Happy Birthday to ME!

I became a full-fledged curmudgeon in about 1986 but had all the signs of that status well before then. Although I’ve been flirting with geezer and/or coot ever since, I don’t think I really fall into those categories quite yet (debatable, admittedly, but let us not go there).

I had a landmark birthday on October 21 (I was born in 1936—feel free to do the math or just ignore the reality the same way I plan on doing) and I really appreciate all the attention that was paid and want to thank everybody, publicly, for all the calls and cards and meals and the many assurances that I don’t look my age. I know, I know, age is just a number and you’re only as old as you feel and…well, you understand the patter; a sop to the obvious.

So we, the royal we, will now proceed into the NEXT decade and deal with what may come, whether wonderful, good, miserable or god-awful. Whatever happens, you may rest assured you can still count on me to be a royal pain in the ass.

Evil Theater

You know the word “sophomoric?” Don’t bother looking it up, all you have to do is pony up a few bucks and go see the new off-Broadway production of Evil Dead; The Musical. It’s at New World Stages on West 50th St. and, unfortunately, a bunch of sophomores are alive and well and proving just how unfunny they can be. I would like to say they are one step up from freshmen but, really, it’s only about a third grade level of competence. I don’t mind camp, goodness knows, I fell like a ton of bricks for “Bat Boy” and “Shanghai Moon” a couple of years ago and I’m a huge fan of ridiculous and farcical theater. I should have known better about actually forking over real money for Evil Dead when I saw an ad for it touting special pricing for seating in the “splatter zone.” I think my actual response was a loud “uh oh!” When I told a couple of buds that I had tickets; one of them said, “Oh, did you lose a bet or something?”

I seem to have done that very thing. I was looking forward to seeing what actually happens in the promised splatter zone and, although basic instinct advised otherwise, came back from intermission to witness it. I must confess it was fun seeing a bunch of kids make a mess of things. It was even more fun seeing three young members of the audience trying to clean up in the men’s room afterwards. Evil Dead seems to have already developed a cult following and there was a lot of knowledgeable audience participation but, luckily, I prefer sticking needles in my eyes and drinking poisoned Kool Aid to satisfy my cult-ish needs.

Evil Dead is gross and a bloody mess; and not just because of the vital organs scattered about and the extravagant amounts of blood spilled. The cast is young and enthusiastic and they sometimes sing well but, oh c’mon, everybody needs to grow up and go to acting school and learn the basic tenet(s) on playing farce! Listen kid, you have to play it straight, make your character as real as possible, pay attention to timing and let the material carry the comic weight, if any. Mugging and flopping around ain’t funny; no matter what your Aunt Bea told you.

Maybe I’m being too rough on this piece of off-Broadway experimentation, and I admit that my two companions enjoyed the show more than I did and were able to accept the show for what it was. Anita Gates, in her NY Times review said "Sure, the show is idiotic, but that's the point." So maybe it’s my own fault for being a curmudgeon and requiring more competence on their side of the footlights. Naw. Whatever, it's NOT the next Rocky Horror Show but go see it if you want. It's a blast of fetid air.

Sky Mirror

This is sculptor Anish Kapoor's monumental "Sky Mirror," which is currently being displayed in the channel gardens of Rockefeller Center in NYC. It's about three stories high, made of polished stainless steel (thus the mirror-like finish) and is convex on one side and concave on the other. I've seen it three times now; once under drizzly leaden gray skies; once with patches of blue framed by scudding white and gray clouds and once around midnight, the sky black as pitch. Each time I found it more impressive and I'm sure any time of day or night would be a different visual reward. Sky Mirror is some humdinger of a sculpture and all for the price of a subway ride, thanks to New York's Public Art Fund. It's on 5th Avenue between 49th and 50th Streets. It's worth the trip (through October 27th).

Lines Upon a Tranquil Brow

Have you ever while pond’ring the ways of the morn,
Thought to save just a bit, just a drop in the horn;
To pour in the ev’ning or late afternoon,
Or during the night when we’re shining the moon?
Have you ever cried out while counting the snow
or watching the tomtit warble Hello…
“Break out the cigars, this life is for squirr’ls.
We’re off to the drugstore to whistle at girls”….?

These are the lyrics, punctuation intact, of a song called Lines Upon a Tranquil Brow and, according to the sheet music, to be sung “liltingly.” They are an example of the sweet and silly rhymes of the beloved (by me at least) Walt Kelly.

Walt died in 1973. At the time I was not only saddened but felt like kicking myself in some tender place because I had always meant to write him a fan letter to tell him I loved him and that I thought he was some kind of genius. He was, of course, the creator of the comic strip Pogo and my hero at that time in my own personal history; a small town boy whose sense of humor was more silly than serious. After growing up a bit I began to notice his politics, reflected fairly obviously in the strip, and they had a profound impact on me. His comment was satiric and pointed but always, oddly enough, gentle.

I owned all of his books and still have some of them, tattered though they be, and I still riffle and ruffle their pages from time to time. His take on the Pied Piper story still has the power to break my heart. Scattered hither and thither throughout his books were little poems with quirky rhymes and rhythms and, obviously, lyrical enough to become, well, lyrics. In collaboration with composer Norman Monath a songbook was born and I was almost first in line to buy the paperback version to the tune of $1.95, an extravagant investment for me at the time. I’m happy to report I still have it, although slightly shabby…a state of body and mind with which I currently identify.

Somewhere along the line (I could probably do the research for the date but am filled with ennui at the thought) Mr. Kelly, Mr. Monath and a bunch of spies and collaborators got a lot of these songs onto vinyl and I was the instant proud owner of the LP. I was most gratified to learn that Walt couldn’t sing worth a damn, another thing that endeared him to me, since I tend to lip synch the happy birthday song instead of trying to carry the tune. Unfortunately the record didn’t stick to me (like the books) and it got lost in the mists of time and the gnarly suspicion that somebody purloined it when I wasn’t looking. Anyway, at long last, the LP has been re-mastered and the CD can be purchased with the touch of a button on Amazon.com. I am thrilled and I am again touched by the silliness and the basic humanity of Mr. Kelly and his alter-ego, that nice possum Pogo. You’re a genius Walt Kelly and I love you.

Insects on Parade

I spotted a praying mantis in my backyard today. Big and green and slow and seemingly not having a care in the world; I could easily have captured it and put it in a jar. I let it be, of course—the beauty of some creatures demand they be left alone. But I did think about building her a little altar in my ivy topiary so she would have something on which to pray. (I know, I know, there is a joke here about pray/prey but I think not, my dear; it being way too obvious.) But she doesn’t need my altar; she can take care of herself…it’s the aphids that need an emergency warning system because to a praying mantis they are hors d’oeuvres, soup, salad and the main course (this is true in all mantis households and I have this on good authority). I do love the praying mantis because they are so beautiful and useful but, even though I have a soft spot for dragonflies and might waffle in their favor, I think probably my very favorite is the ladybug.

They just seem so damn nice, don’t they? And cute! Dragonflies are all wings and glitz and don’t really have much personality and they won’t crawl on you fearlessly like a ladybug will.

Did you notice how I became gender specific regarding these insects? She. I referred to them as “she.” In the animated film A Bug’s Life (from Pixar) the ladybug was male; however, being a Lady Bug pretty much ruined his life because the entire insect world thought of him as female no matter how vociferously he protested. It didn’t help that his name was Francis. Pixar, being the sweethearts they are, eventually let him come to terms with his feminine side.

It seems like I grew up with ladybugs and was never in the least tempted to treat them with anything but affection. I would put one on my finger and merrily sing the “Lady bug, lady bug, fly away home…” song, and twirl like a mad child until it took off. I think you were supposed to count until it flew away; I don’t remember why. Even now, when I encounter one of these cutie pies I’m filled with affection, and this summer there seemed to be quite a few flittin’ around the beach.

Doing a little research I’ve discovered that I didn’t quite have the correct wordage to the nursery rhyme. Here’s what I remember chanting as a child:

Lady Bug! Lady Bug! Fly away home,
Your house is on fire and your children will burn.

Pretty rough stuff, huh? According to Mother Goose and Father Google it goes like this:

Lady Bug! Lady Bug! Fly away home,
Your house is on fire, and your children are gone.

Is this really true or are we now being politically correct? Anyway, the next refrain gets personal:

All except one, and that’s little Ann,
For she crept under the frying pan.

That part is news to me, until this very night. My mother, being a bit kinder than your typical Goose, taught it to me this way:

All except one, and that’s little John,
Saved from the fire by the pool on the lawn.

Is it any wonder I’m a sucker for ladybugs?

Getting No Quarter

I wish someone would explain the psychology behind this one. A friend and I were strolling about in the East Village last week; East 9th Street just off Ave. A to be exact (in case you want to check this out) when my companion suddenly swooped down and tried to pick something up from the sidewalk. Springing erect he voiced resigned displeasure, expletive deleted, and I looked down at his quarry. It was a nice shiny quarter but it had been glued to the sidewalk. I kicked at it a little bit to make sure before we ambled on. So the question is, what kind of mind is behind this sort of tomfoolery? What’s the philosophy behind it? Is it just to make people look and feel like idiots? Or, at least, in the eye of the instigator it might be funny but it’s not really such a foolish thing to pick up a quarter is it? It’s a quarter for god’s sake! You can make a phone call with a quarter or buy a tiny bit of candy or, at least, utilize it for something useful. It’s not a penny or a nickel, both of which are fairly useless these days (I still pick them up).

And what about this? The person who did it not only had to waste a quarter but they had to buy Krazy Glue or some other instant adhesive. My goodness, you can buy a jelly donut AND make a phone call for the cost of this “joke.”

Of course we continued on, forgetting all about it (a severely minor trauma in the big old city) until later in the day, when I reached the top of the stairs at my subway stop (in Brooklyn), and there was ANOTHER one. I witnessed three people trying to pick it up, one rather precariously. Holy cow, is this the next big thing from our useless youth? I suppose it’s better than having them spend their money on spray paint but what the heck, ya know?

A Wee Commentary on Blogging

Wait...hold up a minute!

...I had to post my blog.