Magic Man

(Heart, 1976)

Today Ron and I joined the thousands of people flocking to the theaters to see the new Harry Potter movie, "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix." It was, quite simply, fabulous. Lots of bells and whistles, fancy wandwork and the divulging of just a little bit more of what makes Harry Potter such a provocative figure.

I've been a fan of Harry Potter since he was just a wee tyke. I've read all the books, seen all the movies. I've never taken seriously the accusations that JK Rowling is a wiccan and that these books are somehow a plot to lead our children down the wicked, wicked path of witchcraft. She may, in fact, be a wiccan, but if there's a subversive plot on Rowling's part I think it was how to become a billionaire overnight. Plot well executed, if you ask me.

Tyler grew up on these books and he hasn't been lured into casting spells or summoning spirits. Well, there was that one incident when I caught him trying to order of eye of newt, a pint of lizard's blood and a voodoo starter kit on the internet . . .

I think the Potter books can be educational from the standpoint that there IS evil in this world and we would be wise to be wise to it. We live in a fallen world. There are bad people and there are, conversely, very good people whose eyes are on the Prize and who refuse to be lured into the snare. Harry, being just an ordinary boy (except for the fact that he can do crazy things with a wand), has made choices all along the way that are honorable and draw others to the good side. If people are willing to look past the superficial supernatural aspects of the books, and subsequently the movies, I think they'd find some pretty redeeming messages.

And, on a completely unrelated note . . . Our gas bill (for the Prius AND the beater, aka the Plymouth Neon) this month was $26.03. Al Gore loves me. (Did you read, by the way, that Gore's 24-year-old son was caught with some weed and prescription meds that weren't his? The report I read happened to mention that he was driving a Prius when he was pulled over, so his dad can't be all that mad . . . )

Down Under

(Men at Work, 1982)

For some reason, which is completely beyond my comprehension, my husband and son tend not to believe me when I make certain statements. It could be that I'm constantly bragging that I got a BS in BS in college. Or maybe it's because I make stuff up all the time. But only when it doesn't count. The other night counted.

Ty's working at the Merriam pool, excuse me, the Merriam Aquatic Center, this summer as a slide boy. Because he's tired of grubby little kids climbing over his legs every day, he's decided that he needs to become a lifeguard. Mainly because in an 8-hour shift they have four hours off. Simply brilliant. Anyway, he, Ron and I were sitting on the screened-in porch acting like millionaires, sipping mint juleps in our red hunt jackets and jodhpurs (see, I'm making this up), when he began telling us the requirements of the lifeguard test. He was naming the different strokes and how to do them. He thought the breast stroke was when you push your arms from the front to the side and kick like a frog. I corrected him, saying that you push down with your hands in a prayer position. Then he mentioned something about "freestyle." I said, "You mean the Australian Crawl?" Both he and Ron looked at me like I had worms coming out my eyes. "What's that?" Ron sneered. They both took great pains to poke fun at my intelligence and insinuated that I was making it up. I calmly took off my cute granny glasses, placed my Henry VIII book on the chaise and went inside. Once the door was closed behind me, I made a beeline to Tyler's computer, where I googled "Australian crawl." Ha! Double Ha! I was so completely and totally right I wanted to cuss. I nonchalantly went back out to the porch and said, "I'm right." I also informed them that the Australian Crawl, or Front Crawl, is the most universally used stroke in freestyle competition, but that freestyle itself is not a swimming stroke. Tyler says "all the people" at the pool call if freestyling. I said I'd be happy to come up and school them if he'd like. He, of course, would not like.

Make no mistake. I am a smart woman. And I am not making that up.

War

(Edwin Starr, 1969)

The other night my dad was voicing his amazement at the way Keith Olberman ripped into George Bush on his MSNBC program "Countdown." I'm not why he was being ripped, but let's face it, GW gives everyone plenty of opportunity. Before I go any further let me state that while I don't necessarily admire the manner in which the President has performed during his tenure in the White House, I highly respect the office and think that anyone faced with the state of the world as we know it would have a tough time. However . . .

Ron and I watched "Countdown" tonight and I was reminded, again, why I shy away from the news. It's so dang frustrating, depressing, enraging . . . Call me Pollyanna or an ostrich with my head in the sand. The problems are SO overwhelming and ridiculously complicated. There are many things that I think this country desperately needs to survive another millennium. For example: an insurance overhaul, a fair immigration policy, the abolishment (or at least a HUGE reduction/revamping) of the welfare system - I could go on for days. We also need to learn how to be nice to each other. I'm not talking about tolerance. I'm saying the Golden Rule. As cliche as it sounds, do what Jesus would do. Working towards that would help solve the other problems and we could all join in unison, "I'd Like to Teach the World To Sing." Some of you might debunk my call for the return to morality (or the song) as the answer. But . . . it would create a clearer picture of right and wrong and better choices would be made. There are way too many shades of gray in our world's palette.

Olberman says that of the 18 benchmarks the Iraqi government should have reached by now, NONE of them has been accomplished. We've been there how many years? Spent how many billions of dollars? Cost how many thousands of lives? If the Iraqis haven't managed to cross one thing off their "to do" list by now, I don't think it's going to happen. We could occupy Iraq until the apocalypse (which could be SO much sooner than we think) and I'm not sure much progress would be made. (My mom used to make "to do" lists for us when we were kids and we couldn't do anything else until everything was done. The last thing on every list was "Be nice to your mother." Now there's a concept.)

Because I've just spent the better part of my summer reading 950+ pages about HST I now consider myself an expert in foreign affairs. Never mind it's the foreign affairs of over fifty years ago. There are many, many details that we, the average Joe and Jane, don't know, and quite frankly, would be scared witless if we did know. Who knows? The armed forces may be on the verge of making some startling new discovery. Like they found a weapon of mass destruction and it turned out to be Lindsay Lohan's personal credo.

War, unfortunately, has been practiced since the beginning of the world. They almost always are fought in the name of freedom. But I'm wondering if Iraq is ready to be free. They've been in such chaos for so long that it may be impossible to ever fully grasp that concept. I once heard a story about circus elephants that died in a fire, even after their trainers had unchained them so they could move to safety. They were so used to being tethered that they couldn't act to save their lives. Maybe if the trainers had stayed with them to guide them they might have lived, but, as a result, the trainers might have died. I think we're the trainers. And we still can't get the elephants to take one step.

You Give Love A Bad Name

(Bon Jovi, 1986)

I've had it, had it, had it. Using sexuality in commercials is certainly not a new idea. But when Dairy Queen enters into the sex game . . . I mean, come on. If you haven't seen it, here's the synopsis: A chocolate dipped waffle cone and and the familiar DQ curlicue dollop of ice cream are in a doctor's office. The doctor tells the couple there's no reason they can't have a healthy child. The waffle cone (the man) says, "You mean, I'm not . . .", to which the doctor replies, "No, you're not lactose intolerant." The waffle cone and the ice cream look at each other longingly and then bolt for the door. Apparently they can't wait to consummate their union. And then there's the ice cream (don't recall which brand - not a very effective ad, eh?) that's caught in the bedroom of an oh-so-innocent wife by the shocked and appalled husband. She's all like, "What can I do? It's ICE CREAM?" Exactly what message are these churners of yummy ice cream hoping to send? That eating this ice cream will be sexually satisfying? I'm all for a nice double dipped chocolate cone, but I can't say that I'd trade it for the old fashioned, say, romp in the hay. Wait. No, ok. I'm still in for the real thing. But check back with me in ten years.

Ron was looking at an ad for tires in some weekly circular over the weekend. There was a picture of a bikini-clad nymph thrown in between the radials and all-weather tires. Ron's now got his eye on some nice studded snow tires, but I'm guessing he'll change his mind when I tell him the girl's not part of the deal. A couple of years ago another tire company had these couples dancing cheek-to-cheek (both top and bottom) in wet clothes. I would bet money that the next time we're in Goodyear, Ron will try and put the moves on me. The whole Pavlovian thing.

Here's my deal: Let tires be tires. Let ice cream be ice cream. And let sex be sex. All in favor?

I'm Henry the VIII, I Am

(Herman's Hermits, 1965)

My latest foray into nonfiction is a book about the six wives of Henry VIII. It's somewhat tedious, but nonetheless a fascinating study of the women who found themselves attached (and in some cases detached, literally) to England's most famous male monarch.

I've just finished reading about Katherine of Aragon, Henry's first wife, and have just begun my study on Anne Boleyn. Actually, the first sentence kind of tells the whole story . . . "The story of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn began with passion and ended with a bloody death." Since the whole plot was kind of spoiled, I was sorely tempted to just skip ahead to Jane Seymour (not to be confused with Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman), but decided I shouldn't sell Anne so short. I'm glad I didn't. On the very next page came a startling revelation. Apparently, among her detractors was a Catholic critic who said she was the "author of all the mischief that was befalling the realm." Now that's my kind of woman. One who can stir up the pot and make all the bad stuff come to the surface. Now, in truth, I doubt the (first) lady to lose her head over the king was capable of disturbing all the peace in Britannia. That would be like blaming our president for all the trouble in the US of A. Hmmmmm. Not gonna go there, not gonna do it. But if I were him, I'd be wearing one of those big plastic collar things around his neck. Chop, chop.

Henry's myriad wives were the result of one thing - the unrelenting pressure to provide an heir to the throne. Many sons were born, but none survived to ascend to the throne (except maybe the bastard one and that was never gonna happen). In the end, Henry left only two legitimate heirs, Mary (from Katherine of Aragon) and Elizabeth (from Anne Boleyn). And we all know that Mary lost her head (at Elizabeth's behest; it took three chops of the axe to sever her head and I heard a nasty rumor that her mouth was still moving once her head finally rolled - reportedly her lips were moving in prayer) and Elizabeth ruled for 45 years. (I'd like to say that I knew how long EI's reign was, but I had to google it - now I know it, but probably won't remember it.) So there, Henry. Doesn't necessarily require a pair of you-know-whats to be a brilliant leader.

As a history major, my love for English history came late in my college career. In fact, had I not changed my major to history in the middle of my junior year (again, wouldn't recommend it) I probably wouldn't have ever learned that Richard III was the guy with the hump on his back or that Elizabeth I wore that awful white stuff on her face to conceal scars caused by some sort of pox (actually, I think I may have learned that in a movie). Anyway . . . England has a rich (literally - all the jewels, come on!) and spellbinding history. I would highly recommend the Masterpiece Theater piece on Elizabeth I (the one with Anne-Marie Duff). The music alone is absolutely wonderful. Duff gives an excellent portrayal of this once-reluctant queen, better, I think, than Helen Mirren's performance. And Cate Blanchet, well she was just plain creepy and chalk-boardy.

Other great period movies about England in the mid-centuries:
The Lion in Winter, about Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitane (Katharine Hepburn is, as always, superb)
A Man for All Seasons, about Sir Thomas More and his refusal to support Henry VIII in his attempt to have his marriage to Katherine of Aragon annulled so he can marry Anne Boleyn
Anne of a Thousand Days, about Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn

Other English movies I'd watch over and over again:
Pride & Prejudice (the A&E version with Colin Firth, NOT the one with Kiera "I Have Equine Teeth" Knightly)
Sense & Sensibility
Emma
Mrs. Brown (about Queen Victoria)
Remains of the Day
Vera Drake (FABULOUS movie about a woman who . . . you have to see it)

Happy viewing!

Blinded by the Light

(Manfred Mann, 1977)

Tonight in the car this song came on and Tyler was like "Did he just say 'wrapped up like a douche'?" I said I thought it was "wrapped up like a deuce," although I admitted I had no idea what that meant any more than I know what "wrapped up like a douche" could mean, unless it was something covered in plastic, which is how douches are packaged. I braced myself in case Tyler asked how I would know such a thing, but he wisely kept any thoughts about that to himself.

As the discussion went on, I said, "Have no fear, I'll look it up on the internet." Which I have now done. The correct phrase is "Revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night." I'm guessing it's referring to a deuce coupe, a type of souped up hotrod, also the subject of a Beach Boys song, appropriately titled, "Little Deuce Coupe."

Ok, so as I'm writing this post, I flip back to the Wikipedia site where I got the Manfred Mann reference (also little known fact: Bruce Springsteen first wrote and recorded this song on his debut album, but it flopped) and read a little further and this is what it said:
The chorus of the song features the commonly misunderstood lyric, "Blinded by the light, cut loose like a deuce, another runner in the night." ("Deuce" refers to a '32 Ford Deuce Coupe.) Many listeners hear the word "douche" in place of "deuce." Manfred Mann's Earth Band changed this line slightly to "revved up like a deuce" (often misquoted as "wrapped up like a douche") and repeated it much more frequently in their version than Springsteen did in the original; they also omitted parts of the verses and rearranged the order of the remaining lyrics.
Springsteen, in his 2005 VH1 Storytellers appearance, lightheartedly made the assertion that the sole reason that Manfred Mann's version of the song went to number one is that the altered lyric is actually "revved up like a deuce". Bruce said, "The original lyric is 'cut loose like a deuce" referring to a two seat hot-rod, a little deuce coupe. Manfred Mann changed the lyric to 'revved up like a douche', which is a feminine hygienic procedure....so, they're different" It should be noted, however, that Manfred Mann's website lists the lyric as "deuce" rather than "douche". It was once rumored that Chris Thompson's New Zealand accent may be responsible for swapping deuce for douche; however, this cannot be correct as "deuce" said with a New Zealand accent is pronounced something similar to "juice".

I think it's a sign of real intelligence (or some idiot savant condition) that I was able to come up with that little explanation BEFORE I read the Wikipedia stuff. Anyway, the rest of the song is complete jibberish, if you ask me, but it has a nice beat, now I know all the words to the chorus and I could dance to it. I'd give it an 85 on American Bandstand's "Rate A Record."

Hot Mama

(Trace Adkins, 2003)

The summer of 1980 had record setting hotness. It was so stupidly hot that I'd rather eat a hundred pounds of wild boar entrails than live through that summer again.

It was the summer my dad ran for Governor of Missouri. I had bribed/cajoled one of my sorority sisters to spend the summer traveling with me as I campaigned all across the state. I chose Kathi for two reasons. First, she was a Republican and I thought it would be funny for her to have to say Democratic things. Second, she was waaaaaaaay smarter than me. (She went on to law school and is now a judge in St. Louis.) I figured I could let her do the heavy lifting when it came to actually being articulate about campaign issues and I'd just smile and be cute. Worked pretty well.

I don't know how many miles we traveled, but it was probably enough to reach to the moon and back. Every day had the same itinerary. Go to 180 itty bitty towns. Make an appearance at the newspaper and radio station. Hand out literature in the town square. Eat lunch at a mom-and-pop diner and have the roast beef blue plate special. Visit the local nursing home and sing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" and "Amazing Grace." Drink lots of Pepsi and smoke lots of cigarettes (never in public, of course). Check in at the cheapest hotel possible (we stayed in one that had - and I'm dead serious - a pay phone in the room. And that was one of the classier joints.)

The worst day ever was the Fourth of July. It had to be 105+ degrees in the shade. We were in St. Louis so Ron was able to hold my hand and wipe by brow (and listen to me complain endlessly about how hot it was). We campaigned in Forest Park and some guy yelled at Ron, saying that about the only thing politicians were good at was lining their pockets with money. Ron still talks about it. It really annoyed him. I also rode in two parades, took three showers and still felt like a wilted lettuce leaf at the end of the day. I was one hot mama that day. Ok, so I was only hot. Now I'd be a tepid mama.