Crawling topside

Yay, I feel better today. Starting to come out of it. I had some connectivity problems this morning, but they were solved by the time I got back from having breakfast with Rae.

So today, I start seriously thinking about the first day of school. It’s my 18th autumn in the public school circus, and you’d think I’d be on autopilot by now. Not so. Each new year has its nervy beginning, even though, unlike most “regular” teachers, I see many of the same students, year after year, from 5th grade on through to graduation. That’s one of the fun parts about being a choral director — you get to watch them grow firsthand. They don’t “leave your building” until it’s time for them to leave all the buildings. I like that.

Not only am I thinking about the first day of school, but also about what just might be the Show from Hades. Every once in awhile, you do a show that sucks you dry; that siphons every last vestige of your humanity. I see that coming. Amen, Stoney?

But somewhere amidst the siphoning and sucking, we’ll have the time of our lives watching teenagers turn into performers. It’s always magic.

A boulder of truth

Not a grain or a morsel or a modicum. But truth, right in your face.

For the first time in, oh, fifteen years or so, I watched the Oprah Winfrey show, tuning in yesterday completely by accident while confined to the couch. It was an amazing revelation.

Like many of my friends (and UNlike 99% of the men I know), weight issues have ruled my consciousness — indeed, my very existence — since I was a young teenager. Concern gave way to obsession, and as is almost always the case, obsession bred despair. Losing and gaining the same 25 pounds every six months since 1980 can take a toll on a person.

Enter Oprah and her guest, author Geneen Roth. When she told the audience that Roth’s book “opened [her] eyes” and allowed her to make sense of everything surrounding her 40-year battle with weight, I was curious. Cuz girls, you know it ain’t about food, or being hungry. It’s never about being physically hungry for people like us, is it? There’s always a hidden agenda with food.

As is Oprah’s style, she made sure everyone in attendance had read the book as well, and audience members were definitely part of the show. There were many personal stories that sounded awfully familiar. Several women had been charged with videotaping themselves going through their daily routines for a week or whatever. Wow. Revealing. Even more shocking were the admissions by some women that when they lost a hundred pounds, they were still unhappy. To someone like me (the last time I wore a size 7 was 1974), that was a difficult concept around which to wrap my reptilian brain. It was then that I decided I must see what is in this book.

And although what Roth gives in the way of practical tips isn’t necessarily new to repeat diet offenders, seeing and hearing how the book changed people on a non-food level was new to me — and believe me, fiends, I’ve read every diet book ever published. Much of what she said was highly personal with regard to figuring out why those of us who run the diet treadmill always fail. (Again – it’s *never* about the food itself; food is just the drug of choice to numb or escape other, more sinister issues.) You can read a partial transcript on Oprah’s site.

Heavy.

So I ordered it from half.com. I’m totally disappointed it wasn’t available for the Nook, though. What’s up with that? #1 on the NYT Bestseller List, and you can’t download it? Sheesh. Guess I’ll have to just open the thing and turn the pages myself. The nerve. Anyway, I’ll provide a review in the near future. I know there’s no magic bullet in this fight, but what I heard yesterday suggests that there are ways to move emotional roadblocks that habitually impede progress. That would be a step in the right direction for many of us.

Hey, it’s Tubesday. One day closer to school starting. It’s this time of year when I’d just as soon get the days overwith so I can get going. May as well jump into the fire right now as delay the inevitable. Hot tea, soup, and a bowl of oatmeal all day yesterday, and I still feel like ten miles of bad road. That just bites, honestly. Maybe it’s a tooma.

FO

Trippin’ the creepy meter II

Happy Clown Week. BooOoOOO.

I have referenced my long-ago post about clowns on several occasions over the last two-plus years, for various reasons. I know my fiend Stoney agrees with my oft-restated opinion: to me, clowns are neither happy nor funny. They are, in fact, among the most sinister and nightmarish-looking creatures to ever walk the planet. It matters not what kind of clowns they are, or how many pratfalls they perform, how talented they are at making balloon animals, or how goofy they act. They are macabre, suspect beings who seemingly never fail to leave small children caterwauling in abject terror.

Like many birds of a feather, they also have their own cult. Clowns are like the Branch Davidians, only without David Koresh and all the killing and stuff. They are understood by few outsiders, although you’re welcome to join us in the clowning world anytime…

Thanks all the same, but I’ll pass.

Perhaps the creepiest is the curious and bizarre art form of clown eggs. Once you join the “society,” you are entitled to have your visage recorded for posterity — on an egg. Your face is painted on an egg. For rill. Some of them are actually beautiful; not all are skeevy. (But most are.)

And speaking of inexplicably weird, we go from clowns to Basil Marceaux. A brave patriot for sure, but governor material? Not so much. Or cripes, maybe he’d be great — I mean, the political gene pool isn’t too rich with flora and fauna right now, knowmsayin’?

Speaking of clowning around — today is Justin & Jake Overnight day. Play Doh, sidewalk chalk, sand box, trucks, the park, hide and seek, Dairy Queen and a long bath are the orders of the afternoon and evening. Grammie and Grandpa Thriller just might survive it.

:-)

Review: Clash of the Titans

This isn’t as much a review as it is a comparison — and there really is none.

Several nights ago, we watched the new Clash of the Titans, with Liam Neeson as Zeus. Despite all the great CG action and the realistic-looking monsters, it just didn’t compare with the 1981 original (Liam Neeson compared to Sir Laurence Olivier? Who’s more Zeus-like, seriously?). But it neither starts nor ends there.

My main complaint with the new film is the “rushed” feeling. Characters are incomplete; they lack all form of human frailties and characteristics that initially endear. They all appear self-absorbed and shallow — very much unlike the people in the original. Do you remember actually feeling compassion for Calibos, knowing that what happened to him was not his fault? Could you blame him for being bitter? Wasn’t his love for Andromeda painfully obvious; his pain written all over his face? Not so with the Calibos in the new picture. He was heartless and cruel, and his appearance in the film was ancillary at best.

It seemed to me that the director/screenwriters tried to smash too much information into 90 minutes.

Then there was the ha-ha, wink-nod appearance of Bubo, the mechanical owl, that played such a huge part in the 1981 version. In an early scene, soldiers were perusing the equipment room, gathering weapons to take on their journey. One picked up what appeared to be the *actual* Bubo character, gave it the once-over, then decided it wasn’t important enough to take along. Ha ha.

Again, the niggling (I do love that word) annoyance for me was my waiting for something to make me care about Perseus and Andromeda. Thetis (Calibos’s suffering mother, played wonderfully in the original by Maggie Smith) doesn’t even make an appearance in the movie, which punches a huge hole in the plot:  Zeus’s ultimate selfishness and cruelty, helping the viewer identify with the humans turning against the gods. It’s hard to root for anyone. Blah.

Ray Harryhausen isn’t turning over in his retirement home, but I think he might be twitching a bit.

On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give the 2010 version of Clash of the Titans: