As soon I saw that the theme this week was time capsules, I started hearing voices. More like a voice, to be specific. That of Jim Croce, singing Time in a Bottle.
This is not a good thing.
Time in a Bottle ranks up there as one of my all-time least favorite songs. One that makes me about want to slit my throat it is so grim, gloomy, depressing and so very dated. It just screams AM radio circa 1972. On a transistor radio. The song is downright execrable (I love that word and really just wanted to find an excuse to use it).
Anyone who knows me knows I have a deep aversion to 70’s music. Anything played repeatedly on an AM radio between 1970 and 1976 pretty much fits in that category. I know I’m a freak about this. Music connoisseurs always liken 70’s music to nirvana (the state, not the band). To me it’s not nirvana; rather it gets on my nerves. Stairway to Heaven? Pass the ear plugs. American Pie? I’ll take cake, thank you (and I love pie!). Black Water? Sounds bacteria-ridden to me.
Bands I can’t stand: Doobie Brothers, much of Led Zeppelin (yet I like their newer stuff—go figure), Peter Frampton, Captain and Tenille, Melanie (remember that one-hit wonder? I’ve got a brand new pair of roller skates, you’ve got a brand new key. Okay, then.), Cher (Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves? Shudder!), Tony Orlando and Dawn, Dr. Hook, Queen, Aerosmith, Moody Blues (actually a relic of the late 60’s), Stealers Wheel (Stuck in the Middle–I instantly switch channels if this ditty comes on the radio), Bachman Turner Overdrive. Some more lamentable songs: Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road (Loudon Wainwright), It Never Rains in Southern California; Billy Don’t be a Hero; Sylvia’s Mother; Heartbeat, It’s a Love Beat. Well, you get the drift.
I wrestle with some 70’s icons. Elton John’s had some great hits. But the whole ghastly-dated-70’s-frivolous-costumes-and-such just so resonates with outmoded ridiculousness that it makes me think twice about listening to some of his stuff. I think I like his newer music. I’ll take a pass on B-B-B-Benny and the Jets, thanks.
But I reserve the worst of the worst for those sappy balladeers like Jim Croce (I know, I know, tragic death and all. But really, it’s not that I speak ill of the dead, here. I merely speak ill of the dead’s music. Big difference). Seals and Crofts. Ann Murray. Harry Chapin (Cats in the Cradle, anyone?). And I can’t forget Bread. Oh, and also the pop “artists” (and I use that term lightly). Please, somebody own up to truly liking Captain and Tenille’s Muskrat Love. I mean, really.
I’m going to go out on a limb here. I might even lose friends over this. However if a friend abandons me over this, well, then, so be it.
Okay, here goes: Abba makes me cringe. To me, listening to Abba is like being trapped in a broom closet, subjected to the worst, most boring, bad-breathed, greasy-haired, sweaty-armpitted teacher you ever heard in your life, the one that made your ears pin back like a German Shepherd hearing a dog whistle. Throw in screechy chalk being dragged down the chalkboard and the fingernails slipping off the chalk and following down the board just to add insult to injury. And a couple of feral cats, mating. Maybe include a really loud diesel truck, coupled with a pack of Harleys tooling down the highway at 70 MPH right next to you with the roof down, so you can’t avoid their noise. Abba music pains me that much. So much so that I’ve turned down trips to New York that involved having to go to see Mamma Mia on Broadway (which ranks up there as a close second to Cats in my world). No lie.
So imagine my husband’s great surprise when I expressed the slightest inkling of possible interest—well, interest is stretching it a bit, it’s more like how a ten year old wants to taste a beer but then takes a sip and winces and spits it out like a gloppy furball—to see Mamma Mia: the Movie. “Let me tell you something,” he said to me after I modestly enthused over the movie’s trailer we saw on TV last night. “You are not going to see it. Case closed.”
Now, I have a stubborn streak in me that comes from being part Irish, part German, and occasionally unreasonable. It has much to do with being the only girl amongst three brothers during my formative years. So when I’m denied something, it only makes me want it more (case in point: I chose to be an author. Who does something that insane but for one who regularly rises to the challenge of rejection).
So I went to my friends—because I knew better than to ask any of my children, who know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I can’t listen to Abba, not even for a second.
“Do you suppose I could go to it, and just cover my ears for the singing part?” I asked.
“Uh, no!” My friend laughed. “The entire thing is singing. That’s all they do is sing.” Abba music, that is. Hmmm…Maybe I could wear my iPod and just crank it every time another Abba song came on. This seems imminently unfair. Because the movie looks so darned cute. That cheerful, colorful cast of big-name actors, all kicking up their heels and having what looks like a hell of a good time in Greece. The usual sort of frivolity one would seek were one to embark on a Grecian holiday. What’s not to like? Well, except that Abba music. Looks like I’ll be returning to see the monochromatic Wall-E when my family goes to see Mamma Mia: the Movie. Curse that blasted, Abba.
In my time capsule, then, I think I would be sure to not include any 70’s music. Also no bell-bottoms, smiley faces, platform shoes, have-a-nice-day stickers, or any other hint that we all must have been out of our minds (either that or smoking some early version of crack) to have liked all of that stuff. Let me just say I go on record as having never liked it. The 70’s needs to be relegated to the mothball-ridden attic of our memories, where it should have been from the word go.
And now I’ll throw down the gauntlet and challenge you to suggest some 70’s songs that I did like. Believe it or not, there are plenty of them. It just doesn’t seem that they’re the ones that remain in the oldies vaults, dragged out as they are ad infinitum. You got a good 70’s hit for me?
(PS, my apologies, for some reason this was set up to disallow comments. Now you can comment away! My internet and phone have been down since yesterday due to storms so only now have been able to get on. Sorry!)
July 8th, 2008
| Posted by Jenny Gardiner | American Pie, Bad 70's Music, Captain and Tenille, Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road, Deb Jenny, Doobie Brothers, Jenny Gardiner, Jim Croce, Led Zeppelin, Melanie, Peter Frampton, Sleeping With Ward Cleaver, Tony Orlando and Dawn, Writing
| 16 Comments
What’s in my personal time capsule?
Three photos held up by French magnetic poetry on our magnetic board (we have a magnetic board because our refrigerator is stainless). One is of my two daughters (7 and 9) and me on their first day of elementary school in Wisconsin in front of the house we lived in after we moved out of the six-week rental but before we moved into the house we live in now (all in the space of two years). I’d woken up early to do my and their hair for the first day of school and we ‘re smiling and we all look so hopeful and naïve… The second one is a photo of my son (about a year old) on my husband’s shoulders in matching red bandanas and blue eyes and rakish grins… The third one is from Italy last year, my two daughters, my son and me in front of the Coliseum. It was ninety-five and we were sweaty and dehydrated and sick of crowds and our oldest daughter kept saying, “I think I’m too old to be on vacation with my parents.” Her head is cocked sideways and her lip is curled. Our son looks like he might puke (I think he did later that day). Our middle daughter is smiling (but it’s an I’m-trying-to-look-like-I’m-having-fun-in-Italy smile) and I’m wilting against some old stone wall in big dark sunglasses my long hair sticking to my neck not even faking a smile. The fact that my husband isn’t in the picture and is the one insisting we take the picture and trek all the way to the Coliseum and stand in line and LEARN something whether anyone wants to not, and that it captures such a real and honest moment and that every time we’re all together sitting around the kitchen island looking at this photo we all crack up, is part of what makes this picture so precious to me.
Dark organic chocolate
Yoga mat
Running shoes (my current new favorite light-weight, lime-green and white Asics that make me feel as if I’m going faster than I actually am).
My blue kayak (is that too big for a time capsule?). If so, replica of it.
A galley of Cancer is a Bitch which (because it’s a memoir) is pretty much the story of my life up until last August.
My MacBook (everything that isn’t in my memoir is likely on my desktop).
Scraps of paper scribbled with half-baked ideas and random thoughts I meant to flesh out and write about that likely reveal things about me and the world I still haven’t figured out.
And two gummy puppy chew toys that squish between my toes when I wake too early to let the puppies out…
Deb Gail
July 7th, 2008
| Posted by Gail | Cancer Is A Bitch, Italy, Writing, memoir, puppies
| 9 Comments
Deb News
Deb Gail received her first review in Publishers Weekly!! In part it says: “In this heartfelt memoir, Baker proves to be both humorous… and compassionate.” For the full review go here!
Deb Danielle has also received a review for Falling Under this week, from Romantic Times. “”[A] dark, complex tale of an artist’s agoraphobia, lust and personal demons . . . a very real character readers will care for.”
Friends of Deb News
The Oppressor, aka Deb Danielle’s husband, Michael Wacholtz, received great reviews for Kalvin the Great, the show he wrote and directed at the Toronto Fringe Festival which opened this week. Now Magazine gives Kalvin 3 Ns (equivalent of stars) and Eye Magazine gives it 4 stars and says it “breathes new life into the dubious concept of edutainment.” The Oppressor also directed Elyne Quan’s Trust at the Toronto Fringe which Eye Magazine called “intriguingly tight and twisting.” Congratulations, Oppressor!
Debs are Reading
Deb Jenny is loving Julie Buxbaum’s The Opposite of Love.
Deb Gail is reading the arc of Kris Riggle’s debut novel Happy Families… wow!
July 6th, 2008
| Posted by Jenny Gardiner | Gail Konop-Baker, Jenny Gardiner, Julie Buxbaum, Publisher's Weekly, Sleeping With Ward Cleaver, The Opposite of Love
| 6 Comments
I spent many summers as a kid at my grandmother’s home on Lake Michigan. I used to feel bad for my poor parents who I assumed must be missing me on a near hourly basis. It never occurred to me at the time that perhaps they considered having me gone part of their vacation. My grandmother would house, feed, and corral me and all of my cousins (I think we’re over a dozen in total, but it’s possible I’m forgetting someone) during the summer. She had a perfect place for it, a long winding driveway flanked with fruit trees (which she would send us out to pick like the free labor we were) and a rickety stair case down to the beach. We slept in sleeping bags on every available flat surface.
My grandmother would wake us up at dawn and we had the choice of going with her to church or going outside. She was a big fan of fresh air and the Almighty; she was not fond of TV or laying around. So rain or shine we would head outside and run wild like animals.
It’s possible that kids were more hearty at this time or maybe we just didn’t know the risks. This was a time before we worried about pedophiles, too much sun exposure, food parasites, having Neosporin on every cut, or drowning. I learned to swim when my older male cousins would drag me out into the water toss me in and then yell out helpful suggestions as I sank like a stone. “Use your arms!” If you cut your foot on a piece of glass hidden in the sand one of the other cousins would spit on it to clean the wound and determine that you were fine.
We would gather up firewood and other random trash and build huge fire pits and when it grew dark we would roast hot dogs. For reasons I never understood the buns always ended up falling into the sand so when you bit into a dog it always had a gritty undertone. Then as the night wore on someone would break open the bag of marshmallows and the debate would rage as to the preferred cooking method (slow even toasting to a uniform tan shade versus the flaming black napalm approach.)
Fourth of July meant someone would have fireworks. Nothing says freedom like the ability to blow stuff up. The parents often came to visit on the 4th and everyone was busy either showing off their latest skill acquisition (look I can do a handstand!) or desperately hoping that Grandma wouldn’t mention whatever moronic thing we had been caught doing the week before. You would sit on the beach, the sand growing cool in the night air and peel sheets of burned skin off your arm while the fireworks went off. You would write dirty words in the air with a sparkler and let others try and guess what they were.
I don’t think we gave a lot of consideration to what the holiday meant. It was less about being patriotic and more about who could set off the biggest firework- but when I think back on those summer it is the feeling of freedom that sticks out. Everything smelled like fresh air blowing through beach grass and we were free to imagine that anything would be possible.
Happy 4th of July!
July 4th, 2008
| Posted by Eileen | Deb Eileen, Eileen Cook, Family, family recipes, sun
| 13 Comments
I came of age in the turbulent 60’s and early 70’s. There were lots of reasons to hate America – or at least its government. In fact, let’s set the record straight right away: it was great to live in America in that decade and to feel a part of the movement that hated the government. We created a remarkable community of Americans banded together with a mighty purpose – how American is that? It just happened to be that our purpose was to overturn the establishment which included the government, our parents, the rules of society as we knew them.
I remember my first taste that the era had ended. I was a big basketball fan and took a boyfriend to see a 76ers game in Philly. We had great seats, a couple of rows from the floor, center stage. The national anthem played and I wouldn’t stand up. The boyfriend was horrified. So was everyone else around me. Hey, wait a second. Where were all my comrades then? Had they already exchanged their tie-dyed shirts for business suits?
Patriotism came back into style. Even I got on-board for awhile. I lived in Paris for five years, from 1988 – 1993 and realized, as ex-pats often do, that I was, in fact, very much American, and for many good reasons, pretty damn proud of the fact. I loved Paris and still dream of living there again someday. But I became an American amongst all those foreigners.
And then came W. It’s fashionable to be anti-American again, though again, what we’re really talking about is anti-war and anti-government policies and anti-domination by the religious right. Obama is bumping up against this – and so is Michelle who had to get really really clear about when she’s proud to be an American and when she’s not so proud.
July 4th – a time to celebrate? I’ve never celebrated this holiday. I’ve always felt squeamish about paper plates with flag designs and folks dressed in red white and blue. But this year, on Independence Day, with Obama running for president, I do feel proud to be American and hopeful about real change in our country.
I titled this blog: Patriotism – is it a dirty word? I’ve just finished a phenomenal three week book tour for my new book, DIRTY WORDS: A LITERARY ENCYCLOPEDIA OF SEX. In the book I challenge the notion that sexual terminology is “dirty” – and I (with the help of 94 amazing contributors) encourage the reader to celebrate the so-called dirty words. (Though we’re still up against a lot of barriers – many of our country’s book stores won’t put the book on the shelves!)
What about patriotism? I love the America that gave me the experiences of my rebellious youth – and I love the America that is responding to Obama’s call for unity and hope. Happy July Fourth to all of you.
ELLEN SUSSMAN’s Dirty Words: A Literary Encyclopedia Of Sex, was published by Bloomsbury in 2008. Her anthology, Bad Girls: 26 Writers Misbehave, was published by W.W. Norton in 2007 and became a New York Times Editors Choice and a San Francisco Chronicle Best Seller. She is the author of the novel, On a Night Like This, (Warner Books, 2004) also a San Francisco Chronicle Bestseller. It has been translated into six languages. Her website is www.ellensussman.com
July 3rd, 2008
| Posted by Danielle | 2008 Debutante Ball, 2008 Debutantes, Writers, Writing
| 13 Comments
When I grew up, we went water skiing every Fourth of July with the Curtis family, and then we’d lie exhausted on the beach, eating cold fried chicken and my mother’s fabulous top secret potato salad. (It’s the ingredients that are top secret, not the salad itself) — this paper plate will self destruct in five seconds…
When we got home, we’d get cleaned up, eat some more and then, we’d all head over to the local elementary school to watch fireworks. I don’t remember anyone doing anything particularly stupid, except for the time my brother and his teen-aged friends almost set the fence on fire. A contraband bottle rocket gone awry.
Now, we head down to Siesta Key every year to watch fireworks on the beach. We sit on the sand, snuggled on our blankets, listening to the waves and watching the grand show over the Gulf of Mexico.
Which is lovely. Except for the fire-retardant (and not in a good way) folks who frequently express their love of country by shooting off illegal fireworks into the dry grasses and sea oats, and occasionally, the crowd.
Last year, one such reveler shot a firework into the grass and started a small fire. He scrambled over to put out the fire, accidentally setting his shoes on fire. When he finally extinguished the grass and his footwear with the help of a dad/ impromptu fireman, he wandered right back over to his laughing clan and shot off another one. Which landed in the same spot. And set the remaining uncharred grass aflame.
FireDad came to the rescue again, informing the amateur arsonist that he was on his own if the field caught fire again.
The Fourth of July is the busiest day of the year for ERs across the country.
The National Fire Protection Agency says that “nearly half the people injured by fireworks were younger than 15.” Sparklers, fountains and other “safe” fireworks accounted for 26% of the ER fireworks injuries.
Which doesn’t account for the thousands who just slap on a band-aid and guzzle another beer.
I think fireworks should be left to the professionals. But hey, that’s me.
Deb Lisa
July 2nd, 2008
| Posted by Lisa Daily | 2008 Debutante Ball, Authors, Books, Debut, Debut Novel, Debutante Ball, Debutante Lisa, Fifteen Minutes of Shame, Lisa Daily, Stop Getting Dumped!, Writing
| 13 Comments
Joining us today will be guest author Amy Wallen, whose debut novel, LA Times bestseller MoonPies and Movie Stars,
was just released in paperback.
Reviews have been fabulous for her novel:
“With a pitch perfect ear for comic dialogue and fine sense of the absurd, Amy Wallen writes herself a place on the porch swing of great Southern writing, as she follows the misadventures of three determined Texas ladies sworn to find a runaway daughter…”
–Janet Fitch, author of White Oleander
“[S]pirited and honest… Wallen capably illustrates that it is not only possible but also compelling to be funny, captivating, and compassionate, all in the same book.”
-Los Angeles Times
“A delightful and exhilarating journey, kind of like being on a tour bus
guided by Eudora Welty on speed.” –Mary Gordon, author of Pearl
“Wallen launches a funny, touching, and bittersweet ride in search of family, but what her characters find is bigger than Texas and better than MoonPies.” –Booklist
DB: Tell me a little about your book.
AW: MoonPies and Movie Stars is the story of Ruby Kincaid, the owner of a six-lane bowling alley in Devine, TX. When Ruby spots her runaway daughter on a ButterMaid commercial, she sets off for Hollywood to find her and make her own up to her responsibilities.
DB: What got you writing in the genre in which you write.
AW: I just started writing a story. I didn’t know it was anything until I was done. But then I write just plain ole fiction, so I don’t think there’s a prescription for how it comes about other than putting pen to paper and turn on the right parts of the brain and turn off the stuff you shouldn’t listen to—like my Self the editor.
DB: Favorite thing about being a writer?
AW: I get to make up worlds and people and make things happen. It’s like playing Barbie for grown ups.
DB: Least favorite thing about being a writer?
AW: It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It zaps every bit of my energy. I hike on a regular basis, large high difficult mountains, and yet they are never as exhausting as a day of writing.
DB: What is the most interesting thing that’s happened to you since becoming a published author?
AW: I’ve been asked to work on a new national public radio show called DimeStories based on a reading series I host once a month where the readers can only read 3-minute stories.
DB: What’s your favorite type of pie?
AW: Pot Pie. I’m fanatical about them. And now it can no longer be the frozen kind. I make my own. All kinds. My favorite one to serve at dinner parties is Salmon and Portobello pot pies. Yum.
Thanks so much, Amy, for visiting the Debutante Ball!
Amy Wallen has studied with a number of acclaimed writers, including Janet Fitch (White Oleander). She has taken those talents cultivated in the workshops of these great writers and brought them to her own creative writing classes at UC San Diego Extension. Amy also hosts an open mic night in San Diego, Los Angeles and New York called Dime Stories Live, in collaboration with the national public radio show airing this summer. This is her first novel. Visit her on the web at AmyWallen.com.
July 1st, 2008
| Posted by Jenny Gardiner | Amy Wallen, Jenny Gardiner, LA Times, MoonPies and Movie Stars, Sleeping With Ward Cleaver
| 8 Comments
As soon I saw that the theme this week was time capsules, I started hearing voices. More like a voice, to be specific. That of Jim Croce, singing Time in a Bottle.