The Song: "Refugee," Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers. Words & music by Tom Petty & Mike Campbell. Track 1 of Damn the Torpedoes, 1979.
When/how acquired: Gift bootleg cassette, c. 1981.
Listen/watch here.
If I were ever to make a playlist that tried to explain my life, this song would be on it. I live like a refugee. I admit it. I have for most of my adult life, even when I didn't need to. I don't need to. I can't seem to help it. At this point, which is midlife if I live to be 90, I probably ought to get some help for it.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
"Hey, you could be/A hero in your own hometown."
The Song: "Hero in Your Own Hometown," Mary Chapin Carpenter. Words & music by Mary Chapin Carpenter. Track 2 of A Place in the World, 1996.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1996.
I can't find a version of this song available for preview. You should probably just buy the album.
Yesterday I went down to Boston for the launch of BURIED SECRETS by Joseph Finder, at Brookline Booksmith. Brookline Booksmith is one of the world's great bookstores, and if I had any money I would spend a lot of it there. It made me feel great to see such a wonderful collection of books, new and old, on topics I might otherwise never think much about -- science, sociology, phrases for travelers visiting Poland.
And it was great to see so many people turn out for Joe's book launch. Joe lives in Boston, and the crowd was about evenly split between fans and personal friends. It is not a small thing to have your friends turn out for a book launch. It often seems easier for people to stay home, especially when the Green Line is full of people trying to get to a Red Sox home game. (They lost, by the way. Everyone would have been better off going to Brookline Booksmith.)
BURIED SECRETS, which I did a very little bit of work on, is the second adventure for Joe's series character, Nick Heller, a "private spy." As the book begins, Nick has returned to his hometown of Boston to set up his own practice, and an old friend asks for help with a problem he can't go to the police about.
Many things make Boston a particularly good setting for a hero like Nick, and I wish I'd thought to ask Joe about that last night. Undoubtedly there will be other chances, as it looks like Nick will be fighting crime on the streets of Beantown for years to come.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1996.
I can't find a version of this song available for preview. You should probably just buy the album.
Yesterday I went down to Boston for the launch of BURIED SECRETS by Joseph Finder, at Brookline Booksmith. Brookline Booksmith is one of the world's great bookstores, and if I had any money I would spend a lot of it there. It made me feel great to see such a wonderful collection of books, new and old, on topics I might otherwise never think much about -- science, sociology, phrases for travelers visiting Poland.
And it was great to see so many people turn out for Joe's book launch. Joe lives in Boston, and the crowd was about evenly split between fans and personal friends. It is not a small thing to have your friends turn out for a book launch. It often seems easier for people to stay home, especially when the Green Line is full of people trying to get to a Red Sox home game. (They lost, by the way. Everyone would have been better off going to Brookline Booksmith.)
BURIED SECRETS, which I did a very little bit of work on, is the second adventure for Joe's series character, Nick Heller, a "private spy." As the book begins, Nick has returned to his hometown of Boston to set up his own practice, and an old friend asks for help with a problem he can't go to the police about.
Many things make Boston a particularly good setting for a hero like Nick, and I wish I'd thought to ask Joe about that last night. Undoubtedly there will be other chances, as it looks like Nick will be fighting crime on the streets of Beantown for years to come.
Monday, June 20, 2011
"And in the quick of the night they reach for their moment/And try to make an honest stand..."
The Song: "Jungleland," Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band. Words & music by Bruce Springsteen. Track 8 of Born to Run, 1975.
When/how acquired: Gift LP, 1980.
Listen. Watch.
There was rock and roll before Clarence Clemons, and there will be rock and roll after him. But this song was the dividing line. It changed everything. Even now I listen to it in awe. It is poetry in words and music, and Clarence's solo disembowels us and breaks our hearts and makes us believe in whatever it was we hoped for when we were sixteen years old.
The rest of us have to live without him. Rest in peace, Big Man.
When/how acquired: Gift LP, 1980.
Listen. Watch.
There was rock and roll before Clarence Clemons, and there will be rock and roll after him. But this song was the dividing line. It changed everything. Even now I listen to it in awe. It is poetry in words and music, and Clarence's solo disembowels us and breaks our hearts and makes us believe in whatever it was we hoped for when we were sixteen years old.
The rest of us have to live without him. Rest in peace, Big Man.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
"C'est la vie, said the old folks/It goes to show you never can tell."
The Song: "You Never Can Tell," Chuck Berry. Words & music by Chuck Berry. Track 9 of the Pulp Fiction soundtrack, 1994.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1994; downloaded MP3, 2010.
Listen/watch here.
It was not quite a teenaged wedding yesterday — my nephew George is 23 — but the old folks, including me, certainly wished them well. Today's quotation might have been "I knew the bride when she used to rock & roll," but George's bride Carissa actually does still rock & roll, so it wouldn't be nearly as appropriate.
Most of the people who read this blog are going to turn up at breakfast in about 15 minutes, so all I'll say is that yesterday was lovely, and I hope it's the first of many lovely days ahead.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1994; downloaded MP3, 2010.
Listen/watch here.
It was not quite a teenaged wedding yesterday — my nephew George is 23 — but the old folks, including me, certainly wished them well. Today's quotation might have been "I knew the bride when she used to rock & roll," but George's bride Carissa actually does still rock & roll, so it wouldn't be nearly as appropriate.
Most of the people who read this blog are going to turn up at breakfast in about 15 minutes, so all I'll say is that yesterday was lovely, and I hope it's the first of many lovely days ahead.
Friday, June 17, 2011
"Feels like home to me/Feels like I'm on my way back/Where I come from."
The Song: "Feels Like Home," Mae Robertson. Words & music by Randy Newman. Track 12 of Smile, 2002.
When/how acquired: Downloaded MP3, 2008.
I can't find Mae Robertson's cover online, but you can listen to/see Randy Newman's original here.
The air hit me like a wet, smoky blanket when I walked out of the Jacksonville airport last night. I had forgotten what real humidity felt like, and will not be complaining about Maine's weather for the rest of the summer.
But I grew up in weather like this (minus the smoke, coming from the fires throughout central Florida), and was surprised by how much it felt like home.
Homesickness, as I've said before in this space, is the essential human condition. It's one of my rationalizations for living in Maine: I will always be a stranger in a strange land there, so will never relax and fool myself into thinking I'm at home when I'm not. But the longing for home is powerful, if we could only be clear about what home is.
This song offers the possibility that home might just be the right person. I hope that's true, and I especially hope it for my nephew George and his fiancee Carissa, who are getting married here later today.
When/how acquired: Downloaded MP3, 2008.
I can't find Mae Robertson's cover online, but you can listen to/see Randy Newman's original here.
The air hit me like a wet, smoky blanket when I walked out of the Jacksonville airport last night. I had forgotten what real humidity felt like, and will not be complaining about Maine's weather for the rest of the summer.
But I grew up in weather like this (minus the smoke, coming from the fires throughout central Florida), and was surprised by how much it felt like home.
Homesickness, as I've said before in this space, is the essential human condition. It's one of my rationalizations for living in Maine: I will always be a stranger in a strange land there, so will never relax and fool myself into thinking I'm at home when I'm not. But the longing for home is powerful, if we could only be clear about what home is.
This song offers the possibility that home might just be the right person. I hope that's true, and I especially hope it for my nephew George and his fiancee Carissa, who are getting married here later today.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
"I've got no time for you right now/Don't bother me."
The Song: "Don't Bother Me," The Smithereens. Words & music by George Harrison. Track 7 of Meet the Smithereens, 2007.
When/how acquired: Gift CD, 2009.
Listen/watch here.
Oy, I just realized it's Thursday and I haven't been here in days. Sorry. Scrambling on many fronts, getting ready to leave for Florida this afternoon for my nephew George's wedding, and fighting something that started as allergies and became bronchitis. I'm still coughing, although I must be better, because if I hadn't gotten better from earlier in the week I'd be dead.
This CD, a gift from my friend Tom, is one of the more delightful oddities in my collection. It's a track-by-track cover of Meet the Beatles, which my mother owned an original pressing of. God only knows what that would be worth now; my dad might still have it, but it can't be in very good shape. We played it to a wafer when I was a kid.
The Beatles were my earliest exposure to popular music. My mother was an executive secretary in Capitol Records' distribution office from 1960 until her marriage, in 1965; she had a front-row seat for Beatlemania, and took Cynthia Lennon shopping during the Beatles' first New York visit. She met them all, and George was her favorite. At a reception for the Beatles at the Plaza Hotel, during their first visit, George spilled a drink, and immediately got down on the carpet with a napkin to blot it up. Mom never forgot that.
I'm embarrassed to say that I don't own Meet the Beatles in any format, although I have almost all the other Beatles album on CD. The Smithereens' cover version is terrific, faithful to the original arrangments but adding their own distinctive jangle. I recommend it.
When/how acquired: Gift CD, 2009.
Listen/watch here.
Oy, I just realized it's Thursday and I haven't been here in days. Sorry. Scrambling on many fronts, getting ready to leave for Florida this afternoon for my nephew George's wedding, and fighting something that started as allergies and became bronchitis. I'm still coughing, although I must be better, because if I hadn't gotten better from earlier in the week I'd be dead.
This CD, a gift from my friend Tom, is one of the more delightful oddities in my collection. It's a track-by-track cover of Meet the Beatles, which my mother owned an original pressing of. God only knows what that would be worth now; my dad might still have it, but it can't be in very good shape. We played it to a wafer when I was a kid.
The Beatles were my earliest exposure to popular music. My mother was an executive secretary in Capitol Records' distribution office from 1960 until her marriage, in 1965; she had a front-row seat for Beatlemania, and took Cynthia Lennon shopping during the Beatles' first New York visit. She met them all, and George was her favorite. At a reception for the Beatles at the Plaza Hotel, during their first visit, George spilled a drink, and immediately got down on the carpet with a napkin to blot it up. Mom never forgot that.
I'm embarrassed to say that I don't own Meet the Beatles in any format, although I have almost all the other Beatles album on CD. The Smithereens' cover version is terrific, faithful to the original arrangments but adding their own distinctive jangle. I recommend it.
Monday, June 13, 2011
"When the change was made uptown/And the big man joined the band/From the coastline to the city/All the little pretties raise their hands."
The Song: "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out," Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band. Words & music by Bruce Springsteen. Track 2 of Born to Run, 1975.
When/how acquired: Gift LP, c. 1980.
Listen/watch here.
Turned on the news this morning and could not understand what everyone was talking about, because the only news that matters this morning is that Clarence Clemons had a stroke. The Big Man is 69, amazingly enough -- the same age as my father -- and this song is 36 years old, but come on: we're not ready to say goodbye.
It's impossible to explain or overstate this album's place in my life. I have a signed copy of the album cover on my bedroom wall, a long-ago gift from my high school boyfriend, who won it from a radio station. The music is hardwired into my DNA. Virginia Beach wasn't the Jersey Shore, but it was close enough, and these songs gave my friends and me stories we could tell about ourselves, or at least aspire to.
By coincidence, this morning's Wall Street Journal reports on a scientific study that seems to prove what most of us already knew: the music we love as teenagers strikes something deep in our brains, and stays there. I was 12 or 13 when I first heard this song -- at a dance recital, of all places -- and I'll be able to sing along to it when I'm 90, I hope.
Here's hoping that Clarence will play it when he's 90, too.
When/how acquired: Gift LP, c. 1980.
Listen/watch here.
Turned on the news this morning and could not understand what everyone was talking about, because the only news that matters this morning is that Clarence Clemons had a stroke. The Big Man is 69, amazingly enough -- the same age as my father -- and this song is 36 years old, but come on: we're not ready to say goodbye.
It's impossible to explain or overstate this album's place in my life. I have a signed copy of the album cover on my bedroom wall, a long-ago gift from my high school boyfriend, who won it from a radio station. The music is hardwired into my DNA. Virginia Beach wasn't the Jersey Shore, but it was close enough, and these songs gave my friends and me stories we could tell about ourselves, or at least aspire to.
By coincidence, this morning's Wall Street Journal reports on a scientific study that seems to prove what most of us already knew: the music we love as teenagers strikes something deep in our brains, and stays there. I was 12 or 13 when I first heard this song -- at a dance recital, of all places -- and I'll be able to sing along to it when I'm 90, I hope.
Here's hoping that Clarence will play it when he's 90, too.
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
"Words are very unnecessary/They can only do harm."
The Song: "Enjoy the Silence," Depeche Mode. Words & music by Martin L. Gore. Track 6 of Violator, 1990.
When/how acquired: I have no idea. It's in my iTunes; I suspect I borrowed it from a housemate, sometime around 1995.
Listen/watch here.
Violator is one of those albums that everyone of a certain age and worldview owns, or should. It's telling that I have absolutely no idea how or when I acquired it. I just have it, as if it magically appeared in my music collection because it knew it needed to be there.
On a semi-related subject, I recently saw a list of people's greatest regrets at the end of their lives. It was touching and much what you'd expect: spent too much time at work, didn't take enough risks, didn't give themselves credit for being the person they were. To that list I would add: I didn't spend enough time at gay discos. Seriously, I didn't. I didn't spend enough time dancing in a safe place when I was the right age and body shape to do that. If I had it to do over, I've have gone dancing a LOT more. A lot.
I digress. Today's song was an obvious choice, especially after my client and friend John Connolly played it on his Internet radio show ABC to XTC this morning. It had been in my head since yesterday afternoon, when I made the mistake of watching Rep. Weiner's press conference. Congressman Weiner's press conference was one of the weirdest pieces of Washington theater I've ever seen, and I watched the Whitewater hearings pretty much gavel-to-gavel (I was recovering from back surgery, flipping between C-SPAN and "Animaniacs").
The first moral of yesterday's squirmfest was, don't be late to your own press conference.
The second, and most important, is Image Management 101: stop talking as soon as possible. State your message and get off the stage. Answer as few questions as possible. Do not solicit additional questions. Really, just stop talking after you've said what you had to say.
Rep. Weiner's initial statement was fine, if painful. (And Chris, credit where credit is due: you were right, about all of it.) I'm glad he didn't put his wife through the humiliation of joining him on the platform. All the humiliation was his, and I feel certain that was the source of the tears, not any true repentance — although I shouldn't say that, because who knows? Once he started taking questions, though, he slashed himself back open and legitimized further speculation. Idiotic, and enough to make any self-respecting press secretary quit. (I fully expect to see an announcement of that resignation before the end of the week.)
Today is the publication date of INK FLAMINGOS, the fourth and probably final installment in the Tattoo Shop Mysteries by my dear friend Karen E. Olson. INK FLAMINGOS is not only a solid, entertaining thriller (with a really nice edgy romance folded in), but also has the distinction of being the very first book ever dedicated to me. Yes, really. I may need to go buy ten copies today just to prove it to my family.
When/how acquired: I have no idea. It's in my iTunes; I suspect I borrowed it from a housemate, sometime around 1995.
Listen/watch here.
Violator is one of those albums that everyone of a certain age and worldview owns, or should. It's telling that I have absolutely no idea how or when I acquired it. I just have it, as if it magically appeared in my music collection because it knew it needed to be there.
On a semi-related subject, I recently saw a list of people's greatest regrets at the end of their lives. It was touching and much what you'd expect: spent too much time at work, didn't take enough risks, didn't give themselves credit for being the person they were. To that list I would add: I didn't spend enough time at gay discos. Seriously, I didn't. I didn't spend enough time dancing in a safe place when I was the right age and body shape to do that. If I had it to do over, I've have gone dancing a LOT more. A lot.
I digress. Today's song was an obvious choice, especially after my client and friend John Connolly played it on his Internet radio show ABC to XTC this morning. It had been in my head since yesterday afternoon, when I made the mistake of watching Rep. Weiner's press conference. Congressman Weiner's press conference was one of the weirdest pieces of Washington theater I've ever seen, and I watched the Whitewater hearings pretty much gavel-to-gavel (I was recovering from back surgery, flipping between C-SPAN and "Animaniacs").
The first moral of yesterday's squirmfest was, don't be late to your own press conference.
The second, and most important, is Image Management 101: stop talking as soon as possible. State your message and get off the stage. Answer as few questions as possible. Do not solicit additional questions. Really, just stop talking after you've said what you had to say.
Rep. Weiner's initial statement was fine, if painful. (And Chris, credit where credit is due: you were right, about all of it.) I'm glad he didn't put his wife through the humiliation of joining him on the platform. All the humiliation was his, and I feel certain that was the source of the tears, not any true repentance — although I shouldn't say that, because who knows? Once he started taking questions, though, he slashed himself back open and legitimized further speculation. Idiotic, and enough to make any self-respecting press secretary quit. (I fully expect to see an announcement of that resignation before the end of the week.)
Today is the publication date of INK FLAMINGOS, the fourth and probably final installment in the Tattoo Shop Mysteries by my dear friend Karen E. Olson. INK FLAMINGOS is not only a solid, entertaining thriller (with a really nice edgy romance folded in), but also has the distinction of being the very first book ever dedicated to me. Yes, really. I may need to go buy ten copies today just to prove it to my family.
Saturday, June 04, 2011
"For this bleak existence/Man is never bad enough/Though his sheer persistence/Can be lovely stuff."
The Song: "Song of the Insufficiency of Human Endeavor," C.K. Alexander. Words & music by Bertholt Brecht & Kurt Weill; translation by Ralph Manheim and John Willett. Track 17 of The Three Penny Opera (Broadway Revival Cast), 1976.
When/how acquired: Purchased LP, 1984; purchased MP3, 2011
Can't find this online to share, but you can go buy it on iTunes or Amazon. Do it. Youll thank me.
By sheer luck this morning I discovered that this recording, which I've been hunting for at least ten years, is now available for purchase online, and has been for two years. How could I have missed it?
As far as I'm concerned, this is the definitive English-language production of this show. I saw a much feebler version, with Sting as Macheath, at the National Theatre in 1990 or so; Sting, while a charismatic presence on screen and at rock concerts, simply could not carry the role. Mask & Bauble did its own version as its spring musical in 1984, which was pretty terrific, if memory serves. It was an impressionable time for me, and this show was a major force in shaping my worldview even to this day.
Between this acquisition, the gorgeous weather, a long walk with Dizzy and last night's excellent audience for Earnest, I'm having a pretty good Saturday morning. Hope yours is equally good. Special birthday greetings today to my dear friend, colleague and co-conspirator Tom Ehrenfeld, who is responsible for this blog in many ways, and has been a support to me in more ways than one for - erk - more than 25 years.
Earnest closes tonight with one last performance. I'll be sad when it's over.
When/how acquired: Purchased LP, 1984; purchased MP3, 2011
Can't find this online to share, but you can go buy it on iTunes or Amazon. Do it. Youll thank me.
By sheer luck this morning I discovered that this recording, which I've been hunting for at least ten years, is now available for purchase online, and has been for two years. How could I have missed it?
As far as I'm concerned, this is the definitive English-language production of this show. I saw a much feebler version, with Sting as Macheath, at the National Theatre in 1990 or so; Sting, while a charismatic presence on screen and at rock concerts, simply could not carry the role. Mask & Bauble did its own version as its spring musical in 1984, which was pretty terrific, if memory serves. It was an impressionable time for me, and this show was a major force in shaping my worldview even to this day.
Between this acquisition, the gorgeous weather, a long walk with Dizzy and last night's excellent audience for Earnest, I'm having a pretty good Saturday morning. Hope yours is equally good. Special birthday greetings today to my dear friend, colleague and co-conspirator Tom Ehrenfeld, who is responsible for this blog in many ways, and has been a support to me in more ways than one for - erk - more than 25 years.
Earnest closes tonight with one last performance. I'll be sad when it's over.
Friday, June 03, 2011
"I sleep with my fists clenched tight/When I don't lie awake all night."
The Song: "Tears Before Bedtime," Elvis Costello & the Attractions. Words & music by Elvis Costello. Track 2 of Imperial Bedroom, 1982.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1983; purchased CD, c. 1994.
I can't find this version online. You can check out two very different versions of this song here and here.
It surprises me that I haven't quoted Imperial Bedroom more often in this blog, because it was the soundtrack of the summer after my senior year in high school, and is one of my Desert Island Discs. It is pure genius, beginning to end, and has probably had way too much influence on my romantic history.
Anyway, I do sleep with my fists clenched, when I sleep. No idea why, but this morning I woke up with my right hand clenched so tightly that I'm still having trouble typing, even after a shower and washing the dishes and walking the dog. If I won the lottery I would go to one of those sleep centers and let them evaluate me, and give me drugs if necessary. I don't play the lottery.
Dizzy sleeps with a purple winged dragon I bought him over the winter. It was an expensive toy, advertised as being exceptionally durable, and so far the advertising holds true. He's very attached to it; if it's still up on the bed in the morning after our walk, he'll bark at me until I get it down for him, so he can nap with it. I would love to know what it represents to him.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1983; purchased CD, c. 1994.
I can't find this version online. You can check out two very different versions of this song here and here.
It surprises me that I haven't quoted Imperial Bedroom more often in this blog, because it was the soundtrack of the summer after my senior year in high school, and is one of my Desert Island Discs. It is pure genius, beginning to end, and has probably had way too much influence on my romantic history.
Anyway, I do sleep with my fists clenched, when I sleep. No idea why, but this morning I woke up with my right hand clenched so tightly that I'm still having trouble typing, even after a shower and washing the dishes and walking the dog. If I won the lottery I would go to one of those sleep centers and let them evaluate me, and give me drugs if necessary. I don't play the lottery.
Dizzy sleeps with a purple winged dragon I bought him over the winter. It was an expensive toy, advertised as being exceptionally durable, and so far the advertising holds true. He's very attached to it; if it's still up on the bed in the morning after our walk, he'll bark at me until I get it down for him, so he can nap with it. I would love to know what it represents to him.
Thursday, June 02, 2011
"What's a man now/What's a man mean/Is he rough or is he rugged/Cultural and clean?"
The Song: "Real Men," Joe Jackson. Words & music by Joe Jackson. Track 8 of Night and Day, 1982.
When/how acquired: Bootleg cassette copy, 1984; purchased MP3, 2007.
Listen/watch here.
I admit I'm paying more attention than I should to the Anthony Weiner Twitter uproar, in which someone Tweeted a photo of an excited man in his underwear to a Seattle college student. Rep. Weiner's response to all of this has been, to put it mildly, bizarre. The photo might be him, he says, but he didn't send it.
The most logical explanation, which I haven't heard anyone offer, is that Rep. Weiner doesn't manage his own Twitter account. I can't imagine that most public figures do, or at least not full-time. Twitter is fun, but a terrible distraction. I have one author client who rations himself to an hour in the morning and an hour at the end of the day, and another who treats Twitter as a sort of online bar, which I think is exactly right - an entertainment, not a serious medium of communication.
It's an extremely tricky medium for politicians, because it doesn't allow for nuance or consideration. Twitter's about knee-jerk reactions in 140 characters or less, and that's not something any serious politician should be doing. Twitter's also interactive, and engaging the public in an open forum that leaves a permanent record is a high-risk political activity.
So I would guess that most elected officials delegate their Twitter feed to their legislative correspondents (LCs). LCs are the lowest-ranking professional staff in a Congressional office. Their title is their job description: they handle letters and emails that come into the office, providing routine responses where they can and routing action items to legislative assistants, district-office caseworkers, and other branches of government where appropriate. The typical LC is under the age of 25, right out of college, and might be making $27,000 (which is not enough to live independently in Washington, DC; junior Hill staffers almost always live with roommates or in group houses).
Therefore, my first thought when I heard about the Weiner scandal (!) was that an LC had gotten drunk one night and decided to use the Congressman's Twitter account to send a photo of his anatomy to his girlfriend. When the Congressman's office first bungled its response, I assumed it was because Rep. Weiner didn't want to admit that it's not him Tweeting. But now his series of non-explanation explanations and non-denial denials have just gotten weirder and weirder, and I've given up trying to come up with any new theories.
Today's quotation, though, was almost another Joe Jackson line — "Don't you know that it's different for girls?" — because in all seriousness, this is not a situation that a female legislator would ever find herself in. Who takes photos of their own genitalia, clothed or unclothed? Who assumes that anyone else would want to see them? Good grief.
Lady Bracknell and I both disapprove. You have three more chances to see her, tonight, tomorrow and Saturday at Gaslight Theater.
When/how acquired: Bootleg cassette copy, 1984; purchased MP3, 2007.
Listen/watch here.
I admit I'm paying more attention than I should to the Anthony Weiner Twitter uproar, in which someone Tweeted a photo of an excited man in his underwear to a Seattle college student. Rep. Weiner's response to all of this has been, to put it mildly, bizarre. The photo might be him, he says, but he didn't send it.
The most logical explanation, which I haven't heard anyone offer, is that Rep. Weiner doesn't manage his own Twitter account. I can't imagine that most public figures do, or at least not full-time. Twitter is fun, but a terrible distraction. I have one author client who rations himself to an hour in the morning and an hour at the end of the day, and another who treats Twitter as a sort of online bar, which I think is exactly right - an entertainment, not a serious medium of communication.
It's an extremely tricky medium for politicians, because it doesn't allow for nuance or consideration. Twitter's about knee-jerk reactions in 140 characters or less, and that's not something any serious politician should be doing. Twitter's also interactive, and engaging the public in an open forum that leaves a permanent record is a high-risk political activity.
So I would guess that most elected officials delegate their Twitter feed to their legislative correspondents (LCs). LCs are the lowest-ranking professional staff in a Congressional office. Their title is their job description: they handle letters and emails that come into the office, providing routine responses where they can and routing action items to legislative assistants, district-office caseworkers, and other branches of government where appropriate. The typical LC is under the age of 25, right out of college, and might be making $27,000 (which is not enough to live independently in Washington, DC; junior Hill staffers almost always live with roommates or in group houses).
Therefore, my first thought when I heard about the Weiner scandal (!) was that an LC had gotten drunk one night and decided to use the Congressman's Twitter account to send a photo of his anatomy to his girlfriend. When the Congressman's office first bungled its response, I assumed it was because Rep. Weiner didn't want to admit that it's not him Tweeting. But now his series of non-explanation explanations and non-denial denials have just gotten weirder and weirder, and I've given up trying to come up with any new theories.
Today's quotation, though, was almost another Joe Jackson line — "Don't you know that it's different for girls?" — because in all seriousness, this is not a situation that a female legislator would ever find herself in. Who takes photos of their own genitalia, clothed or unclothed? Who assumes that anyone else would want to see them? Good grief.
Lady Bracknell and I both disapprove. You have three more chances to see her, tonight, tomorrow and Saturday at Gaslight Theater.
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
"All romantics meet the same fate someday/Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe."
The Song: "The Last Time I Saw Richard," Joni Mitchell. Words & music by Joni Mitchell. Track 10 of Blue, 1971.
When/how acquired: Bootleg cassette, c. 1984; downloaded MP3, 2008.
Listen/watch here.
Romantics are just people who believe that life is supposed to follow a narrative, and that that narrative is supposed to be driven by emotions rather than practicality. I would not describe myself as a romantic, though I certainly was in earlier days. Young people should be. Young people should believe that life is supposed to go in certain ways. Character emerges from how we react when we discover that the universe laughs at "supposed to."
This month marks the 40th anniversary of Blue. I first heard it in high school, but didn't really discover it until the summer of 1984. I was sharing a basement apartment in Glover Park with my best friend, Laurie, who listened to it on a more or less continuous loop. It's a very different album now, as I listen to it at 45, than it was when I listened to it at 18. It's still just as wondrous, which marks it as a true work of art.
When/how acquired: Bootleg cassette, c. 1984; downloaded MP3, 2008.
Listen/watch here.
Romantics are just people who believe that life is supposed to follow a narrative, and that that narrative is supposed to be driven by emotions rather than practicality. I would not describe myself as a romantic, though I certainly was in earlier days. Young people should be. Young people should believe that life is supposed to go in certain ways. Character emerges from how we react when we discover that the universe laughs at "supposed to."
This month marks the 40th anniversary of Blue. I first heard it in high school, but didn't really discover it until the summer of 1984. I was sharing a basement apartment in Glover Park with my best friend, Laurie, who listened to it on a more or less continuous loop. It's a very different album now, as I listen to it at 45, than it was when I listened to it at 18. It's still just as wondrous, which marks it as a true work of art.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
"I could have been a signpost, could have been a clock/As simple as a kettle, steady as a rock."
The Song: "One of These Things First," Nick Drake. Words & music by Nick Drake. Track 4 of Bryter Layter, 1970.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 2004.
Listen/watch here.
My elementary school library was small, but at least three shelves were dedicated to Bobbs-Merrill's "Childhood of Famous Americans" series, biographies that humanized the great names of American history by showing us episodes from their early years. These episodes may or may not have been true; the books were meant to be moral guides as much as anything else, and most people who become famous as adults don't have biographers keeping track of their childhood achievements.
Typically, my favorite of these books made no pretense at all at nonfiction. This was Virginia Dare, Mystery Girl by Augusta Stevenson, who wrote about a dozen of these books, including volumes on Benjamin Franklin, Molly Pitcher, Buffalo Bill and the Wright Brothers. Virginia Dare was, of course, the first English child born in the New World, part of Sir Walter Raleigh's Lost Colony. She disappeared with everyone else sometime between 1587 and 1590, but legends persisted of a blonde girl who lived among the Chowanocs, and an 18th-century surveyor reported meeting Hatteras people who had gray eyes.
Virginia Dare, Mystery Girl was pure speculation about the young Virginia's life as an adopted member of a native tribe (adopted by the chief, naturally). The book was originally published in 1958 and has not been brought back into print with other titles in the series -- maybe because it was fiction, maybe because its treatment of native cultures would now seem ignorant and insensitive. The book's hard to find; I'm seeing only two copies on ABEBooks.com right now, one priced at $30, one at $87.19. My birthday's in November . . .
Anyway, I read the book so many times my mother told me to stop checking it out of the library, and what I remember about it was a climactic scene in which the young Virginia proved her standing as a member of the tribe by beating a rival at something called "mudwalking." According to this book, the Chesapeake Indians hunted waterfowl in the swamps, and used their children to walk across the surface of the marshes in order to retrieve fallen birds. The mud is like quicksand, full of sinkholes, and adults were too heavy; children were light and could move fast enough to get across and back without being sucked in.
That image of mudwalking, of moving fast enough to avoid breaking a surface, captured my imagination. According to Ms. Stevenson, the key was to keep your feet moving, and not look down. I tried it myself, in puddles and muddy fields, but could never get it right. My feet stuck, and I knew that if I'd been Virginia Dare, I'd have drowned in quicksand.
But I never forgot the image or the metaphor, and sometimes I think I've been mudwalking ever since. As another month ends and another season turns, I understand that my days of mudwalking are coming to an end. At some point I will have to stop moving from task to task, look down, and get real about all those other things I could have been or done.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 2004.
Listen/watch here.
My elementary school library was small, but at least three shelves were dedicated to Bobbs-Merrill's "Childhood of Famous Americans" series, biographies that humanized the great names of American history by showing us episodes from their early years. These episodes may or may not have been true; the books were meant to be moral guides as much as anything else, and most people who become famous as adults don't have biographers keeping track of their childhood achievements.
Typically, my favorite of these books made no pretense at all at nonfiction. This was Virginia Dare, Mystery Girl by Augusta Stevenson, who wrote about a dozen of these books, including volumes on Benjamin Franklin, Molly Pitcher, Buffalo Bill and the Wright Brothers. Virginia Dare was, of course, the first English child born in the New World, part of Sir Walter Raleigh's Lost Colony. She disappeared with everyone else sometime between 1587 and 1590, but legends persisted of a blonde girl who lived among the Chowanocs, and an 18th-century surveyor reported meeting Hatteras people who had gray eyes.
Virginia Dare, Mystery Girl was pure speculation about the young Virginia's life as an adopted member of a native tribe (adopted by the chief, naturally). The book was originally published in 1958 and has not been brought back into print with other titles in the series -- maybe because it was fiction, maybe because its treatment of native cultures would now seem ignorant and insensitive. The book's hard to find; I'm seeing only two copies on ABEBooks.com right now, one priced at $30, one at $87.19. My birthday's in November . . .
Anyway, I read the book so many times my mother told me to stop checking it out of the library, and what I remember about it was a climactic scene in which the young Virginia proved her standing as a member of the tribe by beating a rival at something called "mudwalking." According to this book, the Chesapeake Indians hunted waterfowl in the swamps, and used their children to walk across the surface of the marshes in order to retrieve fallen birds. The mud is like quicksand, full of sinkholes, and adults were too heavy; children were light and could move fast enough to get across and back without being sucked in.
That image of mudwalking, of moving fast enough to avoid breaking a surface, captured my imagination. According to Ms. Stevenson, the key was to keep your feet moving, and not look down. I tried it myself, in puddles and muddy fields, but could never get it right. My feet stuck, and I knew that if I'd been Virginia Dare, I'd have drowned in quicksand.
But I never forgot the image or the metaphor, and sometimes I think I've been mudwalking ever since. As another month ends and another season turns, I understand that my days of mudwalking are coming to an end. At some point I will have to stop moving from task to task, look down, and get real about all those other things I could have been or done.
Monday, May 30, 2011
"She said, 'I'm tired of the war/I want the kind of work I had before/A wedding dress, or something white/To wear upon my swollen appetite."
The Song: "Joan of Arc," Jennifer Warnes. Words & music by Leonard Cohen. Track 4 of Famous Blue Raincoat, 1987.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1987.
Listen/watch here.
Today is both Memorial Day and the feast of St. Joan of Arc, which feels appropriate. Joan was 16 when she left home -- at the direction, she said, of the Archangel Michael, Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine -- to fight for Charles VII against the Burgundians and the English invaders. At the age of 17, she led Charles' troops to victory and watched as he was crowned King of France.
Some records say that she wanted to go home then, but she saw that the English remained in France and needed to be expelled, and that Charles' policy of appeasing the Burgundians would lead to disaster. Indeed, the Burgundians kept fighting, despite Charles' ruinous truce with them, and Joan was captured in Compiègne in May 1430. John of Luxembourg, an ally of the Duke of Burgundy, sold Joan to the English for a fortune, and the English used a corrupt Bishop to try Joan for witchcraft.
Joan was charged with heresy and with "difformitate habitus," degenerate or monstrous dress -- the military apparel that disguised her gender and protected her from rape. She was heard to say that she wanted to wear a dress, but wearing a dress in prison left her even more vulnerable to threats of rape. Her friends brought her soldier's clothing again, and she insisted on wearing it -- the trousers tied to her blouse and jerkin, offering her some protection -- even though she knew it would prove the charges against her.
She was burned at the stake as a heretic on May 30, 1431, looking at a cross and calling the name of Jesus. The campaign to clear her name began within a generation, but her sainthood was not finally proclaimed until 1909. She is, of course, the patron saint of France, but also of soldiers (particularly female soldiers), prisoners, captives, and rape victims.
Her story reminds us that death is not the worst thing that can happen to soldiers in wartime, and that devotion to a righteous cause can often approach the divine.
Today, on Memorial Day, I particularly remember my father's college roommate, LTJG Danny Moran, killed in action off the USS Coral Sea on January 15, 1967. I don't remember Lieutenant Moran, but his widow, Kelly, was a much-loved presence of my childhood, and she would probably be surprised to know how often I still think of her.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1987.
Listen/watch here.
Today is both Memorial Day and the feast of St. Joan of Arc, which feels appropriate. Joan was 16 when she left home -- at the direction, she said, of the Archangel Michael, Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine -- to fight for Charles VII against the Burgundians and the English invaders. At the age of 17, she led Charles' troops to victory and watched as he was crowned King of France.
Some records say that she wanted to go home then, but she saw that the English remained in France and needed to be expelled, and that Charles' policy of appeasing the Burgundians would lead to disaster. Indeed, the Burgundians kept fighting, despite Charles' ruinous truce with them, and Joan was captured in Compiègne in May 1430. John of Luxembourg, an ally of the Duke of Burgundy, sold Joan to the English for a fortune, and the English used a corrupt Bishop to try Joan for witchcraft.
Joan was charged with heresy and with "difformitate habitus," degenerate or monstrous dress -- the military apparel that disguised her gender and protected her from rape. She was heard to say that she wanted to wear a dress, but wearing a dress in prison left her even more vulnerable to threats of rape. Her friends brought her soldier's clothing again, and she insisted on wearing it -- the trousers tied to her blouse and jerkin, offering her some protection -- even though she knew it would prove the charges against her.
She was burned at the stake as a heretic on May 30, 1431, looking at a cross and calling the name of Jesus. The campaign to clear her name began within a generation, but her sainthood was not finally proclaimed until 1909. She is, of course, the patron saint of France, but also of soldiers (particularly female soldiers), prisoners, captives, and rape victims.
Her story reminds us that death is not the worst thing that can happen to soldiers in wartime, and that devotion to a righteous cause can often approach the divine.
Today, on Memorial Day, I particularly remember my father's college roommate, LTJG Danny Moran, killed in action off the USS Coral Sea on January 15, 1967. I don't remember Lieutenant Moran, but his widow, Kelly, was a much-loved presence of my childhood, and she would probably be surprised to know how often I still think of her.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
"I find sometimes it's easy to be myself/Sometimes I find it's better to be somebody else."
The Song: "So Much to Say," Dave Matthews Band. Words & music by David J. Matthews, Peter Griesar, and Boyd Tinsley. Track 1 of Crash, 1996.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1996.
Listen/watch here.
I was first on stage at the age of five, in an adaptation of Peter Pan by the Linden Knoll School. My twin sister and I played Lost Boys, and sang "I Won't Grow Up" and -- if memory serves -- "A Pirate's Life." We wore ugly olive-green shirts and shorts, and sported very short haircuts. It was the best time I had had in my life to that point. I liked the glamor of it, I liked the applause, but most of all I liked the pretending.
Theater is one of the oldest human art forms. I would argue that it is the most valuable. Of all the fine arts, theater is the one that teaches us empathy. It challenges us to imagine what it's like to be someone else, dealing with situations we'll never face in real life.
Those performance reality shows don't interest me -- not "American Idol," not "X Factor," not "The Voice," -- because that culture of stardom is diametrically opposed, even inimical, to what I value about live performance. Live performance, to me, is not about adulation of the individual. It's about exploring alternate realities with others in order to find new ways to connect. It's about diffusing oneself, not concentrating it, trying new selves on in an effort to make our real selves kinder and more insightful. The best theatrical productions are not star vehicles; they're ensembles in which the whole is greater than sum of its parts.
I think, I hope, The Importance of Being Earnest is that kind of ensemble. We're all having a great time up there. We make each other laugh and admire each other's work, and I think that shows. I'm so glad to have had that experience, and sad we only have five performances left. I'll miss it when it's over.
If you'd like to come see us, performances continue tonight, tomorrow, and next Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Call 207-626-3698 or visit Gaslight Theater's website for details.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1996.
Listen/watch here.
I was first on stage at the age of five, in an adaptation of Peter Pan by the Linden Knoll School. My twin sister and I played Lost Boys, and sang "I Won't Grow Up" and -- if memory serves -- "A Pirate's Life." We wore ugly olive-green shirts and shorts, and sported very short haircuts. It was the best time I had had in my life to that point. I liked the glamor of it, I liked the applause, but most of all I liked the pretending.
Theater is one of the oldest human art forms. I would argue that it is the most valuable. Of all the fine arts, theater is the one that teaches us empathy. It challenges us to imagine what it's like to be someone else, dealing with situations we'll never face in real life.
Those performance reality shows don't interest me -- not "American Idol," not "X Factor," not "The Voice," -- because that culture of stardom is diametrically opposed, even inimical, to what I value about live performance. Live performance, to me, is not about adulation of the individual. It's about exploring alternate realities with others in order to find new ways to connect. It's about diffusing oneself, not concentrating it, trying new selves on in an effort to make our real selves kinder and more insightful. The best theatrical productions are not star vehicles; they're ensembles in which the whole is greater than sum of its parts.
I think, I hope, The Importance of Being Earnest is that kind of ensemble. We're all having a great time up there. We make each other laugh and admire each other's work, and I think that shows. I'm so glad to have had that experience, and sad we only have five performances left. I'll miss it when it's over.
If you'd like to come see us, performances continue tonight, tomorrow, and next Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Call 207-626-3698 or visit Gaslight Theater's website for details.
Friday, May 27, 2011
"Having been some days in preparation,/A splendid time is guaranteed for all."
The Song: "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!" The Beatles. Words & music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Track 7 from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, 1967.
When/how acquired: Gift LP, c. 1977.
Listen/watch here.
The Importance of Being Earnest opens tonight at Gaslight Theater. Shows run tonight, tomorrow, Sunday afternoon, next Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. We're having a good time with it. The weather's supposed to be crummy again this weekend, so if you're in the area, you should come see us.
This was one of the first albums I ever owned, and is one of a handful I've owned in three formats. It's one of those permanent works of art I take for granted. I won't listen to it for months, or even longer, but will hear something from it again and think, "Wow, that's just amazing." It always sounds fresh to me, and I hear new things in it every time.
When/how acquired: Gift LP, c. 1977.
Listen/watch here.
The Importance of Being Earnest opens tonight at Gaslight Theater. Shows run tonight, tomorrow, Sunday afternoon, next Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. We're having a good time with it. The weather's supposed to be crummy again this weekend, so if you're in the area, you should come see us.
This was one of the first albums I ever owned, and is one of a handful I've owned in three formats. It's one of those permanent works of art I take for granted. I won't listen to it for months, or even longer, but will hear something from it again and think, "Wow, that's just amazing." It always sounds fresh to me, and I hear new things in it every time.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
"You know I like it, though/I like this car a lot."
The Song: "Dodge Veg-O-Matic," The Modern Lovers. Words & music by Jonathan Richman. Track 9 of Rock N Roll with The Modern Lovers, 1977.
When/how acquired: Purchased cut-out cassette, c. 1984.
Listen/watch here.
When haters call Jonathan Richman "precious," this is probably the album they're talking about. It is unapologetically a kids' album for adults, featuring not only this song but others called "Ice Cream Man" and "Rockin Rockin Leprechauns," plus a cover of "The Wheels on the Bus" that features a monster. (I used to sing that one to a little girl I babysat, whose mother wasn't thrilled that her two-year-old was singing about monsters.) Still, I defy you to listen to this album and stay in a bad mood.
My own car is still moving, unlike the Dodge Veg-o-Matic. It does need some work, which I'll probably have done sometime in the next couple of weeks. It's not a small amount of money, but it's less than a car payment plus insurance on a new car would be, which makes it acceptable.
We're having a second consecutive day of sunshine here in central Maine, which is making me feel almost recklessly optimistic. Last night's final dress rehearsal of The Importance of Being Earnest went very well indeed, and I find myself talking like Lady Bracknell even offstage, which is becoming annoying even to me. Still, Lady Bracknell is easier company than my last major role (Sister Aloysius in Doubt). The weather's supposed to get rotten again this weekend, so you might as well come see us, if you're anywhere in the neighborhood. Details are here.
When/how acquired: Purchased cut-out cassette, c. 1984.
Listen/watch here.
When haters call Jonathan Richman "precious," this is probably the album they're talking about. It is unapologetically a kids' album for adults, featuring not only this song but others called "Ice Cream Man" and "Rockin Rockin Leprechauns," plus a cover of "The Wheels on the Bus" that features a monster. (I used to sing that one to a little girl I babysat, whose mother wasn't thrilled that her two-year-old was singing about monsters.) Still, I defy you to listen to this album and stay in a bad mood.
My own car is still moving, unlike the Dodge Veg-o-Matic. It does need some work, which I'll probably have done sometime in the next couple of weeks. It's not a small amount of money, but it's less than a car payment plus insurance on a new car would be, which makes it acceptable.
We're having a second consecutive day of sunshine here in central Maine, which is making me feel almost recklessly optimistic. Last night's final dress rehearsal of The Importance of Being Earnest went very well indeed, and I find myself talking like Lady Bracknell even offstage, which is becoming annoying even to me. Still, Lady Bracknell is easier company than my last major role (Sister Aloysius in Doubt). The weather's supposed to get rotten again this weekend, so you might as well come see us, if you're anywhere in the neighborhood. Details are here.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
"I need to laugh, and when the sun is out/I've got something I can laugh about."
The Song: "Good Day Sunshine," The Beatles. Words & music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Side Two, Track 1 of Revolver, 1966.
When/how acquired: Gift LP, c. 1979.
Listen/watch here. (Also check out this truly odd cultural artifact, an episode of "The Beatles" cartoon series based on the song. No, those are obviously not The Beatles' own voices.)
The sun is out this morning for the first time in almost two weeks. It's amazing how much of a difference it makes not only to my mood, but to Dizzy's as well. Things that felt overwhelming last week feel like minor hassles, even the fact that my car's Check Engine light is on AGAIN.
My relationship with my car has become dysfunctional. I love my car. It's been with me for 11 years now, and it has more than 140,000 miles on it. It's paid for, and costs almost nothing to register or insure. I don't know how much longer I'll be driving; eventually, as my field of vision continues to narrow, I'll have to quit. I want/need/expect this car to be the last one I own.
But I admit that I need to sit down with someone who can be objective, and figure out just how much I can keep putting into its repairs. The idea of buying anything new (it wouldn't be new, it would be gently used) fills me with despair. This, I understand, is why people stay in jobs and relationships of all kinds well past the point they should leave. And this is also why I find myself making excuses for the car, and keeping secrets on its behalf, to avoid having these conversations with people who would take my side over the car's.
The car, I understand, has no feelings in this matter.
When/how acquired: Gift LP, c. 1979.
Listen/watch here. (Also check out this truly odd cultural artifact, an episode of "The Beatles" cartoon series based on the song. No, those are obviously not The Beatles' own voices.)
The sun is out this morning for the first time in almost two weeks. It's amazing how much of a difference it makes not only to my mood, but to Dizzy's as well. Things that felt overwhelming last week feel like minor hassles, even the fact that my car's Check Engine light is on AGAIN.
My relationship with my car has become dysfunctional. I love my car. It's been with me for 11 years now, and it has more than 140,000 miles on it. It's paid for, and costs almost nothing to register or insure. I don't know how much longer I'll be driving; eventually, as my field of vision continues to narrow, I'll have to quit. I want/need/expect this car to be the last one I own.
But I admit that I need to sit down with someone who can be objective, and figure out just how much I can keep putting into its repairs. The idea of buying anything new (it wouldn't be new, it would be gently used) fills me with despair. This, I understand, is why people stay in jobs and relationships of all kinds well past the point they should leave. And this is also why I find myself making excuses for the car, and keeping secrets on its behalf, to avoid having these conversations with people who would take my side over the car's.
The car, I understand, has no feelings in this matter.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
"If I'd have paid attention to what others were thinkin', the heart inside me would have died."
The Song: "Up to Me," Bob Dylan. Words & music by Bob Dylan. Disc 2, Track 3 of Biograph, 1985.
When/how acquired: Gift cassette, 1985.
Listen to an excerpt here.
It's Bob Dylan's 70th birthday. Happy birthday, sir.
These are lines I wouldn't mind having on my tombstone:
This cassette box set was a Christmas present from my parents, my senior year of college. I needed it. I needed this song in particular.
When I present myself to be judged, I won't be able to take credit for anything good I ever did, because those were the things I did without thinking, the things I did just because I had to. When I've thought about things, I've made some pretty bad decisions.
That is not in any way to say that I am good by nature.
When/how acquired: Gift cassette, 1985.
Listen to an excerpt here.
It's Bob Dylan's 70th birthday. Happy birthday, sir.
These are lines I wouldn't mind having on my tombstone:
If I'd have thought about it I never would have done it, I guess I would have let it slide
If I'd have paid attention to what others were thinkin', the heart inside me would have died
But I was just too stubborn to ever be governed by enforced insanity
Someone had to reach for the rising star, I guess it was up to me.
This cassette box set was a Christmas present from my parents, my senior year of college. I needed it. I needed this song in particular.
When I present myself to be judged, I won't be able to take credit for anything good I ever did, because those were the things I did without thinking, the things I did just because I had to. When I've thought about things, I've made some pretty bad decisions.
That is not in any way to say that I am good by nature.
Monday, May 23, 2011
"When I think of heaven/Deliver me in a black-winged bird/I think of flying."
The Song: "Rain King," Counting Crows. Words & music by Adam Duritz and David Bryson. Track 7 of August and Everything After, 1993.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1994.
Listen/watch here.
It's still raining here. Watching the news from Joplin, Missouri and Minneapolis, I can't complain. I hope the Family Radio left-behinds will rally to help the victims of this weekend's disasters. Ways to help are here.
This album came out in the fall of 1993, but I don't think I bought it until after the year turned. It was an essential part of the soundtrack of my summer of 1994, when I got back into amateur theater (playing a housekeeper, of course; servants are my specialty), took my first solo vacation, and had back surgery. I spent a big chunk of 1994 on the road, and have a vivid memory of listening to this album on the drives to and from Dulles Airport.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1994.
Listen/watch here.
It's still raining here. Watching the news from Joplin, Missouri and Minneapolis, I can't complain. I hope the Family Radio left-behinds will rally to help the victims of this weekend's disasters. Ways to help are here.
This album came out in the fall of 1993, but I don't think I bought it until after the year turned. It was an essential part of the soundtrack of my summer of 1994, when I got back into amateur theater (playing a housekeeper, of course; servants are my specialty), took my first solo vacation, and had back surgery. I spent a big chunk of 1994 on the road, and have a vivid memory of listening to this album on the drives to and from Dulles Airport.
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