Today I read a Maya Angelou quote that struck me like lightning. "When people show you who they are, believe them". That's so profound it's scary. Scary because we all make excuses for the people in our lives. We refuse to see what's right in front of us, because it hurts too much, it's too real, it's too awful. If we see it, we must do something about it. Better to hide our heads in the sand. Self preservation? Denial? A means of survival?
One of my favorite Elvis Costello songs is Deep Dark Truthful Mirror.
"One day you're gonna have to face that deep dark truthful mirror, and it's gonna tell you things I still love you too much to say".
Shakespeare said love looks not with the eyes but with the mind, therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Until today, I believed that meant love is blind, blind to race, looks, gender, class. But maybe Cupid was pretending to be blind, pretending not to see. When someone, even for just a moment, showed Cupid who they really were, he had to look the other way.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Was radio always this good?
I passed music lover a long while back. I am a music freak. Ask my Sony Walkman (can't bear to throw it out) my first generation IPod, my IPod shuffle, my IPad. When my IPod crashed, I nearly gave myself a ministroke with my grief and anger. So to find myself with two old cars, one with a radio and a CASSETTE player and the other with just a radio is beyond mortification. Beyond irony. It stinks on ice. I half expect to find an 8 Track player in my car tomorrow, and by next week a victrola. By December, a rock and a cowbell that happen to clang together when I make a left turn. Yet, I am not bitter. After years of CDs and the IPod in the car, I have rediscovered radio. And there is no better time for radio than now.
If I station hop, I can hear both Gaga songs in the top 40, both Adele songs, and both Bruno Mars songs. Pepper this with the superfun, hypnotic Pumped Up Kicks, a little Pink thrown in for pure pink pleasure, and Moves Like Jagger, and what more do you need? Missed Adele's Someone Like You? No worries, it's on two stations over, you only missed the first verse. It's the same 10 songs all day, my dears, and that's okay 'cause all of 'em are good!
If I station hop, I can hear both Gaga songs in the top 40, both Adele songs, and both Bruno Mars songs. Pepper this with the superfun, hypnotic Pumped Up Kicks, a little Pink thrown in for pure pink pleasure, and Moves Like Jagger, and what more do you need? Missed Adele's Someone Like You? No worries, it's on two stations over, you only missed the first verse. It's the same 10 songs all day, my dears, and that's okay 'cause all of 'em are good!
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
I Killed Vincent Gardenia
I don't mean to say I murdered him, I didn't kill him on purpose. I didn't kill him accidentally, either. But it's still my fault he's dead.
Let's go back to 1992 in Philadelphia. My brilliant friend who shall heretofore be referred to as, uuhhhh, Milton, knew how much I adored Vincent Gardenia. For the painfully young or ignorant, Vincent Gardenia was a beloved Italian actor, born in Naples and raised in Brooklyn, BROOK-A-LEEN according to the old school Italians I grew up with. He was Frank Lorenzo, Archie Bunker's neighbor. He was in Little Shop of Horrors, Bang The Drum Slowly, and best yet, Cher's father Cosmo in Moonstruck. Something about him really tickled me. He was in previews for a play, Breaking Legs, in Philadelphia. Milton called him at the theater, told him about me and my fondness for him, and my appreciation of his work. I knew every line of Moonstruck, and so did my teenage daughter. We spent hours taking turns being Cosmo and Loretta, Rose, Johnny, Ronnie, Uncle Raymond and Aunt Rita. So, when Vincent Gardenia, (and yes, I will be typing out Vincent Gardenia every time I mention his name) agreed to meet Milton and me for drinks one night after the show, I was thrilled! I thought I was it! Having rubbed elbows with some very famous rock stars, I wasn't starstruck at all, and I looked forward to a wonderful evening full of theater talk since Milton was a playwright and I a patron of the arts!
A day or two before our planned meeting, Vincent Gardenia died of a heart attack. I was sad, selfishly disappointed, heartsick. Then it occurred to me that he died to get out of having drinks with me. That it was all my fault, and the poor man, having a sharp sense of humor and great comedic timing, died to avoid me. To show Miss Fancypants Look at ME having Drinks with Vincent Gardenia, star of stage and screen, a thing or two. So, in my own, greedy, obsessive little way, I killed Vincent Gardenia. May he rest in peace.
Let's go back to 1992 in Philadelphia. My brilliant friend who shall heretofore be referred to as, uuhhhh, Milton, knew how much I adored Vincent Gardenia. For the painfully young or ignorant, Vincent Gardenia was a beloved Italian actor, born in Naples and raised in Brooklyn, BROOK-A-LEEN according to the old school Italians I grew up with. He was Frank Lorenzo, Archie Bunker's neighbor. He was in Little Shop of Horrors, Bang The Drum Slowly, and best yet, Cher's father Cosmo in Moonstruck. Something about him really tickled me. He was in previews for a play, Breaking Legs, in Philadelphia. Milton called him at the theater, told him about me and my fondness for him, and my appreciation of his work. I knew every line of Moonstruck, and so did my teenage daughter. We spent hours taking turns being Cosmo and Loretta, Rose, Johnny, Ronnie, Uncle Raymond and Aunt Rita. So, when Vincent Gardenia, (and yes, I will be typing out Vincent Gardenia every time I mention his name) agreed to meet Milton and me for drinks one night after the show, I was thrilled! I thought I was it! Having rubbed elbows with some very famous rock stars, I wasn't starstruck at all, and I looked forward to a wonderful evening full of theater talk since Milton was a playwright and I a patron of the arts!
A day or two before our planned meeting, Vincent Gardenia died of a heart attack. I was sad, selfishly disappointed, heartsick. Then it occurred to me that he died to get out of having drinks with me. That it was all my fault, and the poor man, having a sharp sense of humor and great comedic timing, died to avoid me. To show Miss Fancypants Look at ME having Drinks with Vincent Gardenia, star of stage and screen, a thing or two. So, in my own, greedy, obsessive little way, I killed Vincent Gardenia. May he rest in peace.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)