Saturday, December 29, 2012


       Wrapping it up is SO much easier when you know what you are 'wrapping', don't you think?  I do, so as we approach another 'passage' - of time, distance, a crowd - I ponder some of the 'big ones' but settle (gratefully) for the little - some might say insignificant - questions.
       Whatcha doin'?, for example, came to mind.  And before I could muster a response befitting my activities - such as they are - I was reminded of a wonderful re-telling of an experience had by Dory Previn.  She shared this event not too long after crafty little Mia Farrow, pixied her way into Dory's home, life, and, ultimately, bed, only to leave behind some short, blond hairs and take with her Andre - Dory's husband/reason-for-living.
       Doubtless, this transgression played into Dory's mood - if not her now vacant, imperiled core.  So it was that she gave us "Twenty Mile Zone" to which I tip my hat, lend an ear and cross my heart hoping that Dory is at present at least not unhappy.  She tells us:

I was riding in my car
Screamin' at the night,
Screamin' at the dark,
Screamin' at fright.
I wasn't doin' nothin' -
Just drivin' about, screamin' at the dark,
Lettin' it out.
That's all I was doin',
Just lettin' it out.

Well along comes a motorcycle
very much to my surprise,
I said, "Officer,
was I speedin'?"
I couldn't see his eyes.
He said, "No, you weren't speedin'",
and he felt where his gun was hung.
He said, "Lady, you were screamin',
at the top of your lungs.
And you were
doin' it alone, you were doin' it alone,
You were screamin' in your car in a twenty mile zone, you were doin' it alone, you were doin' it alone, you were screamin'."

I said, "I'll roll up all my windows.
(don't wanna disturb the peace)
I'm just a creature who's lookin'
for a little release."
I said, "What's so wrong with screamin'?  Don't ya do it at your games;
when the quarterback breaks an elbow;
when the boxer beats and maims?"

doin' it alone, you were doin' it alone,
you were screamin' in your car in a twenty mile zone.
You were doin' it alone, you were doin' it alone, you were screamin'.

I said, "Animals roar, when they fee-el like."
I said, "Why can't we do that too-oo-oo?  Instead of screamin' 'Bonsai, Baby!', in the whoa, in the hu-u-mannn zoooo?"
"But-you-were doin' it alone, you were doin' it alone, you were screamin' in your car in a twenty mile zone.
You-were-doin' it alone, you were doin' it alone,  you were screamin'."

He said, "I got to take you in now.  Follow me right behind.  And let's have no more screamin',
like you're outta yo' mind."
So he climbed aboard his cycle
and his one-eyed headlight beamed.
And his motor started spinnin',
And his siren
doin' it alone, he was doin' it alone
He was screamin' on his bike
in a twenty mile zone.
He was doin' it alone, he was doin' it alone,
he was screamin'.
We were doin' it together, we were doin' it together, we were
screamin' at the dark in a twenty mile zone.
We were doin' it together, we were
doin' it together, we were screamin'.

We-were-doin' it together, we were doin' it together, we were doin' it together, we were
doin' it together, we were doin' it together, we were doin' it together, we were doin' it together,
we were doin' it together alone.
In a twenty mile zone.

       If, dear reader, I should look up and see that you have 'hung in there', are still seated/reclining at my Aesopian table, please join me in tipping your hat - having lent an ear - and cross your heart that our 2013 'story' will have more morale than moral;  more 'groaning table' than arching fable.  'Here, here' to seconds of 'camp' and not even serving scamps; nay to those who come a-wenching but "Yea!" to those who would be in our space for to be drenching us with merriment - a spear, meant to pierce the soul such that it may osmose this nectar of release.
       'Whatcha doin'?  Lettin' it out;  takin' it in.  It's time.  TOGETHER, on three:  S-C-R-E-A-M!
Later, Lorane. . . .

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Last Seen Wearing Thin: Background Noise - TIMEOUT!

Last Seen Wearing Thin: Background Noise - TIMEOUT!

Background Noise - TIMEOUT!

                Once again, I sat me down to share something of possible mutual interest and once again, I forgot to turn off the background noise.
Alas, there was a time when I, too, pouted thusly.  Mia's pout will have to do.  The interesting stuff had to do with a rumor I heard about the raising of the income tax to 75% over in France.  I wondered, with hungry curiosity, whether we would shortly begin to experience a diaspora of frenzied French ex patriots establishing colorful, little artistic colonies hither and yon - with gay music, poetry reading, passing the beret and other amusing distractions.
        Indeed, I sincerely hoped my neighborhood might be one such - hither or yon, that is.  About to make a quick dash to the closet to check out potential 'French-artistic-colony' vintage ware, I was accosted by the clawing, far-too-perky/sincere dulcet tones of "VESICAREWOMAN".
        On the narrow chance that you've been deprived of this 'mad-ad-drivel', allow me. 
Background Drop:    WHITE
Music:                       Muted-Bouncy
Action:                      Varies with scene; Opens with:
        "VW", a PVC-pipe, gold-sprayed stick figure; short, chic coif tinted burnished bronze, extricating herself from a line-up of similar creatures to 'share' with us,
"I've worked hard to get where I am. . ." (Said locus seems to be a successful career in the corporate world (glass ceilings be damned & rendered shards by metallic piping).
        Keeping the action going, she beams onto a people mover and, speaking simultaneously to us and the call-ee (?sultan with a fetish and beau coup investment $?  Broker, awaiting "buy" or "sell" commands?) on her cell;
attends an important meeting (judging from the length of the conference table at which she has parked her angular, metallic ass at the head 'wing chair';
rides (is driven, actually in a stretch with the tags "TAKE CHARGE" - which is the theme of this consumer (that's us) service announcement -
"I have more important places to go than always going to the bathroom."  (Clearly a "not-need-to-know" fact for this or any civilized woman of today).
        You see, thanks to VESICARE, our glistening, dry, gold-piped Twiggy was apparently once a slave to (thankfully un-named) bladder malfunctions which due either to frequency or severity or (heaven forbid) both, caused unacceptable - indeed potentially career-threatening - treks to the Loo or the nearest white porcelain fixture.
        Should you, dear feminine reader, be visited/afflicted by similar (hardly possible) intrusive, life-altering plumbing pathologies,
"Take charge of your life."
Pipe Girl, "VW", did and now she's leaked her secret - VESICARE.
(Betty, cue Dino with a hook and an Allen wrench.)
            Then we hear our
confused but oddly happy-sounding "Genealogy Girl"  (Molly - right - is actually seeing the image of her Grams - Moi, left - as she is forced to sit on the stage for the school end-of-year 'show' while she would prefer to be home sleeping or having an all-out primal scream secondary to fatigue, frustration and hearing people like "Genealogy Girl" on the TV.)
        "GG" always wondered about the 'first' Ellen, for whom she was named.  (What turns THIS supposedly harmless odyssey into a tragedy - the likes of which caused this writer to utilize the above visuals.)  Ultimately, Curiosity - the murderess known/experienced by tragic heroines of history - nudged her to her computer and the helpful 'robot' staff at "".
        Before she had time enough to enter Aunt Ellen's stats - meagre as they were - on the wizard's template, she was showered with scoop enough to realize that she had actually walked passed Auntie E's house each day and evening going to and from work.
        For sooth, plus very good reason, we never hear whether this is still the case.  Oh, Auntie E no doubt carried on high and led a raucous PRIVATE life at that address.  The key word (caps) is why she was able to do just that.  No fool, Auntie E.  Ancestry?  Who gives a 'tini's olive?  Once you start fishing around - using new-fangled hardware to boot, or glass slipper as was E's wont, you're bound to meet trouble. 
       But it would be just like her sister's bookish, 'what-makes-the-flowers-grow?', naive spinster kid to wonder why her name was dumb-ass gene Ellen.  Now trouble -  starts with 't', rhymes with 'p', stands (usually) for 'pool' is what "GG" got.  Along with her 'new address' from which she will not be passing Aunti E's house, she got an eviction notice after missing a few rent payments.
        Seems every time she queried the robotic 'seer' re: Aunti E's background, there was a charge attached.  Addiction has no conscience - or common sebse, for that matter - and before she knew it, our Ellen was a 'trust baby'-niece but a 'bag lady' debtor, causing a change in life style, occupation (none) and address.  (Third and Lex, I believe was where she was last perched.) 
        Why?  Well, there are exorbitant fees attendant to the fact-finding mission that provides the 'wonderer' with enough data to transform her into the 'wanderer'.  All because, when the 'answer' came - with a variety of spellings of the queried subject's name - Ellen kept saying "Yes!"  Some questions may be better left unanswered.  That was the 'first' Ellen's philosophy.  Seems to have paid off.  Ya think?
        That French 'diaspora' could have been SO much more fun.
Later,  Lorane. . . .

Wednesday, December 5, 2012


        This evening's meanderings are brought to you by the letter "s" for serendipity.  Oh, I had been kicking around some 'messages of merit', 'ponderings with pith' - the usual.  But then this past weekend our household endured an irreparable tear (a rent causing shredding beyond repair in some emotional compartments) and, well, all literary 'bets' were off.
        Soooo, casting format, coordination and any sense of, well, 'sense', to the wind, I choose to simply tell the story of a different 'happening' last week - one that most Moms, Dads and kids are 'doing' around now.  I make no promises, but it's Americana 2012 and you just might see/meet someone you know.  Or not.

        This picture has no particular significance save to give you an idea of how we (our family) are and how we 'do' things.  So Mia is simply representative of an average day in the lives of any of our 6 grand peeps.  Indeed, our neighbors might have wandered into our home back in the day and found her mother or uncle or aunt similarly clad.  It's just a 'how-we-roll' thing.
        Now one evening last week, one of our daughters decided it was time for the Christmas Elf to crash the commune for his annual 'watching out' duties.  He was quite a hit last year with then  four year-old E. who dubbed him "Dublin".  Eighteen month-old Charlie was not quite as moved by his stay but then that was simply a developmental circumstance.
        THIS year, 'Momma' just KNEW he would get into the Dublin thing and big sister would - as is her wont - be certain he got it right.  So it was that after baths, the kids dripping off in cuddly robes, Momma made her move, skulking to the top of the stairs - hopefully unnoticed - and calling down in that familiar 'wife-to-hubby-stage-whisper',
"RRRRR!"  (He was working in the living room)
M:  "When I say, 'R, would you please bring C's milk up?', get Dublin, put him between the outside and screen doors, ring the front doorbell and then just do the milk."
D:  (Stage-whispering back/catching M off guard) for, "Where do I go?"
M:  (To herself) "Where does he GO? The deep dent in the living room sofa will be as welcoming as ever.  Go?  What the hell is he talking about.  These kids are drying fast."
M:  (To D)  "What do you mean, R?  You're working.  Continue."
(In fairness to D, his childhood bears little resemblance to that of our kids.)
D:  "I mean do I go outside or hide next to the inside screen door or what?"
M:  (in tone of one talking to a person with the IQ of a box of frozen snow peas)  "Put the elf in position; ring the doorbell; get the milk.  And if ASKED, you're too busy w-o-r-k-i-n-g  to answer the door."
D:  "So I come back inside after I ring the bell."  (Undoubtedly, he had serious concerns re: the "open-close-door" play action as they just had to replace the heating system and he was NOT going to be party to a 'let-it-blow' escapade on this un usually cold night.)
M:  "I'm getting the kids into their PJ's.  Just wait for me to ask for C's milk and go for it, big guy."  (WHY is this such rocket science to him?  HE wasn't eighteen months-old when Dublin spent December with us LAST year.  Jeez!)
D:  (Sits apprehensively on sofa. To himself.)  I'm working my ass off on these loan closures to meet a deadline that might pay an overcharging H-VAC thief and SHE'S playing 'elf games'!"
M:  "R!  Would you bring C's-m-i-l-k up, h-o-n?"
D:  "Right."  (He charges into the playroom;  fetches Dublin and races him to the front door "set change";  races to fridge to get C''s milk; goes outside; rings doorbell; back in, races up the stairs and passes sippy cup off to M; races back down and to safety of his sculpted sofa.)
E:  Daddy, some one's at the door!"
M:  "R!  I'm starting story time with C."
D:  "I'm working.  Come down and see who's at the door, E!"
E:  "Honestly, Momma.  Daddy's down there."
M:  "E, baby-girl.  Daddy's working.  You have your robe on.  See who's at the door, tell Daddy and then come up for story time."
C: (Grabbing one car and one truck)  "I'll go with Emma.  I answer door."
M:  (Ditching sippy cup; following stomping E and off- balance C)  "That's sweet, C."
E:  (Opening screen door/seeing elf)  "Momma!  Daddy!  Dublin's here!"
D:  "It is Dublin!  Let's bring him in out of the cold."
C:  (To himself)  They're talking to a doll."
M:  "C, you remember DUBlin, right?"
D:  "Sure won't recognize him frozen.  Let's get him in here so you can get a good look at him, C."
E:  (Blocking family)  "Wait."  (to Dublin)  "Hi, Dublin!  You remember me, E?  How did you get here?"
M:  "He was . . . de-livered, Honey."
D:  "And it was a long, warm trip.  I'll bet he wants to come inside."
C:  (To himself)  They are ALL talking to this doll.  I carry my trucks around and they whisper that I do strange things.  They are talking to a doll.  Sitting between two doors.  Not answering."
E:  "Daddy, WHO delivered him?"
M:  "Daddy's going into the living room, E."
E:  "Well I'm going outside to see if I can find out who deli-"
M & D:  "No!  It's cold outside!  You just had your bath." "EVERYBODY is coming inside.  Bring Dublin, C."  (C struggles to open screen door, NOT drop his vehicles, drag the 'stupid doll' in by a foot and mutter,)
C:  "I don't talk to dolls I don't know.  And if you stay, keep the heat IN side.  Very big with Daddy."
E:  "C, I can't tell you how Dublin was delivered to our house - yet. " (Taking C by the hand and starting up the stairs)
M:  (To R)  "WHY didn't you just snatch him up, bring him into the living room and, after a warm welcome and intros, tell the kids the lovely story of the Christmas Elf/Santa's Helper/watches boys and girls from EVERY where in the house to see wheth-
D:  "Key word there is "into".  And I asked you where I was supposed to be and what my part was!"
M:  "You need a script, now?  What - if anything - did your family do when the Christmas Elf arrived?"
(E and C can be heard commiserating in her bedroom.  E is being characteristically specific about this cute, tricky little guy who C will notice 'popping' up all over. )
"And HE reports directly back to SANTA all about how good or bad we've been.  Now, I've mailed our letters to the North Pole.  We're covered with our lists.  But this 'good or bad' stuff is VERY important when Santa's packing up on Christmas Eve."
C:  "Does this Dublin know the elves that make trucks and will he. . . ."

They ALL look pretty good to me.  And Dublin kinda rolls pretty much the way they do so I think ole Santa's gonna get more than a few ho, hos out of this crowd. (If there are any left for him by the Hostess.) 
        And who cares how he got to the house as long as Mommy's 'kissin' Santa Claus that night'.
(This closure was brought to you by the letter "b" for BELIEVE!)
Later, Lorane. . . .