09.05.07
Posted in Musings at 7:25 pm by Seasoned Refinement
It’s been a summer for the books (mentally speaking). Actually it was a summer for one book; an obscure, almost impossible to find volume entitled, “Wedding Gowns”. The book is intangible. It exists only in my head, and its illustrations and paragraphs are subject to my interpretation, which is as it should be. After all, I wrote the book.
Somewhere down the line, while sitting around someone’s dining room or kitchen table, or while having a glass of wine in someone’s living room, the subject will inevitably turn to wedding gowns. I’m sure of that. My daughter is getting married on May 3, 2008, and I know that I will have many opportunities in the coming months to refer to the most recently penned chapter of my mental book. If I’m correct, and I’m sure I am, the people involved in these discussions will be predominantly female, and as we talk, they too will open their mental books and share a few pages from them. Most women have these volumes in their heads, and for many of us, the opening chapter is devoted to the first wedding gown we can recall. The first chapter is entitled, “My Mother’s Wedding Gown”.
Most young girls love to stare at pictures of their mothers as they were photographed on their wedding days. I remember asking a lot of questions about my mothers “Cinderella” gown, and I mentally recorded her answers. Without much money, my mother used her considerable skills with a needle and thread to fashion a ballerina length, crinoline dress with a fitted bodice and long, netted sleeves. It was altogether perfect for a winter wedding in London. Her album featured photo after photo of a tall, slim, eighteen year old, and she looked far too beautiful to be anyone’s mother – let alone mine. Her red lipstick, something she never wore in my presence, actually looked black in the pre-technicolor photos of 1959.
My own chapter wasn’t written until late 1981, and there are only brief chapters following my mother’s and preceding my own. Perhaps there were a few jots here and there, but for the most part they were snippets of thoughts and memories about dresses worn by various cousins as they walked the aisle. I distinctly remember one chapter I’ll call, “Linda Mucciolo’s Wedding Gown” (a/k/a “The Neighbor’s Daughter Gets Married”). If the chapters were illustrated, this one would feature a short, thin, Italian girl of nineteen. She had long, straight, dark brown hair with severe bangs, a large nose, and pencil thin eyebrows that were barely visible as they sat over her brown eyes. When this chapter was written, I was only ten years old, and I thought Linda was a breathtakingly beautiful bride. As the front door of her parent’s modest house opened, she stood at the top of the stairs directly beneath a hanging wooden shingle on which the name “MUCCIOLO” was emblazoned in brown paint. In her huge white dress and multi-layered veil, she positioned her bouquet at her waist, smiled, and then she stood, not moving an inch, as a tuxedo clad photographer with an oversized camera took a photograph. She descended the porch stairs, and with every graceful step there was another pause, another flash, and another moment was frozen in time. As the photographer began fiddling with his camera, the bride looked out beyond the neatly trimmed hedges that separated the Mucciolo lawn from the black topped street, or for all intents and purposes of the day, they separated the audience from the stage. She was obviously enjoying her moment in the limelight, and I would never deny her the satisfaction she must have felt when the eyes of so many neighborhood children were upon her. I was in that congregation. As we straddled our bicycles, we just stared, saying things like, “Oh, she looks so pretty”, and for a moment, plain, old Linda Mucciolo, Pete’s much older sister, was a celebrity, a princess in our midst. Behind us a few neighborhood mothers stood gathered in a driveway staring at the bride, smoking their cigarettes and talking. I now know what they were saying. They were each reciting passages from their own wedding gown books, and they were each believing that the other women were more interested in her chapters than she was in their chapters. Meanwhile, Linda the Bride smiled and waved at us, and as quickly as it had begun, it seemed to be over. As a chauffeur opened the back door of a limousine, the bride moved toward the car, and she was finally swallowed up as her mother carefully tucked the last few remnants of Linda’s gown into the back seat. Then the door was closed. As the car backed out of the driveway, some of us moved back to give the car some room. I found myself wishing that I was Linda. In my ten year old brain, it didn’t matter who she was marrying – all that mattered was that she looked like a fairy princess, and to a young girl, those images pack a huge punch. I can remember looking down at my clothing — summer clothes that were perfectly suited for a Saturday afternoon in early September — but I felt so invisible, so utterly plain and common. The bubble burst as the limousine turned at the end of the street.
We watched as the car took Linda straight into her future, and when it was finally out of sight, the silence was broken. Suddenly there was conversation – well, maybe it didn’t qualify as conversation, but it certainly qualified as noise. The pre-teen boys had seen and heard enough, and after laughing about how ridiculous their good buddy Pete looked in his tuxedo, they mounted their bicycles and lined up for an imaginary game of Indie 500. The girls in the group remained fixed in fantasy, and we all began talking about “our” wedding gowns. The air was filled with voices, and I can remember hearing – and saying – things like “I’m getting the same dress as Linda,” or “I want mine to sparkle more than her gown”, and even, “My mother let me try on her wedding gown and it almost fits”. Of course no one was really listening to anyone else and it didn’t seem to matter. We were thinking out loud, putting words to our dreams and visions, and not even the lack of a response broke the spell.
The next pivotal chapter in my book was the one entitled, “My Wedding Gown”. I know it well. I bought my floor length, long trained, white lace, seed pearled “dream gown” just six weeks before my January, 1982 wedding. The dress and I found each other after an admittedly brief search that culminated in, of all places, a wedding gown factory. The bridal salons of the day were still, for the most part, selling gowns that followed the dictates of the 1970’s wedding dresses: empire waists featuring long, tight, lacey sleeves with puffy overlays joined together at tight wristbands. There was enough lace to satisfy the most formal of sensibilities, and I still feel fortunate that the bridal industry hadn’t yet begun producing the Dynasty and Dallas inspired gowns of the 1980’s. I certainly did not want to look like middle-class Alexis Carrington in a gown that looked more like a wedding cake than a dress with its big bows, small bows, tiny bows, glitter, sequins, beads, pearls, organza, NFL shoulderpads and a few more bows. Neither did I want wear an economy version of Princess Diana’s wedding gown; a gown which took London by storm, and which several English dressmakers had copied within hours of the Royal Wedding. With all of the secrecy and anticipation surrounding Diana’s gown, I felt that the unveiling was anti-climatic. It was an incredibly elaborate, over the top, handsewn creation that was unbelievably frumpy and wrinkled. The basic style was far too matronly for any woman to wear prior to her fifty-third birthday, and I still find it hard to believe that the Royal Dressmaker put a woman with such a statuesque figure into that white bag. But hey, the tiara she wore on her head stole the show. After all, who was looking at the dress with all of that fire and starlight on her head? That concludes this exerpt from a chapter entitled, “A Princess in a Wedding Gown”. Back to my chapter.
How did I end up in a factory buying my dress? Well, it’s simple really. I didn’t have much time before the wedding day, and I believed that I was going to borrow the gown worn by my brother’s girlfriend at her first wedding. What she had described to me was a “candlelight” colored gown to be envied. When I finally saw the pictures from her wedding, I was shocked. I hated the dress. Besides the fact that it had been in style some nine years earlier, I suddenly realized how different our figures were. That dress was made for a 5’2”, 170 pound woman. I was a 5’9, 125 pound woman, and even my mother wouldn’t be able to work that much of a miracle without seriously altering the gown. I politely declined and mentioned the impossibility of altering the dress in such a short period of time.
The next week my mother and I went to a conventional bridal salon, but I was less than thrilled with that experience. I found myself listening to the TSK, TSK, TSK of the salon owner as she chided me for leaving this most important detail until the last minute. “What about alterations? There is no time for alterations? No, no, no….you’ll have to buy off the rack.” Was that supposed to be a consolation prize? I looked around the store and thought, “There are hundreds of gowns in this store. One of them must fit me”. In the end, several did, and while I hadn’t found the dress of my dreams, I had narrowed the selection down to two distinctly different dresses. I told the owner that I would have to sleep on it. She responded by advising me to leave a deposit to hold the two dresses. I assume she had my best interests at heart. After all, a small, bridal shop owner never really knows when a crowd of desperate 5’9”, 125 pound brides-to-be may infiltrate her store demanding a dress that’s being considered by another bride of the same size. I politely declined.
As I closed the car door, my mother said, “Aunt Rita told me about a place behind King Pin Bowling Alley in Nyack. It’s a bridal gown factory, and it’s open to the public. The dresses are supposed to be wholesale prices. Should we take a ride over?” I thought it was a great idea. I love a bargain. Off we went.
We drove behind the bowling alley and looked at the back of the brick building. It was cold and raining, and we searched for the place before we got out of the car. One of us saw a small sign. It had painted, stenciled letters that spelled, “Bridal Gowns”. Underneath those two words was an arrow pointing to a metal door. We parked as close to the door as possible and got out of the car. We were greeted with the sound of sewing machines. A quick look around the large room led me to believe that there were at least thirty machines staffed with women who didn’t bother looking up from their work. There were wheeled clothing racks everywhere, and on those racks were plastic covered wedding gowns. The floor was dirty, the walls were bricks with chipped yellow paint, and there were bolts of fabric everywhere – on tables and against the walls. As we were getting our bearings, a small, Spanish woman approached us and said, “Can I help you?” After telling her that I needed a wedding gown, she replied, “We only have two styles we’re making now. We have both styles in all sizes. What size are you?”
We went towards the back of the large room. The woman grabbed two dresses and held them up for my inspection. “You like?”, she asked. Yes, I did. I liked one more than the other. I asked her if I could try the dress on. She looked around and said, “Well, yes….but I need to get you something to stand on. The floor will soil the hem of the gown”. She went around a corner and told me to follow her. “Wait here”, she said. I looked at this little alcove, and I noticed the full length mirror on the wall. “This must be the dressing room”, I thought. The woman disappeared for a moment and then returned with a large piece of brown butcher paper. She laid it on the floor. Then she told me to stand on that paper when putting the gown on. I did.
I turned around and looked at myself in the mirror. I saw magic. I saw “the dress”. It was better than my mother’s, my cousins’, and it was better than Linda Mucciolo’s. We bonded right there and then. The woman’s voice yelled, “Do you need help?” I said that I was fine and that the dress was already on. Immediately she and my mother were in front of me. They both loved the dress as much as I did. The woman said, “Oh, you must let the girls see the dress. Wait”. She laid a long strip of brown paper down the middle of the factory floor and had me walk back and forth. While there was a language barrier, the womens’ facial expressions said everything I needed to hear. I heard, “Dios mio!”and “Muy bonita” more than a few times. Apparently this factory was a relatively well-kept secret and how my mother gained access to a wholesale bridal factory is beyond me. I never did ask her. Apparently, not many brides actually bought, let alone modeled, any of these creations while the seamstresses were watching. These dresses would be shipped to bridal salons, and these women were mass producing gowns and filling orders for those salons.
I didn’t experience the handholding and catering that is customary in a conventional bridal salon. There was no pretense in this environment, and everyone in the room knew that I was here for one reason: to save money. However, I bought a dress that later retailed for $550. Beyond that, I have to admit that there was something so satisfying about watching the expressions of pleasure on the seamstresses’ faces as they saw the fruits of their labor moving and spinning in front of them, and at $175, I thought that was a bargain.
There have been other chapters in the wedding gown book. However, the most amazing one was written last week. This chapter is entitled, “My Daughter’s Wedding Gown”. Yes, Rachel is getting married on May 3, 2008. She’ll be a 25 year old bride, and she will be stunning.
We had no intention of buying a wedding gown this early in the process. After all, it was only a week before that Joshua, a man of character (and very good looks), became Rachel’s fiance when he gave her a white gold and diamond ring. I’ve told her to enjoy the process – every moment of it. When she wanted to try on gowns, I encouraged her to seize the opportunity and try on every gown she could. After all, it is supposed to be a once in a lifetime experience.
We went to a large gown retailer, and after being assigned a “bridal consultant”, the three of us began scouring the seemingly endless racks for gowns in Rachel’s size. With an armload each, we approached the mirrored platform and hung them on the stationary rack outside the dressing room. Rachel disappeared with the first dress. I had prepared myself for an overwhelming reaction. It isn’t every day that you see your daughter in a wedding gown. In reality, I wasn’t overwhelmed when she came out of the dressing room. She looked good, but I knew it wasn’t “the one”. It wasn’t so much the dress as it was her posture and her countenance. She said it before I did, and she was onto the second dress.
When she came out in the second dress, I was blown away. The style was perfect for her beautiful figure. She loved it, but it was missing some of the features she wanted. She tried on a few more dresses, some good, but nothing better than the second dress. I went back to the racks and found a dress that had it all – the structure of her favorite dress, but with the detailing that she wanted. When she put that one on and exited the dressing room, I almost cried. It was magic. It was “the dress”. It is the subject of the newest chapter in my mental book.
I wish I could describe the dress to you, but she doesn’t want Joshua, her fiance, to have a clue as to what the dress looks like. There is always the possibility that he will read this, and he does want to be surprised. So, I will post pictures after the wedding, but I can promise you this. If she looked that beautiful in that dress wearing no makeup and having her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she will be overwhelmingly beautiful on her special day. As a matter of fact, she may look impressive enough to earn a space in your own mental volume entitled, “Wedding Gowns”. You can call the chapter, “Seasoned Refinement’s Daughter Gets Married”.
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06.08.07
Posted in Uncategorized at 10:13 pm by Seasoned Refinement
That seems like a particularly appropriate sentiment today. Imagine, one maleable judge with a wobbly constitution could have been responsible for another sentiment; something far more cynical, but true nonetheless…something like, “All animals are created equal, but some are more equal than others” (Thank you, Mr. Orwell). Fortunately, Judge Sauer is not maleable or wobbly, and quite frankly, he couldn’t care less about pedigree in his courtroom. That’s an attitude that allows him to dispense justice with fairness and without partiality.
By now, most of you have absorbed the latest chapter of the social drama that is Paris Hilton and her “this cannot be happening to me” attitude towards her incarceration for violating her parole twice (not DUI). I’ve made my disgust towards Paris Hilton obvious. Personally, I consider her to be the human equivalent of a sexually transmitted disease, and I think far too many half-baked adolescent girls have fallen under a delusion in believing that Paris has a single redeeming quality. I think the woman is an idiot, beginning, middle and end. I think her fire will burn out before much longer, and within the next decade she may well be the subject of one of those cable station shows that ask the question: “Whatever Happened to……?” I hope there is a modicum of shame as viewers remember the inanity of the Hilton years. How does an idiot become a media force anyway? Money, money, and more money. That money has purchased the time, talent and genius of relatively anonymous lawyers, publicists, and agents who now make up Paris’ “people”. They have made her famous for being an heiress, a substance abuser, an exhibitionist, a whore, a scofflaw, a desperate publicity junkie, and someone who has failed to make a serious or respected mark in any facet of the entertainment industry (and not for lack of opportunity). Does anyone know how many attractive, wealthy 20-something heiresses inhabit both coasts of this country? Plenty. Paris is hardly a novelty because of her pedigree.
When I heard of the drama that surrounded her court appearance in early May, the outrageous details didn’t surprise me. So, Paris insulted a judge by showing up late to his courtroom (baaaad move, Paris!). So, Paris made visible signs of prayer while softly weeping at the defense table (as though anyone outside of a mental institution would actually believe that Paris Hilton is a woman of prayer). So, Paris delusionally thought that her mind numbing defense was viable and her acquittal a done deal (“I rely on my publicist and attorneys to keep track of my legal issues”). So, Paris had the wind knocked out of her when she heard the judge sentence her to 45 days in jail. So, Paris moaned to her parents, “How did this happen? I did everything they said to do”. So, Paris tried to duck the cameras for the first time in her life as she exited the courtroom in defeat. So, Paris fired her publicist, a masochist who took full responsibility for Paris’ parole violations (as a thank you from Paris, he was fired following his court testimony).
I honestly believed that she would escape justice. I was honestly shocked when she was unable to secure a sentence reduction or a successful appeal. Apparently, she was honestly shocked too. Forgetting her own humble roots and no longer being accustomed to being treated like an ordinary (law-breaking) citizen, Paris’ mother immediately did what she does best. She started shooting off her too big mouth – and she didn’t even wait until the courtroom had cleared before she lost her temper. She ran to the prosecution’s table yelling, “You’re pathetic”, and asking sarcastically, “Can I have your autograph?” Besides being a classless bully, she was trying to intimidate professionals who are far more educated and degreed than she is. Kathy Hilton had the audacity to assume that the type of people who work long, underpaid, often underappreciated hours in a prosecutor’s office are made of the same stuff as she and her daughter. Perhaps her outburst would have made more sense if it were delivered towards a high paid, sought after, criminal defense attorney — but a county employee? Sure Kathy, these people have secret, unrealized desires to be high profile celebs, and they’ll do anything – just like you and your spawn – to get their names and photos in the newspaper. Please.
So, now we know that Paris thought that staging a nervous breakdown would land her back in her mansion to party with her friends (and thoughtfully reflect as she served the remainder of her sentence). Did she really think that anyone would buy that? She has medical problems that couldn’t be treated in the facility? The jail’s infirmary is sophisticated enough to offer dialysis and chemotherapy. What is her condition anyway? Detox?
Long story short, the judge wasn’t buying any of it. Actually, he was more than a little irritated, especially when he heard an erroneous news report which stated that he had given Paris permission to attend her hearing via phone. Paris’ mother, Kathy, was angered (again) as she rushed for the SUV waiting to follow the squad car carrying a disheveled, sobbing, and handcuffed Paris back to court (and ultimately jail). She yelled, “We didn’t know that we had to be there! Our team hasn’t said too much because we are trying to be respectful”. Our “team”? Her daughter violated parole twice! They honestly thought Paris could phone in her appearance? What planet are these people from? Besides, who said Kathy had to be anywhere? It’s Paris the police were looking for.
I couldn’t help but notice the bunches of pink helium balloons that were tied outside Paris’ home – obviously a celebratory statement that Paris had been freed. Those same balloons looked a little ridiculous bobbing in the breeze as the sobbing heiress rode by in a black and white to face the same judge who had sentenced her last month. No party at the Hilton House tonight, folks. Better cancel the caterer and the DJ, and someone may want to remove the balloons. I also couldn’t help but notice that for the second time in her life, Paris wanted to be shielded from the cameras. Does she really believe it’s all a one way street, a game in which she makes all the rules? She may be dense, but she need only look at the tragic life of Princess Diana to know that no one can orchestrate their fame once they allow it to grow to absurdly limitless proportions. It consumed Diana, and she was universally loved, not despised.
So, Paris played it to the hilt today. Gone were the stylishly coiffed, bleached hair extensions and the Mac lip glass. In a sloppy ponytale and a make-up free face, Paris shook and she sobbed, finally convulsing as her lawyer gave the seemingly unmoveable judge his best last pitch. It failed (but they’ll be back). She was remanded to return to jail immediately to serve out the remainder of her sentence. She screamed, loudly enough to be heard in the hall of the courtroom. She called for her mommy. She screamed, “Mom, this isn’t right”. And you know what? In Paris’ world, this isn’t right. But in the world that the rest of us live in, it is right. I hope Kathy Hilton is examining the lessons of right and wrong that she taught her little cash cow. Maybe this is the day that Paris grows up — just a little.
I am tired of reading the relatively few pro-Paris comments on the internet. All of them state that anyone who wants Paris in jail wants her there because they are jealous of her. Sure. I have to believe that the alleged object of John Q. Public’s jealousy is Hilton’s money. It couldn’t be anything else — what else does she have that doesn’t hinge on her money? OK, so that’s the best they can come up with? Everyone is jealous of Paris’ money? Do they really believe that amassing wealth is the ultimate goal of every intelligent human being in this country? Believe it or not, some people have wishes and goals that have nothing to do with money and/or fame. Paris and friends are the people who have made this about her money and fame; the general public doesn’t really know or care how much money she has. It was Paris’ mother who screamed, “This is wrong! And after all the money we spent!” It is her attorney who is telling anyone who will listen that his client is being treated harshly because she is a celebrity. Really? Was that his opinion when Mel Gibson was arrested last year and subsequently used as tabloid and network fodder for what seemed like months? I doubt it.
For tonight, Paris will sit in a catatonic state staring at the walls of a jail cell. Besides the massive outcry by the public, something she may never recover from (especially after her speech that she would do her time with dignity), Paris will have to face the jeers of her jail buddies who may be more than a little offended by her highmindedness.
The tragedy is that somewhere inside of Paris Hilton is a genuine human being. I have no doubt that she may be on the verge of some kind of emotional breakdown, but that’s not anyone’s fault by her own. I don’t know if this woman has ever been told that she cannot have what she wants. I’m not sure that she has ever truly realized that she is not a bonafide goddess with a special dispensation from on high which allows her to flaunt her narcissistic sense of superiority. That’s what bothers people. It’s the attitude that her money makes her a better class of person. If the truth were told, it may be her money that has made her a woman totally devoid of any class. As for her mother, I hope she realizes that the way she raised (or failed to raise) Paris has seriously warped a woman who may have actually been productive and polite if she had been raised by a woman who was not a failed child actress with an axe to grind and gold to dig.
I’m glad that Friday is ending this way.
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05.05.07
Posted in Musings at 8:46 pm by Seasoned Refinement
As far as I’m concerned, when an individual refers to themselves in the third person, it sounds slightly pretentious. I do realize that there are times when it’s appropriate, and this just feels like one of those times. So, if you’re like me and you tend to eyeroll the third person dynamic, you’ll have to indulge me today…just a little. Hey, it could be worse….I could get all metaphysically introspective and wow you with fantasy scenarios that highlight the exploits of some ultra-cool alter ego I think I have. Don’t worry — I don’t and I won’t.
It sometimes feels as though there are several unique (and contradicting) identities coexisting inside of me. They use the same brain and heart, and they even share the same face. Now, I fully realize that these aren’t separate identities fighting for ownership of one body. They don’t stand alone - they’re one dimensional. They’re just parts of a whole — they are the various facets of my personality, and they all work together to make me who I am. You have them too, and if you think about it, you’ll realize that you are comfortable with some of them, and less so with others. At times, these feelings can crowd each other, crossing boundaries and leaving me feeling conflicted. Over the years, the various aspects of my personality have matured, all except one of them — and that’s the one I would really like to evict. My stressed identity is a part of myself that I just don’t like; perhaps that has something to do with the way I feel when that response takes over. Even today, stress can still leave me feeling like a small town, seventeen year old girl wandering aimlessly through New York City after having lost all of her money. I’m not going to spend any time dissecting stress today.
The part of my personality that has been in the forefront lately is my spiritual side. It’s always been a part of me and it alternates between dormant and active stages. I’ve always been aware of the spiritual side of life, and I couldn’t change that if I wanted to (which I don’t). My spiritual life began when I was baptized — a Catholic infant with Catholic godparents, who, I realized, didn’t serve much of a purpose in terms of my spirituality. In due time, this child would be sent off to religious instruction in the church of her father. OK - back to first person (because this feels weird, lol). I willingly, happily even, absorbed the lessons that were delivered by Sister Ann Joseph and her colleagues at St. Phillip and James Church in the Bronx. Due to his personal experiences in the Catholic Church, it was difficult — no, it was impossible — for my father to either set or follow the pattern of his religious mother and siblings, but, he had no objection to his children being Catholic. So, we were. Before long, my church attendance and religious instruction was left up to me, and after my sixth grade Confirmation, I either walked to Mass with my younger sister in tow, or I became a lapsed Catholic. I walked for a while. I lapsed forever.
Doctrine and church teaching didn’t seem particularly important to my non-practicing Protestant mother, and while she taught my brother, my sister, and I our bedtime prayer as small children, religion seemed to be a non-essential in her life. I remember envying my Jewish friends with their family pride and religious traditions. I remember seeing synagouges and wondering about the mysteries of the Star of David and a written language that looked like scribbling — sacred scribbling, but scribbling nonetheless. I even envied my Catholic friends, despite the fact that by junior high school they were all complaining about having to go to Confession and Mass with the same intensity as they complained about having to go to the orthodontist. It was, I now realize, an important part of my life, and like most significant things, it became most obvious when it was missing.
By the time I reached highschool, my religious yearnings were being replaced with other interests and desires, and just about that time, I put conventional religion away. I went through my dismal “what is the meaning of life?” stage, and as a young woman, I was willing to try just about anything – except for a few things, and those “few things” were situated safely behind roadblocks that I wouldn’t think of approaching, let alone removing. People wouldn’t have known that I had some deeply held beliefs, because on the surface there was nothing to indicate that I ever considered God or a fixed set of moral standards. But I knew it, and I made of point of avoiding people and situations that might require me to make choices I knew I couldn’t live with. I built those roadblocks myself, and they were the last unseen religious remnants of my childhood. On the day they were erected, I had opened my heart just as a baby bird opens its mouth in hunger and expectation; and like those birds, I readily accepted, without consideration, the fact that the content of the delivery was a good and necessary thing. Even in my darkest times, I kept my categories straight. Some sins were forgiveable and others, I believed, were unforgiveable. I was afraid of “the deal breakers”, the deeds that, if committed, would, in my mind, forever disqualify me from any hope of future repentance. Wanting to keep my options open, I didn’t cross those lines.
When I had my fill, I was in my early twenties, and it was then that I began to look for some form of hope, an immutable truth, an anchor that would not shift each time the current did. In a non-liturgical church, so far removed from Catholicism that my family wondered if I was wearing robes and selling flowers at the airports, I began a true search. In the end, I guess I became a Protestant. I didn’t sign any papers, and there was no accompanying celebration that was even remotely formal, but as far as being a Catholic was concerned, well…it felt like I let my license expire.
I walked the road of non-liturgical spirituality for twenty years. During the second decade, I realized that I had erected quite a few more roadblocks in my life — don’t taste, don’t handle, don’t touch. There were so many roadblocks that the highway was now looking more like a driveway – pull in, pull out, and don’t hit anything in the process. I’m not criticizing any individual, group or establishment – I have taken full responsibility for my own choices. I have to, because spirituality is subjective. I realize that as I watch the lives of those who claim to serve the Creator, and I see so many of them diligently applying themselves to tasks which seemingly contradict each other — in His name. Whether the “faithful” are flying planes into buildings or living lives of hardship in order to feed poverty stricken babies in India, they will both claim that their lives are not their own, and they will both die believing that. I watched a special on The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (a/k/a The Mormon Church) this morning, and I learned that even Brigham Young, a father in the Mormon Church, was initially repulsed by the idea of polygamy back in the late 1800’s. But, because he believed that Joseph Smith was the prophet of God, he relented after 20 years and finally took over fifty wives of his own, eventually fathering over fifty children. Why? Because as one commentator remarked, “If devout people believe that the proposed behavior is God’s will, they can be convinced to do anything”. Interestingly enough, the current leadership of the LDS Church has denounced the practice of polygamy for years, but there is still a branch made up of excommunicated members who believe that they alone are practicing the true and pure faith, and they denounce the mainstream LDS church. So, I’m left to conclude that spirituality is subjective.
Back on point, I realized that life couldn’t possibly be as small as I had made it. So, I spent a lot of time thinking. Then I thought some more. Finally, I moved some things around, examined my opinions and attitudes, and I made some changes. I realized that while I had put the roadblocks there myself, my motive wasn’t always based in my own heartfelt belief that it needed to be there. Sometimes, I put them up because the people I was traveling with had them up. That’s not a good enough reason to block off potential passageways in your life. Now, I’m not going to mention what these various roadblocks represented, because that would immediately cause people to judge (passionately or dispassionately) whether or not they belonged there in the first place, and frankly, I’m not doing that debate again. Do I have a ready answer for each and every situation that presents itself? Not anymore. Is that always a great feeling? No, it isn’t. But, I have noticed that there is a freedom in seeing more passageways than roadblocks. I’ve refined my hearing, and I’ve learned to follow my conscience, which I believe is God-given. In the process, I’ve discovered vast resources in my own heart and mind that have made me more responsible, more empathetic, more independent, more approachable, and more appreciative of the diversity found in creation.
While I strive to love my neighbor as myself, a challenge that I will never completely master, I find it easier to start if I don’t spend my time trying to figure out who my neighbor is. The roadblocks shut me off to a lot of people – the passageways? Well, that’s a different story.
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04.23.07
Posted in Social Issues at 10:49 pm by Seasoned Refinement
What do these words have in common: Princeton, Harvard, Yale, Notre Dame, Stanford, Cornell, Columbia, Duke, and Purdue? That’s right. They are all very expensive and very desireable institutes of higher education. They are top American Universities.
Now, what do these words have in common: The University of Arizona Nursing College, The Appalachian Shool of Law, The University of Arkansas, San Diego State, and The University of Iowa? Not sure? Here’s a hint. You can now add Virginia Tech to this group. Is it starting to make sense yet? Sure it is. These schools share a nightmarish distinction. On each of their respective campuses, a student has killed a faculty member, another student, an administrator, and/or himself. Sometimes the body counts are substantial, but they are always signficant.
I was tempted to conclude that campus killings are an indication that the younger generation is in serious trouble. That’s what I thought. Then I began to look at the specifics in these cases, and I came to a conclusion that I didn’t foresee. Some of these tragedies involved gunmen who were at least in their lates 20’s and early 30’s (one was even 42 years old). Here are a few examples:
On October 28, 2002, a 40 year old Arizona Nursing College student shot his instructor, killing her. Moments later, he returned with five guns, and after entering a classroom, he killed two more instructors before turning the gun on himself. In trying to piece together a motive, the police noted that he was failing his courses.
On January 16, 2002, a 42 year old graduate student, angered by his recent dismissal from Virginia’s Appalachian School of Law, returned to campus and killed the dean, a professor, and a student. Before he was tackled and overtaken by students, he also wounded three female students.
On Augst 28, 2000, a 36 year old graduate student at the University of Arkansas was dropped from a doctoral program in which he had invested ten years of study. He shot the professor who oversaw his work and then shot himself.
On August 15, 1996, a 36 year old engineering student at San Diego State was defending his thesis with a three member faculty committee when he suddenly pulled out a handgun and shot all three of the professors.
On November 1, 1991, a 28 year old graduate student in physics was angered because he did not receive an academic honor to which he felt entitled. He responded by opening fire in two University of Iowa buildings, killing five employees and wounding two others. He then turned the gun on himself.
Besides the Kent State incident involving the protesting students and the National Guard back in May, 1970, the earliest campus killing I read about occurred in August, 1966. Forty one years ago, a student named Charles Whitman took aim from the observation deck of a tower at the University of Texas, and for an hour and a half he shot dozens of innocent people before he was finally shot and killed by police. He had killed his wife and mother the previous night. He left a long letter explaining what he had done, and he asked that his brain by autopsied to determine if there was some organic reason for his violent tendencies. He had been seen by a psychiatrist, and during those sessions Whitman said that he had fantasized about shooting people from the tower. Unfortunately, that isn’t enough to have someone committed, or at least it wasn’t back in 1966. He was raised by a physically and emotionally abusive father, and while a small brain tumor was discovered after his death, physicians did not feel it contributed to the killing spree.
Of course, you know that the VT killer was 23. I’m not sure where the line is — what makes someone young and someone old when they are students in a college, and I’m wondering if the problem isn’t with the times as opposed to a specific generation of people. In the 1990’s, these types of cases increased dramatically.
We can take the college cases down a level and look at teenage killers in public high schools and junior high schools. The youngest killer I’ve read about was only eleven years old. Columbine, which used to be the name of a highschool, is now a word that is synonymous with “school shooting spree”. But Columbine was not the first time that a student chose to enact a violent plan leading to the injury and murder of classmates, teachers, and administrators. As a matter of fact, I was surprised to read that way back in January, 1979, a 17 year-old girl took her Christms gift, a rifle, and used it shoot at the elementary school across the street from her home in San Diego. Eight children and two police officers were wounded, and two men were killed trying to protect the children. The killer’s alleged motive? “I don’t like Mondays”, she said.
In March, 1987, a 12 year old honor student in Missouri brought a gun to school. When a classmate teased him, the boy pulled out the gun and fatally shot him. The boy then shot himself. He was known as an overweight loner who was routinely teased, and he did warn a friend not to attend school on the day of the killing.
In November, 1995, a 17 year old walked into Richland School in Tennessee and shot two teachers in the head. One of them died. Then he aimed his gun at the football coach (with a smile on his face), but another student crossed the bullet’s path and she was hit in the throat. She died. The student told five friends about his plan. No one took him seriously.
In February, 1996, a 14 year old walked into his math class at his school in Moses Lake, Washington. He was dressed like an old west gunslinger, and because of his costume he was able to conceal two pistols, seventy-eight rounds of ammunition, and a high powered rifle. He shot four people, including one teacher. Three of them died. The killer blamed the shooting spree on “mood swings”.
In another February, 1996 incident, a 16 year old Atlanta, Georgia student killed a teacher in the hallway of his school.
In February, 1997, another 16 year old student walked into Bethel High School in Alaska with a gun. He shot three students, one of whom died. He then went to the office and shot the principal. He died instantly. Again, this student had been mocked by his classmates, and the killings were a result of his rage.
In October, 1997, a 16 year old went into a rage after his girlfriend broke up with him. He subsequently stabbed his mother and then took a rifle and a gun to school. He killed his former girlfriend and another female student. He wounded seven other students, and then went back to his car to retrieve another gun. At that point, he was disarmed by the assistant principal. According to the shooter, the world had wronged him and he could not longer tolerate any more abuse. He claimed to be a follower of Adloph Hitler, and when he was apprehended he said, “I killed because people like me are mistreated every day. I did this to show society: Push us and we will push back”. At his trial, the killer said that he had been possessed by demons.
In December, 1997, a 14 year old student, a self-professed Satanist, walked into his school in Paducah, Kentucky and opened fire on a prayer group. Eight students were shot, three of them fatally. He had a pistol, two rifles, two shotguns, and 700 rounds of ammunition. He had warned students that he was going to “shoot up” the school. No one took him seriously.
In March, 1988, an 11 year old and a 13 year old went to school wearing camouflage fatigues and once inside the building, they shot fifteen people at Westside Middle School in Jonesboro, Arkansas. Five of the victims died. One of the boys set off the fire alarm, and the other was poised to start shooting as the students filed out to the playground during the subsequent fire drill.
On April 24, 1998, a 14 year old student in Edinboro, Pennsylvania walked into an eighth grade graduation dance and fatally shot a teacher. Then he starting shooting students, wounding two classmates and another teacher. When he was arrested, he acted like it was a joke.
In May, 1998, a 15 year old student was expelled from his school in Springfield, Oregon for bringing a gun to schol. He came back with a semi-automatic rifle and began to shoot up the cafeteria. He killed two students and wounded seven. Later, police discovered that he had killed both of his parents, and he had planted five bombs under his mother’s corpse. According to his classmates, the killer had been named “the student most likely to start World War III”.
What does all of this mean? There must be common denominators in these cases that are worthy of scrutiny. Is there a way to stop this madness? Is the answer gun control and metal detectors in school? Mad world.
As I read about the young man who killed 32 people and wounded 29 others at Virginia Tech last week, I was astonished that people like him still fall through the cracks. I know that hindsight is 20/20, but really, this guy reads like a textbook case. It almost seems like the only thing he didn’t do was wear a T-Shirt that said, “I AM GOING TO SNAP!” A copy of two of his writing assignments were posted on the internet by a classmate after the tragedy. I read them. To begin with, I found myself asking if this trash was the sort of work that an English major in an advanced writing class of a university could pass off as creative . Not only couldn’t this man write his way out of a paper bag, but the content of his two “plays” were so vile, so rambling, so vicious, so heinous, and so anti-social that it is unbelievable that no one in authority saw something terribly wrong with his thinking mechanism. He obviously hated people, and in both of his plays, the teenagers are horribly abusive and disrespectful, and yet they are inevitably painted as the victims of a respectable looking authority figure (a teacher and a parent). While it looks like the teenager will exact his revenge after pages of insulting dialogue, it doesn’t work out that way. The authority figure wins. These pieces were read aloud to the class and they were critiqued. The student who submitted the work said that the killer’s daily behavior was so unusual that even the instructors were uncomfortable around him. He went on to admit, regretfully, that after hearing the two plays read in class, he remarked to his friend that the author was “one of those people who will walk in with a gun and start shooting”. No, I’m not kidding. (Yes, kids think that way now) One instructor would not meet with the killer while he was a still just a student unless her assistant was present. She had instructed her assistant to call security if she used a code word that meant, “I’m scared”.
This killer had displayed major anti-social tendencies from a very young age. He had been told to see a counselor, and the administration was aware of the faculty’s fear of him. He believed he was dating a supermodel that traveled in a space ship and lived in the galaxy of his mind. Yes, he was ill. Yes, people knew it. So how did this happen? And what behavior does constitute being a danger to others or to yourself? That’s what is needed to commit someone, and while there is a paper trail to indicate that he met that criteria, still he walked among students.
As I said, I’ve noticed that this type of on-campus violence has dramatically increased since the 1990’s. Why? Is it a combination of frustration, insecurity, pain and mental instability? Is it a chemical problem or is it a result of a person’s childhood experiences and family life? More than a few of the apprehended killers were extremely bitter, and they seemed to focus on the fact that they had been mocked and misunderstood. But isn’t that a part of growing up - at least to some degree? My experience has been that most adults I’ve met and talked to have admitted that their school days were often painful, and at time, torturous.
Why are even a small percentage of students deciding to arm themselves for war to deal with their social issues? Is it our culture? Is violence on film glorified to the point that these borderline kids are dangerously densensitized to the reality and finality of death? Is a lax approach to parenting a part of the mix? I would never advocate abusing children in any way, shape, or form, but neither do I believe in letting the inmates run the asylum, and if you’ve ever been trapped in the home of a family that is run by an obnoxious, spoiled three year old, you’ll know why that particular phrase applies. I cannot help but notice how many parents refuse, absolutely refuse, to even entertain the possibility that their child could be the cause of a problem in school, in the neighborhood, or on the playground — regardless of what adult witnesses have told them. I have spoken with more than a few parents (now and when my children were growing up) who immediately assumed that their child was the victim, not the perpetrator. Rather than deal with the fact that their child threw a rock, these parents will focus on the teacher who chose to remove the child from the activity or school, and even if the parents were not there when the incident occured, they immediately absolve their child from bearing any responsibility, or if they do, it is reduced to “kids will be kids”.
When that approach is the norm, the child is not served well in the long term. That is not the way real life works, and the sooner the child learns that there are consequences for anti-social actions, the better foundation they have. Sometimes, those consequences are finally forced on the “child” in a court of law. (Have you ever seen an episode of “Juvies”, a cable show that follows teenagers as they are put in juvenile lock-up and face a judge? Many of them cry when the door is locked behind them. Being responsible for the first time at 14 isn’t easy, especially when your parents are not permitted to fix it)
I don’t mean to imply that every ultra-permissive or intentionally ignorant parent is raising a serial killer, but I do wonder what that type of parenting does to influence a child who already has serious anti-social tendencies or an untreated chemical imbalance. I have to believe that a killer is a combination of factors, and I’m not sure if anyone knows what those factors are.
Finally, without being a proponent of censorship, I question the wisdom of parents who allow their young children to be densensitized by films that glorifying murder, torture, blood, and body organs in frame after frame and sequel after sequel. The same is true for music that is full of violence, hate, racism, death, and profanity. I truly believe that these things are not healthy things for children. Adults are another issue entirely, and while I believe that adults have the right to watch and listen to whatever they like, I would like to believe that parents, for the most part, have the good sense to fill their children with more positive images during the formative years.
Hey, it may be rather unsophisticated and over-simplified, but it might help. We need to start somewhere.
“Push us and we will push back”. Apparently it’s more than just a threat.
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04.20.07
Posted in Uncategorized at 6:36 pm by Seasoned Refinement
I’ve been battling a nasty respiratory flu all week. It’s left me coughing incessantly and depleted of energy. I’m not complaining or anything. It’s part of being human, and besides, I don’t get sick very often. I’m lucky in that regard. Once every six or seven years an errant germ or microbe might find me, but for the most part, my immune system has been very good to me. Maybe it’s been so long that I’ve forgotten how to be sick, but this bout was pretty rough. All I wanted was DayQuil (and it’s stronger cousin, NightQuil), a blanket, a pot of tea, and the remote control.
Ah….the remote control – there’s the point! Sitting in a recliner and staring at a large television with a menu offering hundreds of channels has to produce something besides a ridiculous cable bill, right? Well, yes it does. In this case, it produced a lot of forgettable television viewing, but there were two shows that I remember watching the other day. I must have been feeling better at this point because I actually remember one show ending and the other show beginning - theme songs and everything! I can’t tell you how many times I involuntarily fell asleep last week while watching one program only to be awakened by the voice of a shrill and irritated Judge Judy as she was throwing someone out of her courtroom.
The first of the two shows I watched the other day was Dr. Phil. To be honest, I’m conflicted about Dr. Phil. Why? Because there was a day when I liked his show, and while I still tune in every now and then, I tend to do that in spite of him. Over the years, I’ve seen far too much of his lovely wife Robin, heard far too much about his selflessness – from him, and I really don’t care for the way in which his TV persona has evolved. As his popularity grows, so does his confidence, and sometimes that confidence has an arrogance that hits me like nails on blackboard. He may be a nice man and he may be a good man, but there’s something about his “down home, no-nonsense wisdom wrapped in a Ph.D and served up on a Hollywood soundstage” that just isn’t hitting me right. I don’t know — the man is a psychologist and a talk show host, and yet I still hear him complaining “Oh well, you know, people are always wantin’ to make a buck off of ‘our’ unauthorized stories” when the subject of Hollywood celebrities comes up. What I find especially disquieting are those on-air moments that I wish he’d just edit out of the show. Those uncomfortable scenes are popping up more and more frequently, and they usually follow the screening of candid video footage of the guest. When the videotape ends, Dr. Phil says, “Well, how do ya’ll feel about what ya’ll just saw?” The guest will either say, “horrible”, or they might say, “Um…..that’s not exactly the way it happened, Dr. Phil”. Not one who likes to be accused of creative editing, Dr. Phil offers to “cue up the tape” to replay what we just saw. Now we all know what we saw, but I think we also know what the guest is trying to convey. It’s more like, “Yes, but there was something that came before that and you didn’t show that part. I look like a monster there. If you showed the whole thing I might look a little less stupid”. Then again, if there is no problem with the videotape, there is often a point in the interview when Dr. Phil looks down at his index cards, and slowly and deliberately reads something that says, “Now, it says here that you told our producers that your eight year old is so fat that it embarrasses you. I’m going to tell you here and now that this abuse is going to stop today. I’m going to stop it!” His confidence in those cards is unflappable , and I’ve never seen a guest really argue with what is on the card. But again, I wonder what went before that statement and what went after that statement. One thing is sure, if you are going to get Dr. Phil’s help, you are going to do it his way. His way has no room for passive assaults on his show’s credibility.
It’s pointless to argue, of course. Once you write a “Help me, Dr. Phil” letter, you had better be ready for a very specific brand of help which includes, but isn’t limited to, a production crew setting up “Dr. Phil Cams” in your home. Now, human nature tells me that everyone probably tries to be good — at first. But human nature also tells me that eventually, the good (fake), on camera behavior will be impossible for stressed family members to maintain, and at some point the family will begin to just live their lives — in front of the cameras. And that’s the good part – reels and reels of “behind closed doors” footage to splice together for national television. The guests’ family, friends, neighbors, coworkers, and bosses will see it all. What is wrong with people? They see this stuff played out week after week, and still they write those letters.
I really am shocked at how many people are looking for help at the cost of their privacy and personal dignity. I suppose Dr. Phil does offer signficant after-care, and he does (very publicly) foot the bill for a lot of what he considers top-notch therapy for his guests, and maybe that’s a fair exchange for some folks. Maybe it neutralizes the exploitation affect they feel. Look, I know that what he’s showing is real, and I know that no one was forced to participate in the show. That may be part of my problem with it. How does a family get so dysfunctional that they need this type of help?
Anyway, it was during one of these shows that I saw enough footage of one particular family to know that this country is in trouble – real trouble. That trouble starts on the most basic of levels — the battlefield is the home and the adversaries are parents and their kids. What I saw on the screen (courtesy of those 24/7 cameras) fleshed out the very same scenarios that two personal acqaintances have described to me as they recount the details of the own family struggles. If two separate families that I know are constantly poised for an endless and ugly battle between the parents and the kids, can this situation really be all that unusual? I’m talking about people who make good money, have advanced degrees, own nice homes, and who have worked to give their children not just the necessities of life, but the luxuries as well. For some kids, the financial blessings their parents have given them seem to count for nothing. I know money isn’t a substitute for love, but I don’t know many people who consider it an either/or proposition. These people love their children.
What I saw on television was ugly. It was a dysfunctional, fragmented, and hostile family, and I doubt very much that any of them were thinking about the cameras as they screamed their insults at each other. I saw a man who was hated (their word) by his stepsons. I saw his wife (their mother), a woman who is now living with the result of her own parenting style, which is, according to her, a philosophy that says, “kids don’t need much supervision. It all works out on its own”. Yes, it certainly DOES work out on its own. It’s just that the result isn’t anything you’d want anyone to know about. I saw this adult man, a father, come running into the kitchen just in time to tackle his teenaged son as the boy opened the refrigerator door. “NO!” he screamed “this kitchen is not open 24/7!” I saw another son jump on the father’s back so that the first son could get food from the refrigerator. I saw one of the younger twins say that his mother has never cared about them and that she was stupid. I saw an absolutely adorable looking 3 year-old boy waving his arms and screaming, “F**k!” in the middle of the madness. No one cared. The kids talked about their father turning the hot water off when they were in the shower in retaliation for the fact that they live like pigs and won’t clean their trashed bedrooms. There was endless yelling, screaming, punching, and fighting. I know I couldn’t live that way. I can’t believe people actually do.
As I said, there are two sets of parents in my own universe who have been dealing with this level of domestic warfare. One is on the tail end of the drama as their daughters are in their young twenties and are halfway out the door. The police reports, the screaming battles and the hateful words are just water under a very rickety bridge now. The other father, who has stepchildren and his own toddler, is dealing with adversaries who are still in highschool. He is putting what little faith he has left in family counseling, but he still finds himself wringing his hands. I’ve heard the refrain “this isn’t fair” more often than I can remember — from both families. I try to hide my horror when these parents tell me how quickly their family discussions deterioriate into all out hate-fests with the kids declaring that they “know their rights”. I am left wondering if these battles will always be fought inside the walls of their home, or if someday, someone’s raging response will cause serious (and more public) trouble.
After Dr. Phil’s show, I watched the 5:00 News (I don’t watch the news very often). The very first story – breaking news, they called it — told of a tragic family murder/suicide in the Cambria Heights section of Queens, NY. On the screen, I saw a sunny, well-maintained, tree lined street with nice homes, but it was crowded with on-lookers craning their necks to get a look at the death house. I watched as a woman, later identified as a family member, fell on her knees screaming, “Oh my God!” in that almost inhuman tone reserved for the most awful and spontaneous expressions of horror. At the time of the slayings, the house was occupied by a 40-something year old woman, her wheelchair-bound boyfriend, her 20 year-old son, a younger child, and a home health aid who was on duty.
According to reporters, the woman and her son had a strained relationship. He was unemployed, not in school, and he had been enough of a problem for the mother to call the police earlier in the day. Eventually, an argument erupted concerning his use of the phone and the computer, and it escalated to the point that the mother called 911 just moments before the young man pulled out a gun and shot everyone in the house. The younger child played dead in the closet. That’s the only reason he’s alive today. The 20 year old then turned the gun on himself. The woman on her knees in the street? Oh, she’s the sister of the dead woman. She has an axe to grind with the police department. She blames them for her sister’s death. She should be blaming her nephew since he is the one who put the bullet in his mother’s head, but she thinks the police stood by and let this happen. I beg to differ, but that’s another blog for another day.
These are just two televised examples of domestic chaos – and I’m beginning to realize that this country is full of them. I ask myself where the line is. At what point does a bullet trump verbal and physical abuse when a family is out of control? I know that there are many unique components to these situations, but all of them include contempt for a parent’s authority. Why? Has every parent so hated by a child been a tyrant or negligent? I’m not trying to oversimplify a complicated issue, but there has to be an answer somewhere.
I’m reminded of one television story I saw in which a sixteen year old girl would not accept the fact that her parents disapproved of her boyfriend. He had a record for assault and he was unemployed – not to mention the fact that he was eight years older than the girl. After she failed to come home one night, choosing instead to bunk in her with “mature” boyfriend, her parents attempted to regain an authority they must have lost years earlier. They told her that she was grounded, forbidden to see him, and they took away her cell phone. The next night, her parents stopped into her room to say goodnight to her. They should have just said goodbye, because in the pre-dawn hours she shot them both while they were sleeping. She had the presence of mind to concoct a story about an intruder, and she ran down the street at sunrise to bang on her neighbor’s door while screaming, “Oh my God, my parents, my parents! Somebody shot my parents!”
This happened in a pretty, little home with two cars in the driveway and flower beds in the front yard. The interior of this home was filled with framed photographs of this girl, from her childhood years to her teen years. These parents had dreams for their daughter, they took care of her, and they loved her. What went wrong, and why are the families of more and more John and Jane Publics sounding more like members of the Manson Family? What’s happening? Why does Dr. Phil have an endless supply of people willing to air their dirty laundry in exchange for some relief from their domestic nightmares? It’s a dismal picture, and it seems to be getting darker all the time. God forbid that we just accept this as a sign of the times.
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04.08.07
Posted in Musings at 7:47 pm by Seasoned Refinement
…what would be in it? You don’t really believe that I’m going to give you the short answer, do you? Sorry, but you’ll have to wade through a few paragraphs to find the answer (but you know that by now, right?).
I’m sitting here in the pre-dawn hours of Easter morning, 2007. I woke up about an hour ago, and realizing it was Easter Sunday, my brain effortlessly shifted to some of my favorite memories: Easter celebrations with my children. I promise that I will do my best not to cover this blog in too much heavy syrup, but that will take a fair amount of effort on my part. At my stage of life, I tend to get slightly heavy handed with the sentiment when it comes to discussing my children. Rest assured, I don’t do sticky sentiment for the sake of sticky sentiment — even on a day marked by yellow and pink marshmallow chicks, jellybeans, and chocolate bunnies wrapped in colorful foils or packaged in landscaped boxes. I know that sugar should be sprinkled, not poured, and I don’t want to leave anyone with that vague queasy feeling that impatient children often experience after they have consumed a few too many Cadbury Creme Eggs before breakfast.
Years ago, I began to come to terms with something I refer to as “Life’s Immutable Truths”. These principles are part of the human condition, and in recent years, each and every holiday finds me revisiting those truths. I’m sure that I find myself reminiscing at holidays because so many of them are captured on film. Each year, the faces in those photographs change, and each year, I’m reminded that one of those immutable truths is staring back at me. It’s the one that says, “time marches on” — and yes, the march will continue, with me or without me. By now you may be thinking, “No kidding. What does that have to do with Easter?” Actually, it has a lot to do with Easter — at least for me.
I know how differently I approached this day twenty years ago — and should I ever forget, I certainly have enough photographs to remind me of what I was thinking and doing back then. I think of one photograph in particular, and just looking at it initiates a form of private time travel. My children are sitting at the kitchen table — well, one is sitting like the little lady she always was, and the other…well, he’s in a combined kneeling/standing position on his chair. They are fresh from the bathtub, looking shiny and clean in their bathrobes. They are surrounded by bowls of colored water, a carton of smooth, white eggs, stickers, magic markers, and lots of paper towels. She has her head up, and her eyes are fixed on a bowl of water as blue as her eyes. She’s drawn to the beauty of any artistic project, and she will begin this event by considering all of the colors set out before her. I even know what color her first Easter egg will be — the camera has captured her desire for a blue egg — but I also know that she will, at some point, ask me how to make purple egg dye (it was her favorite color). He, on the other hand, has zeroed in on the white eggs, and the camera has frozen his small hand as it reaches for an untouched, white egg - a clean canvas. Funny…back then, I hadn’t realized how often I was witnessing their unique approaches to life in their childish play and mannerisms. To a large extent, they still follow these primary patterns today, although they are admittedly far more sophisticated at this point. Just like the Easter egg project, when something is presented to her, she carefully considers it — in its entirety. If she determines that the effort is worth the potential payoff, she does it, and she does it with commitment and dedication. She is assertive, and she is quite adept at determining which tools are useful and which will just take up space. When she finds what she needs, the hand she extends is delicate, not clumsy. Her brother is different. He tends to run through the parts that take the most time; the part that would lead him to ponder the possibilities or the potential rough spots. I could be wrong — he may do all of that consideration at lightning speed in his own head, and he doesn’t need to come to any conclusion other than “Yeah, I know I can do this. Let’s see if it holds my interest.” Either way, if an idea initially appeals to him, he’ll give it a try — the commitment will come later. If he begins to lose interest, the end is in site. But, if he doesn’t lose interest, he will rise to the top of whatever he’s undertaking. As far as dying Easter eggs is concerned, I remember that he wasn’t all that impressed by the standard colors in front of him. Why? Because he was planning on creating new and better colors of his own — a little of this, a little of that. So, his first move was to secure his eggs — all at once.
I enjoy looking at these treasured photos, and I am amazed at how much information my head starts generating when I focus on a particular image. Some of these photos feature only the kids, but others show me with the kids. I know the people I’m looking at, but I also realize how much we have all changed over the years. I’m no longer the 28 year-old woman with my left arm around a five year-old and my right arm around a three year-old. I’m not even the 35 year-old woman posing with a tall, skinny twelve year-old and a blond, freckled ten year-old. Today, I’m the 46 year-old mother of two fine adults: a 24 year old woman and a 22 year old man.
Anyone looking at the faces in the photograph I’m holding — dated 1988 — would know that it’s Easter Sunday. My daughter is dressed in a gorgeous pink satin dress with an attached white lace overlay. The wide, pink ribbon around the empire waist matches the one that goes around her white Easter hat. The scalloped hemline stops a few inches below her knee, and her white ankle socks have a pink lace cuff that matches her light pink, patent leather shoes. She’s wearing white gloves (she loved dressing up), and she’s holding her small, pink pocketbook in one hand, and her brother’s wrist in the other. She has a blush of natural pink on her cheeks, and her long, dark, brown hair has been curled. It cascades softly next to her small face, and it comes to rest a few inches below her shoulders. Her eyes are big, blue orbs that smile as easily are her tiny, bowed mouth. In this photo, she resembles a beloved porcelain doll. The other half of the photo shows her brother in his Easter finery (he didn’t love dressing up, lol). He is wearing one of those little Easter outfits made for toddler boys. It’s a wedgewood blue color, and the shorts stop at his knees. The attached suspenders are secured with two white buttons on the waist, and they disappear over his shoulders and then criss-cross his back. His shirt is white cotton, and its blue vertical stripes match the color of his shorts and his bow tie exactly. He has on white socks and black, little man shoes. His hair, which was brushed and styled when the day began, has now become a mass of blond curls. That’s what happened when he ran around — his cheeks became flushed and his hair resisted my best attempts at controlling it. As usual, he was laughing, and the camera caught him with his knees bent. Despite the fact that his sister had him by the wrist, he was beginning to jump. In his other hand was an Easter basket, and the green plastic grass was hanging over the sides. Besides his eye color, he was so different in appearance from his sister; he’s a hyperactive cherub as opposed to a porcelain doll. I love that photograph, and seeing those faces makes me incredibly grateful for the gift of children.
That gratitude is mixed with a certain amount of sadness, and sometimes I find myself fighting tears when I study pictures from that era. I would give almost anything to spend one more hour with the two children in those photos. I want to hold them, and I want to talk to them with all of the knowledge and insight that I have today. I want to tell them how to avoid the people and situations that brought pain to them over the years. I want to tell them who to stay away from and who to trust. I want to know where those two children are - right now.
Today, when I share these feelings with the great adults they’ve become, they look at me and smile. They say, “Mom, we’re here. We’re right here. Look…we ARE those kids”. Time marches on…and on. Ten years from now, I’ll be the 56 year old mother of a 34 year old daughter and a 32 year old son. Maybe they’ll be married, and I may even be a grandmother. Maybe they’ll be single, but either way, time will march on — with or without me. Ten years from now, I really don’t want to find myself longing for the adults that I have with me today, so I’m going to cooperate with the march of time.
This Easter isn’t like the Easter of their childhood. There were no baskets and no creative attempts at producing the world’s best looking Easter egg. We didn’t adorn ourselves with Easter finery, and we didn’t spend the morning in church. I’m not cooking a big dinner — I’m not cooking at all. We all decided to stay home this year, and Bob thoughtfully made dinner reservations at a restaurant. We’ll be with the kids, but every holiday that passes leaves me wondering if it will be the last one we’ll celebrate in the family dynamic that has defined us for more than two decades. They’re grown up now, and they’ve each been burning the candle at both ends lately. They are seriously talking about getting their own apartment in NYC. They’ll probably approach that with the same techniques they employed dying their Easter eggs, but they’ll work things out. They’re marching on.
So, if I could have a magical Easter basket, what would be in it? That’s easy. The assurance that everything in their past will work in their favor as they face the future. Everything.
We are all teethered to this planet with the certain knowledge that time marches on, but we still have the freedom to define the characteristics of that march. Will it be a military exercise in which we join other soldiers who are identical in purpose and appearance? Will our eyes remained fixed straight ahead, and will our stiffened bodies progress in the rigor of a self-imposed constraint that becomes the uniform of all who accept the belief that “sh*t happens, and then you die, so let’s just get there in as orderly a fashion as possible”? Do we prefer to march under a banner that includes groups of all stripes; a parade attended by those who cheer us on and hold colorful balloons as we march by? Or do we tend to fight the inevitable? Do we sit down in the middle of the street and force everyone else to walk around us, believing somehow that our protest will stop the ravages of time? Do we somehow avoid acknowledging the fact that sitting still has accomplished nothing except making us an obstacle? Do we even notice that despite our best effort, everything is changing around us — even the landscape — as we foolishly attempt to stop the march of time?
So, this Easter I’m adjusting my step. I’m going to go forward knowing that something wonderful may be around the next corner, and if it isn’t wonderful, at least I’ll be in great company. I’m not willing to promise that I won’t be looking over my shoulder every now and then at the porcelain doll and hyperactive cherub, but I’m not going to sit in the street either. If time is marching on, then so am I.
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03.16.07
Posted in Rants at 2:31 pm by Seasoned Refinement
Like a lot of people, we subscribe to an on-line feature that our bank offers. Before I became semi-computer literate, I tried to keep a rough estimate of my balance by mentally deducting checks and debits from my account. If I really needed an exact figure, or if I wanted to know what checks had cleared my account, I would call a computerized 24-hour account update phone line. Now that I have become reasonably proficient with the computer, I have become a devotee of on-line banking, and I will never go back to checkbook registers or receipts. The on-line information is almost up to the minute, and fund transfers between linked accounts show up in minutes.
While I check my accounts regularly, I know that I won’t always instantly recognize charges as more than one person has access to the account. With the exception of a years-old situation in which a former friend used our card to the tune of $700 without our consent, I’ve never had problems with unauthorized charges. It’s happened twice with regular credit cards, but those companies immediately refunded the disputed amounts. Anyway, back to my bank account. About a week ago, I noticed something that looked a little odd in the debit column, odd as in unfamiliar, and I made a mental note to check it out. I asked everyone here if they had run a Carfax car history (it’s a great service that I’ve used before, and it is well worth the $27 investment if you’re about to hand over thousands of non-refundable dollars). I didn’t think they had, since none of us is in the market for a pre-owned car, and there wasn’t a hesitation in the group before they said they knew nothing about it. I immediately thought that someone else must have used my card. I dismissed the thought. I’m not sure why — maybe because it seemed like such a minimal amount of money, and I wondered if anyone would really risk being charged with fraud over $27.
The next day, I noticed a long list of Blockbuster Online charges. There were at least seven charges of $10.80 each in the debit column. They were all made on the same day. I thought about my Blockbuster membership. We have a monthly pass with BB, and I believe the charge is somewhere around $30 a month for that service. They don’t charge restocking fees to my debit card, but they will charge purchases to that card (i.e., DVD’s or games that are not returned), but I’ve always seen those charges reversed when I bring the item back to BB. In the five years I’ve been with BB, I’ve never seen a $10.80 charge. Again, I asked if anyone knew anything about the charges. They didn’t.
I began to look more closely at the debit column. It can be confusing at times because we pay many of our bills on-line and there are several gaming subscriptions that are charged to our account as well. It isn’t always easy to make heads or tails of these charges, but if something looks unfamiliar, I do ask everyone about anything questionable. They usually know what the charges are, or we are able to track them down . However, nobody knew anything about a charge entitled, “The Biggest Loser Club”. There were two charges of $19.98 for that one. Suddenly Rachel said, “Hey, isn’t that a weight loss thing on TV?” I googled it, and sure enough, that’s what it was. They now offer customized menu plans, customized diet plans, and all kinds of other services. I knew I had to call the bank.
Early this morning, I checked our account as Bob’s paycheck is deposited on Thursday evening. It looked low to me, so I clicked on details. While the paycheck deposit was correct, the previous balance in the account was considerably less than I thought it should be. I began to look at pending activity. I saw something for The South Beach Diet Plan for $78.00, another Blockbuster On-line charge for $10.80, and a Net Detective charge of $29.00. None of them are our charges. I began to do a search of transactions for the month of March, and I came up with several more Blockbuster charges, a Bargain Network charge, several book club charges, and alot of smaller charges I didn’t recognize. By the time I was finished adding up the charges, I realized that in the last 9 days, almost $450 had been deducted from our checking account via our debit card.
We immediately called the bank, and as Bob was talking with the representative, I suddenly remembered something. The bank had called late last week and left a message on the answering machine saying that they wanted to discuss some activity with our debit card. It was sandwiched between four other messages that seemed a lot more important at the time, and while I meant to call them back, I forgot all about it. It took quite a while to go through the charges with the bank, and they will issue of provisional credit while they investigate the dispute. I have a plausible theory as to what happened, and I’m sharing this with you because we all need to be reminded that there are lots of people who would like strangers to bankroll their leisure activities. In my opinion, $450 is a lot of money for anyone to lose, and not very long ago, losing that amount would have put me in overdraft hell.
Back in December, I had purchased concert tickets for my kids for a show on March 5 (Off topic: what happened to the days when a concert ticket cost about $20? With shipping and taxes, two decent concert tickets cost $220). One has a birthday in March and the other in April, and they both love this particular band, so I figured they’d love the tickets. They did. I ordered the tickets on-line from what looked like a reputable ticket retailer. The tickets came two days later via Fed-Ex. There were two sheets of paper in the package, and the pages were black and white reprints of each ticket on Ticketmaster letterhead. Beneath the tickets (which both had barcodes) were three boxes of advertisements, and one box with a Ticketmaster Limit of Liability statement in microscopic, faded print. At the bottom of the page, it said, “Thank you for choosing ********”, the company who sold me the tickets.
The purchaser’s name was on the ticket, and I realized that this individual had purchased a block of tickets and had resold them for a profit, but nothing outrageous. On the morning of the concert date, I found myself in a familiar bind…I couldn’t find the tickets (hey, don’t be judgmental. They’ve been here since before Christmas!) We looked and looked and looked, but we couldn’t find them (does anyone hate searching for lost items as much as I do?). We called the ticket seller, believing that they would be able to do what Ticketmaster does . Ticketmaster has a lost/stolen customer service policy, and they direct those customers to a special window at the venue on the night of the event. By providing the original credit/debit card number used to purchase the tickets, Ticketmaster assures their customers entry to the event. The person who answered the phone at the ticket company I used wasn’t anything like Ticketmaster. I wasn’t even sure that I had the correct phone number. I expected a professional response to my phone call, not a shrill, “hello?” Long story short, this woman said that she bought ten general admission tickets from Ticketmaster for this event, and she subsequently sold them all to third parties. She said that she had (erroneously) not kept a record of who she had sold the ten tickets to, and while she wished she could help, she didn’t know what to do. How difficult would that have been, I wondered? As I was about to hang up, she came up with an idea. She wanted the kids to meet her and her boyfriend at a Kinko’s store near the arena at 8:00 PM (the concert started at 7:00 PM), and she would know which tickets had not be redeemed at the arena. Through the process of elimination, she’d know which ticket copies to give to them. (I thought it was a stupid idea and dismissed it immediately). At this point, the kids were more than gracious. They realized that this ship had sailed, and there was nothing that could be done. Chances are someone - probably me - got into a cleaning frenzy, thought the black and white xeroxed pages were garbage and tossed them out. I felt awful. They have been through some trying times lately, and I really wanted them to enjoy themselves. They had been talking about it for quite a while.
I wasn’t ready to give up. I checked the band’s tour schedule and noticed that they were playing in Connecticut two days later on March 7, so I began looking for tickets to that show (against the kids’ protestations that it really wasn’t a problem as they’d go to another concert another time). It was a little further away, but it was a reasonable distance by car. There were a few tickets left for the Connecticut show, but they were behind the stage, and they were still pricey — more than I had paid for better tickets three months ago. About that time, the woman who sold me the original tickets called back. She gave me the phone number of another party who might be able to help me. He was with a company that we had all heard of. She said to call, ask for a specific individual, and explain what had happened. She believed that he still had tickets available for the Connecticut show at reasonable prices. I called.
He did have tickets left for the Connecticut show, and the seats were good. I had seen the seating he was offering on e-bay at a starting bid of $200 each, but he was willing to sell me two tickets for $125 each. I really wanted to do this — so, I gave him my debit card number and the tickets were here the next morning. The kids went, had no problem getting in, and they loved the concert. That transaction cleared my bank account on March 7.
Now, back to my bank account (there’s a connection here — I didn’t just give you “a day in the life” for nothing). I noticed that the first unauthorized charge came in right behind the new ticket charge - on the same day. More charges on the next day, and on it went until this morning. When Bob spoke with the bank, he asked if any of the charges were actually signed purchases. She said they were all phone or internet charges. He asked if any of the charges were made on any card besides the one we ordered the tickets on. She said that they were ALL on the card we charged the tickets on. We cut the card in half.
So, by now you know where I’m going with this. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. I think Mr. Tickets is an overweight, amatuer detective, or maybe just a weird guy who thinks that Net Detective will give him the dirt on his neighbors. I think he’s an avid reader who also likes to watch DVD’s when he’s not at used car lots test driving cars (you can tell a lot about a person by their charges, lol). So this is my public service announcement: Be careful who you give those numbers to. I’ve noticed some enhanced security features on the computer lately, and I’ve been irritated that my bank, my mortgage company, and my credit card companies have all denied me access to my accounts when I’m using a computer that isn’t registered with them. It meant providing long account numbers, answering security questions, and generally, taking up time. Now I realize that these institutions are just trying to stay one step ahead of the bad guys.
BTW, the original tickets were sitting alone on top of a china cabinet. I found them last Thursday, quite by accident. Of course, no one knows how they got there.
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03.15.07
Posted in Uncategorized at 6:01 pm by Seasoned Refinement
The current American Idol conflict surrounds some steamy photos of two competitors. The “Frenchie vs. Antonella” flap has it all: charges of hypocrisy, favoritism, accusations of racism and “weightism” (something new to add to the ever-expanding glossary of potential offenses), raging competition, and of course, sex. I’ve just started watching AI, so I don’t know anything about alumnus Frenchie’s performances on the show. I’ve heard her sing since the competition, and there is no doubt about it — this woman can sing with the best of them. Antonella, the other half of the equation, is a different story altogether. I have seen Antonella perform on AI, and personally, her mere presence among the finalists gave me reason to consider the overall fairness of the competition. Can Antonella sing? Biologically, anyone with vocal chords and a functioning diaphragm can sing. The better question is should Antonella sing? Sure — at family functions, at church, in choirs, in a local band, at Karaoke night, but in a recording studio or at a general admission venue? No. America has voted, and America agrees.
Now if it wasn’t for some tasteless photographs that appeared on the internet a few weeks back, our collective memory of Antonella Barba would be fading fast. Last week she pledged that elite, but reasonably anonymous sorority of women who got close to idolatry, but never really had a chance to possess it. So, what makes her a standout now — and what will keep her in the public’s mind for the next two or three weeks? Well, it isn’t her voice. It has more to do with Frenchie Davis.
Antonella Barba is, by all appearances, a priviledged young woman. That doesn’t mean she’s an heiress, but it does mean that she grew up in a comfortable home. I’m reasonably sure that she was given lovely gifts for Christmas and her birthday, and I think there are photo albums and videotapes that are visual testaments to the many celebrations of Antonella. She strikes me as the type of girl who received beautifully giftwrapped toys, dolls, and china tea sets; not the type of girl who received the necessities of life (like socks and underware) with her birthday cake. I doubt that she has any concept of what it feels like to be referred to as “Girl, Age 6″ at Christmas — that’s all the information a kind stranger will have as they select a doll for her as part of Project Angel Tree. Most regular viewers of AI have seen the home video of a little Antonella, looking like a Victorian child in her dark velvet dress in front of the fireplace. She seems incredibly poised behind a music stand playing a small violin. She took music lessons from the time she was small, and she now plays the violin well enough to give lessons between college semesters. My point is not that there is anything wrong with providing the luxuries of life for your children, nor is their anything wrong with Antonella for having been fortunate enough to grow up that way. My point is that the little pieces of Antonella’s life that we have seen speak of a protected child, a secure child, and an indulged child. That child grew and became a woman. Somewhere along the line, Antonella was told that she could sing — really sing. She was also told that she was beautiful. She truly believes those things.
No longer the little girl, Antonella, with the body of a woman and the mind of an adolescent, does something stupid, but hardly unique. Plenty of middle class, indulged, bored girls with big dreams do the same thing. She puts on her best vixen expression, removes parts of her clothing, and poses for photographs in, of all places, the WWII memorial fountain. These aren’t professional pictures, and Antonella is not a model. This was apparently something she did for fun. She had a friend shoot some more pics of her as she and her galpals played on the beach — sans their bikini tops. More self-indulgent boredom. There are other amateur photos like these, but you get the picture. She may have posed for an actual photographer at one point, as the shot of Antonella with rose petals stategically placed on her body looks far more deliberate than the others. I’m not sure why girls do these things. Maybe to prove to themselves that they are hot enough for “Girls Gone Wild”? Who do you show these pictures to anyway? Are they just something you pull out when you want to remind yourself that you aren’t really fat, but you ARE really “hot”? And how awful must it be to know that your parents have seen them? (I’m tempted to say that that in itself is punishment enough, lol) Who knows. Thanks to a lot of professional exploiters (like Joe Francis), the conscience (and wisdom) of American youth has been altered to the degree that this ritual seems reasonable to more than a few young women.
Antonella would have been just another one of thousands of girls who casually decided to play nude model, and had she not believed that she was a world class singer, her photos may have caused little, if any, backlash in her life. We certainly wouldn’t have known anything about them. But we do, and so does Frenchie Davis. This is no longer about Antonella’s vanity and “hotness” factor, it about something called a “morality clause”.
I don’t know how Antonella Barba progressed to the point that an AI morality clause even applied to her. I do know how Frenchie Davis progressed to that point. But the fact is, they were both bound by the same clause. It’s the application of the clause that has people up in arms. Frenchie did what a lot of young, struggling entertainers do. She posed for semi-nude and nude photographs. She was eighteen at the time, needed the money, and she probably never expected the pictures to cause the trouble they did. Many celebrities spend a lot of money buying back the rights to less than wholesome photographs they had taken before they made it. Some aren’t that lucky, and in the case of Frenchie, she suddenly had a lot of noteriety and exposure, but none of the money that other celebrities with that level of exposure often have. So, it was just a matter of time before someone found her photographs and decided to cash in.
Frenchie probably signed a model release when she posed for her scantily clad photos. That’s what should have happened. Releases vary, but usually, they favor the photographer. The model is paid by the photographer, for the first and last time, on the spot (unless they have a Time For Prints arrangement, but that wasn’t the case here — money was exchanged), and in consideration of the payment and by virtue of her signature, the model willingly terminates her right to have any say over where those photos end up. Of course, every release can be altered to include limitations, and a woman who has actually been featured in a reputable publication has a much bigger bargaining chip in wording the terms of the release, but a woman who isn’t a professional model, especially one like Frenchie who claimed she needed the money, knows that if she says no, someone else will say yes. Frenchie may have been told that the photographer was not intending to sell the pictures, but rather, he wanted to shoot a practice subject so that he could perfect his technique. He may have told her he only needed the photographs for his own portfolio to showcase his skill to potential clients. He may have put the release in front of her saying that her signature just kept everything on the up and up, but she didn’t have to worry about the pictures ever being published without her knowledge. He may have said nothing at all. He may have told her the truth. She may have signed nothing. Who knows? It is a cut-throat industry, and people lie as easily as they order lunch. The bottom line is, if you don’t feel comfortable with your family seeing the pictures you’re planning on taking, you’d better think long and hard about the possible repercussions. If they do exist, they will resurface the moment the subject of the photos becomes a commodity.
I don’t believe Frenchie thought that a site called “Daddy’s Little Girl” would eventually feature her photos, and I can understand AI’s decisive action to distant themselves from something that seedy. But what about Antonella’s photos? Why wasn’t she disqualified for something that, on the surface, seems like the same infraction? Do the circumstances of her photos change the fact that they do exist?
To begin with, I know that there are people who make no distinction about the particulars of these situations. For them, any woman who would disrobe and allow her photo to be taken gets what she deserves. They have the right to feel that way. I also understand the logic of people who make a big distinction between the two situations. I don’t like what either girl did, but I have more sympathy for Frenchie than I do for Antonella. It doesn’t even have to do with the outcome of AI; it has to do with their motives for doing the pictures. Frenchie has a big talent and an even bigger dream. An afternoon with a photographer shooting the type of photos she did may have paid her rent and kept her going for another month to pursue her dream, and in her mind, it was something she needed to do. She probably didn’t make a huge amount of money for the shoot, and what she did make probably didn’t go on a Coach bag or a Prada blouse — it was probably spent on necessities. Still, it was probably far more than she would have made waitressing for the week, and she was free to go to castings (which are often held during business hours). Antonella, on the other hand, was just being stupid. She probably drank too much and decided to go for it.
Whatever happens here, I sincerely hope that race and ethnicity does not become the central issue. I believe that if a morality clause does exist, it must be applied evenly. I’ve read about other morality clause violations involving drug charges and contestants. One idol hopeful believed he was disqualified for a misdemeanor marijuana charge, but he was quick to note that another hopeful with cocaine charges escaped the same fate. If there is something about nudity, provocative pictures, or any form of indecency, then anyone who has crossed that line - including strippers - should be DQ’d. It shouldn’t matter how the images came to the attention of the public, and if, as in Antonella’s case, it was the result of her friend’s apparent jealousy over her brush with fame, then Antonella needs to pick better friends or keep her shirt on.
In the end, both Antonella and Frenchie have derived a lot of publicity from their stints on AI. They have both auditioned (with excellent accompaniment and styling) for more industry insiders than they could have ever hoped to reach on their own. Regardless of how the journey ended for Frenchie, the truth remains that it was her AI noteriety that set her apart from the pack when she auditioned for “Rent”. Frenchie (and Lakisha and Melinda) are not the only women with incredible voices. Broadway castings are full of women who can sing just as well. As for Antonella? Well, I highly doubt that Boadway is in her future. If she is as good as she thinks she is, her photos won’t matter. Enough people have seen her who have the power to make her a star. I firmly believe that her photos helped her gain more notice than her voice warranted, as pathetic as that is.
Sometimes, you have to take what you can get when you want is what everyone wants. Sometimes, even flimsy beginnings are better than nothing. I am reminded of a girl I’ve watched on the internet. She and her mother have, for the past decade, been talking up a very humble modeling career as if the daughter was Gisele Bundchen. To the outsider, it may look more impressive than nothing, but if you know how the industry works, you know that it’s pretty close to nothing. This girl paid for several sessions with a mid-level, successful lifestyle photographer (not cheap) so that she could have some professionals shots in her portfolio. Of course, the photographer now owns the pictures, and the model received copies for her portfolio. That’s the end of the deal for the model. The photographer can then sell the images to anyone she wants, and she often sells blocks of photos to a large image supplier. When she does, she makes money. If a magazine like Glamour, Redbook, or Parents needs a small, insert photograph to go along with one of their articles, they go to an image supplier, not a modeling agency. For example, if the article is “College Girls Eating Healthy Away from Home”, they will look for a college age girl that anyone can relate to, and she’ll be eating an apple (or a banana or a carrot, etc). If they can find what they want with the image supplier, they buy it. The supplier gets paid, the photographer gets a commission, and the magazine publishes the picture. If the model happens to see the finished article, it works out well for the model because she gets to say that she was in a reputable magazine. Was she hired by the magazine (and that’s the big job models are hoping for)? No. They’ve never seen her in person and they probably never will. They know as much about her as that disgusting website probably knew about Frenchie Davis pre-idol. Financially speaking, Frenchie did better because she was at least paid for the shoot, as opposed to the healthy eating model who paid FOR her shoot. But to the casual observer, it looks impressive, and no one can say she wasn’t in a big magazine (technically speaking).
My point is this, it’s a slippery road, and it’s filled with heartbreak. I sincerely hope that Frenchie isn’t looking for monetary compensation, which is what it is beginning to sound like. Each and every finalist on American Idol is exceptionally fortunate. Their journies are being filmed, and the treatment they are receiving is far better than what non-AI contenders have to deal with and accept. Frenchie finished AI with a name, and that makes her stand out from the competition. Besides an attempt to explain the finer points of their clause, do they really owe her anything else?
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03.07.07
Posted in Musings at 2:02 am by Seasoned Refinement
Sometime in my mid-twenties, a friend handed me an inspirational book and a recommendation. “Read this”, he said, “It’s a classic”. The book, a novel penned by John Bunyan, was written in 1675 (published in 1678), and it had a unique quality that set it apart from other literary works of its day. Besides being a completely allegorical narrative, it managed to communicate a message that was still relevant to the reader - in this case, me - some three centuries later. It was somewhat humbling to realize that I was reading the words of a man who completed this work while he was imprisoned for holding spiritual services without the authority of the Church of England.
For those unfamiliar with the tale, the basis of the story concerns a character named Graceless, a man who reads a book (The Bible), and in response to its message, both his name and the course of his life are changed . After taking the book’s words to heart, he becomes Christian, a pilgrim, and this pilgrim does what pilgrims tend to do — he embarks on a pilgrimage. In his detailed journey from The City of Destruction (i.e., earth), Christian is now striving to find The Celestial City (i.e., Heaven). There you have it — the journey, which Bunyan aptly entitles, The Pilgrim’s Progress. The story introduces other pivotal characters whose purposes are as transparent as their names: Evangelist, Timorous, Wanton, Mistrust, etc. Many of the characters are in the story for one reason and one reason only — to sidetrack Christian, and to cause him to set his eyes and heart on issues, people, or places that are at odds with the message of the book. These antagonists do anything and everything to seal Christian’s fate outside of the Celestial City, and they are keenly aware that he has left home and family to seek this promised oasis. Sometimes, Christian is unmoved from his path, but other times — well, he IS moved. Each time Christian realizes that he has walked into another trap, and when all things are at their darkest, a character of virtue shows up to assist Christian in regaining his footing. So, it’s a journey frought with peril, setbacks, misteps, and strides, and the reader is given a bird’s eye view into each of these situations. From beginning to end, it is a story of a man’s spiritual journey — his quest to find and interact with his Creator on a deep, meaningful and personal level. It is also a story that is meant to encourage all pilgrims thoughout the ages, showing them that there is no temptation that is not common to all men and women.
I read this book at a time when I found myself embarking on a similar type of spiritual journey — a pilgrimage of sorts. I began my spiritual pilgrimage as a young adult, and while I had already sampled enough of earth’s delights to know that they offered pleasure, but nothing of substance, I hadn’t yet permanently committed myself to anyone or anything that significantly impacted my life. In other words, there were no marriages, no children, no police record, no diseases, and no signficant enemies. How or why I turned my mind and heart towards spiritual matters is a long and personal story, and it isn’t really what I wanted to write about. Rather, I’d like to fast-forward the seeking portion of my life and get right into a particularly critical part of my pilgrimage.
Why am I writing about this now? I’m not really sure, to tell you the truth. One of the factors has to be the internet blogs, posts, and even personal messages that I’ve read. I’ve noticed the writings of people whose adult lives are solidly underway, and many of them have been honest enough to share their own spiritual questions and journies. While each of them express bits and pieces of a whole that hardly tells the entire story, their goals seems to be the same — to find something outside of themselves, something that makes sense in a world that — at times — seems to have gone mad.
My journey led me into Christianity, and it was a facet of Christianity that had no stained glass, no incense, no responsive readings, and no intermediaries between God and man. That is not a slam against any individual who has found their place inside the walls of a liturgical denomination. I realize that for some, that is the path — the journey — and if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s not to judge another man’s journey. It is all very intimate, and our individual personalities and histories have a lot to do with where we go, how we get there, and how long it takes. In my case, I was moving along nicely between 1982 and 1986. In 1986, something happened to drastically change my course, a course I thought was established, permanent, and very secure.
On one particular Sunday in 1986, a man and his wife visited the denominational church my husband and I were attending. It wasn’t a huge congregation — there were roughly 300 members that regularly attended. When the pastor asked for any first time visitors to stand (a practice I disliked almost as much as I did the forced “greet everyone with a hug” ritual), a man in his early40’s and his wife stood up. He was really quite unattractive, physically speaking. His blue eyes were small and narrow, and his complexion could best be described as pasty. On his upper lip sat a sandy-colored copy of Hitler’s mustache. He wasn’t particularly tall, his physique was nondescript except for a slight paunch, and he was guilty of an awful comb-over hairstyle — and what hair he did have left was wispy and thin. His wife looked older than him, but she obviously put a lot of time into her appearance. Her dark brown eyes and brows, heavily made up, belied the fact that her shoulder length, coiffed, white blonde hair came not from God, but from a bottle of foul smelling chemicals. She wore the uniform of all decent, middle-aged Christian ladies on Sunday morning: a fitted suit with a knee length skirt, conservative heels, and pearls. They introduced themselves. They were newcomers to the state of New Jersey, and their southern drawls were impossible to miss.
They returned for several Sundays, and, as I remember, each successive week found them in a pew that was closer to the pulpit than the week before. Before their first month of attendance had passed, this husband and wife team were standing on the stage: he was seated at the baby grand piano, and she stood behind a microphone. The pastor told the congregation that he had spent some time with this lovely new couple, and he had discovered that they were classically trained musicians who had devoted their talents to God. When he had finished with his introduction and turned the platform over to Mr. & Mrs., they morphed into something…else. Suddenly, they were no longer anonymous congregants — their pofessional training became obvious. Their entire musical performance (key word) was in such stark contrast to most of the performances that I had seen on the church stage up until that point, that I finally allowed myself to admit something I secretly felt for a long time. It was my opinion that many of the volunteer soloists lacked either musical ability or confidence, or sometimes both, and while some people found those types of presentations charming, I found them distracting (if not embarrassing). Besides, are you supposed to applaud after someone sings all four verses of a spiritual hymn all by themselves? It just felt like a strange response, sort of like giving a pastor, priest or rabbi a standing ovation at the end of a sermon. Anyway, Mr. & Mrs. were excellent, technically speaking. He played the piano with the skill of a professional, and her trained soprano was excellent — flawless in the very high octaves. Funny, for the first time in four years, my natural response was to clap. They were that good.
Within a week or two, Mr. & Mrs. had found their new church home, and they brought their two children — an eighteen year old daughter and a twelve year old son — with them. The whole family was as picture perfect as a Sears catalogue on the day that the pastor announced that he was making Mr. (but not Mrs.) the new Minister of Music. They were flattered, apparently surprised, and they acted as though they were not worthy of such a high honor, but it didn’t take Mr. Music more than two minutes to get down the aisle, up the steps, and in front of the pulpit microphone to make his “Aw, shucks” acceptance speech. The icy stares of the musicians behind Mr. Music’s pulpit didn’t seem to phase him as he rambled on — quite eloquently, in fact — about this wonderful church he and Mrs. Music had found, what wonderful and loving people he had met, blah, blah, blah. He seemed to like it up there — almost too much. Before long, several of the deeply offended musicians, those who played instruments and who were obviously not involved in the decision to make Mr. the Minister of Music, abandoned ship. Those were the first casualties of two professional spiritual frauds. I lost track of those people — we took different paths at that point. That was a new feeling — losing someone to another road.
I could reall