Emily Frankel, as last year was ending, asked John Cullum about his New Year's resolutions.
John hemmed and hawed until Emily announced that she had resolved to cook more dinners for him.
Recalling some of their old New Years Eve resolutions, the Cullums agree -- their best resolutions have been made, not on New Year's, but before the holiday, and during the new year, when something happens that requires a strong resolve to fix.
Yes, here's what we said last year, but the fact of the matter is -- every time we refer to our plans for corn bread, dinners, projects or leisure in 2011, change the number. Loud and clear resolve with us, hope with us that we'll hold onto them for 2012.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
TYRA BANKS
The stunning former model, Tyra Banks, is fascinating. She can model and look sexy, young, chic, elegant in almost any kind of outfit. She can talk her way into and out of and around almost any subject.
Tyra yells, screams, weeps real tears -- she can be very cruel, very sweet, motherly, sisterly, tender, as she confronts and subtly competes with much younger girls, and invariably wins first prize for beauty, talent, and know-how, no matter who, or how gorgeous her guest is.
Banks is a big gal -- 5'10", big boobs, broad hips, up and down in weight -- sometimes slender, sometimes borderline zaftig, voluptuous . She knows how to hide, disguise, somehow magically reconfigure her shape, along with her hairdo -- with one of her -- how many? I'm guessing she's got more than 200 wigs, and an endless array of formal, fancy, sloppy, cute, sleek, ultra haute couture, revealing outfits.
Wikipedia reports her yearly income is currently $28 million.
Every day she's on TV in the "Tyra Banks Show" or "America's First Model," which seems to have set the standard for reality show cruelty. After we briefly meet each contestant and each reveals how desperately she needs to win, and explains why she is sure she's the best, most talented, most truly destined to win, Tyra discusses the girl's assets, the girls' mistakes, and wham -- like God -- Tyra's stance, her manner, her judgment says she's God -- Tyra Banks suspensefully announces who won by revealing one by one, who lost.
For me, this is sadistic, and not entertaining. "America's First Model" is a show about ambitions and dreams that is inspiring more and more young girls to pursue modeling, a career that creates in little girls, who are still too young to compete, what I think is repulsive, obsessive vanity, along with a grab-bag of misconceptions about femininity.
We can't ignore Tyra's growing popularity. She won't run for president but she's a super powerful 37-year-old woman who's already a guru.
Here's a clip -- Tyra announcing the winner with a burning, relishing, intense look of delight in her eyes as the contestants wait for the ax to fall.
Have fun with this clip of clever Tyra Banks showing off, her "fat Ass."
Tyra yells, screams, weeps real tears -- she can be very cruel, very sweet, motherly, sisterly, tender, as she confronts and subtly competes with much younger girls, and invariably wins first prize for beauty, talent, and know-how, no matter who, or how gorgeous her guest is.
Banks is a big gal -- 5'10", big boobs, broad hips, up and down in weight -- sometimes slender, sometimes borderline zaftig, voluptuous . She knows how to hide, disguise, somehow magically reconfigure her shape, along with her hairdo -- with one of her -- how many? I'm guessing she's got more than 200 wigs, and an endless array of formal, fancy, sloppy, cute, sleek, ultra haute couture, revealing outfits.
Wikipedia reports her yearly income is currently $28 million.
Every day she's on TV in the "Tyra Banks Show" or "America's First Model," which seems to have set the standard for reality show cruelty. After we briefly meet each contestant and each reveals how desperately she needs to win, and explains why she is sure she's the best, most talented, most truly destined to win, Tyra discusses the girl's assets, the girls' mistakes, and wham -- like God -- Tyra's stance, her manner, her judgment says she's God -- Tyra Banks suspensefully announces who won by revealing one by one, who lost.
For me, this is sadistic, and not entertaining. "America's First Model" is a show about ambitions and dreams that is inspiring more and more young girls to pursue modeling, a career that creates in little girls, who are still too young to compete, what I think is repulsive, obsessive vanity, along with a grab-bag of misconceptions about femininity.
We can't ignore Tyra's growing popularity. She won't run for president but she's a super powerful 37-year-old woman who's already a guru.
Here's a clip -- Tyra announcing the winner with a burning, relishing, intense look of delight in her eyes as the contestants wait for the ax to fall.
Have fun with this clip of clever Tyra Banks showing off, her "fat Ass."
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
CELEBRATING?
Yay! Whoopee! Women are celebrating.
What? Why?
When I read articles. and there have been quite a few lately, about women becoming more powerful, earning more, being treated as well or better than men, I nod, but also I sort of cringe.
I'm a woman and I want women to do better don't I?
Well ... mm ... Hillary Clinton whom I admire and pay attention to, recently said, “I believe that the rights of women and girls is the unfinished business of the 21st century." Mmm. But celebrating our progress right now feels wrong.
It's great that people are more educated these days, and paying attention to women's progress, but I think other things are more important.
The end of DADT -- I'm celebrating that! You can enlist and be who you are. And focus on poverty, starvation, people trapped in cultures that are at least 50 years behind the times, with no doctors, no medicine, running out of water, people dying and thrown away like garbage -- focus on wars, civil wars, tribal wars and us, the big benefactor -- we're sending billions to the countries to help what?
Help whom? Help promote Democracy American style?
Yes, many of the thoughts I have today are colored by the dilemma of our country today where Democracy is not working. It's been taken over by Americans who have found a way to run the country -- to RULE the country their way.
Suddenly we have a ruling upper class and a lower class.
I'm glad women are progressing even though I'm not celebrating it. I'm glad more soldiers will be coming home from Afghanistan. I'm glad -- very glad -- that the Wall Street Protests are alive and kicking and happening throughout the country. I'm glad that my husband is working and we own a building and won't be poor, even if the country dips into a deeper depression.
I can't celebrate because I am fearful about what's ahead for America between now and November 2012, and I see that many Americans, feeling as I do, are no longer really sure they want Obama to be reelected.
I think Barack Obama is our hope -- his second term, a Democratic majority in Congress is what I'm focusing on, and yes, oh yes -- that's something I'll celebrate.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
IS THERE A SANTA CLAUS?
This is an excerpt from my e-book "Splintered Heart." (It's on Amazon.com) Is Marian Melnik me? Yes, AND no. All the characters in my novels have aspects of me. But the novel is not a story about me.
It was at Christmas time, when Marian Melnik was seven-years-old, that she had learned about praying.
The Melnik family was Jewish. They were not synagogue-goers. They were agnostics. Marian's father had explained it all to her in a cherished moment of real grown-up conversation.
"I'm an agnostic my dear, not an atheist. Atheism is something different." Anatol Melnik explained the difference to Marian carefully -- that there was a God but God wasn't necessarily Jehovah, Jesus, Buddha or the Lord. You could make up your own idea of God if you were agnostic.
Sometimes, when Daddy talked about things like Pharaoh and Ra, Thor and Vikings, Zeus and Hercules -- it was very interesting. But sometimes when he was talking about "alternative philosophies" like Ethical Culture, and "metaphysics" Marian could not help but let her mind wander. She would think ahead for big words to say, to show she understood. She knew her Daddy loved her smartness. He would smile, not his small-sized smile but his big one, when she managed to surprise him with a new big word.
"I absolutely comprehend," Marian said when her father was finished. And she did understand. Christmas was for Christians, not for agnostics.
Most all the children in the private school were Christians. The school was filled with red, blue, green, gold and silver decorations. There was a Christmas tree with colored lights, colored balls and tinsel in her classroom. There was going to be a Christmas party with candy canes, grab bag gifts, and Christmas carols.
Uncle Milton and Aunt Paula lighted candles, sang Hebrew songs, gave her cousins each a Chanukah gift -- last year a Mickey Mouse watch for Sammy, a locket for Natasha. Marian's best friend, Mary Ellen Warner was a High Episcopalian and she was going with her family to Acapulco for Christmas and New Year's. At Marian's home, the holidays meant that she didn't have to go to school.
But Agnostic was O.K., at least it made Marian one of a kind. Not "run of the mill" which was what Mary Ellen said about the Lutheran, Protestant, and Presbyterian girls in their class.
Marian tried to pray agnostically. She had been reading about Joan of Arc, who had talked to God and heard voices. Marian tried talking to her idea of God in her mind. She wanted Him to talk to her about Mamma.
Mamma stayed in bed most of the time. She was either tired or she had a headaches, or both things.
Daddy said, "Marian, I want you to promise that you will be brave and strong. And very gentle with Mamma. You've got to be a very extra special child for while."
In the bathroom with the door locked, Marian had looked it up in the Medical Book. She couldn't find out about "Tired" and "Headache" but she found out about Polio, Scarlet Fever, Sex, Spinal Meningitis, Syphillis, T.B. and Whooping cough.
She was terribly worried about keeping the promise that she'd made to Daddy. She prayed agnostically, that she wouldn't get one of the horrible diseases or the tired headache like Mamma.
All the girls in Marian's class expected dolls -- the kind that wet themselves or movie star dolls with real human hair and wardrobes. One girl was getting a fur coat and the boys were hoping for radios or bicycles. Everyone knew it was parents who gave the presents but the talk was still of Santa Claus and what Santa Claus might be bringing them.
"I know Santa's bringing me a pair of pink satin toe shoes, and a Punch and Judy puppet theater," said Mary Ellen Warner. Mary Ellen was taking ballet for grace, and elocution lessons for poise. "What about you, Marian?"
"Probably my parents are going to give me an Encyclopedia Britannica." An encyclopedia had already been ordered, not for Christmas but for the family's general self-improvement.
"An encyclopedia?" Mary Ellen Warner wrinkled her nose the way she did when a boy came over to play with them.
"Actually I think I'm probably getting a Bulova watch and a string of cultured of pearls and also probably a piano!" That impressed Mary Ellen Warner. When Mary Ellen got too snobby or stuck up, Marian had to invent ways of making her shut up.
"Couldn't we celebrate Christmas just this year, Mamma?" Marian asked her Mamma wistfully. Occasionally Mamma would say 'yes' to things without a great deal of fuss, but Mamma just said the usual -- "You'd better ask your father."
The thing about Christmas was not just the presents. It was the decorations and the music. All the children's voices lifted in song -- it made Marian feel as if she were part of a huge family holding hands around the equator of the world, looking up at the same stars and sending notes of music up into the clouds like the ever-larger smoke ring circles from her Daddy's cigarette.
The shiny fragile balls on the trees -- she wished she could have one of each color, just to hold them, look into them and see herself reflected. The icicle tinsel -- she wanted that too -- the silver fringe for a ballerina gown.
Last birthday, Marian's Daddy had taken her to Radio City Music Hall. She never would forget the vision -- the girl dancing with her Prince, her crown of diamond spires, her dress all glitter-gleam lace and sparkles.
And never ever would Marian forget the way the symphony orchestra came rising up from below -- musicians like penguins in their black and white suits, the silver and gold horns, the B O O M of the kettle drums, the up and down bowing-sticks of violins and cellos all moving together, all following their leader the Conductor who made the music get bigger and bigger until it filled every inch of blue space on the stage and in the theater which was one of the biggest theaters in the world -- her Daddy said.
"I am definitely going to be a musician when I grow up, a piano player or a conductor," Marian said to herself. You had to have alternatives, so if that didn't work out, Marian decided she wouldn't mind being a ballerina.
The Prince was part of it. Somewhere in the world, perhaps upside-down in China and growing up like her cousin Sammy was growing up -- there was a boy who would someday marry her. Marian knew, quite definitely, her Prince was not going to be fat like Sammy. Her Prince would definitely be as tall, as handsome as Daddy. She liked to imagine whirling and gliding with him to the rippling music that was in her ears when she was swinging on the swings at the playground.
A few weeks before Christmas, though she realized it was childish, Marian began praying for what she wanted from Santa. She was tentative at first. "Please let me get something for Christmas." But as the time grew closer, her prayers grew longer. She began to do "Now I lay me down to sleep." Then, to that prayer she added "God Bless Mamma, Daddy, Sara our maid, Uncle Milton, Aunt Paula, and my cousins," and onto that she added, "And could I have a string of pearls for Christmas. And a wrist watch. And could you consider a piano?
Marian wrote out a list, put it in an envelope addressed to Santa and placed it on the table in the hall, figuring Sara who was a good maid would show it to Mamma who would show it to Daddy. Probably they'd laugh but maybe they'd open it, and maybe they'd pay attention to the items on the paper.
The next day it was gone.
Nobody mentioned it, but that was hopeful.
A week before Christmas, Marian robbed her piggy bank. Using Mamma's nail file, she found she could scratch up into the slot and get out a few coins. In the locked bathroom, she managed to dig out two quarters, eight dimes, seventeen pennies, and three nickels.
More money came her way unexpectedly when she helped Sara organize the kitchen drawers. There was seventy-two cents in loose change which Sara said Marian could keep. And then on Sunday, when Marian got her Daddy his Times from the corner, he gave her a whole dollar bill tip.
The next day, at the 5 & 10, Marian bought a box of assorted balls and a pack of icicle tinsel. She wanted to have her own secret celebration of Christmas, her own private shrine. She knew even a small tree was out of the question, but she priced the miniature nativity scenes.
With $3.34 to start with, balls and tinsel using up $2.25, there was only $1.09 was left. It didn't take long to find out that even the least expensive "Little Town of Bethlehem" was out of the question, but on the other side of the counter there were other souvenirs -- Eiffel Towers, keys to the city, windmills, back-scratchers and rickshaws.
The rickshaw was IT. Such a tiny teeny thing, all hand-carved wood -- wooden wheels with spokes like tooth-picks, tiny grips carved in the handles that pulled the carriage -- it even had a teeny wood-carved cushion and the smallest of small little foot-rests for the royal lady who would hire the rickshaw to take her through the busy streets of Japan and China.
The price was just 79 cents, so Marian bought it. She put the remaining 30 cents back into the piggy when she got home.
After stringing the colored balls on red yarn, Marian hung them in her window in a graceful scallop. She draped eight tinsel icicles between each ball. On the window sill she placed her green hair ribbon and some absorbent cotton. Once the royal rickshaw was carefully placed on the ribbon, it looked like a roadway surrounded by snow drifts.
Marian presented the shrine to her parents the way the guide at the Museum had presented the Egyptian exhibit. She stood up very straight, gestured to the window sill, explaining that decorations were traditional, it was important to conform to traditions since she was going to become a non conformist when she grew up, and celebrating Christmas was a way of orientating herself to the heritage of mankind.
Daddy did not say anything, but as he was examining the rickshaw, he smiled an extra big smile. Mamma said, "But darling, where did you get the money for all these things?"
"It's just leftover stuff from school. Some lady gave me the rickshaw. She didn't want it because it was made in Japan." Mamma was like Mary Ellen Warner. You sometimes had to invent things for Mamma. Little white lies were O.K. to tell, especially when you told them in order to be polite.
The explanation seemed to satisfy Mamma, and Daddy started talking about the boycott, the surplus inventory because of the War.
The last night before Christmas Eve, Marian looked out up at a star.
"Please dear God, a pearl necklace, a watch and maybe a piano -- I would certainly appreciate that, but I'd especially appreciate it if You would show me that You are there!" She was thinking of Joan of Arc and her voices. "Even if you can't give me those things, just give me a little sign that You can hear me."
Christmas Eve, she hung up a stocking and read a poem. So it would be a ceremony, she sang "Silent Night" and "Away in the Manger," then blew a kiss to the North, to the South, to the East and to the West. Checking the clock to be sure it was a full thirty minutes, she thought long, hard, and prayerfully about her Mamma, did "Now I lay me down to sleep" ten times, very slowly. The prayer wasn't to Santa Claus, it wasn't for pearls, watch, or piano. Marian wanted to know if there was a God and this was God's chance to prove it.
She left the window open wide even though it was freezing cold, just in case there was a Santa spirit that might want to come in.
Christmas morning Marian sprang out of bed and rushed to the window. The stocking was empty. There was no sign, not even the tiniest indication that God or Santa had heard her prayers or that either one of them or anything like God or Santa existed.
Her room was cold. She stayed there most of the day.
When Marian brought up the subject at dinner, Daddy explained it: "Praying is something that people invented, it gives them comfort. Don't count on praying, dear. You have to do things yourself. What you pray for you do not necessarily get!"
She nodded. The philosophy was very clear.
A week later, when Marian came home from school, Mamma was gone. Sara said, "Your mother is in the hospital."
Marian felt as if she was going down the swooping curve on the Coney Island roller coaster and had left her stomach behind at the top of the hill. She wondered if what had happened had anything to do with being an agnostic, disobeying her Daddy's rules and praying to God and Santa.
Marian put her four dolls in a shopping bag to give to Mary Ellen Warner who thought having a lot of dolls was very important. The green ribbon went into the waste basket, the cotton was flushed down the toilet. Then she broke the Christmas tree balls one by one and put the pieces in the kitchen trash can. She handed the royal rickshaw to Sara the maid.
Sara said, "Maybe you should keep it, and give it to your baby brother. He's coming home with your Mamma day after tomorrow."
"OH!" Marian said.
She retrieved the green ribbon, put it and the royal rickshaw on a high shelf, so she could use them next Christmas, and teach her new brother about God and Santa watching over you whether you liked it or not.
It was at Christmas time, when Marian Melnik was seven-years-old, that she had learned about praying.
The Melnik family was Jewish. They were not synagogue-goers. They were agnostics. Marian's father had explained it all to her in a cherished moment of real grown-up conversation.
"I'm an agnostic my dear, not an atheist. Atheism is something different." Anatol Melnik explained the difference to Marian carefully -- that there was a God but God wasn't necessarily Jehovah, Jesus, Buddha or the Lord. You could make up your own idea of God if you were agnostic.
Sometimes, when Daddy talked about things like Pharaoh and Ra, Thor and Vikings, Zeus and Hercules -- it was very interesting. But sometimes when he was talking about "alternative philosophies" like Ethical Culture, and "metaphysics" Marian could not help but let her mind wander. She would think ahead for big words to say, to show she understood. She knew her Daddy loved her smartness. He would smile, not his small-sized smile but his big one, when she managed to surprise him with a new big word.
"I absolutely comprehend," Marian said when her father was finished. And she did understand. Christmas was for Christians, not for agnostics.
Most all the children in the private school were Christians. The school was filled with red, blue, green, gold and silver decorations. There was a Christmas tree with colored lights, colored balls and tinsel in her classroom. There was going to be a Christmas party with candy canes, grab bag gifts, and Christmas carols.
Uncle Milton and Aunt Paula lighted candles, sang Hebrew songs, gave her cousins each a Chanukah gift -- last year a Mickey Mouse watch for Sammy, a locket for Natasha. Marian's best friend, Mary Ellen Warner was a High Episcopalian and she was going with her family to Acapulco for Christmas and New Year's. At Marian's home, the holidays meant that she didn't have to go to school.
But Agnostic was O.K., at least it made Marian one of a kind. Not "run of the mill" which was what Mary Ellen said about the Lutheran, Protestant, and Presbyterian girls in their class.
Marian tried to pray agnostically. She had been reading about Joan of Arc, who had talked to God and heard voices. Marian tried talking to her idea of God in her mind. She wanted Him to talk to her about Mamma.
Mamma stayed in bed most of the time. She was either tired or she had a headaches, or both things.
Daddy said, "Marian, I want you to promise that you will be brave and strong. And very gentle with Mamma. You've got to be a very extra special child for while."
In the bathroom with the door locked, Marian had looked it up in the Medical Book. She couldn't find out about "Tired" and "Headache" but she found out about Polio, Scarlet Fever, Sex, Spinal Meningitis, Syphillis, T.B. and Whooping cough.
She was terribly worried about keeping the promise that she'd made to Daddy. She prayed agnostically, that she wouldn't get one of the horrible diseases or the tired headache like Mamma.
All the girls in Marian's class expected dolls -- the kind that wet themselves or movie star dolls with real human hair and wardrobes. One girl was getting a fur coat and the boys were hoping for radios or bicycles. Everyone knew it was parents who gave the presents but the talk was still of Santa Claus and what Santa Claus might be bringing them.
"I know Santa's bringing me a pair of pink satin toe shoes, and a Punch and Judy puppet theater," said Mary Ellen Warner. Mary Ellen was taking ballet for grace, and elocution lessons for poise. "What about you, Marian?"
"Probably my parents are going to give me an Encyclopedia Britannica." An encyclopedia had already been ordered, not for Christmas but for the family's general self-improvement.
"An encyclopedia?" Mary Ellen Warner wrinkled her nose the way she did when a boy came over to play with them.
"Actually I think I'm probably getting a Bulova watch and a string of cultured of pearls and also probably a piano!" That impressed Mary Ellen Warner. When Mary Ellen got too snobby or stuck up, Marian had to invent ways of making her shut up.
"Couldn't we celebrate Christmas just this year, Mamma?" Marian asked her Mamma wistfully. Occasionally Mamma would say 'yes' to things without a great deal of fuss, but Mamma just said the usual -- "You'd better ask your father."
The thing about Christmas was not just the presents. It was the decorations and the music. All the children's voices lifted in song -- it made Marian feel as if she were part of a huge family holding hands around the equator of the world, looking up at the same stars and sending notes of music up into the clouds like the ever-larger smoke ring circles from her Daddy's cigarette.
The shiny fragile balls on the trees -- she wished she could have one of each color, just to hold them, look into them and see herself reflected. The icicle tinsel -- she wanted that too -- the silver fringe for a ballerina gown.
Last birthday, Marian's Daddy had taken her to Radio City Music Hall. She never would forget the vision -- the girl dancing with her Prince, her crown of diamond spires, her dress all glitter-gleam lace and sparkles.
And never ever would Marian forget the way the symphony orchestra came rising up from below -- musicians like penguins in their black and white suits, the silver and gold horns, the B O O M of the kettle drums, the up and down bowing-sticks of violins and cellos all moving together, all following their leader the Conductor who made the music get bigger and bigger until it filled every inch of blue space on the stage and in the theater which was one of the biggest theaters in the world -- her Daddy said.
"I am definitely going to be a musician when I grow up, a piano player or a conductor," Marian said to herself. You had to have alternatives, so if that didn't work out, Marian decided she wouldn't mind being a ballerina.
The Prince was part of it. Somewhere in the world, perhaps upside-down in China and growing up like her cousin Sammy was growing up -- there was a boy who would someday marry her. Marian knew, quite definitely, her Prince was not going to be fat like Sammy. Her Prince would definitely be as tall, as handsome as Daddy. She liked to imagine whirling and gliding with him to the rippling music that was in her ears when she was swinging on the swings at the playground.
A few weeks before Christmas, though she realized it was childish, Marian began praying for what she wanted from Santa. She was tentative at first. "Please let me get something for Christmas." But as the time grew closer, her prayers grew longer. She began to do "Now I lay me down to sleep." Then, to that prayer she added "God Bless Mamma, Daddy, Sara our maid, Uncle Milton, Aunt Paula, and my cousins," and onto that she added, "And could I have a string of pearls for Christmas. And a wrist watch. And could you consider a piano?
Marian wrote out a list, put it in an envelope addressed to Santa and placed it on the table in the hall, figuring Sara who was a good maid would show it to Mamma who would show it to Daddy. Probably they'd laugh but maybe they'd open it, and maybe they'd pay attention to the items on the paper.
The next day it was gone.
Nobody mentioned it, but that was hopeful.
A week before Christmas, Marian robbed her piggy bank. Using Mamma's nail file, she found she could scratch up into the slot and get out a few coins. In the locked bathroom, she managed to dig out two quarters, eight dimes, seventeen pennies, and three nickels.
More money came her way unexpectedly when she helped Sara organize the kitchen drawers. There was seventy-two cents in loose change which Sara said Marian could keep. And then on Sunday, when Marian got her Daddy his Times from the corner, he gave her a whole dollar bill tip.
The next day, at the 5 & 10, Marian bought a box of assorted balls and a pack of icicle tinsel. She wanted to have her own secret celebration of Christmas, her own private shrine. She knew even a small tree was out of the question, but she priced the miniature nativity scenes.
With $3.34 to start with, balls and tinsel using up $2.25, there was only $1.09 was left. It didn't take long to find out that even the least expensive "Little Town of Bethlehem" was out of the question, but on the other side of the counter there were other souvenirs -- Eiffel Towers, keys to the city, windmills, back-scratchers and rickshaws.
The rickshaw was IT. Such a tiny teeny thing, all hand-carved wood -- wooden wheels with spokes like tooth-picks, tiny grips carved in the handles that pulled the carriage -- it even had a teeny wood-carved cushion and the smallest of small little foot-rests for the royal lady who would hire the rickshaw to take her through the busy streets of Japan and China.
The price was just 79 cents, so Marian bought it. She put the remaining 30 cents back into the piggy when she got home.
After stringing the colored balls on red yarn, Marian hung them in her window in a graceful scallop. She draped eight tinsel icicles between each ball. On the window sill she placed her green hair ribbon and some absorbent cotton. Once the royal rickshaw was carefully placed on the ribbon, it looked like a roadway surrounded by snow drifts.
Marian presented the shrine to her parents the way the guide at the Museum had presented the Egyptian exhibit. She stood up very straight, gestured to the window sill, explaining that decorations were traditional, it was important to conform to traditions since she was going to become a non conformist when she grew up, and celebrating Christmas was a way of orientating herself to the heritage of mankind.
Daddy did not say anything, but as he was examining the rickshaw, he smiled an extra big smile. Mamma said, "But darling, where did you get the money for all these things?"
"It's just leftover stuff from school. Some lady gave me the rickshaw. She didn't want it because it was made in Japan." Mamma was like Mary Ellen Warner. You sometimes had to invent things for Mamma. Little white lies were O.K. to tell, especially when you told them in order to be polite.
The explanation seemed to satisfy Mamma, and Daddy started talking about the boycott, the surplus inventory because of the War.
The last night before Christmas Eve, Marian looked out up at a star.
"Please dear God, a pearl necklace, a watch and maybe a piano -- I would certainly appreciate that, but I'd especially appreciate it if You would show me that You are there!" She was thinking of Joan of Arc and her voices. "Even if you can't give me those things, just give me a little sign that You can hear me."
Christmas Eve, she hung up a stocking and read a poem. So it would be a ceremony, she sang "Silent Night" and "Away in the Manger," then blew a kiss to the North, to the South, to the East and to the West. Checking the clock to be sure it was a full thirty minutes, she thought long, hard, and prayerfully about her Mamma, did "Now I lay me down to sleep" ten times, very slowly. The prayer wasn't to Santa Claus, it wasn't for pearls, watch, or piano. Marian wanted to know if there was a God and this was God's chance to prove it.
She left the window open wide even though it was freezing cold, just in case there was a Santa spirit that might want to come in.
Christmas morning Marian sprang out of bed and rushed to the window. The stocking was empty. There was no sign, not even the tiniest indication that God or Santa had heard her prayers or that either one of them or anything like God or Santa existed.
Her room was cold. She stayed there most of the day.
When Marian brought up the subject at dinner, Daddy explained it: "Praying is something that people invented, it gives them comfort. Don't count on praying, dear. You have to do things yourself. What you pray for you do not necessarily get!"
She nodded. The philosophy was very clear.
A week later, when Marian came home from school, Mamma was gone. Sara said, "Your mother is in the hospital."
Marian felt as if she was going down the swooping curve on the Coney Island roller coaster and had left her stomach behind at the top of the hill. She wondered if what had happened had anything to do with being an agnostic, disobeying her Daddy's rules and praying to God and Santa.
Marian put her four dolls in a shopping bag to give to Mary Ellen Warner who thought having a lot of dolls was very important. The green ribbon went into the waste basket, the cotton was flushed down the toilet. Then she broke the Christmas tree balls one by one and put the pieces in the kitchen trash can. She handed the royal rickshaw to Sara the maid.
Sara said, "Maybe you should keep it, and give it to your baby brother. He's coming home with your Mamma day after tomorrow."
"OH!" Marian said.
She retrieved the green ribbon, put it and the royal rickshaw on a high shelf, so she could use them next Christmas, and teach her new brother about God and Santa watching over you whether you liked it or not.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
Friday, December 23, 2011
MY FAVORITE GIFT
Here's me last year, December 23, 2011, talking about my most favorite gift. In the video I mention my husband's job.
Though John Cullum is not in "Scottsboro Boys" which, alas, closed, he's going to be a guest in "30 Rock," and "The Middle" on television, in January or February.
Anyhow, I still feel the same way about my favorite gift -- it's not very expensive, not very rare -- just a gift that I was given in a brown manila envelope, stuffed with crinkled-up newspaper.
Why the gift is still my favorite, most loved gift is not because of the way it looks, but what the giver figured out, and why the gift was chosen.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
CLOONEY MOONING
Here's a photo of George Clooney's castle In Lake Como, Italy.
If you are a George Clooney fan, (I am, sort of), you notice that he's in the news more than ever. Is it just the fame balloon that's blown with more air because he's doing more films? Or because he's sexy, good looking, optimistic? Or because he's got ideas and issues he's promoting?
Time Magazine reporter, Richard Stengel, asked the actor/director/activist questions that has me wondering if Clooney might be a presidential candidate someday? (Surely George has seen Robert Redford in the film, "The Candidate," and is very aware of handsome, good-looking Ronald Reagan's switcheroo from actor to politician.)
Stengel asked George, "Are you disappointed in Obama?" Clooney, who supported Obama in his pre-election days, not only said "no." Clooney said Hollywood ought to be handling Democrats, who have not learned to promote their achievements.
Stengel said, "What about Reagan's comment, that a candidate needs to be a good actor?"
Clooney replied that Obama was a good actor when his back was up against the wall, but could use some pointers -- a good director's directing on how to handle day to day communication. George described the work he's been doing to help the Sudanese -- the satellite camera he installed 400 miles above the scene, so that the world could see the real war and see what's really happening in Sudan -- not tribal fighting -- the graves, tanks , helicopters.
Was Clooney tweeting on Twitter, Stengel inquired.
"No, said George. said. He explaining that he drinks in the evening and doesn't want anything he says or does after midnight to end his career -- where "you can kiss my ass" can be spelled all wrong. (It was an astute answer -- celebs are constantly misquoted, or attacked for accidental references that can be grossly misinterpreted.)
Re his fabulous home in Lake Como, Italy: George confirmed that his living there has inspired boat loads of tourists who are now saying he paid $25 million for his house. "Which I did not pay."
About the Wall Street protesters, Clooney said, "Every time there's an actual grassroots movement that isn't funded by people trying to increase a grassroots movement, is interesting."
(Mmm ... he answers questions, elusively, doesn't he ... )
When Stengel asked what George thought about billionaire Warren Buffet's statement that rich people should be paying more taxes, the wealthy Clooney didn't say yes or no. He said, "I don't know how you can argue about that."
At the end of the interview Stengel asked "Would you run for office?"
Clooney quipped, "No. I'd from FROM office. My job is much more fun."
A question I would ask my husband's friend George: You're not shy, in fact you seem to promote your very busy sex life with various gorgeous girl pals -- will you ever get married?" (All those different girls Clooney seems to be going steady with ... it makes show-biz-wise Em wonder a bit wickedly, but realistically -- with his reverence for the Clooney name, I would think he'd want a passel of kids? Could George Clooney be gay? )
Anyway, it's fun wondering. Here he is in a recent television interview.
Monday, December 19, 2011
SPERM DONERING ?
Hmm ... You and your partner would like to make a baby but you can't make one?
Baby -- eyes, velvet-like perfect skin, sweet delicate kissable lips, wiggling limbs, tiny toes -- petal ears and grabbing needing-me-teeny tiny fingers -- breathtaking beauty ...
You can't make it without sperm.
Sperm donors ... Who are they? What do they earn? Why do men to it? To ejaculate -- the need to? Or is there something that I don't understand about ejaculating -- the joy -- enjoying the wetness, the mess? Or is there a profound joy in the seed of one's own seed?
I looked up Artificial Insemination. It can cost $2000 - $10,000, depending upon how and where you find a donor. And donors make contractual demands that may not fit with what a gay couple or a childless straight couple wants, sometimes absolutely desperately needs.
Nowadays, you can find 'donorsexual' on the web— a service for free.
Newsweek reporter, Tony Dokoupil, describes a married female couple's adventure, sorting through ads, forums, websites, picking out a right man who is giving his sperm away altruistically -- meetings with the man, learning about his health, negotiating parental rights, and his attitude toward revealing his identity to his future offspring, and finally arranging the donation.
Insemination requires a meeting, a method of injecting fresh sperm into the woman's vagina. If sexual intercourse with a stranger is out, it can be done in different ways -- at a hotel, in your car, or (as the married female couple arranged) in the restroom at Starbucks. The donor ejaculates into a cup, you, the female, take the cup and attaches it to your cervix. It's not a pretty picture, but sperm dance and can enter you.
It didn't work for the female couple, so they are trying again.
Dokoupil writes about the new Free Sperm Donor Registry (FSDR) that's set up like a dating service, with female recipients and male donors. FSDR has about 2,000 members, 400 donors, and already claims a dozen pregnancies.
Should we cheer? -- doctors have been moving procreation into the lab, and creating families for straight, gay, single, and married partners. There are fee based websites in the United Kingdom, Canada, and Australia, jobs -- a sexually talented man can make (possibly) $12,000 from working twice-weekly.
There are serious concerns, diseases, weirdoes, falsified records, even the possibility that a busy donor might be creating potential incest
For some people I'm sure its sexy, exciting. For others it solves career concerns, and focuses their next 16 year -- baby growing up is a 16-year commitment.
With a baby you shape and control and re-define yourself. Yes, you can do all that without a baby but gee -- live -- why not let life happen?
I wrote about pets recently, and people wrote back about their pets, how their love surrounds you with unconditional love. Baby is much more than that. You create with the baby what baby needs -- a condition of love -- a fire burning forever, a perpetual flame. No fences, laws, rules, hand-me-down words tell you what this means. It's a deep, noiseless, indefinable, silent, inner feeling that never stops growing.
Can you name any one, single, solitary thing in your life like that? I can't.
Hmm.
Sounds like sperm donor is something to consider.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
FAVORITE PLACES IN NYC (video)
John Cullum loves the Empire State Building.
Emily suggests it's his out-of-towner self. The guy from Knoxville Tennessee who read about it, heard about it before he came to NYC, stzres at this building, delights in it whenever they go walking.
Yes, he likes quite a few other buildings in New York City -- mostly famous buildings that tourists flock to see. But John Cullum, who has lived in Manhattan for more than fifty years and loves his own home in the city, nevertheless, remains a tourist.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
RAVELED SLEEVE
I can knit a pair of socks, a scarf, a sweater. If I drop a stitch I can pick up the stitch, unravel a few rows, and re knit it. I definitely know how to fix a raveled sleeve.
Once I'm comfortable and wishing I would fall asleep, I start counting, and quote Shakespeare out loud to myself, silently, so as not to wake my husband: "One-ten-thousand --'Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care."
I pronounce this number (it takes a second to say it), and then I say each word of the Shakespeare as if I were in an auditorium, speaking clearly, communicating each syllable, each consonant.
Next, lying there, I recite, "Two-ten-thousand. Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care." Once again, with actress poise, I articulate each word.
Then, "Three ...um....sleep ...knit ... etcetera." I'm slightly impatient, not bored, but I speak my Shakespeare sentence much faster
"Four --." A dark thought, a touch of anxiety sneaks in, I can't help remembering something I don't want to think about. A voice on the news, a photo, a face, accident, crying parents ...
"FIVE ..." I remind myself to enunciate. I'm more or less reliving, reviewing an event that's waking me up -- protesters, tear gas, missing baby? Did the mother kill it?
"SIX" -- I begin to see a bunch of words forming as if my brain is a computer screen filled with letters that are spelling out words that I typed during the day ... Pets, Vets, candidate, commentator making anti-Obama remarks.
Soon I mutter, "Seven -- dammit, this is dumb -- this isn't working -- I'll never fall asleep ..." But while I'm complaining, I repeat "sleep that knits ... " scribbling bleach, Easy Off, Windex on a shopping list.
I murmur, "Eight. I should get up, make some hot water cocoa, what's in the fridge, anything to snack on? Why don't I write a post about biggest losers, diets, drinks, lying ads ...
Nine? Or am I on "ten?" I chant.. "TEN ten thousand, sleep that knits ... " while wondering if I'm on "eleven," deciding that next time I'll chant TWELVE TEN THOUSAND, RAVELED SLEEVE, and then, then ...
I more or less keep going, battling black thoughts, occasionally reliving an event, sometimes seeing typed letters. Words I wrote last month start mixing in with yesterday's words. I reach, eyes closed, for a sip of water from the glass next to my bed -- sip, change positions and start again with "one ten thousand. " And then -- well -- if I get to 30 ten-thousand, I get up. I head for the kitchen where I make hot water cocoa, and watch on the kitchen TV some late-night program on cosmetics, Bosley hair, cancer care, bed linens, while sipping my cocoa and channel surfing peevishly till the cup is empty. Off goes the TV -- off I go back to the bed and knitting, not knitting, complaining that sleep isn't knitting up anything, before I doze off and sleep, sleep.
Does my Shakespeare chant work? Does "sleep" knit up the raveled sleeve? Not reliably!
Maybe tomorrow I'll try "To be or not to be, that is the question --whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or take arms against a sea of troubles?"
Yow. I'm picturing the Titanic ...
I'm going back to knitting ...
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
ANDY WARHOL 2
I never liked calling his work "Art," but critics and art lovers say Andy Warhol was a major American artist.
His paintings and exhibits evoked nothing in me but wonderment about why he was famous. But now, I read in Newsweek that the most important figure in contemporary art may be Andy Warhol. Not the Andy W. who died in 1987. That Andy, who gave us "100 Campbell’s Soup Cans" is called an "old master of pop art."
Today, in the art world, the other Warhol, the man who did wild things with his life like appearing on the "Love Boat" television show, making paintings by peeing on steel (as his canvas), creating totally static movies -- is inspiring, influencing, evoking imitators, and affecting culture today.
Curator, writer Jack Bankowsky -- who organized, in 2009, an exhibition called "Pop Life -- paired Warhol with Jeff Koons and Damien Hirst. (See my post "Hot New Art " that displays their art, including an $8 million dollar decaying dead shark in a tank at a museum.
Bankowsky said Warhol has created the “next step after art in which social climbing, shopping, cruising, and collecting are bound up in a roving social sculpture held together by art — which is to say business.”
Whoa. This critic is saying that Andy Warhol, connecting making money with his own 1982 "Dollar Sign" paintings, which depicted Warhol's feeling about selling out, was setting an example for all the artists who now do more than paint and sculpt — who appear in the tabloids and on TV, who design for Louis Vuitton, star in luxury ads. Their price tags matter as much as the weird, repulsive "art" they create.
In D.C., Warhol's creations are on display at the National Gallery, titled "Warhol headlines. The exhibit includes video, and film doings by Warhol, while at the nearby Smithsonian’s Hirshhorn Museum, they're displaying 102 of Warhol's 179 shadow paintings that are various unintelligible images.
Buyers are grabbing early "Marilyn." His films -- "A great body of work ... simply breathtaking," said John Hanhard, a veteran film critic --.along with all Warhol's early works, are selling out. Andy's 1986 self portrait sold for $38 million, in May.
“I always think that quantity is the best gauge on anything,” Warhol once said. And like a maxim, it governs his art. When rich collectors pay millions for a single shadow painting, as though it were a Rembrandt, they aren’t understanding what Warhol’s products mean. But they are proving his point, anyway.
And Bankowsky said, “We have to accept the business/art network as what he’s about.”
That the body, figure, face, the very being of Warhol -- everything he did and was is worth millions ... well ... he looked sort of like a gay rock star.
Since I've written about him in this 1,100s word post -- my art, in which I sort of wildly intermingle my understanding, and my artistic opinion, and wild art is booming -- gee, at $10 a word, or $100 a word what I'm saying right here about Andy might be worth -- wow-- $110,000 next year!
ANDY WARHOL
I never liked calling his work "Art," but critics and art lovers say Andy Warhol was a major American artist.
His paintings and exhibits evoked nothing in me but wonderment about why he was famous. But now, I read in Newsweek that the most important figure in contemporary art may be Andy Warhol. Not the Andy W. who died in 1987. That Andy, who gave us "100 Campbell’s Soup Cans" is called an "old master of pop art."
Today, in the art world, the other Warhol, the man who did wild things with his life like appearing on the "Love Boat" television show, making paintings by peeing on steel (as his canvas), creating totally static movies -- is inspiring, influencing, evoking imitators, and affecting culture today.
Curator, writer Jack Bankowsky -- who organized, in 2009, an exhibition called "Pop Life -- paired Warhol with Jeff Koons and Damien Hirst. (See my post "Hot New Art " that displays their art, including an $8 million dollar decaying dead shark in a tank at a museum.
Bankowsky said Warhol has created the “next step after art in which social climbing, shopping, cruising, and collecting are bound up in a roving social sculpture held together by art — which is to say business.”
Whoa. This critic is saying that Andy Warhol, connecting making money with his own 1982 "Dollar Sign" paintings, which depicted Warhol's feeling about selling out, was setting an example for all the artists who now do more than paint and sculpt — who appear in the tabloids and on TV, who design for Louis Vuitton, star in luxury ads. Their price tags matter as much as the weird, repulsive "art" they create.
In D.C., Warhol's creations are on display at the National Gallery, titled "Warhol headlines. The exhibit includes video, and film doings by Warhol, while at the nearby Smithsonian’s Hirshhorn Museum, they're displaying 102 of Warhol's 179 shadow paintings that are various unintelligible images.
Buyers are grabbing early "Marilyn." His films -- "A great body of work ... simply breathtaking," said John Hanhard, a veteran film critic --.along with all Warhol's early works, are selling out. Andy's 1986 self portrait sold for $38 million, in May.
“I always think that quantity is the best gauge on anything,” Warhol once said. And like a maxim, it governs his art. When rich collectors pay millions for a single shadow painting, as though it were a Rembrandt, they aren’t understanding what Warhol’s products mean. But they are proving his point, anyway.
And Bankowsky said, “We have to accept the business/art network as what he’s about.”
That the body, figure, face, the very being of Warhol -- everything he did and was is worth millions ... well ... he looked sort of like a gay rock star.
Since I've written about him in this 1,100s word post -- my art, in which I sort of wildly intermingle my understanding, and my artistic opinion, and wild art is booming -- gee, at $10 a word, or $100 a word what I'm saying right here about Andy might be worth -- wow-- $110,000 next year!
Sunday, December 11, 2011
WORKING WITH CLOONEY & EDWARDS (VIDEO)
When John Cullum was performing on TV's "Northern Exposure" and "ER," he got to know both these actors, who have gone on to play roles in many other shows.
Em wonders what makes them different.
George after "ER." no matter what role he played, is always George Clooney. Anthony Edwards played the "Boy in the Bubble" in "Northern Exposure," and the lead doctor, Dr. Green, in "ER." ( John C. played Dr. Green's father.)
Why has George C become a major star, while Tony E -- he hasn't disappeared, but he is no longer the celebrity he was in his "ER" days?
Actor John Cullum deliberately does not keep track of anyone's celebrity status, but Emily does. She thinks it's because George is himself, and Tony becomes another person, with each role.
Friday, December 9, 2011
FROM MY WINDOW
Good days, bad days -- days when things seem bright colored and hopeful, other days when things are fading, and people that mean something to you are leaving the earth, and things you count on have disappeared..
You would think that by now, having experienced the ups and downs, seen how things change, I would be able to nod and say, "This is normal. This is life. C'mon, Em, you know that every day you live is one day gone from your life."
Why can't I banish the fact that things you love have to die?
Favorite things wear out. Green leaves turn brown, crinkle, fall from the tree to be blown by the wind, or swept into a pile that's burned or buried. The blue gold pretty petal of fire on candle melts the wax, burns out and it's gone. A day begins as the sun rises and ends as the sun goes down.
A dear friend died. I knew she was ill but didn't know she was, dying. Her well-known husband died a few months ago. A few days ago, when her secretary phoned to tell me she'd left the earth, I thought the phone call was about the luncheon tribute for her husband. Now the tribute will be for both of them.
Is that why from my window the world seems to be withering and crumpling -- wars, politics, poverty, corruption -- a sense of gray, and no solutions pervade my thoughts?
Even so, I do find solutions -- my work's going well, our home is clean, comfortable, and running well.
Ho ho -- looking out my window is telling me to look inside my house -- see the colors, enjoy the small doings --what's light, bright, and clean in my office, in all my rooms. Be the woman in Picasso's picture.
My home sweet home reminds me that growing old is something NOT to dwell on. Yes, you have to glance at realty, and see what you see, but you have to move on.
My friend is no longer alive and what I see out my window is gray and dark. But if I turn around, what's outside my window is behind me -- oh yes, I can feel my grief and miss my friend, but inside is the world I made, that I can see and be in.
Ho ho! Now is the time to enjoy NOW.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
ROGER AILES
Republican candidates hire this guy and eagerly seek his advice. Fox network’s founder, 71-year-old Roger Eugene Ailes, was a media consultant for Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, George H. W. Bush, and Rudy Giuliani.
He brags about promoting his clients the way American Idols have been promoted, the way X factor is currently promoting itself as the latest, super best talent show.
Ailes is currently advising republican candidate Rick Perry.
His tactics for handling the easily impressed, already somewhat brain washed American public, include mixing Tea Party and Republican ideas into snappy sounding slogans, "hot" cliches about debt, big government, leaving taxes alone, the failed Obama, the poor confused Democrats, the importantance of not supporting unemployment insurance, unions, and wasteful spending on pork -- like Social Security, Medicaid, Medicare.
Yes, he has a great list that includes just about everything that I think is desperately important.
I'm appalled that we are daily, hearing Repubs telling us how wonderfully well they'll run the government that Obama isn't capable of running. What we're already hearing are untruths, logic that isn't logical, and the media is busily, happily, constantly helping the Republs sell all this to us.
Is he a Dick Cheney? No, but sort of a Karl Rove. Both of them established themselves and made sure we know who they are. We don't know much about Ailes, though one can research him and read about he's done, and whom he's supported, and what Ailes says he believes in.
I usually want to know more about the person behind the public person, but looking at Ailes, his picture, resume, and bio, I can't find anything to like about him, anything in his history or personal story that makes him more than another self-made man, who's risen in today's world where being a bit of a crook is a plus -- where being even more than a "bit" crooked, is respected, and highly paid.
A can of Drano has a skull and cross bones on the back. It's a deadly poison. It can kill you.
I'm putting a skull and cross bones on Ailes. What he's doing, selling with all his might and mane, can kill more than what the Republicans have been killing.
Killing? Yes. When you stop growth, destroy hope, bury possible solutions, you are killing what millions and millions of Americans need to survive.
You know the name now. Put him with villains and enemies on your personal XXX list. If you don't have one, make an XXX list now with A for Ailes at the top.
He brags about promoting his clients the way American Idols have been promoted, the way X factor is currently promoting itself as the latest, super best talent show.
Ailes is currently advising republican candidate Rick Perry.
His tactics for handling the easily impressed, already somewhat brain washed American public, include mixing Tea Party and Republican ideas into snappy sounding slogans, "hot" cliches about debt, big government, leaving taxes alone, the failed Obama, the poor confused Democrats, the importantance of not supporting unemployment insurance, unions, and wasteful spending on pork -- like Social Security, Medicaid, Medicare.
Yes, he has a great list that includes just about everything that I think is desperately important.
I'm appalled that we are daily, hearing Repubs telling us how wonderfully well they'll run the government that Obama isn't capable of running. What we're already hearing are untruths, logic that isn't logical, and the media is busily, happily, constantly helping the Republs sell all this to us.
Is he a Dick Cheney? No, but sort of a Karl Rove. Both of them established themselves and made sure we know who they are. We don't know much about Ailes, though one can research him and read about he's done, and whom he's supported, and what Ailes says he believes in.
I usually want to know more about the person behind the public person, but looking at Ailes, his picture, resume, and bio, I can't find anything to like about him, anything in his history or personal story that makes him more than another self-made man, who's risen in today's world where being a bit of a crook is a plus -- where being even more than a "bit" crooked, is respected, and highly paid.
A can of Drano has a skull and cross bones on the back. It's a deadly poison. It can kill you.
I'm putting a skull and cross bones on Ailes. What he's doing, selling with all his might and mane, can kill more than what the Republicans have been killing.
Killing? Yes. When you stop growth, destroy hope, bury possible solutions, you are killing what millions and millions of Americans need to survive.
You know the name now. Put him with villains and enemies on your personal XXX list. If you don't have one, make an XXX list now with A for Ailes at the top.
Monday, December 5, 2011
WILL ANTONIO BANDERAS "MAKE IT?"
He has an indefinable something---intensity, animality, and a focus that reaches you, in the audience, as if he were right there in front of you.
He's gotten awards, rave reviews and star billing. You'd recognize him if you saw him on the street, though it might take a moment to remember his name. I didn't realize Banderas played Tom Hank's lover in "Philadelphia," an Oscar-winning film about a lawyer who was fired when his bosses realized he had AIDS. I was very moved by the tender-loving relationship of the two men. It's an Em Oscar for Banderas, that during those scenes, I didn't think "Oh that's Antonio Banderas." I didn't realize till the credits rolled, that macho Antonio was playing the homosexual lover.
He can play almost any kind of male role -- heroes, villains, and madmen. He's always fascinating, though sometimes, the smoldering sensual- sexual element in his eyes and bearing is almost too much, as if he's been directed to send out a stronger, hotter message. Occasionally I've found myself thinking he's over-acting, but mostly his choices as an actor -- jumping out window, leaping across roofs,, singing, dancing, dueling, fighting -- are brilliant, unpredictable, amazing.
I think that most people, watching one of the very famous star actors in a film have the star's persona, the star-actor's name in their minds, not the name of the character. Can you imagine seeing a movie with Cary Grant, not thinking it's "Cary." Even when Charlton Heston did those TV sitcoms, he was always Charlton Heston, "Moses," or Ben Hur."
So why hasn't Banderas become one of those top stars? Is it the scripts, the producers, the breaks?
In the most recent photos of him, like this one with his wife, Melanie Griffith, Banderas seems to have a different cheek bone structure. Was his face "fixed?" Or is it his short-cropped hair, or the fact that he's 51-years-old? (Aging is tough for everyone, but for an actor it can be devastating, especially an actor like Banderas, who's forte has been playing the leading man/lover.)
Will Antonio Banderas become a major star name? Has the time passed for him? Was he hurt by his marriage to Melanie Griffith? Maybe her determination to remain head-to-toe young/sexy/gorgeous is influencing him.
I don't know. I know actor John Cullum, who is not a major movie star, is never aware of how he looks, and doesn't rev up emotion, never over-acts. Cullum figures out who the character is in terms of the story,. and searches for the positive elements in the role -- who and what the character loves and what he 'wants to achieve.
What can I say to the handsome Antonio Banderas? Based on my experience as director/wife, I'm saying Antonio B, be YOU less, be the person you are playing in the show much more. The time hasn't passed. You have already "made it."
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