A date on an almanc

Thirty one years?
It can't be.

Last night started a couple of days off from the site where I do the Birthday lists for an Almanac I started about 5 or 6 years ago, give or take. If I had the time, I'd start a new blog just for a (maybe) cleaned up version. Ricola, who stepped in along with his friend Todd4212  and took over the birthdays portion when I moved to Brookline a few years back, is filling in, bless him. I mention this in case he should stop by, so he'll know how much I really do appreciate this. The site where the list has been kept had some sort of storage crash back in October. The Birthday section had grown quite a bit over the years, every person mentioned had at least one picture. Several different people contributed regularly to it. Huge portions of the image library vanished overnight. I still have about 6 months of the original Almanac in my files, and Ricola and Todd's work on it is on a different server (a very wise move). The current owner of the site has been getting a good portion of the broken links fixed as he recovers the libraries. Even so, there were a number of days in November where I was finding and replacing close to 98 images a day. I could go on, but I won't. The thing I'm getting to is that the site  was originally started in the early days of the web by the late Marvin Jones, who was quite a character. Some years back, Marv was known for his Christmas Cards. I had one friend from my NYC days, Tom Toth, who used to send privately printed cards with Christmas scenes featuring his favorite actress Carole Lombard. I saved them all, but they are either in storage hell or maybe they're with everything else that has gone missing over the years. But he had nothing on Marv, who knew many of the early exploitation guys in Hollywood. The sample of his cards which follow were done years before computers and photoshop, and date to an era in which such imagery just wasn't done.

So, anyway, this morning I checked into the site to read the Almanac, where upon I had one of those unstuck in time moments. I see Laura over at Austanspace went on the journey, too.

It was 1980. I was living in a studio apartment in New York City's Greenwich Village. I have no idea if I was watching something on tv that night or if I just had it on. It was my habit to watch the 11pm news on the ABC o&o, Channel 7. There was a football game ending. Howard Cosell said something, What? WHAT? I think it was Rose Ann Scamardella who suddenly appeared  repeating the story as the intro into the news.

A minute or two later, the phone rang. "Who would be so crazy as to shoot John Lennon?" It was my best friend, Jerry Campbell. He was in Los Angeles directing a workshop rehearsal of a script in development called "Without Reservations". Someone has passed him a note, and he had briefly stopped the rehearsal to call. Jerry did not do such things. That's how big this was. ABC had a reporter outside the hospital. I shushed Jerry. They had just confirmed that John Lennon was dead.

So many people flocked to his home at the Dakota that the police closed the streets. I think the subway stop was closed, too. It wasn't even 11:15pm yet.

The next day I had an appointment a block away from the Dakota. I had to go three blocks out of my way and then double back just to get there.

Yoko, seeking a respite from the crowd, asked everyone to meet at Lennon's favorite spot in the park a few days later. There was to be no funeral, and instead of a memorial ceremony, she asked for Lennon's death to be mourned with 10 minutes of silence.

It was a Sunday afternoon. The picture on the tv faded to a picture of Lennon. Not just the channel I had on, but every channel. Every channel. Radio stations fell silent. No rock and roll. No country and western. Nothing. There was nothing. There was silence everywhere. Slowly, almost every radio and tv station in New York City began playing "Imagine".

Thirty one years.
So many of my friends from those days are gone.
And I still miss them, even though I got used to it.
The rest of my world has changed a few times since then, too.
I moved to Boston, and then later here to Brattleboro.
But I still remember.
And I'm not the only one.

Fast away the old world passes

Christmas, always a mixed bag of emotions, has just gotten a little sadder. On Saturday night, I saw a news story on the 11pm news out of Burlington. The story was expanded upon on the Sunday news show. Santa's Land, an old school amusement park just up the road in Putney is closing for good. Again.

Developed, built, and opened in  1957 by WOR radio co-founder Jack Poppele (also from New Jersey), the place has been a family visit tradition for a few generations now.

It is just north of Putney on Route 5, which used to be a major highway. Times change. Insurance prices skyrocket. Gas for a day trip becomes prohibitive. I wish I still had a car. Not only would I rush up there to have my picture taken with Santa and see the place, but I'd take a cake or something else for a wake to the Wells family who restored and ran the place these last few years.

I remember when it was closed, overgrown with weeds, seedy. I loved it and wanted to get inside in the worst way. It would have made a great set for a horror film. I would have had a field day photographing it.

I was once in a car being driven by a friend on the south shore of Massachusetts, just a bit  before the where one would turn onto the Cape. I saw a tiny abandoned park out of the corner of my eye. My friend agreed to stop long enough for me to take a picture through the chain link fence surrounding the place.

Such scenes have a kind of grandeur all their own, mixed with a bit of sadness, and a bit of Killer Klowns from Outer Space weirdness. My favorite "motivational poster" also uses.... well, just look:

At any rate, it is no secret that I have a love for old amusement parks, and for abandoned buildings, remnants of a time gone by, that sort of thing. If anyone out there believes in special kindnesses to aging blogsters and wishes to know what I'd like for Christmas, well.... hint hint.  And don't forget lots of money to add things like a monorail - at least then I can count on Chris over at ibrattleboro purchasing a few tickets.

I've never been inside Santa's Land, so I poked around the web a bit and found this map/brochure kind of thing:

I come from a family of pack rats. It was a huge relief to me to discover this and know that I could blame my insanity on someone. It's because of this tendency that I am able to pull this out of my files: from the Brattleboro Reformer, a little good natured promo for the 2005 reopening of Santa's Land (I did try to fix the color fading & etc., and the first three scans should be clickable for enlarging ):

So let's lift one to Santa's Land. 

It's the kind of place that they just don't make anymore.

The last word, so to speak, belong (as it should) to the Poppeles.

 

Christmas album art

While writing that last post, two great things happened. I realized that this is the perfect time to start this post, and I noticed that our Scottish friend had been Scribblin' again. These two are inter-related as I would hope that he'll find this post and be amused, or at the very least decide he's been challenged to an awful album art contest. And Christmas album art, at that!

Here beginith our meditation upon midnights, clear or otherwise:

Well, that was fun. Blogger decided that it wouldn't allow me to update and save my page after I started adding graphics.  Then, I couldn't sign in to my own account. After that, a search showed that my blog didn't exist! Several weeks ago, Blogger put up a new interface, and I really liked it. The very next day, I got an error message that Blogger no longer supported my browser, IE9. Naturally, since Blogger is owned by Google, the Google Chrome browser is the browser of corporate choice.

This sort of thing will, of course, be continued.

You have been warned.

Inappropriate connections

There is one thing about reaching the age I have (61) that leaves me both wryly amused and/or horrified. Browsing through various Christmas/Holiday music posts on Usenet, looking for nothing in particular, I stumbled across an album titled "The Christmas in You". As if that title weren't already waaaay up on the "you know that has to be dreck" list, you'd have to be around my age to appreciate the effect of noticing that the artist is one Jill Johnson. Thanks to age and the desperate need to upgrade 13 year old or so glasses, I read the performer as "Jill Johnston". She was a one time dance critic for the Village Voice in New York City, and the daughter of a nurse and a man whose family clock maker firm designed and built the carillon for the Riverside Church.

As the 1960's gave way to the 1970's, she lost her capital letters and began writing about sexual politics, becoming one of the founders of the lesbian separatist movement. The idea of that jill johnston recording an album of Christmas music can only be trumped by the idea of what she would say about the album recorded by Jill Johnson.

See, part of the problem with these little synapse breaks taken by our dancing neurons is that while they are often drolly amusing, their humor is often destroyed by attempt to try to explain them. Now, this kind of thing happens to me all the time these days, but I rarely remember them. This little less than a gem just happened to occur when I had a window available to post it into this blog. I'll try to remember some of these as time goes by so I can post them here. In the meantime, who out there has a favorite to share from their own reading and comprehension escapades?

In case you get to wondering, the song list for this album did have a little potential:

I mean, "Blame It on Christmas"? That could be potential holiday song gold, right? Ehhh, wrong!  Country western pop. Not unexpected you know. She has an okay voice and presentation. But the blame she's laying is that she misses you so, or was that she misses God so? I don't really want to listen to it again to find out. Yeah, the operative word is "dreck" allright.
       
           

here the angelic voices

After yesterday's missive, Laura (Austanspace) sent me a link to a Joey McIntyre performance of "O, Holy Night" from a year or two ago. (Thanks, Laura!) It was one of those videos taken by someone holding a cellphone. I  noticed that there were a few other videos of varying length for the one performance. In the longest one that I found, he starts off off key and ad libs his way around to starting over. He's funny and charming. And it looks like an off the cuff moment that would be scripted. I'll put a link up further down in this post. But first, a message from our sponsor. The message today is very much about seeing the same thing from a different angle. In other words, I changed my search term from "Joey McIntrye, etc." to "Tree lighting Boston Common". It produced the desired result.

You know that by now I've had to google the kid. He was a New Kids replacement, joining just before they hit it big. He was 13 at the time. As the youngest member of the band, he never really fit in. He's been married for a few years now. He and his wife welcomed their third child this year. After the New Kids broke up, he played the Boy in the movie version of The Fantastics. He took over the lead male role in the Broadway show Wicked. When he couldn't get a solo recording contract, he used his own money to record an album and sold it over his website. The album was called Stay the Same and had a popular eponymous song hit. It is included in the segment below. There's also a little something near the finale when McIntyre is joined onstage by his friend and former boy band co-hort Jordan Knight. As a by the by, Mr. Knight quietly came out earlier this year.


So here's the performance I mentioned yesterday.
Now that I've seen it a second time, I'm still impressed.






And if you want to see the performance where he started off off key, click here.

I just listened to him again.
I'm still impressed.
I guess I needed to change my mental search term on 'boy band member'.
He's starting to get that Leonard Cohen edge of prophet thing.
I'm going to have to start paying attention to his career.

It's a nice discovery with which to start off the month.
You know, I just may come out of retirement and do Christmas again this year.

                 
 

Second to the right, then straight on til morning.

Gosh, it's been so busy. Or I've been so busy. I only had four hours of work today, had several errands to run, things to do, and so on and so forth. So of course, I decided to wander around down town (which is a short walk from where I live). The local holiday season kickoff is tomorrow (Friday). First up is a weekend long retail promotion dubbed "Holly Days". Tomorrow at 5pm will be a tree lighting in a little vest pocket park at the main intersection on Main Street. Sadly, I won't be able to get there, I'll be working. Lately, I seem to have developed a kind of sadomasochistic love/hate relationship with this town that I adopted as my own. This last year the town has suffered a soul and mind numbing series of natural disasters and murders that exposed nasty attitudes of condescension and disgust by the new age republocrats of economic superiority towards the working and disadvantaged classes. I really want to be there for the tree lighting. Our town needs this, we need to show our support, we need to show our care. We all need to be represented.

I've got the tv on in the background, and it keeps interrupting my train of thoughts that I wanted to record today. They are lighting the Christmas tree in Boston tonight. I lived in Boston for eight years. It's a wonderful city, and had my industry (the film business) not left town, and if it weren't for the high crime rate, I'd be there still. The tree is put on the Commons, and is always around 45 feet tall. Every year, it is sent as a gift of thanks to Boston for the emergency aid that was given Nova Scotia after an early December 1917 disaster, which remains to this very day the largest ever accidental man made explosion in the world. The show was opened by Boston native Joey McIntyre, former and current New Kid on the Block. He's grown up, to say the least. He opened with a solo statement of "Oh, Holy Night" which was joined by a chorus of young black women. McIntyre looked too thin, haggard and maybe possessed. He stood almost argumentatively at first, too clear eyed to be drunk, staking out his ground. He was an Irishman with the fever upon him. It was just about the best damn version of that song I've ever heard. I hope it shows up on YouTube.

Anyway, I was wandering around downtown because tomorrow is also Gallery walk, and I wanted to see what was to be seen before the madness and crowds take over. Where the town's newspaper, magazine, and office supply store (Baker's) used to be, there is now an oh so very trendy home furnishings shop. I thought I'd take a look at what they were offering. And there it was. It was stunning. It was gorgeous. I should have taken a picture. An extraordinarily well preserved, in perfect condition Heywood Wakefield art-deco stick wicker club chair. The left arm-rest magazine holder was in perfect shape. It was beautiful, and I want one. It was $650.00 and  was/is

easily the best I have ever seen. I have no idea if that was a good price or not. If I had money, I wouldn't care about that. I wouldn't even pause to ask. I'd be getting out my means of payment. The example to the right is missing the backrest pillow, and the backrest height is a little short. And the painted trim is only one color. The one I saw today had both a dark green stripe, and one dark maroon. And the left arm magazine slot was a tad smaller and better integrated into the whole. But you get the idea. My Great Great Uncle Harry had one in his summer home in Ocean City, New Jersey. I loved that chair. At least I have good taste.

There are a couple of birthdays for a December 1st that I should like to note:

Today would have been Matthew Shepard's 35th Birthday.
He was martyred in mid October 1998, at the age of 21.

He was kidnapped, tied to a fence, savagely beaten, and left to die alone in the freezing cold.
When the perpetrators of his horrific deed were tried, there was no way to accuse them of a hate crime even though they had bragged about what they had done to the "faggot",
as the state in which the trial occurred had no such enabling legislation.

This led to the immediate creation of a National Hate Crimes Act,
which was rejected by the Republican United States House of Representatives.

(Then President George W. Bush had also promised to veto the bill if it should pass.)

In 2007, under Nancy Pelosi's leadership, the bill was reintroduced in the House.
And in 2008, and in 2009.
During the 2009 debate, the Representative from Virginia labelled the listing of Matthew Shepard's death as a hate crime "a hoax".
Mr. Shepard's mother was sitting in the gallery at the time.
The House finally passed the bill.

In the Senate, Ted Kennedy and Vermont's Senator Lahey immediately reintroduced the bill.

It passed in October 2009, and was signed into law by President Obama  - 11 years after Matthew Shepard was beaten to death because he was gay.

The fence is gone now, it has been taken down.

But that will not erase the memory of what happened.

On a lighter note, today is also the birthday of Cyril Ritchard,
who was so marvelously campy as Captain Hook.

In one of those wonderful coincidences of synchronicity, today is also the birthday of Mary Martin who played Peter Pan in the same production. The Broadway show was so popular, it was broadcast twice when I was a child. (It was live both times.) It started my life long obsession with the Pan material.

In the late 1970's or early 1980's, my best friend at the time, director Jerry Campbell and I realized that two friends of ours were perfect for parts in a production. Acting teacher Michael Graves stood over 6 feet tall, and would have been a joy as Hook. His son, not quite 5 feet, had waist length jet black hair and an elfin manner. He could have been a great Peter Pan. The Freudian overtones would have been incredible. Sadly, the production never came together.

About that time, I started running a theatre bookstore for Bob Nahaus, who owned a popular show biz watering hole and eatery named Curtain Up. Two very dear friends of mine needed something special to get them the attention needed to obtain union cards. So, using my then 31 year old angst, I started writing a show called "Rehearsing 'Wendy and Peter' ", in which actors rehearse a play in which Wendy and Peter are middled aged. It gave me plenty of opportunities ' to poke fun at actors and the off and off off Broadway scene. And it gave my two friends the showboat of a lifetime - in the show they would start the 11 o'clock as Wendy and Peter in middle age, and without anything other than acting ability progress through recovering their youthful magic, to the charcters they play in the rehersal, until they ended as themselves at the end of the show. One of the store's clerks was a woman who wrote screenplays for big budget historical tv mini series. We discussed my ideas. Around that time, I was shot in the back of the head. I was seen, in a public place, kissing a male friend who was returning home to Germany. I was shot minutes later. The police were given a description of the shooter by eyewitnesses. The police never arrested anyone, blaming the incident on kids shooting at pigeons. Needless to say, I missed several days of work, and under doctors orders reduced the hours I was working. My boss then reduced my pay, which had been salary not hours-ly. I quit. Within a couple of months, there was an announcement in the trade papers that Steven Spielberg was going to produce and direct a major  movir about Peter Pan and Wendy in middle age. After I moved to Boston, I ended up working for Columbia/Tri-Star which released it as a Christmas behmoth, and ended up selling it to movie theates throughout New England.

To this day, if you want to see a grown man cry, stand beside me when I click on this:

Clap, Damn it.      CLAP!

    

Stolen moments

There are so many things I wanted to write about over the last few days, but even getting -to- the blog has been impossible. I've just been too busy. I find myself looking forward to retirement more and more. Of course, I won't be able to afford to do it but the idea of having my time to myself is sometimes just such a wondrous thing that it still manages to give me a sense of hope, however false that might be.

So here I am in stolen minutes, when I should be dressing for work. The bus won't be here for half an hour yet. Tonight I'll be done work at 6pm. There is a bus at 6:04pm. Depending on who runs the floor this evening, I may or may not be able to catch it. If one is supposed to be done at 6pm, several of the shift leaders won't let you shut down your line until then. Which means that you still have a line of customers to process. Which means walking home. After 8 hours (plus 1/2 unpaid) of work standing up, walking is not easy for me. Pain is something to be overcome, and I guess I should be thankful that people at my job are so eager to help me do that. I just can't get over the idea that since they expect me to be there on time, they ought to let me out on time. I have expressed this thought. The following week I had three shifts which lasted until 8 or 9pm. And the week after that. And the week after that.

This week, I don't even have the minimum number of hours for my personnel level, which is 28. I discussed this with the personnel department a couple of months back. I was hired for 38.5 hours of work, but they can get away with 28. I was promised that the issue of minimum hours would be raised in a manager's meeting and my name would not be used. Thee following weeks did see my hours bump up to 32 per week. And three nights a week of walking home after the last bus. Get the message?

For Thanksgiving week, they suddenly bumped me up to 36 hours. How nice.

Thanksgiving was wonderful. I had the day off, something that hasn't happened much this last decade. I had dinner at austanspace's. It was a tremendous effort on her behalf, and an excellent meal. Then it was "pie night" when friends show up with the price of admission - one home baked pie. We then get to sit around, drink, gossip and bitch. It was the best Thanksgiving I've had in years.

Today will be the third day without any anti-depressants, anti-anxietals, antihistamines, anti anything. How many days are there remainig until the end of time?

The Passing Scene

Last night there was a story on the 11pm news out of Burlington. I did not realize that it was a "local" story. This morning it is a National story. Tom Wicker, a journalist who had written for the New York Times, has passed away. He'd been living in Rochester, Vermont, next county up. (I've always liked Rochester, and if work wasn't an issue, it would be a great place to park oneself while waiting for the light. Completely cut off by the August hurricane Irene, the town turned its website over to dealing with the emergency. A recent 'front page' topic was a meeting for a storytelling project to help town citizens tell their stories. And they do have stories - it was in Rochester that the flood waters destroyed a cemetery and left open coffins strewn about.)

Even the Times has yet to catch up to the news story with a decent obituary. Wicker was a top reporter. Somehow, he managed to keep his journalist's detachment even while reporting the most emotion laden stories. But he had strong opinions, and he became one of the Times' great editorialists, witting "In the Nation" three times a week. He was one of the people at the top of the Nixon enemies list. It was Wicker who wrote that Nixon was  implementing "the beginnings of a police state". His 1978 book "On the Press" took the fourth estate to task for becoming a mouthpiece for government and business.  His last editorial for the New York Times was written on December 29th, 1991. He wrote, "As the U.S. did not hesitate to spend its resources to prevail in the cold war, it needs now to go forward as boldly to lead a longer, more desperate struggle to save the planet, and rescue the human race from itself." He was another guy who "got it". Requiesecat in pace.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi.

Coffee - check. Nosh - check - cranberry English muffins, 6 pack averaging 50 cents each muffin, cost of butter additional. Muffins, like last year, start out large and full of cranberries but by Thanksgiving are small with one cranberry each - Thomas' should be ashamed of itself. Fond memories of visiting the family at Thanksgiving emerge, if only because my father and stepmother could afford bacon with breakfast. I give Thanks that I once had a job where I made enough to afford bacon and can remember how much I liked it. Naturally, I have my own happy Thanksgiving breakfast, which includes Irish steel cut oatmeal. I still have a can, a couple of years old now. I no longer make it, not because it takes about 45 minutes, but because I like it with maple syrup drizzled over it, and maple syrup has been too expensive for a few years now. Even grade B. The first boil of maple sap produces that clear light brown color. That's for tourists. Real folks know to go for Grade B, it has all the flavor.



I just spent a few minutes sipping coffee and re-reading last year's Thanksgiving posts. I'd forgotten all about having the collection of Victorian Thanksgiving cards. And the memories of the holiday season kickoff. And having a family that actually spoke to each other and spent time together. Even if Aunt Lorraine wanted me to call her "Mommy". What did I care? My own mother had left (or was thrown out) before I was even six months old. Even still, I just couldn't do it. So what if that meant another beating?

And then there was Thanksgiving dinner at my grandmother's. My grandfather had died of a massive heart attack two years before I was born. Almost to the day. I suppose that might have had something to do with my father's attitude about me. She had remarried and now lived in the next town down the road. Her second husband had a couple of grandkids, too. There would be a special table just for us kids. The special china and silverware would be brought out, the extra leaf would be put into the dining room table. The extra mat would be put in, the big good tablecloth would be spread over it, and enough food to feed all the starving children in Europe (and then some) would appear. Turkey. Stuffing. Gravy. Cranberry sauce (this was before people served chunky cranberry sauce - it just wasn't available). Mashed potatoes. Peas. Succotash. Candied yams. Green beans. Glasses of water (it was still drinkable then). Glasses of iced tea. Who found the wishbone???

Around that table you'd find my great grand parents Wilbur and Laura, my Grandmother Helen and her second husband Mahlon, her three children - all boys. Uncle Bob and Aunt Lorraine. Dad. Uncle Harold and his meet the family date who would become Aunt Mary. Mahlon's son Jan and his wife Sue. Around the kid's table my brother Lewis, Jan's kids Ricky and Bonnie and the youngest, still a baby, whose name escapes me at the moment. Sorry kid. My cousins, Uncle Harold's children Patricia and Harold Michael hadn't come along yet. I just tried to type "Uncle Harold's kids" but couldn't. Mary had raised holy hell because I once called them 'kids'. Her children were not goats, thank you. She told my father I sassed her, even though I hadn't. I got beat. Fond memories.

Macy's parade has started. Kickoff has a horrible attempt at a musical number. No one seems to be able to write special material anymore. "Time for celebratin', Santa Claus' is waitin'". (I shudder quite involuntarily.) Chorus kids dressed to look like little nerd boys and girls, as though they were popular and not outcasts. Something which passes for choreography that involves jumping up and down, arms akimbo. The first balloon goes by, but Al Roker is too busy talking to notice. It's low to the ground and it's Sonic the Hedgehog, who or what ever that is. Now we're getting a preview of a new Disney show based on their 20 year old movie "Newsies". Someone should tell the casting director and costume designer that what are supposed to be pre teen newsboys aren't supposed to be ripped with muscles rivaling weightlifter competitions.

Another musical number - the cast of "Sister Act", another show based on a movie. Wait, didn't it used to work the other way around? The woman in the Whoppi Goldberg part dances on in the most robotic performance I've seen since Hal refused to open the pod bay doors.

There's a big balloon they are saying is Mickey. As in Mouse, maybe? Al Roker runs (not something you want to see) to talk to one of the handlers. The cameraman forgets to pan up so we can see the balloon. We do see the bottom of it, all yellow. A color not used for Mickey Mouse.

Now there's a musical number from "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying". Harry Potter, minus his glasses, seems to be growing into the role since the bit they showed last June on the Tony Awards show. Except he still looks terrified that he's going to forget the next step. It's the "Brotherhood of Man" number. The female solo has so much vibrato I can barely understand a word she sings.

Now it's a musical number from "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert", based on another movie. Using songs from the Disco era. They're singing "I will survive" while two of the drag queens show off while dressed as turkeys.

Al Roker (why is this guy popular?) is interviewing two tv show actors who just happen to be sitting together on a nearby bleacher. What are they doing for Thanksgiving? One is going to his wife's family out in Far Rockaway Queens. The other merely smiles and says "Lower East Side for me". After all these years he still isn't allowed to say "My boyfriend's place".

More Al Roker interviews. Two other people I've barely heard of have replaced the two actors on the bench full of people.

Now it's a musical number from Spiderman, Turn Off the Dark. Based on a comic book. And a movie. Wait, isn't the stunt dancer Spiderman supposed to be the same size as the guy who turns into Spidey? The Green Goblin sings, "I'm the new Coney Island and all the rides are free." Now there's eight spidermen, but their synchronized routine isn't. Don't they have a PSM calling this?

Now there's a commerical for an insurance company and it's using the "Everybody knows your name" song from Cheers.

I don't know if I can last long enough to see the parade. At least, I think there's a parade there.

Jeez. Even the Rockettes' visual lines are sloppy. And in closeup they look more like drag queens than the cast of Priscilla. 31 supposed genetic females in New York City. Two are black. One appears Hispanic.

The parade finally starts after an hour of other things. As Matt Lauer says "The first of our marchers arriving on 34th Street...." we see cops on motorcycles. There's a turkey float which stops to let Avril Levine (sp?) sing something that is supposed to be a song. Yah, yah, yah, wish I had you here, here, here, near, near, near.

Wow. There's a band marching/playing so fast they look like they're running bomb squad members. Maybe they have the right idea.

Now there an "Ocean Spray" float (which has nothing to do with their product) with some country singer I've never heard of "makes me want to take the back road, park the truck where it gets hot". Huh? The camera catches a young black woman on the float trying to figure out how to dance to this crap. She tries a chorus girl move from a 1930's movie. It is oddly enderaing.

There's a Sesame Street float with performance of a song so bad everyone on the float is having to jump up and down and clap their hands trying to sell it. There is only one Sesame Street character visible. I suddenly recognize one of the guys trying to pretend to be "up" and "happy", and he looks soooo old. He's also at least 20 years younger than I am. I sink far down into my chair, then shift my position so I can't see any reflective surfaces.

Now there is a float from Hamburger Helper. I'm not making this up.

I think I've had enough. I try to tear myself away, but it's like the proverbial train wreck. Which I think is the next float, right after the rapping AFLAC balloon.

But first, a "balloon-icle" pitcher of koolaid. It looks suspiciously like grape. I reach out my hand to pour some. Seems like a good idea.

 

Happy Thanksgiving Day, folks.

November 24 is the 328th day of the year in the Gregorian calendar.
There are 394 days remaining until the end of time.

Checkout-line Chronicles

What with the wet snow, heavy rain, and local power outages as the morning's appetizer, and the need the crazies have to purchase those last minute items, I was certainly glad that I had a short four hour shift this morning. I most likely wouldn't have made it through the rest of the day without hurting somebody.

Store opens at 7am.

At 7:05am a harried looking man pushes his cart to the register, which is an express. He has about 15 items give or take. There is no one in line.

"Are you the only register open"?

I slowly turned around to look at all the other registers, none of which had their "open" lights on, nor did they have cashiers at them.

"Yes, sir, I am". 

"Why???"  

Because I'm the only one here?

Woman unloads her cart onto the belt.

Regular customer, a well off ex-New Yorker.

Today buying only food.

That'll be $27.89, please. 

She swipes her EBT (food stamps) card through the machine, looks at the display and reads aloud,

"Balance or Purchase"?

 "Which do I want?"

Woman purchases a bouquet of flowers. Would you like me to put a bag around the wet stems for you? "You don't have one of those sheaths?" Yes, those are right back in the flower department by the door. "You mean I have to do it myself?"

Woman puts all her purchases on the belt and then takes off. I ring everything up and wait for her to get back. "I can't find any Heath bars, which register are they on?". I'm sorry, we don't have any on the registers. You might try the candy section in aisle three. "Can I go look now?" Why don't you pay for these items,and then you can go look and people in line won't get upset? She scowled at me as though I were an ill behaved child of three, threw her bagged groceries into her cart so loud they clanged, and stomped her way out of the building while threatening to complain to management.

Woman swipes her EBT card.

That leaves you a balance of $2.50, please.

"Why"?

The advent calendar wasn't covered, mam.

"Why not?"

Because it isn't food???

That will be $4.86, please. Woman counts her change. "Oh, I'm short the 86 cents. I'll have to go out to the car and get see if I have change there." She works nearby, so I put up a dollar to keep the line from outright revolution. She puts her hand out for the change. And takes it.

Good Morning! How are you today?

"I couldn't find any of those cherry sours in a jar. You have the ones in a box, I want the ones in a jar. The shelf there was empty, and you're the only store that has them".

Oh, I'm sorry.

Do you know Tui (pronounced 'twee') ?
She's the Asian woman working right over there. We got a huge shipment from the warehouse this morning, and she would know if they came in. They might even be on her cart. 

"Oh, I don't have time for that'.

Customer buys about $2.50 worth of whatever. Hands me a fifty dollar bill. I call a shift leader. We wait. The man starts getting steaming mad. The shift leader arrives, uses a detection pen on the fifty dollar bill, hands it back to me and says, "Okay". The customer glares at me, "Do you check every fifty dollar bill?" Yes, sir. "Why?" It's company policy, sir. "Do you check hundreds?" Without waiting for an answer, he continues angrily, "do you check twenties? Do you check thirties?" There are no thirty dollar bills sir. He storms out.

Customer starts emptying cart onto the belt. I bag her groceries as I go. She finishes ahead of me, stands there watching. Just as I put the next to last item in a bag, "I have my own bags."

Number of completely frozen turkeys purchased for tomorrow night's dinners: I stopped counting at eight.

Truth in advertising: The advent calendar story happened yesterday.

All other events occurred at my register in a four hour period this morning.

Thanksgiving with starlet Barbara Bates.

Note

Message handed by an "occupy" protester to the President after a speech in new Hampshire

Catching up, Cymbalta withdrawal, little things that count

Madness takes many forms. Sometimes, something so small as to be near unbelievable can mean a lot. Right now, all I want are two pairs of good scissors so I don't have to get up and wander the six steps to the kitchen area to get the one pair I have. Isn't that sad in a kind of way?
  



Ancient rock carving of  extraterrestrial visitors
using remote controls.

It reminds me of my attitude when television remote controls first appeared on the scene. People paid extra to get tv sets with one. I couldn't believe that anyone could be so lazy that they couldn't get up to change the channel. After all these years, I'm surprised people aren't buried with them clasped firmly in their cold dead hands.

Have you ever pointed your remote control at someone hoping to silence their jibber jabber in the cacophony of our world? 

The Princess, c.2002, celebrates the 4th of July
 in front of the radio free brattleboro studios.

My dear friend Laura over at Austanspace has finally been able to return to her beloved hobbit-hole in the Shire, aka Melrose Terrace. There has been an ongoing fight here in Brattleboro over Melrose, a clean, well tended, not dangerous subsidized housing community for seniors and folks with physical challenges. It is a long story that is still in the telling. I just wanted to take a moment to shout out a big hello for my old (as in length of time) friend former DJ Princess Wendy, now better known as the Cheese Snob. Aside from working long distance magic for Ms. Laura back at the start of this saga, she just wrote a wonderful letter to the editor of our local weekly, The Commons. (I'd link them, but their website never works right). Well done, Princess, well done.

Today I unfolded an onion-paper thin, three foot long by fourteen inches wide doubled sided information sheet that same with every sample packet of Cymbalta I ever took. It is printed on both sides, in type so small that a magnifying glass is needed to make anything out. In all of the information and charts, not one word is mentioned about withdrawal symptoms. As part of my financial restructuring, I'm kicking my antidepressants and antianxietals along with my expensive medical insurance habit. Even though my 90mg a day dosage has been carefully stepped down, and even though I'm still taking 30 mg a day (ends this week!), there has been a Huge problem of withdrawal.

Over the years I never had a problems with valium 10s, and ended with no problems meprobromate, memprobamate, prozac, paxil, xanax, wellburtrin, risperdal, and a couple of others. But Cymbalta has been different. Now they are selling it not just for depression, but for back problems as well (and it does help). But someone really needs to tell people about what they face if they stop taking their daily dose. I dunno, maybe some people enjoy horrible headaches, stiff necks, chills, sweats, nausea, dry heaves, diarrhea, cramps, disorientation, light sensitivity, and the need to scratch until bloody. Okay, the latter might have to do with my rare-ish skin condition. But if you take or are considering taking cymbalta - beware. One might as well drink it with the grape coolaid.

Quote I wanted to use in another diatribe against, well, everything. This is from the CEO of one of the US's largest credit unions, a man who used to work at JPMorgan Chase; "I don't say this lightly, but the consumer is simply an income stream and exploiting that is the purpose of the banking organization."

Link of interest: a pdf file from the Economic Mobility Project (an initiative of the Pew Charitable Trust) titled "Economic Mobility: Is the American Dream Alive and Well?"

My beloved community radio station has been under attack from a cabal within. The station has been off the air since the fire at the Brooks House last April. Most of the folks behind the coup d'etat have recently resigned from the board, but one of the self-appointed main players has created an enormously poisonous atmosphere awash in his unearned self righteous bitterness. I suspect that he has been behind most of the problems. The station's participants have been working to reclaim the station from this man's desperate clutches. This process has possessed my attention and time. A meeting with the board has finally been scheduled for early December. If matters can not be resolved, I fear the station will be lost. I have never felt this way before. But until the meeting was announced a couple of days ago, I was beginning to despair for its future.

The Feast of Little Thanks and Littler Giving is close upon us. The next few days will be supermarket checkout hell. "Front end" management has already gone off the deep end. Yesterday, one co-worker, on a five and a half hour shift, was in need of his legally mandated break. At five and a half hours, management must give one 15 minute paid break. At 6 hours, they must also give a one half hour unpaid break. After more than four hours of ringing up and bagging groceries non-stop, he asked for his break. He was told that as he was five minutes late that day, he lost his break. Remind me again why workers are supposed  to give Thanks? (Even though I mentioned no names, if management were to discover this on my blog, I could be fired.) What was that about upward mobility and the American Dream? And where's my remote control?