My friend Jim's dad died this week.
Don was a quiet guy. I used to go to Jim's house all the time, but I can't say I can remember many conversations with his dad. The impression I have was that he was kind of shy, maybe didn't really know how to make small talk with one of his son's friends. But in his quiet way he was kind. He could make me feel at home.
He called me "Angie," which is not something a lot of people do. Jim doesn't even call me "Angie," so I'm not sure how he got into the habit. I tend to reserve that nickname to people who've known me a very long time, but with some people, it just sounds right when they say it. I can hear Don now: "How are you, Angie?" I guess because he had this hesitant manner otherwise with me, the use of the more private nickname was especially...right. As though just because he was shy didn't mean he liked people any less.
...It's strange. I started out thinking that I didn't really remember that much about Don, but all evening memories have been surfacing. I was thinking of something else a few moments ago when suddenly I thought of Jim's cousins calling Don "Uncle Duckie," in honor of his spot-on Donald Duck impression.
And earlier I was remembering wanting to watch one of my favorite movies with Jim, but he nixed Lawrence of Arabia as soon as I suggested it. It seems it was one of Don's favorite movies too, which meant it was on in the house so often, Jim developed an allergic reaction to even the thought of watching it again.
Don could be so surprising. Like at Jim's mom's funeral a few years ago, at the end, when people got up to share their memories...Don got up and gave the most beautiful, the most gentle, poignant and heartfelt testimony about his wife, at a time when it would be most painful to do such a thing, at a time I could hardly imagine I could have even formed a coherent sentence, were I in his shoes. He just quietly talked about his wife and how much he would miss her and all the fun they had together.
There's a picture Jim has of his parents where they are playfully trying to wring each others' necks. This is the picture Jim has framed, on display. The cutest couple.
I hadn't really seen Don much since Jim's mom's funeral, but there are still sweet things I remember. Like how Jim's boyfriend Greg crocheted him an American flag afghan (Don was a Marine). Or how I'd hear Jim talk to him on the phone and end the conversation with "I love you, Dad."
I think these things stood out for me because I adopt fathers where I can, having lost mine when I was 13. And for all the complexity of their relationship (I'm sure all father/son relationships are complicated, but Don and Jim had a few extra twists and turns in theirs), there was such love, and they could even use the word "love" with each other--it was a privilege to be a witness to that, as it's now a privilege to write about it.
One of the last times I saw Jim's dad was when he came to a show Jim's boyfriend Greg was in. (In, or directing, or both? I can't remember now. And maybe Jim was stage-managing it too.) I was sitting in one of the back rows and in walked this man I didn't recognize, partly because the lights had already gone down and partly because it had been years since I'd seen him. But he looked over at me, and then he came over to me and whispered, "How are you doing, Angie?"
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Pomegranates
An article I wrote about the Cincinnati band Pomegranates is now available on Thunderstruck.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Speaking of Faith
The radio program Speaking of Faith solicited comments about Catholicism. I submitted my comments, and now they are on this page.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Where the Streets Have No Name
I seem to only be updating this when U2 is involved...!
Here's an essay I wrote for @U2.
Here's an essay I wrote for @U2.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
U2 3D
Isn't it clever? They came up with a movie name that matched their whole "one letter, one number" pattern in reverse. Maybe the technology was developed solely so that one day U2 might utilize it...
I attended the Cincinnati premiere of U2 3D with Bocce Bill last night (not to be confused with Pente Bill, though Bocce Bill plays Pente with Pente Bill). At first it was somewhat frustrating--there was what appeared to be a crack running down the frame. When the lighting was just right you could see it was actually a bit of film strip. Wha? Various members of the crowd made noises, and Bocce Bill went out to talk to someone in charge. At first the only result was that one could see a hand wiping at the obstruction, which was of course even more annoying and not the least bit effective, though the hand made its attempt several times. Finally, about halfway through the second song, the film was stopped, someone came out to inform us that a piece of film was stuck to the lens, and that they were taking care of it. They turned the movie back on (not starting from the beginning, as we requested) with the volume up higher (as we requested).
Then we could all relax and enjoy ourselves.
And how enjoyable it was. Things I particularly enjoyed:
* The song selection. One reviewer had a minor gripe (and so far all the gripes have been minor; the lavish critical praise has been something to behold) that it's mostly a collection of greatest hits. Yes, well, it's rather hard for it not to be, at this point in U2's history. And it would be one thing if it was just a collection of nostalgic hits; quite another for it to be their hits of 1983, 1987, 1991, 2000 etc.
* The sound. Unbelievable separation of the instruments. I was hearing things in these songs I'd never heard before, and given how many times I've heard these songs...! Also, props to whoever did the sound mixing, given that the audio (and visuals) was taken from several different shows. I could tell the difference when they'd cut to the sound from a stadium show, but it was done in such a smooth way, it seemed more a part of the narrative than anything else (the narrative being "Here's where we're sharing something intimate, and here is where we are opening up this intimacy to 100,000 people.")
* Adam.
* Edge. The worshipful tone of Variety's review (sample: "The Edge is a still presence, a cornerstone, a man who quietly revels while a wild celebration unfolds around him.") makes a lot of sense when you watch this. I'm on the record as saying I don't think Edge is very interesting to watch live--what he does is all interior, he's not playing to the crowd at all--but this was different.
* Larry, particularly during "Love and Peace or Else," when Bono starts stalking him.
Which leads us to:
* Bono. Everything you need to know about how to give a great performance can be learned by watching this movie. That's all I'm saying.
* My free movie ticket. Because of the technical difficulties at the beginning, we all got free tix at the end. Yay!
I attended the Cincinnati premiere of U2 3D with Bocce Bill last night (not to be confused with Pente Bill, though Bocce Bill plays Pente with Pente Bill). At first it was somewhat frustrating--there was what appeared to be a crack running down the frame. When the lighting was just right you could see it was actually a bit of film strip. Wha? Various members of the crowd made noises, and Bocce Bill went out to talk to someone in charge. At first the only result was that one could see a hand wiping at the obstruction, which was of course even more annoying and not the least bit effective, though the hand made its attempt several times. Finally, about halfway through the second song, the film was stopped, someone came out to inform us that a piece of film was stuck to the lens, and that they were taking care of it. They turned the movie back on (not starting from the beginning, as we requested) with the volume up higher (as we requested).
Then we could all relax and enjoy ourselves.
And how enjoyable it was. Things I particularly enjoyed:
* The song selection. One reviewer had a minor gripe (and so far all the gripes have been minor; the lavish critical praise has been something to behold) that it's mostly a collection of greatest hits. Yes, well, it's rather hard for it not to be, at this point in U2's history. And it would be one thing if it was just a collection of nostalgic hits; quite another for it to be their hits of 1983, 1987, 1991, 2000 etc.
* The sound. Unbelievable separation of the instruments. I was hearing things in these songs I'd never heard before, and given how many times I've heard these songs...! Also, props to whoever did the sound mixing, given that the audio (and visuals) was taken from several different shows. I could tell the difference when they'd cut to the sound from a stadium show, but it was done in such a smooth way, it seemed more a part of the narrative than anything else (the narrative being "Here's where we're sharing something intimate, and here is where we are opening up this intimacy to 100,000 people.")
* Adam.
* Edge. The worshipful tone of Variety's review (sample: "The Edge is a still presence, a cornerstone, a man who quietly revels while a wild celebration unfolds around him.") makes a lot of sense when you watch this. I'm on the record as saying I don't think Edge is very interesting to watch live--what he does is all interior, he's not playing to the crowd at all--but this was different.
* Larry, particularly during "Love and Peace or Else," when Bono starts stalking him.
Which leads us to:
* Bono. Everything you need to know about how to give a great performance can be learned by watching this movie. That's all I'm saying.
* My free movie ticket. Because of the technical difficulties at the beginning, we all got free tix at the end. Yay!
Saturday, December 15, 2007
NaNoWriMo
I've been meaning to write about my NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) experience since its conclusion, but seeing as it's the middle of December now, I guess you already know one key fact about it: it has not upped my literary output.
NaNoWriMo is a simple idea: try to write a 50,000-word novel in thirty days, specifically November 1st to the 30th. I've tried in previous years but never got very far. (The first year, in fact, was when I got diagnosed with Crohn's; nothing like getting a colonoscopy in the middle of the month to render one less excited about producing a novel.) This year was the first one in which I actually signed up as an official participant at the NaNo website. It wasn't to give my attempt more credibility and thus to motivate myself to stick with it, although that proved to be a side benefit. No; I signed up because Neil Gaiman had agreed to be among the writers who would send out pep talk emails over the course of the month, and the thought of getting an email from, you know, NEIL GAIMAN was irresistible.
I started the month full of enthusiasm (I think; I can't really remember back that far). I bought a couple of new notebooks and a couple Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball pens--my favorite. The notebooks were the toughest to pick out. I like the Mead Fat Lil' Notebook (known in Spanish as "Cuaderno Fat Lil'," according to the back) because they fit well in my purse, they've got lots of pages, and they're spiral-bound, but they are kind of bland, with solid-color covers in conservative shades. I was sorely tempted to buy a notebook whose cover featured a big-eyed Siamese with an elongated neck and the caption "Yes, I am that fabulous." But the Fat Lil' won out in the end because the Siamese was kind of disturbing.
I wrote in the mornings before work; I wrote faithfully, purt near every day, but had a tough time reaching the target daily word count. This may have been because I was writing and not typing, but I compose better that way. I think my thoughts arrive at writing speed, not typing speed. Later in the day I would enter my work into the computer to get a word count. This was a distressing exercise because usually, when I am working on a story, I use the typing stage to create a second draft--I'm altering as I go. (This entry is a case in point--its original draft was written in the Fat Lil' and is ever-so-slightly different.) But I wouldn't let myself do this for my NaNo project lest I lose precious words in the editing process. I had to just grit my teeth and type whatever I'd written, regardless of my low opinion of its quality.
And the quality was very poor indeed. I'd begun the project with one plot in mind--a second attempt at a story I'd thought up for last year's NaNo, plus a twist I was really jazzed about, an idea that had fallen from the sky in late October. I could hardly wait to begin. But in the actual process of writing the idea lost its savor. To keep myself going I started importing more and more from my own life, changing friends' names and barely fictionalizing details. The last 10,000 words, my desperate race against time, were a dream sequence only vaguely related to the rest of the plot.
Oh, those last 10,000 words...I had been plugging away, as I said, every day, falling further and further behind where I needed to be to keep pace. I wasn't being very faithful at typing up my work, however, so for a long stretch I didn't know my word count. On Thanksgiving I had a marathon typing session and discovered I was at 20,000 words--more than I'd ever managed in previous years, but far behind where I needed to be. So over the holiday weekend I abandoned the notebook and typed. And typed. And typed. Over three days I got out 15,000 or so more words--again, not quality stuff by any means, just quantity. Sheer verbosity, with the occasional glimmer of something interesting (but not enough to make me want to go back and read any of it).
Now I'd done 15k in a weekend. Could I do an additional 15k over the course of five weekdays--when I was at work during the day and had class and other obligations at night? When I was already feeling some ill effects from sitting in front of a computer screen most of the weekend?
I managed 5000 more words Monday through Thursday. No problem, though, right? I had until midnight on the 30th. At peak over the weekend I found I could churn out a thousand words an hour if I really, really pushed myself. I got off work at 4:30...at some point I'd have to eat...I figured I had seven uninterrupted hours in which to write. Maybe I could do it. I was too close to give up now, anyway. I had to give it a shot.
That's why the last 10,000 or so words were a dream sequence, really several of my own dreams strung together with some other elements--the Corpus Christi Carol, for one--thrown in. I'm sure it would make a fascinating psychological study if I could ever stand to let someone read it.
At 11:59 and 30 seconds I dumped the whole thing into the NaNo website's word counter and...
49,681.
Five more minutes and I coulda made it. That's all right--I got lots of sympathy from my fellow NaNoers at that weekend's Thank God It's Over party. They felt my pain.
That's another great aspect of the experience (and yes, I think it was a great experience, my griping about so-close-and-yet-so-far notwithstanding)--the chance to meet other Cincinnati writers. Throughout the month we had "write-ins," announced in the website forum, where folk could come together and work. There's nothing like a whole bunch of people all feverishly typing to keep you on task for a couple of hours.
Interestingly, the first write-in was held at the Speckled Bird, the neighborhood cafe, so of course I went. And there of course as I was sitting with this group of writers I did not know, I kept seeing people I did know--friends in the neighborhood. So every few minutes I'd look up and wave to Chris, or Bill, or Des--and after a while I wondered how this looked to my new writer friends. Did they think I was like Norm from Cheers?
I'd also mentioned to one of the writers that I lived down the street--and pointed in the direction of my house. But when I was leaving--at the same time that she was--I didn't go in that direction. I went over to the JFCCCH to walk Cori. Luckily she didn't ask me about this. I would have had to say, "No, I don't live there. I just occasionally go in their house and walk their dog."
NaNoWriMo is a simple idea: try to write a 50,000-word novel in thirty days, specifically November 1st to the 30th. I've tried in previous years but never got very far. (The first year, in fact, was when I got diagnosed with Crohn's; nothing like getting a colonoscopy in the middle of the month to render one less excited about producing a novel.) This year was the first one in which I actually signed up as an official participant at the NaNo website. It wasn't to give my attempt more credibility and thus to motivate myself to stick with it, although that proved to be a side benefit. No; I signed up because Neil Gaiman had agreed to be among the writers who would send out pep talk emails over the course of the month, and the thought of getting an email from, you know, NEIL GAIMAN was irresistible.
I started the month full of enthusiasm (I think; I can't really remember back that far). I bought a couple of new notebooks and a couple Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball pens--my favorite. The notebooks were the toughest to pick out. I like the Mead Fat Lil' Notebook (known in Spanish as "Cuaderno Fat Lil'," according to the back) because they fit well in my purse, they've got lots of pages, and they're spiral-bound, but they are kind of bland, with solid-color covers in conservative shades. I was sorely tempted to buy a notebook whose cover featured a big-eyed Siamese with an elongated neck and the caption "Yes, I am that fabulous." But the Fat Lil' won out in the end because the Siamese was kind of disturbing.
I wrote in the mornings before work; I wrote faithfully, purt near every day, but had a tough time reaching the target daily word count. This may have been because I was writing and not typing, but I compose better that way. I think my thoughts arrive at writing speed, not typing speed. Later in the day I would enter my work into the computer to get a word count. This was a distressing exercise because usually, when I am working on a story, I use the typing stage to create a second draft--I'm altering as I go. (This entry is a case in point--its original draft was written in the Fat Lil' and is ever-so-slightly different.) But I wouldn't let myself do this for my NaNo project lest I lose precious words in the editing process. I had to just grit my teeth and type whatever I'd written, regardless of my low opinion of its quality.
And the quality was very poor indeed. I'd begun the project with one plot in mind--a second attempt at a story I'd thought up for last year's NaNo, plus a twist I was really jazzed about, an idea that had fallen from the sky in late October. I could hardly wait to begin. But in the actual process of writing the idea lost its savor. To keep myself going I started importing more and more from my own life, changing friends' names and barely fictionalizing details. The last 10,000 words, my desperate race against time, were a dream sequence only vaguely related to the rest of the plot.
Oh, those last 10,000 words...I had been plugging away, as I said, every day, falling further and further behind where I needed to be to keep pace. I wasn't being very faithful at typing up my work, however, so for a long stretch I didn't know my word count. On Thanksgiving I had a marathon typing session and discovered I was at 20,000 words--more than I'd ever managed in previous years, but far behind where I needed to be. So over the holiday weekend I abandoned the notebook and typed. And typed. And typed. Over three days I got out 15,000 or so more words--again, not quality stuff by any means, just quantity. Sheer verbosity, with the occasional glimmer of something interesting (but not enough to make me want to go back and read any of it).
Now I'd done 15k in a weekend. Could I do an additional 15k over the course of five weekdays--when I was at work during the day and had class and other obligations at night? When I was already feeling some ill effects from sitting in front of a computer screen most of the weekend?
I managed 5000 more words Monday through Thursday. No problem, though, right? I had until midnight on the 30th. At peak over the weekend I found I could churn out a thousand words an hour if I really, really pushed myself. I got off work at 4:30...at some point I'd have to eat...I figured I had seven uninterrupted hours in which to write. Maybe I could do it. I was too close to give up now, anyway. I had to give it a shot.
That's why the last 10,000 or so words were a dream sequence, really several of my own dreams strung together with some other elements--the Corpus Christi Carol, for one--thrown in. I'm sure it would make a fascinating psychological study if I could ever stand to let someone read it.
At 11:59 and 30 seconds I dumped the whole thing into the NaNo website's word counter and...
49,681.
Five more minutes and I coulda made it. That's all right--I got lots of sympathy from my fellow NaNoers at that weekend's Thank God It's Over party. They felt my pain.
That's another great aspect of the experience (and yes, I think it was a great experience, my griping about so-close-and-yet-so-far notwithstanding)--the chance to meet other Cincinnati writers. Throughout the month we had "write-ins," announced in the website forum, where folk could come together and work. There's nothing like a whole bunch of people all feverishly typing to keep you on task for a couple of hours.
Interestingly, the first write-in was held at the Speckled Bird, the neighborhood cafe, so of course I went. And there of course as I was sitting with this group of writers I did not know, I kept seeing people I did know--friends in the neighborhood. So every few minutes I'd look up and wave to Chris, or Bill, or Des--and after a while I wondered how this looked to my new writer friends. Did they think I was like Norm from Cheers?
I'd also mentioned to one of the writers that I lived down the street--and pointed in the direction of my house. But when I was leaving--at the same time that she was--I didn't go in that direction. I went over to the JFCCCH to walk Cori. Luckily she didn't ask me about this. I would have had to say, "No, I don't live there. I just occasionally go in their house and walk their dog."
Friday, November 9, 2007
Eulogy
A buddy of mine died today. He was the guy I felt closest to at Our Daily Bread--we had a good rapport. He was our porter, which meant mostly he sat by our receptionist's desk and did little odd jobs for her. He helped her stuff envelopes, or would bring the mail to those of us in the office, shuffling across the floor. When I'd come in at the start of the day I'd smile and say hi to him. And he'd turn around like he was trying to figure out who I was talking to. And if I was walking through the place I'd hear him sing out "Ann--gela!" But of course if I looked over at him he'd be looking behind him again. (He played this game with his nephews too. Several times a day I'd hear him give that same kind of teasing call to one of them. It was one of the ways I knew all was well with the world.)
I remember probably my first week of working there, or close to it, I sat next to him at the front door in an effort to get acclimated to the soup kitchen environment. He greeted everyone who came in, usually with a nickname. "What's up, Grumpy?" "How's your kid doing?"
"How many of the people here do you know?" I asked him.
"I don't know any of 'em," he said seriously. Then he went back to greeting everybody.
Two things he was known for in particular. One was his Li'l Rascals face. He didn't have any teeth, so he had no problem getting his lower lip all the way up to his nose, pouting it out as he did it so his lower face was all frowny lip. Then he'd turn his baseball cap to the side, squeeze his eyes shut and slump down so his stomach stuck out. He adopted this pose if anyone tried to take his picture, and often he did it just because.
The other thing he did was set off the loon call in the office. Our volunteer coordinator had bought a stuffed animal loon who would give its weird call--ooOOOooo--if you pressed down on its back. This my buddy enjoyed doing. He never grew tired of hearing it. We got treated to a lot of loon calls when he was around. Not too long ago he started doing something new--slowly tipping his head back and opening his mouth wide as it'd go when he set off the loon call, so it seemed like the noise was coming out of his own throat. Then it became an in-joke greeting between us--I would mime his loon call move, he would mime it back to me. This was especially great in the middle of a crazy day (it's always a crazy day in a soup kitchen). My desk is so positioned that I could look out the office door and see him sitting by the front door, clear across the lower dining room. On a tough day I'd catch his eye, tip my head back, open my mouth as wide as it would go--ooOOOooo. He'd do it back. We'd giggle and I would get back to work.
Sometimes I'd look up from my computer and see him standing expressionless in the doorway of his office--no telling how long he'd been standing there. I'd roll my eyes and he'd crack up. Or he'd be behind the door and would slooooowly come peeking out, only to duck right back. (This was another sign he spent a lot of time entertaining his nephews.) I would mimic him then too, playing hide and seek behind my computer, until we'd both crack up. "If I can make you laugh, I know I've done something right," he'd say. He seemed really proud of himself when he said it, too, and I knew this laugh during a tough day was his gift to me, and he was glad to be able to give it.
He had a lot of tough days--he was sick a long time--and there wasn't much I could do to lighten them for him. "I'm not feeling too good, Angie" was something he said often. And sometimes when he'd be walking out of the office after bringing us the mail (holding it out and then snatching it out of reach a few times before relinquishing it), he'd stop and close his eyes and wobble a little before continuing on.
A couple of weeks ago he gave me a little white teddy bear that's sitting now on my desk. "What are you gonna name it?" he asked me later that day.
"I don't know. I don't think I ever really had a teddy bear as a kid. My favorite stuffed animal back then was a rabbit named Bunny Baby."
"Then name it Bunny."
So I have Bunny to remember him by.
He gave our volunteer coordinator a musical snowglobe that he won at one of our weekly bingos. It "snows" iridescent sparkles on a pair of giraffes, and it plays "Everything is Beatiful." When he came in for a visit to the office, often or she would wind it up, and he would dance. So she has that, and the song will make all of us think of him when we hear it.
Everything is beautiful in its own way.
I remember probably my first week of working there, or close to it, I sat next to him at the front door in an effort to get acclimated to the soup kitchen environment. He greeted everyone who came in, usually with a nickname. "What's up, Grumpy?" "How's your kid doing?"
"How many of the people here do you know?" I asked him.
"I don't know any of 'em," he said seriously. Then he went back to greeting everybody.
Two things he was known for in particular. One was his Li'l Rascals face. He didn't have any teeth, so he had no problem getting his lower lip all the way up to his nose, pouting it out as he did it so his lower face was all frowny lip. Then he'd turn his baseball cap to the side, squeeze his eyes shut and slump down so his stomach stuck out. He adopted this pose if anyone tried to take his picture, and often he did it just because.
The other thing he did was set off the loon call in the office. Our volunteer coordinator had bought a stuffed animal loon who would give its weird call--ooOOOooo--if you pressed down on its back. This my buddy enjoyed doing. He never grew tired of hearing it. We got treated to a lot of loon calls when he was around. Not too long ago he started doing something new--slowly tipping his head back and opening his mouth wide as it'd go when he set off the loon call, so it seemed like the noise was coming out of his own throat. Then it became an in-joke greeting between us--I would mime his loon call move, he would mime it back to me. This was especially great in the middle of a crazy day (it's always a crazy day in a soup kitchen). My desk is so positioned that I could look out the office door and see him sitting by the front door, clear across the lower dining room. On a tough day I'd catch his eye, tip my head back, open my mouth as wide as it would go--ooOOOooo. He'd do it back. We'd giggle and I would get back to work.
Sometimes I'd look up from my computer and see him standing expressionless in the doorway of his office--no telling how long he'd been standing there. I'd roll my eyes and he'd crack up. Or he'd be behind the door and would slooooowly come peeking out, only to duck right back. (This was another sign he spent a lot of time entertaining his nephews.) I would mimic him then too, playing hide and seek behind my computer, until we'd both crack up. "If I can make you laugh, I know I've done something right," he'd say. He seemed really proud of himself when he said it, too, and I knew this laugh during a tough day was his gift to me, and he was glad to be able to give it.
He had a lot of tough days--he was sick a long time--and there wasn't much I could do to lighten them for him. "I'm not feeling too good, Angie" was something he said often. And sometimes when he'd be walking out of the office after bringing us the mail (holding it out and then snatching it out of reach a few times before relinquishing it), he'd stop and close his eyes and wobble a little before continuing on.
A couple of weeks ago he gave me a little white teddy bear that's sitting now on my desk. "What are you gonna name it?" he asked me later that day.
"I don't know. I don't think I ever really had a teddy bear as a kid. My favorite stuffed animal back then was a rabbit named Bunny Baby."
"Then name it Bunny."
So I have Bunny to remember him by.
He gave our volunteer coordinator a musical snowglobe that he won at one of our weekly bingos. It "snows" iridescent sparkles on a pair of giraffes, and it plays "Everything is Beatiful." When he came in for a visit to the office, often or she would wind it up, and he would dance. So she has that, and the song will make all of us think of him when we hear it.
Everything is beautiful in its own way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)