Archive for February, 2009
Maybe we're all buskers
Posted by: | CommentsOver on A Cautionary Blog, Ms. Cautionary posted a YouTube video of herself playing the guitar and singing Feist’s Gatekeeper. She has a lovely voice–nothing manufactured or overdone, not even “professional,” but just nice to listen to.
Her video made me remember a time when I was little, when we’d go camping and someone would bring a harmonica, and someone else would bring a guitar, and we’d sing songs–yes, people, kumbayah was on the playlist. Sometimes someone would read a story, or tell a scary story. Maybe they’d say a poem. We didn’t bring along our electronics. We’d entertain ourselves.
Today, as I recuperated from this nasty virus on the couch, I watched “Becoming Jane,” a Jane Austen docu-drama, and the same idea of self-entertainment prevailed. Back when there was no electricity to power Wiis and iPods, humans found ways to entertain each other. Maybe they weren’t talented enough then (or now) to make a living at their chosen artform. But they expressed themselves nonetheless, and their audiences enjoyed what they heard and had fun.
I grew up thinking that if I sang in front of people out of joy or read my poetry–two things I’m quite good at–then I was a show-off, and not very attractive. I still carry some of that today. I’m fine disclosing some of my most private thoughts here, but would I ever be so brave as to post a YouTube video of myself singing … AND LINK TO IT HERE? Never. in. a. million. years.
I feel like we have all gotten so used to our entertainment being “perfect”–engineered perfect pitch in our music, actors and actresses with no wrinkles despite their advancing ages, dancers whose slight errors are covered up by a switch of camera shots, or later editing–that we fail to appreciate the talents of those around us. Sure, they may never win American Idol or get cast on CSI, but they are talented nonetheless. I’m sure that many of my friends write but never show anyone their words, or sing, or play an instrument — but only when no one else is around. We’d never know it, because we’re not “good enough” to show it.
The Internet is once again giving people a venue to show off their talents. Maybe they’re good at doing pushups, or maybe they’re good at singing, like Ms. Cautionary. They’re getting brave enough, or silly enough, or exhibitionistic enough to put their work out there. Some of what is out there is horribly bad. Some of it’s pretty good, and some of it is downright great.
Maybe the Internet going to turn more of us into buskers of sorts, doing our thing on the electronic sidewalk. And if we’re not out there busking ourselves, we’re paying those who are in pageviews.
I kinda like that.
Rocky Mountain News, RIP
Posted by: | CommentsWhen I was a kid, my parents subscribed to both the Denver Post and the Rocky Mountain News. One came in the morning, the other, the afternoon. My dad would share the paper with me once I became interested, first in the features section, then the main section. I learned to read upside down by reading his paper from across the breakfast table.
The Rocky, a tabloid, was always my favorite. It was easier to read. I liked the columnists more. The comics were better on Sundays. Eventually, the Post and Rocky both became morning papers, and my parents discussed which paper to keep. I chimed in, and we became a Rocky Mountain News home.
In high school, my journalism class went on a tour of the Rocky’s office, and I loved the energy of that newsroom. Later, I wrote a letter to the editor about student journalists and freedom of speech, and the Rocky published it as a guest editorial. That act further cemented the paper as my paper. Publishing = loyalty, right?
When I went to college, I got my first newspaper subscription: The Rocky. I didn’t read it every day; in fact, most days I was too busy to read it at all. But it reminded me of home, and it inspired me to become a journalist. For a short time, the Pulitzer-prize winning JR Moehringer worked at the paper, and I had the privelege of hanging out with him on occasion. (I dated his cousin for a short time.) He was–and still is–a beautiful writer and storyteller, and his style was a great influence on my own writing. Later, when I moved back to Denver and attended Metro State College, I was priveleged to learn all about interviewing and copy editing from Rocky staffers. When I spent a semester working the Capitol Reporter, a now-defunct student weekly covering the state legislature, I was able to work alongside the Rocky’s government reporter, who gave me great advice when a powerful legislator got on my case over a story I wrote: Don’t back down, he told me, or they’ll lose respect for you.
When I was the communications director for the Miss Colorado Organization, I had my first big story placement in the Rocky: a Spotlight cover of the 50th Anniversary of Miss Colorado. As my professional PR career advanced, I admit I was biased toward sending stories to the tabloid paper.
I have always felt that the Rocky was my hometown paper. Where the Post seemed to fill its pages with AP stories, the Rocky seemed to look for the local angle first. I didn’t always agree with the Rocky’s editorial voice on its op-ed pages (but then I don’t think there is a paper with a voice as liberal as the one in my head.)
At the end of last year, Denver learned that the Rocky Mountain News was up for sale, needing around $100 million just to make it whole, let alone make it go foward. The Rocky and the Post had merged their administrative and sales offices a few years ago in the hopes of keeping both papers alive. I eventually got used to reading the Post on Sunday morning; the joint operating agreement dictated that the Rocky was Saturday’s paper and the Post’s Sunday’s. It didn’t work. Tomorrow, the Rocky publishes its last issue, just shy of its 150 year anniversary.
Denver has been very lucky to have two major daily papers for so long. The competition has been great for our democracy because more journalistic eyes and voices on our government means more freedom for us. We’ve benefited from having so many columns of news each day, and different perspectives on the news of the day as well. Having two papers has allowed us to keep our minds open in a very Western way.
Tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll buy an extra copy of the paper and stow it away for safekeeping. On Saturday, when I shuffle out to the driveway in my pajamas to pick up the paper, I know I will feel the loss.
To all of the journalists, editors, layout people, sales people, administrators, pressmen, delivery boys and everyone else who has brought Denver and Colorado this newspaper for the past century and a half, thank you.
Rocky Mountain News, rest in peace.
Garden weasels
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A few months ago, Steve was reading on a ferret owners’ forum about letting your weasel play in the garden. We decided to see what would happen if we let our three ferrets roam in our tiny garden. Ferrets are diggers by nature. In their pre-domesticated life, they would hunt mice, prairie dogs and rabbits–all tunneling creatures. We don’t have large houseplants that sit on the floor for this reason. Jack, especially, will try to dig to China at every chance he gets.
We let them out for the first time on a sunny day a couple of weeks ago. Everyone ran through the dead leaves, under the leafless bushes, over the patio, into the firewood pile, and into the two downspouts coming off our townhouse. We watched all the little holes they found and plugged them up with rocks and small pieces of firewood. Their tails were bottlebrushes because of the extreme excitement of so many new and unusual smells.
Daisy, it turns out, is just plain territorial. She has decided that the north downspout is HERS. If Jack or Pharley so much as look in that direction, she will run to the mouth of the downspout and guard it with a loud screeching chatter. Pharley, our oldest ferret, is content to sniff around until he finds a place to curl up. Jack runs in circles, looking for a place he can escape from. Today, he almost did: Steve caught him as he dug a tunnel under the gate.
As spring commences, we’ll ferret-proof the garden for real. As much as I hate metal lawn edging, we’ll bury some along the fence line so they can’t dig out. We’ll find some sort of barrier to put up inside the fence as well so that they can’t work their way through the small gaps in the fence.
We’ll never leave them alone outside, because within minutes the neighborhood cats are sniffing around for an exotic meal. We spend a lot of time on the patio in the summer. This year, we’ll have some outside weasels to keep us company.
Now, time for ferret baths. Jack, especially, is filthy!
Special Favors
Posted by: | CommentsTonight, as I sat sniffling and coughing on the couch, Steve cleaned the entire house. It’s part of our deal that the majority of the cleaning falls to him. I shop, handle the finances and cook, and manage our social life. It hardly seems fair, I know. But the fact of the matter is my idea of “clean” is Steve’s idea of “better clean up this mess.”
We knew before he moved in that I have a much higher tolerance for mess than he does. Within a couple of months of dating, he was cleaning the cat box. He claims that he has a much more sensitive nose than I do, and I wasn’t going to fight him. I just handed him the scoop and let him have at it.
Sometimes, the way he cleans pisses me off is not how I’d do it. I mean, I LIKE my piles. I know where everything is in them. He moves them all into one spot, usually in the middle of the dining room table, where I usually let it sit for a matter of days or weeks until I get around to putting the stuff away. Sometimes I annoy him because I can be a little tornado, leaving a wake of destruction in my path. I don’t mean to be messy. I just am.
I’ve noticed that since he went back to working in a restaurant, he has become even more anal neat-and-tidy. I admit that I’ve been a little passive aggressive in being sloppy, because damn it, I don’t like to live in a showhouse! But secretly, I do. It’s so great to walk into a spotless house and know that I didn’t do a damn thing to make it that way. Because when he’s done, it’s like I had a crew of people in here cleaning our little townhouse. Actually, he cleans it better than a crew, because he isn’t snooping through my box of sex toys and stealing my lube while he’s doing it.
At about 10:30, he finally collapsed on the couch. The basement and main floor have been wiped down and vacuumed. The dishwasher had been run and emptied. The dingy kitchen counters almost sparkle with new life. “If I weren’t sick, I’d give you (special favors) for all you did tonight,” I told him. “If you weren’t sick, I’d make you give me (special favors),” he replied, then promptly fell asleep leaning on his hand while watching a TiVo’d episode of The Soup.
I can’t guarantee that the house will still be sparkling when he gets home from work tomorrow afternoon. Hell, I can’t even guarantee it will still be intact, since both kids are here and they are messier than I am, Percy seems not to want to climb down the stairs to the catbox and has taken to dropping turds at the top of the stairs, and Noelle’s tummy doesn’t like the new cat food. But I can guarantee that when I can breathe through my nose, special favors are coming his way.
Ghosts
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Monday was a beautiful day in Denver, and a day off for me. With no plans, I followed my curiosity, and it led me and my camera to Fairmount Cemetery. Fairmount was founded in 1890 and is Colorado’s second-oldest cemetery. I’ve strolled through the old graves many times in my life, on school field trips, once during high school at night. I’ve been drawn to graveyards since I was a child. There is something fascinating to me not about all the bodies buried beneath my feet, but the sheer number of lives represented by names and dates carved into stone. All of these people had toothaches, and dreams about being naked, and loved something or someone, just like me. I love other people’s stories, so much so that I love to make them up. I also love the attention that we humans used to give in creating last tributes to people we loved. I especially love the many angels that watch over the Fairmount grounds, and the lambs keeping children’s stones warm. Today, most people’s bodies are cremated, and at most there is a flat piece of granite inlaid in the grass. Death is simpler as it’s become rarer.
Monday’s light was hard and shining from straight overhead as I parked my car. I grabbed my Nikon and my prime lens (my favorite) and headed in. Many of the graves I saw were from people who died more than 100 years ago. Sometimes, testaments rose up with many names carved into the stone. Some people lived to be 70 or 80. One gentleman lived to be 103. But most died in their 30s and 40s. Many family plots contained graves of multiple children. Until recently, death was commonplace in people’s lives. Now, I feel shocked when someone I know dies. I’ve never been afraid of death, and my personal philosophy about what happens when we die allows me to get through the grieving process without much agony.
As I walked, I began reading the names on the headstones out loud. How many years had it been since someone visited a headstone placed in 1897? How many years had it been since anyone said the name of that spirit, who made a transition so long ago? I felt good honoring them, one by one, as I took pictures of monuments that moved me.
After a while, I came to a spot where I felt compelled to sit and just breathe for a while. A small flock of geese ambled through the headstones, softly honking and looking for shoots of green grass among the winter kill. The sun cast hard shadows toward me, lengthening the trunks and branches of trees on the ground. I snapped a three photos, moving my focus from the shadows, to the geese, to a distant gravestone. When I clicked the shutter the third time, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Out of the corner of my eye, slightly over my right shoulder, I saw a man standing behind a headstone, watching me. He was about six feet tall, had dark wavy hair that pushed back from his forehead and curled behind his ears. He wore a dark blue button-down shirt and jeans–the shirt had a white pattern on it. He stood with his hands in his pockets. I captured all of this information in the spit second it took me to register his presence, and by the time I turned my head, he was gone. Yes, I saw a ghost.
I told Steve about my brief encounter when I got home. I’ve always been sensitive to energy from “stuck” entities, even as a kid. (Yes, feel free to roll your eyes and laugh at me. You might think it’s bunk, but I know it’s not.) He believed my story. I didn’t think about it again until I downloaded the photos today. When I opened that last picture, I realized my camera was perfectly focused on the distant gravestone: Carlson. The hairs on my neck stood on end again, as I sat on my couch. Mr. Carlson is the man who visited me; I can feel it in my gut.
Someday, I’ll take Lauren to Fairmount. We pass it every day on the way to school, and she’s often asked me if we can go there. She’s such a sensitive little girl. I wonder what her first experience will be like. Will she cry? Or will she be fascinated like me about the many lives that have come before her?
Stepparenting
Posted by: | CommentsOnce, my friend Wendy recounted a story from a friend of hers who had recently become a stepmother. She told her that being a stepparent was 100 times harder than being a parent to her own children. “You never know quite where you stand,” the woman said.
I can relate entirely. Steve and I both have children from our first marriages. Lauren is almost 8 and Ryan is 11. We both have different relationships with our own children. Lauren is with us half-time: one week on, one week off. I talk to her by phone every night she’s not with me, even if it’s for 10 seconds to say goodnight. I take her to dinner on Tuesdays when she’s with her dad, and he does the same thing when she’s with me. In the past 2.5 years we’ve lived together, Steve has spent about 450 days and nights with Lauren. He also grew up as a child of divorce, and he felt like he knew from experience how to handle his interactions with her. Ryan is with us about six days and six nights each month. Steve has no interaction with him during the week, unless there is a school activity. In the past 2.5 years we’ve lived together, I’ve spent about 180 nights and days with Ryan.
Steve is a much more laid back parent than I am. He’s also incredibly sensitive when it comes to Ryan, who has some special needs. I have to admit that I have never done very well when it comes to Ryan, and how Steve feels about the way I treat his son. I tried to parent him, first of all, and I tried to parent him in the same way as I do Lauren. I got too involved for his (and his ex-wife’s) taste in issues that in their opinions are outside my jurisdiction. Steve feels that I put him in the middle between me and his son and constantly ask him to choose. And I feel like he usually chooses his son’s side, opinion or time over mine. Over the past many months, I’ve actually realized I am jealous of his son–the attention he gets from Steve especially when I’m around. I feel like I have to walk on eggshells, or completely ignore Ryan, or leave the house in order to avoid conflict. Nothing I’ve done so far has been right (and boy oh boy do I hate to be wrong).
I know this sounds incredibly petty, and I’ve been ashamed of how I feel about all of this. However, I now understand that I am not alone, and neither is Steve, in how we feel about this topic. Blending families is usually tricky if not near impossible to do well. For the next three Tuesdays, we will be taking a workshop on stepparenting led by a local therapist who specializes in blended families and their many issues. It’s a group class, and when it’s done the therapist has group support sessions.
I’m very hopeful that three weeks from now Steve and I will have a better vision of what it will take to make our relationship work around these parenting issues.
