One of the best things about my new Dell is the MP3 playback capability. Over the past week I’ve downloaded a number of music files, songs that I absoluetle love but don’t have on CD. So here’s what I’m listening to lately (be prepared for a lot of moldy oldies):
More will be added to my playlist as I can find them. I used to be the proud owner of a huge collection of vinyl LPs (thousands of records), including every first release album the Beatles made–SOB!–but that’s all history. Someone else owns my precious recordings now. Oh well. I try to be philosophical about it.
Last night Nettl and I decided to watch Mozartballs on the digital flat screen of my new Dell. Wow! There were things in the film that we’d never heard or seen before. After that, we opened a bottle of champagne and settled back to watch Casanova, starring Heath Ledger. We’re great fans of period films and we own a growing collection of VHS tapes and DVDs in this genre. Some are really outstanding (Affair of the Necklace, Amadeus, Barry Lyndon, Moll Flanders) and some are passable (Mesmer), and then there’s Casanova. It’s a real stinker.
I suppose if you like romps that feature actors in roles they’re probably sorry they took, this film wouldn’t be so bad, but as 18th-century historians Nettl and I like films about a person as colorful and compelling as Casanova to at least have some measure of truth to them. Casanova’s life doesn’t need to be fictionalized, it was the stuff romances and swashbucklers have been built upon for two and a half centuries. Giacomo Casanova was an accomplished man of letters, a lawyer, a brilliant musician, an actor, a diplomat, a soldier, a spy, an adventurer, a philosopher, a writer, and lastly, a lover. History tends to forget all but the last aspect of his reputation.
I didn’t expect the movie to be a true depiction of Casanova’s flamboyant life, but I also didn’t expect it to be a shallow, trite piece of mylar confetti. It’s obvious that all of the budget went to 
costuming and location. Oliver Platt (one of my favorite actors) was good as an obese lard merchant, but it was nothing spectacular and I certainly didn’t need to see him half-naked on the night of my anniversary when we wanted to get romantic… There is a brief bunny-hump at the beginning of the film, but there was nothing that even hinted at a love scene anywhere else in the film. I don’t particularly like sex scenes, but if you’re going to spotlight Casanova’s reputation as the world’s greatest lover, a little flirting and courting might be nice. Compare it if you will to Shakespeare in Love. Only not as entertaining. And I don’t like it, either. All-in-all, Ledger was very good; it’s too bad the screenplay didn’t take advantage of his talent.
Nevertheless, we had fun watching the film, but that might have simply been the champagne. For my money, I still like Richard Chamberlain’s portrayal best (depite it’s obvious stylized historical flaws), and although I haven’t seen Felinni’s Casanova starring Donald Southerland, I’d really like to. At least Southerland was made up to look like Casanova and not a Hollywood stud muffin in 18th-century clothes.
Thank you so very much Joel. You’re wonderful!
"Little Jackie Waller” was a diminutive child who possessed the curious Salzburg “bump” in his personality. His family was from St. Wolfgangsee only a few miles from Mozart’s birthplace and they passed down the same kind of sense of humor that one finds there. He toured what was called the Circuit back in those days, singing and dancing and making the newspapers who extolled his prodigious musical talents. He could play any instrument given to him, played a trap set while dancing around it, and he even played the piano with his toes. During his teen years, however, his father died and he had to go to work to support the family. Then came WWI and he was off with the other Doughboys. When he returned, he went to Chicago in hope of returning to a musical life and he met an imperious, svelte coloratura and fell in love. So this is from whence I spring. Vaudeville meets Grand Opera. Talk about seria-buffa…
My grandparents were always an odd couple, or at least I thought so growing up. He was short, not much over 5′ 4″ and she was nearly 6′ tall. He stayed at home puttering around his lush garden and in his garage while my grandmother worked as County Clerk at City Hall. He was a Hobbit and she was a socialite. Although this may not sound off beat to some of you who were born before 1970, this was in the 50s when the term “house husband” wasn’t even a concept.
My father, too, was off beat. Born into this musical family, he later went on the road as a drummer during the Big Band era (until Uncle Sam nabbed him in 1942). He kept a diary during one of these tours and in it he wrote about the cities they were in, the monkey business that went on in the band’s bus, the audiences and the parties in the hotel rooms along the way. Imagine my surprise when I read many years later about how the trumpet player smoked some “reefer” and couldn’t play for shit when he thought he was really wailing. No wonder my father told me back in the 60s, “If you’re ever going to smoke pot, just tell me and I’ll make sure you get the good stuff.”
During the great radio-to-television migration of the late 1940s and early
50s, my family (all of them) moved together from the Midwest to southern California in hope that my father would be the next Red Skelton. If you want to know who my dad was, put Red’s personality behind the face of William Bendix, a film star my father was often mistaken for. Things didn’t work out, however, but my dad still spent his life as a musician, playing in a Dixieland band right up until he died thirteen years ago this Friday. He was an amazing man. Unsung, humble, gentle, patient, and a mechanical genius. His drumming style was what I always called “meat & potatoes”—solid, dependable and right on the money.
I too had my days as a vagabond musician. In high school I performed at coffeehouses and in small, local concerts. At 18 I left home for Haight-Ashbury, where I literally sang for my supper. Later, I toured the western states, performing in coffeehouses, schools, rallies and prisons, as well as on television and in large concert venues in Hollywood and L.A.
Life has never been normal in the Waller family. We’re clowns, really. One of my grandfather’s acts was as a clown. My father was a clown in parades and in sketches and I’ve invented Boxxo the Fuckin' Clown, not something I’m particularly proud of, I must add. Still, the spirit runs strong. When you look at it, life is just a carnival anyway. You put on the funny hat, get on the ride and scream your head off while the less adventurous people are pitching dimes into goldfish bowls, hoping to snag a prize. The secret is, Life is the prize, not the big fuzzy toy. The big fuzzy toy just bogs you down. You can’t take it on the ride and you can’t just leave it for fear that someone will steal it. What a bother. Just get on the damned ride, scream, hurl if you have to, then go get a friggin’ sno-cone and rest in the shade for a bit. Even when the carnival leaves town, remember that it’ll be back soon enough with better rides for you to get on instead of pitching dimes.
I’m always happy to take people on the ride with me, and I have enough barf bags for everyone.
This is no lie. At 8:30 this morning I lay in bed trying to decide if I should get up or go back to sleep. Just as I decided to go ahead and get up, I heard the sound of a synthesizer outside, playing the “Close Encounters” tune. It sounded exactly like the movie; it even sounded like it was a Moog playing it. It was too loud to be a ringtone—I mean, it was loud. I jumped out of bed and looked out the window, but there was nothing and no one out there. Not a car nor a human in sight.
The Stillwater Chamber Singers, accompanied by the Stillwater Baroque Players, performed an excellent concert this afternoon called “Back to Baroque”. I was starving when we left the house a little past one o’clock, so I dropped Nettl off at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church (the concert venue), and beat a track to Perkins, where I ordered some brecky. It was nearly a twenty-minute wait for my food. That’s a long time when you’re all by yourself with no one to talk to. Nevertheless, I had no place to be until 2:30, so I didn’t mind, and I sipped at my large tomato juice on the rocks, hoping to soothe my stomach from the mild hangover I had.
Before 2:30 I went back to the church and took a seat. The music was beautiful, of course, the spotlight piece being Bach’s cantata no. 78, Jesu, du der meine Seele, and the ensemble’s performance was outstanding. This group has really gelled since director Mark Lawlor took the baton. They’ve never sounded better than they did today. Although the music was challenging, there was no sense of difficulty; they were confident and up to the task. For me, the best were the two Lotti pieces. I love a capella, and the choir performed them from the choir loft above the sanctuary. The effect of that is well known, and the music, full of dissonances and resolutions, soared and floated like a feather caught in a current of air. I just shut my eyes and breathed it in. The rest of the concert was performed as usual, with the musicians at the front of the church.
Tomorrow night we’re invited to a party at the Lawlors’ home. I’m really looking forward to that!
Nathan is spending the night at a friend’s house, and Lauren had to work from 5 to 9, so Nettl and I decided to take the remaining family (the two of us, Joel and Heather) to El Vaquero for a Mexican dinner to celebrate Cinco de Mayo. We forgot that it’s also the night before the university graduation exercises at which President Bush will speak. The streets were crazy, the eateries all teeming, and news vans and trucks were everywhere. Between the parents, looky-loos, and the news media, I think our city’s population has tripled. Thank god school’s out and everyone will be leaving soon. Summer here is always quiet, something I admit gets old by the time August rolls around. The students bring youth and vitality; I just wish they didn’t bring it next door.
When we pulled into the parking lot of “El Vaq” we were greeted by more cars than I’ve seen in one place at one time in a very long while. Finally landing a spot as an SUV pulled out, we parked and then walked to the front of the restaurant. There must have been well over thirty people waiting outside and just as many inside. I wrote my name on the front desk list and we happened to find a place to sit indoors. We didn’t mind waiting, really. We were all in the mood for a little social buzz. I love people-watching, and with a lobby full of college students on their first free night of summer break, there was plenty going on. Overheard gems:
Girl: “Did you call my name? Amy for seven?”
Hostess, looking over her three-page list: “No. Did you leave your name?”
Girl: “No.”
Different Girl: “If they don’t have a table for six, we could split up at tables for two and four.”
Dude: (slack-jawed pause) “Uh... two plus four equals… six.”
Four years and $40,000 and this is what we get.
We waited about 45 minutes I think, and were finally taken to our table. We had such a good time. It’s seldom that we get to take the family out. Besides the fact that our car is too small to carry three adults and three teens, we simply can’t afford it. Tonight was different though, and we enjoyed ourselves tremendously. Our family is a really just a troop of stand-up comics. It’s frightening.
After dinner, we stopped at Brown’s for some wine, and then stopped to fill up the gas tank. I can’t believe it cost nearly $30 to fill up a Ford Contour. I remember the days when I put 50¢ in my VW bug and drove all week on it
Tomorrow, I’m staying home and avoiding the Bush Crush. He’ll be flying into the airport that’s just across a meadow from our house, then he’ll be motored to the university. I wonder how many photos National Security has of me sitting here at my blog this week? They have those cameras that see right through your roof, don’t they?
Due to my mother being on testosterone therapy (in the late 40s and early 50s) as fertility treatments, when I was finally conceived (on New Year’s Eve no less), and my brain was later flooded with hormones, there was an over-abundance of the male sort. And although I was born in every sense a biological girl, many years later the doctor found an undeveloped teste inside of me. Well, that explains the tomboyishness and the fact that my first loves were all girls, and why I never wanted to marry a Beatle, I wanted to be one. Later, I married (twice—I was widowed once and divorced once) and had two sons. The first birth nearly killed me and the second was as easy as cake, although I was never healthy afterward, plagued with multitudes of female problems which eventually brought about the removal of all my internal female parts. That’s when they found the little boy part in me and removed it along with my appendix. Go figure.
In 1977 I began questioning the straight vs. gay life. It was a struggle because I never identified—inwardly—as gay, and all I wanted was to find a nice straight girl to marry and settle down with. I always felt like I was a lot of both male and female, but mostly I felt like a straight male. My female friends treated me like a “safe” guy, and lesbians never really liked me. Guess I gave off a predominantly male vibe. As a kid I never questioned my gender identity or sexual orientation because I was raised in a tolerant home that was built around music and the arts, and I was used to my parents’ gay and lesbian friends. Heck, “Uncle Wes” half raised me and, as a dancer in Hollywood films, he was a swishy as they get.
In 2001 Nettl and I began learning about the recent studies in gender “disorders” and I at last found a word for myself: transgendered. I began transition (the long process of gender reassignment), but had to quit after only a few months of hormone therapy due to blood pressure issues. Outside of the two earlier surgeries I underwent in the 80s, I’ve not had anything else taken off or added on, and I don’t intend to. I like who I am just fine, thank you.
So here arrives the personal pronoun deal. During those few months of transition my family and friends, sensitive to my emotional comfort, began referring to me as “he”. But here in blogsville, people don’t know me as they do, and because I still appear to be a female, albeit a very androgynous one, they rightfully refer to me as “she”.
What do I prefer? It doesn’t make one bit of difference to me. I used to be ultra sensitive about it, but I’ve gotten over it (although I still cringe when a restaurant hostess or server calls Nettl and me “Ladies”, or our pharmacist greets us with “Hello girls!”. Still, WTF. Who cares. Life’s too short.
Here’s a recent photo of Nettl and me, taken on location in Salzburg. You decide what pronoun you want to use and I’ll be fine with it.
(Pay no attention to Mozie sitting in the back of the equipment truck)
We live near the municipal airport and the skies over Stoolwater Stillwater are teeming with military aircraft (jets and helicopters). Why? G. Dubya is coming to town on Saturday. I wonder if that has anything to do with four houses on our street emptying out. In our cul-de-sac, there are only two houses that are still being lived in.
Not that I mind. The noisy college students who trashed the beautiful house next door are history, but I’ll kind of miss the two little girls whose parents threw them the carnival-like birthday parties and the people across the street who had two dogs who ran across the street to say hi to me every time I went outside. We still have the quiet couple at the end of the court, and the partying hoochie mamas who live behind us (and their boyfriends who play their ba-boom-booms late at night). I wish they’d moved out and the people with the dogs had stayed.
It still makes no sense to me why our landlord will allow groups of college students to live in these beautiful homes, but won’t allow us to have a damned cat. We, who are his longest, best, cleanest and favorite tenants (he’s told us this). I’ve never lived anywhere that I didn’t leave in better shape that when I moved in. How can one cat possibly cause more damage than a houseful of rowdy, partying, vandalizing college students (one of the guys next door threw something at one of the beautiful lamps that are affixed to either side of the garage door and broke it). Has anyone fixed it? No. The students that live in this neighborhood are those with parents who co-sign the lease. Why can’t they just let their spoiled rotten little darlings live in student housing like all the other kids? We pay too much money to live on fraternity row.
(By the way, the people across the street had dogs because they had a different landlord.)
Ramble, ramble, ramble…
I never told you about what Ville got me. A couple of weeks ago I went over to her house to hang out and bend elbows with her, and she presented me with a gift: a glow-in-the-dark Spam shirt!
