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Okay, here’s the deal… this front page is my regular, ongoing, run-of-the-mill “whatever’s on my mind today” blog. The page “Invasive Species” is a murder mystery work in progress that I’m posting for anyone who is interested in following along, as it unfolds. IF it unfolds. Mostly, I’ll probably continue to avoid it by blogging the “whatevahs.” My favorite part of blogging is the interaction, so – as always – I love comments. Enjoy…
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Well, it’s been exactly one year since Glenn Frey, co-founder of Eagles and artist in his own right died at the age of 67. This was the beginning of a year in which we lost so many talented artists, that a tongue-in-cheek campaign to “keep Betty White safe” popped up in December.
Some losses were more difficult than others. The passing of David Bowie, for example, knocked me for a loop.
But for some reason, two “celebrity” deaths that bookended the year – Glenn Frey and Carrie Fisher – affected me the most. The loss of Fisher was straightforward and easier to understand. As I mentioned elsewhere on social media, while talking about her as an author: “She is so candid, funny, clever and SO relatable, reading her is like reminiscing with an old friend.”
But why I reacted so strongly to the passing of Glenn Frey was a little harder to understand.
A large part of it had to do simply with the Eagles’ body of work, both the span and where it fell in my own lifeline. While watching the documentary History of the Eagles (for the fourth time, I might add), I realized: they supplied the theme songs of my entire twenties. So it’s not just the great music, but also the memories.
In addition to that, both Glenn Frey and Don Henley had very successful solo careers for a number of years in there. How many remember Frey from Miami Vice? Too long ago? How about from Jerry McGuire?
And it’s not only a nostalgia thing. Okay, FINE. Nostalgia does have a role here. You know … faded youth and all that. But seriously, there’s more than that. About four years ago I had the pleasure of attending a Glenn Frey concert on Maui and it was pure Glenn – playing what he wanted to play – from Tin Pan Alley to contemporary and back again. He was joyful, right on the mark and obviously having a blast. And adding to the mix, I was with new friends. So memories have continued to be added to my subconsciously stored Glenn Frey Handbook.
Earlier I mentioned the documentary “History of the Eagles, Part 2” and that figures into it as well. In the doc, everyone was pretty honest, sort of telling it like it was, from their perspective. Nevertheless, I noticed that Don Henley (who I also admire) was honest, yet more measured in his words. More aware of the effect. Frey, on the other hand, let it all hang out [notice the 70’s phrases dropped into this paragraph]. Imperfect but real. And I think THAT is a big factor in where my simpactico is coming from. In this crazy ‘through the looking glass’ mirror of the celebrity/fan world, I most appreciate those who allow us to glimpse who they really are.
If you’re still reading this, then you might enjoy the clip that I’ve linked below. It’s a series of very short samples of Frey songs over the years, a musical amuse-bouche of sorts. But what struck me is the chronology of it – over 40 years of Glenn Frey in seven minutes.
Why am I posting something with such a limited niche appeal? I guess I really wanted to talk about this, and the twenty-something students at my Ed Center are not likely to care or even know who I’d be talking about. So if you’ve made it this far, then I thank you.
Here’s the link and btw – yes, I’ve also had a 45 year crush on him but I SWEAR, that’s beside the point.
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When I was a little kid, my mom subscribed to Photoplay magazine, which is difficult to describe in today’s terms. Photoplay was definitely all about Hollywood and movie stars, but not mean spirited or gossipy, like today’s tabloid mags. It’s an overused term, but the late 50s and early 60s were a “simpler time,” I guess.
Anyway … I started first grade in 1960, so Photoplay was my at-home reading primer. I read it cover to cover. Knew the stars, knew their lives, knew their families.
One of the first “other little girls” I ever related to was Carrie Fisher. I was only a couple years older than her (give or take a few months), so I could really relate to her.
Time passed, Princess Leia eclipsed Carrie, marriages/divorces/lifestyle stories eclipsed that, and – joyfully – Carrie-as-an-author eclipsed it all. She was smart, brutally honest and just terrific. Acerbic, honest, clever, funny, totally told it like it was. I loved her writing, loved her on talk shows. She had a no holds barred delivery, no matter who or what the subject was. Yet her level of willingness to poke fun at herself and her own issues was like the club soda that cut the sting of the whiskey. And the recent Star Wars reboots? Wonderful. She was so very many things.
But today, I will miss my one-way through the looking glass childhood “friend” Carrie.
Eddie Fisher, Carrie Fisher, Debbie Reynolds.
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Ok, yes, I’m a lousy housekeeper, not overly organized and a bit of a packrat. This combination of traits can lead to a perfect storm of “omg, where IS that thing??” On the other hand, it may give rise to a joyful reunion between myself and a piece of stuff from a distant part of my life. For example, last month I found my stepson’s 1996 school photo in my Organizional Behavior (MGT 122) file from two semesters ago, and a small box of handmade Fimo miniatures that have apparently been in a three tiered stuff holder, in a back corner of my desk for a number of years.
But last Thursday was the best. While looking for an insurance form, I found a printed sheet of playlists for various moods, that I started to write in Hana, probably a decade and a half ago. It was dog eared, scribbled on and incomplete, but most importantly it is … FOUND! The best part? I can now actually CREATE the playlists. Back in 2002 I would have had to physically track down the music via CDs, iTunes (which I still don’t understand) or hire the original artists to come play for me. Okay, here are my playlists in progress. Would LOVE to hear suggestions of what to add. You can even tell me about songs from this millennium. Speaking of which, here’s a caveat:
Please understand that I was living in a secluded town that only received one radio station, so that’s my excuse for the music being so … ancient. [Thinking of Michael and Harold’s Big Chill conversation about music from this century. But I digress]
Comments? Please add suggestions to any of the categories. I didn’t edit, so a few of the category names were never really intended for the outside world. [blushes]
Okay, I’m off to “Spotify” them, so here ya go…
To Clean the House
Tough Enough (Fabulous Thunderbirds)
Katchi Katchi Music (Willie K)
Turn the Beat Around (Vicki Sue Robinson or Gloria Estafan)
Twist and Shout (Isleys OR Beatles)
Love Shack (B-52s)
I Got the Music in Me
Sir Duke (The one and only Stevie Wonder)
Drift Away (Dobie Gray)
Walkin’ in Memphis (Mark Cohn)
Bell Bottom Blues (Eric, of course)
I Love Music (Tavares)
Creeque Alley (Mamas & Papas)
Do You Believe in Magic (Lovin’ Spoonful)
Hear Me Roar
What I Am (Edie Brickell)
Respect (who else could possibly sing it?)
It’s Too Late (Carole, of course)
Shining Star (EW&F)
In My Life (B’s)
Greatest Love (George Benson)
Through to the Soul
The River (Talking Heads)
Into the Mystic (Van da Man)
Over the Rainbow (Iz)
What’s Going On (Marvin Gaye)
Limbo (Jimmy Cliff or John Cruz)
Jesus Children of America (Stevie W)
A Day in the Life (B’s)
In the Mood
At Last (Etta. Only Etta)
Sea of Love (Phil Phillips or Honeydrippers)
Crazy Little Thing (Queen)
Popsicle Toes (Michael Franks)
Help Me (Joni)
Let’s Stay Together (Al Green)
That Sunday, That Summer (Nat or Natalie)
This Could Be Real (Richard Elliot)
Your Smiling Face (James Taylor)
Break Up Songs
You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me (Smoky)
Shes Gone (Hall & Oates)
This Ol’ Heart of Mine (Isleys or even Rod Stewart, oddly)
I Can’t Tell You Why (Eagles)
Crazy (Patsy Cline)
Masquerade (Leon Russell)
The Thrill is Gone (BB King)
Eighteen (Alice Cooper)
Fire and Rain (James Taylor)
Manhattan Island Serenade (Leon Russell)
Chill Factor (Richard Elliot)
Street Life (Crusaders)
The Calling (Santana)
Singing a Portrait
Vincent (Don McLean)
Raised on Robbery (Joni Mitchell)
When Sunny Gets Blue (Kenny Rankin)
Jamaica, Say You Will (prefer Joe Cocker version)
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So in this take out, eat out, thaw it out life of mine, I sometimes forget that – not only do I know how to cook, but I’m also pretty good. I’ll go for months without using my kitchen for anything more than making coffee, heating water for tea or boiling some fresh ravioli and pretending I “made” it. Then – for a day or two – I buy fresh ingredients, break out the olive oil, cut some fresh herbs and voila! I actually MAKE SOMETHING. And I love it. For a while at least. Then my short attention span kicks in, life gets in the way and it’s back to Costco prepackaged stuff and Foodland’s poke bowl.
This week I had some extra time so I made stuffed red peppers one day, and – one of my favorites – ratatouille – the next.
Here’s the thing about ratatouille …Normally I like bold flavors and spices, but this dish is different. It consists of simmering a variety of fresh vegetables – tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, eggplant, onions and garlic – until they mix and marry and become a quiet little stew-like symphony of compatible yet distinct flavors. It’s subtle, so you have to really PAY ATTENTION.
Normally I just chop it all up and throw it together and let the alchemy happen. But yesterday I decided to follow a recipe (somewhat). This one, in fact. The prep took longer, but I liked the way it evened out the degree of “cookedness” of the various veggies. I was pleased.
But that’s not why I’m writing. At the very last minute I did something that sent my tastebuds into orgasmic delight. Before I brought my bowl to the table, I sprinkled some crumbled Feta cheese over it, along with some fresh basil. OMG, it was great.
And for breakfast? I simmered a healthy portion in a saucepan and then broke an egg into it and poached it in that beautiful broth.
And those two improvisations is why I’m blogging it. I am a taste crusader and am urging you all to try it.
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So I’m about seven chapters in to Chrissie Hynde’s autobiography, “Reckless: My Life as a Pretender” and two things have made a big impression, one positive, one not. I’ll get the “not” out of the way first. I chose the audiobook version and really wish I hadn’t. Rosanna Arquette – who I like very much – reads it. As a book narrator, she’s fine. But having Hynde’s wry, honest words come at me in a higher pitched girly voice is driving me nuts. When the author is someone whose voice is so familiar to me, I really want to “hear” it in their voice. Literally as well as figuratively. But that’s just my little whine.
But what truly strikes me is the detailed accuracy of growing up in blue collar-ish Ohio in the sixties. Born in 1951, Hynde is only three years older than I am. So from having to “red up the house” to the phenomenon of underground music hitting us rust belt teens smack in the middle of our musical awareness, she really gets it right. It’s in the throwaway details that someone not from the era or area will probably miss. So far – at least until the point where she becomes a word famous rocker – it’s as though she’s writing OUR autobiography.
I’m familiar enough with her life to know that some difficult times are coming up, such as 5/4/1970 (she actually was a Kent State student at the time) or a horrific experience probably not made easier by Quaaludes. But really – I want to read it all.
It would be interesting to hear what someone who is NOT from my age or geographic demographic thinks of it. Feel free to add your two cents’ worth. And incidentally … I don’t think there was a ghost writer. It’s all Chrissie.
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An early 20th century arranged marriage – as was the custom in the “old country” – resulted in a son born in Yugoslavia, a move to America and five more children, three boys and three girls. The move was timely, as Dan was born smack in the middle of the Great War. His mom, Yeka, was a sweet woman/borderline saint and his father, Juro, was a rather abusive old fart who made some money and bought up some land through bootlegging and a few other questionable ways. Juro (George) was not very respectful towards his wife and kids. Since he was the baby of the family, Dan managed to miss the brunt of his father’s ways. and was even a little spoiled, according to his first cousin.
When growing up “in the sticks”, the main mode of transportation was horseback. But Dan learned to drive an old model A when he was still in short pants, and managed to ditch school after the eighth grade in order to help on the farm. Neither school nor farming was his thing, but he loved all things mechanical. Cars, trucks, tractors, motorcycles, you name it. Dan was just barely literate, but he could take apart any engine and put it back together just right.
He helped start a coal company with his brothers and father, and married Bessie Tepovich while in his early twenties. Initally, the Wukelic Brothers Coal Company was a success. But the auto accident that claimed the life of his revered elder brother Milan did not have a positive effect on the company and the decisions made thereafter. But that came a little later. For now, Dan became a father at twenty-six, and named his son Milan, after his beloved late brother.
He was devoted to his little boy. But that love was not enough to keep the contentious marriage alive, and it soon ended in a divorce – unusual for the times. Dan continued to drive a coal truck for the family business. When the US got involved in WWII, the government informed him that providing coal was a necessity to families in the cold Ohio region, so he would not be joining the armed forces. We never really talked about it, but I can only assume that was fine with him. Dan was a simple man, driven by routine, and conducted his life as such.
In 1945, a nineteen year old part-time bookkeeper named Anne Vein caught the twenty-nine year old’s eye and they eloped to Virginia in October of the same year. They lived in a tiny apartment at the opposite end of the building inhabited by his brother Duchin and his family. It wasn’t ideal, but it was okay. Shortly after the death of his first wife, his son came to share the apartment as well. Initially, the boy slept in the kitchen. Or at least, I think that’s what I was told. During these years Dan’s hobbies included all things motor-oriented, particularly race cars. He was not the driver, simply the car owner and sponsor. Although he stopped racing in the early 50s, the race car lived in his garage – covered and up on blocks – for another decade. I can still remember how it smelled of burned, hard rubber. But I’m getting ahead of the story again.
The coal company continued for a few more years, but due to questionable decisions on the part of his other brother and to changing demographics, he left the family business and began making coal deliveries for Pier Coal Company. Nine years later, Dan and Anne (yes, they rhymed) were about to have child #2. Claiming the acre that was his and perhaps purchasing the second one from his father, Dan and Anne built their own home. Red brick and sturdy – no straw houses for them! In January of 1954, Dan became the father of a daughter. Yes, that would be me. He continued to haul coal, fix motors, help family and friends with car issues, wheel and deal by buying and selling items like industrial grade air compressors, and just pretty much being “Dan.”
He was a collector. Not art, or anything of value. Just … stuff. Tools, parts, antique oddities, you name it. By the early 60s, he had to build a second garage on the back acre to hold all the … stuff. It was forever known as Danny’s Back Garage.
“Where’s that riding mower?”
“Oh, it’s in the Back Garage.”
“Hey, Dan . I need a winch to pull the transmission up out of the Buick. You have one?”
“I think. Let’s go look in the Back Garage.”
That garage was legendary. It was like Felix’s magic bag. It held everything anyone ever needed..
In the mid 60s, Dan went through a couple career changes. First, he franchised two Texaco stations the first in Bloomingdale, then second on Sunset Blvd. I loved that phase, loved having our “stores.” Or maybe I simply loved the never ending access to Nehi Cream Soda and Ice Cube chocolate squares. He was a hard worker and totally committed to customer service. But he did not have a head for business, and had to give them up after a couple of years.
Shortly thereafter, Dan began working for Steubenville Transfer, owned by friend of the family Howard Bowers, as a delivery truck driver for Sears & Roebuck. He continued to deliver furniture for Sears for the next next twenty years or so. It offered good benefits, a Teamster wage, and great “markdown” opportunities. Seriously. We had a top of the line pool table that he got for peanuts. I’m still not sure why. Perhaps it had a scratch. Perhaps it was simply because he was Dan. My mom and I had lots of nice clothes and a never ending parade of interesting vehicles to drive. He worked hard for this blue collar existence, but provided well for us.
By the early 70s, both kids had moved out. His son lived locally, but didn’t really visit much. I kept in touch weekly, but generally lived at least a thousand miles away. Our distance was augmented by frequent visits to wherever I lived at the moment: A father/daughter Disney World adventure, watching the Aspens turn to gold in Colorado and his lifetime dream – a trip to Hawaii.
Dan became a grandfather in the late 60s, early 70s to his son’s children, and then again in the 90s when I caught up. And throughout his life, he was Uncle Danny to many – both literally their Uncle, but also from his heart.
In the mid nineties, two unfortunate events occurred. First, Dan began to show signs of Alzheimer’s. Secondly, Anne developed non-Hodgkins lymphoma. Each situation was bad. Happening at the same time, however, was exponentially worse. His son worked round the clock at two jobs and has his own family to deal with. Plus, relations between father and son were strained. And I was a continent and an ocean away, with my own family.
Luckily, Anne’s large group of siblings rallied around them, as did his son, and the support was welcome. After an “all clear” signal and nearly three good years, Anne had a relapse and succumbed to cancer in October of 1996. With the help of his sisters-in-law and son, he continued to live alone for another year or two. But eventually, the disease became too great and I went to Ohio to get him settled into a nursing home and to liquidate a lifetime’s worth of … stuff.
The next couple years were basically without incident, if that’s the right phrase for those sit-around-and-wait final years. A nursing home life for an Alzheimer’s patient is an odd existence, but it was what it was. He and his elementary age grandson got along famously during our annual visits. I figured they were on the same wavelength.
Somewhere in late 2000, Dan was transferred to a different nursing home and died a few weeks later. Interestingly, he made it to the 21st century, which was something he aspired to. When my dad passed away I was a single mom struggling to get by in one of the most expensive, farthest away parts of the country, so I wasn’t able to make it to my own father’s funeral. But that’s okay because – to the best of my ability – I made it to his life.
Like every other human who has ever existed, my father had traits that could drive a person nuts. He could be obstinate, was given to pouting, and made corny jokes that weren’t even in the same galaxy as being funny.. But mostly, he was kind, loving, sentimental beyond measure, Mr Fixit for a huge extended family and our friends, always up for jumping in the car and exploring the newest flea market, friendly to EVERYONE, totally dedicated to his family and I’ll tell you – this man could spot a screwdriver on the side of the road while traveling 50 mph and would totally commit to turning around to retrieve it. Yes, that was Dan, in a nutshell.
So why chronicle this simple, humble life?
Because today, April 28, 2016, would be his 100th birthday. And I thought you should know about him.
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My high school didn’t have a debate team. However, I did participate in de facto debates is our Government and Civics classes, and thoroughly enjoyed it. One that I particularly remember was debating the pros and cons of capital punishment, where I was assigned to the “pro” side. We researched it, gave a great presentation and won the debate. Woo hoo! The irony is that 17 year old Marti was definitely NOT pro capital punishment. But it was a game and I was pretty competitive back then. Plus, winning feels way better than not winning. Debating was what I considered “good sport.”
And today, I see many people continue to feel the exhilaration of a good debate. No, I’m not talking about those preposterous presidential things on TV that pass for a debate. Those have devolved into something closer to Jerry Springer or studio wrestling. Even the candidates who I respect are more geared to tomorrow’s soundbites than they are to substance.
What I’m referring to is debating among us regular people. People I know and generally respect, who may or may not have the same opinion as I do. Several friends have asked why I no longer participate in hot topic debates, particularly via social media. Some have even speculated on why I don’t – everything from feeling bullied to not being “up on things.” I’ve wondered myself: why have I stepped away from discussions where previously I would have jumped in, front and center?
And it finally occurred to me. It’s debate vs. discussion.
At this point in my life and the life of the world around me – I engage in discussions mainly for two reasons:
1. To understand
2. To be understood
And the concept of “debate” strikes me as counter intuitive to the process of understanding. If I listen to another person for the purpose of preparing, in my mind, how to counter his position, then I’m not really listening, am I? And vice-versa.
I’ve actually managed to have one or two brief discussions, mostly with people who see things differently from how I see them, and mostly because I’m curious about how a seemingly bright person could be so wrong-headed about an issue. [see what I did there? self-deprecating humor wrapped around a chunk of truth]. In those cases, I only listened, and did not explain how I see things. Why? Because I wasn’t asked, so figured I wouldn’t really be heard. Those discussions didn’t change my own opinions, but did open my mind a bit. And then I moved on.
Same way with social media. If something holds a promise of new information, I read. If not, I scroll by. These days, I do way more scrolling than reading.
Because here’s the thing about pretty much any hot button issue and how we assume a particular stance or action will play out: No matter how convinced we are, no matter how much data we find to support our position, it’s still just an OPINION. (ooooh, I bet some people quickly disagreed). And we are so close to the issue that we tend to forget it’s only our viewpoint, and not an absolute. In most cases.
But then again, this is only my opinion.