...shoulder to shoulder he stood with MLK himself, and on this sunny, crisp, beautiful day in January, after 87 long years on this old ball of rock..got to see everything he's dreamed of and thought he'd never be able to see in his lifetime. Don't even get Mama going on Obama and his magnificent speech. Oh, hallelujah...to have an orator again...it gets this old gal all verklempt. And was I the only one blubbering? I looked for my pal, Jesse, but couldn't find him. I knew he'd be right there with me. I told my hubby if that were his bespeckled self, standing with his hand on Lincoln's 148 year old Bible, no less than 2 million peeps whooping and hollering, I'd be snotting up a storm. Oh, well, I guess that's why I never went into politics. Emotional basket case.
Yesiree, ladies and gents, our new and genuine Mr. President looked hip and cool from head to toe sitting down to chow on his duck breast with cherry chutney and herb roasted pheasant while I munched on some leftover spaghetti and a slice of wheat bread. Oh, yeah..and one tiny slurp of lime Perrier since W. drank it all last night. Blast her. Ms. Michele, all newly birthday-ed, was simply divine in that gold number (just in time for Oscars!) and her munchkins were cutie-patooties in their fashions. Oh, what a glorious morning, and what a red, white and blue Grey Goose fete it will be as the lucky few get to dance and sparkle their way through the Balls. Wish I could be there, but Geez has a closing shift tonight. Bummer.
P.S.) And no, I didn't leave Mr. Warren out of my commentary by mistake.
the pulse of morning
by MAYA ANGELOU
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot ...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot ...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
