Friday, May 24, 2013
My 40th anniversary: something you remember
The most
momentous times in your life have a way of stopping you in your tracks.
Or is it like
this? You never know how momentous those times are until they go rushing past you.
As Oscar
Levant (or was it Oscar Wilde? Almost everyone gets them mixed up) once said,
“Happiness isn’t something you experience, it’s something you remember.”
Ah, yes. Yes,
once. Once I was happy.
What’s happy, anyway? I’ve never been one to experience long sweeps of unbroken happiness.
I’ve always found a way to spoil it somehow. So much of life is lived in the
middle, muddled through while you’re busy making other plans.
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Once, forty
years ago (today!), I was a 19-year-old girl, I was clueless, I was profoundly in love, and I got
married. I have been trying to write about it ever since.
It’s impossible,
like writing about God (though neither of us are remotely godlike). Somebody
once said that writing about music is like dancing about architecture, and
that’s nothing to writing about a 40-year marriage. Which is not to say I've never tried: since 1973 I've written newspaper columns, blog posts, epic poetry, and even a song I recorded on a CD, all of which made him cry. But did any of it really express the truth?
I will say
that this particular anniversary really bothered me. It’s that “forty” thing.
It’s so foursquare, so cornery and table-like, so lost-in-the-wilderness-ish,
so Noah’s-rainstorm-ish (though 40 days and 40 nights of rain is nothing compared to these parts). "Fat and forty". "Fifty-four forty or fight" (and what the hell does that mean, anyway?). It’s like no other number. Heavy, dense, blockish,
a complete square, a cube of lead.
It makes me feel, not so much old, as abandoned by time. All the best times rushed by so fast that they barely left an imprint. It’s like that superb Truman Capote quote from a few posts ago: "Happiness leaves such slender records; it is the dark days that are so voluminously documented."
I had traumatic times that nearly finished me and left scars on my family, and now I know it was from an illness, not any cruelty or weakness on my part. If I had been weak, all that would be left is a tombstone. I won't recount them now, because I don't have to - living through them once was enough.
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So why aren’t
I writing about Bill? He's half of this, isn't he? This past year has brought great change, yet we seem to
be getting along for the most part. He has retired, and that has been a huge thing
for him. He’s the type of person who keeps busy, but his busyiness has no real substance
to it intellectually. If it weren’t for my alligator-wrestling
engagement with the writing process every day, I might be in the same place.
A small surprise, or maybe not so small, is the fact that I usually don't feel like killing him. He slips around and does his thing while I concentrate ferociously on my work or making stuffed critters for the grandkids. He comes and goes. We take walks around LaFarge Lake and look at the ducks (a favorite activity: the ducks are very entertaining). We eat cheap because we don't have a lot of money.
I honestly wondered how it would be with his constant presence in the house, after all those years of having the place to myself. We fairly recently had one huge fight that I worked into a piece of fiction about my ambivalence over turning 40. Afterwards I said to him, “Do you expect us never to fight at all?” The same things always happen: God, are marriages stamped out with a cookie-cutter, or what? Why do fights always come out the same? Why is the same ammunition pulled out, decade after decade? I know how much he has on me, and it terrifies me into keeping my worst objections to myself.
A small surprise, or maybe not so small, is the fact that I usually don't feel like killing him. He slips around and does his thing while I concentrate ferociously on my work or making stuffed critters for the grandkids. He comes and goes. We take walks around LaFarge Lake and look at the ducks (a favorite activity: the ducks are very entertaining). We eat cheap because we don't have a lot of money.
I honestly wondered how it would be with his constant presence in the house, after all those years of having the place to myself. We fairly recently had one huge fight that I worked into a piece of fiction about my ambivalence over turning 40. Afterwards I said to him, “Do you expect us never to fight at all?” The same things always happen: God, are marriages stamped out with a cookie-cutter, or what? Why do fights always come out the same? Why is the same ammunition pulled out, decade after decade? I know how much he has on me, and it terrifies me into keeping my worst objections to myself.
But he has
rotten little habits too, the very worst being chuckling when I am really
furious and have a serious, legitimate grievance. He doesn’t laugh out loud,
just smiles and bobs his head. I could kill him at such times, and why not?
Could anything be more soul-negating than having your partner of 40 years LAUGH
when you are angry and hurt and desperate for understanding?
I have told
him one thousand times how much this devastates me. And he still does it.
Every time.
It’s a way of slicking me off. One time he said to
me, Margaret, I HAVE to ignore you or I just wouldn’t be able to stand it.
That’s how I cope with you.
I’d say all
the good things about him now, but it’s my party and I’ll bitch if I want to.
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I used to go on
and on – I don’t any more, cuzzadafact that now I know it isn’t true – about
what a miracle our marriage was because our temperaments and our
interests/proclivities are so different, so nearly the opposite, and yet. . .
I know now that’s complete bullshit. We are EXACTLY THE SAME.
I know now that’s complete bullshit. We are EXACTLY THE SAME.
We both have
analytical minds. We are both intensely curious and need a great deal of mental
stimulation. We are both ferociously loyal, stubborn, territorial, profoundly
devoted to family, furious when faced with insincerity and other forms of bullshit,
oversensitive, sentimental (he’s worse than me, WAY worse, and cries at
commercials), opinionated, and doggedly, bashing-the-head-against-the-brick-wall
persistent. We laugh at the same things, which is no small matter. We are two introverts, two INFJs, two cave bears who found each other and chose, without consciously deciding, to mate.
Similar enough
for you? Why did it only take 40 years for me to figure that out? We even have
a similar interest in science, though mine is just sprouting up due to the
sometimes-enlightening things I see on what remains of educational TV.
(Remember how TLC stands for The Learning Channel, and A and E is Arts and
Entertainment? Like, Honey Boo-Boo is art.) He'll tell me, "There's a show on National Geographic Channel tonight about the Neanderthal genetic code." (He knows I'm crazy for anthropology.) I'll say, "Museum Secrets is all about the technology of medieval weaponry." We'll probably watch these shows separately, but isn't it nice we know each other's tastes?
Marriage is
sort of profound, and sort of mundane, an arrangement. Even a deal. Sounds
awful, but since it involves everyday routine, it’s true. Every deep
relationship has rules. Yes, RULES. Try breaking them some time. Try stepping
on your partner’s personal minefield and see what happens to you. And you never marry just one person. If you’re
close at all, you drag your family history behind you like a
five-thousand-pound circus tent. If you have children together, you literally
mingle and commingle your genetic material into a new person. It’s fantastic,
it’s incredible, and it happens every day.
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We all live in
the moment, but it’s something of a bubble, a fragile one that can be pricked
by anything. The past usually comes back, not in a flood, but in scenes, parts
of scenes, brief flashes. I am immensely gratified by
YouTube, because my memory of all those moments from TV that I saw at age six are
accurate down to the bone. TV themes, cartoons, Howdy Doody. . . PROOF! Proof
that yes, this IS how things happened, see, see, I was right, my memory of things is crystalline and perfect, and you with your mossy-brained amnesia couldn't be
more wrong.
I like this
sort of thing, I like being right, but he never acknowledges it. He just goes
about his business, frying eggs or doing something under the sink. This is what
it’s like to be married for forty years, or maybe four minutes. And at this
time of life, you begin to dread, absolutely dread being left alone.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
The man who ate himself to death
TLC followed Ricky Naputi for years for their special, “900 Pound Man: The Race Against Time.” Naputi lived in Guam and had not been out of his apartment in years because of his weight. It was estimated he consumed about 10,000 calories a day and had grown in size to 900 pounds at one point.
He was cared for by his wife, Cheryl, who was loyally by his side through everything. She dealt with struggles, like not being able to consummate their marriage, but loved her husband.
He’d been told to lose weight before he could undergo a surgery that could potentially save his life. Unfortunately, Naputi didn’t make it to that. His wife was by his side and she was the one who found him and made the 9-1-1 call, which was played on the special.
“He was OK. I don’t know what happened,” she told the operator. “I was just laying here.”
Paramedics quickly arrived and tried to revive Naputi, working for an hour, but it was too late. The official cause of death was morbid obesity. Ricky Naputi was 39 years old when he died.
I have to confess I am hooked on "fat shows", even though I watch them through my fingers. What absolutely amazes me is how similar they are. This one was more disturbing than most, not just for the fact that this enormous naked man lay on a huge bed in the same room for years and years, but because SOMEONE helped him get that way, or even - it could be argued - actually made him that way.
There's always a wife, usually submissive, usually so codependent she seems to have no emotional boundaries at all. Since thousands of calories don't drift through the air and magically land in his mouth, "guess who" must carry them to his bedside year after year. And yet, this crucial issue is never addressed the way it needs to be. There is never a direct confrontation, just gentle reminders that maybe she should go out and buy some vegetables.
I watched this show, and I wanted to throw something at the screen. Ricky's wonderful, loyal, devoted wife who said she loved him more than anything in the world was murdering him, plate by greasy plate. She would cook and serve him literally anything he wanted, in any quantity, at any time. Her explanation was, "My husband wears the pants in the family" (ironic considering he was naked all the time, clothes that size being out of the question).
As usual, the wife cared for her husband's every need (except sex - he wasn't capable of that and the marriage had never been consummated), wiping his creases and washing his hair as if he were an enormous half-ton baby. After a while it became obvious that her need to do this was far greater than his need to receive it.
But I was even more furious at the way they pleaded for help, often in a whiny, weepy way, then refused help when it came, blew it off as soon as they were given an ultimatum or even mere instructions about the absolute necessity of losing some serious weight before having gastric bypass surgery.
Maybe because of all these TV shows, gastric bypass surgery is now considered the Answer to Everything in morbid obesity circles. There have been whole shows dedicated to it, and all the recipients seem to be success stories. But just lately, I've seen three shows where the results were not so positive. In each case, the "half-ton" subject (and TLC does like to use that term) died in their 30s before they could be helped.
Former pop singer and general professional whiner Carnie Wilson has made a side show of her own weight battles, having her bypass surgery broadcast live on the internet (and what if she had died on the table?), going blatantly public with her dramatic weight loss which she was apparently thrilled with (but I wasn't buying it: she did not look happy at all). Then came news the weight had started to creep back on. Then gallop. Next she was on Oprah, weeping histrionically to everyone that she was an alcoholic because of her "issues" (the main one being having Brian Wilson for a father). Then she was scheduling another bypass. Then. . .
The bizarre world of "reality" TV has either spawned or showcased a new kind of narcissistic personality disorder characterized by a sense of entitlement. Fix me, or else. Ricky Naputi managed to attract the attention of one obesity specialist after another, some of whom flew halfway around the world to counsel him at his bedside. He sort of went blank during these sessions, not really looking at the doctor or responding, and at one point his wife grunted, began to text someone (a complaint to somebody, no doubt) and walked out of the room.
And this after an Australian surgeon laid it on the line for them in a way which they might have seen as direct, respectful and a huge relief. I like directness, and hard as it is, I believe in taking responsibility for your problems, no matter how overwhelming or complex. This fellow was giving the Naputis a way out - you could be walking in a year, Ricky was told - and over and over again they sloughed it off and went back to their termite queen syndrome (which in this case, given the lack of sex, felt squirmingly like a feeder/gainer scenario in which one partner stuffs the other into complete immobility).
They wanted the problem fixed, but they didn't want to do anything. She in particular offended me with her vagueness, her claims to love him, and her bizarre 9-1-1 call at the end in which she seemed vague, slurry and stoned.
That may have been an underlying issue here. The fact that she did not even attend her husband's memorial service, not to mention her cliched statement that Ricky was in a better place where he could finally walk around, did not bespeak any genuine grief. There were no tears, there was no visible pain, only a sort of blandness. The fact is, one way or another, she killed her husband, maybe to lift an awful burden off her back. A burden she had aided and abetted for sick reasons of her own.
If someone is an accessory to murder, shouldn't there be some sort of penality? If you overfed a dog to the point where it couldn't walk, wouldn't the SPCA likely intervene?.
When I was a kid, we had a neighbor named Ruth who didn't have too many friends. Since my mother had caseloads instead of friendships, she took her into the fold in the most condescending way possible, but since Ruth was desperate, she took the bait.
The reason Ruth didn't have too many friends is that she was fat. She must have weighed somewhere between 250 and 280 pounds, enormous by the standards of the day.
The truth is, until the last decade or so I never even HEARD of anyone weighing more than 500 pounds, or cases of people being stuck to chairs or sofas, having to be cut out of their houses only to die in hospital, bloating up to termite-queen size as "someone", usually a wife and sometimes a mother, dutifully trotted to their side every day with heaping plates of fatal toxins.
It wouldn't look so "loving" or "loyal" or "devoted" if a wife brought syringes of heroin to her incapacitated junkie husband, or bottles of scotch to fuel her alcoholic husband's oblivion and despair. Food is different, I guess. It's "love", apparently, or what passes for love in a culture that seems to be bent on self-destruction. Food is an obsession now, with bizarre competitive cooking shows proliferating, and - in spite of all the pressure to be thin and all the dire warnings about obesity - restaurants serving a whole cow on a bun or desserts with thousands of grams of fat in them towering to the ceiling.
Another curious thing - if this can be called curious, and not totally disgusting - it's been years and years since I heard a certain term which used to be universally applied to describe the greedy, excessive consumption of food. Hint: it used to be considered one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Can you guess what it is?
It isn't used any more because the super-morbidly-obese now have "issues" and can't be stigmatized by such awful labels. But why was gluttony, the constant, excessive cramming of food into the mouth, considered a deadly sin in the first place? Could it have something to do with the destruction of human life?
The Naputis may have asked for help, but when that help was offered, they pushed it away and went back to what they had always done. They are part of a new phenomenon (for I truly believe this is new and not just "being reported more") that reflects a certain philosophy which is even more morbid than obesity. It is as if our main purpose in the 21st century is not to be productive or even to explore life's deepest mysteries, but to consume, consume, consume.
The sickest, most destructive and unhealthy habits are increasingly becoming normalized. Kids are getting fat because they sit around eating and don't move. And food, the excessive consumption of the wrong kind of food, is evolving into a kind of sport.
If you can eat it all at once, you see, you can have it for free. How great is that?
He was cared for by his wife, Cheryl, who was loyally by his side through everything. She dealt with struggles, like not being able to consummate their marriage, but loved her husband.
He’d been told to lose weight before he could undergo a surgery that could potentially save his life. Unfortunately, Naputi didn’t make it to that. His wife was by his side and she was the one who found him and made the 9-1-1 call, which was played on the special.
“He was OK. I don’t know what happened,” she told the operator. “I was just laying here.”
Paramedics quickly arrived and tried to revive Naputi, working for an hour, but it was too late. The official cause of death was morbid obesity. Ricky Naputi was 39 years old when he died.
I have to confess I am hooked on "fat shows", even though I watch them through my fingers. What absolutely amazes me is how similar they are. This one was more disturbing than most, not just for the fact that this enormous naked man lay on a huge bed in the same room for years and years, but because SOMEONE helped him get that way, or even - it could be argued - actually made him that way.
There's always a wife, usually submissive, usually so codependent she seems to have no emotional boundaries at all. Since thousands of calories don't drift through the air and magically land in his mouth, "guess who" must carry them to his bedside year after year. And yet, this crucial issue is never addressed the way it needs to be. There is never a direct confrontation, just gentle reminders that maybe she should go out and buy some vegetables.
I watched this show, and I wanted to throw something at the screen. Ricky's wonderful, loyal, devoted wife who said she loved him more than anything in the world was murdering him, plate by greasy plate. She would cook and serve him literally anything he wanted, in any quantity, at any time. Her explanation was, "My husband wears the pants in the family" (ironic considering he was naked all the time, clothes that size being out of the question).
As usual, the wife cared for her husband's every need (except sex - he wasn't capable of that and the marriage had never been consummated), wiping his creases and washing his hair as if he were an enormous half-ton baby. After a while it became obvious that her need to do this was far greater than his need to receive it.
But I was even more furious at the way they pleaded for help, often in a whiny, weepy way, then refused help when it came, blew it off as soon as they were given an ultimatum or even mere instructions about the absolute necessity of losing some serious weight before having gastric bypass surgery.
Maybe because of all these TV shows, gastric bypass surgery is now considered the Answer to Everything in morbid obesity circles. There have been whole shows dedicated to it, and all the recipients seem to be success stories. But just lately, I've seen three shows where the results were not so positive. In each case, the "half-ton" subject (and TLC does like to use that term) died in their 30s before they could be helped.
Former pop singer and general professional whiner Carnie Wilson has made a side show of her own weight battles, having her bypass surgery broadcast live on the internet (and what if she had died on the table?), going blatantly public with her dramatic weight loss which she was apparently thrilled with (but I wasn't buying it: she did not look happy at all). Then came news the weight had started to creep back on. Then gallop. Next she was on Oprah, weeping histrionically to everyone that she was an alcoholic because of her "issues" (the main one being having Brian Wilson for a father). Then she was scheduling another bypass. Then. . .
The bizarre world of "reality" TV has either spawned or showcased a new kind of narcissistic personality disorder characterized by a sense of entitlement. Fix me, or else. Ricky Naputi managed to attract the attention of one obesity specialist after another, some of whom flew halfway around the world to counsel him at his bedside. He sort of went blank during these sessions, not really looking at the doctor or responding, and at one point his wife grunted, began to text someone (a complaint to somebody, no doubt) and walked out of the room.
And this after an Australian surgeon laid it on the line for them in a way which they might have seen as direct, respectful and a huge relief. I like directness, and hard as it is, I believe in taking responsibility for your problems, no matter how overwhelming or complex. This fellow was giving the Naputis a way out - you could be walking in a year, Ricky was told - and over and over again they sloughed it off and went back to their termite queen syndrome (which in this case, given the lack of sex, felt squirmingly like a feeder/gainer scenario in which one partner stuffs the other into complete immobility).
They wanted the problem fixed, but they didn't want to do anything. She in particular offended me with her vagueness, her claims to love him, and her bizarre 9-1-1 call at the end in which she seemed vague, slurry and stoned.
That may have been an underlying issue here. The fact that she did not even attend her husband's memorial service, not to mention her cliched statement that Ricky was in a better place where he could finally walk around, did not bespeak any genuine grief. There were no tears, there was no visible pain, only a sort of blandness. The fact is, one way or another, she killed her husband, maybe to lift an awful burden off her back. A burden she had aided and abetted for sick reasons of her own.
If someone is an accessory to murder, shouldn't there be some sort of penality? If you overfed a dog to the point where it couldn't walk, wouldn't the SPCA likely intervene?.
When I was a kid, we had a neighbor named Ruth who didn't have too many friends. Since my mother had caseloads instead of friendships, she took her into the fold in the most condescending way possible, but since Ruth was desperate, she took the bait.
The reason Ruth didn't have too many friends is that she was fat. She must have weighed somewhere between 250 and 280 pounds, enormous by the standards of the day.
The truth is, until the last decade or so I never even HEARD of anyone weighing more than 500 pounds, or cases of people being stuck to chairs or sofas, having to be cut out of their houses only to die in hospital, bloating up to termite-queen size as "someone", usually a wife and sometimes a mother, dutifully trotted to their side every day with heaping plates of fatal toxins.
It wouldn't look so "loving" or "loyal" or "devoted" if a wife brought syringes of heroin to her incapacitated junkie husband, or bottles of scotch to fuel her alcoholic husband's oblivion and despair. Food is different, I guess. It's "love", apparently, or what passes for love in a culture that seems to be bent on self-destruction. Food is an obsession now, with bizarre competitive cooking shows proliferating, and - in spite of all the pressure to be thin and all the dire warnings about obesity - restaurants serving a whole cow on a bun or desserts with thousands of grams of fat in them towering to the ceiling.
Another curious thing - if this can be called curious, and not totally disgusting - it's been years and years since I heard a certain term which used to be universally applied to describe the greedy, excessive consumption of food. Hint: it used to be considered one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Can you guess what it is?
It isn't used any more because the super-morbidly-obese now have "issues" and can't be stigmatized by such awful labels. But why was gluttony, the constant, excessive cramming of food into the mouth, considered a deadly sin in the first place? Could it have something to do with the destruction of human life?
The Naputis may have asked for help, but when that help was offered, they pushed it away and went back to what they had always done. They are part of a new phenomenon (for I truly believe this is new and not just "being reported more") that reflects a certain philosophy which is even more morbid than obesity. It is as if our main purpose in the 21st century is not to be productive or even to explore life's deepest mysteries, but to consume, consume, consume.
The sickest, most destructive and unhealthy habits are increasingly becoming normalized. Kids are getting fat because they sit around eating and don't move. And food, the excessive consumption of the wrong kind of food, is evolving into a kind of sport.
If you can eat it all at once, you see, you can have it for free. How great is that?
Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Brando's pants: how they changed the world
Maybe you remember, but probably you don't, the book I'm not reading on Marlon Brando, the thousand-plus-page leg-numb-er by Peter Manso, the one I read a million years ago and refuse to ever read again.
But somehow chunks of text are levitating off the page and insinuating themselves into my brain.
How could you not be interested in a man who, according to Manso, revolutionized not only American theatre and cinematic expression, but the way men wore their pants? Like Gable shedding his undershirt, Brando wearing crotch-huggers inspired a whole generation to follow suit. And they never looked back.
The wardrobe mistress for Brando's breakout stage role as Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire knew she faced special challenges in dressing Stanley. Finally she decided to base his clothing on a crew of ditch-diggers she had seen in New York, their clothes so dirty "that they had stuck to their bodies. It was sweat, of course, but they looked like statues. I thought, That's the look I want. . . the look of animalness."
After shrinking his tshirts and dyeing them pink to make them look like flesh under the lights, ripping the shoulder to make it look as if some woman had attacked him, she came to the issue of his pants. This is where the magic happened. (I hope to Christ you can read this, cuz I'm not typing all THIS out no matter how interesting his pants are.)
In the late '40s, this was some big shit. Brando was still in his early 20s then, prime meat.
It gets better.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Dancing in the light: little ballerinas
Lauren and Erica Gunning (remember their names!) eagerly anticipate their dance recital on June 1. Their numbers are top secret, but I did sneak in on a rehearsal of Erica's spectacular turn as a jungle beast in Madagascar. The black tutu is a nice touch, but I am not sure the Monster High pink-and-black argyle socks quite match. As for Lauren, she's poofy pink sweetness (with sequins!)
And now. . . for our National Anthem
Ô Canada!
Ton front est ceint de fleurons glorieux!
Car ton bras sait porter l'épée,
Il sait porter la croix!
Ton histoire est une épopée
Des plus brillants exploits.
Et ta valeur, de foi trempée,
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.
O Canada!
Land of our forefathers
your brow is wreathed with a glorious garland of flowers.
Because your arm can wield the sword,
and it is ready to carry the cross.
your history is an epic
Of the most brilliant exploits.
Your valour steeped in faith
Will protect our homes and our rights
Will protect our homes and our rights.
Will protect our homes and our rights.
The Canadian National Anthem may be many things, but one thing it ain't is colorful.
It's all those endless "stand on guard"s. And that stolid bit about "true patriot love/in all thy sons command", which people don't understand at all and want to eliminate altogether because it includes the poisonous word "sons".
For those who've never encountered it before, here it is, the one we use now, sung at sports events by people who generally forget the words:
Just from my sadly-limited French vocabulary, I had some idea the English words didn't match up, but this - this is a Grand Canyon of difference. Because you can't translate an anthem word-for-word and have it make sense, and because a more naturalistic translation won't scan properly and fit within the tune, the original lyric was basically scrapped. In English-speaking Canada, it has been virtually lost, though bits of it poke through when it's sung before hockey games.
Since Callixa Lavallee ( who wrote the original tune in 1880 to celebrate St. Jean de Baptiste Day) wasn't around any more, O Canada could be rewritten any way the minions of dullness wanted. Thus it was replaced by something about as glorious as a bowl of Cream of Wheat. To fit our stereotypical national character, it's kind of dull. Non-violent, of course! No hint of battles, of "the rocket's red glare", "bombs bursting in air" and all that stuff we say we hate in the American anthem. But ah, go back to the original and you'll find a bit of 19th century European poetry celebrating epic battles and glorious victories.
All that "true patriot love" stuff was originally "your brow is wreathed with a glorious garland of flowers". I'd say that's a shade of difference. Giving the lie to the usual Canadian boast that OUR anthem isn't "violent like the one in the States", we have "your arm can wield the sword" (and, even more subversive, references to carrying the cross - how Papist!).
In fact the whole thing is so much more epic, on such a grand scale, with words like "brilliant exploits" and "valour" (and even, God forbid, "faith"!). But in English, those words just don't fit the musical framework. And there's something about them that's just a little. . . unCanadian. So we're left with an anthem that has all the character of a well-chewed piece of gum, something that is (to use Madonna's famous description of Lady Gaga) sadly reductive.
It's all those endless "stand on guard"s. And that stolid bit about "true patriot love/in all thy sons command", which people don't understand at all and want to eliminate altogether because it includes the poisonous word "sons".
For those who've never encountered it before, here it is, the one we use now, sung at sports events by people who generally forget the words:
O Canada
Our home and native land
True patriot love in all our sons command
With glowing hearts we see thee rise
The True North strong and free
From far and wide, O Canada
We stand on guard for thee
God keep our land glorious and free
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee
That's three "stand on guards", but in an earlier version there were, I think, five.
Most Canadians are only vaguely aware that our national anthem was originally written in French. We "took" French in school - it was mandatory to "take" French, and one of the things we took was O Canada. We even had to sing it in French once in a while, as an exercise, but not once was it ever translated into English. Now that strikes me as completely bizarre. Didn't they want us to know?
Just from my sadly-limited French vocabulary, I had some idea the English words didn't match up, but this - this is a Grand Canyon of difference. Because you can't translate an anthem word-for-word and have it make sense, and because a more naturalistic translation won't scan properly and fit within the tune, the original lyric was basically scrapped. In English-speaking Canada, it has been virtually lost, though bits of it poke through when it's sung before hockey games.
Since Callixa Lavallee ( who wrote the original tune in 1880 to celebrate St. Jean de Baptiste Day) wasn't around any more, O Canada could be rewritten any way the minions of dullness wanted. Thus it was replaced by something about as glorious as a bowl of Cream of Wheat. To fit our stereotypical national character, it's kind of dull. Non-violent, of course! No hint of battles, of "the rocket's red glare", "bombs bursting in air" and all that stuff we say we hate in the American anthem. But ah, go back to the original and you'll find a bit of 19th century European poetry celebrating epic battles and glorious victories.
All that "true patriot love" stuff was originally "your brow is wreathed with a glorious garland of flowers". I'd say that's a shade of difference. Giving the lie to the usual Canadian boast that OUR anthem isn't "violent like the one in the States", we have "your arm can wield the sword" (and, even more subversive, references to carrying the cross - how Papist!).
In fact the whole thing is so much more epic, on such a grand scale, with words like "brilliant exploits" and "valour" (and even, God forbid, "faith"!). But in English, those words just don't fit the musical framework. And there's something about them that's just a little. . . unCanadian. So we're left with an anthem that has all the character of a well-chewed piece of gum, something that is (to use Madonna's famous description of Lady Gaga) sadly reductive.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
"Just the good parts": movies in fifteen seconds
It's here.
For the first time.
Masterfully edited to show you just the good parts.
So you don't need to waste time on the story (which who cares about anyway).
And you can text and tweet and talk on the phone at the same time, cuz there's no stupid dialogue to listen to.
Yes. . . it's the first in a series of, oh, maybe four condensed movies which I predict will take off in the public imagination, that is if they remember them!
It's. . .
BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN. . . in fifteen seconds!
EXPLAINED: why kids get ADHD
I don't know if anybody except me remembers a strange and wonderful show called TV Nation, Michael Moore's first foray into network television. This was before he became a self-important, helium-inflated buffoon who will do anything to call attention to himself.
We watched this show on (when else?) Friday nights, me and the kids. God, that was back when me and my kids watched TV together! We watched TV Nation, St. Elsewhere and (of course) SCTV. The kids were just pups then and I felt very close to them. Now they're practically middle-aged, and it's different.
Of course it's different. But what I wanted to point out with this dissertation is how much things have accelerated since the early '90s. TV Nation was considered cutting edge, hip, etc. (though watching some of the segments now makes me wince), and nowhere was this more evident than in the opening. It had rapidly-flashing images accompanied by electric guitar playing a sort of fluffy domestic tune. Later on I discovered it was almost an exact copy of the theme song to Rhoda.
Look at it now, and bo-o-o-o-oy, is it slo-o-o-o-ow. Each image lasts a full second, an eternity in today's air time. The theme lasts about a minute and a half, which was common then. Compare and contrast to what some call today's hippest sitcom, The Big Bang Theory (which my granddaughter loves: huzzah!):
And they wonder why kids get ADHD.
(Post-blog. Now I also know why I make so many gifs. I think they're magic, which probably reveals my age, but more to the point, who the hell is going to watch a 10- or 15-minute YouTube video to see the 5 seconds I'm referring to? Instead, here are the 5 seconds, endlessly repeated in case you (like everyone else) can't absorb a ton of information in a microsecond.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Dan Darg de Verbenhose: now it can be told
Blagorrnen vie Dus Rat?
Darvengonnbergen den
Vietter!
Das vart den grenbonnen nie dreggenhoosten zay tie
voonder,
die vert de “zarg”, die vert de “zerg”, as de
sperlenveg de Dan Darg de Verbenhose:
“Argen, argen den berrenvost! Nie derregotten deet
len verzelagge. Argen den bienne.”
Dan Darg de Verbenhose
Darg de Verbenhose des flebart, mar des de flebart
ar breviest brentendieggerfleischenstartten:
“Ard de morst! Ard!” Deet crieverboter ender val e
gubernosetotten scavalander bot.
Gubernosetotten
Blet, klendeburgedende stossten. Ar die val gan
baldefreggogussen. Ar die gan.
Dud hagorrt menstattavendedrugge?
Blagorrnnen!
Blagorrnen vie Dus Rat! Dus Rat den Vietter:
argen, argen den boos!
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