My brother Malcolm gave me the 40th Anniversary Legacy Edition of Miles Davis' "Bitches Brew" for Christmas. The third disc of the set is a DVD of a show from Copenhagen in 1969 featuring Miles, Wayne Shorter, Chick Corea, Dave Holland and Jack DeJohnette. I just kept forgetting to watch the damned thing. I enjoyed both discs of the record (though cynically observing, "So THAT'S where Chick Corea's entire career came from!) but just never got around to watching the DVD.
Until last night. Holy moly! Great googly moogly! That was quite the show. Seventy minutes go by in what seems like about 5. Mr. Davis is highly engaged, and for once leaves his %#@#$% mute in the case. Mr. Shorter does a lovely job, including soprano work that will help you forget Kenny G. Mr. Corea demonstrates that he can play very fast. And well. Whether Dianetics was helping with this at this early date, I do not know.
Mr. DeJohnette, though, dominates the proceedings. I'll probably get in trouble with the hipsters, but I probably could have gone for a 70-minute Jack DeJohnette solo. Not that anyone played poorly at any time (with one possible exception mentioned below), but DeJohnette was so awesome as to be unbelievable.
Mr. Holland was undermiked; I could see him playing unbelievably well, but could barely hear him. Until near the end when he got an unfortunate bowed solo. Kids: I can make noise using musical instruments. What we want you to do is make MUSIC using musical instruments. That would be the hard thing. (This is also my reaction when people make traffic noises using wind instruments. Yes, fellows, that was very avant garde in... 1948. In 2011, not so much.)
Regardless, what a band, what a show. If you can get a hold of the DVD, see it. You will reel in awe. And if you don't, Miles' Explosion At The Crayola Factory outfit ought to hold your interest anyway.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Par-tay!
Yesterday, we held the dual 90th birthday party for my dad (whose birthday, as I mention below, was a bit over a week ago) and his fiancee Margaret (whose birthday is next week). I say "we," but Margaret actually footed the bill as a present to my dad. It was a catered affair held at the gym of Southside Baptist Church here in Olympia (adjacent to Columbia, SC, if I haven't mentioned). Easily 50 people showed up. We were joyously surprised that my mother's brother Eugene made it, with his second wife my aunt Sharon and his daughter Joanne. (His first wife, Joanne's mother my aunt Loretta actually lives with Joanne in Irmo and would have liked to come but thought it might be uncomfortable.)
Shining her own light was my aunt Jackie, my mother's sister-in-law, also up from Charleston. My father's secretary at DHEC for 25 years, Charline Brandt came, and brought her amazing scrapbook of my dad's career; we were totally bowled over. Margaret's entire wonderful family came. Special kudos to daughters Bunny and Linda for supervising, with extra plaudits to Bunny for brilliant cake management. Margaret's new great-great granddaughter Braiden captured every heart just by sleeping.
Dr. DuBose (I'm all but sure his first name is Hugh, but don't want to go out on a limb), who went to med school with my dad and roomed with him briefly, shared some delightful stories about the good old days. Some of the lovely people with whom Dad and Margaret went dancing at the Senior Center in days of greater mobility introduced themselves. One thing about looking almost exactly like my dad: it makes it easier for strangers to pick you out as a family member, which was rather a delight.
After we had folded up and cleared away all the furniture, we all went outside and each of us took a balloon. We released them on the count of three, letting them symbolize our hopes that we would all be back in ten years for a dual 100th birthday celebration.
Pix are up at Facebook, though I suspect that anyone who might be reading this knows that already.
Shining her own light was my aunt Jackie, my mother's sister-in-law, also up from Charleston. My father's secretary at DHEC for 25 years, Charline Brandt came, and brought her amazing scrapbook of my dad's career; we were totally bowled over. Margaret's entire wonderful family came. Special kudos to daughters Bunny and Linda for supervising, with extra plaudits to Bunny for brilliant cake management. Margaret's new great-great granddaughter Braiden captured every heart just by sleeping.
Dr. DuBose (I'm all but sure his first name is Hugh, but don't want to go out on a limb), who went to med school with my dad and roomed with him briefly, shared some delightful stories about the good old days. Some of the lovely people with whom Dad and Margaret went dancing at the Senior Center in days of greater mobility introduced themselves. One thing about looking almost exactly like my dad: it makes it easier for strangers to pick you out as a family member, which was rather a delight.
After we had folded up and cleared away all the furniture, we all went outside and each of us took a balloon. We released them on the count of three, letting them symbolize our hopes that we would all be back in ten years for a dual 100th birthday celebration.
Pix are up at Facebook, though I suspect that anyone who might be reading this knows that already.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
A Thousand Words
So, for her birthday, the people at the nursing home gave my mom a balloon and took a birthday picture, among the saddest and loveliest pictures I've seen. Kind of crazy, though, since my dad visited every day. They could have waited until he was there; you'd think somebody would have known that she had a daily visitor. (I visited pretty often myself, but nothing like Dad.) This is a poem I wrote late last November; only took 8 years. This is for Anne Salmonsen Dantzler, June 18, 1923 - July 1, 2003.
1,000 Words
Sympathetic hunting magic
A picture, pictures
covering cave walls
The sweep of history, prehistory
trying to help us find our way
to help us in the hunt
for thoughts
ideas
anything at all.
Daughter, sister, wife, mother
loving and beloved
giving joy
and fake Ralph Kramden punches
and teaching tolerance
every day.
A photograph
the picture worth a thousand words
of a lady in a chair
and a balloon.
The balloon to celebrate
her birthday,
the 79th one.
She with an empty smile
in an empty face
with what ideas that might remain
locked in the prison
of her skull.
1,000 Words
Sympathetic hunting magic
A picture, pictures
covering cave walls
The sweep of history, prehistory
trying to help us find our way
to help us in the hunt
for thoughts
ideas
anything at all.
Daughter, sister, wife, mother
loving and beloved
giving joy
and fake Ralph Kramden punches
and teaching tolerance
every day.
A photograph
the picture worth a thousand words
of a lady in a chair
and a balloon.
The balloon to celebrate
her birthday,
the 79th one.
She with an empty smile
in an empty face
with what ideas that might remain
locked in the prison
of her skull.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Now that I've invented potato and kale flatbread, what do I do with it?
I wasn't trying to invent potato and kale flatbread, of course. I was trying to invent potato and kale chips. However, I couldn't find any recipes for how to make potato chips out of mashed potatoes and I couldn't think of any way to mix in the kale without mashing the potatoes first. (Why kale? I'm still off of dairy so I need the calcium. And my last bunch of kale was starting to yellow, so I needed to use it up anyway.)
Not to bury the lead any more than I have already, it was really, really good. Well, it was RR good while it was hot. It was fair to pleasant once it was cool. But I bet it would reheat well, too. (I'm the boy who has no microwave, so I can't be too sure.)
It was easy to make, though it took a long time since I had no idea what I was doing. I took a largish baking potato, punched holes in it on all sides with a fork and wrapped it in aluminum foil and tossed it in a 350 degree oven. I let it bake at least an hour, took it out, unwrapped it, peeled it and tried to mash it with a fork. No go. So I cut it up, drizzled some extra virgin olive oil on it, rewrapped it, and gave it about another hour. I don't know why it took so long; it wasn't that big a potato. Maybe I needed to punch more holes, or deeper ones. Dunno; perhaps a potato baking expert can comment.
As to the kale, you want to steam it a long time. If you are from England or Charleston SC, this can mean anything from two weeks to a year. If you're from anywhere else, however, 10 or 20 minutes ought to be sufficient. When the kale is sufficiently steamed, tear it into the tiniest pieces you can. A food chopper or a food processor could help a lot here. I have the former and it did a good job.
When your potato is mashable and your kale is tore up, mix them up and mash the heck out of your potato with a fork. Add more olive oil and salt and pepper to taste, or until your arm gets tired. I then put a sheet of aluminum foil on a pizza pan and spread out the potato mixture on it with my hands like pizza dough. I cooked it for a half hour at 300 degrees. As I said, expecting a gigantic potato chip, I wound up with potato flatbread. The middle was kind of wet but the edges were fairly browned. I flipped the whole thing (OK, I tried to; in fact I flipped a lot of big pieces) onto the pizza pan, turned off the oven and left the flatbread in there for another half hour to firm up a bit. Result? Wonderful!
So we return to the question: what do you do with potato/kale flatbread? I mean besides eat it all up in a minute.
Edit: Upon further reflection, it occurs to me that this might be a primitive manifestation of twice-baked potato. Probably a good deal healthier than the usual approach, though. Maybe I'm weird or maybe I'm Irish, but I crazy-mad love potatoes per se, and don't really need all that gick anyway.
Not to bury the lead any more than I have already, it was really, really good. Well, it was RR good while it was hot. It was fair to pleasant once it was cool. But I bet it would reheat well, too. (I'm the boy who has no microwave, so I can't be too sure.)
It was easy to make, though it took a long time since I had no idea what I was doing. I took a largish baking potato, punched holes in it on all sides with a fork and wrapped it in aluminum foil and tossed it in a 350 degree oven. I let it bake at least an hour, took it out, unwrapped it, peeled it and tried to mash it with a fork. No go. So I cut it up, drizzled some extra virgin olive oil on it, rewrapped it, and gave it about another hour. I don't know why it took so long; it wasn't that big a potato. Maybe I needed to punch more holes, or deeper ones. Dunno; perhaps a potato baking expert can comment.
As to the kale, you want to steam it a long time. If you are from England or Charleston SC, this can mean anything from two weeks to a year. If you're from anywhere else, however, 10 or 20 minutes ought to be sufficient. When the kale is sufficiently steamed, tear it into the tiniest pieces you can. A food chopper or a food processor could help a lot here. I have the former and it did a good job.
When your potato is mashable and your kale is tore up, mix them up and mash the heck out of your potato with a fork. Add more olive oil and salt and pepper to taste, or until your arm gets tired. I then put a sheet of aluminum foil on a pizza pan and spread out the potato mixture on it with my hands like pizza dough. I cooked it for a half hour at 300 degrees. As I said, expecting a gigantic potato chip, I wound up with potato flatbread. The middle was kind of wet but the edges were fairly browned. I flipped the whole thing (OK, I tried to; in fact I flipped a lot of big pieces) onto the pizza pan, turned off the oven and left the flatbread in there for another half hour to firm up a bit. Result? Wonderful!
So we return to the question: what do you do with potato/kale flatbread? I mean besides eat it all up in a minute.
Edit: Upon further reflection, it occurs to me that this might be a primitive manifestation of twice-baked potato. Probably a good deal healthier than the usual approach, though. Maybe I'm weird or maybe I'm Irish, but I crazy-mad love potatoes per se, and don't really need all that gick anyway.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Moron invasion
The passage of years is not improving my tolerance for morons. At Congaree National Park yesterday, a couple of women took their couple of dogs up on the boardwalk. Congaree NP has a very nice and clearly defined dog trail, and very clear signs saying no dogs on the boardwalk. While there is no explanatory text, it's a fair bet that this rule is due to the fact that if a dog poops on the boardwalk and somebody steps on and slips in it, it's going to be a fairly bad day at Congaree National Park.
Regardless, I tried to explain to the women that dogs aren't allowed on the boardwalk and that there's a special trail for dogwalking. They said that they got on the trail and it took them out to the road, so they were taking the boardwalk instead. I don't even know how to cope with this level of unthinking. ("If you get on a trail and it doesn't go in the direction you want it to go, try the other direction" doesn't strike me as a difficult concept to get.)
Short of tackling them, there wasn't a lot I could do about it. I could have shouted to a ranger about 100 feet away, but she already had a large group to handle. I wish my communication skills were better; "Those signs saying 'no dogs on the boardwalk' probably mean no dogs on the boardwalk," wasn't a brilliant conversational gambit. "They won't do nothin'," wasn't a really brilliant rejoinder either. I didn't let the situation spoil a gorgeous day for a walk, but it sucked a significant portion of the fun from it.
Speaking of morons (this time me): I'm closing in on the source of my dehydration problem. I finally sorted through all the electrolytes I could be missing and settled on magnesium. I started eating a handful of pistachios (which are magnesium-rich) at random moments and suddenly the cramps in my calves disappeared without resort to coconut water. So there you are: if you're dehydrated, go nuts.
Regardless, I tried to explain to the women that dogs aren't allowed on the boardwalk and that there's a special trail for dogwalking. They said that they got on the trail and it took them out to the road, so they were taking the boardwalk instead. I don't even know how to cope with this level of unthinking. ("If you get on a trail and it doesn't go in the direction you want it to go, try the other direction" doesn't strike me as a difficult concept to get.)
Short of tackling them, there wasn't a lot I could do about it. I could have shouted to a ranger about 100 feet away, but she already had a large group to handle. I wish my communication skills were better; "Those signs saying 'no dogs on the boardwalk' probably mean no dogs on the boardwalk," wasn't a brilliant conversational gambit. "They won't do nothin'," wasn't a really brilliant rejoinder either. I didn't let the situation spoil a gorgeous day for a walk, but it sucked a significant portion of the fun from it.
Speaking of morons (this time me): I'm closing in on the source of my dehydration problem. I finally sorted through all the electrolytes I could be missing and settled on magnesium. I started eating a handful of pistachios (which are magnesium-rich) at random moments and suddenly the cramps in my calves disappeared without resort to coconut water. So there you are: if you're dehydrated, go nuts.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
St. Valentine’s Dance
This is a poem I wrote just before Valentine's Day. Figured I ought to put it up while it's still February. I already put it up on Facebook; of course, the only person who read it there is also the only person reading it here, but at least you can see it all without clicking More, Rob. This would be a an eight-bar waltz if I were a more skilled prosodist or a more dedicated technician. But I kind of liked the way it came out, and so left it imperfect.
Valentine pioneered fame for its own sake
Nobody knows what he did, who he was
He could have given Kardashians lessons
Left them a relic on Bruce Jenner’s
toast
Joyously, blessedly, tearfully, blearily
Digging it, grooving it, doing it, faking it.
Loving and lusting together forever
In the beginning the deed; the end is the
word
Valentine pioneered fame for its own sake
Nobody knows what he did, who he was
He could have given Kardashians lessons
Left them a relic on Bruce Jenner’s
toast
Joyously, blessedly, tearfully, blearily
Digging it, grooving it, doing it, faking it.
Loving and lusting together forever
In the beginning the deed; the end is the
word
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
It came to me in a dream
I dreamed or dreamt that my brother gave me a gigantic wallet, which contained several hundred dollars and several certificates from a computer game called "I Carried $1,000,000,000." The certificates featured rather childish graphics, but then, so does my mind's eye. I guess in real life such a game would be called something punchier like "I Smuggled A Billion," but my subconscious mind doesn't employ any marketing consultants, fortunately or unfortunately. The scenario in the dream was that if you won the game, you also won $1,000 in real life, hence the hundreds of dollars in the wallet. I think this could work in a real game as well. If you play through once without any restarts and win, you could win your score, which would be up to $1,000. Of course I'm not a programmer, but I don't think this ought to be a strain on 21st century technology.
It comes down to a writing problem. To wit, where are you smuggling and who are you smuggling for? If it's an international border, the player will assume you're (rather he's) working for either drug runners or terrorists and this would be (one hopes) a major turnoff. I guess the only solution is to resort to vagueness. You're working for bad guys (unspecified) asking you to take a billion dollars from point A to point B (unspecified). You're so far under the radar that no cops are involved; the only people trying to stop you are other bad guys. (One likes to think that fighting or killing cops would also be a major turnoff. Anyway it is to me.) You have no idea who your employers are or what they do, but the representative you meet is cultured, well-spoken and friendly. Who has a billion dollars to smuggle anyway? Maybe it's Exxon Mobil wanting to underwrite Limbaugh for another 20 years in a fairly hush-hush manner. Who knows? I want to write it. Hell, I want to play it!
Since the Monkey loves going up the chimney so much, should I rename her Santa Claudia? Or Santa Claws?
It comes down to a writing problem. To wit, where are you smuggling and who are you smuggling for? If it's an international border, the player will assume you're (rather he's) working for either drug runners or terrorists and this would be (one hopes) a major turnoff. I guess the only solution is to resort to vagueness. You're working for bad guys (unspecified) asking you to take a billion dollars from point A to point B (unspecified). You're so far under the radar that no cops are involved; the only people trying to stop you are other bad guys. (One likes to think that fighting or killing cops would also be a major turnoff. Anyway it is to me.) You have no idea who your employers are or what they do, but the representative you meet is cultured, well-spoken and friendly. Who has a billion dollars to smuggle anyway? Maybe it's Exxon Mobil wanting to underwrite Limbaugh for another 20 years in a fairly hush-hush manner. Who knows? I want to write it. Hell, I want to play it!
Since the Monkey loves going up the chimney so much, should I rename her Santa Claudia? Or Santa Claws?
Monday, February 21, 2011
Best Wishes
(I'm having much too much fun with this blogging stuff. What I'm supposed to be doing is working on my narration, which I hate like poison. (Narration in general, not specifically mine.) This is an exercise in narration I did a couple-three weeks ago. The title changes daily; at the moment, it is as above. Hope you like it.)
Joel Abbott owned and operated the only antique store in town. The lack of competition, however, had not led to any noticeable degree of success or prosperity for Joel. There are a lot of little towns in South Carolina and a lot of bigger ones, too, and nearly every one of them is wall to wall with antique stores. These towns are blessed with greater or lesser quantities of natural charm. Joel's hometown, Barnville, definitely fell on the lesser end of the scale.
So it was lucky for Joel that he had a well-to-do grandmother with a passion for antiques and a soft spot in her heart and pocketbook for her grandson. Joel tried hard; he really did. But Barnville really didn't have sufficient population or spare cash to support an antique store, and its lack of quaintness generally kept out-of-town visitors away.
Joel spent most of his days noodling on the Internet or battling computer Solitaire. He was always happy to see a customer and waited on them with whatever attentiveness they seemed to require. On this particular Wednesday afternoon, an older lady walked in carrying a small box, so Joel hopped to it.
"Good day, madam. Do you have an antique you'd like to show me?"
The lady looked like a film star. Granted, a film star from forty or fifty years back, but she had an innate loveliness of face and carriage that had triumphed over the years.
She smiled. "I do indeed. A very special antique. I hope you'll like it-- and will be careful with it," she said, handing him the box.
Joel opened the box, carefully indeed, and bit back the temptation to say, "You're kidding." He was looking at what appeared to be an antique, or even ancient, oil lamp. A lamp exactly like every depiction of Aladdin's lamp in film, book and cartoon.
"Is this-- what it looks like?" was the best he could manage.
"An oil lamp? An antique oil lamp? Yes, son, that's what it is."
"Is there a genie?"
"That would be telling. What kind of offer can you give me for it?"
"Mrs. ...," he offered.
"Davis," she countered.
"Mrs. Davis, I'll be honest. You're the first customer I've seen this week. I don't think there's any chance I could sell this lamp. I could give you $10 just because it's such a great conversation piece, but that's the best I can possibly do."
"That will be fine, Mr. ..."
"Abbott."
"Mr. Abbott. Really, I'm quite finished with the lamp."
"It really does have a genie, doesn't it?"
"You'll find out soon enough, Mr. Abbott. Soon enough."
They completed the transaction genially and Joel wished Mrs. Davis a very lovely day. He thought, Well, am I going to try again to get up to 52% win percentage at Solitaire, or am I going to rub this stupid lamp? He thought about going looking for an appropriate rag for the job, then noticed one in the box Mrs. Davis had brought. Thoughtful lady, he thought, and rubbed the lamp. Nothing whatever happened.
Joel continued rubbing the lamp, feeling more than a little foolish. And a smoke or steam emerged from the lamp. Cramping a bit in the forearm from the effort, he rubbed harder and the smoke started to coalesce. Out of the smoke (or steam) emerged a figure looking exactly like Jack Nicholson in "Chinatown." For the second time in a few minutes, Joel had to stifle an urge to say, "You're kidding." Instead, he said, "You're the genie."
"I'm the genie," said the genie.
"And you look like Jack Nicholson in 'Chinatown'?"
"I look like whatever the genie in your mind looks like. For you, it was Jake Gittes from "Chinatown." For Mrs. Davis, it was-- ah, a long time ago; Don Ameche, I think. If a talking Shetland pony would go over better, I'm a talking Shetland pony. Versatility is my watchword."
"Riiiiight. And I get three wishes?"
"No, you get one wish. But it can be a really big one."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Well, there's always a catch, but there isn't any kind of trick. We genies get a lot of bad press. Tell me what you might want to wish for, and I'll tell you the catches and pitfalls before you make your wish. Honest."
"Well, there's this girl..."
"Yes, there nearly always is."
"...named Natalie. She works at the little bank branch in town. Auburn hair, pretty face..."
"...nice personality, intelligent conversation, cute body. I know all, Joel. Remember, I'm a genie."
"I'd like to marry her and make her happy."
"There's your pitfall right there, Joel. I'm sorry to tell you this, but she would never be happy married to you. Well, I shouldn't say never. But not now and not for a long time."
"Oh," Joel said flatly. "Isn't there something I could do to-- change that?"
"With a wish? Sure. But wouldn't that be like a lifelong version of using a drug for date rape? That doesn't sound like you, Joel."
"No it doesn't. So, what you're telling me is, that I can marry Natalie or I can make her happy, is that it?"
"That's it. Sorry, Joel."
"Will she know that it's me making her happy?"
"Not now. Not soon. Not for a long time."
"How long?"
"Ten years. After ten years, you can tell her."
"No wonder you guys get such bad press. You're kind of an asshole, you know that?"
"Fate is implacable and cruel. I'm just capricious and random. You know, you could always wish for a billion dollars and have dozens of girls like Natalie."
"An asshole. No question. Capricious and random or whatever. I don't want dozens of girls like Natalie. I want the one girl I know who's exactly like Natalie. And if I can't have her..." He swallowed. "If I can't have her, I want her to be happy. Very happy."
"That's your wish?"
"That's my wish."
"You'll receive my reports regularly," was the genie's reply as he vanished.
Ten years went by. Joel Abbott got thicker in the middle and thinner on the top. His grandmother passed on, leaving him enough to allow him to continue her hobby by proxy even from beyond the grave, but not enough for him to sell up and move to anywhere more expensive to live than Barnville. The suburbs of Greenville were trying to extend tendrils to the town but hadn't gotten there yet, so business hadn't gotten a lot better. He sold the lamp somewhere along the line, but the genie was as good as his word and reported on Natalie's progress over the years. Apparently, he didn't really need anyone to rub the lamp in order to leave. Capricious, random and sneaky.
"Not now and not for a long time," the genie had said regarding how long it would be before there would be a chance that he and Natalie could be happy together. "Not now and not for a long time," the genie had also said regarding how long it would be before he would be allowed to tell her that he was the agent of her happiness. Could it be? Could it be that if he told her, she would fall into his arms and he would have his happily ever after? Was that what the genie was telling him?
On another Wednesday, a customer walked into Joel's shop just as lovely as the one who had done so ten years earlier, but much younger and much more radiant.
"Joel!" she said.
"Natalie!" he exclaimed back.
"You look just the same," she lied.
"You, too! How have you been?" he asked, knowing the answer.
"Wonderful, Joel. I married Ray, who used to work at the golf course, you know, about nine years ago. Well, he turned out to have a real head for business, and now he owns the golf course and about ten others. Our little boy Ray Junior is 7 now, and our little Mimi is 5. Everything turned out great, and I couldn't be happier."
Joel looked at her lovely, happy, untroubled face and thought about the ten years of loneliness, ten years of hope, ten years of wishing for this moment when he could finally tell her the truth.
"I'm so happy for you," Joel said.
Joel Abbott owned and operated the only antique store in town. The lack of competition, however, had not led to any noticeable degree of success or prosperity for Joel. There are a lot of little towns in South Carolina and a lot of bigger ones, too, and nearly every one of them is wall to wall with antique stores. These towns are blessed with greater or lesser quantities of natural charm. Joel's hometown, Barnville, definitely fell on the lesser end of the scale.
So it was lucky for Joel that he had a well-to-do grandmother with a passion for antiques and a soft spot in her heart and pocketbook for her grandson. Joel tried hard; he really did. But Barnville really didn't have sufficient population or spare cash to support an antique store, and its lack of quaintness generally kept out-of-town visitors away.
Joel spent most of his days noodling on the Internet or battling computer Solitaire. He was always happy to see a customer and waited on them with whatever attentiveness they seemed to require. On this particular Wednesday afternoon, an older lady walked in carrying a small box, so Joel hopped to it.
"Good day, madam. Do you have an antique you'd like to show me?"
The lady looked like a film star. Granted, a film star from forty or fifty years back, but she had an innate loveliness of face and carriage that had triumphed over the years.
She smiled. "I do indeed. A very special antique. I hope you'll like it-- and will be careful with it," she said, handing him the box.
Joel opened the box, carefully indeed, and bit back the temptation to say, "You're kidding." He was looking at what appeared to be an antique, or even ancient, oil lamp. A lamp exactly like every depiction of Aladdin's lamp in film, book and cartoon.
"Is this-- what it looks like?" was the best he could manage.
"An oil lamp? An antique oil lamp? Yes, son, that's what it is."
"Is there a genie?"
"That would be telling. What kind of offer can you give me for it?"
"Mrs. ...," he offered.
"Davis," she countered.
"Mrs. Davis, I'll be honest. You're the first customer I've seen this week. I don't think there's any chance I could sell this lamp. I could give you $10 just because it's such a great conversation piece, but that's the best I can possibly do."
"That will be fine, Mr. ..."
"Abbott."
"Mr. Abbott. Really, I'm quite finished with the lamp."
"It really does have a genie, doesn't it?"
"You'll find out soon enough, Mr. Abbott. Soon enough."
They completed the transaction genially and Joel wished Mrs. Davis a very lovely day. He thought, Well, am I going to try again to get up to 52% win percentage at Solitaire, or am I going to rub this stupid lamp? He thought about going looking for an appropriate rag for the job, then noticed one in the box Mrs. Davis had brought. Thoughtful lady, he thought, and rubbed the lamp. Nothing whatever happened.
Joel continued rubbing the lamp, feeling more than a little foolish. And a smoke or steam emerged from the lamp. Cramping a bit in the forearm from the effort, he rubbed harder and the smoke started to coalesce. Out of the smoke (or steam) emerged a figure looking exactly like Jack Nicholson in "Chinatown." For the second time in a few minutes, Joel had to stifle an urge to say, "You're kidding." Instead, he said, "You're the genie."
"I'm the genie," said the genie.
"And you look like Jack Nicholson in 'Chinatown'?"
"I look like whatever the genie in your mind looks like. For you, it was Jake Gittes from "Chinatown." For Mrs. Davis, it was-- ah, a long time ago; Don Ameche, I think. If a talking Shetland pony would go over better, I'm a talking Shetland pony. Versatility is my watchword."
"Riiiiight. And I get three wishes?"
"No, you get one wish. But it can be a really big one."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Well, there's always a catch, but there isn't any kind of trick. We genies get a lot of bad press. Tell me what you might want to wish for, and I'll tell you the catches and pitfalls before you make your wish. Honest."
"Well, there's this girl..."
"Yes, there nearly always is."
"...named Natalie. She works at the little bank branch in town. Auburn hair, pretty face..."
"...nice personality, intelligent conversation, cute body. I know all, Joel. Remember, I'm a genie."
"I'd like to marry her and make her happy."
"There's your pitfall right there, Joel. I'm sorry to tell you this, but she would never be happy married to you. Well, I shouldn't say never. But not now and not for a long time."
"Oh," Joel said flatly. "Isn't there something I could do to-- change that?"
"With a wish? Sure. But wouldn't that be like a lifelong version of using a drug for date rape? That doesn't sound like you, Joel."
"No it doesn't. So, what you're telling me is, that I can marry Natalie or I can make her happy, is that it?"
"That's it. Sorry, Joel."
"Will she know that it's me making her happy?"
"Not now. Not soon. Not for a long time."
"How long?"
"Ten years. After ten years, you can tell her."
"No wonder you guys get such bad press. You're kind of an asshole, you know that?"
"Fate is implacable and cruel. I'm just capricious and random. You know, you could always wish for a billion dollars and have dozens of girls like Natalie."
"An asshole. No question. Capricious and random or whatever. I don't want dozens of girls like Natalie. I want the one girl I know who's exactly like Natalie. And if I can't have her..." He swallowed. "If I can't have her, I want her to be happy. Very happy."
"That's your wish?"
"That's my wish."
"You'll receive my reports regularly," was the genie's reply as he vanished.
Ten years went by. Joel Abbott got thicker in the middle and thinner on the top. His grandmother passed on, leaving him enough to allow him to continue her hobby by proxy even from beyond the grave, but not enough for him to sell up and move to anywhere more expensive to live than Barnville. The suburbs of Greenville were trying to extend tendrils to the town but hadn't gotten there yet, so business hadn't gotten a lot better. He sold the lamp somewhere along the line, but the genie was as good as his word and reported on Natalie's progress over the years. Apparently, he didn't really need anyone to rub the lamp in order to leave. Capricious, random and sneaky.
"Not now and not for a long time," the genie had said regarding how long it would be before there would be a chance that he and Natalie could be happy together. "Not now and not for a long time," the genie had also said regarding how long it would be before he would be allowed to tell her that he was the agent of her happiness. Could it be? Could it be that if he told her, she would fall into his arms and he would have his happily ever after? Was that what the genie was telling him?
On another Wednesday, a customer walked into Joel's shop just as lovely as the one who had done so ten years earlier, but much younger and much more radiant.
"Joel!" she said.
"Natalie!" he exclaimed back.
"You look just the same," she lied.
"You, too! How have you been?" he asked, knowing the answer.
"Wonderful, Joel. I married Ray, who used to work at the golf course, you know, about nine years ago. Well, he turned out to have a real head for business, and now he owns the golf course and about ten others. Our little boy Ray Junior is 7 now, and our little Mimi is 5. Everything turned out great, and I couldn't be happier."
Joel looked at her lovely, happy, untroubled face and thought about the ten years of loneliness, ten years of hope, ten years of wishing for this moment when he could finally tell her the truth.
"I'm so happy for you," Joel said.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
You know you can't wait for an Adam Sandler remake of "The Shining"
Oh c'mon! You know it'll be great. OK, it would be craptastic, but there's always something to be said for that. The main problem I see with any remake of "The Shining" at this late date is that "Heeeeere's Johnny!" isn't much of a payoff line any more. It's been about 20 years since Johnny was on TV, and I'm not sure the reference still works. I have a sense that even though it goes farther back in time, "June, I'm home!" might work better. (Now of course somebody will tell me which suspense movie used "June, I'm home!" This naturally is what IMDB is for.) Would it work with Adam Sandler? Well, maybe.
To be honest, anyone with any scenery-chewing tendencies could handle the male lead in 'The Shining." The hard part is finding a female lead. (Or in a possible Sandler movie, a female lead who isn't Drew Barrymore, and resisting the temptation to move the whole shebang to Hawai'i. Not that there's anything wrong with Drew Barrymore. She just wouldn't be right.) Shelley Duvall was perfect. She just naturally looked scared. Hell, she looked scared as Olive Oyl. I don't know who among contemporary actresses could offer the same quality. Maybe Zooey Deschanel (if she's still contemporary; I just don't keep up).
So I guess what I'm saying is that I could actually buy Adam Sandler in "The Shining." (Though considering how seldom I go out to movies, maybe "buy" isn't the ideal word.) The one sure thing: Rob Schneider plays the dead bartender. C'mon! It'll be great!
To be honest, anyone with any scenery-chewing tendencies could handle the male lead in 'The Shining." The hard part is finding a female lead. (Or in a possible Sandler movie, a female lead who isn't Drew Barrymore, and resisting the temptation to move the whole shebang to Hawai'i. Not that there's anything wrong with Drew Barrymore. She just wouldn't be right.) Shelley Duvall was perfect. She just naturally looked scared. Hell, she looked scared as Olive Oyl. I don't know who among contemporary actresses could offer the same quality. Maybe Zooey Deschanel (if she's still contemporary; I just don't keep up).
So I guess what I'm saying is that I could actually buy Adam Sandler in "The Shining." (Though considering how seldom I go out to movies, maybe "buy" isn't the ideal word.) The one sure thing: Rob Schneider plays the dead bartender. C'mon! It'll be great!
Saturday, February 19, 2011
But where are the Harlem Globetrotters?
So the question becomes how does one set up Mourning Becomes Gilligan's Island? It has to be a funeral, or at least a wake, or mourning wouldn't be involved. It has to be on an island or it couldn't become Gilligan's Island. The deceased person has to have been eccentric and either rich or famous or both or he wouldn't likely be mourned by a movie star, a millionaire and his wife, let alone a professor and-- whatever MaryAnne was, contest winner or something. But if s/he were all that famous, why would s/he be mourned by only five people? Doesn't this sound more like Mourning Becomes An Agatha Christie Novel?
It would be fun to do a straight parody of Mourning Becomes Elektra, but that would require reading it again. I actually read the whole damned thing just for fun once, but I was younger then and had a different idea what constitutes "fun." (I also read the entire Gulag Archipelago trilogy for fun. I wasn't invited to parties a lot during the '80s.) What I recall from the play is an impression of portent, which I guess would figure. Not a lot of that in Gilligan's Island, but maybe it would help.
The problem with the Gilligan's Island aspect is the same problem that the TV show had. As every standup comic since 1965 or so has pointed out: if the Professor could make a radio out of a coconut, how come he couldn't patch the boat? In other words, how would you go about getting stranded on an island that's close enough to civilization to have a cemetery on it? Also complicating the situation is the passage of time. In 2011, between a millionaire, his wife and a movie star, you figure somebody has a fairly rockin' cell phone.
I figure, it's a farce, so I just declare the situation and run with it. Eccentric millionaire invites these acquaintances to his wake on this semi-remote island. (It's a wake so I don't have to have a minister.) OK. Boat breaks down so they're stuck, and also saddled with a lummox skipper and his even dumber first mate. OK. There are no cell phone towers, so nobody can get any signal, so they're stuck. OK. The one sure thing is, sooner or later the Professor makes a cell phone tower out of, if not a coconut, a coconut tree. OK?
It would be fun to do a straight parody of Mourning Becomes Elektra, but that would require reading it again. I actually read the whole damned thing just for fun once, but I was younger then and had a different idea what constitutes "fun." (I also read the entire Gulag Archipelago trilogy for fun. I wasn't invited to parties a lot during the '80s.) What I recall from the play is an impression of portent, which I guess would figure. Not a lot of that in Gilligan's Island, but maybe it would help.
The problem with the Gilligan's Island aspect is the same problem that the TV show had. As every standup comic since 1965 or so has pointed out: if the Professor could make a radio out of a coconut, how come he couldn't patch the boat? In other words, how would you go about getting stranded on an island that's close enough to civilization to have a cemetery on it? Also complicating the situation is the passage of time. In 2011, between a millionaire, his wife and a movie star, you figure somebody has a fairly rockin' cell phone.
I figure, it's a farce, so I just declare the situation and run with it. Eccentric millionaire invites these acquaintances to his wake on this semi-remote island. (It's a wake so I don't have to have a minister.) OK. Boat breaks down so they're stuck, and also saddled with a lummox skipper and his even dumber first mate. OK. There are no cell phone towers, so nobody can get any signal, so they're stuck. OK. The one sure thing is, sooner or later the Professor makes a cell phone tower out of, if not a coconut, a coconut tree. OK?
Friday, February 18, 2011
Taking the anecdote
Paul's friend C.Y. told me a great story the other night. (She is cloaked in anonymity here not so much to shield her but the friend the story is about. She has lost touch with him and no longer remembers his last name so we have no way of finding out if he would want this story told. However, "a former fellow student of an anonymous friend of a friend of a random yoyo in Columbia, SC" ought to be enough cutouts to protect him from ready identification, don't you think?)
Now that I've finished the Great American Parenthetical Statement, here's the story: Back in grad school in the '90s, a fellow student of C.Y.'s dropped out of the program. The reason? As a gay man, he found that he could make a fortune painting (rather, making paintings of) nude gay men and selling them to at least ostensibly straight men. His explanation? "Southern Yuppies want just a little bit of gay in their lives." This leads to the obvious question: where are these paintings hanging? The closet? Or does this give the phrase "man cave" a whole new meaning?
And in other news, the hung letter sign at every Wendy's trumpets "asiago ranch chicken club." I remember the good times back on Asiago Ranch and the fun we had in the chicken club. Boy those were the days!
Now that I've finished the Great American Parenthetical Statement, here's the story: Back in grad school in the '90s, a fellow student of C.Y.'s dropped out of the program. The reason? As a gay man, he found that he could make a fortune painting (rather, making paintings of) nude gay men and selling them to at least ostensibly straight men. His explanation? "Southern Yuppies want just a little bit of gay in their lives." This leads to the obvious question: where are these paintings hanging? The closet? Or does this give the phrase "man cave" a whole new meaning?
And in other news, the hung letter sign at every Wendy's trumpets "asiago ranch chicken club." I remember the good times back on Asiago Ranch and the fun we had in the chicken club. Boy those were the days!
Thursday, February 17, 2011
I'm sorry; have we been introduced?
Oh, hi! I'm John. I'm trying at an advanced age to write a novel but am hindered by certain shortcomings, like not being able to read or write. So I figured I'd blog a bit to get back into the swing of writing regularly (or at all) without the sweat and worry of having, you know, actual readers. Small novel particles may sneak in here and there. However, since I'm trying to write a novel, more likely a symphony or an oil painting will come out instead. I have a willful, intractable and schizophrenic muse. Maybe I shouldn't have used this invocation:
Invocation to the Muses
Muses!
Hey, Muses!
Soooooieee!
Muses, here Muses! C'mon, good Muses. I got a Muses treat for you here.
I kicked off the open mic session at the South Carolina Writers' Workshop's annual conference in the year 2000 with that. It's probably pitiful to admit it, but it was a peak experience of my life: the very epitome of the impractical joke. It's amazing the things you can do if you get a hot-looking friend to ask on your behalf.
Vastly more importantly: Happy 90th birthday to a great man and my dad, Dr. Malcolm Ulrich Dantzler. Yaaay!
Invocation to the Muses
Muses!
Hey, Muses!
Soooooieee!
Muses, here Muses! C'mon, good Muses. I got a Muses treat for you here.
I kicked off the open mic session at the South Carolina Writers' Workshop's annual conference in the year 2000 with that. It's probably pitiful to admit it, but it was a peak experience of my life: the very epitome of the impractical joke. It's amazing the things you can do if you get a hot-looking friend to ask on your behalf.
Vastly more importantly: Happy 90th birthday to a great man and my dad, Dr. Malcolm Ulrich Dantzler. Yaaay!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
I promise I won't mention that Nilsson song-- oh, wait
And I wanted so badly to plot an ice pick murder. Stick that ice pick right in somebody's coconut. What? I was going to buy the coconut first!
Some background, or foreshadowing, or some damn thing: every summer and every winter since I moved to this apartment, I've been getting incredibly dehydrated due to having an HVAC system appropriate for an entire house grafted onto a tiny apartment. Since I figured this out (Hey! Only took two years!) and moved the furniture out from under the HVAC vents, things are a lot better. Running a humidifier or two has helped, too, but rehydration has been frustratingly slow.
Online friends suggested I try coconut water and I did. It's supposed to be the very best thing for rehydration, giving the body (as they say) what it's thirsty for. I don't know if that's true (nor how long it'll be before I hear from Gatorade's lawyers), but I certainly feel wonderful after I drink some. And the cramps in my calves have all but gone away. So I'll take that as an endorsement.
Which brings us back to the murder plot I was hatching. (Why do they always hatch murder plots? How long do you have to brood over it for it to hatch? Some questions I guess we don't want to know the answers.) When I was small and annoying instead of old and stinky, we used to love it when Daddy would bring home a coconut from the store, because we dug breaking them. But first somebody, probably somebody with better eye-hand co-ordination than me, would take a hammer and ice pick to the coconut, right in the eye!
We would drain the coconut water. I seem to recall a slight disappointment that it wasn't more wonderful-tasting. So I don't think we exactly had fist fights over who got to drink it. I'm pretty sure it was nearly always me, owing to smallness, annoyingness, and the fact that it wasn't actually very good. But it's funny to find all these centuries later that coconut water is a) a sports drink and b) really, really expensive!
Therefore, it seemed the part of wisdom to go get a coconut and an ice pick and go to town. But first, being that kind of guy, I looked it up on the Internet and imagine: you can drain a coconut without risking blindness with an ice pick! You can risk blindness from a scissors instead! So I think I'll try it that way. Or maybe just keep buying the stuff in a carton. No husk fibers in the water that way.
Some background, or foreshadowing, or some damn thing: every summer and every winter since I moved to this apartment, I've been getting incredibly dehydrated due to having an HVAC system appropriate for an entire house grafted onto a tiny apartment. Since I figured this out (Hey! Only took two years!) and moved the furniture out from under the HVAC vents, things are a lot better. Running a humidifier or two has helped, too, but rehydration has been frustratingly slow.
Online friends suggested I try coconut water and I did. It's supposed to be the very best thing for rehydration, giving the body (as they say) what it's thirsty for. I don't know if that's true (nor how long it'll be before I hear from Gatorade's lawyers), but I certainly feel wonderful after I drink some. And the cramps in my calves have all but gone away. So I'll take that as an endorsement.
Which brings us back to the murder plot I was hatching. (Why do they always hatch murder plots? How long do you have to brood over it for it to hatch? Some questions I guess we don't want to know the answers.) When I was small and annoying instead of old and stinky, we used to love it when Daddy would bring home a coconut from the store, because we dug breaking them. But first somebody, probably somebody with better eye-hand co-ordination than me, would take a hammer and ice pick to the coconut, right in the eye!
We would drain the coconut water. I seem to recall a slight disappointment that it wasn't more wonderful-tasting. So I don't think we exactly had fist fights over who got to drink it. I'm pretty sure it was nearly always me, owing to smallness, annoyingness, and the fact that it wasn't actually very good. But it's funny to find all these centuries later that coconut water is a) a sports drink and b) really, really expensive!
Therefore, it seemed the part of wisdom to go get a coconut and an ice pick and go to town. But first, being that kind of guy, I looked it up on the Internet and imagine: you can drain a coconut without risking blindness with an ice pick! You can risk blindness from a scissors instead! So I think I'll try it that way. Or maybe just keep buying the stuff in a carton. No husk fibers in the water that way.
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