It was an enchanting Winter wonderland here on the East coast this weekend. Yesterday, I woke up to see that we'd gotten 18 inches of snow from the sixth largest snowstorm on record and the worst since the winter of 1996--a storm I remember well as I got stuck on a Long Island railway station waiting for a train to Manhattan for hours because my boss at the time decided to be magnanimous and close the office 'early,' which in actuality was only about an hour earlier than the usual knocking-off time.
We went over to L&L's for dinner on Saturday night. Lynne had created a Julia Child dish--a medley of beef, pork and kelbasa done in a mustard cream sauce that was absolutely delicious--to try out her new oven that, due to its stash of buttons and lights, more resembles an Airbus cockpit when the kitchen lights are dimmed. Afterwards we settled into watching a movie; out of a choice of four, we agreed upon an offering called The Island. It was set forty years in the future and the kindest thing I can say about it is that it is atrocious. A majority of mediocre sci-fi movies dealing with clones follow the same well-trodden story and this one was no different. Moreover, insults to an audience's intelligence were added into its threadbare plot for good measure because, obviously, the producers in conjunction with a part of corporate America had concluded the special effects would be a perfect opportunity to do some sublimal advertising, the emphasis on advertising not subliminal; thus, we had to endure numerous images of Microsoft's butterfly and logo because all computer systems were controlled by MS, Mack trucks at high speed, and an assortment of GM and Chrysler (300s) cars in hot pursuit.
Due to the film's lack of 'compellingness', I found myself concentrating more than is usual on the physical characteristics of the cast, specifically the women, and as I did so, the preponderance of Mack trucks led to an unexpected connection. Simply put, what is it about Angelina Jolie's plump (and gorgeous, it must be said) lips that has so many young female--and not so young--actors and wannabees running to their cosmetic surgeons in order to be butchered so that their mouths appear as if they've been driven over and squashed by laden trucks. The kindest thing I could say about one character's mouth is that it reminded me of Bart Simpson's wife's mouth when she's utterly baffled about something silly that Bart has done or said.
I must confess to having also recently noticed this curious form of butchery on the telly show Dancing with the Stars, a popular program developed over here from the BBC original. There's one women whose re-sculpted mouth is far sadder than any of the better Shakespearean tragedies. She's pretty and a lithe dancer, but one's eye is continually drawn to the wrinkled, overly fleshy mouth that not even abundant lipstick can correct. When she smiles--and naturally she does often--one side of her upper lip rises at the same rate the other side plummets, and the final effect is such that one could well believe she'd careened during the dance into a solid wall and they'd edited out the faux pas prior to broadcasting. Vowel delivery remains wholly unaffected, strangely.
So to all Hollywood ladies and wannabees, please know Ms. Jolie has beautiful lips, beautiful and alluring, but do NOT try to emulate them by having massive collagen injections or whatever potions are used under the mistaken assumption that you, too, will have a similarly alluring mouth. Do not re-sculpt under any circumstances because, just like an artificially created male cleft chin, the result is consistently unnatural...and worse, in the case of lips, scary to children. Children find such lips cute on Miss Piggy only.
Yes, I understand fully that Goldie Hawn sported them on The First Wives Club. But, though Hollywood is notorious for its excesses, surely you did understand that Goldie did this as part of the plotline...for a laugh. Her actual lips remain fully untrampeled. As trailblazers and creators of fads, those of you who've already succumbed, I urge you to disregard the opinions of your friends and smile as you take a good, honest look in the mirror, I mean a really honest look, and then, for the sake of American culture and the twenty and thirty-somethings of middle America who adore you to the extent of emulation, be the heroes you are in your screen roles and admit your dreadful mistake. Seek the aid of your shrink if it proves too difficult, but please relinquish your Hollywood career and seek some kind of back-office job...or possibly agenting. In addition, all Americans satisfied with their body bits will also be most thankful for your generosity.
[technorati: Angelina Jolie, Goldie Hawn, Dancing with the Stars, First Wives Club
Thursday
MSNBC story
Recently, I was contacted by reporter Alex Johnson for a story he was doing for MSNBC. I thought you might enjoy reading Nurturing a community in the online world and you can also listen to a snippet of my interview with him into the bargain.
(I see he included a pic, the one with a full body photo of our Cockerpoo which was taken at the time my book's hard cover was being prepared. I'm so glad I had this taken because the doggie's now very old and unable to walk very far and, quite honestly, others would probably have had their old pets in similar condition put to sleep by now. But he's not in any pain and so, the Irish RC part of my psyche that consistently comes to the fore when death and disease issues raise their ugly heads, will not allow me to have him euthanized just for the sake of my own convenience.)
[technorati: msnbc, alex johnson, msnbc.com, Bruce Vilanch
(I see he included a pic, the one with a full body photo of our Cockerpoo which was taken at the time my book's hard cover was being prepared. I'm so glad I had this taken because the doggie's now very old and unable to walk very far and, quite honestly, others would probably have had their old pets in similar condition put to sleep by now. But he's not in any pain and so, the Irish RC part of my psyche that consistently comes to the fore when death and disease issues raise their ugly heads, will not allow me to have him euthanized just for the sake of my own convenience.)
[technorati: msnbc, alex johnson, msnbc.com, Bruce Vilanch
Wednesday
Something about freedoms on an anniversary
It's astonishing to me that I've been on the blogosphere for one year today. When Lane at my publisher first introduced me to blogging, informing me that they were doing a book about blogs, and I investigated the whole concept, I became tremendously excited and said I'd like to take a whirl at it. And being a maverick book distribution company with a publishing side and totally in love with my first novel, they decided to help me set up my blog and appointed the chap who'd created the book's website to design something for me. (That, to me, was the advantage of being first published by a smaller publisher; they really know how to move quickly...although, admittedly, they gave me many a tummy upset as my book went through six readings at the house before they gave it the greenlight. So they're fast on the web, but slow when it comes to making decisions about which projects to take on...which I suppose makes sense as it's their money on the line.)
At first, I thought my blog would last but a few months and few would read it and, as a result, I'd lose interest--or I assumed other writing projects would take precedence and the whole thing would dwindle. I also panicked I wouldn't have anything interesting to say:I didn't want the blog to just be about books because...well, there are many blogs about books...and I found I lost interest in most of them after a while. Nor did I want it to be tiresomely political because there are far too many of those too and, while I follow politics and get angry at the current ineptitude and downright dishonesty of many American politicians, I felt I didn't want to get bogged down rehashing what many others in the blogosphere do far better.
As the months passed, the blog began to take shape and I found my style of telling anecdotes and commenting on social issues and art--anything from the Pope, those Saffron Gates in Central Park, Charles and Camilla, scouting and Northern Irish matters, was something I enjoyed. The number of visitors to the blog started growing astonishingly quickly from all over the world and, quite frankly, I found this thrilling and an incentive to continue what I was doing.
Now seems a good time to thank all of you for joining me on the ride. Blogs are important, vital, because they are one of the purest forms of individual expression. Freedom of expression is something we must hold dear, it's the lifeblood of a true democracy, and, given the recent outrageous violence targeted against Europeans, the Danes, French and Norwegians in particular, I believe we all have a duty to stand up and assert those freedoms, especially when zealots try to intimidate and beat us into absolute submission vis-a-vis their values and beliefs. I salute what my fellow Europeans had the guts to do because, here in the United States, I fear our media is controlled by powerful conglomerations who seem more interested in profits, power, and corporate image than truth and freedom of expression. They are so paranoid and lily-livered, they have not as yet shown us, mature Americans with the ability to reason and make up our own minds on the subject, the cartoons in question. This, in the greatest free country in the world!!! And they continue to cover the story incessantly, pixelising and blurring the cartoons as if they were women's naked breasts, etc.
What was even more surprising this past year was the discovery that my terror of running out of things to say has not materialized...at least not yet. Moreover, my latest projects in the shape of the stageplay of 'Gabriel' and now a brand new screenplay project have not dampened my interest in blogging...though at times it has and will continue to cut into the number of posts.
So, as the second year begins, I'll continue to do what I've been doing and we'll see where it takes us.
[technorati: blogging, blogs, freedom of expression, Islam
At first, I thought my blog would last but a few months and few would read it and, as a result, I'd lose interest--or I assumed other writing projects would take precedence and the whole thing would dwindle. I also panicked I wouldn't have anything interesting to say:I didn't want the blog to just be about books because...well, there are many blogs about books...and I found I lost interest in most of them after a while. Nor did I want it to be tiresomely political because there are far too many of those too and, while I follow politics and get angry at the current ineptitude and downright dishonesty of many American politicians, I felt I didn't want to get bogged down rehashing what many others in the blogosphere do far better.
As the months passed, the blog began to take shape and I found my style of telling anecdotes and commenting on social issues and art--anything from the Pope, those Saffron Gates in Central Park, Charles and Camilla, scouting and Northern Irish matters, was something I enjoyed. The number of visitors to the blog started growing astonishingly quickly from all over the world and, quite frankly, I found this thrilling and an incentive to continue what I was doing.
Now seems a good time to thank all of you for joining me on the ride. Blogs are important, vital, because they are one of the purest forms of individual expression. Freedom of expression is something we must hold dear, it's the lifeblood of a true democracy, and, given the recent outrageous violence targeted against Europeans, the Danes, French and Norwegians in particular, I believe we all have a duty to stand up and assert those freedoms, especially when zealots try to intimidate and beat us into absolute submission vis-a-vis their values and beliefs. I salute what my fellow Europeans had the guts to do because, here in the United States, I fear our media is controlled by powerful conglomerations who seem more interested in profits, power, and corporate image than truth and freedom of expression. They are so paranoid and lily-livered, they have not as yet shown us, mature Americans with the ability to reason and make up our own minds on the subject, the cartoons in question. This, in the greatest free country in the world!!! And they continue to cover the story incessantly, pixelising and blurring the cartoons as if they were women's naked breasts, etc.
What was even more surprising this past year was the discovery that my terror of running out of things to say has not materialized...at least not yet. Moreover, my latest projects in the shape of the stageplay of 'Gabriel' and now a brand new screenplay project have not dampened my interest in blogging...though at times it has and will continue to cut into the number of posts.
So, as the second year begins, I'll continue to do what I've been doing and we'll see where it takes us.
[technorati: blogging, blogs, freedom of expression, Islam
Sunday
Miracle Number One
Possessed as I am of a streak of skepticism instilled as a result of a Northern Irish upbringing and accentuated by having worked as an attorney, it is of no surprise to me that the Vatican has announced that miracle number one may have been found on the road to John Paul II's certain canonization. Its discovery was announced by Monsignor Slawomir Oder, the Catholic Church's overseer of the process and it appears to have all the hooks necessary for a subsequent Hollywood movie: there's a young nun suffering from Parkinson's--the same illness that had the late Pontiff in its grip--she works with children, and she's been praying to the late Pontiff since his death.
I said on this blog shortly after the Pope's death that they'd be a rush to find the miracles and it looks like they're a coming.
Here's the CNN article about the discovery.
As I said in my previous blog post, John Paul II was a decent man who did much to alleviate suffering during his papacy--something I imagine all Popes are expected to do by virtue of the position. However, I am a bit concerned about this rush to pronounce him holy and that he should be canonized as a matter of course.
As a child and then adolescent, I followed the tenets of my faith rigorously and prayed to the saints as all practicing Catholics do. I recited novenas to Saint Anne, to Saint Martin, to Saint Gerald Majella, etc. in hopes of obtaining good examination results, or that I would get better if I was ill, and most especially, I prayed to Saint Jude when I lost something of value and needed it back. During my prayers, I assumed that the saints I prayed to were holy. To me 'holy' meant (and still does) that these people lived exemplary lives and grappled with and overcame their human flaws.
John Paul II had flaws that he did not overcome and thus, in my opinion, while he may be considered good, he cannot be called 'holy.' For example, he did not accord women equality in the eyes of the Church, and I am certain God did not intend women to be less in any way to men. He did not reach out to gays and lesbians--people whom God created throughout the world to live in families as loving sons and daughters--and instead sought to deny them, as adults, a chief right accorded to all human beings entering loving relationships. And he did not vigorously pursue a campaign to oust pedophile priests from the heart of his church, indeed seemed to offer but a deaf ear to the suffering of the victims.
For these reasons, I am truly mystified and will be most interested to learn how the church will reconcile these and other points as the process moves forward. Or will they just ignore them and act on the premise that the vast majority of its laity are as ignorant and uneducated as was their medieval predecessors?
[technorati: John Paul II, The Vatican, miracles, canonization, CNN
I said on this blog shortly after the Pope's death that they'd be a rush to find the miracles and it looks like they're a coming.
Here's the CNN article about the discovery.
As I said in my previous blog post, John Paul II was a decent man who did much to alleviate suffering during his papacy--something I imagine all Popes are expected to do by virtue of the position. However, I am a bit concerned about this rush to pronounce him holy and that he should be canonized as a matter of course.
As a child and then adolescent, I followed the tenets of my faith rigorously and prayed to the saints as all practicing Catholics do. I recited novenas to Saint Anne, to Saint Martin, to Saint Gerald Majella, etc. in hopes of obtaining good examination results, or that I would get better if I was ill, and most especially, I prayed to Saint Jude when I lost something of value and needed it back. During my prayers, I assumed that the saints I prayed to were holy. To me 'holy' meant (and still does) that these people lived exemplary lives and grappled with and overcame their human flaws.
John Paul II had flaws that he did not overcome and thus, in my opinion, while he may be considered good, he cannot be called 'holy.' For example, he did not accord women equality in the eyes of the Church, and I am certain God did not intend women to be less in any way to men. He did not reach out to gays and lesbians--people whom God created throughout the world to live in families as loving sons and daughters--and instead sought to deny them, as adults, a chief right accorded to all human beings entering loving relationships. And he did not vigorously pursue a campaign to oust pedophile priests from the heart of his church, indeed seemed to offer but a deaf ear to the suffering of the victims.
For these reasons, I am truly mystified and will be most interested to learn how the church will reconcile these and other points as the process moves forward. Or will they just ignore them and act on the premise that the vast majority of its laity are as ignorant and uneducated as was their medieval predecessors?
[technorati: John Paul II, The Vatican, miracles, canonization, CNN
Thursday
Male sexuality and Brokeback Mountain
Now that the Oscar nominations have been announced and Brokeback Mountain is a contender in eight categories, I decided it's time to write about something I've been thinking about for a few weeks now. It concerns a remark made by NBC film critic Gene Shalit (father of an openly gay son) during his review of the flick and it caused a wee bit of a stir. (I really do like Shalit's weekly film reviews very much and, with his unruly, aggressively dyed jet-black hair and colorful attire, he adds to the drama of their delivery. With regard to Brokeback, Shalit remarked that the character Jack Straw (played by Jake Gyllenhaal) was a sexual predator in that he chased after Ennis post their time spent together on the mountain and coaxed him into 'sporadic trysts.' His remarks upset many NBC Today Show viewers and the folks at GLAAD who fired off letters and emails of condemnation to NBC and Shalit saying he was defaming gay people and that he would not have called Jack (Leonardo DiCaprio) a "sexual predator" because he was pursuing a relationship with Rose (Kate Winslet) in the film Titanic. Within a few days the requested apology came and Shalit added he had not intended to defame the gay community by what he'd said about Jack and, further, his record showed him very much a man who supported gay equality.
GLAAD is a stellar and important group who have striven to erase bigotry, intolerance and those who seek to defame members of the LGBT community in the media. Their objective is stated thus:
The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) is dedicated to promoting and ensuring fair, accurate and inclusive representation of people and events in the media as a means of eliminating homophobia and discrimination based on gender identity and sexual orientation.
Their record is impressive as can be seen by the lists of accomplishments posted on their website.
In the current instance, while the LGBT community and GLAAD must be ever vigilant, I think there was an overreaction here. The issue raised by Shalit, albeit unknowingly, is wider reaching. By his choice of words, I feel Shalit has touched upon a key truism regarding the male and female approach to sexuality and society's compelling interest in preserving the concept that it is sexually monogamous man and woman within the confines of marriage that is paramount and the only viable way to regulate intimate adult relationships. Seen through this prism, it is little wonder that the scornful Shalit, wearing the mantles of church and state, used the term 'sexual predator.' Jack went after a man whom society regarded as married, monogamous and thus untouchable, and Jack's behavior must be held up in public for contempt and condemned absolutely.
Let's analyze exactly what Jack does in the movie. He is overwhelmingly attracted to Ennis sexually and, throughout the passing of the summer, this fierce, manly desire between the men develops into a deep-seated, unwanted love, albeit more so on Ennis's part because of the poisonous way he was brought up to regard gay people. After the summer, the two, while clearly totally in love by now, part company and that is to be the end of the matter. The following summer however, Jack returns to seek work with the same rancher in hopes that Ennis has been missing him and will also show up. He doesn't: he is now married and has ostensibly moved on with his life. After the passing of a further period of time, Jack writes Ennis and informs him he'll be visiting in his area and would like to get together if Ennis would like that, to which Ennis hurriedly replies in a postcard "You bet." Of course, Jack is visiting for the sole purpose of having sex with Ennis again, but, by the quickness of his response and it's wording, it is clear Ennis is equally anxious for the trysts to begin again.
I would submit that many such situations (heterosexual or homosexual) are initiated, as in the film, by men simply needing or desiring sex outside of a long-term relationship. It is a truism not often discussed that after a long period of time together with one partner, the sex becomes rote and, well, boring for many men. (I suspect the same goes for women too, but I can't speak for them for obvious reasons.) And despite the abundant counsel dished out by 'Keeping your marriage/relationship on track" type books and legions of psychologists and psychotherapists, a new pair of frilly knickers (the equivalent for an anxious gay male partner being a new jockstrap), furry stiletto slippers (no gay male equivalent, at least to my knowledge) or untried, perhaps novel, lovemaking position will give but limited additional mileage. (Note: I've always found it curious how these books, etc. often make it the resposibility of the woman to address what is a natural condition in men?)
The jury's back on this, though the verdict is never acknowledged or discussed in our constrained society. Many men, straight or gay--and I'm not stating all men--enjoy the physical thrill of having sex with new partners, period. 'Sporadic trysts' throughout the millennia have been initiated with far too much frequency that we should now act as adults and acknowledge this aspect of male sexuality.(The ancient Romans acknowledged it and thus I feel their approach to sexuality was a lot more healthy than ours is today.) Married or gay men--lawyers, judges, vicars, plumbers, garbage collectors--initiate 'illicit' liaisons daily. It's mostly men who do the initiating because the sexes are wired differently in this aspect--just as men and women exhibit different symptoms for similar illnesses such as heart attacks--and, while it's more complicated than the space I can allocate it here, I believe a great many men (straight and gay) can have casual sex and not allow it to affect or threaten the dynamics of their primary relationship. It is the natural sexual dynamic of the male operating, nothing more, nothing less.
Most women, on the other hand, prize and demand monogamy and have extreme difficulty accepting that their spouse or partner can function like this. I feel this is a result of both nature and culture, and many women are utterly devastated when they find their partner has so-called 'betrayed' them. (Please note I'm not going to get bogged down with considerations of morality, etc. because these are well aired and supravening in that they are related to cultural and/or religious beliefs that do not alter the fundamental truth about male sexuality. Nor does their sexual wiring mean that men cannot love deeply. Of course men can love, but sex and love can be distinct in the male mind.)
So to conclude, is Jack's behavior tantamount to his being a sexual predator? Of course not. He is behaving as many heterosexual or homosexual men will behave;no more, no less. It's been this way for millennia. Shalit made the flawed assumption that Ennis had no choice in the matter, that he was a hapless victim to Jack's having taken the initiative, searched him out, and moved the relationship forward. This overlooking of choice, together with his addition of a healthy dollop of good old fashioned American puritanism from the vat labeled "What God has joined together, let no man put asunder," is what I believe led him to use the term 'sexual predator' erroneously.
[technorati: Gene Shalit, Brokeback Mountain, Oscars, Sexuality, Today Show
GLAAD is a stellar and important group who have striven to erase bigotry, intolerance and those who seek to defame members of the LGBT community in the media. Their objective is stated thus:
The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) is dedicated to promoting and ensuring fair, accurate and inclusive representation of people and events in the media as a means of eliminating homophobia and discrimination based on gender identity and sexual orientation.
Their record is impressive as can be seen by the lists of accomplishments posted on their website.
In the current instance, while the LGBT community and GLAAD must be ever vigilant, I think there was an overreaction here. The issue raised by Shalit, albeit unknowingly, is wider reaching. By his choice of words, I feel Shalit has touched upon a key truism regarding the male and female approach to sexuality and society's compelling interest in preserving the concept that it is sexually monogamous man and woman within the confines of marriage that is paramount and the only viable way to regulate intimate adult relationships. Seen through this prism, it is little wonder that the scornful Shalit, wearing the mantles of church and state, used the term 'sexual predator.' Jack went after a man whom society regarded as married, monogamous and thus untouchable, and Jack's behavior must be held up in public for contempt and condemned absolutely.
Let's analyze exactly what Jack does in the movie. He is overwhelmingly attracted to Ennis sexually and, throughout the passing of the summer, this fierce, manly desire between the men develops into a deep-seated, unwanted love, albeit more so on Ennis's part because of the poisonous way he was brought up to regard gay people. After the summer, the two, while clearly totally in love by now, part company and that is to be the end of the matter. The following summer however, Jack returns to seek work with the same rancher in hopes that Ennis has been missing him and will also show up. He doesn't: he is now married and has ostensibly moved on with his life. After the passing of a further period of time, Jack writes Ennis and informs him he'll be visiting in his area and would like to get together if Ennis would like that, to which Ennis hurriedly replies in a postcard "You bet." Of course, Jack is visiting for the sole purpose of having sex with Ennis again, but, by the quickness of his response and it's wording, it is clear Ennis is equally anxious for the trysts to begin again.
I would submit that many such situations (heterosexual or homosexual) are initiated, as in the film, by men simply needing or desiring sex outside of a long-term relationship. It is a truism not often discussed that after a long period of time together with one partner, the sex becomes rote and, well, boring for many men. (I suspect the same goes for women too, but I can't speak for them for obvious reasons.) And despite the abundant counsel dished out by 'Keeping your marriage/relationship on track" type books and legions of psychologists and psychotherapists, a new pair of frilly knickers (the equivalent for an anxious gay male partner being a new jockstrap), furry stiletto slippers (no gay male equivalent, at least to my knowledge) or untried, perhaps novel, lovemaking position will give but limited additional mileage. (Note: I've always found it curious how these books, etc. often make it the resposibility of the woman to address what is a natural condition in men?)
The jury's back on this, though the verdict is never acknowledged or discussed in our constrained society. Many men, straight or gay--and I'm not stating all men--enjoy the physical thrill of having sex with new partners, period. 'Sporadic trysts' throughout the millennia have been initiated with far too much frequency that we should now act as adults and acknowledge this aspect of male sexuality.(The ancient Romans acknowledged it and thus I feel their approach to sexuality was a lot more healthy than ours is today.) Married or gay men--lawyers, judges, vicars, plumbers, garbage collectors--initiate 'illicit' liaisons daily. It's mostly men who do the initiating because the sexes are wired differently in this aspect--just as men and women exhibit different symptoms for similar illnesses such as heart attacks--and, while it's more complicated than the space I can allocate it here, I believe a great many men (straight and gay) can have casual sex and not allow it to affect or threaten the dynamics of their primary relationship. It is the natural sexual dynamic of the male operating, nothing more, nothing less.
Most women, on the other hand, prize and demand monogamy and have extreme difficulty accepting that their spouse or partner can function like this. I feel this is a result of both nature and culture, and many women are utterly devastated when they find their partner has so-called 'betrayed' them. (Please note I'm not going to get bogged down with considerations of morality, etc. because these are well aired and supravening in that they are related to cultural and/or religious beliefs that do not alter the fundamental truth about male sexuality. Nor does their sexual wiring mean that men cannot love deeply. Of course men can love, but sex and love can be distinct in the male mind.)
So to conclude, is Jack's behavior tantamount to his being a sexual predator? Of course not. He is behaving as many heterosexual or homosexual men will behave;no more, no less. It's been this way for millennia. Shalit made the flawed assumption that Ennis had no choice in the matter, that he was a hapless victim to Jack's having taken the initiative, searched him out, and moved the relationship forward. This overlooking of choice, together with his addition of a healthy dollop of good old fashioned American puritanism from the vat labeled "What God has joined together, let no man put asunder," is what I believe led him to use the term 'sexual predator' erroneously.
[technorati: Gene Shalit, Brokeback Mountain, Oscars, Sexuality, Today Show
Friday
Here's a sample of our new Irish play
Phil and I completed another draft of the play and it's truly remarkable how much we've been able to cut and how tight the piece appears now. It's been very tricky to portray twelve years of a young boy's life in a conservative Northern Irish community in a 90 minute or so play--by that I mean getting in the Northern Irish 70s' political milieu because this was period known as The Troubles and the Catholic minority were under attack by the British government and Unionists, Gabriel's sexual confusion, and the dark family secret involving his Uncle Brendan, the missionary priest--but I believe we've achieved it.
The play exists now in three Acts. As well as having written, Phil has directed in regional theater and he's organized the first reading of our play for February 11th in New York. That's the evening when a group of actors come together at the theater and read the piece in its entirety and we listen to how it all sounds, etc. Phil advises me that members of the public will be in attendance because there are lots of theater lovers who make a point of attending first readings of plays. I'm tremendously excited as this whole experience has been a first for me.
I've also invited my very good friend (and now literary agent) Joan Schweighardt and her husband to attend the public reading because Joan has been Gabriel's champion from the moment she first read A Son Called Gabriel as a manuscript. Joan loved the work so much she took it to my publisher and started the ball rolling toward its publication. For that act of blind faith alone, I would love her. But then she was appointed publicist for both the hard cover and softcover campaigns and, through the amount of time we spent together, our professional relationship transmuted to one of trust and friendship. My father always said to us that we should aim in life to have many good friends and people who one can implicitly trust. Joan is one such person whom I've found on American shores.
As promised, I said I'd post parts of the play. So, here's the first scene from Act One which, any of you who've read the book, will recognize because we tried to stay faithful where possible to the plot. Gabriel is six-years-old when the curtain rises and will be almost nineteen at its end.
A Son Called Gabriel
September 1964 – August 1970
The action of the play takes place in Northern Ireland during the 1960s’ and 70s’ in the house of the Harkin family. All other scenes take place downstage.
ACT ONE
SCENE 1
Off to School
GABRIEL
(He runs across the stage.) I’m definitely not going.
EILEEN
(She walks out onto the stage following Gabriel.) Who do you think you are? Go to school this instant or I’ll fetch a sally rod and beat the living daylights out of you.
GABRIEL
It’s all right for you to say I must go, but you don’t have to deal with Henry Lynch every day. He makes the others gang up on me and you won’t listen.
EILEEN
You must go to school or you’ll just be a stupid Harkin.
GABRIEL
I don’t care.
EILEEN
Last year, you wanted to go so much, I went and got permission for you to start school early.
GABRIEL
That was before I knew Henry Lynch would be in my class.
EILEEN
You must try harder to get him to like you. Talk to him instead of shying away...and don’t take his name-calling to heart. You must be a man, Gabriel. Nobody likes a boy who’s too sensitive.
GABRIEL
I’m still not going.
EILEEN
(She walks into the kitchen and returns with a rod, then runs up to him.) I’m not putting up with this nonsense. Your sister’s starting after the summer holidays and I’m not going to tolerate you showing her a bad example. (She grabs Gabriel’s arm and whips him as she drags him across the stage.) I can’t have you deciding whether you’re going to school or not. Go! (She gives him a shove) Faster, or you’ll be late for class. (She watches for a moment then exits.)
CAROLINE, PEGGY, CELIA, JAMES, NOEL and HENRY enter and sit with their lunches at the desks down stage right. GABRIEL runs on carrying a chair and places it in front of HENRY. CONNOR and MARTIN roll a large blackboard into the classroom.
GABRIEL
(He turns around to face HENRY.) Henry, would you like one of my ham sandwiches?
HENRY
Why would you give me one of your sandwiches, Harkin?
GABRIEL
(He pauses.) I thought you might like to try something different.
HENRY
Have you spit on it?
GABRIEL
I have not indeed. I’d like us to be friends, Henry, so I’ll also give you my chocolate today.
HENRY
I’ll take the chocolate bar, but I wonÂ’t have the sandwich unless you eat a piece of my Indian scone.
GABRIEL
I’m not so very hungry today.
HENRY
Is my scone not good enough for you to eat, Harkin? Is that what this is about?
GABRIEL
No. I just thought youÂ’d like some ham for a change, that’s all.
HENRY
Harkin, are you saying my ma can’t afford to buy ham?
GABRIEL
(He places his sandwich on HENRY’S desk.)
HENRY
I’ll have a tiny, tiny piece, then. (He breaks off a piece of scone and hands it to Gabriel. They watch each other chew.) How do you like my ma’s scone?
GABRIEL
Delicious.
HENRY
In that case, you can have the rest and I’ll take another ham sandwich.
HENRY looks toward the door as FATHER. MCATAMNEY enters. GABRIEL pulls a long hair out of the sandwich, twists up his face as he regards it, and then throws it away.
FATHER MCATAMNEY
Time for your catechism, boys and girls. First Holy Communion will soon be here. (He looks over at Henry and Gabriel) I see you two’ve been sharing each other’s lunches. Look, girls and boys! Look at the example Henry and Gabriel are setting. They’ve been sharing. Sharing is good to do. Now, who can raise their hand and tell me another person who shared a feast? (No one raises their hand.) I’ll give you a hint. His name begins with a ‘J.’ (Still no hands go up.) Jesus, boys and girls. Remember...remember I told you Jesus gave his body to the apostles to eat?
FATHER MCATAMNEY walks back to the blackboard and starts writing. HENRY prods GABRIEL.
HENRY
Listen, Harkin. From now on, you have to hand over all your chocolate bars or whatever treats you have for lunch.
GABRIEL
I can’t do that, Henry.
HENRY
If you don’t, I’m going to make it very rough for you.
GABRIEL
Henry, I really want us to be friends, but what you’re asking me to do isn’t right.
HENRY
Don’t tell me what’s right, you fucking sissy boy. (He prods his finger into Gabriel’s chest like a jackhammer.) I’ll give you a good thrashing if you don’t give me the chocolate…and you’d better have picked a football team to be your favorite by lunchtime or you’ll get hit as well.
FATHER MCATAMNEY rings a hand bell signaling that class is over. The kids all get up from their desks and gather downstage. CAROLINE, PEGGY, CELIA and GABRIEL stand off to the side talking. MARTIN, CONNOR and JAMES toss the ball back and forth to each other. Finally, HENRY intercepts it.
HENRY
Hey, Harkin, come here.
GABRIEL walks over and the other boys gather around.
HENRY
Have you picked a soccer team to support yet?
GABRIEL
I quite like Chelsea.
HENRY
Why Chelsea?
GABRIEL
I like the color of their outfits...and Chelsea’s a nice part of England.
HENRY
The color of their kit doesn’t matter a fuck. (He smacks the top of GABRIEL’S head with his palm.) What an eejit, right fellas?
GABRIEL
Stop hitting me, Henry. That’s not allowed.
HENRY
Don’t tell me what’s allowed, you big sissy. (He hits GABRIEL on the side of the face.) Come on, Harkin. Fight me, or are you a yellabelly?
GABRIEL
(He stares at Henry.)
NOEL
Come on, Gabriel. Don’t let a chap from the other side of Knockburn beat you.
GABRIEL looks at NOEL but still does not fight.
HENRY
(He turns GABRIEL around, kicks him in the ass, and he falls to the ground. HENRY raises his fists up like a boxer and begins dancing around GABRIEL.)
All the BOYS laugh and cheer.
GABRIEL
(He stands up slowly.)
HENRY
(He hits him in the nose.)
BOY
Leave him alone, Henry.
NOEL
He has to fight. Come on Gabriel, he’s made you bleed. Hit him and let’s see the color of his blood.
GABRIEL
I don’t want to fight.
NOEL
Don’t be a coward.
GABRIEL
Fighting’s for animals. They don’t know any better. (He lowers his fists and turns to leave.)
HENRY
(He pushes GABRIEL real hard.) Go and play with the girls like you always do, sissy boy.
The school BELL rings. All the KIDS disperse.
[technorati: Theater, GreyCore Press, Stageplays, Irish, Playwrights
The play exists now in three Acts. As well as having written, Phil has directed in regional theater and he's organized the first reading of our play for February 11th in New York. That's the evening when a group of actors come together at the theater and read the piece in its entirety and we listen to how it all sounds, etc. Phil advises me that members of the public will be in attendance because there are lots of theater lovers who make a point of attending first readings of plays. I'm tremendously excited as this whole experience has been a first for me.
I've also invited my very good friend (and now literary agent) Joan Schweighardt and her husband to attend the public reading because Joan has been Gabriel's champion from the moment she first read A Son Called Gabriel as a manuscript. Joan loved the work so much she took it to my publisher and started the ball rolling toward its publication. For that act of blind faith alone, I would love her. But then she was appointed publicist for both the hard cover and softcover campaigns and, through the amount of time we spent together, our professional relationship transmuted to one of trust and friendship. My father always said to us that we should aim in life to have many good friends and people who one can implicitly trust. Joan is one such person whom I've found on American shores.
As promised, I said I'd post parts of the play. So, here's the first scene from Act One which, any of you who've read the book, will recognize because we tried to stay faithful where possible to the plot. Gabriel is six-years-old when the curtain rises and will be almost nineteen at its end.
A Son Called Gabriel
September 1964 – August 1970
The action of the play takes place in Northern Ireland during the 1960s’ and 70s’ in the house of the Harkin family. All other scenes take place downstage.
ACT ONE
SCENE 1
Off to School
GABRIEL
(He runs across the stage.) I’m definitely not going.
EILEEN
(She walks out onto the stage following Gabriel.) Who do you think you are? Go to school this instant or I’ll fetch a sally rod and beat the living daylights out of you.
GABRIEL
It’s all right for you to say I must go, but you don’t have to deal with Henry Lynch every day. He makes the others gang up on me and you won’t listen.
EILEEN
You must go to school or you’ll just be a stupid Harkin.
GABRIEL
I don’t care.
EILEEN
Last year, you wanted to go so much, I went and got permission for you to start school early.
GABRIEL
That was before I knew Henry Lynch would be in my class.
EILEEN
You must try harder to get him to like you. Talk to him instead of shying away...and don’t take his name-calling to heart. You must be a man, Gabriel. Nobody likes a boy who’s too sensitive.
GABRIEL
I’m still not going.
EILEEN
(She walks into the kitchen and returns with a rod, then runs up to him.) I’m not putting up with this nonsense. Your sister’s starting after the summer holidays and I’m not going to tolerate you showing her a bad example. (She grabs Gabriel’s arm and whips him as she drags him across the stage.) I can’t have you deciding whether you’re going to school or not. Go! (She gives him a shove) Faster, or you’ll be late for class. (She watches for a moment then exits.)
CAROLINE, PEGGY, CELIA, JAMES, NOEL and HENRY enter and sit with their lunches at the desks down stage right. GABRIEL runs on carrying a chair and places it in front of HENRY. CONNOR and MARTIN roll a large blackboard into the classroom.
GABRIEL
(He turns around to face HENRY.) Henry, would you like one of my ham sandwiches?
HENRY
Why would you give me one of your sandwiches, Harkin?
GABRIEL
(He pauses.) I thought you might like to try something different.
HENRY
Have you spit on it?
GABRIEL
I have not indeed. I’d like us to be friends, Henry, so I’ll also give you my chocolate today.
HENRY
I’ll take the chocolate bar, but I wonÂ’t have the sandwich unless you eat a piece of my Indian scone.
GABRIEL
I’m not so very hungry today.
HENRY
Is my scone not good enough for you to eat, Harkin? Is that what this is about?
GABRIEL
No. I just thought youÂ’d like some ham for a change, that’s all.
HENRY
Harkin, are you saying my ma can’t afford to buy ham?
GABRIEL
(He places his sandwich on HENRY’S desk.)
HENRY
I’ll have a tiny, tiny piece, then. (He breaks off a piece of scone and hands it to Gabriel. They watch each other chew.) How do you like my ma’s scone?
GABRIEL
Delicious.
HENRY
In that case, you can have the rest and I’ll take another ham sandwich.
HENRY looks toward the door as FATHER. MCATAMNEY enters. GABRIEL pulls a long hair out of the sandwich, twists up his face as he regards it, and then throws it away.
FATHER MCATAMNEY
Time for your catechism, boys and girls. First Holy Communion will soon be here. (He looks over at Henry and Gabriel) I see you two’ve been sharing each other’s lunches. Look, girls and boys! Look at the example Henry and Gabriel are setting. They’ve been sharing. Sharing is good to do. Now, who can raise their hand and tell me another person who shared a feast? (No one raises their hand.) I’ll give you a hint. His name begins with a ‘J.’ (Still no hands go up.) Jesus, boys and girls. Remember...remember I told you Jesus gave his body to the apostles to eat?
FATHER MCATAMNEY walks back to the blackboard and starts writing. HENRY prods GABRIEL.
HENRY
Listen, Harkin. From now on, you have to hand over all your chocolate bars or whatever treats you have for lunch.
GABRIEL
I can’t do that, Henry.
HENRY
If you don’t, I’m going to make it very rough for you.
GABRIEL
Henry, I really want us to be friends, but what you’re asking me to do isn’t right.
HENRY
Don’t tell me what’s right, you fucking sissy boy. (He prods his finger into Gabriel’s chest like a jackhammer.) I’ll give you a good thrashing if you don’t give me the chocolate…and you’d better have picked a football team to be your favorite by lunchtime or you’ll get hit as well.
FATHER MCATAMNEY rings a hand bell signaling that class is over. The kids all get up from their desks and gather downstage. CAROLINE, PEGGY, CELIA and GABRIEL stand off to the side talking. MARTIN, CONNOR and JAMES toss the ball back and forth to each other. Finally, HENRY intercepts it.
HENRY
Hey, Harkin, come here.
GABRIEL walks over and the other boys gather around.
HENRY
Have you picked a soccer team to support yet?
GABRIEL
I quite like Chelsea.
HENRY
Why Chelsea?
GABRIEL
I like the color of their outfits...and Chelsea’s a nice part of England.
HENRY
The color of their kit doesn’t matter a fuck. (He smacks the top of GABRIEL’S head with his palm.) What an eejit, right fellas?
GABRIEL
Stop hitting me, Henry. That’s not allowed.
HENRY
Don’t tell me what’s allowed, you big sissy. (He hits GABRIEL on the side of the face.) Come on, Harkin. Fight me, or are you a yellabelly?
GABRIEL
(He stares at Henry.)
NOEL
Come on, Gabriel. Don’t let a chap from the other side of Knockburn beat you.
GABRIEL looks at NOEL but still does not fight.
HENRY
(He turns GABRIEL around, kicks him in the ass, and he falls to the ground. HENRY raises his fists up like a boxer and begins dancing around GABRIEL.)
All the BOYS laugh and cheer.
GABRIEL
(He stands up slowly.)
HENRY
(He hits him in the nose.)
BOY
Leave him alone, Henry.
NOEL
He has to fight. Come on Gabriel, he’s made you bleed. Hit him and let’s see the color of his blood.
GABRIEL
I don’t want to fight.
NOEL
Don’t be a coward.
GABRIEL
Fighting’s for animals. They don’t know any better. (He lowers his fists and turns to leave.)
HENRY
(He pushes GABRIEL real hard.) Go and play with the girls like you always do, sissy boy.
The school BELL rings. All the KIDS disperse.
[technorati: Theater, GreyCore Press, Stageplays, Irish, Playwrights
Monday
Framing the house
Last week was a busy week. I've mentioned before that we'd cleared trees and shrubs from some land in the early spring in preparation of building a French Country home that we hope to move into by the end of the summer. Progress has been good, though the framer and guy who constructs the chimneys started in the late fall when Larry had hoped it would be mostly completed by then. The house has now been framed and it looks magnificent because it's got really steep pitched, high roof lines that one would see traveling through Provence. (I should say that this is an Americanized version of what a French Country house looks like; in other words, the architect has given it the look and feel of a 'cottagey' French style house but, in dimensions, it's large and designed for contemporary living.) Next comes putting on the slate roof--we'd got about eight bids on the last fortnight and appointed the winning contractor four days ago--and choosing the color of stone as it's going to be a Bucks County stone house.
As I'm the son of a man who had an excavation and plant hire business, I've worked around construction guys as a schoolboy and am used to the ribald, jocular humor and 'cussing,' etc. They're no different in the United States. Buildings sites in Ireland and the US share certain universals, though admittedly one is most unlikely to encounter burly, rough-spoken men tucking into mescaline salad with oil and balsamic vinaigrette dressing and vegetarian pizzas on an Irish building site.
Our framer is from the old school of construction; he doesn't use electrical guns to drive in the nails, preferring instead to use the old fashioned hammer, though I'm fairly sure his younger crew feel differently about that. He and his crew are also well treated because he gave Larry some chocolate chip cookies one afternoon that were homemade. It turns out a neighbor of ours arrives every day at teatime with a plate of homemade cookies for the chaps. (She and the framers wife are friends, but still the daily gesture underscores that the spirit of largesse and true friendship are alive and well in contemporary America, just as it was in this formerly predominately Quaker township over a hundred years ago.) And the framer also let Larry know in a sly way that he knew he was gay by remarking that he knew Spice, our dog. Upon Larry's inquiry as to how he knew him, he replied, "My wife is in partnership with Natalie, the woman you and your friend use to look after him when you go away and she fed him when you went away last year."
I must also say that framers are not given full credit by people like me for the beautiful work they do. As I walked around the new house with Larry (carefully treading as we've had rain and the place is a mire in places), I was nothing short of astounded by the precise craftsmanship of their rough-in carpentry, by the amazing angles and interesting nooks and crannies they'd created that will soon forever be concealed by the roof's slate and walls of stone.
Last week also saw the laying of the electricity and high speed cable lines into the trench that runs alongside the driveway to the front door. The electricity company took an entire day to install a large cylindrical box onto a nearby pole that will increase the amount of invisible 'juice' surging into the house. And because these lines must be blanketed with gravel before the trench was closed again, Larry had me come along and help with the shoveling. At one point, the chap astride the pole shouted at me to get out of the trench and then the line went live. After they'd left, Larry asked me to come with him to the cellar and we stood before the electrical box.
"You can have the honor of being the first to let the electricity flow into our house," he said.
I was moved, but it didn't seem right I should do it.
"No," I said. "We'll do it together."
And so we put our hands on the switch and pressed it down and a single light came on.
We laughed. It was a fun moment, though one tinged with a little sadness that I did not share with him albeit I'm sure our very old, ailing doggie Spice was also on his mind as well.
[technorati: Bucks County, French Country Homes, Provence, construction
As I'm the son of a man who had an excavation and plant hire business, I've worked around construction guys as a schoolboy and am used to the ribald, jocular humor and 'cussing,' etc. They're no different in the United States. Buildings sites in Ireland and the US share certain universals, though admittedly one is most unlikely to encounter burly, rough-spoken men tucking into mescaline salad with oil and balsamic vinaigrette dressing and vegetarian pizzas on an Irish building site.
Our framer is from the old school of construction; he doesn't use electrical guns to drive in the nails, preferring instead to use the old fashioned hammer, though I'm fairly sure his younger crew feel differently about that. He and his crew are also well treated because he gave Larry some chocolate chip cookies one afternoon that were homemade. It turns out a neighbor of ours arrives every day at teatime with a plate of homemade cookies for the chaps. (She and the framers wife are friends, but still the daily gesture underscores that the spirit of largesse and true friendship are alive and well in contemporary America, just as it was in this formerly predominately Quaker township over a hundred years ago.) And the framer also let Larry know in a sly way that he knew he was gay by remarking that he knew Spice, our dog. Upon Larry's inquiry as to how he knew him, he replied, "My wife is in partnership with Natalie, the woman you and your friend use to look after him when you go away and she fed him when you went away last year."
I must also say that framers are not given full credit by people like me for the beautiful work they do. As I walked around the new house with Larry (carefully treading as we've had rain and the place is a mire in places), I was nothing short of astounded by the precise craftsmanship of their rough-in carpentry, by the amazing angles and interesting nooks and crannies they'd created that will soon forever be concealed by the roof's slate and walls of stone.
Last week also saw the laying of the electricity and high speed cable lines into the trench that runs alongside the driveway to the front door. The electricity company took an entire day to install a large cylindrical box onto a nearby pole that will increase the amount of invisible 'juice' surging into the house. And because these lines must be blanketed with gravel before the trench was closed again, Larry had me come along and help with the shoveling. At one point, the chap astride the pole shouted at me to get out of the trench and then the line went live. After they'd left, Larry asked me to come with him to the cellar and we stood before the electrical box.
"You can have the honor of being the first to let the electricity flow into our house," he said.
I was moved, but it didn't seem right I should do it.
"No," I said. "We'll do it together."
And so we put our hands on the switch and pressed it down and a single light came on.
We laughed. It was a fun moment, though one tinged with a little sadness that I did not share with him albeit I'm sure our very old, ailing doggie Spice was also on his mind as well.
[technorati: Bucks County, French Country Homes, Provence, construction
Thursday
The teenagers of the Rainbow Room
Last night, my friend Maria invited me to attend a function at the Rainbow Room which is a resource center set up by Planned Parenthood Association of Bucks County for the benefit of teenagers who are either LGBTQA. (I knew that 'L' stood for Lesbian, 'G' for Gay, 'B' for Bisexual, 'T' for Transgender, but the 'Q' and the 'A' had me stumped. I asked and was informed the 'Q' stood for Queer or Questioning and the 'A' stood for allies, namely the straight youth.) The event was an opportunity for the adults supporting the venture either financially or as volunteers to meet and get to know the youth, and for them to get to know the adults. Prior to last night, I'd attended one other event called 'Sing Out Loud and Proud,' a musical presentation by the kids that was a fundraiser. That performance took place at Solebury High School near New Hope and was extremely well attended. Of course, it also raised the ire of a few bigots in the area who protested the fact that Solebury High School would lend its facilities to any kind of an organization supporting kids working out their sexuality and their allies. But hey, this is America and, because we cherish our First Amendment rights, they, too, should have a right to speak their hate under the pretext of honoring God.
As I entered the room where over 50 youth (ranging in age from 16 to 20) from throughout middle Bucks County were assembled, some with piercings, some with vegetable dyed hair, one sporting a black Charlie Chaplin hat, some fat, some thin, some conservative in their attire, some African-American, some straight, some gay, some bisexual, I was struck by their confidence, cohesion, and enthusiasm. Maria and I arrived a little late and people were already introducing themselves and stating why they liked the Rainbow Room, each person speaking only when they came into possession of a teddy bear that was being circulated from individual to individual. Thereafter, in an excellent device to get the teenagers and adults to interrelate, the entire room was invited to take a questionnaire and circulate around the room asking people to help complete the questions by writing their name across from a question they could answer. Questions began with 'Find someone who':
Has been married;
Got good sexual health info from family members
Can describe how to use a Reality/"Female"Condom. (To my amazement, afterwards, a young man who'd participated in a class to enable him to give sex education counseling to women gave a very informative description.)
Likes their body
Knows what the pregnancy rate for lesbian teenagers is in the US (25%, and nearly three times higher than their straight peers, probably due to their desire to prove they're normal and fit in, etc.)
Has been on a fun trip recently or has one planned, etc.
It was a fun exercise and one that really worked because the kids would approach adults and ask the questions, etc.
A second, singularly American interactive 'game' called the 'fishbowl' next occurred as the teenagers sat in a ring to answer questions while the adults listened and then vice versa. (As an aside, this is one of the things I love about Americans; I've been in enough situations to conclude that many are not frightened to think outside the box, to try something unusual, to risk making a fool of themselves, to do things that Irish or Brits might roll their eyes or shrink from and dismiss with a "how juvenile" or 'very American, that is.") Questions asked included, "What do you like about being a teenager?" and its obverse, and "What do you want people to know about you as a group?" Answers were universal, in that I imagine teenagers in Ireland or England would have similar opinions, and included the complaints about parents who don't understand them, 'not being allowed to buy cigarettes', being stereotyped, etc. A wit among them said, he didn't like having to pay off the US deficit we adults are running up when he and his peers gets older. Next came the adults--much creaking and cracking of joints as we tried to sit crosslegged and dignified on the floor under the watchful eyes of the teens--and we answered questions such as "What do you like about being an adult?, and what we didn't, what were our perceptions of teenagers? and what thoughts we wanted the teenagers to take from our words.
The evening wrapped up with an amusing slide show prepared by the kids which depicted them attending various Rainbow Room and other functions throughout the years it has been in operation.
All in all, I came away from the event with a definite sense of American youth and their confidence and sense of social responsibility, something I really didn't possess before I went in. (I don't often get a chance to connect with teenagers and kids, except during visits home to Ireland where I have a healthy and exuberant brood of nephews and nieces. But my nephews and nieces, though I love them dearly, are all pretty similar in their views and behavior due to the educational system in Northern Ireland and their upbringing, and thus are not fully representative of the entire range of today's youth. They are all highly educated and already motivated by money and status, and sadly I never hear them talk about giving back to society in any way. Rather, I hear them talk about being accountants, lawyers and doctors, and what cars they want to drive, etc. Unfortunately, the Northern Irish system of education--which is in effect British--is very deficient in that it puts a premium on uniformity and academic excellence at the expense of the arts. One is, in effect, encouraged to be an accountant or an engineer, but discouraged from aspiring to be an actor or writer. The system--especially in the Catholic schools--collects money for the 'black babies of Africa', but teaches the students nothing about racism, sexism, homophobia intolerance, hypocrisy, etc.) With regard to the United States, too often I've seen herds of teenagers trolling around the malls with blank expressions, heard them talking on TV, and it's been discouraging; it seemed as if the corporateers have won, that these kids have bought en masse into the menus of morose corporate hype and Hollywood crap they're being fed, that they can barely speak three syllable words and are unable to think, that all they crave are Gameboys, X-boxes, cell phones, and cigarettes.
The kids I met last night are refreshingly different: they're individuals but love cohesion and friendship, they're energetic, driven, love to question and challenge, will not swallow whole the biases and hypocrisy of their parents, religious institutions or government. Of course, I realize these Bucks County teens are extraordinary in that, at an early age, they are learning about and dealing with (or have dealt with) very adult and tricky issues such as sexuality and sexism, prejudice, racism and bigotry. They have already gone out on a limb and challenged the status quo. This bunch of straight, gay and questioning kids have taken the initiative to learn about and work towards making society tolerant. I feel confident about America's future because of these kids and others like them throughout the US. They will go on to college and then become leaders in society one day, of that I have no doubt, and we will be better off for it.
Congratulations to them, and to Bucks County Planned Parenthood and its dedicated staff for setting up the Rainbow Room.
[technorati: Planned Parenthood, Rainbow Room, Bucks County, Teenagers
As I entered the room where over 50 youth (ranging in age from 16 to 20) from throughout middle Bucks County were assembled, some with piercings, some with vegetable dyed hair, one sporting a black Charlie Chaplin hat, some fat, some thin, some conservative in their attire, some African-American, some straight, some gay, some bisexual, I was struck by their confidence, cohesion, and enthusiasm. Maria and I arrived a little late and people were already introducing themselves and stating why they liked the Rainbow Room, each person speaking only when they came into possession of a teddy bear that was being circulated from individual to individual. Thereafter, in an excellent device to get the teenagers and adults to interrelate, the entire room was invited to take a questionnaire and circulate around the room asking people to help complete the questions by writing their name across from a question they could answer. Questions began with 'Find someone who':
Has been married;
Got good sexual health info from family members
Can describe how to use a Reality/"Female"Condom. (To my amazement, afterwards, a young man who'd participated in a class to enable him to give sex education counseling to women gave a very informative description.)
Likes their body
Knows what the pregnancy rate for lesbian teenagers is in the US (25%, and nearly three times higher than their straight peers, probably due to their desire to prove they're normal and fit in, etc.)
Has been on a fun trip recently or has one planned, etc.
It was a fun exercise and one that really worked because the kids would approach adults and ask the questions, etc.
A second, singularly American interactive 'game' called the 'fishbowl' next occurred as the teenagers sat in a ring to answer questions while the adults listened and then vice versa. (As an aside, this is one of the things I love about Americans; I've been in enough situations to conclude that many are not frightened to think outside the box, to try something unusual, to risk making a fool of themselves, to do things that Irish or Brits might roll their eyes or shrink from and dismiss with a "how juvenile" or 'very American, that is.") Questions asked included, "What do you like about being a teenager?" and its obverse, and "What do you want people to know about you as a group?" Answers were universal, in that I imagine teenagers in Ireland or England would have similar opinions, and included the complaints about parents who don't understand them, 'not being allowed to buy cigarettes', being stereotyped, etc. A wit among them said, he didn't like having to pay off the US deficit we adults are running up when he and his peers gets older. Next came the adults--much creaking and cracking of joints as we tried to sit crosslegged and dignified on the floor under the watchful eyes of the teens--and we answered questions such as "What do you like about being an adult?, and what we didn't, what were our perceptions of teenagers? and what thoughts we wanted the teenagers to take from our words.
The evening wrapped up with an amusing slide show prepared by the kids which depicted them attending various Rainbow Room and other functions throughout the years it has been in operation.
All in all, I came away from the event with a definite sense of American youth and their confidence and sense of social responsibility, something I really didn't possess before I went in. (I don't often get a chance to connect with teenagers and kids, except during visits home to Ireland where I have a healthy and exuberant brood of nephews and nieces. But my nephews and nieces, though I love them dearly, are all pretty similar in their views and behavior due to the educational system in Northern Ireland and their upbringing, and thus are not fully representative of the entire range of today's youth. They are all highly educated and already motivated by money and status, and sadly I never hear them talk about giving back to society in any way. Rather, I hear them talk about being accountants, lawyers and doctors, and what cars they want to drive, etc. Unfortunately, the Northern Irish system of education--which is in effect British--is very deficient in that it puts a premium on uniformity and academic excellence at the expense of the arts. One is, in effect, encouraged to be an accountant or an engineer, but discouraged from aspiring to be an actor or writer. The system--especially in the Catholic schools--collects money for the 'black babies of Africa', but teaches the students nothing about racism, sexism, homophobia intolerance, hypocrisy, etc.) With regard to the United States, too often I've seen herds of teenagers trolling around the malls with blank expressions, heard them talking on TV, and it's been discouraging; it seemed as if the corporateers have won, that these kids have bought en masse into the menus of morose corporate hype and Hollywood crap they're being fed, that they can barely speak three syllable words and are unable to think, that all they crave are Gameboys, X-boxes, cell phones, and cigarettes.
The kids I met last night are refreshingly different: they're individuals but love cohesion and friendship, they're energetic, driven, love to question and challenge, will not swallow whole the biases and hypocrisy of their parents, religious institutions or government. Of course, I realize these Bucks County teens are extraordinary in that, at an early age, they are learning about and dealing with (or have dealt with) very adult and tricky issues such as sexuality and sexism, prejudice, racism and bigotry. They have already gone out on a limb and challenged the status quo. This bunch of straight, gay and questioning kids have taken the initiative to learn about and work towards making society tolerant. I feel confident about America's future because of these kids and others like them throughout the US. They will go on to college and then become leaders in society one day, of that I have no doubt, and we will be better off for it.
Congratulations to them, and to Bucks County Planned Parenthood and its dedicated staff for setting up the Rainbow Room.
[technorati: Planned Parenthood, Rainbow Room, Bucks County, Teenagers
Monday
Secrets, and Understanding
I read quite a few blogs, both literary and personal, and have found of late that I don't have enough time to read them all, so I've had to really cut back. One that I stumbled upon some time ago by accident is by a blogger called Chris who's been married for over two decades and he's also a father, but always felt something was different. The 'something' is that he's also attracted to men, that he's gay, and last year matters came to a head and he resolved to discuss these core feelings with his wife and family, moved out of the home to live a short distance away, and has been blogging about his whole painful experience, and the joy he's finding now in being true to himself. I found the blog compelling right from the first paragraph I read and it's become one of my favorites both because of the quality of his writing and the content. What compelled me about the content? Well, the subjedct interested me and I was bowled over by its searing reality and the subtext, if you will, that we are on this earth for a short period of time and must be true to who we are no matter how hard while we walk the fields and streets.
Anyway, it turns out this chap has read my novel recently and posted his feelings entitled Living With Secrets in relation to it on Coming Out at 48. I was stunned by how well he understood Gabriel, how infinitely more so than the vast majority of professional reviewers and interviewers who've had me on their shows. He went to the core of Gabriel and literally touched his quivering soul. He understood, and I am tremendously moved by what he has written.
[technorati: Coming out at 48, A Son Called Gabriel, PFLAG, Gay Dads
Anyway, it turns out this chap has read my novel recently and posted his feelings entitled Living With Secrets in relation to it on Coming Out at 48. I was stunned by how well he understood Gabriel, how infinitely more so than the vast majority of professional reviewers and interviewers who've had me on their shows. He went to the core of Gabriel and literally touched his quivering soul. He understood, and I am tremendously moved by what he has written.
[technorati: Coming out at 48, A Son Called Gabriel, PFLAG, Gay Dads
Friday
The 'Frey' frenzy
Today National Public Radio's Radio Times with Marty Moss-Coane was debating the issue of whether memoirs should be true because of the recent debacle involving James Fray's "memoir" A Million Little Pieces and how some of it had been proven by The Smoking Gun.com to be utter fabrication. At one point, one of her guest's, Carlo Romano, nonfiction reviewer at The Philadelphia Inquirer stated that Frey's manuscript had been circulated as a novel and turned down by 17 houses until it made its way to the Nan A. Talese imprint at Random House. Apparently, editors at the Talese imprint suggested the book would be better positioned as a memoir. The debate really struck a chord with me because of my own situation with A Son Called Gabrielso I called into the show (she takes live calls) and gave my opinion as a writer.
Basically, when my book was accepted by my publisher they asked me how much of the plot was true because, being set in conservative Northern Ireland and involving the issue of a young boy's struggles with his sexuality, they were chomping at the bit to publish it as 'memoir'. They said, given its Irish setting and the fact that it deals in part with an Irish Catholic boy struggling with homosexuality against the background of 'The Troubles,' the publicist would be able to easily get me tons and tons of media if it were positioned as nonfiction. The downside was, that if I kept it as a novel, it would not attract the attention of the media caught up in the intrigues of a presidential campaign (2004) and that it was nigh to impossible to get radio and TV for fiction, never mind it was an Irish piece of fiction coming out in the US.
In effect, it was boiling down to a 'dollars versus truth' decision. Did I want to take a very good chance that I would earn a lot of money and garner a lot of attention for a memoir entitled 'A Son Called Damian', or was I content to let my first book go out as a novel and risk it getting lost in the roar of the 2004 presidential election campaign? I have never hidden the fact that many scenes in the novel replicate my experiences, but the family is not my family nor is the book's plotline concerning Brendan based on fact. (In the end, I did get a fair amount of publicity and am not complaining.)
It was very tempting at the time to consider pulling a paragraph here and there and re-editing it as a memoir, but I decided I had to be true to myself and to the character I'd created. The truth was I had never intended my book to be a memoir as I understand a memoir to be. As I was writing it, I knew it was falling into a sort of gray area that many books end up in, namely that much of the story had a basis in real life, but there are also many dollops of fiction added to the mix. In fact, I thought about this very same issue a great deal when I was visiting Northern Ireland last year when I stood at the fresh grave of the boy (in my mind he was a boy, though of course he died an adult) who had once seduced me. He'd been 11, I only 7, and it turns out he was also simultaneously interfering with my much younger sister. (He had had a very sad life, went off to live in England, returned to live with a woman--yes, he was heterosexual--and then drank himself to death.) As I stood there looking at the brightly colored flowers and notes from people who'd loved him, my childhood came back in a torrent of recollections; I hadn't seen him since I was eleven, though he has always been at the fringes of my reminiscences about growing up in rural Ireland. (And, in case you are curious as to what I was feeling, I felt neither anger or sorrow for him as I stood at the gravesite on that bleak January day that Ireland seems to excel at producing. I just felt what was reality, that an obscure life had come to an end, that his demons whatever they were had obviously controlled his life and prevented him from reaching his potential, or maybe the life he'd lived was his true potential--sometimes, in our zeal to see that all humans have great potential, we fail to recognize that some do not.)
I'm fairly certain Frey had a similar decision to make about his book and, in his case, must have decided to subordinate his conscience and thus was happy enough to gussy it up and send it out as a memoir. My opinion is that a memoir should be factual, though times and names may be changed on occasions for legal or to suit the flow of the narrative, and there should be no exaggeration or embellishment. I think it's a shame that the lure of the dollar outweighs all else in some cases, that people are quite willing to subordinate their reputations in order to earn millions or win tremendous fame. Also sad is the attitude of a lot of Americans who stated they don't care whether he told the truth or not. We seem to be living in a culture that's sliding if not in actual decline, that what is base, false or stupid is lauded, and we haven't truly realized that collectively yet. We're living in a culture where the truly dumb is celebrated, where education and critical thinking is no longer aspired to by the masses.
One point came up in the interview that struck me as would a slap in the face. It was a comparison between Frey and Judge Samuel Alito, the Supreme Court nominee, and it was very much on point. The issue revolved around Alito's failure to remember the facts surrounding his membership of a very exclusionary and conservative alumni association (Concerned Alumni of Princeton) during his years at Princeton. Apparently, Romano, who was at Princeton a few years after Alito, stated that this association was not of the kind one drifted into, and thus membership of which one could not forget or dismiss as of no consequence. He stated one had to take active steps to join and thus one could not, by that circumstance alone, forget one's membership. This actuality, combined with the fact that Alito boasted about it in the eighties during a job application for a position in the Regan administration, would seem to indicate he has put his personal ambition and desire to be a member of the US Supreme Court above the need to tell the absolute truth. If this is true, is he not indeed a symbol of what is wrong in society today? And should he become a Justice of the Supreme Court, does this not make his judgments forever defective and nonbinding--regardless as to whether they are conservative or liberal leaning--because they would be fruit of a 'poisoned tree,' a legal principle the judge would well be familiar with from his law school days....unless, of course, he's forgotten.
[technorati: James Frey, A Million Little Pieces, The Smoking Gun, NPR, Marty Moss Coane, Judge Samuel Alito
Basically, when my book was accepted by my publisher they asked me how much of the plot was true because, being set in conservative Northern Ireland and involving the issue of a young boy's struggles with his sexuality, they were chomping at the bit to publish it as 'memoir'. They said, given its Irish setting and the fact that it deals in part with an Irish Catholic boy struggling with homosexuality against the background of 'The Troubles,' the publicist would be able to easily get me tons and tons of media if it were positioned as nonfiction. The downside was, that if I kept it as a novel, it would not attract the attention of the media caught up in the intrigues of a presidential campaign (2004) and that it was nigh to impossible to get radio and TV for fiction, never mind it was an Irish piece of fiction coming out in the US.
In effect, it was boiling down to a 'dollars versus truth' decision. Did I want to take a very good chance that I would earn a lot of money and garner a lot of attention for a memoir entitled 'A Son Called Damian', or was I content to let my first book go out as a novel and risk it getting lost in the roar of the 2004 presidential election campaign? I have never hidden the fact that many scenes in the novel replicate my experiences, but the family is not my family nor is the book's plotline concerning Brendan based on fact. (In the end, I did get a fair amount of publicity and am not complaining.)
It was very tempting at the time to consider pulling a paragraph here and there and re-editing it as a memoir, but I decided I had to be true to myself and to the character I'd created. The truth was I had never intended my book to be a memoir as I understand a memoir to be. As I was writing it, I knew it was falling into a sort of gray area that many books end up in, namely that much of the story had a basis in real life, but there are also many dollops of fiction added to the mix. In fact, I thought about this very same issue a great deal when I was visiting Northern Ireland last year when I stood at the fresh grave of the boy (in my mind he was a boy, though of course he died an adult) who had once seduced me. He'd been 11, I only 7, and it turns out he was also simultaneously interfering with my much younger sister. (He had had a very sad life, went off to live in England, returned to live with a woman--yes, he was heterosexual--and then drank himself to death.) As I stood there looking at the brightly colored flowers and notes from people who'd loved him, my childhood came back in a torrent of recollections; I hadn't seen him since I was eleven, though he has always been at the fringes of my reminiscences about growing up in rural Ireland. (And, in case you are curious as to what I was feeling, I felt neither anger or sorrow for him as I stood at the gravesite on that bleak January day that Ireland seems to excel at producing. I just felt what was reality, that an obscure life had come to an end, that his demons whatever they were had obviously controlled his life and prevented him from reaching his potential, or maybe the life he'd lived was his true potential--sometimes, in our zeal to see that all humans have great potential, we fail to recognize that some do not.)
I'm fairly certain Frey had a similar decision to make about his book and, in his case, must have decided to subordinate his conscience and thus was happy enough to gussy it up and send it out as a memoir. My opinion is that a memoir should be factual, though times and names may be changed on occasions for legal or to suit the flow of the narrative, and there should be no exaggeration or embellishment. I think it's a shame that the lure of the dollar outweighs all else in some cases, that people are quite willing to subordinate their reputations in order to earn millions or win tremendous fame. Also sad is the attitude of a lot of Americans who stated they don't care whether he told the truth or not. We seem to be living in a culture that's sliding if not in actual decline, that what is base, false or stupid is lauded, and we haven't truly realized that collectively yet. We're living in a culture where the truly dumb is celebrated, where education and critical thinking is no longer aspired to by the masses.
One point came up in the interview that struck me as would a slap in the face. It was a comparison between Frey and Judge Samuel Alito, the Supreme Court nominee, and it was very much on point. The issue revolved around Alito's failure to remember the facts surrounding his membership of a very exclusionary and conservative alumni association (Concerned Alumni of Princeton) during his years at Princeton. Apparently, Romano, who was at Princeton a few years after Alito, stated that this association was not of the kind one drifted into, and thus membership of which one could not forget or dismiss as of no consequence. He stated one had to take active steps to join and thus one could not, by that circumstance alone, forget one's membership. This actuality, combined with the fact that Alito boasted about it in the eighties during a job application for a position in the Regan administration, would seem to indicate he has put his personal ambition and desire to be a member of the US Supreme Court above the need to tell the absolute truth. If this is true, is he not indeed a symbol of what is wrong in society today? And should he become a Justice of the Supreme Court, does this not make his judgments forever defective and nonbinding--regardless as to whether they are conservative or liberal leaning--because they would be fruit of a 'poisoned tree,' a legal principle the judge would well be familiar with from his law school days....unless, of course, he's forgotten.
[technorati: James Frey, A Million Little Pieces, The Smoking Gun, NPR, Marty Moss Coane, Judge Samuel Alito
Thursday
The Bucks County Wrebels
I'm a member of a writing group in Bucks County that ended up being called the Bucks County Wrebels the spelling a joke when one of the members suggested adding a 'W' to the word 'rebel'. There are six of us (Jeanne, Marie, Dave, Chris, John and me) and we broke away about five years ago from another group. Of course, we're all still very friendly with the original group--which is much, much larger--and a few members are also still members of that group. Last night we had a meeting at which we brought in another new member and already I can see she will be a valuable addition to the group.
Until she joined, there were four males and two females and, when we considered adding a new member a few months ago, Jeanne and Marie (also avid 'Y' members) said it should be another woman. They felt we needed another female voice and mind for balance, and they are right, of course. We concentrate chiefly on writing novels, though now that I have been writing an adaptation of my published novel, we'll also review plays and screenplays, too. Some of the group also write short stories, which is something I tend to avoid because I'm not comfortable with the format as I need pages to unfurl my stories.
I am at the moment the only member of the group to have a novel published. Others have had pieces published in magazines and Dave has had a book about local history published last year. In December, Marie got the good news that Random House wanted to publish her Young Adult novel in 2007 and,last night, she arrived elated and told us the contract was negotiated and it is now a two-book deal. So all in all, we're a group that's highly motivated and others will undoubtedly follow Marie and I into seeing our work published.
Last night my play was up for scrutiny and I was apprehensive. It is one thing to have written a novel, but quite another to take it and adapt it for another media. So I arrived at Jeanne's home (we meet there) both excited to meet the newest member, Grace, and a nervous about the critiques. Grace had brought a gift of a box of cherry and liquor dark chocolates (not a bribe), candies I'm partial too, though all present refrained because we're all trying to cut back on the calories. Okay, I lie. I had two where I would happily have scoffed five, so that's tantamount to restraint.
The critiques were valuable in that, as with critiques of our novels, they were thorough and very helpful. It brought home to me how truly essential it is as a writer to surround oneself with people whose talent and judgment one trusts, and how vital it is for a writer to join a writing group. Of course, the Wrebels pulled aspects of the play apart, pointed out flaws and weaknesses, but that is absolutely essential to creating something compelling, something that will endure, something that a stage director might want to produce. During these times, when my work is being critiqued, I find that a tendency to be defensive comes to the fore. I think this is natural in many of us, and so long as we recognize it, quash it and listen to the opinions being offered, much can be learned.
What was particularly satisfying to discover last night was that Grace has a great deal of theatrical acumen and experience, which made her opinions even more valuable. And, of course, this morning as I read her and the others comments contained in the script's margins, I realized how truly lucky I am to be in a group such as this. It was also this group of friends and colleagues who first critiqued parts of the novel and cheered it on its way toward publication. And now they're doing the same with the play. Thanks guys...and girls.
[technorati: Bucks County, writing stageplays, playwrights, writing groups
Until she joined, there were four males and two females and, when we considered adding a new member a few months ago, Jeanne and Marie (also avid 'Y' members) said it should be another woman. They felt we needed another female voice and mind for balance, and they are right, of course. We concentrate chiefly on writing novels, though now that I have been writing an adaptation of my published novel, we'll also review plays and screenplays, too. Some of the group also write short stories, which is something I tend to avoid because I'm not comfortable with the format as I need pages to unfurl my stories.
I am at the moment the only member of the group to have a novel published. Others have had pieces published in magazines and Dave has had a book about local history published last year. In December, Marie got the good news that Random House wanted to publish her Young Adult novel in 2007 and,last night, she arrived elated and told us the contract was negotiated and it is now a two-book deal. So all in all, we're a group that's highly motivated and others will undoubtedly follow Marie and I into seeing our work published.
Last night my play was up for scrutiny and I was apprehensive. It is one thing to have written a novel, but quite another to take it and adapt it for another media. So I arrived at Jeanne's home (we meet there) both excited to meet the newest member, Grace, and a nervous about the critiques. Grace had brought a gift of a box of cherry and liquor dark chocolates (not a bribe), candies I'm partial too, though all present refrained because we're all trying to cut back on the calories. Okay, I lie. I had two where I would happily have scoffed five, so that's tantamount to restraint.
The critiques were valuable in that, as with critiques of our novels, they were thorough and very helpful. It brought home to me how truly essential it is as a writer to surround oneself with people whose talent and judgment one trusts, and how vital it is for a writer to join a writing group. Of course, the Wrebels pulled aspects of the play apart, pointed out flaws and weaknesses, but that is absolutely essential to creating something compelling, something that will endure, something that a stage director might want to produce. During these times, when my work is being critiqued, I find that a tendency to be defensive comes to the fore. I think this is natural in many of us, and so long as we recognize it, quash it and listen to the opinions being offered, much can be learned.
What was particularly satisfying to discover last night was that Grace has a great deal of theatrical acumen and experience, which made her opinions even more valuable. And, of course, this morning as I read her and the others comments contained in the script's margins, I realized how truly lucky I am to be in a group such as this. It was also this group of friends and colleagues who first critiqued parts of the novel and cheered it on its way toward publication. And now they're doing the same with the play. Thanks guys...and girls.
[technorati: Bucks County, writing stageplays, playwrights, writing groups
Tuesday
Powerball, poker and bankruptcy
I'm not really one for gambling. As a kid with my siblings and parents, I used to go for a day trip to Buncrana in the Irish republic (just a little bit over the border from Northern Ireland) and gamble with pennies and sixpences I'd saved. The place where we gambled was called 'Berties' and, as well as slots and other kinds of coin games, they also had a helter-skelter and dogems and other kinds of defying rides. For kids like us who had to watch their pennies, it was nirvana, and I look upon those times spent with my siblings with great affection. It was our childhoods at their most pure, though of course we didn't realize it then. And our parents seemed also at their happiest on these trips: they often chatted animatedly and laughed a lot, something they seldom did at home because then the realities of life and its attendant pressures sent them in to their own quiet corners where they nursed their own concerns and agendas zealously.
Then, I was a tight or wise little bugger, the adjective to describe me depending on whether it was the proprietors of Berties or me who was doing the describing. If I started to lose at the machines, I possessed the good sense to just walk out of the arcade and cut my losses. It was not a characteristic shared by any of my siblings because they would stay and gamble until their money was spent and then depend on their big brother to cough up for the licorice and penny chews, etc. But those days spent at Berties also sowed a deep and healthy suspicion of gambling joints and the people who own them that has held me in good stead ever since. I have no interest in going to Las Vegas to gamble, nor do I ever feel the need (as some friends of mine have) to jump in the car and go off to places like Atlantic City in order to gamble myself stupid.
When the Powerball lottery (of which the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania) is a member, Larry and I often buy a bunch of tickets and sometimes win five or ten dollars. Last night was very interesting because some time ago we'd bought some of those scratch it "Poker" cards that the Commonwealth also flogs at $5.00 a pop and, as there was nothing interesting on the telly, we decided to go through them. On the first card (containing four deals), Larry revealed Four Kings and, if it 'bested' the hand held by the dealer, we'd won $100,000. Well, (and this is where the game hooks people), all we saw in our great excitement in the dealers hands was a bunch of odd cards and we genuinely thought we'd won. Hurriedly, we scratched through the other cards and discovered we'd 'won'an additional $580.00.
After we sat back in wonder for a while, I decided to methodically go through the tickets again. You've guessed it. Those 'odd' cards held by the dealer in the $100,000.00 game turned out to be a royal flush which trumped our 'four of a kind.' (The way the tickets display the various 'cards,' it makes it difficult to spot this immediately.) It was the same case (in different combinations of 'cards') that resulted in our winning 'ziltch, nada, nothing in the other deals. So we were out $15.00. That amount is not much, but it is a lot of money to the 'customers' who usually buy these tickets. The Commonwealth's current pitchman is 'Gus', the second most famous groundhog in Pennsylvania, the first being Punxsutawney Phil, the one brought out on Groundhog Day to predict whether we will have an early end to winter. While I recognize the Commonwealth's need to obtain revenue in an age of tight and decining revenue sources, I am not convinced it should be spending millions of dollars on advertisng campaigns aimed at persuading its 'poorer' citizens to gamble. It is at best unseemly.
Ever the cynic, I decided to go through the tickets and analyze what was going on with the 'dealer' every time we held a great hand, and I discovered something extremely interesting. If we held a flush, the dealer invariably held a Royal flush or something equally difficult to obtain had it been a regular game of cards. Quite frankly, the probability of this happening to the dealer when a customer holds a great hand should be very, very remote. But on the tickets, it happened all the time. My conclusion is that the machine churning out these cards seems to operating contrary to the laws of probability.
This set me to thinking about gambling in general. Pennsylvania is soon to introduce slot machines in Philadelphia and other places throughout the commonwealth. In preparation, casino owners like Donald Trump have created partnerships with prominent Pennsylvania citizens and gone to Harrisburg to lobby for the contract to build and/or manage these places. I find this ironic. My understanding is that Trump casinos have twice filed for bankruptcy in New Jersey. I cannot understand why Pennsylvania would even consider meeting with someone at the helm of such an organization.
That issue, of course, brings me careening into the question of the purpose of the federal bankruptcy laws. In the old days, when a corporation went bankrupt, it truly meant the corporation was in genuine trouble and needed protection in order restructure and become viable. Today, many corporations (such as a few unprofitable American airlines, some of whom have filed twice) are using the bankruptcy laws as a means of evading their debts or as a stick to beat the heads of employees from whom they are seeking concessions or, at best, as a means of attracting fresh finance. The federal laws are becoming nothing but a corporate tool, and this was not Congress's objective. It is appalling, and we should be very angry at this flagrant abuse...particularly so as parts of those same bankruptcy laws were amended late last year in order to make it more difficult for individuals to file and obtain protection. And who were the chief lobbyists for these amendments? That's right! The credit card companies.
[technorati: powerball, poker, gambling, casinos, Pennsylvania, Punxsutawney Phil, Groundhog Day
Then, I was a tight or wise little bugger, the adjective to describe me depending on whether it was the proprietors of Berties or me who was doing the describing. If I started to lose at the machines, I possessed the good sense to just walk out of the arcade and cut my losses. It was not a characteristic shared by any of my siblings because they would stay and gamble until their money was spent and then depend on their big brother to cough up for the licorice and penny chews, etc. But those days spent at Berties also sowed a deep and healthy suspicion of gambling joints and the people who own them that has held me in good stead ever since. I have no interest in going to Las Vegas to gamble, nor do I ever feel the need (as some friends of mine have) to jump in the car and go off to places like Atlantic City in order to gamble myself stupid.
When the Powerball lottery (of which the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania) is a member, Larry and I often buy a bunch of tickets and sometimes win five or ten dollars. Last night was very interesting because some time ago we'd bought some of those scratch it "Poker" cards that the Commonwealth also flogs at $5.00 a pop and, as there was nothing interesting on the telly, we decided to go through them. On the first card (containing four deals), Larry revealed Four Kings and, if it 'bested' the hand held by the dealer, we'd won $100,000. Well, (and this is where the game hooks people), all we saw in our great excitement in the dealers hands was a bunch of odd cards and we genuinely thought we'd won. Hurriedly, we scratched through the other cards and discovered we'd 'won'an additional $580.00.
After we sat back in wonder for a while, I decided to methodically go through the tickets again. You've guessed it. Those 'odd' cards held by the dealer in the $100,000.00 game turned out to be a royal flush which trumped our 'four of a kind.' (The way the tickets display the various 'cards,' it makes it difficult to spot this immediately.) It was the same case (in different combinations of 'cards') that resulted in our winning 'ziltch, nada, nothing in the other deals. So we were out $15.00. That amount is not much, but it is a lot of money to the 'customers' who usually buy these tickets. The Commonwealth's current pitchman is 'Gus', the second most famous groundhog in Pennsylvania, the first being Punxsutawney Phil, the one brought out on Groundhog Day to predict whether we will have an early end to winter. While I recognize the Commonwealth's need to obtain revenue in an age of tight and decining revenue sources, I am not convinced it should be spending millions of dollars on advertisng campaigns aimed at persuading its 'poorer' citizens to gamble. It is at best unseemly.
Ever the cynic, I decided to go through the tickets and analyze what was going on with the 'dealer' every time we held a great hand, and I discovered something extremely interesting. If we held a flush, the dealer invariably held a Royal flush or something equally difficult to obtain had it been a regular game of cards. Quite frankly, the probability of this happening to the dealer when a customer holds a great hand should be very, very remote. But on the tickets, it happened all the time. My conclusion is that the machine churning out these cards seems to operating contrary to the laws of probability.
This set me to thinking about gambling in general. Pennsylvania is soon to introduce slot machines in Philadelphia and other places throughout the commonwealth. In preparation, casino owners like Donald Trump have created partnerships with prominent Pennsylvania citizens and gone to Harrisburg to lobby for the contract to build and/or manage these places. I find this ironic. My understanding is that Trump casinos have twice filed for bankruptcy in New Jersey. I cannot understand why Pennsylvania would even consider meeting with someone at the helm of such an organization.
That issue, of course, brings me careening into the question of the purpose of the federal bankruptcy laws. In the old days, when a corporation went bankrupt, it truly meant the corporation was in genuine trouble and needed protection in order restructure and become viable. Today, many corporations (such as a few unprofitable American airlines, some of whom have filed twice) are using the bankruptcy laws as a means of evading their debts or as a stick to beat the heads of employees from whom they are seeking concessions or, at best, as a means of attracting fresh finance. The federal laws are becoming nothing but a corporate tool, and this was not Congress's objective. It is appalling, and we should be very angry at this flagrant abuse...particularly so as parts of those same bankruptcy laws were amended late last year in order to make it more difficult for individuals to file and obtain protection. And who were the chief lobbyists for these amendments? That's right! The credit card companies.
[technorati: powerball, poker, gambling, casinos, Pennsylvania, Punxsutawney Phil, Groundhog Day
Friday
Stretching oneself
It's been a surprisingly busy week here in Bucks county as I've been working diligently on my stage play collaboration. I'm closing in on another draft and am feeling in high spirits as it's looking very tight and I can now see it being produced. I think next week I'll give you Act I Scene I which is the same opening as the novel. Throughout the process, Phil and I have been able to stay pretty faithful to the novel, though some things had to go because they didn't fit, etc.
Last night Phil emailed me the Properties list, which is a theatrical term for all the props that are required. He's now working on the music, etc while I complete this critical draft. I really have learned a great deal about the theater process as a result of our collaboration. He really is talented and his absolute love for the theater is very infectious.
One thing I've been struggling with is that Eileen and Gabriel, as two core characters, appear a lot at the beginning and end of chapters in the novel. It's the same with the scenes in the play. This makes it very difficult for the director as his or her actors need time to effect costume changes between scenes, etc. So I've had to devise methods to allow this to happen fluidly and add new dialogue where a device won't work. It's these sort of critical elements that, if not addressed so there are loopholes and impossibilities, can cause a riveting manuscript to be shot down by a theater.
Drafting the play from my novel has shown me that I'm much more than a novelist, that writing novels is not enough to keep me interested and motivated. So my new year resolution regards my writing is to complete this play, write another one that's been niggling to be written for years (one my father is very keen for me to write) and also complete the screen play of A Son Called Gabriel. I'll also continue to work on my first American set novel, which I haven't looked at for ages.
While the plays or 'Gabriel' screen play may never get picked up, I've nevertheless decided I'm the best person to write stage and screenplays based on my own work. And there is a body of writing from Irish writers that's made it onto the screen and the Leicester Square and Broadway theaters. Director Neil Jordan has done films based on novels by Patrick McCabe such as The Butcher Boy and his latest, Breakfast on Pluto. Jordan alos wrote The Crying Game, one of my all time favorite movies. I feel if he and others can adapt or write original screenplays, so I can, too. It's vital to stretch oneself in life, to do what one fears, because, in doing the task, one sumultaneously achieves the objective and realizes that the people who do these things possess no monopoly over the required magic. In any event, I'd rather do my own adaptations than risk some young, inexperienced writer working for a studio taking my characters and putting them in situations they would never experience, etc. I know my characters best, I know Ireland, and I know my work.
[technorati: Neil Jordan, The Crying Game, Breakfast on Pluto,Broadway,Leicester Square, Patrick McCabe
Last night Phil emailed me the Properties list, which is a theatrical term for all the props that are required. He's now working on the music, etc while I complete this critical draft. I really have learned a great deal about the theater process as a result of our collaboration. He really is talented and his absolute love for the theater is very infectious.
One thing I've been struggling with is that Eileen and Gabriel, as two core characters, appear a lot at the beginning and end of chapters in the novel. It's the same with the scenes in the play. This makes it very difficult for the director as his or her actors need time to effect costume changes between scenes, etc. So I've had to devise methods to allow this to happen fluidly and add new dialogue where a device won't work. It's these sort of critical elements that, if not addressed so there are loopholes and impossibilities, can cause a riveting manuscript to be shot down by a theater.
Drafting the play from my novel has shown me that I'm much more than a novelist, that writing novels is not enough to keep me interested and motivated. So my new year resolution regards my writing is to complete this play, write another one that's been niggling to be written for years (one my father is very keen for me to write) and also complete the screen play of A Son Called Gabriel. I'll also continue to work on my first American set novel, which I haven't looked at for ages.
While the plays or 'Gabriel' screen play may never get picked up, I've nevertheless decided I'm the best person to write stage and screenplays based on my own work. And there is a body of writing from Irish writers that's made it onto the screen and the Leicester Square and Broadway theaters. Director Neil Jordan has done films based on novels by Patrick McCabe such as The Butcher Boy and his latest, Breakfast on Pluto. Jordan alos wrote The Crying Game, one of my all time favorite movies. I feel if he and others can adapt or write original screenplays, so I can, too. It's vital to stretch oneself in life, to do what one fears, because, in doing the task, one sumultaneously achieves the objective and realizes that the people who do these things possess no monopoly over the required magic. In any event, I'd rather do my own adaptations than risk some young, inexperienced writer working for a studio taking my characters and putting them in situations they would never experience, etc. I know my characters best, I know Ireland, and I know my work.
[technorati: Neil Jordan, The Crying Game, Breakfast on Pluto,Broadway,Leicester Square, Patrick McCabe
Monday
Brokeback Mountain: review
I decided to see a late matinee at my local arts theater where Brokeback Mountain was showing and unwittingly ended the year on a true highlight. From the instant the huge truck with its lights traveled across the screen and Brokeback Mountain rose to assert its presence, from the moment Ledger walked into view, the movie tore open and claimed a piece of my heart, permanently. Yesterday, New Year's Day, all I could think about was the movie, not exclusively about the plot, scenery and cast--though I've done my share of that--but rather about the way of life cowboys and others working in America's lonely backwaters lead and how some of them are, as we journey into 2006, living the very circumstances depicted by these two terrific actors. For this Irish man, it pierced for two hours and fifteen minutes the veneer of onion-layered sophistication created by a solid education, law school and years of big city living, and I almost joyously became once more the raw Irish boy who'd loved and hated in equal measure growing up in the rural backside of Ireland with all its prejudices, fears, limitations and hang-ups, including my own.
The movie is upliftingly sad rather than depressing as some gay friends have called it. Yes, uplifting sadness is the paramount emotion I'd venture is experienced by the viewer, and it is also crammed to the brim with richness and terrible beauty. And it has its minor flaws, but then many of the best movies I've loved do, also. One, for example, I could not get past was the fact Ennis had two daughters, yet only one of them appeared throughout the final third of the film. The aging of Jack (played by Gyllenhaal) from 19 to 39 is unconvincing, a visual amplified more so when one considers how well they aged Ennis (played by Ledger) and how his voice deepened, though Ledger being Australian where the culture of machismo is worshipped undoubtedly helped. And Ennis's wife Alma (played by Michelle Williams) seemed altogether too passive for my taste, especially when she accidentally witnesses and is devastated by the sight of her husband passionately kissing Jack when the two men meet up for the first time after their love affair began on Brokeback mountain. But the crushing power of that scene, as the stricken wife realizes her husband harbors a love and voracious yearning for another that is stronger than his love for her, banished the stirrings of cynicism.
Ennis is brutishly heroic, a magnificently tortured soul, a man quietly at war with himself because he is possessed of deep-seated homophobia and unable, if not indeed unwilling, to kill his all-consuming passion and love for another man. I could scarcely breathe when the two cowboys parted after their initial summer spent together on Brokeback (ostensibly forever because Ennis stated he would not return the following year in response to Jack's inquiry) as first Ennis watches Jack's truck pull away and then retreats to a dusty sidestreet where he falls to his knees, vomits, beats at the walls of the unyielding building and cries furiously; another cowboy happens by and watches and Ennis roars at him to get the fuck away, his timbre perfectly articulating the torrent of loss, confusion, denial and pain swirling within. The film is magnificent in allowing us to slowly realize that it is the stoic, reluctant Ennis whose love is the most searing, the most faithful, and, at one point, he tells Jack that meeting him has cost him everything. Ennis's life, the life of a married man with two daughters (whom he adores) which he is compelled to live because in his circumstances and milieu there is no other way, is an interminable midnight with little illumination except for occasional intense rays afforded when Jack and he meet up several times each year for a week's camping on Brokeback Mountain.
The movie is raw, breathtaking, overwhelming, all-consuming; a story as full of poignancy and universals as any of the greatest Hollywood love stories, and it does not descend at any point to cheap sentimentality or attempt to pontificate. When Ennis visits Jack's impoverished parents at one point, the subtext in the movements and looks exchanged between this rough-mannered yet vulnerable cowboy and the love-of-his-life's mother is heartbreaking to the point of inducing headache...and then, of course, there is Ennis's discovery in Jack's closet of the plaid shirt--placed over the shirt Jack wore and with the sleeves of both intertwined--he'd thought he'd lost during the first summer they'd spent together on Brokeback Mountain. (Thanks to a blog comment for pointing out an error I'd made about that.) Nor does the movie correctly offer apology for its being a love affair between two men. Rather, in its own way, with the credible sexual immediacy of the initial tryst between the two men, in its unapologetic acknowledgement that enduring love begins often with and then moves beyond raw sexual attraction, it seems to poke a finger in the eye of Hollywood's conventional, cardboard and cliched treatment of developing love relationships.
Given Hollywood's misguided and overly simplified treatment of sexuality in general, as well as its poor understanding of what the general public will or will not accept in movies, it is entirely understandable that Ledger and Gyllenhaal were 'very, very nervous' about playing two men in a love affair for fear of alienating their teenager fan base. It is testament to their strength of character and a measure of the men they are that they saw the script's power and cast convention aside, ignored their innermost fears and the shrill warnings of doom from their timid male fellow actors, agents and others in the industry, and threw themselves headlong unreservedly into the roles. In fact, Ledger in an interview said that, after the first kiss with Gyllenhaal, it was just the act of kissing another human being. How very true. And, if the teenage girls who sat next to us in the cinema are any indication, the actors need have no fear. All the girls were riveted, riveted by the story, by the love affair, by the poignancy and human condition...and their balled tissues were working overtime. Great things come only from taking great risks and Ledger and Gyllenhaal have proven their mettle as actors of the highest caliber.
The movie is correctly positioned mainstream and will be enjoyed by all, except for the homophobic (male or female), and any heterosexual men with doubts about their sexuality should probably stick to the action flicks. Congratulations to Ang Lee for another superb piece of work, to Annie Proulx who did the research and wrote the original story, and to Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana for seeing its potential and writing the script.
[technorati: Brokeback Mountain, Focus Features,Ang Lee,James Schamus, Heath Ledger,Jake Gyllenhaal,Golden Globes, Larry McMurtry,Diana Ossana,Annie Proulx
The movie is upliftingly sad rather than depressing as some gay friends have called it. Yes, uplifting sadness is the paramount emotion I'd venture is experienced by the viewer, and it is also crammed to the brim with richness and terrible beauty. And it has its minor flaws, but then many of the best movies I've loved do, also. One, for example, I could not get past was the fact Ennis had two daughters, yet only one of them appeared throughout the final third of the film. The aging of Jack (played by Gyllenhaal) from 19 to 39 is unconvincing, a visual amplified more so when one considers how well they aged Ennis (played by Ledger) and how his voice deepened, though Ledger being Australian where the culture of machismo is worshipped undoubtedly helped. And Ennis's wife Alma (played by Michelle Williams) seemed altogether too passive for my taste, especially when she accidentally witnesses and is devastated by the sight of her husband passionately kissing Jack when the two men meet up for the first time after their love affair began on Brokeback mountain. But the crushing power of that scene, as the stricken wife realizes her husband harbors a love and voracious yearning for another that is stronger than his love for her, banished the stirrings of cynicism.
Ennis is brutishly heroic, a magnificently tortured soul, a man quietly at war with himself because he is possessed of deep-seated homophobia and unable, if not indeed unwilling, to kill his all-consuming passion and love for another man. I could scarcely breathe when the two cowboys parted after their initial summer spent together on Brokeback (ostensibly forever because Ennis stated he would not return the following year in response to Jack's inquiry) as first Ennis watches Jack's truck pull away and then retreats to a dusty sidestreet where he falls to his knees, vomits, beats at the walls of the unyielding building and cries furiously; another cowboy happens by and watches and Ennis roars at him to get the fuck away, his timbre perfectly articulating the torrent of loss, confusion, denial and pain swirling within. The film is magnificent in allowing us to slowly realize that it is the stoic, reluctant Ennis whose love is the most searing, the most faithful, and, at one point, he tells Jack that meeting him has cost him everything. Ennis's life, the life of a married man with two daughters (whom he adores) which he is compelled to live because in his circumstances and milieu there is no other way, is an interminable midnight with little illumination except for occasional intense rays afforded when Jack and he meet up several times each year for a week's camping on Brokeback Mountain.
The movie is raw, breathtaking, overwhelming, all-consuming; a story as full of poignancy and universals as any of the greatest Hollywood love stories, and it does not descend at any point to cheap sentimentality or attempt to pontificate. When Ennis visits Jack's impoverished parents at one point, the subtext in the movements and looks exchanged between this rough-mannered yet vulnerable cowboy and the love-of-his-life's mother is heartbreaking to the point of inducing headache...and then, of course, there is Ennis's discovery in Jack's closet of the plaid shirt--placed over the shirt Jack wore and with the sleeves of both intertwined--he'd thought he'd lost during the first summer they'd spent together on Brokeback Mountain. (Thanks to a blog comment for pointing out an error I'd made about that.) Nor does the movie correctly offer apology for its being a love affair between two men. Rather, in its own way, with the credible sexual immediacy of the initial tryst between the two men, in its unapologetic acknowledgement that enduring love begins often with and then moves beyond raw sexual attraction, it seems to poke a finger in the eye of Hollywood's conventional, cardboard and cliched treatment of developing love relationships.
Given Hollywood's misguided and overly simplified treatment of sexuality in general, as well as its poor understanding of what the general public will or will not accept in movies, it is entirely understandable that Ledger and Gyllenhaal were 'very, very nervous' about playing two men in a love affair for fear of alienating their teenager fan base. It is testament to their strength of character and a measure of the men they are that they saw the script's power and cast convention aside, ignored their innermost fears and the shrill warnings of doom from their timid male fellow actors, agents and others in the industry, and threw themselves headlong unreservedly into the roles. In fact, Ledger in an interview said that, after the first kiss with Gyllenhaal, it was just the act of kissing another human being. How very true. And, if the teenage girls who sat next to us in the cinema are any indication, the actors need have no fear. All the girls were riveted, riveted by the story, by the love affair, by the poignancy and human condition...and their balled tissues were working overtime. Great things come only from taking great risks and Ledger and Gyllenhaal have proven their mettle as actors of the highest caliber.
The movie is correctly positioned mainstream and will be enjoyed by all, except for the homophobic (male or female), and any heterosexual men with doubts about their sexuality should probably stick to the action flicks. Congratulations to Ang Lee for another superb piece of work, to Annie Proulx who did the research and wrote the original story, and to Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana for seeing its potential and writing the script.
[technorati: Brokeback Mountain, Focus Features,Ang Lee,James Schamus, Heath Ledger,Jake Gyllenhaal,Golden Globes, Larry McMurtry,Diana Ossana,Annie Proulx
Thursday
Feeding the baby-New York style
I met my collaboration partner for a work session yesterday in NYC. Times Square and the Theater district was awash with pedestrians as many people who work in the city had taken vacation and then decided to return post-strike in order to shop or visit the theater, etc. with friends and family.
Phil and I started off in Starbucks on 42nd where he was able to plug his laptop into the electricity (he was also able to get internet service, even though it's not a 'hotspot' for that) and we worked for five solid hours in between sipping coffees. Thereafter, we scarpered to a Chinese deli for lunch and worked for another two hours before calling it quits. All in all, we felt really pleased with the amount of work achieved.
Now that the first draft is written, we were able to prepare a comprehensive 'cast of characters' and decide who was in and who was out of the play. (For those of you who've read the book, Fergal, Uncle Tommy and Auntie Bernie are eliminated.) Through a process of rigid cutting and deciding which characters can double and triple up (actors love that as it keeps them busy), we've been able to prune the character list to 13 actors who will play 37 roles. Some of you might wonder why we had to reduce the cast list. The answer is that many theaters state the maximum number of cast members and, in going through the book which lists theaters seeking submissions, we've found that a lot have eight or ten as the magic number. Larger theaters often do not stipulate, but it's wise to keep the list smaller rather than larger. So with a cast list of 13 and a tightly written play, we should be able to get the script read by some important theaters.
In order to remain faithful to the novel's content, message and resolution, we found that the absolute minimum of characters required was 13. We've also decided to write a second version of the play some time in the future with a cast of eight, but that will require us to take great liberties and diverge quite a bit from the published novel.
As I was on my way back to the Port Authority to catch my bus, I saw a sight that made me laugh. I guess you could say it was the oddest case of multi-tasking I've ever seen, and the expression 'only in New York' is probably apt. While waiting for a pedestrian light to change, a sleek, white Land Rover drove slowly by driven by a forty-something man. In the front passenger seat was a pretty blonde woman dressed in a caramel sheepskin coat who was reading a book while simultaneously feeding her baby (lying in a portable crib on the back seat). I wouldn't have thought it possible unless I'd seen it for myself. There she sat totally absorbed in her reading with her left arm bent backwards as she held the bottle of milk in the baby's mouth. And the baby was sucking away contently, its eyes gazing up at the ceiling of the vehicle, which told me this wasn't the first time the method had been utilized. Instantly, I thought this is an attorney, investment banker or something, with an elegant Fifth Ave apartment, and a nanny who'd had the temerity to ask for some vacation over Christmas.
[technorati: New York, NYC, Times Square, Land Rover
Phil and I started off in Starbucks on 42nd where he was able to plug his laptop into the electricity (he was also able to get internet service, even though it's not a 'hotspot' for that) and we worked for five solid hours in between sipping coffees. Thereafter, we scarpered to a Chinese deli for lunch and worked for another two hours before calling it quits. All in all, we felt really pleased with the amount of work achieved.
Now that the first draft is written, we were able to prepare a comprehensive 'cast of characters' and decide who was in and who was out of the play. (For those of you who've read the book, Fergal, Uncle Tommy and Auntie Bernie are eliminated.) Through a process of rigid cutting and deciding which characters can double and triple up (actors love that as it keeps them busy), we've been able to prune the character list to 13 actors who will play 37 roles. Some of you might wonder why we had to reduce the cast list. The answer is that many theaters state the maximum number of cast members and, in going through the book which lists theaters seeking submissions, we've found that a lot have eight or ten as the magic number. Larger theaters often do not stipulate, but it's wise to keep the list smaller rather than larger. So with a cast list of 13 and a tightly written play, we should be able to get the script read by some important theaters.
In order to remain faithful to the novel's content, message and resolution, we found that the absolute minimum of characters required was 13. We've also decided to write a second version of the play some time in the future with a cast of eight, but that will require us to take great liberties and diverge quite a bit from the published novel.
As I was on my way back to the Port Authority to catch my bus, I saw a sight that made me laugh. I guess you could say it was the oddest case of multi-tasking I've ever seen, and the expression 'only in New York' is probably apt. While waiting for a pedestrian light to change, a sleek, white Land Rover drove slowly by driven by a forty-something man. In the front passenger seat was a pretty blonde woman dressed in a caramel sheepskin coat who was reading a book while simultaneously feeding her baby (lying in a portable crib on the back seat). I wouldn't have thought it possible unless I'd seen it for myself. There she sat totally absorbed in her reading with her left arm bent backwards as she held the bottle of milk in the baby's mouth. And the baby was sucking away contently, its eyes gazing up at the ceiling of the vehicle, which told me this wasn't the first time the method had been utilized. Instantly, I thought this is an attorney, investment banker or something, with an elegant Fifth Ave apartment, and a nanny who'd had the temerity to ask for some vacation over Christmas.
[technorati: New York, NYC, Times Square, Land Rover
Friday
Argyll in the sky
Nine million people will travel by air throughout the US today. It's the busiest travel day in the continental United States throughout the holidays. This afternoon, the Pennsylvania sun was bursting from the cerulean sky and it wasn't hard to verify that Americans are on the move. Everywhere the eye alighted above were pristine trails of vapor. It was amazing, actually. Being within the flight paths of planes leaving and arriving from Newark, JFK, LaGuardia and Philly, at one point the sky was so awash with crisscrossing jet trails that the it resembled the front panel of a giant Argyll sweater.
Zooming off now to do a quick bit of shopping because I'm a procrastinator when it comes to shopping at any time. I hate shopping, period. It's all my Mum's fault really, because she dragged all her kids into endless boutiques in bomb-blasted Belfast (it was the seventies and quite 'iffy' then) and made us endure interminable waits while she tried on, what seemed to us, every dress, blouse and skirt in the goddamned shop in hopes of finding something that would transform her plump body to sleekness.
[technorati: Argyll, JFK, Belfast, Philadelphia
Zooming off now to do a quick bit of shopping because I'm a procrastinator when it comes to shopping at any time. I hate shopping, period. It's all my Mum's fault really, because she dragged all her kids into endless boutiques in bomb-blasted Belfast (it was the seventies and quite 'iffy' then) and made us endure interminable waits while she tried on, what seemed to us, every dress, blouse and skirt in the goddamned shop in hopes of finding something that would transform her plump body to sleekness.
[technorati: Argyll, JFK, Belfast, Philadelphia
Wednesday
Debating Christmas
This is the time of the year when tempers in America seem to rise at the same rate as outside temperatures on the East coast fall. And the reason for these rising tempers is the old Merry Christmas versus Happy Holidays debate.
I should preface my opinion on the issue by saying first that Christmas is a cultural not religious holiday to me, that I dislike the swirling, cacophonous commercialism associated with it, and I spend it in the US, not Ireland; I enjoy eating good food, drinking good wine, and chewing the fat with friends. Secondly, I was oblivious about the debate when I lived in Ireland and England. Over there, we say 'Merry Christmas', period. It wasn't until my first Christmas in America when I was invited to Christmas Day dinner at the home of some of Larry's friends that I learned about the whole 'Happy Holidays' thing. As I entered the house, I said "Merry Christmas" to everyone I encountered and one woman said, "It's more proper to say "Happy Holidays." Needless to say, I bristled, wished her "Merry Christmas" again, and passed into the room with its enormous Christmas tree and wreath on the wall. (In an adjoining room, I might add was a navitity set because the host had converted to being an Episcopilian from Catholicism.) As one does in such situations, I inquired later about this woman and was informed she was Jewish, had graduated in law from a Catholic university, had a powerful position at a law firm in Philadelphia, but was also a closeted lesbian who would not acknowledge her longterm girlfriend because she lived in terror of being 'outed' at work. The last nugget of informatiion gave me the measure of the woman who had confronted me. For the entire day, she behaved as if she and I were the North and North poles of two magnets. When I joined a group of people where she was present, she immediately jettisoned herself to another room; if she remained because she'd just joined the group herself, she would not look at me, not even when I was talking or when I addressed her directly (made a point of doing that, actually. And she did respond, but it was apparant by its brevity that she'd have preferred to munch on the rim of her crystal wine goblet.
This year, the debate seems to have stirred the national consciousness because many people are making a point of saying "Merry Christmas" to those whom it seems logical would celebrate Christmas. People appear to be genuinely angry about this piece of political correctness that's gone awry. I've seen the attitudes and emphatic greetings at the malls. Maybe its because my name is Celtic, they know they can say "Merry Christmas." I also watched with horrified amazement as Macy's struggled about what to call their Christmas tree during the televised lighting ceremony at their principal store in the state of Georgia. After much wrangling, they decided to call it the Great tree I mean, give me a break. It's a Christmas tree. It's not a 'Holiday tree,' and it's not a'Great tree.'
Whatever happened to common sense. If a person is African-American and they celebrate Kwaanza instead of Christmas, then one simply says 'Happy Kwanzaa' if it falls in the same time period as Christmas and you know they celebrate it. If they don't celebrate Christmas and it's Christmas Day, then just wish them "Merry Christmas." Good manners dictate that they either wish it back or, if they desire to make a point, they can say 'Thanks, but I don't celebrate Christmas.' This applies also to Hanukkah. If the person is Jewish and you know it, say "Happy Hanukkah" if it falls contemporaneously with Christmas (as it does this year), or you can resort to the generic "Happy Holidays". If you don't know they're Jewish, Muslim, Sikh or whatever religion and it is 'Christmas Day, then say "Merry Christmas" and let good manners prevail. Simple as that. I have many Jewish friends and they do not twist into gargoyles of political correctness because I wish them "Merry Christmas" on December 25th.
My point is, there is no need to subvert wishing someone Merry Christmas because of a fear or reticence about traversing political correctness. It is Christmas and the fact that it is so should be acknowledged by intelligent people of any creed or culture. Not to do so demeans, stupifies and holds us hostage to one hell of an asinine aspect of the gospel of political correctness. Let's just all acknowledge our different cultures and associated holidays and maybe, just maybe, learning someone we meet comes from another culture might prompt us to ask about their holiday and learn something about it. We certainly won't learn anything by saying 'Season's Greetings' or 'Happy Holidays' and pretending the different traditions don't exist.
[technorati: Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Merry Christmas
I should preface my opinion on the issue by saying first that Christmas is a cultural not religious holiday to me, that I dislike the swirling, cacophonous commercialism associated with it, and I spend it in the US, not Ireland; I enjoy eating good food, drinking good wine, and chewing the fat with friends. Secondly, I was oblivious about the debate when I lived in Ireland and England. Over there, we say 'Merry Christmas', period. It wasn't until my first Christmas in America when I was invited to Christmas Day dinner at the home of some of Larry's friends that I learned about the whole 'Happy Holidays' thing. As I entered the house, I said "Merry Christmas" to everyone I encountered and one woman said, "It's more proper to say "Happy Holidays." Needless to say, I bristled, wished her "Merry Christmas" again, and passed into the room with its enormous Christmas tree and wreath on the wall. (In an adjoining room, I might add was a navitity set because the host had converted to being an Episcopilian from Catholicism.) As one does in such situations, I inquired later about this woman and was informed she was Jewish, had graduated in law from a Catholic university, had a powerful position at a law firm in Philadelphia, but was also a closeted lesbian who would not acknowledge her longterm girlfriend because she lived in terror of being 'outed' at work. The last nugget of informatiion gave me the measure of the woman who had confronted me. For the entire day, she behaved as if she and I were the North and North poles of two magnets. When I joined a group of people where she was present, she immediately jettisoned herself to another room; if she remained because she'd just joined the group herself, she would not look at me, not even when I was talking or when I addressed her directly (made a point of doing that, actually. And she did respond, but it was apparant by its brevity that she'd have preferred to munch on the rim of her crystal wine goblet.
This year, the debate seems to have stirred the national consciousness because many people are making a point of saying "Merry Christmas" to those whom it seems logical would celebrate Christmas. People appear to be genuinely angry about this piece of political correctness that's gone awry. I've seen the attitudes and emphatic greetings at the malls. Maybe its because my name is Celtic, they know they can say "Merry Christmas." I also watched with horrified amazement as Macy's struggled about what to call their Christmas tree during the televised lighting ceremony at their principal store in the state of Georgia. After much wrangling, they decided to call it the Great tree I mean, give me a break. It's a Christmas tree. It's not a 'Holiday tree,' and it's not a'Great tree.'
Whatever happened to common sense. If a person is African-American and they celebrate Kwaanza instead of Christmas, then one simply says 'Happy Kwanzaa' if it falls in the same time period as Christmas and you know they celebrate it. If they don't celebrate Christmas and it's Christmas Day, then just wish them "Merry Christmas." Good manners dictate that they either wish it back or, if they desire to make a point, they can say 'Thanks, but I don't celebrate Christmas.' This applies also to Hanukkah. If the person is Jewish and you know it, say "Happy Hanukkah" if it falls contemporaneously with Christmas (as it does this year), or you can resort to the generic "Happy Holidays". If you don't know they're Jewish, Muslim, Sikh or whatever religion and it is 'Christmas Day, then say "Merry Christmas" and let good manners prevail. Simple as that. I have many Jewish friends and they do not twist into gargoyles of political correctness because I wish them "Merry Christmas" on December 25th.
My point is, there is no need to subvert wishing someone Merry Christmas because of a fear or reticence about traversing political correctness. It is Christmas and the fact that it is so should be acknowledged by intelligent people of any creed or culture. Not to do so demeans, stupifies and holds us hostage to one hell of an asinine aspect of the gospel of political correctness. Let's just all acknowledge our different cultures and associated holidays and maybe, just maybe, learning someone we meet comes from another culture might prompt us to ask about their holiday and learn something about it. We certainly won't learn anything by saying 'Season's Greetings' or 'Happy Holidays' and pretending the different traditions don't exist.
[technorati: Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Merry Christmas
Monday
The hornet
This morning I had an epiphany of sorts at the Y while on my favorite elliptical and watching my favorite anchor CNN's American Morning Soledad O'Brien (whom one of the L's of L&L tried to convince me unsuccessfully over dinner the other night was reputed to be an absolute and insufferable bitch, or so she'd heard from someone 'in the know.' I told Lynne that I could not form any opinion on someone based on hearsay (that's the lawyer in me, I guess), that I would have to experience the alleged imperious and demanding personality firsthand before I could agree. My 'Y' epiphany concerned a fellow member who was peddling with determination on another elliptical machine. I was peddling pretty vigorously too because I'd keyed in the 'fat-burner' program as opposed to the more sedate 'calorie-burner' one and, disinterested in the interview Soledad was conducting with yet another author of the "How To' genre, I happened to look around at my fellow elliptical-cum-stairmaster junkies.
The member, a late middle-aged woman trenchantly frosty of demeanor with short, blunt, professionally dyed honey-blonde hair, always reminds me of a NY Supreme Court justice I'd once argued a case before when she strides into the gym. You may be familiar with the archetype from LA Law, Law and Order, and Ally McBeal and such, one of those powerful female presences that exude an intimidating 'Don't pull any fancy attorney crap such as another request for a continuance,' and/or 'You screw with me in any manner no matter how trivial while you're in my courtroom and your ass will be jumping through hoops and up for contempt' aura. This morning however, she was already astride the machine and sported a glow above her thick layer of make-up. Given the position of my machine and hers, I had a body profile view of her and it was not very flattering because all human dignity while on these machines is cheerfully traded in the pursuit of the 'nirvana of sveltness.'
My frosty 'judge' worked more and more feverishly, her painfully thin legs sheathed in a black lycra leotard, her very thin arms tugging at the handles, her hunched (on account of the machine) barrel-like torso draped in a baggy mustard and black striped T-shirt that resembled a carapace, and I immediately thought,'insect'. This woman resembles an insect. I watched riveted. I could not take my eyes off her and, boy, did my twenty two minutes pass quickly for the first time ever. (She always stays on the machine for forty-five minutes, despite there being a time limit of 30 minutes per member per machine in the interests of consideration for fellow members, but not even the staff will approach to remind the 'judge' of the Y's rules. As her time on the machine approached an end, I expected a pair of wings to slowly rise from out of her back and to see her body lift off and set course for the free weight section, her legs drifting wispily like a hornet.
[technorati: Soledad O'Brien, CNN, YMCA, American Morning
The member, a late middle-aged woman trenchantly frosty of demeanor with short, blunt, professionally dyed honey-blonde hair, always reminds me of a NY Supreme Court justice I'd once argued a case before when she strides into the gym. You may be familiar with the archetype from LA Law, Law and Order, and Ally McBeal and such, one of those powerful female presences that exude an intimidating 'Don't pull any fancy attorney crap such as another request for a continuance,' and/or 'You screw with me in any manner no matter how trivial while you're in my courtroom and your ass will be jumping through hoops and up for contempt' aura. This morning however, she was already astride the machine and sported a glow above her thick layer of make-up. Given the position of my machine and hers, I had a body profile view of her and it was not very flattering because all human dignity while on these machines is cheerfully traded in the pursuit of the 'nirvana of sveltness.'
My frosty 'judge' worked more and more feverishly, her painfully thin legs sheathed in a black lycra leotard, her very thin arms tugging at the handles, her hunched (on account of the machine) barrel-like torso draped in a baggy mustard and black striped T-shirt that resembled a carapace, and I immediately thought,'insect'. This woman resembles an insect. I watched riveted. I could not take my eyes off her and, boy, did my twenty two minutes pass quickly for the first time ever. (She always stays on the machine for forty-five minutes, despite there being a time limit of 30 minutes per member per machine in the interests of consideration for fellow members, but not even the staff will approach to remind the 'judge' of the Y's rules. As her time on the machine approached an end, I expected a pair of wings to slowly rise from out of her back and to see her body lift off and set course for the free weight section, her legs drifting wispily like a hornet.
[technorati: Soledad O'Brien, CNN, YMCA, American Morning
Wednesday
Brokeback Mountain: Thoughts
It's wonderful when a quality movie starts to receive the recognition it deserves and I'm pleased Brokeback Mountain is receiving lots of buzz and critical acclaim, the latest being the slew of nominations it received for the Golden Globes. I'm not just saying this because I'm gay and thus may be seen by some--most particularly the Christian Right--as being biased or of having a vested interest in seeing it succeed.
No, that's not the reason for the joy I'm taking at the glorious buzz. I'm joyful because, as someone of an artistic sensibility, I want as many people as possible to read uplifting books, hear uplifting music and see uplifting films of marvelous quality. For far too long, Hollywood has produced far too much dross and Brokeback Mountain, from the highly talented director Ang Lee, is just one of a number of top quality offerings to emerge this year. Others include George Clooney's, Good Night and Good Luck and Memoirs of a Geisha. I am hopeful the trend will continue and that we will see more fresh and novel (no pun intended) storylines for the consumption of the intelligent mainstream, rather than a continued flow of old movie rehashes, tired plot lines and mindnumbing mediocrity suitable only for...well, the numb of mind.
For those of you who haven't heard anything about Brokeback Mountain, the movie is based on a short story by Annie Proulx and involves a secret and tortured love affair and hauntingly sad relationship between two cowboys. (Interestingly, there were/are a lot of gay cowboys.) Here's a link to CNN's review of the movie:
Brokeback Mountain
Predictably, the Christian Right is angry and you will hear lots of anguish and predictions about the continued decline of public morality and our flight from God--read Christianity, for that. There will be much fire and brimstone warnings. I will post another essay about this in the near future.
At the moment, I merely want to rejoice that something good, something vital, something that shows another aspect of our shared humanity is seeing the light of day.
[technorati: Brokeback Mountain, Ang Lee, Annie Proulx,Golden Globes,George Clooney, Memoirs of a Geisha
No, that's not the reason for the joy I'm taking at the glorious buzz. I'm joyful because, as someone of an artistic sensibility, I want as many people as possible to read uplifting books, hear uplifting music and see uplifting films of marvelous quality. For far too long, Hollywood has produced far too much dross and Brokeback Mountain, from the highly talented director Ang Lee, is just one of a number of top quality offerings to emerge this year. Others include George Clooney's, Good Night and Good Luck and Memoirs of a Geisha. I am hopeful the trend will continue and that we will see more fresh and novel (no pun intended) storylines for the consumption of the intelligent mainstream, rather than a continued flow of old movie rehashes, tired plot lines and mindnumbing mediocrity suitable only for...well, the numb of mind.
For those of you who haven't heard anything about Brokeback Mountain, the movie is based on a short story by Annie Proulx and involves a secret and tortured love affair and hauntingly sad relationship between two cowboys. (Interestingly, there were/are a lot of gay cowboys.) Here's a link to CNN's review of the movie:
Brokeback Mountain
Predictably, the Christian Right is angry and you will hear lots of anguish and predictions about the continued decline of public morality and our flight from God--read Christianity, for that. There will be much fire and brimstone warnings. I will post another essay about this in the near future.
At the moment, I merely want to rejoice that something good, something vital, something that shows another aspect of our shared humanity is seeing the light of day.
[technorati: Brokeback Mountain, Ang Lee, Annie Proulx,Golden Globes,George Clooney, Memoirs of a Geisha
Monday
Book-Blog.com
And I'm informed that A Son Called Gabriel was a best reads of 2005 at Debra Hamel's Book-Blog.com.
Check out her reviews of some other terrific books.
Ms. Hamel also started the ingenious Buy A Friend A Book Week which runs four times a year and I was fortunate to be invited by her to choose my three favorite books some time ago. What better idea than to buy a friend a book for no good reason other than that they're a friend and you want to give a gift, right?
[technorati: Book-Blog.com, A Son Called Gabriel, Debra Hamel, Buy a Friend a Book Week
Check out her reviews of some other terrific books.
Ms. Hamel also started the ingenious Buy A Friend A Book Week which runs four times a year and I was fortunate to be invited by her to choose my three favorite books some time ago. What better idea than to buy a friend a book for no good reason other than that they're a friend and you want to give a gift, right?
[technorati: Book-Blog.com, A Son Called Gabriel, Debra Hamel, Buy a Friend a Book Week
Saturday
Blogcritics pick A Son Called Gabriel
I am very pleased this morning because I just received news that A Son Called Gabriel was chosen as one of the top 10 best books of 2005 by Blogcritics.com. Selected critics were asked to submit their favorite book of 2005 and a critic called Joan Hunt who'd erad my novel selected it.
This is especially wonderful news to receive as Phil Hilden, my collaborator in the play of A Son Called Gabriel, is coming to Pennsylvania today so that we can go though the first draft of the play.
Here's the link to Blogcritics:
Blogcritics
[technorati: Blogcritics, A Son Called Gabriel, Damian McNicholl, fiction
This is especially wonderful news to receive as Phil Hilden, my collaborator in the play of A Son Called Gabriel, is coming to Pennsylvania today so that we can go though the first draft of the play.
Here's the link to Blogcritics:
Blogcritics
[technorati: Blogcritics, A Son Called Gabriel, Damian McNicholl, fiction
Tuesday
A deer in the gloaming
It all began as an uncertain shadow that appeared suddenly in the corner of my left eye, and then came a sickening thud followed by darkness as a feverish tangle of limbs filled my window. The time of evening was what the Scots call 'the gloaming'. (I guess 'the gloaming' is an ancient Celtic word and Irish and Welsh Gaelic probably have similar words, but I don't know the Irish one because I was always hopeless at retaining my Irish vocabulary. The gloaming is actually a more precise word than teh word 'dusk' and, growing up in Ireland, we called it the 'between the lights' in English.)
In any event, I was returning home from a book signing and the deer bounded out from a wood near my home, struck the front of the car and was catapulted over the bonnet and against the windshield. Of course I braked quickly, and the animal slid off the bonnet to the road beneath, picked itself up, and dashed into an open field on the other side of the road. A bolt of electricity surged through my body as I drove to a lay-by--in my backview mirror, I could see the equally shocked deer pick itself up off the grass and dash across the field to disappear into a copse of trees--where I got out and inspected the damage, which amounted to a broken headlight and a badly dented bonnet.
The encounter resurrected a couple of memories stored deep within the recesses of my memory banks. One accident occurred shortly after my seventeenth birthday, and I had just got my driver's licence and was on my way to a 'sixth form social' (the equivalent of the senior prom in the states) at a neighboring school when a fox crossed my path. The fox did not survive. Another accident occurred while I was driving my sister Deirdre and cousins Helena and Rosemary to a new disco that had opened in a nearby town. When we arrived, the bouncers would not allow me in because I was wearing jeans, so we had a pow-wow on the pavement and decided to drive to another disco in Portstewart, some thirty miles away. We were so keen to get to the disco, I drove far too fast and next thing I rounded a corner that never seemed to stop turning and...well, I planted the car deep in the bosom of a row of rhododendron bushes flanking the ditch. All I remember as I stepped out of the car was my sister, dressed in a wide flared lemon skirt that gleamed in the darkness, pacing up and down the road in a panic because we could not extricate the car, accompanied by Rosemary and Helena who was wearing extremely tall high-heels that kept clicking loudly as she walked. In the end, it was decided that I would stay and continue my efforts to free the car while they walked down a farmer's lane to seek help. Off the heavily lip-glossed envoys clicked into the night.
Twenty minutes later, there was an enormous roar and a farmer's tractor loomed in the dusk. As it drew closer, I saw the girls perched in a most undignified way on the towing hitch. They climbed off when it came to a stop. Helena approached me, stilettoes in hand and pencil skirt drawn above her knees, and gave me a look that suggested I would have much groveling to do to make up for the affront. As the farmer was towing the car out, two British landrovers rounded the corner and came to a stop. To their credit, they stopped and asked if they could help, but I quickly declined. After it had been removed from the bushes, we inspected the car and I saw there were no dents--loads of scratches but no major damage. We thanked the old farmer profusely, decided to go home, and drove off, but as we advenced, we could not deny to one another that the car was making discomfitingly strange sounds. It was as if it were spitting out gravel or tree limbs from underneath the chassis. The sound lessened as I continued, but it was still noticeable, and I knew my father would know something was wrong as soon as he drove the thing. I decided to pull into a lay-by just outside the town where my cousins lived and had they and my sister rehearse a lie I'd concocted in the event my father smelled a rat and began an investigation. Next morning, I arose very early and went outside and quickly used "T-cut" (a Brasso like substance for removing scratches and tar) on the scratches and successfully removed all evidence of the accident. Satisfied, I went back to bed. Later, as soon as my father returned from Sunday mass, he called me to him and asked what was wrong with the car because it was making funny sounds. With scarcely a pause, I told him I'd swerved to avoid a fox and landed in a ditch and it must still be be shaking off earth and small stones. Only years later, did I tell him, and it's since became a family joke, which he still invokes to this day.
With regards to the current encounter, both the deer and I were lucky, though I'm sure the bruised deer will be feeling some pain for a few days. Certainly, I feel lucky because I've heard of instances where the windshield had broken and the deer has fallen into the cabin and crushed the occupant. And a few neighbors in the area have had their cars 'totalled' as a result of such accidents. The irony of the thing is I'm always so careful about deer when I'm driving. I'm constantly watching out for them as soon as I turn off the main road and start along the back roads winding through the township where I live. I'm sure I'm not alone in my vigilence because Pennsylvania has the highest rate of car accidents involving deer in the entire United States, though that's a record I'm sure the Commonwealth will not be keen to hold on to for very long.
[technorati: deer, Pennsylvania, proms, Ulster
In any event, I was returning home from a book signing and the deer bounded out from a wood near my home, struck the front of the car and was catapulted over the bonnet and against the windshield. Of course I braked quickly, and the animal slid off the bonnet to the road beneath, picked itself up, and dashed into an open field on the other side of the road. A bolt of electricity surged through my body as I drove to a lay-by--in my backview mirror, I could see the equally shocked deer pick itself up off the grass and dash across the field to disappear into a copse of trees--where I got out and inspected the damage, which amounted to a broken headlight and a badly dented bonnet.
The encounter resurrected a couple of memories stored deep within the recesses of my memory banks. One accident occurred shortly after my seventeenth birthday, and I had just got my driver's licence and was on my way to a 'sixth form social' (the equivalent of the senior prom in the states) at a neighboring school when a fox crossed my path. The fox did not survive. Another accident occurred while I was driving my sister Deirdre and cousins Helena and Rosemary to a new disco that had opened in a nearby town. When we arrived, the bouncers would not allow me in because I was wearing jeans, so we had a pow-wow on the pavement and decided to drive to another disco in Portstewart, some thirty miles away. We were so keen to get to the disco, I drove far too fast and next thing I rounded a corner that never seemed to stop turning and...well, I planted the car deep in the bosom of a row of rhododendron bushes flanking the ditch. All I remember as I stepped out of the car was my sister, dressed in a wide flared lemon skirt that gleamed in the darkness, pacing up and down the road in a panic because we could not extricate the car, accompanied by Rosemary and Helena who was wearing extremely tall high-heels that kept clicking loudly as she walked. In the end, it was decided that I would stay and continue my efforts to free the car while they walked down a farmer's lane to seek help. Off the heavily lip-glossed envoys clicked into the night.
Twenty minutes later, there was an enormous roar and a farmer's tractor loomed in the dusk. As it drew closer, I saw the girls perched in a most undignified way on the towing hitch. They climbed off when it came to a stop. Helena approached me, stilettoes in hand and pencil skirt drawn above her knees, and gave me a look that suggested I would have much groveling to do to make up for the affront. As the farmer was towing the car out, two British landrovers rounded the corner and came to a stop. To their credit, they stopped and asked if they could help, but I quickly declined. After it had been removed from the bushes, we inspected the car and I saw there were no dents--loads of scratches but no major damage. We thanked the old farmer profusely, decided to go home, and drove off, but as we advenced, we could not deny to one another that the car was making discomfitingly strange sounds. It was as if it were spitting out gravel or tree limbs from underneath the chassis. The sound lessened as I continued, but it was still noticeable, and I knew my father would know something was wrong as soon as he drove the thing. I decided to pull into a lay-by just outside the town where my cousins lived and had they and my sister rehearse a lie I'd concocted in the event my father smelled a rat and began an investigation. Next morning, I arose very early and went outside and quickly used "T-cut" (a Brasso like substance for removing scratches and tar) on the scratches and successfully removed all evidence of the accident. Satisfied, I went back to bed. Later, as soon as my father returned from Sunday mass, he called me to him and asked what was wrong with the car because it was making funny sounds. With scarcely a pause, I told him I'd swerved to avoid a fox and landed in a ditch and it must still be be shaking off earth and small stones. Only years later, did I tell him, and it's since became a family joke, which he still invokes to this day.
With regards to the current encounter, both the deer and I were lucky, though I'm sure the bruised deer will be feeling some pain for a few days. Certainly, I feel lucky because I've heard of instances where the windshield had broken and the deer has fallen into the cabin and crushed the occupant. And a few neighbors in the area have had their cars 'totalled' as a result of such accidents. The irony of the thing is I'm always so careful about deer when I'm driving. I'm constantly watching out for them as soon as I turn off the main road and start along the back roads winding through the township where I live. I'm sure I'm not alone in my vigilence because Pennsylvania has the highest rate of car accidents involving deer in the entire United States, though that's a record I'm sure the Commonwealth will not be keen to hold on to for very long.
[technorati: deer, Pennsylvania, proms, Ulster
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