Heaven, thy name is Dagoba

Through the auspices of my niece I have discovered Dagoba organic chocolate bars. Obscenely dense with a high percentage of cacao, they are any chocolate lovers dream. The 87% “eclipse” is a tad too bitter even for my taste but the other flavors, mostly in the 76% range, are delicious (and approved by vegans everywhere). Through handy dandy Google I now know really a lot about cocoa in general and Dagoba bars in particular but to hell with the details; I can trust my taste buds without knowing the history and the intellectual source of the pleasure.

Don't Look Back!

The myth of Orpheus and Eurydice is well known and has been told through the centuries in almost all art forms. Eurydice dies on their wedding day and Orpheus travels to the under-world to bring her back. Hades, the god in charge, agrees to this on one condition: Orpheus must walk in front of her on the as-cent and not look back until they have reached the upper world. In his anxiety and doubt he breaks his promise and turns to see if she is following and Eurydice vanishes from his sight, return-ing to the underworld; this time for eternity. Pretty tragic stuff, huh? In the usual telling of this story the emphasis is on Orpheus and there are many myths surrounding him; including his traveling with Jason and the Argonauts with his music being the key to escaping the lure of the sirens. He’s also credited with most things musical including the invention of the lyre and, probably, the old soft shoe (just kiddin’).

For months I’ve had my eye on an off-Broadway pro-duction of a new version of this story simply called Eurydice, and it retells the myth from her viewpoint which occasionally isn’t all that kind to this willfull and wistful (and tone deaf) character. My chance to see it heaved into view on Sunday and, luckily, I was able to snag tickets for the matinee and I’m happy to report that, well, I remained happy after seeing it.

When taking one’s seat the set is in full view and it (the set, not the seat) soars high into the flies and looks like a skewed, off kilter spa with various shades of green and teal and blue 8 x 10 tiles covering the sky-high walls. There are pipes and drains (and a hand pump) and you just know there is a chance you might get wet. Everything is slightly askew, slanting just enough off true to make the viewer un-comfortable and disoriented, unable to anchor a focal point for the restless eye. In the play there are lot of water metaphors and we learn fairly early on that, in this case, water is not the benign element we would like it to be since it is the instrument of forgetfulness between the living and the dead. Within this setting the rules are strict and any aberrent behavior is observed by three “stones,” a goofy and menac-ing greek chorus, and the inhabitants of this limbo are scolded and ridiculed for trying to retain any memory of past lives, or loves. In this particular version Eurydice joins her long-deceased father who seems to have avoided passing into oblivion, somehow maintaining language and understanding; perhaps his sole purpose in death has been that of waiting for his daughter to arrive. In fact, those beautiful tiles are actually 8 x 10 letters he has written to her and posted to the heavens, obviously undelivered and unread. Presumably the love of a father for his daughter is therefore strong enough to withstand the pressure of forgetfulness and he somehow defies the rules.

When Eruydice actually does show up in the underworld (via a rain drenched elevator) she has metaphorically passed through the river of forgetfulness (that elevator) and has to be tutored by her father to relearn language and basic human sentience, and to remind her what it’s like to be a living, thinking being. At first she thinks she has checked into some fancy hotel and asks her father, mistaking him for the bellhop, where her room is and in a highly theatrical way he builds her a room out of string. It’s a beautiful, moving sequence; but only one of several clever and emotional theatrical devices.

In the meantime through the strength of his music, possibly greek-god (lower case) given, Orpheus is able to negotiate his way to the underworld where the story takes its traditional tragic turn. Only in this version she is the one who screws up their ascent by being assailed by doubts, the love and comfort she has attained with her father and the ever increasing roar of civilization as they approch the upper world. She calls his name (it’s up to you to fathom why she does this) and he turns to look at her; thereby screwing up the bargain. Well, damn her fickle hide.

I truly loved this play; its modern interpretation and its beautiful and quirky language. It was thrillingly theatrical, visually exciting and beautifully acted and directed. Some of the metaphorical staging escaped me (I had trouble with the highly variable character of Hades) but that’s as it should be; and maybe on purpose. I love a good mystery and I should be able to understand all the clues; but if I don’t, well, it’s my own unimaginative fault.

This is one of those productions that should have had a permanent home off-Broadway but, of course, it’s already just a slowly dimming memory (...hey, it was hot out and I needed the water). Although extended several times, this production closed after Sunday’s evening performance; the closing itself possibly a metaphor for what’s wrong with commercial theater. For instance, Naked Boys Singing (self explanatory) is still going strong right up the street.

Another bowling-related blog...sorry!

Three or four days ago I got my notice giving times and dates, etc. for my fall/winter bowling league. An addendum at the bottom exhorts us to “name” our team (instead of just being called “Team 10,” for instance). I spent a restless hour in bed that night, before sleep would come; wrestling with various options for my team with my busy brain buzzing like a box of bees. I thought of some cool names and knowing I would totally forget them I turned on the light and jotted down a few and then went back to bed. My sizzling synapses continued to snap and sputter, so I got up again. And then once more. I finally under-stood the problem. There are 26 teams in the league and I felt it my duty to not just name my own team, I needed to come up with all 26! What an idiot!

I tried not to use obvious words that actually reference the sport of bowling like The Strike Squad or Gutter Boys but the terms do tend to creep in and I was not entirely successful at avoiding them. Here’s what my restless, sleep deprived, brain came up with:

Alien Invasion
Artful Dodgers
Comfort Zone
Cry Uncle
Demon Spawn
Don’t Feed the Animals
Hold the Mustard
Hot Diggity Dawgs
Incredible Hulks
Kinky Boots
Lickity Splits
Love Handles
Love Monkeys
Marks Bros.
Puppy Dog Tails
Oxymorons
Slithy Toves
Spare Change
The Green Hornys
Three Deadly Sins
Triple Threats
Under the Rainbow
Where’s the Beef
Who’s Your Daddy
Wisteria Lane
Your Worst Nightmare

To go along with current social and contemporary usage you can substitute a “z” for every “s” as in Triple Threatz, Kinky Bootz, etc. This almost doubles the possibilities. Consider these suggestions as public domain; no origination credit need be acknowledged. You’re welcome.

Beard's Bear

This is a rather famous exam-ple of the work of William Hol-brook Beard. Maybe even better known is a painting that hangs promi-nently at the New York His-torical Society that depicts anthropomorphic bulls and bears of Wall Street brawling in the streets of the financial district. Beard was very popular in his heyday in the late 1800’s and to this day you can still buy reproductions of his work…although I’m not really sure why anyone would want to.

Equally bemusing is the fairly recent (2002) installation of a headstone in Brooklyn’s famous Green-Wood cemetery on Mr. Beard’s grave (he died in February of 1900). The more I look at this photo the more I am puzzled by how this large monument made it through the very tough censors of Green-Wood, who are known for strictly enforcing a ban on “intru-sive” displays, thereby avoiding any sort of “disneyfication” or the inclusion of schlock that might cause controversy in what should be a quiet and contemplative place. In fact, upon installation of Mr. Bear the cemetery’s director, Richard J. Moylan, mentioned the fact (proudly?) that this headstone was the first example of “contempor-ary” art to be installed in decades. So why this exception? Dan Oster-miller, a Colorado sculptor specializing in animals, donated the sculpture and the cemetery itself (they have a “historical fund”) sprung for the fancy granite gravestone, so it’s not like they snuck the thing in on the sly.

I’m not saying I don’t like this chubby, tipsy-looking bronze bear (yes, he’s hollow and clangs when you give him a firm knuckle) but is it appropriate to this particular cemetery? Absolutely not. So how did this happen? Did somebody feel impish at a crucial point in the nego-tiations? Did some silver exchange paws? Are they about to start selling reproductions? It is certainly setting a precedence, and not a good one, if someone else gets puckish with their family plot.

Imaginary Friends

This is Barney. Cute, huh? Barney is a recent acquisi-tion of my friends Ira and Russ, who live in Pacifica, Calif. They also have a dog named Kuma. This Barney cutie-pie got me to thinking about the names my friends and family have come up with to apply to the crea-ture comforts in their households. Besides Barney and Kuma the dog’s names are Uli, Klaus, Tigger, Jag, Maverick, Tucker and Capuccino (Cappy).

The people who are owned by cats are Jessie, Trish, Ben and Michael. Their cat’s names are Cleo, Minnie, Kitty (pretentiously pronounced kitTAY) and Toby.

Most of my friends do not harbor animals but, nevertheless, I apolo-gize to anybody, two or four legged, I’ve forgotten.

The reason I’m bringing this up is that I recently fell across a website that listed the current most popular names of dogs and cats in both the United States and Australia. They list 60 for both species. The top five for females: Maggie, Molly, Daisy, Bailey and Abby. Coming in sixth is Tiger. For males it’s Buddy, Jake, Max, Hunter and Cody. Sixth is, again, Tiger! I’m only presuming this website is legitimate but the result seems a little fishy to me. Bailey? Cody? Well, they do in-clude Australia in the mix so maybe it works.

I do like the names Max for a male and Maggie for a female; canine or feline being beside the point. Up until now my imaginary pets have been nameless so I guess giving them an identity is the next step in doddering into old age. Gender has yet to be determined. Imaginary pets don’t really need reproductive systems anyway so proof of gender is, thus, not necessary.

Chump Change

On Friday, July 13, 2007 The New York Times raised its daily newsstand price from $1:00 to $1.25 and the Sunday edition went from $3.50 to $4.00. I mentioned then how much I thought that sucked. Three weeks later, August 6th, The New York Times got smaller:

To Our Readers

Starting today, The Times
is reducing the width of its
pages by an inch and a half,
to the national newspaper
12-inch standard.

The move cuts newsprint
expenses and, in some print-
ing press locations, makes
special configurations un-
necessary.

Slight modifications in de-
sign preserve the look and
texture of The Times, with
all existing features and sec-
tions and somewhat fewer words
per page.

You’ve got to wonder about the timing of this. You raise the price and then reduce the size only three weeks later? On the editorial page there is another To Our Readers blurb telling us that because of this size reduction available space for letters has been reduced by about a third. But, “Don’t Worry. We are making up for the lost space in the printed paper by expanding the letters section on our Web site, where space is not an issue…”

Well, I’m sorry…I can’t help but worry. Even before this size (and price) innovation, in regular issues of The Times, we were often directed to their Web site for additional or further exploration of a reported topic. Well, okay, but I never bothered. Nor will I bother now with the letters; who cares what you think or, for that matter, what I think. But we just know this is only a harbinger of what will eventually happen. All the news that’s fit to “print” will be on-line and another example of the American Way will expire…that is; my morning coffee (with accompanying nosh) and The Times spread out before me. But first, we will probably go through phases of having less and less paper (and cream cheese) as time goes by. I picture, finally, a very thin Reader’s Digest and, then, nada.

I suppose I should be glad we can help save the forests but, I don’t care, my loyalty to The Times is being eroded from without. I’ve often said I swear by this paper and most of my knowledge, opinions and general attitude are influenced by it. It’s so hard to lose one’s high regard for something in the face of commerce and I shouldn’t be surprised and/or betrayed. It’s my own fault for loving the pedestal more than the monkey on it.

Bowling For Tin

What is there about trophies that defy the possibility of art? Why are they just the ugliest possible tchotchke? Trophies as a species seem to be inherently ugly…witness the Oscar, Tony, Emmy, Heismann, Super Bowl and every other major and minor piece of hammered metal, glass, enamel and plastic. Even that claret jug from the British Open, as prestigious as it might be, looked to me like a piece of ersatz junk.

But the bottom of the barrel, any barrel, has to be the lowly bowling trophy. In this case the word “lowly” seems to have been coined specifically to fit this particular object. I’ve only recently been exposed to these trophies again, having taken up the sport after a 13-year hiatus. I had forgotten, but now am bemused by the fact, that the cheapest, tinniest metal and plastic used to manufacture them seems to have always been the norm. And the shiny, off-gold bowler-figure on top hasn’t changed one bit.

I understand there is a tendency afoot to not award trophies at all but to use the money saved by doling it out as cash to the winners. I guess it’s a step in the right direction but a lot of people who win want something concrete to cuddle with for a while; something to prolong the memory. I must confess I do like the beribboned medal I won at a tournament last year and, this summer, the trophy I got was a snow globe, which has some sort of camp value (if, that is, you have a fondly remembered camp at which to leave it).

Snowglobes may not be a step in the right direction but, at least, it shows somebody is thinking out of that tin and plastic box. Still, it would be interesting to know the statistical volume taken up by bowling trophies in urban landfills.

My Virtual Speedo Model Experience

This is “virtual model” me. If there is any brand name I’m fairly loyal to (besides Skippy peanut butter) it’s Speedo. I have sweatshirts and tanktops and flipflops and even a watch with the Speedo logo. Of course I have several sets of swim trunks; both briefs and boxers. The other day I was shopping around on their website and noticed a new icon-button called “My Virtual Model Experience.” How cool. What you do is build yourself a person that sort-of reflects your physical/facial persona and then you dress him or her (like a paper doll) in Speedo products.

I understand that Speedo has an image to maintain, that is, they want everybody to look like swim stars or surfer dudes but, of course, how many of us actually have that sort of build? Not me certainly and, frankly, nobody I know. So I built a virtual model of myself and this illustration was the best I could do within the parameters allowed. I guess the parameters are that you can’t be too fat or too old or, heaven help us, hirsute or tonsorially challenged. So, okay, after being told automatically (several times) my “model” could not be adjusted for the height and weight combination I entered, I settled on the one you see here. Good enough, even though I don’t have that much hair and the moustache sucks and my waistline, shall we say, is carried a tad further south.

So, on to the “dressing room” phase, oh what fun! I looked through the products offered and although their warehouse must be chock-o-block with various types of haberdashery, there are very few products that seem to fit my “virtual” body. Briefs and square-cut boxers are not available and the big old baggy kid-stuff just looks silly. I can only surmise that the prudish hand of semi-censorship has hit the fan and the possibility of anyone being portrayed skimpily (at least we more corpulent types) is verboten, which is to laugh: hahaheeheyahahaaa! That is to say, like an adolescent hyena. Which is fairly fitting, as it were. So this is my virtual self; clad in default gray shorts. How humiliating...

My advice to Speedo: make it real or take it down!