When my friend Rich decides to do a meme, it's usually a good one. He didn't disappoint this time--enjoy...
My life's movie soundtrack!
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool...
Opening Credits:
"Same," Snow Patrol. This is appropriate since I was born in a nastyass blizzard in northern Wisconsin. I'm not sure if this is the one that buried my mom and dad's house (poor Mom--this is what she moved to from Honduras), but allegedly it was a bad one. (Oh, and yes, there is a northern Wisconsin, and it is even more prone to nastyass blizzards than southern Wisconsin.) Anyway, the opening lyrics are, "Maybe somewhere else/ Will not be half as cold as me...."
And here's the second verse: "Hold me in your freezing arms before we have to go/ Bent a little but it's not because I know the truth/ The windsheild of your little car is frosted through the glass/ The clear heart of air appears as we shiver on the seats"
Poor baby Tracy....
Waking Up:
"Taking Over Me," Evanescence. I'm not sure what a song about obsessive love has to do with being a baby, but perhaps I was a clingy child....
First Day At School:
”Wellington's Victory, Op. 91, "Victory Finale," Beethoven (Baby Einstein version). I wonder whether Maggie's music on my iPod should count for this exercise. Oh, well, it says not to cheat, and Baby Einstein music is appropriate for childhood. Now if it turns up later, say when I get married....
Falling In Love:
"Voodoo Games," Daughter Darling. As long as this is not supposed to be with Jose, this is probably fine, because a) it's a dark, depressing, melodramatic song (Your voodoo games/ I cannot take/ Insanity, control and hate/ I want you to/ Just let me be), and b) I was a bit of a drama queen when I was young.
Fight Song:
"Can You Feel the Love Tonight?" The Lion King Musical Soundtrack. Why such a weenie fight song? Because I am a pacifist and don't like violence, that's why.
Breaking Up:
"Even Flow," Pearl Jam. What breaking up has to do with a homeless, illiterate, and slightly crazy man, I have no idea. Unless my iPod is trying to describe one of my exes in an attempt to tell me I am better off without him. (Not that this is an issue, iPod. But thanks for the reinforcement.)
Prom:
"Vittoria!" Verdi (triumphal march from "Aida") OperaBabes. Of COURSE the most embarrassing elements from my collection would come flying out. Anyway, why was prom triumphant? Because my nerdy band-and-drama-geek self actually had a date? Maybe that's it....
Life Is Good:
"Killer (Orbit Remix)," Seal. Despite the misleading title, "Killer" is actually quite the happy song, and the bouncy Orbit Remix makes it even happier. It's all about overcoming negative events and living our lives "they way we want to be." This is because Seal is an even bigger pacifist hippie than I am.
Mental Breakdown:
"Represent, Cuba," Orishas feat. Heather Headley. OK, this is all wrong. This one is just about dancing to Cuban music. Maybe my mental breakdowns are all centered around Jose (the world's only Cuban boy with zero rhythm).
Driving:
”Wow," Snow Patrol. Umpteen bajillion songs on my iPod, and it keeps coming back to Snow Patrol. It is about hitting the road ("Don't be scared of anything at all/ Everything we have is all we need"), so it works, sort of.
Flashback:
"Love's Divine (Deepsky Remix)," Seal. What? I broke up with a homeless, illiterate, slightly crazy man, and now you're telling me that in a flashback, Love's Divine?! Now you're just messing with me, iPod, and I don't like it. Not one bit. I'm half-tempted to trade you in for a flashy new 80 GB model with a video screen, that's how much I am NOT enjoying your sense of humor....
Getting Back Together:
"You Live On in My Heart," Ennio Morricone (from the soundtrack to Cinema Paradiso), OperaBabes. OK, so my life so far is in a Snow Patrol, Seal, and OperaBabes rut. Since Jose and I never broke up and got back together, I can only assume it's the homeless, illiterate, and slightly crazy man I dated who lives on in my heart.
Wedding:
"Benediction and Dream," Lila Downs (opening song from the soundtrack to Frida). This totally works! There, honey, even iPod says we're meant to be, despite the homeless man in my heart. I'm so glad we didn't get Nirvana's "Dumb" or something like that.
Paying The Dues:
"Stolen Car (Take Me Dancing)," Sting. Well, I've never stolen a car, and I've never had an affair with a married man, but perhaps my iPod is being metaphorical. Although given Jose's tragic lack of rhythm, perhaps these lyrics are appropriate: "Please take me dancing tonight/ I've been all on my own/ You promised one day we could/ S'what you said on the phone." Because never going dancing is the price you pay for marrying the world's only Cuban boy without rhythm.
The Night Before The War:
"Tourniquet," by Evanescence. Seems appropriate, considering there's a war.
Final Battle:
"Mahna Mahna," Cake. Yes, it's THAT Mahna Mahna, the one you saw on the Muppet Show in days of yore. I'm not sure what this means, unless I'm destined to get into a scat war with a muppet, but it's pretty darn funny.
Moment of Triumph:
"Love's Divine" (again, but the real version, not the remix), Seal. Looks like I get the best of the muppet.
Death Scene:
"Weep No More, Sad Fountains," Sting with Edin Karamazov on the lute. You know, this is horribly appropriate for a death scene. Well played, iPod.
Funeral Song:
"Cry Me a River," Justin Timberlake. BWAH-HAHAHAHAHAHA! This is so TOTALLY going to be my funeral song! And I want the pallbearers to stop and vogue every time JT goes, "HIM!" in that awesome falsetto. I am so loving this! iPod, you are a genius. "OH! The damage is done, so I guess I be leaving...."
End Credits:
"The Taming of Smeagol," London Philharmonic. Despite the slightly offensive title (not sure what I have to do with a bug-eyed hairless man who eats raw fish, iPod), the song does have a nice elegiac quality to it. I left shuffle on, and iPod ended with the acoustic version of "Everybody Wants to Rule the World," by Tears for Fears and then inexplicably stopped shuffling. So I'm thinking my end credits are long enough for two songs, and this song is a good one for al fin.
OK, your turn. Have fun!
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Friday, October 06, 2006
The Psychology of Car Color
So I found this interesting article on AOL--which was quoted from the “Fun at Work” blog by Robin Thompson who quoted from an article in the June 20th 2005 edition of the Register-Herald in Beckley, West Virginia ... Oh, wait. I'm looking at the article again, and it said it got it's information from ColorMatters.com. PEOPLE! Stop it. Just stop.
Anyway, according to whomever, a UK study by an unidentified source (ARGH! ARGH!) noted that there are distinct characteristics common to people who choose certain colors for their cars. I'm always game for a cheap personality test, so I, of course, glommed right onto it.
I tend to stick to two colors when it comes to cars--red or, if red isn't available, black. I also love British racing green, but I've never been able to afford a car that looks awesome in that color. Or even comes in that color. My beloved Scion XB now comes in a shockingly acidic shade of lime, but no racing green.
So it was interesting to see that this study (which I could go dig up, but I'm feeling too lazy) showed that "the most dangerous drivers" tend to drive black cars. They allegedly have an aggressive personality or are someone who's a rebel.
I think I'm a pretty good driver. I can be a little aggressive, but only in that I shout at other drivers when I'm alone in the car, or when they nearly kill me and mine. Which, in my current home city, is more often than any place I've ever been. But when it comes to my driving, I like to keep things nice and safe. Rebel? Maybe a bit.... OK, maybe more than a bit, in some ways, but it's not like I've pierced my entire face and am running around with magenta hair or anything. But, according to this study, black car=aggressive, rebellious crazy person.
The second most dangerous drivers tend to drive silver cars. (My grandparents have always, and I mean, ALWAYS driven silver cars, generally with maroon interiors.) Silver car drivers are "calm, cool, and aloof. (Except in the case of my grandparents who are indeed calm, but not cool (in an icy way), and DEFINITELY not aloof.) So basically, silver car=serial killer.
Green cars represent eco-friendliness and life, though these drivers may choose their green car to manifest severe jealousy, inexperience, and hysterical tendencies. Green=needy whack job who recycles.
Yellow "is sunshine and denotes a happy person," but also is the color of cowardice and deceit. However, yellow cars can be idealistic and novelty loving. So, yellow=pathological liar disguised as happy idealist.
Apparently, the only good people in the world drive blue cars. Blue represents strength, steadfastness, and friendliness. People in blue cars are more introspective and cautious. Blue=friendly.
Oh, wait, good people drive gray cars as well. Gray car drivers are calm, sober, dedicated to their work, and seldom show strong emotion. Gray=boring.
My absolute favorite car color, red, "is Cupid and the devil." (I'm not kidding--that's what it says.) People in red cars are full of zest, energy, and drive. They think, move, and talk quickly. SO red car=fun, energetic person OR the devil. (Heh.)
Pink cars are driven by gentle, loving, and affectionate drives. Pink=sweet person or Mary Kay saleswoman.
White is my father's favorite car color. White represents cleanliness, purity, and innocence. (I can hear Dad snorting now.) White car drivers are the second safest on the road, and they are also status-seeking extroverts. (Dad's neither status-seeking nor the most extroverted person in the world. He and I are quite alike--we're introverts who can fake being extroverted until we're genuinely comfortable.) So white=extroverted snob.
The safest drivers allegedly choose cream-colored cars. These drivers are "contained and self-controlled." Cream=REALLY boring.
Basically, I think someone in the UK just drives a blue car and hates everyone else. But for your amusement, I thought I'd share....
Anyway, according to whomever, a UK study by an unidentified source (ARGH! ARGH!) noted that there are distinct characteristics common to people who choose certain colors for their cars. I'm always game for a cheap personality test, so I, of course, glommed right onto it.
I tend to stick to two colors when it comes to cars--red or, if red isn't available, black. I also love British racing green, but I've never been able to afford a car that looks awesome in that color. Or even comes in that color. My beloved Scion XB now comes in a shockingly acidic shade of lime, but no racing green.
So it was interesting to see that this study (which I could go dig up, but I'm feeling too lazy) showed that "the most dangerous drivers" tend to drive black cars. They allegedly have an aggressive personality or are someone who's a rebel.
I think I'm a pretty good driver. I can be a little aggressive, but only in that I shout at other drivers when I'm alone in the car, or when they nearly kill me and mine. Which, in my current home city, is more often than any place I've ever been. But when it comes to my driving, I like to keep things nice and safe. Rebel? Maybe a bit.... OK, maybe more than a bit, in some ways, but it's not like I've pierced my entire face and am running around with magenta hair or anything. But, according to this study, black car=aggressive, rebellious crazy person.
The second most dangerous drivers tend to drive silver cars. (My grandparents have always, and I mean, ALWAYS driven silver cars, generally with maroon interiors.) Silver car drivers are "calm, cool, and aloof. (Except in the case of my grandparents who are indeed calm, but not cool (in an icy way), and DEFINITELY not aloof.) So basically, silver car=serial killer.
Green cars represent eco-friendliness and life, though these drivers may choose their green car to manifest severe jealousy, inexperience, and hysterical tendencies. Green=needy whack job who recycles.
Yellow "is sunshine and denotes a happy person," but also is the color of cowardice and deceit. However, yellow cars can be idealistic and novelty loving. So, yellow=pathological liar disguised as happy idealist.
Apparently, the only good people in the world drive blue cars. Blue represents strength, steadfastness, and friendliness. People in blue cars are more introspective and cautious. Blue=friendly.
Oh, wait, good people drive gray cars as well. Gray car drivers are calm, sober, dedicated to their work, and seldom show strong emotion. Gray=boring.
My absolute favorite car color, red, "is Cupid and the devil." (I'm not kidding--that's what it says.) People in red cars are full of zest, energy, and drive. They think, move, and talk quickly. SO red car=fun, energetic person OR the devil. (Heh.)
Pink cars are driven by gentle, loving, and affectionate drives. Pink=sweet person or Mary Kay saleswoman.
White is my father's favorite car color. White represents cleanliness, purity, and innocence. (I can hear Dad snorting now.) White car drivers are the second safest on the road, and they are also status-seeking extroverts. (Dad's neither status-seeking nor the most extroverted person in the world. He and I are quite alike--we're introverts who can fake being extroverted until we're genuinely comfortable.) So white=extroverted snob.
The safest drivers allegedly choose cream-colored cars. These drivers are "contained and self-controlled." Cream=REALLY boring.
Basically, I think someone in the UK just drives a blue car and hates everyone else. But for your amusement, I thought I'd share....
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
And There Was Much Rejoicing...
My book's turned in,
My work is done,
It's been five months since I've had some fun.
My kids and I should hit the road,
If re-reading doesn't make my head explode.
And there you have solid evidence of two things:
1) I suck at poetry. Even purposefully bad poetry.
2) I should never blog when I've had six hours of sleep in three days. Punnnnnnchyyyyyyyyyyy.
In celebration of my turning in the biggest piece of dreck known to humankind (I'm told I always feel this way about my books when I first finish them. But this time, I'm not kidding. Seriously, Sharron.), here are five things I am going to with the rest of my week, in addition to wrapping up some stuff with my day job:
1) Call or email all friends I have alienated by ignoring due to nightmarish book deadline piled on top of nightmarish work deadlines piled on top of repeated attempts not to be the Worst. Mother. Evah;
2) Excavate my house from under giant pile of abandoned goldfish crackers, tacky catalogs, and plastic grocery store bags that have accumulated in the last two weeks;
3) Watch and return the NetFlix DVDs I've had since, oh, the beginning of time, I think;
4) Call all friends who are on deadline and cackle manically into the phone, then hang up;
5) Create health-food regimen to detox from week-long diet consisting solely of Diet Coke and Veggie Tales Fruit Gummies.
And now I'm off to bed. Blissful, deadline-free, lovely bed. Good night, Minneapolis! (Or wherever you are.)
My work is done,
It's been five months since I've had some fun.
My kids and I should hit the road,
If re-reading doesn't make my head explode.
And there you have solid evidence of two things:
1) I suck at poetry. Even purposefully bad poetry.
2) I should never blog when I've had six hours of sleep in three days. Punnnnnnchyyyyyyyyyyy.
In celebration of my turning in the biggest piece of dreck known to humankind (I'm told I always feel this way about my books when I first finish them. But this time, I'm not kidding. Seriously, Sharron.), here are five things I am going to with the rest of my week, in addition to wrapping up some stuff with my day job:
1) Call or email all friends I have alienated by ignoring due to nightmarish book deadline piled on top of nightmarish work deadlines piled on top of repeated attempts not to be the Worst. Mother. Evah;
2) Excavate my house from under giant pile of abandoned goldfish crackers, tacky catalogs, and plastic grocery store bags that have accumulated in the last two weeks;
3) Watch and return the NetFlix DVDs I've had since, oh, the beginning of time, I think;
4) Call all friends who are on deadline and cackle manically into the phone, then hang up;
5) Create health-food regimen to detox from week-long diet consisting solely of Diet Coke and Veggie Tales Fruit Gummies.
And now I'm off to bed. Blissful, deadline-free, lovely bed. Good night, Minneapolis! (Or wherever you are.)
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Project Runway Snarkfest #3
So we just saw the "What the Elle?" episode, where the designers were competing for one of the three spots at Fashion Week and a spread in Elle. Please note that there are SPOILERS for this episode in here, as well as some spoilers at the end because we saw a mini-preview of the four Fashion Week collections in Entertainment Weekly. We did not see the collections in their entirety, nor do we know who wins or loses.
TRACY: What was UP with MICHAEL'S horrible, horrible dress? What happened to my boy? He's had this great combination of elegance and urban sensibility all along, and when asked to create something that speaks to who he is as a designer, he goes for a horrible, yawnfest of an evening gown I wouldn't have worn to my prom in the EIGHTIES? And that "keyhole" on the chest was for a mighty big key. The weaving at the waist was nice, but it didn't show half of what Michael can do. Find your bliss again, dude, and STAY there.
Here are my three words/phrases for Michael's dress: Hootchie, Fredericks of Hollywood, and wardrobe malfunction.
TROY: More like a brain malfunction...or taste malfunction. So if Michael is describing himself via this dress, he's boring, unimaginative, and kinda skanky? The judges knew how suckatastic this dress was and decided to honor his past work on this show by adding that little twist of "NO ONE'S GOING HOMEEEEE!" (This refers to an episode of TOP MODEL where crazy Tyra told two models that they really sucked and then surprised them by screaming "WE'RE ALL GOING TO LONDON!" with the girls starting to cry with a horrified look of confusion. Then Tyra informs them "NOBODY'S GOING HOME!" Anyway....).
His spirit may have been crushed after the DEVASTATING loss of Nasri (see: NICK from season 2), but STEP IT UP LOSER. You can make the most amazing dress out of GARBAGE, but you can't design something that defines you????
TRACY: Wow. Troy is very angry today. Anyway, I can't believe ULI won! I was so expecting her to get the auf. Her dress looked like a beach cover-up I once bought in Pensacola for $20. Oooh, she did a new neckline! What range!
TROY: Uli deserved the win! She still did her Crazy! Uli! Patterns!, but with a new shape and style. If she would have made that dress a solid color, it would have been a complete 180 and the judges would hate that (see: JEFFREY).
TRACY: And who else wanted to kick her in the head when she stole Michael's model, which is just nasty and mean this late in the game. There were plenty of other models in there that were good. Nasri deserves the spread in Elle, and she's not going to get it with Fraulein CrazyPatterns.
TROY: I applaud Uli for being cutthroat and "stealing" Nasri. It goes to show how protective people are of Michael (seeing as Uli was voted on the Bravo poll as the one people most wanted auf'd). If Uli would have stolen Jeffrey's model, no one would have cared. Nasri is obviously the best model and can sell wearing a garbage bag and Crocs. Uli will benefit having her as Nasri is the spice to make any collection better!
TRACY: Geez, who kicked your puppy today? All this hate for Michael. Although honestly, I think Nasri is such a standout, she's going to make it big anyway. That girl has a mean strut. I wonder if she can act? That hair is just too fabulous to be confined to the pages of a magazine....
But I'm totally going to take a picture of my beach cover-up and send it to you. It's Uli's dress all the way. Now, onto JEFFREY....
I must be high, but I sort of liked Jeffrey's dress. It's not something I'd wear, but I thought it was adorable for a 20-something--kind of had a slight Regency feel to it, but with the contemporary "bubble silhouette" that so excited the judges when Bradley did that terrible dowager-hump gold shirt and gray, up-to-the-armpits skirt. I think Jeffrey just confused them, because while he claims the dress is his style, it didn't match what he's done in the past. Not that I minded seeing Sparky McNeckTattoo get a dressing down.
TROY: I completely disagree about Jeffrey's dress. I thought it looked unfinished, unflattering, and WTF was going on with the "blue" top? He was thinking it was a dress about "romance." I was thinking it was a dress from Alice in LSD Wonderland.
Speaking of "romance," drink every time he mumbled that word. Everything was ROMANCE. He's a ROMANTIC. His picture embodied ROMANCE! Gag me. Couldn't he been given the AUF on principle alone?
TRACY: Yeah, that was gross, him trying to show his :::air quotes::: "softer side." I know that whole bit with him crying when he got a picture of his kid was supposed to make us like him more, but I just kept recoiling in horror at the thought of him reproducing. Arrogant wanker.
TROY: I also was terrified at the thought of Jeffrey procreating. HE DOESN'T SHOWER!
How about LAURA? Did Laura just use one of the dresses she's worn so many times on the show and parade it on her model? Although I applaud her for working so hard especially while being pregnant (and without maternity clothes), but she obviously will not win this competition. We probably will see a LAURA! store in our malls in few years. I hope we aren't subjected to her whole fashion show (unless it's past 1 AM and I desperately need something to knock me out). Thanks for the snark Laura, but not much else!
TRACY: Finally, we agree! The dress was pretty, but SO back to basics. I would have loved to have seen her tackle a different TYPE of garment, like a pants suit, instead of the same variation on a high-waisted dress she's done for so long. I'll be interested to see what her line at fashion week looks like, because I don't think she can send 12 empire-waist cocktail dresses down the runway.
How about that PREVIEW for the reunion show? Did you see Keith getting all uppity about his premature auf for cheating on the preview? What a freaking sociopath. I can't believe he doesn't understand why--I mean, it wasn't just one offense, it was THREE: having pattern books, leaving the premises, AND using the Internet. HELLO!
TROY: Shut up Keith! Cheaters never win, asshat! That is all. Oh! Michael's totally winning the fan favorite prize too. It's Janelle/Rupert award!
TRACY: Omigod, asshat is such an excellent word! HA! Oh, and for those of you out there who aren't glued to their TV at all hours while you're supposed to be doing homework like SOME PEOPLE, Janelle is from Big Brother, and Rupert was a fan favorite from Survivor.
You know, both made it onto the all-star versions of their show. I wonder if they'll ever do a Project Runway All-Stars? Malan Forevah!
BTW, those Fashion Week SPOILERS you mentioned last week. So, did you read them? I'm betting you did.
TROY: I've only looked at the pictures in last week's Entertainment Weekly.
TRACY: I saw those! (Note: the photo only showed about three looks from each designer's entire collection.) I think Michael caught the Last Train to Hootchieville, and I'm SO disappointed. "Street Safari," with an emphasis on the street.
TROY: It's obvious the theme of his fashion show is Austin Powers in Goldmember. Michael LO-UVES G-AWLLLLDDDDDD! And hooker wear! Uli and Jeffrey deserve to be the top 2 with the collections (Laura is NOT a contender with that snoozefest, from the three outfits in EW we saw.). I guess we'll see what else the designers have to show. God, I hope Michael's collection was a decoy and he has something else.
TRACY: What was UP with MICHAEL'S horrible, horrible dress? What happened to my boy? He's had this great combination of elegance and urban sensibility all along, and when asked to create something that speaks to who he is as a designer, he goes for a horrible, yawnfest of an evening gown I wouldn't have worn to my prom in the EIGHTIES? And that "keyhole" on the chest was for a mighty big key. The weaving at the waist was nice, but it didn't show half of what Michael can do. Find your bliss again, dude, and STAY there.
Here are my three words/phrases for Michael's dress: Hootchie, Fredericks of Hollywood, and wardrobe malfunction.
TROY: More like a brain malfunction...or taste malfunction. So if Michael is describing himself via this dress, he's boring, unimaginative, and kinda skanky? The judges knew how suckatastic this dress was and decided to honor his past work on this show by adding that little twist of "NO ONE'S GOING HOMEEEEE!" (This refers to an episode of TOP MODEL where crazy Tyra told two models that they really sucked and then surprised them by screaming "WE'RE ALL GOING TO LONDON!" with the girls starting to cry with a horrified look of confusion. Then Tyra informs them "NOBODY'S GOING HOME!" Anyway....).
His spirit may have been crushed after the DEVASTATING loss of Nasri (see: NICK from season 2), but STEP IT UP LOSER. You can make the most amazing dress out of GARBAGE, but you can't design something that defines you????
TRACY: Wow. Troy is very angry today. Anyway, I can't believe ULI won! I was so expecting her to get the auf. Her dress looked like a beach cover-up I once bought in Pensacola for $20. Oooh, she did a new neckline! What range!
TROY: Uli deserved the win! She still did her Crazy! Uli! Patterns!, but with a new shape and style. If she would have made that dress a solid color, it would have been a complete 180 and the judges would hate that (see: JEFFREY).
TRACY: And who else wanted to kick her in the head when she stole Michael's model, which is just nasty and mean this late in the game. There were plenty of other models in there that were good. Nasri deserves the spread in Elle, and she's not going to get it with Fraulein CrazyPatterns.
TROY: I applaud Uli for being cutthroat and "stealing" Nasri. It goes to show how protective people are of Michael (seeing as Uli was voted on the Bravo poll as the one people most wanted auf'd). If Uli would have stolen Jeffrey's model, no one would have cared. Nasri is obviously the best model and can sell wearing a garbage bag and Crocs. Uli will benefit having her as Nasri is the spice to make any collection better!
TRACY: Geez, who kicked your puppy today? All this hate for Michael. Although honestly, I think Nasri is such a standout, she's going to make it big anyway. That girl has a mean strut. I wonder if she can act? That hair is just too fabulous to be confined to the pages of a magazine....
But I'm totally going to take a picture of my beach cover-up and send it to you. It's Uli's dress all the way. Now, onto JEFFREY....
I must be high, but I sort of liked Jeffrey's dress. It's not something I'd wear, but I thought it was adorable for a 20-something--kind of had a slight Regency feel to it, but with the contemporary "bubble silhouette" that so excited the judges when Bradley did that terrible dowager-hump gold shirt and gray, up-to-the-armpits skirt. I think Jeffrey just confused them, because while he claims the dress is his style, it didn't match what he's done in the past. Not that I minded seeing Sparky McNeckTattoo get a dressing down.
TROY: I completely disagree about Jeffrey's dress. I thought it looked unfinished, unflattering, and WTF was going on with the "blue" top? He was thinking it was a dress about "romance." I was thinking it was a dress from Alice in LSD Wonderland.
Speaking of "romance," drink every time he mumbled that word. Everything was ROMANCE. He's a ROMANTIC. His picture embodied ROMANCE! Gag me. Couldn't he been given the AUF on principle alone?
TRACY: Yeah, that was gross, him trying to show his :::air quotes::: "softer side." I know that whole bit with him crying when he got a picture of his kid was supposed to make us like him more, but I just kept recoiling in horror at the thought of him reproducing. Arrogant wanker.
TROY: I also was terrified at the thought of Jeffrey procreating. HE DOESN'T SHOWER!
How about LAURA? Did Laura just use one of the dresses she's worn so many times on the show and parade it on her model? Although I applaud her for working so hard especially while being pregnant (and without maternity clothes), but she obviously will not win this competition. We probably will see a LAURA! store in our malls in few years. I hope we aren't subjected to her whole fashion show (unless it's past 1 AM and I desperately need something to knock me out). Thanks for the snark Laura, but not much else!
TRACY: Finally, we agree! The dress was pretty, but SO back to basics. I would have loved to have seen her tackle a different TYPE of garment, like a pants suit, instead of the same variation on a high-waisted dress she's done for so long. I'll be interested to see what her line at fashion week looks like, because I don't think she can send 12 empire-waist cocktail dresses down the runway.
How about that PREVIEW for the reunion show? Did you see Keith getting all uppity about his premature auf for cheating on the preview? What a freaking sociopath. I can't believe he doesn't understand why--I mean, it wasn't just one offense, it was THREE: having pattern books, leaving the premises, AND using the Internet. HELLO!
TROY: Shut up Keith! Cheaters never win, asshat! That is all. Oh! Michael's totally winning the fan favorite prize too. It's Janelle/Rupert award!
TRACY: Omigod, asshat is such an excellent word! HA! Oh, and for those of you out there who aren't glued to their TV at all hours while you're supposed to be doing homework like SOME PEOPLE, Janelle is from Big Brother, and Rupert was a fan favorite from Survivor.
You know, both made it onto the all-star versions of their show. I wonder if they'll ever do a Project Runway All-Stars? Malan Forevah!
BTW, those Fashion Week SPOILERS you mentioned last week. So, did you read them? I'm betting you did.
TROY: I've only looked at the pictures in last week's Entertainment Weekly.
TRACY: I saw those! (Note: the photo only showed about three looks from each designer's entire collection.) I think Michael caught the Last Train to Hootchieville, and I'm SO disappointed. "Street Safari," with an emphasis on the street.
TROY: It's obvious the theme of his fashion show is Austin Powers in Goldmember. Michael LO-UVES G-AWLLLLDDDDDD! And hooker wear! Uli and Jeffrey deserve to be the top 2 with the collections (Laura is NOT a contender with that snoozefest, from the three outfits in EW we saw.). I guess we'll see what else the designers have to show. God, I hope Michael's collection was a decoy and he has something else.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Mystery Solved
Apparently, a volume of Where's Waldo made the ALA challenged book list because it contained a picture of a woman with her bikini top untied. Waldo, you scoundrel!
Actually, I have yet to find a specific reference for the correct volume, and the description of Waldo's transgression ranges from what I stated above, to "a woman in a bikini with an exposed breast," to "a topless mermaid." Wikipedia says the books included "a topless mermaid AND a topless sunbather."
Oh, the horror. Smut you need a magnifying glass to find.
:::banging head on monitor::::
Well, at least now we know (maybe). And now, back to my regularly scheduled deadline madness.
P.S. If you want to expand your Banned Books Week reading choices, check out Wikipedia's list, which includes links to the original sources.
Actually, I have yet to find a specific reference for the correct volume, and the description of Waldo's transgression ranges from what I stated above, to "a woman in a bikini with an exposed breast," to "a topless mermaid." Wikipedia says the books included "a topless mermaid AND a topless sunbather."
Oh, the horror. Smut you need a magnifying glass to find.
:::banging head on monitor::::
Well, at least now we know (maybe). And now, back to my regularly scheduled deadline madness.
P.S. If you want to expand your Banned Books Week reading choices, check out Wikipedia's list, which includes links to the original sources.
Monday, September 25, 2006
It's Banned Books Week!
An interesting quote from the American Library Association web site:
In his book Free Speech for Me—But Not for Thee: How the American Left and Right Relentlessly Censor Each Other, Nat Hentoff writes that “the lust to suppress can come from any direction.” He quotes Phil Kerby, a former editor of the Los Angeles Times, as saying, “Censorship is the strongest drive in human nature; sex is a weak second.”
As a rule, I'm horrified by censorship, but I do understand where Kerby and Hentoff are coming from. There are at least a few people who would make me very happy by taking a flying leap off my universe and never bothering me with their insane natterings again (Ann Coulter, I'm staring at you.). While I don't think of that as censorship--more like a public service--I guess it is. Something to think about.
And if we're discussing censorship, either the flag-burning amendment is up again, or it's Banned Books Week. In this case (I'm sure the title of this post provided a big clue), it's the latter.
When I worked at Barnes & Noble, I always loved Banned Books Week. (I almost made that an acronym, but then I realized that big beautiful women everywhere owned that one.) Probably on orders from the New York office, one of the B&N managers would set up a table in the front of the store covered with books that had been banned in the past, along with a sign proclaiming what to us was a major holiday. We'd all talk with each other and with customers about what banned books we'd read, shaking our heads and lamenting the collective insanity that often accompanies library censorship.
I'm no longer a bookseller, but in honor of the start of Banned Books Week today, I went through the lists of banned and challenged (i.e. not yet banned) books on both the American Booksellers' Foundation for Free Expression (ABFFE) and the American Library Association (ALA). Here's what I found:
Most Surprising Choice: Where's Waldo, by Martin Hanford
Yes, THAT Waldo. Unfortunately, Waldo was listed on the ALA site, which does not explain why the bans or challenges occurred, unlike the ABFFE. WHAT is so wrong with a picture book that has kids finding a little cartoon guy in a big cartoon crowd? What did Waldo ever do to you, people? Anyone who would try to ban Waldo would probably find something objectionable in his or her DVD player instruction manual and should just not read anything. Ever.
My Favorite Book on the List: To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee. (Challenged by an eighth grader in California and a high school principal in Alaska for racial slurs and the depiction of an attempted rape.)
In honor of Latin-American History Month (Sept. 15-Oct. 15), books on the list by Latinos: Paula, by Isabel Allende
How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents, by Julia Alvarez
Bless Me, Ultima, by Rudolfo Anaya
Like Water for Chocolate, by Laura Esquivel
Always Running, by Luis Rodriguez
Rainbow Boys and Rainbow High, by Alex Sanchez
I can't reproduce every book on these lists without making this entry way too long, but just to give you an idea of what's on them, here are the
banned and challenged books from the ABFFE list that I've read:
Paula, by Isabel Allende
How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents, by Julia Alvarez
The Inferno, by Dante Alighieri
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou
Deenie, by Judy Blume (Man, I never did read Forever)
The Awakening, by Kate Chopin
Lords of Discipline, by Pat Conroy
Krik? Krak!, by Edwidge Danticat
Like Water for Chocolate, by Laura Esquivel
The Bean Trees, by Barbara Kingsolver
To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee
The Giver, by Lois Lowry
Beloved, by Toni Morrison
The Bluest Eye, by Toni Morrison
Song of Solomon, by Toni Morrison
Hot Zone, by Richard Preston
Freaky Friday, by Mary Rodgers
Always Running, by Luis Rodriguez
The Entire Harry Potter Series, by JK Rowling
The Catcher in the Rye, by JD Salinger
Of Mice and Men, by John Steinbeck
America! (The Book), by Jon Stewart
The Joy Luck Club, by Amy Tan
Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, by Mildred Taylor
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain
Black Boy, by Richard Wright
And the books I've read from the ALA's top 100 challenged books list (that weren't on the ABFFE list):
The Color Purple, by Alice Walker
A Wrinkle in TIme, by Madeleine L'Engle
Blubber, by Judy Blume
Killing Mr. Griffin, by Lois Duncan
The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood
The Outsiders, by SE Hinton
Flowers for Algernon, by Daniel Keyes
James and the Giant Peach, by Roald Dahl
Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret, by Judy Blume
Slaughterhouse Five, by Kurt Vonnegut
Native Son, by Richard Wright
Carrie, by Stephen King
Tiger Eyes, by Judy Blume
How to Eat Fried Worms, by Thomas Rockwell
View from the Cherry Tree, by Willo Davis Roberts
Interesting how many of these books are for young adults, and how many of them that I've read count among the most vibrant, memorable, and edifying books I've read in my life. Do your part for free speech. Read a banned book this week!
In his book Free Speech for Me—But Not for Thee: How the American Left and Right Relentlessly Censor Each Other, Nat Hentoff writes that “the lust to suppress can come from any direction.” He quotes Phil Kerby, a former editor of the Los Angeles Times, as saying, “Censorship is the strongest drive in human nature; sex is a weak second.”
As a rule, I'm horrified by censorship, but I do understand where Kerby and Hentoff are coming from. There are at least a few people who would make me very happy by taking a flying leap off my universe and never bothering me with their insane natterings again (Ann Coulter, I'm staring at you.). While I don't think of that as censorship--more like a public service--I guess it is. Something to think about.
And if we're discussing censorship, either the flag-burning amendment is up again, or it's Banned Books Week. In this case (I'm sure the title of this post provided a big clue), it's the latter.
When I worked at Barnes & Noble, I always loved Banned Books Week. (I almost made that an acronym, but then I realized that big beautiful women everywhere owned that one.) Probably on orders from the New York office, one of the B&N managers would set up a table in the front of the store covered with books that had been banned in the past, along with a sign proclaiming what to us was a major holiday. We'd all talk with each other and with customers about what banned books we'd read, shaking our heads and lamenting the collective insanity that often accompanies library censorship.
I'm no longer a bookseller, but in honor of the start of Banned Books Week today, I went through the lists of banned and challenged (i.e. not yet banned) books on both the American Booksellers' Foundation for Free Expression (ABFFE) and the American Library Association (ALA). Here's what I found:
Most Surprising Choice: Where's Waldo, by Martin Hanford
Yes, THAT Waldo. Unfortunately, Waldo was listed on the ALA site, which does not explain why the bans or challenges occurred, unlike the ABFFE. WHAT is so wrong with a picture book that has kids finding a little cartoon guy in a big cartoon crowd? What did Waldo ever do to you, people? Anyone who would try to ban Waldo would probably find something objectionable in his or her DVD player instruction manual and should just not read anything. Ever.
My Favorite Book on the List: To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee. (Challenged by an eighth grader in California and a high school principal in Alaska for racial slurs and the depiction of an attempted rape.)
In honor of Latin-American History Month (Sept. 15-Oct. 15), books on the list by Latinos: Paula, by Isabel Allende
How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents, by Julia Alvarez
Bless Me, Ultima, by Rudolfo Anaya
Like Water for Chocolate, by Laura Esquivel
Always Running, by Luis Rodriguez
Rainbow Boys and Rainbow High, by Alex Sanchez
I can't reproduce every book on these lists without making this entry way too long, but just to give you an idea of what's on them, here are the
banned and challenged books from the ABFFE list that I've read:
Paula, by Isabel Allende
How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents, by Julia Alvarez
The Inferno, by Dante Alighieri
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou
Deenie, by Judy Blume (Man, I never did read Forever)
The Awakening, by Kate Chopin
Lords of Discipline, by Pat Conroy
Krik? Krak!, by Edwidge Danticat
Like Water for Chocolate, by Laura Esquivel
The Bean Trees, by Barbara Kingsolver
To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee
The Giver, by Lois Lowry
Beloved, by Toni Morrison
The Bluest Eye, by Toni Morrison
Song of Solomon, by Toni Morrison
Hot Zone, by Richard Preston
Freaky Friday, by Mary Rodgers
Always Running, by Luis Rodriguez
The Entire Harry Potter Series, by JK Rowling
The Catcher in the Rye, by JD Salinger
Of Mice and Men, by John Steinbeck
America! (The Book), by Jon Stewart
The Joy Luck Club, by Amy Tan
Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, by Mildred Taylor
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain
Black Boy, by Richard Wright
And the books I've read from the ALA's top 100 challenged books list (that weren't on the ABFFE list):
The Color Purple, by Alice Walker
A Wrinkle in TIme, by Madeleine L'Engle
Blubber, by Judy Blume
Killing Mr. Griffin, by Lois Duncan
The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood
The Outsiders, by SE Hinton
Flowers for Algernon, by Daniel Keyes
James and the Giant Peach, by Roald Dahl
Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret, by Judy Blume
Slaughterhouse Five, by Kurt Vonnegut
Native Son, by Richard Wright
Carrie, by Stephen King
Tiger Eyes, by Judy Blume
How to Eat Fried Worms, by Thomas Rockwell
View from the Cherry Tree, by Willo Davis Roberts
Interesting how many of these books are for young adults, and how many of them that I've read count among the most vibrant, memorable, and edifying books I've read in my life. Do your part for free speech. Read a banned book this week!
Sunday, September 24, 2006
A Love Song for Walter
So I was in the car by myself the other day, and, as I am wont to do when I am in the car by myself, I started getting my diva on and belting out songs along with the radio. (Much to the amusement of everyone driving past me who happens to look my way, I'm sure.) All my life, I've been convinced that my singing voice should be better, as if by sheer force of will, I should be able to hit all of the notes right along with Mary J. Blige when she's on the radio.
I've never stopped being frustrated by the fact that sometimes, I open my mouth to sing and my voice hits a wall in the form of a high E. (Think the key change in Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On and On." No, wait. Don't think about that. Yuck. Just suffice to say that key changes and I don't get on well together, and it's not for lack of trying.)
Anyway, I was leaving the gas station last week when an old Concrete Blonde song from the early 90s, "Joey," came on. For those of you who don't know the song, the verses start out quite low--lower than is comfortable for most sopranos, though I rather like them. So I'm pulling away from the pump singing along in my best tenor, when the chorus hits. Now the chorus to this song suddenly jumps up over an octave, and needless to say, things generally get quite ugly about then if I'm somewhere alone with this tune.
But somehow, for the first time in my life, I hit the chorus. Easily. On a relative Tracy scale (i.e. not a Mary J. Blige scale), I knocked it out of the park, comfortably nailing "Jooooey, I'm not annngrryyyyy, anymooooorrrrrre" without sounding like my vocal cords were about to explode in agony.
For this small moment of happiness, I have one person to thank: Walter Ayotte.
Walter was my voice teacher my senior year of college. I'd dabbled in getting a music minor but pretty much decided against it when I realized how many math-like music theory classes were involved. (Yuck.) But just for fun,throughout my four years, I'd take a semester of piano here, a year of wind ensemble there, a couple of years of chorale. My senior year, I got brave and decided to take a semester of voice lessons, despite the fact that I was going to have to get up and perform classical music in front of all of the other people taking voice lessons. Regularly.
So on my first day, I met the man who insisted I call him Walter, a quiet, balding professor in his seventies, dressed in a sweater vest and a pair of neatly pressed pants. I explained to him that I had no soprano range to speak of, or even, really, an alto range, but I could do a mean tenor. He smiled a little and said, "Let's run through some scales."
First, he took me at my word and let me try to impress him with what I hoped was my smoky, Melissa-Etheridge-esque low range (SO not the case). Then, we went up. And up, into my head voice until I was squeaking like a mouse hopped up on helium. Then he took his hands off the piano keyboard, swung around on the seat to face me, and grandly proclaimed, "Tracy, you're a soprano."
"Oh, ha ha ha, Walter. Good one," I responded.
"No, really," he said. "You're a soprano."
"I so am not!"
"Soprano."
"Tenor. Maybe an alto." I was seriously panicking now. If good old Walter was going to insist that I was a soprano, I was going to look like a shrieking idiot when it was my turn to perform for the students of the four, count them, four vocal profs on campus. "I could maybe do alto."
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Trust me."
"This sucks, Walter."
"I know. But you'll see."
Somewhere in there, he let it slip that he'd been trained in voice at New York's prestigious Juilliard School. No ego involved--just a subtle message that he might know what he was talking about. I stopped arguing and painfully stumbled through a piece that had the misfortune of being both high and in French, and then we called it a day.
After a few sessions of Walter's rigorous vocal exercises, which were both intricate and so catchy, I hummed them in the shower, I got the notes in the much-hated French piece down enough that we started working on pronunciation. And then it was my turn to sing for the class.
I had a cold, so we backed out the first week I was scheduled to perform. The next week, I had another cold (I had REALLY bad allergies in college that I've since outgrown for the most part). And the week after that, my cold was gone, but my allergies were going nuts. Walter and the head of the voice department had had enough of my sickly ways and decided I was going up on stage, come hell or some really flat, strangled notes.
"Walter, this is going to be ugly," I said, clinging miserably to my Kleenex box.
"It's OK," he said. "You'll be fine."
Basically, I sucked. After I was finished, there was a smattering of polite applause, and then some gutsy little freshman lambasted me for singing from my throat instead of my chest. (I squashed one of his theories in a Shakespeare seminar we had together a few days later, out of sheer, embarrassed spite.) I slunk off the stage to where Walter was waiting. "I'm so sorry," he said, confirming that I had, indeed, blown huge, gelatinous chunks with that song. "I probably should have listened to you." I asked him if he minded if I hid behind him for the rest of the class. He didn't.
At our next meeting, he brought out a Lenten dirge called "For my Transgressions" that was blessedly in English, but about a hundred octaves higher than the French piece. I wondered if there was some hidden meaning in the title referring to my French Massacre in vocal lab the week before. "Walter," I said, "I can't sing this."
"Oh, just try," he responded genially, as unmovable as a very cheerful Rock of Gibraltar. I stumbled through the Lenten dirge, dreading giving the smug little freshman another chance to publicly humiliate me.
A couple of weeks later, I was not only singing the Lenten dirge--which had become decidedly un-dirgelike--I was belting it into the stratosphere. Sure, my soprano voice was never going to bring crowds to their feet, but it was full, clear as a bell, and, much as I hated to admit it, fun to sing in. Walter said something kind about looking forward to showing me off at lab. I asked St. Jude, the patron saint of miracles, to pray for my continued health until then.
A couple weeks later at vocal lab, I was allergy- and illness-free (Thank you, St. Jude.), so Walter and I headed onstage, and I sang all about my transgressions, hitting all my notes and having a great time listening to how my newly minted soprano voice floated and soared (soared!), aided in no small part by the recital hall's most excellent acoustics. "By God, Walter," I said after we'd finished. "I'm a soprano." He just smiled.
The class response? I can't remember what the freshman who'd snarked at my French said exactly, but it was somewhere along the lines of "Holy crap." Again, I'm not the most stunning soprano in the world, but it was a marked difference from the auditory dying swan I'd inflicted on everyone last time. One of the other profs, clearly jealous of the miracle Walter had wrought from my measly talent, grumbled, "I could have improved your voice more than Walter did." Whatever, dude.
On my last day of voice lessons, just before graduation, I told Walter I'd always regret having waited until the last semester of my senior year to work with him, and that the one semester with him was the single best musical experience I'd had in my life. I can't remember how we got onto the subject--I think I just started asking questions about Juilliard and his life before that. But he told me he had been the navigator on a B-17 (I think) bomber during World War II. Fascinated, I sat down next to him on the piano seat and insisted that we blow off class so he could tell me all about it. I wish I had a better memory of his incredible story, but I do remember that close to the end of the war, he was shot down and parachuted out of the plane, captured by Nazis, and rescued by none other than General MacArthur himself, who congratulated the men from his plane "on living like gentlemen" even under POW conditions. That was Walter to a T--always a gentleman, whether faced with Nazis or a silly student who misguidedly insisted she was a tenor.
Walter passed away a few years ago. I'm sure he now knows in depth about the impact he had on his students. But, just in case, I'll say it anyway: Thank you, Walter. You're the best. Every time I open my mouth to sing and pleasantly surprise myself, I think of you.
I've never stopped being frustrated by the fact that sometimes, I open my mouth to sing and my voice hits a wall in the form of a high E. (Think the key change in Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On and On." No, wait. Don't think about that. Yuck. Just suffice to say that key changes and I don't get on well together, and it's not for lack of trying.)
Anyway, I was leaving the gas station last week when an old Concrete Blonde song from the early 90s, "Joey," came on. For those of you who don't know the song, the verses start out quite low--lower than is comfortable for most sopranos, though I rather like them. So I'm pulling away from the pump singing along in my best tenor, when the chorus hits. Now the chorus to this song suddenly jumps up over an octave, and needless to say, things generally get quite ugly about then if I'm somewhere alone with this tune.
But somehow, for the first time in my life, I hit the chorus. Easily. On a relative Tracy scale (i.e. not a Mary J. Blige scale), I knocked it out of the park, comfortably nailing "Jooooey, I'm not annngrryyyyy, anymooooorrrrrre" without sounding like my vocal cords were about to explode in agony.
For this small moment of happiness, I have one person to thank: Walter Ayotte.
Walter was my voice teacher my senior year of college. I'd dabbled in getting a music minor but pretty much decided against it when I realized how many math-like music theory classes were involved. (Yuck.) But just for fun,throughout my four years, I'd take a semester of piano here, a year of wind ensemble there, a couple of years of chorale. My senior year, I got brave and decided to take a semester of voice lessons, despite the fact that I was going to have to get up and perform classical music in front of all of the other people taking voice lessons. Regularly.
So on my first day, I met the man who insisted I call him Walter, a quiet, balding professor in his seventies, dressed in a sweater vest and a pair of neatly pressed pants. I explained to him that I had no soprano range to speak of, or even, really, an alto range, but I could do a mean tenor. He smiled a little and said, "Let's run through some scales."
First, he took me at my word and let me try to impress him with what I hoped was my smoky, Melissa-Etheridge-esque low range (SO not the case). Then, we went up. And up, into my head voice until I was squeaking like a mouse hopped up on helium. Then he took his hands off the piano keyboard, swung around on the seat to face me, and grandly proclaimed, "Tracy, you're a soprano."
"Oh, ha ha ha, Walter. Good one," I responded.
"No, really," he said. "You're a soprano."
"I so am not!"
"Soprano."
"Tenor. Maybe an alto." I was seriously panicking now. If good old Walter was going to insist that I was a soprano, I was going to look like a shrieking idiot when it was my turn to perform for the students of the four, count them, four vocal profs on campus. "I could maybe do alto."
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Trust me."
"This sucks, Walter."
"I know. But you'll see."
Somewhere in there, he let it slip that he'd been trained in voice at New York's prestigious Juilliard School. No ego involved--just a subtle message that he might know what he was talking about. I stopped arguing and painfully stumbled through a piece that had the misfortune of being both high and in French, and then we called it a day.
After a few sessions of Walter's rigorous vocal exercises, which were both intricate and so catchy, I hummed them in the shower, I got the notes in the much-hated French piece down enough that we started working on pronunciation. And then it was my turn to sing for the class.
I had a cold, so we backed out the first week I was scheduled to perform. The next week, I had another cold (I had REALLY bad allergies in college that I've since outgrown for the most part). And the week after that, my cold was gone, but my allergies were going nuts. Walter and the head of the voice department had had enough of my sickly ways and decided I was going up on stage, come hell or some really flat, strangled notes.
"Walter, this is going to be ugly," I said, clinging miserably to my Kleenex box.
"It's OK," he said. "You'll be fine."
Basically, I sucked. After I was finished, there was a smattering of polite applause, and then some gutsy little freshman lambasted me for singing from my throat instead of my chest. (I squashed one of his theories in a Shakespeare seminar we had together a few days later, out of sheer, embarrassed spite.) I slunk off the stage to where Walter was waiting. "I'm so sorry," he said, confirming that I had, indeed, blown huge, gelatinous chunks with that song. "I probably should have listened to you." I asked him if he minded if I hid behind him for the rest of the class. He didn't.
At our next meeting, he brought out a Lenten dirge called "For my Transgressions" that was blessedly in English, but about a hundred octaves higher than the French piece. I wondered if there was some hidden meaning in the title referring to my French Massacre in vocal lab the week before. "Walter," I said, "I can't sing this."
"Oh, just try," he responded genially, as unmovable as a very cheerful Rock of Gibraltar. I stumbled through the Lenten dirge, dreading giving the smug little freshman another chance to publicly humiliate me.
A couple of weeks later, I was not only singing the Lenten dirge--which had become decidedly un-dirgelike--I was belting it into the stratosphere. Sure, my soprano voice was never going to bring crowds to their feet, but it was full, clear as a bell, and, much as I hated to admit it, fun to sing in. Walter said something kind about looking forward to showing me off at lab. I asked St. Jude, the patron saint of miracles, to pray for my continued health until then.
A couple weeks later at vocal lab, I was allergy- and illness-free (Thank you, St. Jude.), so Walter and I headed onstage, and I sang all about my transgressions, hitting all my notes and having a great time listening to how my newly minted soprano voice floated and soared (soared!), aided in no small part by the recital hall's most excellent acoustics. "By God, Walter," I said after we'd finished. "I'm a soprano." He just smiled.
The class response? I can't remember what the freshman who'd snarked at my French said exactly, but it was somewhere along the lines of "Holy crap." Again, I'm not the most stunning soprano in the world, but it was a marked difference from the auditory dying swan I'd inflicted on everyone last time. One of the other profs, clearly jealous of the miracle Walter had wrought from my measly talent, grumbled, "I could have improved your voice more than Walter did." Whatever, dude.
On my last day of voice lessons, just before graduation, I told Walter I'd always regret having waited until the last semester of my senior year to work with him, and that the one semester with him was the single best musical experience I'd had in my life. I can't remember how we got onto the subject--I think I just started asking questions about Juilliard and his life before that. But he told me he had been the navigator on a B-17 (I think) bomber during World War II. Fascinated, I sat down next to him on the piano seat and insisted that we blow off class so he could tell me all about it. I wish I had a better memory of his incredible story, but I do remember that close to the end of the war, he was shot down and parachuted out of the plane, captured by Nazis, and rescued by none other than General MacArthur himself, who congratulated the men from his plane "on living like gentlemen" even under POW conditions. That was Walter to a T--always a gentleman, whether faced with Nazis or a silly student who misguidedly insisted she was a tenor.
Walter passed away a few years ago. I'm sure he now knows in depth about the impact he had on his students. But, just in case, I'll say it anyway: Thank you, Walter. You're the best. Every time I open my mouth to sing and pleasantly surprise myself, I think of you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
About Me
- Tracy Montoya
- Tracy Montoya writes romantic suspense for Harlequin Intrigue.