Writer's Block, A Bit of Old Mexico in Chittenango, and A Visit to Zecheriah's House

I am writer's blocked. Never, since I took to writing almost daily, have I ever been so unable to come up with an idea. Nor do I have my usual desire to write. What concerns me most is that I have to get rolling on a script for SUMMERPLAY 2011 in this muddled creative state. My block is probably due to the fact that I have written three plays and directed three in the last 11 months or so... So, I'm going to take a brain rest until mid-January and not even try to write. I'll do some blogging, but I guess I'll let SUMMERPLAY, whatever it will be, simmer, wherever it is.

Now to other things.

Waldman's was in the building forever, but restaurants like Java Joe's and the Old Hotel Cafe, though really good, struggled to survive in that spot on Genesee Street across from the Episcopal Church, over the past few years. Ahora entra (now enters) La Cocina, a really terrific little Mexican restaurant that I hope will make it in 'nango because it's so good and so different from anything else we 'nangoites have. Linda and I had two of the specials for lunch on Friday, total price $9.98 + tax. For that very reasonable cost we were able to share the #4 which includes a burrito and two tacos and the #10 which consists of two beef enchiladas and a chile relleno, plus a bag of their homemade taco chips and a container of homemade salsa. We loved every item. I really liked the chile relleno, which I had never tried. It's a moderately hot pepper (a little kick) sliced open with a cheese and tomato sauce inside. I spoke with one of the owners, who told me that they hope to be able to acquire a beer and wine license soon. So. . .va a La Cocina. (Go to The Kitchen Restaurant). They open at 11:0 a.m. and don't close until 9:00 every night except Friday and Saturday when they're open until 10:00.

After a few weeks of fun and work, the CrossRoads Community Church Musical, SPOKEN, was presented yesterday and today in the high school auditorium. With music and story by Steve and Sue Case, the one hour play told the story of Zecheriah and Elizabeth and the miraculous birth of their son John. I was really knocked out by the production that we put together together. (Both "togethers" intended.) The music was beautiful, the story delightful, the performances and music inspiring. Many kudos to Steve, Sue, Mark Campitello, John Spiridigliozzi, Jodee Osborne, the entire ensemble, orchestra, and technical staff. I'm glad I was part of this special show.

I've had a lot of requests over the last few weeks to get myself back to blogging. I'll try but with no guarantees. I'm not sure if you can still go to my blog through the ONEIDA DISPATCH website. (I canceled my subscription, you see.) I'll check, but remember that you can always get to THE BLUE MOON GRILLE at wwwmotleyplayer.blogspot.com/ (The lack of a (.) after the w's is intentional.)

It Tolls for Thee

Headlines at this moment on Syracuse.com include: "Hundreds gather at funeral for Jenni-Lynn Watson" and "Syracuse toddler's death blamed on gang revenge." I can remember few if any times that reading headlines like these was so difficult for me. The tragedies our small Chittenango community has recently experienced make those of which I have only a peripheral attachment, I know Jenni-Lynn's cousin Mark, and those to which I have no actual attachment at all, the death of 20 month-old Rashad Walker, Jr., even more horrible than they would be under normal circumstance. The violent death of anyone is awful; the violent death of children, and in this group I include both Jenni-Lynn and Rashad, is despicable. I hurt deep down inside for them and all. I'm not going to try to explain this "species pain" I feel. I will leave it to John Donne who said it with nearly impossible eloquence when he wrote,

No man is an island, entire of itself;

every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were,

as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were:

any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind,

and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls;

it tolls for thee.

These words come from Donne's "Meditation XVII," an essay, although the lines above are often printed as a poem. Reading the whole essay might take 5 minutes. It's a worthwhile read with the only logical conclusion.

Lisbeth and Kaitniss and Kathy

It has been so long since I last blogged, that I was afraid I wouldn't remember how to access this page. My explanation for my lengthy absence is that autumn has been so busy with playwriting, family obligations, leaf raking and much more, that I needed time off from my blogs. The hiatus was a good one for me, although, I missed my postings, my chances to vent or comment or compliment. This dark, gloomy, blustery afternoon seemed like a good time to come back to blogging with three friends in tow: Lisbeth, Kaitniss, and Kathy.

Though I haven't been blogging, I have been reading. In the last few months, among a variety of other things, I've read a trilogy by a Swede, a trilogy, by an American, and a novel by a Japanese-born Brit, and as a result have made three wonderfully interesting literary acquaintances. Lisbeth Salander is the name that I imagine is most familiar. Lisbeth is the heroine of the "Girl Who. . ." novels by Stieg Larsson. I FACEBOOKED back in the summer about Lisbeth, a tiny, terrifying, computer genius, bi-sexual martial artist, who somehow, through three violent books, remains both lovable and vulnerable, while overcoming industrial villains, sadists, Nazi sympathizers, government conspirators, and their lot with the aid of magazine writer Mikael Blomkvist. The "Girl Who. . ." books are already a Swedish film franchise and are on their way to becoming an American one. Lisbeth is my favorite literary character in a long time.

Thanks to Tim Sorensen I discovered the "Mockingjay" trilogy by Suzanne Collins. The young adult novels THE HUNGER GAMES, CATCHING FIRE, and THE MOCKINGJAY are great for adults, too, and tell the story of the wonderful Kaitniss, a sixteen year old girl, who must protect her mother and sister and eventually much more in a future American dystopia. The central horror of the books is the concept of the "Hunger Games," a televised competition that pits two children (ages 12 to 18) from each of the 12 districts that are controlled by the "Capitol" against each other in a battle to the death in a giant, technologically-created arena. Designed to both fascinate and disgust the citizenry, this yearly punishment of the masses is reality tv at its most devious. The amazing Kaitniss is a "Hunger Games" contestant in the first novel and evolves through the other two into a symbol of the revolution that slowly foments when she defies the authorities. This amazing young woman, who is bright, and brave, and incredibly resilient, is another of my favorite characters.

The writer Kazio Ishiguro was not a name I was familiar with, although he is a prize winning novelist, and his works include the very successful REMAINS OF THE DAY. NEVER LET ME GO is the quietest horror/science fiction novel you will ever read. There will be no zombies or vampires or UFO's, but when you think about it, it will frighten you more. The book could be called a form of revisionist history, I suppose. It postulates a Britain at the end of the 20th century that has devised a program for the "national health" that is exquisitely twisted. Ishiguro leads his reader quietly along, revealing a little at a time, with a hint here and a revelation there. Soon the reader is squirming at what is becoming clear. NEVER LET ME GO is serious literature. TIME named it the best novel of 2005. Its narrator is Kathy, who with her friends Ruth and Tommy, age from about 16 until their late 20's in the novel. We see them when they are students at Hailsham, a boarding school that is quietly sinister. Then we follow them through a transitional time at a place called the Cottages. In these places, they suffer the joys and sorrows of kids growing up. They fight, have tantrums, fall in love, have their first sexual experiences, and all the time, something that they should be dreading is hanging over their heads. Eventually, they chose to begin their absolutely inevitable "careers." What was most frightening for me was how accepting Kathy choses to be of this inevitability. The film version of NEVER LET ME GO starring Carrie Mulligan and Keira Knightley was recently at the Manlius. I wanted to see it but didn't get the chance. The trailer of the film does an excellent job of suggesting the dread that looms over this novel. Check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXiRZhDEo8A

Two trilogies and a novel, three great reads, which I have chosen to blog about because of the three central characters. The trio of Lisbeth, Kaitniss, and Kathy consists of two amazingly brave women and a third, who I so wish would have decided to be brave. (Or was she the bravest of them all?) Try these books!

Moving to a New Location

I am now blogging at www.duboishill.blogspot.com/ My theme has become more specific. I am writing about growing up in the 50's and 60's in Webster, NY. I hope some of my BLUE MOON GRILLE followers might enjoy the change and find something interesting in life at that time.

Blog's Out For Summer!

OR MAYBE NOT. . .

This is my 180th post from the Blue Moon Grille in about a year and a half. A school year is 180 days, and I have taken this fact as a sign that it's time for the Grille to shut down for vacation. I'm not done blogging, certainly, but I'm thinking of eventually developing a blog about a more specific topic. For awhile, though, I'm not going to do anything in the blogosphere, I guess. Thanks for reading and occasionally reacting. I've had a lot of fun. I hope that those who have read "The Blue Moon Grille" have had fun, too.

No Time to Say Hello Good-bye. . .

I am happily busy with "THE GIRL WHO LOVED ROMANCE NOVELS", and so this rapid posting will once more advertise SUMMERPLAY with two photos of the cast. At the top, Sarah Baidel as Ashley is looking particularly motherly. The object of her concern is her sorority sister and BFF, the girl in the title of the play, Jess Arden, who is played by Kayla Haynes. In the second photo, Kyle Stevens as Tim reveals his secret crush to Jess. Watching is Sarah Guzman, who plays Jess's sister Juliet.

"THE GIRL. . .," the comic story of a college junior who falls for two guys on the same morning, plays this Thursday, Friday, and Saturday at 7:30 p.m. in Chittenango High School's beautifully air-conditioned auditorium. Tickets are $5 with a $20 per family limit.

A Fine Group of (SUMMER)PLAYERS!

Last Thursday, after our SUMMERPLAY rehearsal, I fell into a funk. I couldn't sleep, in fact, worrying about how much we hadn't yet accomplished, who our tech people would be, were we staying close to budget, would the air conditioning be on in the auditorium, and such. Around 2:00 A.M., I metaphorically slapped myself around a little bit and reminded myself that the key word in SUMMERPLAY is "play." And especially, when it's in the "SUMMER," it's supposed to be fun!! Which it has been every single rehearsal, for all of us, I think!

Last night, about a week after my funk, most of our problems are solved. I told my players last night about my sleepless few hours, urging them not to fall into any "angst" traps as I had almost fallen into. I also told them how much I loved them and loved working with them. After all, most of them are SUMMERPLAY veterans and have "played" for years, and those who are newbies are SUMMERPLAY family members, already. And we are a close group.

We will work hard these next few days on our "PLAY!" Work on play? Sort of an oxymoron or a contradiction, at the least. As rehearsals continue and roll into performances next week, if we smile and laugh like we did last night, and still accomplish so much, what a joy it will be!

Any Sarcasm is Intentional

Linda and I were married in July of 1972, and after a honeymoon of 10 days or so, we returned to Chittenango to move into our first apartment at the corner of North and Russell Streets just across from the Presbyterian Church. I believe it was that summer that the Byrne Dairy store opened in the site on Genesee Street once occupied by Bob Williams's gas station and garage. It was only a two minute walk for me to buy milk or, occasionally, a six pack of Piel's Real Draft, which cost a dollar and sixteen cents.

Since then, we have always gone to Byrne Dairy for milk and other essentials and non-essentials. I have always, in that 38 or so year span, brought the posters for the school's plays and musicals and for the village's SUMMERPLAY to the store for display, and the Byrne Dairy staff, often my ex-students, gladly posted them on a window, a wall, or the front of the ice machine. So. . .I was surprised when yesterday, a nice young fellow, the store manager I believe, told me that "corporate" policy no longer permitted local posters to be displayed in BYRNE DAIRY. I questioned him briefly, suggested that this was not a policy that would be well received by village organizations. . .but it wasn't this guy's fault, so I left--ANGRY!

I refused to let my anger last. After all, I try to live on "Beaufort" time. And I knew that Byrne wasn't the only chain store in the village to have such a policy. Rite-Aid has had this non-community attitude for years. When I mentioned on FACEBOOK that I had been rebuffed by Byrne, I was informed that Subway, Dunkin Donuts, and Pizza Hut also deny local signage. Those stores had turned away representatives from Vacation Bible School. "Wow!" I thought and was reminded of the song "Alice's Restaurant" in which Arlo Guthrie declares, "we got a movement."

So I thought about it, and I realized where "CORPORATE" was coming from. They couldn't possibly give over ad space to such local organizations for fear of suggesting they were in support of those organizations. If they let subversive organizations like Vacation Bible School and local summer theater advertise there, what would come next. Lions Club? That would upset PETA! Rotary? Well, maybe Rotary would be O.K. They are an organization of business people. Or how about Sullivan Community Council? Sure, now they support social activities like youth athletics, but. . .isn't that just a few steps away from socialism?

This blog isn't about anything I have written about, really. It's a blog in thanks to the many locally owned stores, and the corporate entities like KINNEY DRUGS and DO IT BEST HARDWARE, that continue to operate on the "hometown" level, a word that has often been a part of Byrne Dairy advertising, and are happy to put up posters and such for their fellow citizens. . . And let's not worry about the other stores who choose to be a bit less community friendly. I mean why should they put up something as simple as a community bulletin board in their stores? After all, what have they gotten from the Chittenango residents over the years. . . other than a few million dollars?

Libraries and Me

I can't come up with my earliest library memory. I'm sure I went to the library in Penfield, the upstate village I lived in until I was six, but I can't recall. I do recall being surrounded by and having my early years enriched by books read to me by my mom and dad.

And I do recall the first library we went to in Webster, the town I lived in from when I was six until I graduated from high school forty-five years ago right about now. Actually, the library wasn't in Webster. It was in Irondequoit just across the bay from where we lived. Later, we would start going to the Webster Village library on the lower level of the town hall.

Those first memories of libraries are all about towering stacks of books. The Hardy Boys, Freddy the Pig, Landmark books, TOM SAWYER, and so many more books that I can't immediately remember. And taking those books up to the high counter, where a lady, never a man, took my library card and my pile of books and checked them out for me. This required both the card in the little book pocket and the paper stuck under the book's cover, to be stamped firmly, in two quick librarian strokes, with the date the books were due. A library card was very important, but I remember being rather careless with mine, and how I would misplace it, and how it got frayed in my pockets and washed in the washing machine. My mom always found it or saved it for me.

I have a vivid sixth grade library memory. That year, my teacher was Mr. B., and anyone who attended Bay Road Elementary School around then, will know that meant for a rather scary year. Going each week for a period in the library was always happily anticipated. I remember one Wednesday night, (I'm pretty sure we went to the library on Thursday), my mom discovered in my jeans pocket a crumpled up outline of the Dewey Decimal System number code. We had been told the week before by the school librarian to study this list for a quiz. It wasn't a priority to us sixth graders, though, because, you don't get a mark for library, after all. I had forgotten all about it, but my mom made me study before I went to bed. The next morning when we went to library period, the librarian passed out 10 question quizzes. Everyone else in class stared blankly at them. Not me. I whisked right through that quiz with the librarian beaming beside me. I got a 90%. Somehow, I missed one. The librarian was thrilled with me and announced to our class how special I was for actually doing library homework. She then allowed me to go choose my book first, while the rest of the class sat in hand-folded silence, glaring at me for what I had done. I remained smug and slowly chose my book. I remember the book, too! It was called GHOSTLY TALES TO BE TOLD, and in that volume I discovered Ambrose Bierce's "The Wendigo," the scariest story I have ever read. This short story collection was the germ of my lifelong love for horror fiction.

I have really fine memories of my high school library, too. Overseen by the thin and matronly stern Miss Growney, the R. L. Thomas High School library, was important in that it was the place I did my first serious research. I still recall receiving an A- on my 20 page senior essay, "George Bernard Shaw, Critic" in Mr. Castor's Honors English class. In fact, I liked the topic so well, I used it as the topic of my freshman essay at SUNY Albany, where I received a B+, from a pinch-mouthed TA, whose name I have forgotten. I also remember the area under the high school library tables as the place I learned to play footsie, amazingly, right under the watch of Miss Growney. The library was also a nice place to watch the members of the library club, all girls, many attractive, rearranging magazines and such.

Of course, my college library was essential for an English education major. It was so huge. Three floors of stack after stack after file cabinet after study carrel. I was amazed by the sheer number of periodicals, and because this was before the computer age, multiple years of each periodical were stored in special periodical boxes. I remember reading theater reviews in a long gone magazine named CUE and in WOMEN'S WEAR DAILY. I remember a lengthy search I did to find information on the Faulkner novella, "The Wild Palms." I also remember being curled up for hours in a carrel just before finals week as I tried to finish reading ABSOLOM, ABSOLOM, another Faulner challenge. It was nice, too, to take a break in the second floor lounge and do a little co-ed watching.

For thirty-three years as a teacher, I and my classes availed ourselves of the Chittenango High School library and watched it evolve into something called a "library media center." Lots of great librarians helped me and my minions. Lorraine Aust was the first, Judy Waite, Betsy Keck, who led Folksmarches, Pamela Revercomb, who dressed in a tutu on days she got stressed, and Mary Cucznik, and I probably forgot someone. When I go into the comfortable, high tech, two-tiered high school library today, I am happily amazed, and I have a hard remembering what it looked like back in 1969, the year I first entered its doors.

I have become a buyer of books I am ashamed to say. I like my own paperbacks, purchased at Barnes and Noble, to curl up with during my major reading hour, which is before I fall asleep at night. I know I should save my money and borrow books from the Sullivan Free Library more often. This doesn't mean our library isn't important to me, though. It is my SUMMERPLAY rehearsal hall. Air-conditioned and large, the community room is perfect to rehearse my large cast plays. I'm really excited about a play for reader's theater, which I am going to write as a fundraiser for the SFL. I believe the date is Thursday, October 14, 2010, in the high school auditorium. This aforementioned play will star a group of local folks from various walks of Chittenango/Bridgeport life. And just this morning, while our house was being renovated and my office was under construction, I borrowed the SFL Wifi to begin this blog. While I was there, I bumped in to a student from the past, class of 1991, who was there looking at books with her little boy. What a bright young woman! I have to start borrowing more books, too.

I've had fun remembering the libraries with which I have had relationships over time, Now I have a great relationship with the new library in the old bank building. The people who steered the purchase and renovation of the Chittenango branch of the Sullivan Free Library, and who now administer and work in both branches of the SFL should be very proud. What wonderful places our libraries are.

On Peter Straub's A DARK MATTER

I've loved the writing of Peter Straub since the publication of his epic horror tale GHOST STORY back in the seventies. After reading that classy and scary novel, I searched some of his older works, discovered IF YOU COULD SEE WHAT I HEAR, and have read that spooky, out of the way tale two or three times over the years. Another one of my favorite Straub books is FLOATING DRAGON, which is a little more mainstream spooky. I also like THE TALISMAN and BLACK HOUSE, on which he collaborated with Stephen King, although I've talked to a lot of people who don't care for those two efforts by the masters.

Peter Straub's style is elegant. His books have always seemed to me to be the work of both a poet and a scholar. So I was surprised to be disappointed with A DARK MATTER, his latest novel. In this Rashomon-like tale, four people, getting close to old age, tell their individual stories of the horrible event, the "dark matter," that all were involved in back in 1966, and which has haunted them until the present time. The prose is elegant. Reading it, I could sense that wonderful combination of poet and scholar. But ultimately, after 397 pages, I found I didn't care what this book had to say.

Perhaps, my initial disappointment came from the fact that I didn't really care about anyone in the story. I should have, as they are my contemporaries, but I didn't, and I didn't really believe in them, either. In A DARK MATTER, four high school friends, with the troublingly cute nicknames of Hootie, Dill, Boats, and Eel, and 2 college frat boys are pulled in by the charisma of a handsome and charming guru of cosmic change named Spencer Mallon. This guy has a Cinque-Manson-Jones kind of hold on the kids, and he bears the deep message summarized for him by the story "The Lady or the Tiger?" The message is this: Once you pick a door, no matter which you choose, you are aware of where the lady is and where the tiger is. Therefore, you have answered the central question of the title, and it makes no difference if you're squeezing a princess or getting devoured, you were successful in this quest. This, I guess, is so existential, (later it is mentioned that there is no difference between a pile of broken dolls or a pile of dead children), that the easily led sixties kids are swept right into this Mallon statement's "deepness."

Mallon entrances them, then prepares them, and finally takes them to a field where he is sure that a sort of parallel world is just waiting to be opened by their joint presences. Of course, it works. One college kid gets killed by a hulking, horrible, evil beast, (he deserves it as he's a serial killer in training) and the other college kid gets sucked through an opening between the worlds that he picked at like some cosmic scab. Hootie, Dill, Boats, and Eel all have their own special visions in the field, which screw them up in different ways, and which they never share until the end of the book, some 40 years after the "matter." Remember these visions took place in the 60's so, they are pretty trippy, but not a bit scary, and really disappointing.

The most important and true vision is the one that the Eel had. This is ironically destined before we hear her description of it, because of the way the vision screwed her up. It made her blind. Vision causes no vision. Get it? And don't blind characters often see things more clearly than the sighted characters. I need to question Eel's nickname at this point. Supposedly, she is the most beautiful, charming girl any of the boys have ever met, so why in God's name would they nickname her something disgusting like "Eel." Well, I'll tell you why. It's because both "Eel" and her boyfriend at the time, who becomes her husband later, have the first name "Lee." So they call the guy "Lee" and the girl "Eel," or sometimes, they call them "the twins." "LEE EEL!" If Straub wants so much to use this palindromic combination, then nickname the guy "Eel" after some slithery, disgusting water snake not the gorgeous girl. Or wait--could the Eel be an "Eve" symbol, ergo snaky, at the dawn of a new world order? I don't know. . . or sadly care. I should now tell you about Lee, the Eel's husband, who didn't get charmed by Mallon in the beginning, but who is writing a book about what happened to them all. But I'm not going to because he's a boring putz.

As I have gone on too long, let me conclude with what I believe to be the novel's final theme statement, a theme which the Eel discovers during her vision in the field. It is this: the opposite of love isn't hate; the opposite of love is evil, of which hate is only one of many subsets. It's a good theme. I, too, believe in love, which I know sounds like a song title. I just didn't need 397 pages to reveal it. Maybe a good short story. Or maybe it's like what Stephen King said in the little plug he gives A DARK MATTER on the novel's back cover. He says that the "high school students in the turbulent sixties. . . stumble into horrors far beyond their understanding." Maybe that's what happened to me, too. . . maybe it was beyond my understanding. . . because I just didn't get it.

It's Great When Bigwig Has Your Back!!

Linda found a great book at the library's used bookstore today, THE WATERSHIP DOWN FILM PICTURE BOOK. I know that quite a few of my FB friends have read Richard Addams' wonderful book and seen the very interesting, British-made cartoon film version. It had been too long since I thought about Hazel and the rest, so I was delighted when Linda presented me with this fabulous find, the entire story told through stills from the movie.

If you have never read WATERSHIP DOWN, you have a treat waiting for you. It is the tale of a band of rabbits but so much more. From it, you will learn the value of strength through Bigwig, intelligence through Blackberry, quiet leadership through Hazel, and the necessity of paying attention to others who don't quite see the world the way you do through little Fiver. You'll also have a review of the dangers of fascism and the terrors of giving up your spirit to make life simpler. You'll be amazed at how a band of rabbits can teach us about bravery and friendship and spirituality and love.

Read it and may the spirit of El-ahrairah be with you!

Being GLEEful

GLEE was a little bit of a downer on Tuesday, but acceptably so. If you want to look at the show realistically, it'd be pretty tough for New Directions to defeat a highly funded machine like Vocal Adrenaline. After all, how many 26-member high school show choirs provide their members with matching Range Rovers? Of course, that statement shows that it is completely impossible to look at GLEE realistically, which may be why it's so wonderful.

I watch GLEE first for the fabulous musical numbers, and second for the quirky characters. Now that Rachael has found her mother, Quinn has had her baby, Puck has revealed his sensitive side, Artie has come to terms with his wheelchair, Kurt has learned a lesson about bedroom decoration, and Finn has decided that Mr. Schuster is his father figure, I think some of the secondary or tertiary characters need to be featured. (Can a character be called "tertiary," or is that word only used in reference to things like sewage treatment plants?)

My vote for character who deserves her own plot line goes to Brittany. I love Brittany. I sit every show waiting for her classic dumb lines. When the series finally comes to an end, the producers need to put together a collection of her stupidities. My two favorites are "I think my cat has been reading my diary," and, in response to Kurt's father's admonition that they use protection when he catches them in bed, "Does he mean like burglar alarms?" And she's grossly underappreciated, which is shown by the fact that there were hardly any pictures of her online to download for this post.

Here's my idea for Brittany's back story: She's really a genius, who has created the whole Brittany persona because she so wants to be popular. In fact, she has already graduated from high school and is working on advanced degrees online. More difficult, though, than her late night online studies, is her need to be constantly coming up with stupid things to say. Her search for new idiocies would fuel this special "Brittany" episode. I'm not quite sure where her search would lead, but perhaps to a relationship with a politician who's had open mike problems. I do know that the episode would culminate with her singing, "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" because she finally got it memorized. This plot, of course, will not deal with the problem that, along with being totally clueless, Brittany also has the morals of an alley cat. She has enjoyed intimate congress with every straight and able male member of her senior class. (The euphemism and double entendre exhibited in that line are smokin'.) That moral/psychological issue could be dealt with in a later show, and end with her singing "What's Love Got to Do With It."

Planning GLEE back stories could become a really fun thing to do. Imagine if Santana were actually the love child of Sue Sylvester and Mexican rock guitarist and legend Carlos Santana. . .

Teenagers Remain My Favorite People in the World

The title of this piece is not meant in anyway to demean my many friendships with non-teens. Heck, most of my best friends aren't teenagers. But as an age group, I find teens to be unsurpassed in their excitement and joy, their depression and their occasional dysfunction, their curiosity and their need for privacy, their ability to fall in love or into a funk, and a bunch of other things, too. There is so much to them! That's why I happily taught them for a long time and still enjoy seeing them in their natural habitat.

It's true that twice this year I wrote about school violence and bullying, but I need to believe that the most serious of these offenses are the product of a very few. In the last two weeks, we got to spend some time with some great teenagers, and if my optimism about the basic specialness of that age group had begun to pale, it returned to full blush with these visits.

A couple of Wednesdays back Linda and I went to the high school library for a "Writer's Chair" awards reception. We had helped judge the short stories and poems entered by a group of young Chittenango writers. Judging was enjoyable, but talking with them and hearing about their love for writing and their aspirations was the best.

The following Saturday gave us the chance to meet three other teens. Cassie, Bryan, and Erica came to our house to help us paint our picket fence. If you haven't ever painted pickets, you can be sure that it is both painstaking and frustrating. Our three Saturday morning teen helpers were fabulous. In return for their help, we provided some funds to help them attend Young Life Camp in Virginia this summer. They provided the physical, and we helped to pay for the spiritual. They were great kids, and we enjoyed working with them and eating donuts and pizza with them. I have a picture I took of the trio, and I sent it to their Young Life leader, but I decided not to post it here, because I hadn't asked them. Believe me though, my picture of the paint-stained, ice cream bar eating threesome is way better than the photo I pulled off the web to illustrate this posting. (The amount of money that must have been spent on orthodontia alone on the downloaded group above boggles my mind.)

I have been a little lax in my blogging of late, and I'm going to try become more disciplined to it again. I'm glad to get back by writing about kids.

SUMMERPLAY 2010 Cast List and More

Cast List for "The Girl Who Loved Romance Novels"

by Greg Ellstrom

The Director--Aileen Kenneson

Shannon--Chloe Houseman

Dr. Sam--Glenn Phillips

Tim, the non-stalker--Kyle Stevens

Pip--Matt Hess

Jess--Kayla Haynes

Ashley--Sarah Baidel

Juliet--Sarah Guzman

Amanda--Ellen LeFort

Sarah--Maegan Welch

Jennifer--Nicole Kovaleski

Sid--Matt Mohr

Lucy--Jennifer MacAlpine

Mrs. Fezziwig--Joan Dear-Houseman

Gertrude--Kathy Vogel

Dora--Mary Schwarz

Dave--Wayne Horning

Jack the cop--Chuck Hess

Colleen Baldwin, Kathy Cooney, Mary Alice Clapp, Ian Dwyer, --Adult woman #1-3, Adult Man #1, Boy #1, Melva, the Dental Assistant, Allison, Herb, the operators of multiple kiosks, crowd folk, Barbarella, Mayor Maynot, the professor, the Emcee and "someone" (plus more, too, as far as onstage organizing of scenery and providing of clothing)

"The Girl Who Loved Romance Novels" is a two-act comic romance. It tells the story of an improv. company that decides, under the leadership of "The Director," to stage a romance. This romance becomes the tale of college student Jess Arden. In one morning, Jess falls for two different young man. One is very much like her conservative dad and the other somewhat like her activist mom. This busy day ends not only with fireworks but in a near tragedy, and it is not until 4 months later, that Jess's story is resolved.

This is the 6th season of SUMMERPLAY sponsored by the Village of Chittenango and the Greater Sullivan Area Chamber of Commerce. Performances are scheduled for 7:30 p.m. on Thursday thru Saturday, July 15-17, 2010. Tickets are $5 with no family being charged more than $20. The play is suitable for middle schoolers to senior citizens. Reserved tickets will be available in early July. For information call 687-7332.

The Nifty Fifty--A Memorial Day Weekend Memory from 1965

A lot of people will be blogging today about Memorial Day memories that honor the millions who have served our country in the past. I'll get to that, too, but first I want to recall a Memorial Day weekend sojourn I made back in 1965. I remembered this particular 45 year old afternoon, because of all the motorcycles we saw on the way to and in Lake Placid this past Friday and Saturday. There were so many beautiful bikes on the road, some tricycle-style, some pulling trailers, roaring along the beautiful Adirondack roads. Certainly, Memorial Day must be a favorite holiday for bikers.

When I was a senior in high school in 1965, the Honda was the bike to own. My friend Russ owned a "Nifty Fifty" like the one in the photo above. He let me ride it in the parking lot of Eastway Plaza, when we were both working at the Sibley's garden shop. I wanted one bad!! Even better would have been a Honda "Super 90," the motorcycle of choice for the 17 or-so- year-old guy attending RLTHS. I still remember seeing Steve Kaulback whipping down Empire Boulevard toward the bay on his Honda 90, helmet-less, his jacket forming wings behind him as he rode. Impossibly cool! We thought a 90cc was a big bike! I knew a guy who owned a Honda 160, and we wondered how he kept that powerful hog on the road, and there was a kid in the village who owned a 250, and we were quite sure he'd be heading west to join the Hell's Angels before graduation.

Anyway, to the memory. Don and Helen and I drove down to Palmyra Motors on Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend in 1965. We wanted to check out the Honda motorbikes and motorcycles they sold there, and they were holding a drawing for a "Nifty Fifty." Also of importance, the Invictas were playing in the parking lot. The Invictas were, depending on who you talked to, either the first or second coolest band in the Rochester area. It was between them and Wilmer Alexander, Jr. and the Dukes. The Invictas had a local hit called "The Hump," which I may have mentioned in an earlier blog. These were the incredible lyrics as I remember them: "Do the hump, pretty baby come on! Oh, come, on! Oh come, on. You know that I'll always love you so. You know that I'll never let you go. Come on, pretty baby, I'll show you how to hump. . ." And over and over. "Hump" had the same slang meaning then that it does now, so, of course, in 1965, this giant hit could not be played on the radio. Instead, WBBF and other stations played the Invictas B side, "The Hook," the very same song with the humping replaced by hooking.

But that day, the Invictas were doing "The Hump" in all their glory, complete with light blue, British-cut suits, knee-high boots, and Fab Four bowlcuts on the Palmyra macadam, probably only a few hundred yards from the place where Mormonism was born. They were, of course, astounding. I was waiting, though, for the drawing for the "Nifty Fifty." I wanted to win with all my heart, because winning was the only way I would ever get any kind of motorcycle, even one with 50 cc. My parents had made it clear their would be no motorcycle in the Ellstrom garage. So I waited for the drawing, then I deflated, because, of course, I did not win. And not winning is the last thing I recall concerning that well-remembered Saturday afternoon, although, I'm sure we continued to have a good time. Writing about that day just now has been a good time, too.

At the end of my freshman year of college, I took another shot at motorcycle ownership. I came home from college and announced that I was going to save money for a bike. The same evening my mom and dad decided to help me buy a car, and that car turned out to be my much beloved 1963, Adobe Beige Corvair Monza convertible. Sometimes, things just work out!

Of the true meaning of Memorial Day, let me say that 1965 was near the beginning of the Vietnam war, whose veterans deserve to be highly honored as do the veterans of all the conflicts that the U.S.A. has found itself involved in since it became a nation. Let me offer a special Memorial Day tribute to my brother-in-law Paul Baker, who died in the spring of 1969 in a Vietnam jungle. I'm so sorry, Paul. I wish I could have gotten to meet you and know you. I hear you were one really great guy! I'll bet you would have liked a motorcycle, too.

A Triple Down the Left Field Line

My schedule has been so busy, that it's been tough to get blogging time. So, I think I'll shorten and combine three ideas nto one blog.

1. I really enjoyed the read-through for "The Girl Who Loved Romance Novels" last night. It's so great and revealing for me to hear my story read by a group of very capable actors. My only disappoint was the turnout. We could use 2 or 3 more young ladies and young gentleman to serve in various onstage capacities for what will be a really busy stage presentation. But the core group that read last night was nearly large enough to mount SUMMERPLAY 2010.

2. A couple months back I blogged about the writing contests that I had entered. Having not heard from any of them yet, I have a feeling I didn't win. I know that I didn't make it to the 250 cut-off in the novels competition. It's a "ces le vis," forgive the possible misspelling as I never took French, sort of thing, and I will continue to write and be alert for other contest opportunities.

3. Finally, an observation and/or pet peeve. Have you ever noticed how in a restaurant full of people it seems as if one person's voice always rises above the rest, and that you get to share his or her conversation whether or not you so wish. It amazes me. It's not even the volume of the voice, often, it's just something that makes certain voices carry (often obnoxiously). A couple of weeks ago we went to the Scotch and Sirloin, our favorite restaurant, using a gift certificate that Jan and Chris gave us for Christmas. Food was great, the service was perfect, and the person with the traveling voice sat right next to us. We might have been able to hear her even if she wasn't a vocal projector. because we were so nearby. But she was a projector and we heard every word so clearly that we wanted to ask her to tone down just a mite. We didn't care to hear her views on child rearing, interior decorating, or, God Forbid, golf courses. Linda and I wanted to be able to talk quietly to each other. Happily, I didn't let it bother too much, because I am now and will continue to live on "Beaufort Time."

Explanation of "Beaufort Time": Our stay in Beaufort, S.C., was so wonderful and so laid back, that I created the term "Beaufort Time" to describe the relaxed feeling I enjoyed in the South, and I vowed to bring that attitude home with me, although it was a little difficult to maintain when I opened our pool to find green water and then discovered our pump wasn't working. But I somehow held on to "BT," and Linda's trying to commit to it, too.

I meander a la Madonna

Madonna with her daughter Lourdes

"What It feels Like For A Girl"

[Spoken:]
Girls can wear jeans
And cut their hair short
Wear shirts and boots
'Cause it's OK to be a boy
But for a boy to look like a girl is degrading
'Cause you think that being a girl is degrading
But secretly you'd love to know what it's like
Wouldn't you
What it feels like for a girl

Let me start by establishing myself as totally pro-girl/woman! I think the fairer sex (a silly expression but in many ways true) is amazing. Besides being physically beautiful, I find girls and women to be intelligent, openly sensitive, and brave. They make great conversationalists, are creative, and often quietly determined. The women I know are often gutsier than men in facing life's tribulations. Many women are heroes to me, and I didn't use the word "heroine" because, after all, we don't have "doctoresses" do we. Actually, I think I've probably blogged these same thoughts or similar ones before.

I have become an ardent "Gleek," and on the Madonna episode of "Glee" the boys in the glee club were assigned the singing of the Madonna song "What It Feels Like For a Girl." I wasn't familiar with the song, but I found it to be very thought-provoking. Let's put aside the possible physical meaning of the song's title, and go with the interpretation that it refers simply to what it is like being a girl. As I thought about it, I realized that I have never thought about what it would have been like if I were female. I've thought what it might be like to have been born African-American during the most racist of times. I've thought what it might be like to have been born the member of a tribe in the Amazon rain forest. I've even thought what it might have been like to have been born a dog. But never a girl!! And I don't know why. Is it because I believe that although girls are so different from us boys, we're still so much the same in our basic humanness? Or is it because I don't know how to think what it's like to be a girl, because girls are so complicated and unpredictable in their un-boyness? Or is it because I'm just an insensitive, thick-headed boy?!

To return to Madonna's song that says it's O.K. for a girl to dress boy-like, but degrading for a boy to dress in girlie clothing. It's certainly true of skirts and dresses for guys. Unless your William Wallace, you're going to take heat in kilt. What about boys who wear their hair long and opt for an earring, though? I got remembering that when I was a college kid with a good head of hair, more than one person suggested to me and my friends that we looked like girls. I've never tried the earring though and have always wanted to. Maybe I'll experiment soon.

This blog draws no conclusions, which, with girl vs. boy questions, is often the case, I think.

Under the Spell of the Dreaded Alpaca

We visited my mother-in-law in Troy last week and decided on Thursday to take a little sojourn into Massachusetts and Vermont. After ascending and descending the twisting road on one helluva mountain, (if that mountain is unnamed, I would suggest "One Helluva" as a good possibility), we arrived in Williamstown, the quintessence of New England small college town beauty. If we in Chittenango are used to a wide range of fast food choices and too many auto part stores, the folks in Williamstown are used to ivy-colored buildings, a beautiful art museum, and equally beautifully theatre building, which is home to a world-renowned resident summer theatre.

After parking parallell-ly, on the one main business street, we walked along and checked out the stores. There weren't a lot of options. On our side there were real estate offices where the starter homes pictured in the window went for about $600,000 and antique shops. On the far side of the street, the Williams College store displayed sweatshirts and other collegiate paraphernalia. Near the end of this business but not busy thoroughfare, we entered a clothing/gift shop, the name of which I failed to note.

The first item I saw was a 3" blue ceramic pelican. It cost $60. I had a feeling that this was going to be one of those stores where I quietly chuckle at the outrageous prices. The man who ran the shop was dressed perfectly preppy, and though, he smiled when I complimented his place of business, I had the feeling that his raised chin suggested that he imagined himself living on a level, to which we did not rise.

Linda and her mother were looking at $700 sweaters. I went into the mens' clothing room. Oy! My goodness! Ay, chihuahua! What gorgeous clothes were displayed there. I first checked out a suede sport coat. I had one once. I paid $50 for it back in the late 60's. This one though, . . . the suede cloth was so light, so beautifully stitched, and the price. . .$1195. Good thing it wasn't my size. Next to it were two leather spring jackets. Beautiful, gorgeously made, and only $895. Thank goodness, neither were my size. Then I turned and saw what I know is the true essence of jacket. It was black alpaca, styled like a baseball or varsity jacket, with an amazing grey silk lining. Also, it was my size! I know that I looked at the jacket in the same way Joseph looked for the first time at his coat of many colors. I looked at the price tag. It had been marked down. It no longer cost $475 but had been lowered to $395. It was a bargain!

Just then Linda walked over. "Look at this jacket," I said.

She did and her mouth dropped open. "It's the most beautiful jacket I have ever seen," she said. "And it's your size."

Right then, we might have done one of those foolish, spur-of-the-moment things, and bought what surely is the most beautiful XL alpaca jacket in the entire world. Then, we both remembered--LUCY! Lucy, the labrador, with the great yellow shedding pelt. My $45 Old Navy pea coat is decorated with little yellow hairs that JUST WON"T COME OFF. Think what Lucy's fur would do to the most beautiful black alpaca baseball jacket ever known to man that just happened that day to be on sale. And in my size.

As Rod Serling used to say at the beginning of THE TWILIGHT ZONE, "I present for your consideration" another positive reason for dog ownership. I sometimes shake my head at the amount of money we spend for Lucy's special diet dog food that apparently doesn't work. But this year anyway, Lucy is $395 ahead.

P.S. The picture above is the sweet face of an alpaca. No alpacas were harmed in the creation of this blog.

Because we want to. . .

Phoebe Prince

November 24, 1994 - January 14, 2010

I've been thinking about this post since April 5, but I haven't felt like dealing with it, what with the warm weather, pleasant breezes, and other things not so pleasant. On the front page of that day's USA TODAY was the story, "A watershed case in school bullying?," which described the brief life and tragic death of Phoebe Prince. Fifteen year-old Phoebe and her family had emigrated from Ireland not long ago because of her dad's job. They settled in South Hadley, Mass. an affluent suburb of Springfield. There, Phoebe became the target of bullies, who made her life hell. Maybe it was because she was "an immigrant kid", or maybe it was because she dared to try to become a part of the school's social caste system by falling for a football player. For whatever reason, Phoebe became the target of that new kind of bully, described in the article as "attractive, athletic, and academically accomplished--and comfortable enough around adults to know what they can and can't get away with in school and online." It appears that the school bully is no longer nicknamed Butch and is cruel because of his personal low self-esteem. The new school bully's name is Jordan or Tripp or Ashley or Brooke, and he or she is cruel with a word, a stare, an action, a text, or a FACEBOOK posting. And the teachers and administrators they see everyday, don't recognize the viciousness behind the bright eyes and scrubbed faces.

For months life was awful for Phoebe, and despite at least two complaints to the school by her mom, Phoebe's bullying continued relentlessly. On a Thursday, Phoebe's life became a tragedy. She had been,

"hounded in the library, the cafeteria, and the hallways. . . After school,

as she was walking the few blocks to her family's apartment, one of

her tormentors threw a can of the Red Bull energy drink at her from the

window of a passing car.

"Phoebe's little sister found her in a stairwell, hanging from the scarf

she'd given her for Christmas."

I had to take a very deep breath after reading that for the first time. The article went on to posit four possible explanations for the new bully: "Less play time in kindergarten and pre-school," "more electronic communication," "TV and movies with the wrong message," and "parental ignorance." All, I'm sure, do contribute, but I wonder about the sense of entitlement that these new bullies must have. They live in a designer world with Abercrombie clothes and unlimited texting. They play the upstanding/sweet role so well that, most adults fall for it, and in fact, assure them that they are among the most special of people, possessing so much already, and certain to receive so much more. Is that why the new bullies feel they are entitled to belittle and punish those that they believe don't measure up? After all, what could be wrong with a little physical or mental brutality, when one of the NFL's higher paid quarterbacks believes he's entitled to be a sexual bully.

What bothers me tremendously is that I have no idea what can be done about this horror. Nine teenagers face criminal charges in the Prince case, but the charges were filed at the end of March, and I couldn't find anything about their disposition. Heidi Mitchell recently e-mailed me that bullying laws are being considered by the New Hampshire legislature. Can we legislate against this particular immorality? Ever since I blogged about Columbine, I have given a good deal thought to the widespread nature of bullying and the terrible toll it takes on vulnerable teens. It both angers and frustrates me. I also worry about the lack of remorse bullies seem to show. Soon after Phoebe Prince's suicide, one of the girls who harassed her so constantly, posted on FACEBOOK the single word, "Accomplished."

The Tale of THE SCARF

One of my favorite words is "ubiquitous." I like the way it sounds, and how it requires your tongue and lips to really work out in order for it to be spoken. "Ubiquitous" means "seeming to be everywhere at all times." A synonym is "omnipresent." From my appreciation of the word, comes "The Tale of THE SCARF."

Several years ago, a scarf featuring a classy plaid, a tartan, I believe, began to appear around people's necks. I wouldn't have taken note, but it wasn't just a couple of necks, but dozens and dozens of them. Then dozens and dozens more. I began pointing this out to Linda, and before long, we'd be nudging each other several times, no matter where we might have been, and saying under our breath, "There goes THE SCARF."

The ubiquitous nature of this neckwear showed itself almost frighteningly one winter night at the Carrier Dome. I was leaning against one of the walls on the lower concourse waiting for Linda, who was in the ladies room. In the minute or so, I stood there, THE SCARF went by 11 times. If I were paranoid, I might have thought of the classic film, INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS.

In an earlier post, I wrote about the ubiquitous nature of North Face apparel on college students. But THE SCARF knows no demographic. It's on kids and senior citizens and all in between. Also, THE SCARF is no longer just a scarf. I have seen this classy plaid on raincoats, pocketbooks, coat linings, driving caps, backpacks, and probably other items I have forgotten. From just THE SCARF, it has become the most ubiquitous of plaids. This plaid is pictured in the photo above. It's the second one from the left. If those of you who might read this have a moment, I would appreciate knowing if you do now or ever have owned THE SCARF in any of its incarnations.

Priceless!

Blaze the Wonder Horse had been hanging on a hook from our garage ceiling for a long time. Talk about an inappropriate place for a horse who had been riding the range under a variety of kids for nearly 60 years. Blaze, in fact, was my bouncing horse, when, in the late 40's and early 50's, my mom and dad and I lived in a tiny apartment behind my grandmother's house on Five Mile Line Road in Penfield, NY. My parents often tell me of the hours I spent riding Blaze and listening to the record the "Brave Cowboy Bill" over and over again. I seem to have a memory of climbing off Blaze's narrow back to start the record over, but that might be one of those memories that have been created by the retellings of others.

When I grew out of Blaze, other kid members of the Ellstrom clan rode him in my parents' basement. But for at least 5 years now, Blaze had been on a garage hook, and sometimes I thought I should take the old stallion to the road on garbage day. I just didn't have the heart, though. So yesterday, I decided to deliver Blaze to the Salvation Army in hopes that he would find a new home in some kids corral. I had just handed his reins over to the Salvation Army lady, when Mike Keville pulled up in his van, hopped out, and said, "You just turned a bouncy horse in. I'm going to get it for my kids." If I only had seen Mike a minute or so before, I could have delivered Blaze directly to the Kevilles. "Who did that horse belong to?" Mike asked. "He was mine," I said, and his name is "Blaze." "So his name shall remain," Mike assured me.

I drove over to gas station, filled up, got the car washed, and then stopped back at the Salvation Army just to make sure Mike had gotten the bouncy horse for his brood. "Yes, he did, " the lady told me. It was great. I was mourning giving up an old friend, and another friend bought him. The cost of one 60 year old bouncy horse named Blaze? You'll have to ask Mike. The knowledge that the Keville kids will be riding him into the future? Priceless!

Dreamcatcher

Having suddenly lost our wi-fi connection in our rented house on the river, I am blogging from the Olde Towne Coffee House in Port Royal this morning. I had intended on doing a serious blog today, but cyber-fate has intervened. Just as well. It remains gorgeous in the new South. I'll save the serious posting until we are home next week. Instead I'll share a photo of this natural dreamcatcher formed by a skinny branch and Spanish moss. According to Ojibwa legend, "Bad dreams would stay in the net, disappearing with the light of day. Good dreams would pass through and slide down to the sleeper." May all your dreams be good.

Police (long o, accent on the first syllable)

I have a serious blog topic I hope to deal with soon, but today was so gorgeous, I had to come up with something pleasant. After all, we spent several hours on the beautiful Hunting Island beach today, a wide strand of sand, winding off in both directions, lined by palmettos. Riding home from the beach, we passed restaurants with names like "Weezie's Seafood," "The Crab Shack," and "Gullah Grub." We also passed a bunch of deputy sheriff's cars lying in wait in hopes of laying a speeding ticket on some scofflaw. I thought about the police and the wonderful way some people talk around here, and an idea for a blog came to me. And though the idea has nothing to do with Hunting Island beach or South Carolina, for that matter, it does deal with the way different people talk around this country. It deals with something else, too--little devices used to trigger explosions called blasting caps!

At this point, my blog takes specific aim at people who grew up in the 50's and watched TV in the fifties. Other people, unless they're involved in the construction or destruction industries, may never have heard of a blasting cap. I have, because 50's television was peppered with public service announcements warning kids not to pick up or play with blasting caps, that they might find laying around construction sites. There were so many ads, in fact, that I soon believed there were misplaced blasting caps everywhere, just waiting to blow one of my feet off. Or worse, blind me. I and all my friends tiptoed carefully around any construction site we happened to be frequenting to "borrow" scrap wood to build our various forts with. These little things, which no one had ever seen, really terrified us. It was the Willie Mays' blasting cap commercial that really made us believe.

Willie, after all, was one of our heroes. He spoke in a wonderful Southern accent and pronounced police as "poe-lease" with the accent on the first syllable. I'll always remember Willie's warning, "If you see a blasting cap, do not touch it! Call a poe-lease o' fireman. Do not touch it. You may loose your hands o' eyes!" Willy's warning is a delightful memory which now makes me smile. Back then it scared the heck out of me.