"For this is all a dream we dreamed one afternoon, long ago...."

Angela + Angela, 1995.

Angela was my best friend from boarding school. I met her on the first day of freshman year at Marian Heights Academy, in August 1988. Eighteen days ago, on Wednesday, November 12th, I lost her to a car accident.

Although it's lifted somewhat, I'm still in a great deal of shock. Still doing that thing where I wake up in the morning and then it hits me all over again. "Oh that's right, Angela's gone." For the first few days after getting that phone call, I was 100% on autopilot, going around in a zombified grief-trance. I was so out of it that my family wouldn't let me drive. I notified a few classmates of Angela's passing, but selfishly gave up after the fourth call because it made me sick to say the words, and typing them out felt even worse.

Since attending Angela's visitation (John and I drove down to Missouri to pay our respects last weekend), the dam has broken and I've officially entered the blubbering, sobbing mess phase. The Sally Field "I want to know WHYYYYYY!" phase.   

Appropriately, Angela and I were in Steel Magnolias together our senior year of high school, and Angela played M'Lynn, the Sally Field character who gets to make that speech. (I was Miss Clairee -- I got to say, "Go ahead M'Lynn, slap her!")

Clairee and M'Lynn, backstage on the set of Steel Magnolias, 1992.

Angela and I played sisters a year earlier in another school production, Crimes of the Heart, and we had a blast. There was a scene where she and I were sitting at the kitchen table together, listening to another character talk. As this character wraps up her monologue, Angela and I were supposed to look at one another and sort of snicker for a minute, then burst into inappropriate laughter. We wanted to get the scene right and make the laughter genuine, so in rehearsals we would murmur nonsensical phrases under our breath to try to crack each other up. We talked to each other without moving our lips, like ventriloquists, saying things like "Poop Soup," and "Buffalo Farts" until we dissolved into punch drunk hysterics. And you know what? We nailed it every performance. (Such method actors we were!)   

I've gone through boxes of old pictures, looking for more gems from our four years at Marian Heights, but I'm finding that the best photos of Angela and I are the ones from our post-high school era. When we graduated MHA and left Ferdinand, I went back to Indianapolis to attend court reporting school, while Angela--a native of the Missouri "Bootheel" region--started her undergrad career at St. Louis University. Once Angela and I realized how quick and easy it was to just slide up and down Interstate 70 (only three and a half hours, depending on who's driving), we visited each other several times a year throughout the nineties. Sometimes Angela's sister Bonita would come with her on her sojourns to Indy, and I have a memory of the three of us singing Janet Jackson's "Nasty" for karaoke at the bar my boyfriend managed. Our song selection stands out because it was the most awkward song to sing for karaoke, full of long pauses and various grunts and "ooh"s and "uhhh"s. We were laughing so hard at how weird we sounded, we could barely finish it. 

Another time Angela came to Indy for a visit, she and I decided to catch a movie---When A Man Loves A Woman---the Meg Ryan drama where she plays an alcoholic mother bottoming out. Sitting in our seats before the show, we idly wondered how much of a tearjerker the movie would be. One of us brought up the Leslie Nielsen/Priscilla Presley scene in Naked Gun where they wander out of a movie theater, laughing their asses off, and the camera pans up to reveal that they've just seen Platoon. We both joked about recreating that scene if the movie turned out to be a major downer. I think we were actually expecting WAMLAW to be weepy but fairly light, maybe something along the lines of Beaches, or Lifetime Channel for Women-type fare. We were both unprepared by how dark WAMLAW is; in one memorable scene, Meg Ryan gets blackout drunk, slaps her children around, downs a fistful of pills, and crashes through a glass shower door. It's all very brutal. 

When the end credits started rolling and the lights went up, Angela and I both looked at each other, like, "Wow, that was....a lot." 

Then she started snickering. I was like, "What?" And then she looked at me, and laughed some more, and finally I got it. I broke into a Beavis and Butthead-esque "Oh yeah. Uh, huh huh huh huh huh huh," in recognition. Shenanigans continued as we headed up the aisle of the theater, walking and laughing, catching each other's eye, and laughing some more. 

By the time we reached the lobby, we were doubled over and hyperventilating, cackling wildly at absolutely nothing. We stumbled past the cheerful ticket taker, who, noticing our mirth, called out, "Glad you ladies enjoyed the show!" And that, of course, made us laugh even harder. 

 

Angela had this great, absurdist sense of humor. I'm pretty sure she was the only friend of mine who actually read Woody Allen's Without Feathers on my recommendation. I remember her getting a bang out of the chapter with the "lost" Biblical writings.  

(Sample passage: "And the Lord produced two stone tablets and snapped them closed on Job’s nose. And when Job’s wife saw this she wept and the Lord sent an angel of mercy who anointed her head with a polo mallet and of the 10 plagues, the Lord sent one through six, inclusive, and Job was sore and his wife angry and she rent her garment and then raised the rent but refused to paint.")

In turn, Angela introduced me to the Enneagram. One of her professors was really into it, and so Angela got into it, too, and gave me an armload of books on the Enneagram during one of my visits to St. Louis. (I'm a 4w3, in Ennagram parlance; Angela, a 2w3. Interesting stuff, and IMO more accurate than Myers-Briggs.) 

With Angela as a tour guide, visiting St. Louis was awesome. She lived in the Central West End, a hip neighborhood with fun, quirky shops (Heffalump's!), indie coffee houses, and Forest Park (sort of a small version of Central Park). Angela lived with a roommate in this giant loft apartment with exposed brick that was straight off the set of Friends. It was cool as hell.

One of my favorite trips, though, was the summer I visited Angela down in her hometown of Bernie, MO, in the aforementioned Bootheel of the state. It's an interesting region--on the north end of the Mississippi Delta--lots of rich history, southern-inspired cuisine (I had fried okra for the first time in Bernie!), and Delta blues music. 

Anyhoo, I loved it:

I can't even put into words how much I love this photo of Angela.

My favorite part of this photo? Angela's thumb. 

Never discard "imperfect" shots. 

Someday, you'll be glad you saved them. 

 Hanging in downtown Bernie, 1993.

Me, all countrified.

Angela feeding the sheep.

In the kitchen of Angela's childhood home. 

If I could, I would so time travel back to this moment in 1993 and just hang out there indefinitely.

Around 1997-ish, Angela was accepted to a graduate program at Tulsa University (I honestly can't remember if it was a PhD or Master's program. She didn't make a big deal out of that kind of stuff. She didn't need to. Girl was smart.) I was overjoyed, because Tulsa is where half of my family lives. That meant that even though Angela would no longer be as close as she was in St. Louis, I'd still get to see her anytime I was in Tulsa. The timing was perfect---my sister Michelle and my Aunt Donna had just moved into a large rental house in an up-and-coming neighborhood on the southside of the city, and they had a loft for a third roomie, so Angela joined them. 

Seriously, looking back on it all, I can't believe how lucky I was. How lucky we both were to have all the time together that we did. It's one of the things I hold onto now.

Hanging out with Angela in Tulsa during the summer of 1999, she had some news. She'd met a guy through her church that she really dug, and it seemed serious. Like, this dude might be The One. Angela introduced me to Brian, and I got a good vibe from him. He seemed really smitten with my friend and he treated her well, which was my biggest concern. I soon found out that he was a movie buff with an offbeat sense of humor. Another good sign. During my visit, he hosted a dinner party at his apartment, and we all watched Radioland Murders. I was like, "Okay, this guy's a keeper. Well done. Approval: granted."

Angela and Brian got married in 2000. They started a family a few years later, settling down in the Missouri Bootheel to work and live. I always thought it was cool that they did that. Angela worked in mental health, and in her hometown, she saw a community that was underserved, and felt compelled to change that. Her kids got to grow up close to grandparents and cousins, in the same place she'd grown up. There was a nice symmetry to it all.

Angela and I kept in touch over the years, but we didn't see each other like we used to. You know how it goes, you grow up (a little), you get married, life gets busy and complicated, suddenly you're 40, then 50....sigh. Yeah. You know how it goes.

I'm sad she is gone, but I'm glad she was here. I'm glad she found a great partner in Brian. I'm glad she went into mental health, because there was never a person more compassionate, more empathetic, more suited to that field than Angela. I'm glad she got to be a mom, because she was really good at it. 

I'm glad I got to be her friend. 

(If you know, you know.)

RESCUED FROM OBSCURITY: 

"My mind was a mess before you brought happiness..."

Dredging up this song from the dark recesses of my brain reminded me how much I loved my Pandora stations back in the day. In the mid-aughts (2004 to 2006-ish) when I was still working mind-numbing office jobs in Minneapolis, Pandora saved my sanity. 

"Poodle Rockin'' was one of the suggested songs that frequently came up on my Pandora "Eclectic" station at the time, and I fell in love with the track in all its weirdness. I had no idea until recently that this awesome fucking video existed, and also that the name of the band is Gorky's Zygotic Mynci. Seriously, how do you not love a band with a moniker like that? 

 According to their Wikipedia page: 

Gorky's came from the word "gawky."

Zygotic was "hijacked from GCSE biology."

Mynci is a spelling of the word "monkey" using Welsh spelling rules, rather than a direct Welsh translation (the actual Welsh word is "mwnci") and is pronounced like "monkey."

The band also broke up in 2006, which totally bites.   

Also, did you know about my love of poodles? Although I was, am, and will always be a ride-or-die catwoman, I have a soft spot for certain dogs. Meet my Uncle Mike's standard poodle, Beau. 

Me and Beau, 1981

 

Damn, I loved that dog. When he passed away, my family nearly had to bury me along with him. I was so distraught. 

Don't tell my cats; I've hidden this particular aspect of my past from them.

O.N.J. - R.I.P.

Of course, Xanadu is my favorite. How could it not be? ONJ and Gene Kelly on roller skates, the music of ELO, that cheesy-ass Don Bluth animated sequence, Sonny skating into the brick wall to join Kira in the mural, "got to believe we are magic," the insane closing musical number? Love. It.

Grease is the word, but Xanadu is da bomb.

 

HOWEVER.....there happens to be an overlooked ONJ classic called Two of a Kind. There was a huge publicity campaign for this movie ("Olivia and Travolta--together again!"), and it was savaged by critics and ignored by moviegoers in 1983. It's flawed but fun, and I kinda love it. 

And the theme song is seriously one of the greatest things ONJ ever recorded. In fact, if not for the Xanadu soundtrack, I'd argue that this was her best song ever. And holy shit, how did I live 49 years without knowing this music video existed? It's amazeballs. ONJ and Travolta are both beautiful people, but I swear neither of them have ever looked better than they do right here. Olivia can really rock an '80s mullet. And I don't care if that's a hairpiece on Travolta, it's working for him. HOT.

Rest in peace, Livs. Your fabulosity will live forever.

  

  

Hey, remember when I wrote about that odd little half-remembered Christian cartoon from my childhood called Jot? Well, apparently "Jot" means something really filthy in parts of the Indian subcontinent, because my innocent little post attracted a total of 63 comments from spambots hawking Bangalore escorts, Mumbai prostitutes, and the like. Yeah, I know. Third world spammers saw my musings on a wholesome children's show about an animated ping-pong ball learning lessons about Jesus and thought THAT was an appropriate venue to peddle their prostitution whores? 

SINNERS! You defile Jot, you defile Jesus, and now God is pissed. 

"You're going to hell, you blasphemous dickbags!"

Good thing I didn't write about Davey and Goliath. Who knows what sort of  unholy smut that would attract? 

Oh the humanity!

FUN FACT! Did you know that Davey and Goliath was made by Art Clokey, the same dude who created Gumby? Personally I always found D+G a bit creepy, but Gumby? Shit, Gumby rules! I love me some Gumby!

via GIPHY

An original from my own collection: 

Don't judge! Bendable figurines have needs just like the rest of us.

#sexpositive

Anyhoo, what really cheesed me off about all the spam that Jot post attracted was the time I had to spend going and deleting every comment individually. The bright side was, I did come across some comments that were amusing enough to use for blog fodder. Here are a few (BTW I removed all the hyperlinks, so your computer won't catch herpes): 

Y'ALL READY FOR THIS?

• My name is Nayra, I am a young Escort from Kanpur. I am tall, slender, and dress fashionably. I really love men. I don‘t care how yo look like or how old you are. If you are a real gentleman and you are polite, courteous and have very clean cleanliness I will give you the best time of your life.

Pictured: Nayra. Tall, slender, dress fashionably, and really loves men? 

Technically true, I suppose. Except for the "dress fashionably" bit. 

• I am a final graduate, i am having one week of holiday so i came here to Singapore. I have just arrived to Singapore this morning. I am now staying in a hotel in the central, i am looking forward to meet up with you all and have some good wild sex together.

Incidentally, the posting above had links advertising "Nagpur Escorts." Nagpur is not Singapore. 

Pictured: Not Singapore.

Like Miss Vanessa Williams, I went and saved the best for last:

• Our independent bangalore escorts are fully taught and perfect define entertainers. They are so beautiful and gracious than any other woman you have square with. How many men have bravery to deal all these things in this busy daily life? Now a day 19s woman always cheats their partner and treats them weakly. And these all are reason of a divide. Many of man who was dating with this kind of woman can tell you the story of tears, cry and sadness.

Wait a minute.

Am I crazy, or are those last two sentences sort of.....poetic?

And these all 

are reason 

of a divide. 

Many of man 

who was dating  

with this kind of woman

 can tell you 

the story. 

Of tears, 

cry 

and sadness.

via GIPHY

Whew, well at least I was able to make some art out of that annoying spam.

So another voice from my childhood is gone. 

I wasn't one of those teenage girls getting hot flashes over George Michael back in high school. I mean, I thought he was handsome and charismatic and talented and had a great voice and everything, but his 1987 Faith album was so huge when I was in high school--one single after another released for like a solid two years--that by 1989 I was all Faith-ed out. I also didn't have much time for the stuff in the Top 40, since sometime around 1988 (freshman year of high school) I had followed Duran Duran down the musical rabbit hole that led me to discover darker, edgier artists and I became hooked on bands like The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen, Siouxie, The Smiths, and early Blondie. 

But then Listen Without Prejudice Vol. 1 came out. The first single, "Freedom" (the famous one with the supermodels in the video) was released during my junior year of high school, and--while I really dug that song--it wasn't until the beginning of my senior year in September 1991 when I first heard the excellent "Waiting For That Day" that I reconsidered my foolish notions about George Michael being "too commercial" for my taste and developed a new appreciation for him. 

Every time I listen to it, it feels the same as it did when I first heard it at age 17. It just devastates me. 

Something I just can't explain

Something in me needs this pain

I know I'll never see your face again

Years later (1998-ish) when my sister and I shared an apartment for a few years and she had his Ladies and Gentlemen: The Best of George Michael double album, I started to get sort of obsessed with his musical catalog. While no amount of time could make me feel nostalgic about "I Want Your Sex" (I've always thought that song was corny as hell and, like, the opposite of sexy) I found that I started to take a liking to some of those old songs from Faith, like the title track and--especially--"Kissing a Fool."  

And going further back to that period of post-Wham, pre-Faith, there was "A Different Corner," which George said was not a song about the end of a big, sweeping love affair. Rather, the lyrics were inspired by the sort of relationship that comes out of nowhere; one of those super-intense, short-lived flings that leaves you completely shattered and bewildered and wondering what the hell just happened when it's over. I think we've all been there at some point. 

There is a glaring omission on that "Best of" album, a Wham song that I think has always gotten short shrift--the 1986 single "The Edge of Heaven,"--so much better than "I'm Your Man," the other Wham single from the same time period with an almost identical video that somehow people seem to favor. But they're all wrong. "Edge of Heaven" is the jam.

But enough pontificating. George Michael is gone, and it sucks. It's gotten to be a cliche that 2016 is killing all these great artists, but as the saying goes, cliches are only cliches because they're true. 

     

Sometimes It Snows in April

Damn, it just doesn't feel real, does it? The headline "Prince Dies at 57" still does not compute, and it's freaky to even type that. I had the same issue with Bowie's death. It's like both Prince and Bowie were sort of these ethereal figures--almost supernatural--like it was just sort of understood that the rules of the universe did not apply to them. They were on a higher plane than the rest of us mortals. 

My writer buddy Dan Kennedy said it best: 

As shocked as I was by Bowie's passing, the fact that Prince is gone just seems harder to fathom somehow. My friend Marcus posted on FB that although both deaths were a huge shock, Prince hits closer to home (for Gen-Xer's like us) because, growing up in the '80s, Prince was "our guy." I totally agree. 

"Little Red Corvette" (1982) was the first Prince song I remember being aware of. I recall my sister and other "big kids" really digging it, but I was just sort of neutral (also, at nine years old I was more obsessed with horses than current pop music). Then in 1984-85 there was an amazing explosion of artists and albums that coincided with that sort of musical awakening a lot of kids have at around 11 or 12 years old and I discovered Duran Duran, Cyndi Lauper, Madonna, Michael Jackson and Prince--specifically the Purple Rain soundtrack--which blew my mind. 

I saw Purple Rain (the movie) when it premiered on HBO in the summer of 1985. It was so dark and "adult" that it's funny to think of my little 12-year-old self watching that. I mean, my family (along with everyone else in our neighborhood) had gotten premium cable a few years earlier, and it was a big thing for us neighbor kids to secretly try to catch "the dirty parts" of movies like Porky's and Fast Times at Ridgemont High (or if we were feeling really brave, one of the Friday the 13th movies) when we were at each other's houses. But Purple Rain was a lot racier than the typical teen sex films of that era, so I'm pretty sure it was one of those movies I sneaked out to the living room to watch at like 2am while my mom and stepdad were sleeping. That was something I got really good at: creeping into the living room and turning on the TV so it was barely audible and sitting like five inches from the screen so I could hear the movie while simultaneously listening for my mom in case she woke up. (In the event that she did, I would switch off the TV, race into the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of milk so it would look like I'd just gotten up to get a drink. Back in the day, we had to be really creative with stuff like that. I think kids today have it a lot easier, they can just watch whatever they want to on their smart phones and their parents probably don't have a clue.)      

Speaking of access, everyone knows by now how impossible it is to find Prince clips on YouTube; the only ones that exist seem to be live performances from award shows (which are awesome, admittedly), and the only Purple Rain clips viewable online are the ones from the trailer.

I guess this is indicative of how many times I've seen Purple Rain over the last 30 years (um, a lot), because there are a few little flashes of scenes I don't recognize: 

00:28 -- Apollonia in a barn? WTF was that? 

00:51 -- Prince getting smacked around by his dad (I think?) at what looks like a rehearsal space?

Marcus, help me out....do you remember any of this? I'm also unsure about the snippet with the cop car driving by Morris and Jerome. I'm guessing they were deleted scenes, but I want your opinion. 

_______________________________________________________________

Anyway, Prince is gone, and it sucks. I have more to write on this subject but I'm still getting my head together. 

(Psst...looks like someone posted the video for Take Me With U in the past few days, but it will probably get yanked ASAP, maybe by the time this goes up.) 

Dad's second grade class photo.
Centralia, Illinois

Happy Birthday Dad

My father would have been 84 years old today. I thought I'd post a few of my favorite photos of him throughout the month. 

Dad's 40th birthday.
I was born two years later. :-)

Mom and Dad's wedding, June 1st, 1971 (on his 40th bday, see above)
They got married at a park at midnight--my Mom's idea--in Tulsa.
A friend officiated. 

Me and Dad. He's making sure I don't eat the dandelion.

Dad's birthday, a few years later (me in the background--maybe about 8 years old?)
I love this photo. And I miss our yellow 1970s kitchen.

Dad and me, crashed out in his favorite armchair.

Hanging out on the banks of Lake Michigan.
Shortly after Dad moved to Sheboygan, WI (post-divorce) to work for Kohler.

More photos to come this month. 

JOT

So then there's this little bit of 1960's weirdness, a religious cartoon that they used to toss in among secular cartoons when I was a kid. The five-minute animated shorts centered around the adventures of a little white blob called "Jot." He'd do something evil like break a toy or not wash his hands before Sunday school and then some off-screen authority figure would make him answer for his sins and wrap it all up with a Bible verse at the end. There was also--weirdly enough--some very flower child psychedelia thrown in with his escapades, like in this short where he lies to his mother about stealing a cupcake and then has some sort of trippy freakout when his conscience gets the best of him. 

Due to his meltdown, Jot never gets around to eating the cupcake. Personally, I think it would have awesome if they had the little guy eat the cupcake and then start tripping balls. That would send a fun message: "Kids, don't steal sweets from authority figures because they'll put hallucinogens in the ingredients to catch you out, you thieving little bastards."

I'm pretty sure I hated Jot, probably because I resented having preachy morality lessons crammed in between secular weekday cartoons. It would have been one thing if they'd confined it to the Christian channel, but having to endure creepy religious crap when you just wanted to watch Caspar the Friendly Ghost really sucked.   

My most significant Jot-related memory was playing ping-pong with my friend Heather, age 8 or 9, in the basement of my neighbor's house (our elderly neighbors across the street regularly invited us kids in for snacks and games; if I remember correctly their grandchildren lived out of town, so us neighborhood urchins were sort of their grandkid surrogates). Heather and I would take turns slamming the ping pong ball across the table as hard as we could, pretending it was Jot the Biblical dot-goblin.

Well, what do you want? We didn't have violent video games back then. We had to use our imaginations. 

I'd still probably wear this t-shirt, though. For kitsch value.

THIS is 40

Yesterday, August 19, 2013 (at 2:18pm, if you want to get really precise)  I turned 40. I'm happy about it.

I'm thankful that I survived my twenties, a very difficult decade for me (I'm hardly alone on that one; most people my age say they hated their twenties). It wasn't all bad; I did have some great times in my twenties. But I wouldn't want to go back.

My thirties were decent overall. Things started out crappy. I had a few minor nervous breakdowns between the ages of 30 - 32. But by the time I was 33 (2006) I'd hit my stride. I was feeling happy and confident, and had finally landed a job I enjoyed. My love life was spotty--as it often was back then--but I had some great adventures. Even with all the mistakes and missteps I made during my thirties, I don't regret a thing.

So now I've made it to age 40. I'm a published author, I'm happy, I'm content, I'm married. Comfy home, purring cats, fantastic friends, great husband.

It's all good.

******************************

Now for some fun.

This milestone birthday has got me thinking. I've been writing a lot about my early childhood, and I'm amazed by how much I remember, especially about 1970's pop culture. I was born in 1973 and was only seven years old by the time 1980 rolled around. But, as I've discovered, I've retained a lot from that decade.

1970's Kid
My mom was a housewife (I guess "homemaker" is the correct term now) for a good part of my early childhood. She kept a small transistor radio in the kitchen of our house in Greensburg, Indiana--this was before we moved to "the big city" of Indianapolis in late 1978--and my first memories of pop music involved Paul Simon, The Carpenters, and John Denver, piped through that little radio in the kitchen.

The song: Paul Simon  50 Ways To Leave Your Lover.
The memory: I was about four years old and my mom was standing in the kitchen, making me a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. She was singing along to "50 Ways" as it played on that little kitchen radio. When it got to the "Hop on the bus, Gus!" part, I collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles, picturing a little man named "Gus" hopping up and down on top of a school bus. My mom started laughing at me while I laughed my crazy little "Snoopy laugh" (as she called it), and the more she laughed, the more I laughed, and the longer the song played, the more we both laughed until she had to sit down on the kitchen chair and I was rolling around on the floor and my stomach hurt from laughing but I couldn't stop so I just laid there, all giggly and out of breath. It's one of my favorite childhood memories.

The song: The Carpenters Top of the World. (Oh man. Watch the video I linked to. It's adorable. Why can't we all be sweet and innocent like that again?)

I loved this song when I was a wee one, even though I didn't quite have a handle on the lyrics, as you'll see.

The memory:  My dad worked in advertising, and occasionally his colleagues and their wives would come over to our house in Greensburg for dinner and/or cocktails. I was about four or five years old, so naturally I took it upon myself to provide the evening's entertainment whenever my parents had "company" over.

The grownups would be sitting in the living room, enjoying cocktails and smoking cigarettes and talking about Billie Jean King or Barry Manilow or the energy crisis or whatever grownups talked about in the seventies. The living room was in full view of the staircase that led up to the bedrooms. We had this giant brown leather beanbag chair, and I'd drag it over to the bottom of the stairs, climb to the top of the steps (it was only about seven steps--we had a split-level home) and shout:

"I'm on the top of the world, looking down on creation, and the only essplanation.....I CAN FLY!" 

Then I'd take a running leap and cannonball down the seven steps into the big brown beanbag chair, to the delight of (most of) the adults. Their applause and laughter were like catnip to me, so I did it again and again. After about my fourth encore, my dad would say, "Okay, you're getting all wound up now. Time for bed." And then my mom would shepherd me to my bedroom even though it was WAY before my official bedtime and I hadn't even had dessert or watched Donny and Marie or anything. (Shut up. I liked The Donny and Marie Show). So unfair.

Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry. 

Some years later, I learned that my dad's boss (one of the guests who frequented my parents' little cocktail hours) used to nudge my dad and say, "You gotta get that kid into commercials."

Alas, my parents didn't heed that advice, and so I was doomed to a childhood of anonymity.

The song: Any and all John Denver songs prior to 1982
The memory: Jeez. So many. My mom loved John Denver, and his music was ubiquitous in our household when I was a little kid. He was almost like a member of the family; the sweet hippie uncle I never had. (My mom's brother is a very nice guy, but he's a rich Republican--a white sheep in a family of black sheep.) I was devastated when John Denver died. It really was like losing a relative. I wish he was still around. I think he could have had a career resurgence, now that the Baby Boomers are all old and nostalgic.

If I could narrow it down, I'd probably say my favorite John Denver-related memory happened in 2000, when I was 27 years old and in love with a sensitive artist type, a 23-year-old painter who ate, drank, lived and breathed 1960's and 70's acoustic folk music. He loved the Mamas and the Papas, Simon and Garfunkel, Peter Paul and Mary, Don MacLean, Jim Croce, and John Denver. This guy--okay, let's go ahead and call him Louis, since he was the inspiration for that character in my novel and he's also very unlikely to read this--was the only person I'd met outside my family who shared my love for John Denver and his music. Louis and I drove from Indianapolis to Shades State Park in the summer of 2000, singing along to John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads" on the tape deck for much of the journey. Yeah, that was a good time.      



I kinda like writing about this music/memory stuff. I'll be posting more bits like this in the coming weeks.
 

Lost and Found

I've been looking for an ancient children's book called Colors since the early days of the internet. Over the years I've perused ebay, abebooks, and hundreds of specialized blogs devoted to out-of-print books, but no dice. Turns out that there are about 8 billion children's books titled "Colors", and none of them ever turned out to be the one I wanted. 

Then I had an epiphany. I Googled "Colors" + 1970's 3-D puppet book. It led me to a curious site called The Trash Collector. I scrolled through the entries and stopped halfway down the page. My jaw dropped to the floor. After searching all these years, there it was--my old Colors book! I was ecstatic. 

I noticed that the artwork is credited to Tadasu Izawa and Shigemi Hijikata, so--armed with this new information--I did a search on Amazon and whaddya know? There it was!

Of course, the book has been out of print for decades, but luckily there were some independent sellers that carried it. I ended up ordering two copies--one for $13 and one for the bargain price of 73 cents! I bought two because I want to use one for a future crafting project and keep the other one intact.    

I have fond memories of this long-lost tome from my childhood. My parents started reading to me when I was a baby, and Colors is one of the very first books I remember. I even have a photo--dated September 1975 (I would've been two years old)--of me and my cousin Jon huddled in my grandmother's armchair reading it together.

Cute little 1970's moppets!

I was thrilled to find this book, and not just for the nostalgia factor. The main reason is that I sincerely love the artwork: gorgeous color photographs of poseable puppets set against painstakingly rendered backgrounds. The effect is strange, beautiful, and somewhat creepy. 

Here are a few images from Colors, along with the accompanying text (the first copy arrived in the mail yesterday), photographed by yours truly.

Easter eggs to color--what fun it is to do! 

We'll paint them pretty colors, like purple, pink and blue.

The big yellow sun shines its light all day

But a small pink parasol keeps the brightness away.

On a shaggy green carpet, chasing a bright red ball,

A playful orange kitten has the most fun of all.

There were several 3D puppet books with artwork by Tadasu Izawa and Shigemi Hijikata published between the 1960's and the 1980's. Unfortunately, there is precious little information online about the artists themselves. I'd love to learn more about them, and I'm curious to know if they have art that predates the work they did for the children's books. 

Here is some more info about the books, courtesy of The Trash Collector blog: 

Introduced in the 1960s, 3-D Picture Books were a popular import from Japan. These books featured full-page photographs of the action utlizing poseable puppets, many bearing the large eyes popular in Asian children's fare as well as in contemporary American pop-art. 

Although Colors is the only 3D puppet book I owned as a child, I do have recollections of other books from that genre, some checked out from the library, some belonged to friends. Many of them featured wicked cool lenticular (hologram) placards on the covers, like this one:

Izawa and Hijikata also did a series of fairytale books that I remember vividly, including Hansel and Gretel, Jack and the Beanstalk, and (my favorite) Snow White. I found some images online of the latter, and holy shit--they're absolutely stunning.

***SPOILER ALERT***

She ends up with the handsome prince.(Sorry if I ruined it for you.) 

It's ironic that I've spent years going out of my mind looking for Colors and I end up finding a copy on Amazon, the most prosaic of places. In fact, Amazon has a ton of the Izawa/Hijikata 3D puppet books. Some are outrageously priced--one copy of Nursery Tales is listed for $506.01 (???) but most of them are reasonably priced at under $20, and some go for under $10, depending on the condition of the book.

Of course, I'm not going to buy up all of them. For one, John would totally freak out if I spent all our money on old out-of-print children's books. Also, we don't have the space. 

I did break down and order that copy of Snow White, though. It was only nine bucks.    

So you're telling me I need to stick a vacuum cleaner in my ear? 

I have a weird thing about my ears. I was traumatized at an early age by an especially gory lesson in second grade, along with a well-meaning student teacher who probably didn't realize how literally kids can take things. 

I don't remember the student teacher's name, but I can still picture her: a slightly plump woman of about twenty with fair skin and shoulder-length strawberry blond hair. She took over our Health and Safety class to teach the unit on ears, which basically boiled down to: "Don't stick anything smaller than your elbow into your ear." When she opened up the floor for discussion, she asked us if we knew what could happen to us if we didn't heed this advice. 

One boy raised his hand and said, "If you stick something up there you could pop your eardrum and bleed to death." 

"Yes," said Miss What's-Her-Name, nodding solemnly. "That's why you never stick anything into your ear."

Now, I've always been a bit squeamish, but I was a lot worse as a youngster. I remember not being able to hear the word "spinal cord" without getting all woozy. I went through a phase where I couldn't stand anyone squeezing my hand because I thought my veins would pop right through my skin. So after a week of looking at diagrams of the inner ear and learning about tympanums and ear infections and gross yellow ear wax and one kid sharing a story about his two-year-old brother getting a pea lodged in his ear (WTF?), it's safe to say I was thoroughly squicked out by all things ear-related.

Seriously, what's with that thing that looks like a snail?
Ears are gross.

I became extremely neurotic about my ears. In the bath at night, I would lightly dab at the area all around my ears, not wanting to get any soap or water in there, because now I knew that one wrong move and my eardrums would pop  like over-inflated balloons, and then I'd have to go to the hospital with blood dripping down the sides of my face and then I'd go deaf and then I'd have to wear hearing aids--scary-looking hunks of plastic that my parents would probably insist on me wearing all the time. 

Nope, I didn't need that. 

My mom soon noticed my strange aversion to cleaning out my ears, and she wasn't having it. No child of hers was going to go around with crusty ears, even if I screamed bloody murder every time she grabbed me out of the bath to give my ears a thorough scrubbing with witch hazel and cotton balls. That was nothing compared to the meltdown I had a few months later when she took me to the pediatrician for my yearly check-up and he broke out that horrible contraption (otoscope?), jammed it in my ear and pumped air into it like some sort of barbaric medieval prison torture. I really thought that bastard was trying to kill me. 

Happily, I grew out of my ear phobia eventually. When it comes to ear care and maintenance nowadays, I've actually gone in the opposite direction. In fact, it isn't uncommon for me to painstakingly swab out my ears with Q-Tips several times a day, even though the general consensus now is that doing so just pushes wax further into the ear, meaning that I'll probably be deaf by the time I'm like 45. I know this, but it's hard to stop. It's satisfying, like I'm scratching an itch that isn't really itchy, yet still feels good to scratch.

Even though it skeeves me out a bit, I do find the concept of the Wax Vac morbidly fascinating. I wonder if it would suck out all the wax that I've been pushing into my ear. I also wonder if--once my ears are vacuumed free of all that icky debris--I'll suddenly acquire superhuman hearing. John isn't impressed with this theory. He thinks the Wax Vac is a bad idea, saying it would be too easy to perforate the eardrums with an apparatus like that (i.e. explode them like a balloon--ouchy ouchy ouch!). At the very least, it could be like 99% of those As-Seen-On-TV products: a completely and utter rip-off.

Unsurprisingly, there is a shitload of other bizarre ear-cleaning gizmos out there. The weirdest (and most dangerous-looking) I've found online are ear scoops, which are apparently a big thing in Asian countries. There are even child-size ear scoops with LED lights, the better for anal retentive mothers to scrape out every last ear cootie molecule. 

Horrifying.

I even found a cute little teddy bear ear scoop that comes complete with its own holder. 

On closer inspection, it looks to be some sort of cuddly angel-bear-mouse hybrid.

Come to think of it, maybe I will stick to my several-times-daily Q-Tip regimen. What's the worst that could happen? 

John Cusack's finest hour. Seriously, I love this movie.