These Crazy Days

These days, I’ m worried about what everybody’s worried about. No, not a lack of toilet paper (we have enough of that). But, along with the more serious concerns, there are some minor ones.

Like my hair. In the last 6 months, I found a shorter hairstyle that I like. Every month, I was getting it trimmed.

No more. I can trim my bangs, and probably do a passable job, but the back? The sides? I’m afraid I’m going to be rocking a mullet soon, and nobody wants to see Sioux in a mullet.

The corona 15. People (me included) are eating more than usual. We’re stuck with books, our television and our refrigerator. There are jokes that we’ll all gain 15 pounds before this is over. Stress eating or boredom eating? You be the judge.

My yarn supply. One of the things I’ve been occupying myself with (along with avoiding writing and the distance teaching I’m doing) is knitting. I’ve knit a baby blanket for my soon-to-be-born grandson (due in June). I’ve knit a baby/family blanket for a French great-niece or nephew (due in September). I’ve knit one scarf for our dog rescue’s silent auction. Now I’m knitting a scarf for myself with some left-over yarn, and I’m afraid I won’t have enough.

These days, we’re losing loved ones. My son, a doctor, is still okay. Everyone I know and love is uninfected and healthy--except for a couple of friends who are battling cancer. This week, the coronavirus claimed two legendary singers--Bill Withers and John Prine. Everybody’s familiar with Bill Withers, but John Prine flew under the radar when it came to some. Musicians from all different backgrounds loved him, and commonfolk like me adored his humor, his poignancy and his humbleness.

If you'd like to read what scares me when it comes to writing, read my post on The Muffin. And, if you'd like to hear John Prine (in his earlier years), listen to "Angel From Montgomery."

If you'd like to see how subtle (and how funny) John Prine could be, listen to "The Other Side of Town" which is about a husband's selective hearing...

... because these days, we need reasons to laugh and to embrace the joy when we find it.

Getting Drunk Pays Off (For Me)

          Last night was the John Prine concert in St. Louis. The opening act was great (one singer-songwriter with an acoustic guitar) and John Prine's group was spare and pared down--just another guitarist and a bass player/guitarist. No need for anyone or anything else...

      In spite of no Bonnie Raitt or Emmylou Harris or Iris DeMent making a guest appearance, it was an unbelievable evening.

      Here is one of Prine's more humorous numbers. At the end, he even pokes at Bush.

Your Flag Decal

     Prine did little talking. He let his songs speak for him. People kept calling out songs, like "Christmas in Prison' (he did), or "The Great Compromise" (he didn't sing that one), and at one point, he said, "I'm not gonna sing that, I'm gonna sing the next song," which got a laugh.

      My seat was in row Y; we had the two aisle seats. I had suceeded in finding a friend who does know who John Prine is, and she was thrilled with the last-minute opportunity. (My husband was sick and had to bow out, much to his dismay.) While the opening act was performing, the guy next to me said he needed to leave but insisted, "I'll be back. I promise." It was obvious he had enjoyed several beverages already. I wanted to tell him, "I'll be holding my breath until you return." 

     When he came back and rejoined his two drunk stooges music-fan friends, all three guys had a conversation during every song. They'd point up at the balconies several times; apparently something about those seats or something floating in the air (that only they could see) was quite fascinating. Or aggravating. It was hard to tell.

     I told my friend I had to leave, apologized, and went to the usher. I told her where we were sitting, and let her know that the three guys next to us were drunk, and would not shut up. She said she'd talk to someone.

      No one came to shine a flashlight in their face or slam it against their head.

      Then all three guys left--apparently their thirst needed re-quenching.  When the one next to me went by me, as we stood in the aisle (while the opening act was still performing) he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "I'm so sorry."

       For the next few songs, I plotted my response if he put his paw on me again. "Put your hand on me again, and you'll pull back a bloody stump, and it might not be your hand that's missing."

      Sadly, I could only live that moment Walter Mitty-style, because he didn't touch me again, but he did return, along with the other two jackasses enjoyment-suckers. The conversations were loud enough for people several rows in front of us to hiss and call back for them to be quiet.

     When the opening performer sang a song about being on the road and missing home, the guy on my left turned to me and said matter-of-factly, "Gypsy."  I immediately thought, 'WWPD? What would Pearl do?' After all, she rides the bus every day, and uses the fodder for hilarious blog postings. I put on my writerly hat and hoped the fun would continue so I'd have something to write about.

      It did.

      I excused myself again. A different usher said she'd talk to the house manager. Probably, they came and listened/observed, but these guys didn't  talk nonstop. They would talk, then shut up, and then talk some more. And to add to the mix, the one next to me kept strumming an imaginary guitar, without a break.  (At least I think that is what he was banging away on. I tried not to look too closely.)
           
        The third time apparently was a charm. I got up when one of his friends got up as well. (He was really Mr. Thirsty!) The strummer chucklehead next to me had a bottle of beer he was drinking from and then hiding under his jacket. (I was hoping that was the ONLY thing he was hiding under there...) The friend was so far-gone, as I was at the door talking to the house manager, saying, "This is one of the guys," he just stood there. He didn't even have the brainmatter to run and hide.

      The house manager moved my friend and me to row K--primo seats--and thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the concert.

      So, if you're a teenager and your parents tell you that getting drunk will lead to no good, don't believe them. It's a lie. It's not true.

      If someone else is plastered, it could get you into the seats where rich people sit...

This is an incredible picture book (quite meaty when it comes to the text) by Byrd Baylor. A kid in a family thinks they're poor, and the parents start adding up their "riches." The fact they get to work outside is worth so many dollars, and because they get to see the mountains every day is worth so many dollars, and so on. By the time the parents add it up, they maintain that their kitchen table--a table that is homemade and scratched up--is where where rich people sit, because THEY are rich and they sit there.

John Prine is in the House

          Tonight John Prine is in St. Louis. My husband got tickets months ago but unfortunately, he is feeling under the weather, so I scrambled around to find someone who would enjoy the concert.

       "Who is the heck is John Prine?" most people asked.

        (Sigh.)

        I have loved his songs since I was 16, when I asked for a John Prine album for my birthday. His "hit" that year was "The Great Compromise." If you only listen to it on a surface level, it sounds like the classic boy-loses-girl tale. However, this was the Vietnam era, and the lyrics are about so much more.

        Apparently he has a new album out, and on it is a duet with Emmylou Harris. (Shay--stop salivating right now!)

      Here's John Prine singing "In Spite of Ourselves" with Iris DeMent:
      

           "In Spite of Ourselves" is typical of Prine's lyrics--whimsical and wry, with an occasional sharp-edged point.

       If you are crafty, or into new recipes, go to Pinterest. However, don't blame me if you click on there, and 9 hours later, you finally emerge.

       I'm off to an evening of feeling like a teenager again...at least until the last note disappears from the stage.

It's Thursday TMA (The Morning After)

      Lately, a couple of times a month, I binge on Wednesday nights. I get wildly drunk. I revel. I carouse.

      Of course, since one glass of wine loosens my tongue to the point of embarrassment (mine) and amusement (everyone else), I'm not talkin' 'bout booze. Since my after-hours life is so pathetically sucky, the level of the revel is not too high.* And since I'm so menopausally and sleep apnea-sleep deprived, the carousing is not too late ("Yikes! It's quarter after 9!") nor does it ever result in a call to the police. (However, there's always that frozen leg of lamb or the wood chipper...that just might end up getting the cops' attention!)

     A couple of Wednesdays a month, I meet with a group of wild women with pens. The laughter, the kinship, the sharp barbs...that's the whipped cream, because why we're really there is to hone our writing ability and increase our submissions.

Here are a few things I've learned so far from my "chicka peeps":

• When you're tempted to wait for a friend to get out of their car so you can knock on the door together, and the friend has a bunch of flowers in hand (and your hands are empty), race to the door, and make sure you make your own entrance. That way, your lack of thoughtfulness will not be so evident. 
• Looks can be deceiving. Sometimes women can be thin, young, cute and talented in the area of writing. They can also be genuinely wonderful people.  It doesn't happen very often, but when it does, I've found I like them in spite of it.
• When faced with self doubt...when you get a rejection letter...when you're worried your writing sucks...Think WWSD.

          What would Sioux do?  Sioux would say, "_____   _____." (It's one of her favorite phrases.) It just tears and wears you down if you obsess over the opinion of others. Work your craft. Let your talent shine. And let doubt fall to the wayside.

      What charges your battery? Who are your "chicka peeps" (or your "scratch and sniff pals," if you're of the male persuasion?) What snappy comeback do you give--at least in your mind--when you get rejected? Inquiring minds want to know... 

         (How did I do, Hope?)

* Although my husband got us tickets to see John Prine in December, and I'm shrieking with delight. Shay, eat your heart out.

Running Down Kites

          If I was a stalker, I would stalk a few people...Khaled Hosseini, John Reynolds Gardiner, Rick Bragg, Sandra Dallas, John Prine...There are others, but these are ones that come to mind immediately.

        They all have one thing in common: they're all writers (although Prine is a singer-songwriter, albeit a brilliant one).

John Prine---photo by Steve Hopson

       For me, a marvelous book is better than crack or meth (or at least how powerful I imagine the drugs are).  Perhaps I should not include meth, because I think that drug makes you very energetic---you can stay up for days---and since I love to read on the couch or bed and eventually fall asleep, I can't really compare an engaging novel to meth.

       Writing about an alluring author is easy this afternoon, because I just finished watching the movie The Kite Runner.  Truth is, I had been avoiding it for years...

photo of Khaled Hosseini  by wnyc

        Falling in love with a book, and then seeing the story being butchered on the screen, is painful.   When the novel came out, I read it and was completely enamored.  (Alright, there was a part that didn't quite ring true, but I remained loyal until the last page, and it redeemed itself.)  It was such a powerful story, I did not know how a movie---a decent movie---could do it justice.  So when the film came out, I refused to see it.

          Then there were press releases about a second book by Khaled Hosseini.  I scanned the internet when that month came, and...no book.  I went onto this website and found the book was taking longer than anticipated. Drats!

          There I was, waiting like an impatient lover.  And no car lights coming up the street...I was all dressed up, make-up on, anticipating the arrival.

         When the book A Thousand Splendid Suns finally came out, I fell in love all over again.  And as hard as it was to believe, I loved his second book (a book about women) even more than his first (which is really a book about boys and men).  If you have not read either one, and would enjoy seeing a small picture of life in Afghanistan, read them.  They are among my favorites...

         Grudgingly, this morning I put the disc in, still dubious.  Mostly, I was afraid of the movie being all whitebreaded-up.  Would all the Afghans speak English throughout the film? (Why in the world does that happen?  Do producers and directors think Americans are incapable of reading subtitles?  Do they think we don't want to hear the richness--the diversity--of a foreign language?) Would it look like American cheese---all wrapped up in plastic sleeves---instead of fragrant and a bit rough around the edges?  I was prepared for the worst...

        In my opinion, they did a great job.  It was like reading the book all over again.  (And if anyone wants to pay me for this review/opinion, I will gladly accept it.)

photo of Rick Bragg by Kalamazoo Public Library


         To the above authors, consider this a warning:  If you see a frumpy woman, bags under her eyes and a bag of books in her hand, her hair several different colors (unless she gets it dipped this evening) lurking around a corner, watch out.  She might chase after you, snare you, and pepper you with questions about what your writing process is like, as she slobbers out praise for your words.