Memorial Day, 2008

Intermission

Lights down. Music up. Curtain.

I'll only be gone for the blink of an eye. There are things I need to tend to.

Take care.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Liquid

For my weekly entrant this week, I chose as my sub-theme, the process or metamorphosis of a solid to a liquid.

Next week's challenge: Friday, May 30, 2008.

Kykops (sadly sober) offers us his morning joe. And Bud is carrying on with the "melting" theme.

Then there's Dave. Dave, Dave, Dave, who's escaped the sweltering heat and storms to run up to the breezy wilds of Appalachia for one of those Peace-Corps-reunion-cum-wedding things he's always slipping away to, offers us a lovely pink potty pot. Thanks, Dave, but I've been seeing quite enough of those lately.

Leaving the House Today

This afternoon will be the first time I leave Bobby alone for any length of time. I'm a little nervous, but I have to do it.

At three, I'll be attending a meeting with To Do Production's executive producer and the musical director for our upcoming production of Thrill Me. I'm excited to be working with this guy (his name's Jim Walpole) because he's excited by the show's score.

I'm not sure what we're going to be talking about, although I can bet a lot of it will have to do with who we can get to sing these songs. I've played the CD for some of the actors I know who all decided to pass on the opportunity of trying out for us. They don't dislike the music, but they don't believe they can carry the load of this score.

And I don't get it. What are they afraid of? When I was young enough to have played one of these roles, I wouldn't have given a damn if I could sing the songs as long as I had the opportunity of playing Dickie Loeb. (I was much too attractive to have pulled off Nathan Leopold. That was then. Now is a different story.)

The music sounds strange to them. And this points up something I've discovered about the younger generation of New Orleans performers. They have no history.

Let me rephrase that, what histories they have are personal. Their histories begin with their discovery of their own consciousness. They know little to nothing about what went before.

Now, if they're actors who've been to college, they know the theatrical canon, but nothing about the centuries-long progression from two men stepping out into a Greek amphitheatre to sing lines of dialogue to each other - to the obscenities of Roman comedy - to the Mystery Plays of the Middle Ages - to the panoply of the Elizabethans - to the Restoration's revelation of actresses (!) - to the Victorian actor-managers. They may have seen some movies with Olivier. They've probably seen Gielgud in Arthur. They don't know Muni, Cagney, Gish, or Garbo. Booth, the Lunts, Cornell, Laurette Taylor are foreign words to them.

There's no there there.

Our community's musical performers are even worse. They know to sing out, Louise, to fling out their arms, and to snap their heads back to catch the light. They know the musical comedies of the last mid-century, but then they leapfrog over Sondheim to rest in Lloyd Webber's ample arms.

So what am I doing doing this?

Just a glutton for punishment, I guess.

Now, what was I talking about? Oh, yeah, leaving Bobby alone this afternoon.

Anybody want to sit with him?

On Elysian Fields

Heads Up

It appears Humid City may be down, but as Molly Brown was wont to say, "I ain't down yet." We'll be back.

Aw, Damn!

Say it ain't so.

Adrastos is spreading a rumor that the Burger King drag queen has been busted. Now, the story isn't confirmed, but if it turns out to be true, I'll be really disappointed. I'd so wanted her to be like - oh, I don't know - like D. B. Cooper or Jack the Ripper or somebody else like that: always out there, never apprehended, creeping around in our idle thoughts and dreams for all time to come.

Was that too much to ask?

Attracting Attention

We've made it to the International Herald Tribune.

New Orleans' first bicycle lane opened Tuesday, taking riders through neighborhoods scarred by poverty and Hurricane Katrina but also representing the kind of progressive thinking planners hope will bring people back to hard-hit areas.

The 3-mile white-striped path winds along St. Claude Avenue, through the Lower 9th Ward and to the St. Bernard Parish line, past areas slowly recovering from the August 2005 storm.

Now the whole world knows. What'll they say when some 18-wheeler mows down its first cyclist?

The Machine

We're sitting downstairs yesterday evening, and he finally says to me that he's scared.

"Scared of what?"

"This thing."

"But scared why? They've exchanged the defective lead. Everything should be fine now."

"They changed one lead, not the two of them."

"But the other one was fine."

"For how long?"

"There was no indication there was anything wrong with the other lead."

"But I don't trust the machine anymore. I don't have any faith in it."

He's Back

Back at home, that is. And as cussed as ever.

Awesome

Bobby made it through again. The surgery went off without a hitch. He should be home by tomorrow or Wednesday.

I feel like sleeping tonight.

The Ubiquitous "They"

They're gearing up to replace the defective lead in Bobby's defibrillator probably early tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, to alleviate his nausea (why is he nauseous?), they're medicating him with something that zonks him out. A visit with him is simply sitting next to his bed and resting a hand on his arm while he sleeps.

So ...

So. Yesterday evening, around six o'clock. I'm upstairs, Bobby's down. He screams my name. I rush down to find him holding his chest and being whipped around in his chair like a sock puppet in the grip of toddler.

"What's happening?"

"My defibrillator's going off."

And it's 911 and EMT's and back to an emergency room all over again.

By late last night, the doctors had decreed that he was fine, but his Medtronics device was faulty and needed a new lead. It was encountering interference (like white noise or something), interpreting that interference as an irregularity in Bobby's heartbeat, and firing off electrodes into his heart in response. Also, by then, by late last night, they had figured out how to turn off the bastard so it would stop doing its lifesaving thing.

Right, the defibrillator's firings continued for several hours into the night even while Bobby was in the ER.

So. Today, Bobby's back in Touro Infirmary for observation and monitoring throughout the weekend. On Monday, his doctors hope to go back into his chest and replace the defective lead.

I don't like not being in control, not being able to fix something with my own two hands. I don't like being helpless and forced into a state of utter passivity while other people, strangers, do their jobs, jobs whose motions I don't understand.

I don't like seeing Bobby scared and struggling to mouth some soothing old Catholic prayers in between volts of electricity.

I don't like having to face our neighbors and friends, who are concerned and hopeful and trying to be helpful, and attempt to explain and define what is happening to Bob.

It's funny. What I really want to do is to run away from home. But for now, I'm just too tired.

How Crass Can You Be?

"I'll be long gone before some smart person ever figures out what happened inside this Oval Office."—Washington, D.C., May 12, 2008

From today's Bushism of the Day

Happy Birthday, Studs!

Studs Terkel is 96 today.

TGIF

Lately, the only way I know what day it is is to reach for my seven-day pillbox when I wake up in the morning to take my blood-pressure meds. Fridays always feel like Saturdays to me, and it's a pleasant surprise when I realize, nope, I haven't slept a day ahead.

On the other hand, Fridays probably feel like Saturdays to me because I don't particularly care for Fridays and would like to get them out of the way. And the reason for that is that when I sit at my computer to retrieve my email and to read my RSS feeds, I find myself inundated with the theatre-review ejaculates of the the Times-Picayune.

Today was a particularly good day for some of the locals.

One encomium was reserved for the children's play just mounted in the Quarter. I can't bring myself to see that one.

It's not what you think. I just wouldn't be comfortable being a single adult male attending a children's play in this day and age. But then the people of the company producing it don't yet qualify as adults in today's society anyway. So that's okay.

Another show getting a verbal bukkake this morning features an actor I've directed three times before in a new role directed by a friend of mine.

They're doing this in a new space they hope to make successful.

What's that phrase about starting a successful business venture? "Location, location,location."

I feel I now may be too old to venture that far out to the edge of the Quarter. People get mugged or murdered there. Or maybe that's just an urban myth at this moment in time in New Orleans, but it's too strong a myth for easy dismissal.

Besides, I've heard they lock the theatre door when the play begins.

The director tells me it's a feeble lock - easily broken. But, being claustrophobic, I'd hate to find myself making a scene and stealing Thor's thunder. Is there perhaps another door that remains available? I'll have to ask. I mean, if that's the case, I can always spring for a cab and run quickly in and out.

Otherwise, I'll just occupy myself with playing TiVo-catchup with my Law and Orders, CSI's, and Mediums. And, in between, I'll continue reading Charmed Circle, the first real book I've picked up since I retired.

My loss perhaps. But don't feel sad for me. Age teaches us the inevitability of loss and the simple pleasures to be found in what we have at hand.

May my comrades relish their raves from our major rag. They've worked hard to get them.

Worked. Very. Hard.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Attitude

Dave and Kyklops are up with their submissions.

Bud's up and about with crazy cats. Where did "cats" come from? Not that they haven't got 'tude, mind you.

Again with "cats"? I don't know any cats.

Why Not Let 'Em Eat Cake, Too?

I really don't want to talk about this, but it needs to be disseminated.

New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin told an audience Thursday that helping the city's growing homeless population is one of his top priorities. Then he offered what he later said was a "tongue-in-cheek" solution to the problem: One-way bus tickets out of town.

Nagin was responding to a question from an audience member during a panel discussion sponsored by the American Association for Public Opinion Research. The panel also included former White House hurricane recovery chief Donald Powell and Louisiana Lt. Gov. Mitch Landrieu.

A woman in the audience asked the panelists to name groups worthy of donations to aid in the city's recovery from Hurricane Katrina. Nagin said homelessness was a top concern and named two groups -- the New Orleans Mission and UNITY of Greater New Orleans -- as worthy of her consideration.

The mayor said the city has an estimated 5,000 to 12,000 homeless people, many of whom came here looking for jobs after Katrina struck in August 2005.

"I'm not suggesting that they were dumped here, but we have a lot of people from a lot of different places around the country, and you may be helping one of your citizens. Maybe we can even find some bus tickets. We'll see. One way," Nagin said, drawing laughs from audience members.

After the panel discussion, Nagin said he was "just kidding around."

Sometimes, you've just got to stop all this "kidding around" and get down to work.

Another No-Sleeper

I had another restless night of little to no sleep, waking up nearly every hour, on the hour. Sometimes I'd wake in a little jump like somebody had bounced me on the mattress (didn't happen). A couple of times, I woke up to someone calling out my name (ditto).

So early, early this morning, I pulled myself out of bed and went and took some photos in the patio.

Everything's askew today, and I don't have a reason why.

Last Words

No. I'm not going anywhere. It's just that yesterday some friends turned me on to a list of the 100 best last lines from novels.

One of my favorites tops the list:

... you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on. –Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable (1953; trans. Samuel Beckett)

One of my other all time favorite made it to number 4:

... I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. –James Joyce, Ulysses (1922)

Check it out. I'm just sorry I didn't catch wind of this sooner.

The Secret Life of Plants

Our lady of the night bloomed and blossomed last evening, keeping us awake till nearly dawn, when she was finally spent.

Ladies and Gentlemen ...

May I present to you ...

... MALE NURSE DAVE!