The US presidential election results are good news in the sense that I feel proud that my country could elect a black president a mere 40 years after the horrid civil rights injustices in the 1960s. I must admit I thought it would be much longer before it could happen as there are still so many people in the States who find the thought absolutely unpalatable.
Unlike here in the UK, people in the States often hide their racism as they are aware it can be socially unacceptable and many find that sufficiently troubling. In the deep South, there are apparently still some Sheriffs and Judges who don a white conical mask and robe at night, although the Ku Klux Klan numbers have thankfully dwindled to a few thousand. (In the UK, I was struck upon arrival by how frequently white people openly included me in their racist jibes as though they could be confident that I was part of their exclusive club that agreed, for example, that the foreign woman who unwittingly walked to the front of the bus queue was an awful, thoughtless creature who should go back from whence she came…when I was foreign as well). It seemed possible that the Gallup polls in the States could come across many people saying they would support Obama who might tick a different box in the privacy of the voting booth where no one would judge their motivation. On the other hand, many members of ethnic minorities, who historically did not tend to vote, turned out in droves for this election, and Obama had plenty of support to balance out any racism. Plus it’s not all about race.
Nor is it necessarily about youth. Obama is about a year older than Bill Clinton was when he took office. And I did not vote against McCain because of his age. No, I valued his experience, and his age was only relevant in my mental risk assessment in terms of the likelihood of Vice Presidential candidate Sarah Palin, a ghastly woman, reaching the Oval Office herself. Unfortunately, and I don’t wish cruelly to write the gentleman off but, as he had been ill and was in his 70s, there was too big a chance for me. Normally, VPs disappear after the election and the average person on the street struggles even to name them. But this nightmare creature had a chance of taking the important office herself, if not during McCain’s term than once it had finished if he had been popular, as he had said he would only run for one term, and she would then carry on his legacy.
Whilst I have no doubt that much of the population voted for Obama because he represented—and repeatedly promised—change, and most people want change right now as the country is in an awful state, heading for recession and involved in deeply unpopular wars (though admittedly few are popular), I know of many of us who voted for Obama because we were voting against Palin. I have never felt so moved to vote as I was by my need to keep her out of the Oval Office.
What was McCain thinking? I imagine he thought it would help to have a woman on the bill. After Hilary Clinton lost to Obama at the primary stage, television adverts were run where some of her supporters advocated switching to support the Republicans, which was amazing. Perhaps McCain thought that tapping into that support with another woman candidate would push him ahead. But why Sarah Palin? I understand that he announced her as his VP candidate after only one meeting, and I often wondered whether he later regretted the choice, particularly when there were some other better qualified and surely more likeable candidates in the running. Palin initially had some sort of Princess Diana effect, drawing attention away from the man at her side and working the press into a frenzy about this new entity in Fifth Avenue outfits who talked about being a hockey mom, a first in high-powered political speeches.
But what was the point of talking like that? Certainly it was unexpected to hear this level of political speech refer to hockey moms and lipstick. An oft quoted passage in her debate with the future Democratic Vice President Joe Biden was her bit about going to any kids’ Saturday soccer game and asking anyone there what they thought about the economy etc today, and they’d say they were scared. No kidding. Where does that get us on the issues? It just lured the less aware into thinking that she was one of them so that her side deserved the vote, but clearly there were not enough of them.
I couldn’t help worrying that Sarah Palin in the White House would see her selling off our national parks, striving to lift any protection of endangered species and declaring everything fit for the fun of shooting them, making guns even easier to get hold of with fewer controls, banning evolution being taught in science classrooms as she was a firm Creationist, and reversing Roe vs Wade. Her environmental stance is dreadful, and having a strong member of the mighty National Rifle Association in such a powerful position would be too terrifying. (I’m not a big fan of Michael Moore, who surprisingly claims to be a lifelong NRA member, but do recommend his film Bowling for Columbine for getting a feel about the ease of getting guns—even as a free gift upon opening a bank account--and getting some insight into the heart of the NRA as they criticise rally-style the Denver mayor for asking them not to hold their annual gathering there 10 days after the horrific Columbine shootings; Moore has posted a transcript of the late Charlton Heston’s speech that day here .)
Palin was criticised for having her husband sit in on private cabinet meetings in Alaska when he had no locus or right to do so and for copying gubernatorial emails on official business to him, apparently even those involving labour negotiations. She has little experience in politics or of the world, having only just got her passport in 2006 and taking only a couple overseas trips (if you include Canada) and confused an answer about the VP’s role in the Senate. She was also found guilty of having abused her position, specifically violating a state ethics law prohibiting public officials from using their office for personal gain, when she sacked a senior state official who refused to dismiss her sister’s ex-husband from his job as a state trooper during their bitter custody battle.
Basically, Palin stands for most things that I stand against. I have been regularly horrified by her utterings and stances. In addition, a new picture emerged in my mind of her finding herself wildly out of her depth and crumbling in the White House, with even husband Todd unable to run things for her, and people noting in history that we’d tried a female president and she couldn’t cope so we won’t go there again.
I know I was not the only one who made it a point to vote against Palin. Still, I have real concerns about Obama. He is a great orator who dazzles people, sucking him into his rhetoric even if there is actually little substance in it, and it is so easy to sing the song of change at such a miserable time, but how will he actually implement it? He has only been in the Government for a remarkably short time, taking his seat in the Senate when the opposing candidate, who was ahead in the polls, pulled out after a scandal. During his short time in the Senate, he has not, I understand, served on any Committees nor sponsored any Bills. He has never been in the military yet he will be Chief of the Armed Forces, and I worry about his level of understanding of what it means to be a soldier. He is remarkably inexperienced. He has some worrying connections, such as the Reverend Jeremiah Wright, whose “inflammatory rhetoric" (to quote Obama’s own aides) included the assertion that the United States brought on the 9/11 attacks with its own "terrorism" and America should be damned. His wife introduced them, and she has always made me uncomfortable, staring out with a sullen, arrogant expression and always seeming to wear a defiant attitude, which I hope is not driven by her radical beliefs. I know many people who worry that she herself is a racist, which might not be true, but I oddly find myself hoping she takes more of a traditional role of supporting her husband and family rather than getting strongly involved in politics in a Hilary Clinton fashion.
But Obama is a prize compared to Palin, and I feel inclined to believe that he has the sense to spend the next few months gathering some very sensible advisors around him who can fill in the gaps of his inexperience and help him plot the path to achieving some of the change that he promised. Surely, we dare to think, things can only get better? McCain made a gracious speech conceding defeat, and I hope it is true that he does not intend to sit around regretting what might have been, though I disagree that the failure is solely his own. It is, in any case, a momentous and historic day, one that has even kept my fellow Londoners enthralled (many of my colleagues were up all night following the results whereas I got a good night's sleep). And I am not unhappy.
Thursday, 6 November 2008
Monday, 13 October 2008
Surviving a Dinner with Only One Gaffe
I recently attended a dinner at Broadgate Tower, the new 35-storey British Land development at 201 Bishopsgate that was only recently completed and isn’t actually opened yet. It was an interesting concept, although it did involve the guests clambering over a moat-like pit to reach the pavement by the building, then traipsing through passages amongst the endless hoarding, loud footsteps echoing amongst all the wood, searching for the entrance to the building, but after that there were plenty of staff with walkie talkies to point us in the right direction. The building has been topped out but is not yet open and work continues on the interior.
As I have these useless feet of a 90-year-old (see http://braintracings.blogspot.com/search/label/feet), I was wearing my day flats from work (as opposed to the nastier trainers I use to get there) beneath my evening dress, planning to change them in the ladies’ room as usual before checking my bag. As we moved up one of the glassy escalators lined with bright coloured light--one escalator giving off a purple hue, another in green—it occurred to me that there was unlikely, in this unfinished office building, to be the usual luxurious facility as in the Livery Halls and other venues in which we generally attended dinners, but surely they must have something. However, as we came out of the lift onto the 14th floor with a few other guests, we found ourselves in the middle of the reception already, a small jazz band playing and the guests milling about a few feet from the elevator. As I quickly crouched down on the floor and opened the overnight bag into which I had crammed my discarded suit and various things used for my transformation ablutions, reaching for my painful high heeled dress shoes in lieu of the mucky dull ballet flats, I was reminded of an episode of American sitcom King of Queens where Doug comes straight from work to his wife’s work reception at her boss’ fancy Manhattan flat, trying to change out of his delivery driver uniform in the lift as he’d had no other options, only to find that the lift opened directly into the penthouse flat and he was literally caught with his pants down. At least my situation was nothing like that.
The cloakroom was just a table with people taking things from you and putting them behind them in an unsafe way, but what else could have been arranged in what was a non-fitted out would-be office? I had to be sure my fellow guests were trustworthy and I doubt any of them would have wanted my suit and shoes, and no doubt the contents of my handbag would have had them all laughing, given that they were all enormously successful people and I am but a plebling.
I had had a brief scare in picking the dress for this occasion, and I normally didn’t bother. That is, I don’t normally attend such things nude, but because it is a work dinner, I don’t have the freedom to dress in some wonderfully fashionable number, and must dress in a subdued fashion acknowledging unspoken rules such as not revealing my shoulders (God forbid). I also have a self-imposed ban on colour, having once attended a dinner where I was one of about five women in an endless sea of dinner jackets, so I felt so fluorescent in my bright red vintage Chanel silk evening suit, all I wanted was to borrow a black jacket from a fellow guest and wrap myself away in it. So normally I sensibly dig something dull out of my closet of formal outfits, of which I seem to have millions, and of course most are rarely worn, and I often just wear a dressy black jacket with a dressy black skirt, and then I can tick the box and turn up not nude and not noticeable.
But I decided I was tired of attending these events in a dreary outfit that even I don’t like, dressing down and lacking even more confidence than usual because I look such a dull, sombre mess. So I searched for at least a pretty but still subtle and unracy black dress, and surprisingly could find nothing of the sort. Exasperated, at the last minute, I settled for a Phase Eight number in the John Lewis dressing room that I almost hadn’t tried on because it looked, on the hanger, like a stuffy old lady’s dress. But on the body, so to speak, it was fairly flattering even to me, certainly there was nothing old lady about it, but I thought it would still pass at a work-related dinner as it covered much more than any of the other dresses, but it didn’t look dull as it was all black lace and beading over a beige background, fitted and tea length.
Unfortunately, when I tried it on again at home the night before the dinner to sort out what accessories I would need, I realised with horror that the beige background caused me to look, from even a slight distance, as though I had taken a piece of black see-through lace, wrapped it tightly around my nude body, and then walked into a formal dinner. I was a bit panicky the whole next day, as I really thought such a daring lace-wearing move would surely be frowned upon….And I took my own black jacket to cover the whole thing so that I wouldn’t have to spend the whole dinner wishing I could borrow one from one of the male guests. Fortunately, once I had it on, a colleague approved it as looking fine so I didn't hide beneath a jacket, and it was true that, in the glare of fluorescent lighting rather than the dim energy bulb that I used at home, it was clear that the background under the lace of the dress bore no relation to my skin colour. Or so I hope; perhaps the whole evening had an accidental Emperor’s New Clothes theme…..
In any case, it was a surprisingly enjoyable occasion given the company; that’s what makes these things. I don’t like them; I’m inherently shy and would always, always, always rather be at home sitting on my sofa reading and watching the telly. But I’m so used to chatting my way through these now, I know I can cope these days. And it was kind of someone to invite me.
The views were lovely, looking onto the Gherkin, Tower 42, and smaller buildings all lit up wonderfully at night from our 14th floor of another tall building. One unexpected view I enjoyed was looking down on the buildings in the immediate surroundings, most of which had sports facilities on the roof that you would never normally see. We were looking down at numerous football games being played between company leagues, I suspect, and it was wonderful to think of this hidden world that no one ever catches a glimpse of, as it usually towers above us when we rush past at pavement level to catch our trains.
One of the speakers was Sir Simon Milton, the Deputy Mayor for Policy and Planning, and it occurred to me it was the first time I had heard someone dole out the Mayor’s policies whilst referring to ‘Boris’ rather than ‘Ken’, and it all sounded rather refreshing really, and as though someone who was carrying out consultations might actually take account of the result before imposing his will on the city anyway. We shall see. The speeches were interesting, although they seem less so now that I have learned a colleague had Clive Anderson as a guest speaker at her recent dinner.
At my wonderful table, I was flanked by impressive architects, generally company director/founder level, and one was also an LSE professor. They reeled off the projects in which they had been involved, which seemed to account for most of the major developments going on in the City today. One had been involved in planning “Stratford City”, part of the 2012 Olympic site, and he felt confident that things were moving along so well that we wouldn’t, as I had worried aloud, be held to ransom by the builders nearer the time, given that there was no room for missing the deadline.
Both diners immediately beside me were delightfully easy to talk with, perfect gentlemen, and made the evening much less terrifying than these things always promise to be when I don’t have the freedom to run to Cannon Street right after work to escape to my quiet life at home. My only fear is that I think I inadvertently let one of my dinner companions think that I fancied him. I didn’t though. He was perfectly lovely, and I have no idea why but we ended up talking about the fact that I was single, which I saw as presenting how great it was that I was independent and could do my own thing and go to any exhibition, theatre or concert I wanted, sometimes inviting friends, sometimes going at my own pace. He obviously saw it as a desperately sad position to be in and sweetly ventured, as my uncle once did, to comment about how he had acquaintances who had made happy connections through internet dating. Apart from expressing my slight fear of stalkers and other creeps you might meet that way (and I’m not saying it doesn’t work for some but I don't think I'll be interested 'til I'm desperately alone at the age of 80), I pointed out that it would be like false advertising since I wasn’t looking for someone. Well, he concluded, I was my own person, which was good.
Wasn’t he his own person, I asked, as he seemed very much to be so. “Well, I’ve got a wife and children”, he responded. This threw me, as it seemed he must then be saying that you erase your identity as an individual and give up absolutely everything when you marry and have children. This is one of my worries, and I pondered this disturbing development for a bit, no doubt with a stressed look on my face, and did something I often do: I forgot I was in the middle of a conversation and lost myself in thought about one element of it. Naturally, this caused said gentleman to look up to see why I had gone silent, only to find me with a twisted and possibly vacant expression on my face, or perhaps with a glazed smile plastered across it, at a time when a normal person would be saying things like, “So, how old are your children?” But I have zero interest in children anyway and was too lost in thought to remember to be polite.
I later realised the effect of all this was no doubt for him, after he announced he had a wife and kids and I went silent, to think to himself, “She’s gutted that I’m taken! She wants me and she's heartbroken!” Oh dear. Well, I suppose he’s used to his students thinking as much, and it wouldn’t do for me to email a near stranger after a dinner an even more twisted message saying, “Can I just clarify that…..”, and I think I’ll survive the embarrassment. Note to self: Stop disappearing inside your head in the middle of conversations. I spend way too much time in my head as it is, and am constantly being told off for “blanking” people on the street as I apparently, time and again, look directly into the face of a waving friend or colleague whilst I’m in major Dolly Daydream mode and walk straight past them, leaving them looking rejected amidst a crowd of strangers who noticed them being passed by.
Oh well, another dinner survived, another pang of guilt for saying so when the dear hostess was so kind to invite me yet I end up dreading these things, but frankly, unusually, this was one of the better ones, largely because of the company (despite my gaffe) and the lovely view. If only one could find a taxi in the City at night…seems they’ve all been recalled!
As I have these useless feet of a 90-year-old (see http://braintracings.blogspot.com/search/label/feet), I was wearing my day flats from work (as opposed to the nastier trainers I use to get there) beneath my evening dress, planning to change them in the ladies’ room as usual before checking my bag. As we moved up one of the glassy escalators lined with bright coloured light--one escalator giving off a purple hue, another in green—it occurred to me that there was unlikely, in this unfinished office building, to be the usual luxurious facility as in the Livery Halls and other venues in which we generally attended dinners, but surely they must have something. However, as we came out of the lift onto the 14th floor with a few other guests, we found ourselves in the middle of the reception already, a small jazz band playing and the guests milling about a few feet from the elevator. As I quickly crouched down on the floor and opened the overnight bag into which I had crammed my discarded suit and various things used for my transformation ablutions, reaching for my painful high heeled dress shoes in lieu of the mucky dull ballet flats, I was reminded of an episode of American sitcom King of Queens where Doug comes straight from work to his wife’s work reception at her boss’ fancy Manhattan flat, trying to change out of his delivery driver uniform in the lift as he’d had no other options, only to find that the lift opened directly into the penthouse flat and he was literally caught with his pants down. At least my situation was nothing like that.
The cloakroom was just a table with people taking things from you and putting them behind them in an unsafe way, but what else could have been arranged in what was a non-fitted out would-be office? I had to be sure my fellow guests were trustworthy and I doubt any of them would have wanted my suit and shoes, and no doubt the contents of my handbag would have had them all laughing, given that they were all enormously successful people and I am but a plebling.
I had had a brief scare in picking the dress for this occasion, and I normally didn’t bother. That is, I don’t normally attend such things nude, but because it is a work dinner, I don’t have the freedom to dress in some wonderfully fashionable number, and must dress in a subdued fashion acknowledging unspoken rules such as not revealing my shoulders (God forbid). I also have a self-imposed ban on colour, having once attended a dinner where I was one of about five women in an endless sea of dinner jackets, so I felt so fluorescent in my bright red vintage Chanel silk evening suit, all I wanted was to borrow a black jacket from a fellow guest and wrap myself away in it. So normally I sensibly dig something dull out of my closet of formal outfits, of which I seem to have millions, and of course most are rarely worn, and I often just wear a dressy black jacket with a dressy black skirt, and then I can tick the box and turn up not nude and not noticeable.
But I decided I was tired of attending these events in a dreary outfit that even I don’t like, dressing down and lacking even more confidence than usual because I look such a dull, sombre mess. So I searched for at least a pretty but still subtle and unracy black dress, and surprisingly could find nothing of the sort. Exasperated, at the last minute, I settled for a Phase Eight number in the John Lewis dressing room that I almost hadn’t tried on because it looked, on the hanger, like a stuffy old lady’s dress. But on the body, so to speak, it was fairly flattering even to me, certainly there was nothing old lady about it, but I thought it would still pass at a work-related dinner as it covered much more than any of the other dresses, but it didn’t look dull as it was all black lace and beading over a beige background, fitted and tea length.
Unfortunately, when I tried it on again at home the night before the dinner to sort out what accessories I would need, I realised with horror that the beige background caused me to look, from even a slight distance, as though I had taken a piece of black see-through lace, wrapped it tightly around my nude body, and then walked into a formal dinner. I was a bit panicky the whole next day, as I really thought such a daring lace-wearing move would surely be frowned upon….And I took my own black jacket to cover the whole thing so that I wouldn’t have to spend the whole dinner wishing I could borrow one from one of the male guests. Fortunately, once I had it on, a colleague approved it as looking fine so I didn't hide beneath a jacket, and it was true that, in the glare of fluorescent lighting rather than the dim energy bulb that I used at home, it was clear that the background under the lace of the dress bore no relation to my skin colour. Or so I hope; perhaps the whole evening had an accidental Emperor’s New Clothes theme…..
In any case, it was a surprisingly enjoyable occasion given the company; that’s what makes these things. I don’t like them; I’m inherently shy and would always, always, always rather be at home sitting on my sofa reading and watching the telly. But I’m so used to chatting my way through these now, I know I can cope these days. And it was kind of someone to invite me.
The views were lovely, looking onto the Gherkin, Tower 42, and smaller buildings all lit up wonderfully at night from our 14th floor of another tall building. One unexpected view I enjoyed was looking down on the buildings in the immediate surroundings, most of which had sports facilities on the roof that you would never normally see. We were looking down at numerous football games being played between company leagues, I suspect, and it was wonderful to think of this hidden world that no one ever catches a glimpse of, as it usually towers above us when we rush past at pavement level to catch our trains.
One of the speakers was Sir Simon Milton, the Deputy Mayor for Policy and Planning, and it occurred to me it was the first time I had heard someone dole out the Mayor’s policies whilst referring to ‘Boris’ rather than ‘Ken’, and it all sounded rather refreshing really, and as though someone who was carrying out consultations might actually take account of the result before imposing his will on the city anyway. We shall see. The speeches were interesting, although they seem less so now that I have learned a colleague had Clive Anderson as a guest speaker at her recent dinner.
At my wonderful table, I was flanked by impressive architects, generally company director/founder level, and one was also an LSE professor. They reeled off the projects in which they had been involved, which seemed to account for most of the major developments going on in the City today. One had been involved in planning “Stratford City”, part of the 2012 Olympic site, and he felt confident that things were moving along so well that we wouldn’t, as I had worried aloud, be held to ransom by the builders nearer the time, given that there was no room for missing the deadline.
Both diners immediately beside me were delightfully easy to talk with, perfect gentlemen, and made the evening much less terrifying than these things always promise to be when I don’t have the freedom to run to Cannon Street right after work to escape to my quiet life at home. My only fear is that I think I inadvertently let one of my dinner companions think that I fancied him. I didn’t though. He was perfectly lovely, and I have no idea why but we ended up talking about the fact that I was single, which I saw as presenting how great it was that I was independent and could do my own thing and go to any exhibition, theatre or concert I wanted, sometimes inviting friends, sometimes going at my own pace. He obviously saw it as a desperately sad position to be in and sweetly ventured, as my uncle once did, to comment about how he had acquaintances who had made happy connections through internet dating. Apart from expressing my slight fear of stalkers and other creeps you might meet that way (and I’m not saying it doesn’t work for some but I don't think I'll be interested 'til I'm desperately alone at the age of 80), I pointed out that it would be like false advertising since I wasn’t looking for someone. Well, he concluded, I was my own person, which was good.
Wasn’t he his own person, I asked, as he seemed very much to be so. “Well, I’ve got a wife and children”, he responded. This threw me, as it seemed he must then be saying that you erase your identity as an individual and give up absolutely everything when you marry and have children. This is one of my worries, and I pondered this disturbing development for a bit, no doubt with a stressed look on my face, and did something I often do: I forgot I was in the middle of a conversation and lost myself in thought about one element of it. Naturally, this caused said gentleman to look up to see why I had gone silent, only to find me with a twisted and possibly vacant expression on my face, or perhaps with a glazed smile plastered across it, at a time when a normal person would be saying things like, “So, how old are your children?” But I have zero interest in children anyway and was too lost in thought to remember to be polite.
I later realised the effect of all this was no doubt for him, after he announced he had a wife and kids and I went silent, to think to himself, “She’s gutted that I’m taken! She wants me and she's heartbroken!” Oh dear. Well, I suppose he’s used to his students thinking as much, and it wouldn’t do for me to email a near stranger after a dinner an even more twisted message saying, “Can I just clarify that…..”, and I think I’ll survive the embarrassment. Note to self: Stop disappearing inside your head in the middle of conversations. I spend way too much time in my head as it is, and am constantly being told off for “blanking” people on the street as I apparently, time and again, look directly into the face of a waving friend or colleague whilst I’m in major Dolly Daydream mode and walk straight past them, leaving them looking rejected amidst a crowd of strangers who noticed them being passed by.
Oh well, another dinner survived, another pang of guilt for saying so when the dear hostess was so kind to invite me yet I end up dreading these things, but frankly, unusually, this was one of the better ones, largely because of the company (despite my gaffe) and the lovely view. If only one could find a taxi in the City at night…seems they’ve all been recalled!
Friday, 10 October 2008
Vertigo and Cheeky Girls (ugh)
Sorry for the long break owing to sadness, a quick trip to the States, over a month of debilitating illness, then returning to my old ways of working all the time, but with the new post-illness twist of falling asleep as soon as I get home, as though I’m 93. I have during this period scribbled down a couple things most days that I wanted to get off my chest on the blog, but never managed to put finger to keyboard as I was too busy accidentally snoozing on the sofa to function like a normal person. But I’m working on improving and trying to stay awake past the early bird special at the local cafe….
During the illness, I was trapped in my bed and unable to move my head even slightly most of the time, which meant I was forced to listen to a lot of shocking dross on the telly, which was always on for company and to kill the boredom, but I rarely could manage to change channels or focus on the visual part of the medium. This meant that some of the programmes I had not long before cursed as being the stupidest thing I’d ever heard of now filled my room and was, for a short period, my only friend. I fear that one such example, the one that most sticks in my mind, was Living’s Living with the Cheeky Girls. I thought it was a series but understand it might have been just the one programme, which was plenty, following docusoap-style Transylvania twin singers Gabriela and Monica Irimia, who live in the UK with their stage mum and English stepfather and spend a lot of time trying on sexy clothes their mum has bought them as stage outfits and practicing their self-choreographed dance routines for whatever crowds are out there vying for their talents. I thought there was something intensely creepy about the fact that the stepfather was their official photographer and spent a lot of time with the girls as they found ways to pose even more sexily on a beach or behind doors in their home; it just seemed somehow disturbing.
More disturbing was the weedy romance with Liberal Democrat MP Lembit Öpik, and most of all the fact that he allowed the cameras to follow them, even to Rome where they held hands in a restaurant and talked like gushy illiterate teenagers about their love for each other, and we later learn that he had proposed to her that night, at least having the decency to have the cameras switched off for that.
This led to a lot of disharmony in Gabriela’s home as her mother was horrified that Lembit didn’t have the courtesy to come ask for Gabriela’s hand first, and everyone seemed to think Lembit was rushing things. It didn’t surprise me; he was a giddy nerd throughout, saying things like he couldn’t believe that someone like her would bother with someone like him, giving off an air that he was going to grab her and sweep her off to somewhere secure before she gave the situation too much thought.
He does seem to like exposure as part of a couple. I remember seeing him and then fiancée weathergirl Siân Lloyd appearing on Rob Brydon’s spoof chat show, The Keith Barrett Show, and I hear that he went on the Al Murray programme with this second (I assume it’s only the second) fiancée. In any case, I understand (from the Guardian, can you believe) that they have now broken up as well. It’s funny how we sometimes judge someone by the company they keep….there was a time I thought he was more geekily charming than painfully embarrassing.
In any case, as I wasn’t able to read or write at the time of my illness but was full of thoughts, I ended up dictating them (into the excellent tiny Sony IC recorder ICO-UX80), which was really just talking to myself, wasn’t it. Everything’s now out of date anyway, but I don’t think I need to play back my voice from a dizzy mind spitting bitter bile about any television programmes that were bound to be dross.
And if anyone’s curious, said illness was labyrinthitis, also known as vertigo. It’s not just a great Hitchcock film (Labyrinthitis starring James Stewart), and it’s not really another name for fear of heights, but it’s a feeling of standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower and leaning way over the railing, perhaps after consuming a pint of whisky that made you queasy rather than fearless, so that the world seems to be swirling around you and you’re gripped with a sense of terror, when really all you are doing is moving your head a bit or, God forbid, trying to stand up. The illness can’t be treated, you just have to wait it out, and apparently once you get it, it will recur, so I have that to look forward to. But there are many worse things. And the doctors can prescribe a drug that helps curb the dizziness, prochlorperazine maleate, which was a good friend in the hard times. It is also used to treat schizophrenia and psychosis, so I like to think that, if I had any of that hanging around at the time, I managed to tackle that, too, in a sort of two-for-one deal.
A slight legacy of the vertigo is that I am always every so slightly dizzy, particularly if I turn my head too quickly, suddenly decide to twirl around the office, or dare to watch one of these appalling trendily shot documentaries that are determined to disorient and discourage any viewers by zooming in and out to show someone’s nostril hairs whilst they speak, and then spinning around like, as they say, a chimp on roller skates before settling the camera, out of focus, on the left tip of the left eyebrow of the speaker in extreme close-up. Riding in a car is also a terrible problem, as I recently learned when a friend drove me from near Watford in Hertfordshire to Charing Cross after a party. I was so unbelievably nauseous, I had to lean my internally spinning body against a brochure rack in the station, praying for my train to come soon so I could get settled in a seat and stop accidentally sliding down the brochure rack towards the food-covered floor.
After a short time in this state, I noticed two day-glo jackets of police or pseudo-police (ie Community Support Officers) stationed firmly in place to my right, all four eyes fixed on me for quite some time. I’ve never been sized up as a lawbreaker before, so this initially puzzled me. I then realised that they must have mistaken my suffering from shocking motion sickness for being one of those stupid binge drinking women who could barely stand up after a night on the town. Though these days, those women don’t head home before midnight (indeed, as I finally boarded the last train home, several glammed up young girls got off the train en route to some all-night clubs, no doubt). I was severely insulted, of course, although I suppose the police peeps were largely trying to ensure I didn’t just wander off with some stranger in my ‘drunken’ state. Aw, how sweet.
During the illness, I was trapped in my bed and unable to move my head even slightly most of the time, which meant I was forced to listen to a lot of shocking dross on the telly, which was always on for company and to kill the boredom, but I rarely could manage to change channels or focus on the visual part of the medium. This meant that some of the programmes I had not long before cursed as being the stupidest thing I’d ever heard of now filled my room and was, for a short period, my only friend. I fear that one such example, the one that most sticks in my mind, was Living’s Living with the Cheeky Girls. I thought it was a series but understand it might have been just the one programme, which was plenty, following docusoap-style Transylvania twin singers Gabriela and Monica Irimia, who live in the UK with their stage mum and English stepfather and spend a lot of time trying on sexy clothes their mum has bought them as stage outfits and practicing their self-choreographed dance routines for whatever crowds are out there vying for their talents. I thought there was something intensely creepy about the fact that the stepfather was their official photographer and spent a lot of time with the girls as they found ways to pose even more sexily on a beach or behind doors in their home; it just seemed somehow disturbing.
More disturbing was the weedy romance with Liberal Democrat MP Lembit Öpik, and most of all the fact that he allowed the cameras to follow them, even to Rome where they held hands in a restaurant and talked like gushy illiterate teenagers about their love for each other, and we later learn that he had proposed to her that night, at least having the decency to have the cameras switched off for that.
This led to a lot of disharmony in Gabriela’s home as her mother was horrified that Lembit didn’t have the courtesy to come ask for Gabriela’s hand first, and everyone seemed to think Lembit was rushing things. It didn’t surprise me; he was a giddy nerd throughout, saying things like he couldn’t believe that someone like her would bother with someone like him, giving off an air that he was going to grab her and sweep her off to somewhere secure before she gave the situation too much thought.
He does seem to like exposure as part of a couple. I remember seeing him and then fiancée weathergirl Siân Lloyd appearing on Rob Brydon’s spoof chat show, The Keith Barrett Show, and I hear that he went on the Al Murray programme with this second (I assume it’s only the second) fiancée. In any case, I understand (from the Guardian, can you believe) that they have now broken up as well. It’s funny how we sometimes judge someone by the company they keep….there was a time I thought he was more geekily charming than painfully embarrassing.
In any case, as I wasn’t able to read or write at the time of my illness but was full of thoughts, I ended up dictating them (into the excellent tiny Sony IC recorder ICO-UX80), which was really just talking to myself, wasn’t it. Everything’s now out of date anyway, but I don’t think I need to play back my voice from a dizzy mind spitting bitter bile about any television programmes that were bound to be dross.
And if anyone’s curious, said illness was labyrinthitis, also known as vertigo. It’s not just a great Hitchcock film (Labyrinthitis starring James Stewart), and it’s not really another name for fear of heights, but it’s a feeling of standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower and leaning way over the railing, perhaps after consuming a pint of whisky that made you queasy rather than fearless, so that the world seems to be swirling around you and you’re gripped with a sense of terror, when really all you are doing is moving your head a bit or, God forbid, trying to stand up. The illness can’t be treated, you just have to wait it out, and apparently once you get it, it will recur, so I have that to look forward to. But there are many worse things. And the doctors can prescribe a drug that helps curb the dizziness, prochlorperazine maleate, which was a good friend in the hard times. It is also used to treat schizophrenia and psychosis, so I like to think that, if I had any of that hanging around at the time, I managed to tackle that, too, in a sort of two-for-one deal.
A slight legacy of the vertigo is that I am always every so slightly dizzy, particularly if I turn my head too quickly, suddenly decide to twirl around the office, or dare to watch one of these appalling trendily shot documentaries that are determined to disorient and discourage any viewers by zooming in and out to show someone’s nostril hairs whilst they speak, and then spinning around like, as they say, a chimp on roller skates before settling the camera, out of focus, on the left tip of the left eyebrow of the speaker in extreme close-up. Riding in a car is also a terrible problem, as I recently learned when a friend drove me from near Watford in Hertfordshire to Charing Cross after a party. I was so unbelievably nauseous, I had to lean my internally spinning body against a brochure rack in the station, praying for my train to come soon so I could get settled in a seat and stop accidentally sliding down the brochure rack towards the food-covered floor.
After a short time in this state, I noticed two day-glo jackets of police or pseudo-police (ie Community Support Officers) stationed firmly in place to my right, all four eyes fixed on me for quite some time. I’ve never been sized up as a lawbreaker before, so this initially puzzled me. I then realised that they must have mistaken my suffering from shocking motion sickness for being one of those stupid binge drinking women who could barely stand up after a night on the town. Though these days, those women don’t head home before midnight (indeed, as I finally boarded the last train home, several glammed up young girls got off the train en route to some all-night clubs, no doubt). I was severely insulted, of course, although I suppose the police peeps were largely trying to ensure I didn’t just wander off with some stranger in my ‘drunken’ state. Aw, how sweet.
Friday, 13 June 2008
A Sad and Empty Home....
It is with nearly unbearable sadness that I must announce the passing of my most precious 
Darryl, who has brought me endless cheer and looked after me beautifully well over the past 19 years.
Darryl, who was born in my bedroom in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, in 1989, died on 2 June in my lounge in London, England, at the human
equivalent age of 93. He was a Pewter Persian, born to my Blue Persian called ‘Boop’ and my mother’s Chinchilla Persian called ‘Baby Boy’, who was lovely but a bit slow in every way. Darryl inherited most of his dad’s looks but fortunately his mother’s smarts, and immediately set out to embrace life for all its beauty and fun.
He had amazing patience and enormous calm and dealt wonderfully with whatever cards were dealt to him. As he grew older, he time and again scared the life out of me with illnesses that made me think that was it for him—particularly recently getting e.coli in the bladder and then a dangerous reaction to the drug that treated it—but managed to surprise me and all the vets with his tremendous will to survive, always pulling through and often purring on the way. One vet suggested Darryl had got hold of a medical dictionary and was working his way through each page, throwing us all new challenges. But he always impressed everyone and beat the 
struggles that challenged him.
In the end, he was patiently taking medicine to control his seizures and steroids to give his
weakening muscles a bit more strength, and he was running my daily schedule precisely without reference to any timepiece, just some gentle but effective murmurs to prod me awake and to announce mealtimes. He needed and deserved a lot of loving attention and nursing care in the 
end, which I was all too willing to give, and he gave a lot back. The fact that he was 100% chirpy, delightful and charming as always on the morning that he died is heartbreaking, as I had to face the fact that, despite his amazing ability to beat illness time and time again, his rear legs were failing to such a degree that he could not really cope when I was at work. I did manage to take the last week to be at home looking after him, catering to his every whim in the end and spoiling him rotten, mostly with love but also with former Christmas-only treats like chicken. He continued to prove that he was the dearest heart and cutest sleeper in the world, and whenever I cried at what we were facing, his reassuring purr kicked in and he did what he could to cheer me. Sadly, he’s not here now to help me cope with this ultra-horrific void….
Darryl, who has brought me endless cheer and looked after me beautifully well over the past 19 years.Darryl, who was born in my bedroom in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, in 1989, died on 2 June in my lounge in London, England, at the human
equivalent age of 93. He was a Pewter Persian, born to my Blue Persian called ‘Boop’ and my mother’s Chinchilla Persian called ‘Baby Boy’, who was lovely but a bit slow in every way. Darryl inherited most of his dad’s looks but fortunately his mother’s smarts, and immediately set out to embrace life for all its beauty and fun. 
His energy was a marvel, and my friends learned quickly to tolerate the constant jangling noise in the background as Darryl continually batted a toy octopus dangling from a string tied to the refrigerator door handle, ringing its little bell for literally hours until pausing only to let out a yowl to inform us that he’d hit the toy so hard, he needed a taller mammal to retrieve it from the top of the stove. When he took a break from all that play, he would fall asleep in one of my shoes--something he carried on trying to do later in life ‘til he realised it wasn’t as comfortable if most of you didn’t fit inside—or between cushions of the sofa, usually upside down as though he’d accidentally fallen there and nodded off on the way
down. He loved everyone and everything, and seeing a sitting human or another sleeping cat was, to Darryl, in invitation to go crash immediately beside them or upon them. He carried on an intense fondness for lap-sitting as an adult; finding a refusal incomprehensible, he would make a determined move for a lap even if it were filled with a tray of dinner at the time.
This irresistible vivaciousness twisted fate when I could not bear to leave him. He was the runt
of a litter of three, two of whom looked so similar, I called them ‘Darryl’ collectively, since I did not intend to keep any of the litter (an allusion to the sitcom Newhart, which had three hillbilly brother characters, two who were mute and the other who announced them every time they walked into a room: “Hi, I’m Larry, this is my brother Darryl, and this is my other brother Darryl.”) I carried on calling him “Baby Darryl” throughout his life. (He is in the foreground here.)
After a difficult six months in quarantine with my older Chocolate Persian Tava, whom he
worshipped like a big brother but who, perhaps just like a big brother, liked his space and saw Darryl as a bit of an over-enthusiastic pest, he joined me in London following my marriage, and was just as overjoyed as I was when freedom took hold and we moved to our current flat. Again, visitors had to adjust, this time that they could only ever see 75% of the television screen as the rest was covered by Darryl’s fluffy head. An ardent television aficionado for many years, Darryl’s favourite sport was drag racing, though he was frustrated at not being able to capture the cars when he reached around the side of the telly once they veered off screen.
An indoor cat, his prey was not just the myriad helpless toys lying around (and fascinating bubbles and playing light tag) but flies, which he would astonish me by capturing by leaping suddenly about eight feet in the air with 100% success. Fortunately, he never tried the same trick with wasps. He’d do a great imitation of a bolder lion every time he yawned, squeezing his ears together as his mouth nearly roared.
Darryl was so tidy that he couldn’t wait for Tava to leave the litter before barging in to go make
sure everything was covered up to his high standards, and fortunately he later bore with great dignity the consequences of being an elderly gentleman with cystitis, arthritis and weak back legs, a tricky combination if you need to get places quickly. (Mind you, he never let that stop him, and barely seemed to notice if he fell over, as he’d pull himself back up and carry on.) When Tava in 2005 had a shocking, massive seizure that left his organs failing, Darryl absolutely knew that Tava was about to leave and never come home, and he ran over to him, lay down beside him for a couple minutes, and then rushed away. He didn’t look for Tava when I came home alone, and he helped me tremendously in trying to deal with that grief.
down. He loved everyone and everything, and seeing a sitting human or another sleeping cat was, to Darryl, in invitation to go crash immediately beside them or upon them. He carried on an intense fondness for lap-sitting as an adult; finding a refusal incomprehensible, he would make a determined move for a lap even if it were filled with a tray of dinner at the time.This irresistible vivaciousness twisted fate when I could not bear to leave him. He was the runt
of a litter of three, two of whom looked so similar, I called them ‘Darryl’ collectively, since I did not intend to keep any of the litter (an allusion to the sitcom Newhart, which had three hillbilly brother characters, two who were mute and the other who announced them every time they walked into a room: “Hi, I’m Larry, this is my brother Darryl, and this is my other brother Darryl.”) I carried on calling him “Baby Darryl” throughout his life. (He is in the foreground here.)After a difficult six months in quarantine with my older Chocolate Persian Tava, whom he
worshipped like a big brother but who, perhaps just like a big brother, liked his space and saw Darryl as a bit of an over-enthusiastic pest, he joined me in London following my marriage, and was just as overjoyed as I was when freedom took hold and we moved to our current flat. Again, visitors had to adjust, this time that they could only ever see 75% of the television screen as the rest was covered by Darryl’s fluffy head. An ardent television aficionado for many years, Darryl’s favourite sport was drag racing, though he was frustrated at not being able to capture the cars when he reached around the side of the telly once they veered off screen.
An indoor cat, his prey was not just the myriad helpless toys lying around (and fascinating bubbles and playing light tag) but flies, which he would astonish me by capturing by leaping suddenly about eight feet in the air with 100% success. Fortunately, he never tried the same trick with wasps. He’d do a great imitation of a bolder lion every time he yawned, squeezing his ears together as his mouth nearly roared.
Darryl was so tidy that he couldn’t wait for Tava to leave the litter before barging in to go make
sure everything was covered up to his high standards, and fortunately he later bore with great dignity the consequences of being an elderly gentleman with cystitis, arthritis and weak back legs, a tricky combination if you need to get places quickly. (Mind you, he never let that stop him, and barely seemed to notice if he fell over, as he’d pull himself back up and carry on.) When Tava in 2005 had a shocking, massive seizure that left his organs failing, Darryl absolutely knew that Tava was about to leave and never come home, and he ran over to him, lay down beside him for a couple minutes, and then rushed away. He didn’t look for Tava when I came home alone, and he helped me tremendously in trying to deal with that grief.
He had amazing patience and enormous calm and dealt wonderfully with whatever cards were dealt to him. As he grew older, he time and again scared the life out of me with illnesses that made me think that was it for him—particularly recently getting e.coli in the bladder and then a dangerous reaction to the drug that treated it—but managed to surprise me and all the vets with his tremendous will to survive, always pulling through and often purring on the way. One vet suggested Darryl had got hold of a medical dictionary and was working his way through each page, throwing us all new challenges. But he always impressed everyone and beat the 
struggles that challenged him.In the end, he was patiently taking medicine to control his seizures and steroids to give his
weakening muscles a bit more strength, and he was running my daily schedule precisely without reference to any timepiece, just some gentle but effective murmurs to prod me awake and to announce mealtimes. He needed and deserved a lot of loving attention and nursing care in the 
end, which I was all too willing to give, and he gave a lot back. The fact that he was 100% chirpy, delightful and charming as always on the morning that he died is heartbreaking, as I had to face the fact that, despite his amazing ability to beat illness time and time again, his rear legs were failing to such a degree that he could not really cope when I was at work. I did manage to take the last week to be at home looking after him, catering to his every whim in the end and spoiling him rotten, mostly with love but also with former Christmas-only treats like chicken. He continued to prove that he was the dearest heart and cutest sleeper in the world, and whenever I cried at what we were facing, his reassuring purr kicked in and he did what he could to cheer me. Sadly, he’s not here now to help me cope with this ultra-horrific void…. 
I can only hope that he is somewhere wonderful now, greeted by Tava if not my father, and that Tava is more tolerant of what would be Darryl’s youthful exuberance now that he is no longer held back by his crippled body. God bless Darryl, I thank him for sticking around against all odds for so long to keep me happy and coping, and I really pray that he’s enjoying himself now, leaping high into the air as he used to and whacking whatever would be the paradise equivalent of an octopus bell-toy to his adorable furry heart’s content.
Monday, 12 May 2008
Mother's Day and Furry Children
Today is Mother’s Day in the States. As I didn’t have the many reminders that the card shops thrust upon you nearer the time, since Mother’s Day in England is in March, I’m worried I didn’t post my card in time, so I will ring my mother in the States as well. I’m just waiting for her to return to her home, as she spent the weekend with her own mother in Pennsylvania, and is now miles above the east coast on a quick flight south.
It’s not the happiest Mother’s Day for her. One of her children is in London, and the other one, who could normally be depended upon to drive the four hours to her home and take her out to brunch or dinner, is away and in mourning. Sadly, yesterday he had to put down his absolutely adorable, most beloved Golden Retriever, who has been like a child to him and his wife for 10 years. Dear Dutch even took part in their wedding.
Like most Golden Retrievers, he seemed to wear a constant smile on his face and absolutely embrace life, bursting with enthusiasm and adoration for his owners. Unfortunately, he was recently found to have cancer and went downhill quickly. I know my brother and his wife are utterly devastated in a way that people who aren’t true pet lovers can never understand; it is like losing a close member of your immediate family for whom you’ve been entirely responsible as a full-time carer. The void left where all that love and energy so recently existed is massive and deeply painful. I went through such a death of a beloved furry one a few years ago and dread the day when my miraculous survive-all but very frail 18-year-old Persian can no longer surprise me and the vets with his amazing staying power. It’s an awful loss, particularly painful when so many people around you consider your sorrow to be a silly indulgence for little more than a possession.
But I didn’t mean to focus on that sorrowful situation, although my brother and his wife are definitely in my thoughts, and bless dear Dutch, may he rest in peace now.
It is a coincidence that the Mother’s Day card I sent my mother—well, a regular card that I turned into a Mother’s Day card, as after all, she usually likes the ones with dirty jokes that are embarrassing to buy, so she’s hardly a traditionalist---has an animal/offspring theme. She and I both seem to prefer animals to children, at least in our own homes. The Paw Play greeting card produced by QuittingHollywood.com pictured cute cats and a dog on the front, with the words:-
“Dogs and cats are better than kids because they eat less, don’t ask for money…and if they get pregnant, you can sell their children.”
It’s not the happiest Mother’s Day for her. One of her children is in London, and the other one, who could normally be depended upon to drive the four hours to her home and take her out to brunch or dinner, is away and in mourning. Sadly, yesterday he had to put down his absolutely adorable, most beloved Golden Retriever, who has been like a child to him and his wife for 10 years. Dear Dutch even took part in their wedding.
Like most Golden Retrievers, he seemed to wear a constant smile on his face and absolutely embrace life, bursting with enthusiasm and adoration for his owners. Unfortunately, he was recently found to have cancer and went downhill quickly. I know my brother and his wife are utterly devastated in a way that people who aren’t true pet lovers can never understand; it is like losing a close member of your immediate family for whom you’ve been entirely responsible as a full-time carer. The void left where all that love and energy so recently existed is massive and deeply painful. I went through such a death of a beloved furry one a few years ago and dread the day when my miraculous survive-all but very frail 18-year-old Persian can no longer surprise me and the vets with his amazing staying power. It’s an awful loss, particularly painful when so many people around you consider your sorrow to be a silly indulgence for little more than a possession.
But I didn’t mean to focus on that sorrowful situation, although my brother and his wife are definitely in my thoughts, and bless dear Dutch, may he rest in peace now.
It is a coincidence that the Mother’s Day card I sent my mother—well, a regular card that I turned into a Mother’s Day card, as after all, she usually likes the ones with dirty jokes that are embarrassing to buy, so she’s hardly a traditionalist---has an animal/offspring theme. She and I both seem to prefer animals to children, at least in our own homes. The Paw Play greeting card produced by QuittingHollywood.com pictured cute cats and a dog on the front, with the words:-
“Dogs and cats are better than kids because they eat less, don’t ask for money…and if they get pregnant, you can sell their children.”
Wednesday, 7 May 2008
Lansbury in London On Stage---A Missed Treasure!
As a Londoner, I try to take advantage of many of the wonderful cultural things on offer, particularly the one-off opportunities, such as seeing the triple bill some years ago of Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard and Chuck Berry, or seeing Simon and Garfunkel in Hyde Park, or even the Chinese Terracotta Army in the British Museum’s First Emperor exhibition.
Unfortunately, I had to forgo such an opportunity on Sunday, which is a treat I know I would
have enjoyed. Having grown up a huge fan of Broadway tunes and worshipping at the shrines of musical gods like Ethel Merman, I always loved the song Bosom Buddies from Mame, where Angela Lansbury and Bea Arthur sang a pally-catty duet. When I was much younger, I would have seen these two women as the star of Murder, She Wrote and The Golden Girls (and Maude), respectively, but I was aware that both had big stage careers in the past and I was familiar with the young, then newly discovered Angela Lansbury in my favourite version of (George Cukor’s) Gaslight, which earned her an Oscar nomination. She also played the original Mrs Lovett in Stephen Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, the role recently recreated on screen by Helena Bonham-Carter, for which Lansbury won one of her four Tonys.
So I was thrilled to hear rumours that she would be performing on the London stage for the first time in about 30 years in an event called Jerry Herman’s Broadway at the London Palladium on 4 May. Even before her presence had been officially confirmed, I had my mouse hovering over the final click to book a prohibitively expensive seat (I couldn’t think of anyone else who would be remotely interested in attending such an event with me), but then I checked and found my trains would not be running owing to engineering works. Certainly, I could have made the significant effort to get there and back somehow, although it’s hard enough getting back from town at night after shows when the trains are running, but I dawdled too long and missed my chance.
The concert, for which I’ve found no reviews, was in the end presented by Lansbury and celebrated the career of Broadway composer Jerry Herman, with “a host of stars” performing his songs from his musicals, which included Hello Dolly!, Mame and La Cage Aux Folles. The proceeds went to HIV and AIDS charity Crusaid. Herman himself has been suffering from AIDS for about ten years, so it was particularly great news that he would be in attendance.
The only appearance by Lansbury promoting the show beforehand that I came across was on Channel 4’s Paul O’Grady Show, of all things. As that’s on too early for commuters, I recorded it on DVD, but like most things I record, I haven’t watched it and will probably lose it in a stack of unlabeled DVDs soon. But I did see the end, and despite looking a bit tighter around the face (from age, not surgery, I’m pleased to say), Angela Lansbury looked just the same as Jessica Fletcher in Murder, She Wrote, radiant as always even though she’s now 82! And she’s still working.
Morgon Falconer got to interview this British-born actress (whose mother was an actress called Moyna MacGill—a surname used in Murder, She Wrote for relatives of Jessica Fletcher, including an actress cousin in London—and whose grandfather was former leader of the Labour Party George Lansbury) for the Times recently, and the article, cleverly titled “Life After Murder” is worth a read.
Coincidentally, the Biography Channel has been showing a programme on her this week, and certainly Lansbury has had a troubled life, with her first husband, who she married when she was 19 and he was 35, turning out to be bisexual; fire destroying her house; her children struggling with drugs in the past; and various tragic losses of loved ones. But it all seems to have made her quite a formidable woman, and she is still going strong. I only wish she would return for another performance so I could grasp the cherished opportunity that I so foolishly missed last weekend!
Meanwhile, after dreaming for so many years of what it would be like to witness Angela Lansbury and Bea Arthur performing the great Bosom Buddies on stage, I get the next best thing: a clip on YouTube of the two reprising their roles for an appearance much later, which I recommend viewing. (YouTube also includes a clip from the film where Bea Arthur reprises her role, but Lucille Ball takes Lansbury’s part, most unfortunately.) Ain’t YouTube grand.
Unfortunately, I had to forgo such an opportunity on Sunday, which is a treat I know I would
have enjoyed. Having grown up a huge fan of Broadway tunes and worshipping at the shrines of musical gods like Ethel Merman, I always loved the song Bosom Buddies from Mame, where Angela Lansbury and Bea Arthur sang a pally-catty duet. When I was much younger, I would have seen these two women as the star of Murder, She Wrote and The Golden Girls (and Maude), respectively, but I was aware that both had big stage careers in the past and I was familiar with the young, then newly discovered Angela Lansbury in my favourite version of (George Cukor’s) Gaslight, which earned her an Oscar nomination. She also played the original Mrs Lovett in Stephen Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, the role recently recreated on screen by Helena Bonham-Carter, for which Lansbury won one of her four Tonys.So I was thrilled to hear rumours that she would be performing on the London stage for the first time in about 30 years in an event called Jerry Herman’s Broadway at the London Palladium on 4 May. Even before her presence had been officially confirmed, I had my mouse hovering over the final click to book a prohibitively expensive seat (I couldn’t think of anyone else who would be remotely interested in attending such an event with me), but then I checked and found my trains would not be running owing to engineering works. Certainly, I could have made the significant effort to get there and back somehow, although it’s hard enough getting back from town at night after shows when the trains are running, but I dawdled too long and missed my chance.
The concert, for which I’ve found no reviews, was in the end presented by Lansbury and celebrated the career of Broadway composer Jerry Herman, with “a host of stars” performing his songs from his musicals, which included Hello Dolly!, Mame and La Cage Aux Folles. The proceeds went to HIV and AIDS charity Crusaid. Herman himself has been suffering from AIDS for about ten years, so it was particularly great news that he would be in attendance.
The only appearance by Lansbury promoting the show beforehand that I came across was on Channel 4’s Paul O’Grady Show, of all things. As that’s on too early for commuters, I recorded it on DVD, but like most things I record, I haven’t watched it and will probably lose it in a stack of unlabeled DVDs soon. But I did see the end, and despite looking a bit tighter around the face (from age, not surgery, I’m pleased to say), Angela Lansbury looked just the same as Jessica Fletcher in Murder, She Wrote, radiant as always even though she’s now 82! And she’s still working.
Morgon Falconer got to interview this British-born actress (whose mother was an actress called Moyna MacGill—a surname used in Murder, She Wrote for relatives of Jessica Fletcher, including an actress cousin in London—and whose grandfather was former leader of the Labour Party George Lansbury) for the Times recently, and the article, cleverly titled “Life After Murder” is worth a read.
Coincidentally, the Biography Channel has been showing a programme on her this week, and certainly Lansbury has had a troubled life, with her first husband, who she married when she was 19 and he was 35, turning out to be bisexual; fire destroying her house; her children struggling with drugs in the past; and various tragic losses of loved ones. But it all seems to have made her quite a formidable woman, and she is still going strong. I only wish she would return for another performance so I could grasp the cherished opportunity that I so foolishly missed last weekend!
Meanwhile, after dreaming for so many years of what it would be like to witness Angela Lansbury and Bea Arthur performing the great Bosom Buddies on stage, I get the next best thing: a clip on YouTube of the two reprising their roles for an appearance much later, which I recommend viewing. (YouTube also includes a clip from the film where Bea Arthur reprises her role, but Lucille Ball takes Lansbury’s part, most unfortunately.) Ain’t YouTube grand.
Monday, 5 May 2008
A Dull Boy Lost in Magazine Clutter
I’ve been a failure as a blogger and must rectify that and many other things. I seem to have become a lifeless person, a female dull boy. I have a place full of fun things to do and play with, projects to delve into, a head full of things to write, but I just don’t have a spare second to do anything, no me time. Is this because I have 30 children? No, thank God. That’s the mystery; apart from an elderly and infirm furball I’m caring for, I only have myself to look after, and I seem to be doing an awful job. 
Basically, I spend every waking moment either doing work for my job or struggling under the weight of the burden that I need to get work done, and I don’t have the sort of job that should require that. I used to thrive on being a workaholic but now I’m exhausted by it and left longing for some free time. I even once considered calling in sick just so I could carry on working uninterrupted on professional stuff that day and not feel such a failure turning up at work having not finished what I needed to have completed overnight. But I’m not the sort to call in sick when I’m not sick; I barely call in sick when I am.
Never mind the stress and the fact that sleeping most nights now means nodding off accidentally on the sofa with my laptop in my lap, and waking at ungodly hours in a panic and continuing to work in a sleepy drug-liked state. The novels in my head aren’t getting written, the concerts and plays and art shows I used to take in regularly are being ignored, friends and even their e-mails are long neglected, so I really need to get my life together.
I recently realised that I don’t even read books anymore, despite being a voracious reader as a youngster and now living in what could easily be mistaken for a Borders warehouse, or more of an HMV warehouse these days, with most of the many DVDs I’ve ordered over the past year remaining unwrapped, and the newer of the disturbing number of CDs standing silent. Wouldn’t it be great to take a year off, work on fun life projects and watch movies, play music, read and write, without the stress of work demands and commuting? What gets me through the reality is focusing on the ‘fact’ that I will win the lottery on Wednesday, or when that doesn’t happen, then on Friday, or on Saturday. If I didn’t count on that, I wouldn’t be able to cope with work right now. I don’t always buy a lottery ticket, but that only marginally reduces my chances of winning. I’m no fool, I know it won’t happen, and I’m not the extravagant sort who would buy helicopters and party hard with my winnings anyway. I’d contribute to the list of charities I’ve compiled for such an occasion, help my struggling family members and any friends (or strangers who touch me—definitely not literally) who need help, and possibly get a property in town (if I win billions and can thus afford central London property) so I can get out to the concerts, art galleries and theatre more easily. Principally, I’d give up work for a couple years, write down the novels in my head and work on other projects, and then get another, less stressful occupation of some sort.
In the meantime, I am surrounded by clutter that I never have time to tackle, but I always manage to add to it with enormous ease. The laundry is done regularly but then folded on enormous ever-increasing piles on chairs in the bedroom. I haven’t vacuumed for an age as it’s not a priority when I have a work deadline in the morning and I’m not expecting company, and my cat and I can cope just fine with our hair covering the carpeting. I’m not very domesticated anyway.
I do seem to have some sort of crazed inability to stop bringing magazines into the house as though they’re stray cats in need of a loving home. I don’t have the time to read the ones I subscribe to, but get very excited with their arrival, although I then just flick through and fold up the corners of pages that I hope to come back to one day when I find time for a proper read. I subscribe to loads: Time Out, Radio Times, Word, Mojo, Uncut, Q (have been meaning to cancel that one for a few years), PC Advisor, DVD Review, InStyle (to prove I’m female), and some membership magazines such as the RSPCA. I'm thrilled when they appear but barely have a chance to look at their covers to judge them.
So with all these unloved litters of magazines at home, why did I go to Smith's yesterday and bring home the Sunday Times (haven’t read Saturday’s yet), the Independent, Acoustic magazine (well, it had homeboy James Taylor on the cover), Record Collector, Private Eye, Spectator, Scientific American Mind, PC Pro, Personal Computer World, and Writing magazine? What is wrong with me?
Incidentally, I can’t recall ever actually having read a Writing magazine. I buy them because I’m drawn to the promises on the cover. ‘Win over a top agent’. ‘Get your novel published with a big advance’. ‘Turn your ideas into hard cash.’ Never mind that I’ve not had time to write down the ideas in my head, which would take many months to thrash out properly. I’m sucked into these sentiments, buy the magazine, never open it, but never feel I can throw it away. It’s the same way that I buy fitness DVDs, sit them on the coffee table, and when I find I’ve not lost weight for some reason, I order another fitness DVD….although no doubt if I actually watched the first one or actually did the exercises it guided me through, I would have a chance of getting into shape.
This crazy compulsive magazine hoarding means that I have a scarily massive stack of magazines and newspapers in my home, but I can’t just throw them all in the recycle bin. First, because that would make the recycling lorry tip over and crash. Second, because that would be throwing an absolute fortune in the bin, if you figure that, say, the PC magazines are usually about £5 a shot and I have a bazillion of them (so, to save you doing the maths, that would equal £5 bazillion). Third, when I try to speed-plough through them the night before the recycling is collected, I am always thrown by how enormously enjoyable they are, so interesting, full of recommendations to make me healthier, make my computers run better, make me discover some music that will change my life….So the gigantic towering, wide wall of magazines remains. Pretty soon I will become W H Smiths, and they will become an empty shop unit save a few lad mags loitering on their shelves.
Consequently, one of my big fears now is that, if I were ever to go missing (God forbid) and the police came into my flat to search for clues, I can see the press reporting that I was some sort of crazy lady who collects rubbish, when really, I was just about to clear it out….Honest, if I could just have a day off work where I’m not doing work, then I’d get through at least part of the magazine tower, clear the stacks of bills and post that need attention on the coffee table, find somewhere in my bursting wardrobes to put away the clean laundry alps in my bedroom, and start living slightly more like a human again. No doubt, after a few months, the police would find that I actually had been in my flat all along, not kidnapped, but perhaps buried under an awful lot of Stuff. Stuff that I was going to get to sorting soon, honest…..or have my maid clear after I win the lottery tomorrow. It could happen. Yes, it could; it will have to!
Anyway, I fully acknowledge that I need to get my act together and write down the millions of things I have in my head and on my (recently stolen) USB drive, and stop stockpiling ideas like I pile up magazines. I must work through them all and be less of a ‘dull boy’ and a more frequent, briefer and better blogger. Maybe there’s a self-help DVD, a Dummies Guide or magazine I can get that will show me how to accomplish that…...
Basically, I spend every waking moment either doing work for my job or struggling under the weight of the burden that I need to get work done, and I don’t have the sort of job that should require that. I used to thrive on being a workaholic but now I’m exhausted by it and left longing for some free time. I even once considered calling in sick just so I could carry on working uninterrupted on professional stuff that day and not feel such a failure turning up at work having not finished what I needed to have completed overnight. But I’m not the sort to call in sick when I’m not sick; I barely call in sick when I am.
Never mind the stress and the fact that sleeping most nights now means nodding off accidentally on the sofa with my laptop in my lap, and waking at ungodly hours in a panic and continuing to work in a sleepy drug-liked state. The novels in my head aren’t getting written, the concerts and plays and art shows I used to take in regularly are being ignored, friends and even their e-mails are long neglected, so I really need to get my life together.
I recently realised that I don’t even read books anymore, despite being a voracious reader as a youngster and now living in what could easily be mistaken for a Borders warehouse, or more of an HMV warehouse these days, with most of the many DVDs I’ve ordered over the past year remaining unwrapped, and the newer of the disturbing number of CDs standing silent. Wouldn’t it be great to take a year off, work on fun life projects and watch movies, play music, read and write, without the stress of work demands and commuting? What gets me through the reality is focusing on the ‘fact’ that I will win the lottery on Wednesday, or when that doesn’t happen, then on Friday, or on Saturday. If I didn’t count on that, I wouldn’t be able to cope with work right now. I don’t always buy a lottery ticket, but that only marginally reduces my chances of winning. I’m no fool, I know it won’t happen, and I’m not the extravagant sort who would buy helicopters and party hard with my winnings anyway. I’d contribute to the list of charities I’ve compiled for such an occasion, help my struggling family members and any friends (or strangers who touch me—definitely not literally) who need help, and possibly get a property in town (if I win billions and can thus afford central London property) so I can get out to the concerts, art galleries and theatre more easily. Principally, I’d give up work for a couple years, write down the novels in my head and work on other projects, and then get another, less stressful occupation of some sort.
In the meantime, I am surrounded by clutter that I never have time to tackle, but I always manage to add to it with enormous ease. The laundry is done regularly but then folded on enormous ever-increasing piles on chairs in the bedroom. I haven’t vacuumed for an age as it’s not a priority when I have a work deadline in the morning and I’m not expecting company, and my cat and I can cope just fine with our hair covering the carpeting. I’m not very domesticated anyway.
I do seem to have some sort of crazed inability to stop bringing magazines into the house as though they’re stray cats in need of a loving home. I don’t have the time to read the ones I subscribe to, but get very excited with their arrival, although I then just flick through and fold up the corners of pages that I hope to come back to one day when I find time for a proper read. I subscribe to loads: Time Out, Radio Times, Word, Mojo, Uncut, Q (have been meaning to cancel that one for a few years), PC Advisor, DVD Review, InStyle (to prove I’m female), and some membership magazines such as the RSPCA. I'm thrilled when they appear but barely have a chance to look at their covers to judge them.
So with all these unloved litters of magazines at home, why did I go to Smith's yesterday and bring home the Sunday Times (haven’t read Saturday’s yet), the Independent, Acoustic magazine (well, it had homeboy James Taylor on the cover), Record Collector, Private Eye, Spectator, Scientific American Mind, PC Pro, Personal Computer World, and Writing magazine? What is wrong with me?
Incidentally, I can’t recall ever actually having read a Writing magazine. I buy them because I’m drawn to the promises on the cover. ‘Win over a top agent’. ‘Get your novel published with a big advance’. ‘Turn your ideas into hard cash.’ Never mind that I’ve not had time to write down the ideas in my head, which would take many months to thrash out properly. I’m sucked into these sentiments, buy the magazine, never open it, but never feel I can throw it away. It’s the same way that I buy fitness DVDs, sit them on the coffee table, and when I find I’ve not lost weight for some reason, I order another fitness DVD….although no doubt if I actually watched the first one or actually did the exercises it guided me through, I would have a chance of getting into shape.
This crazy compulsive magazine hoarding means that I have a scarily massive stack of magazines and newspapers in my home, but I can’t just throw them all in the recycle bin. First, because that would make the recycling lorry tip over and crash. Second, because that would be throwing an absolute fortune in the bin, if you figure that, say, the PC magazines are usually about £5 a shot and I have a bazillion of them (so, to save you doing the maths, that would equal £5 bazillion). Third, when I try to speed-plough through them the night before the recycling is collected, I am always thrown by how enormously enjoyable they are, so interesting, full of recommendations to make me healthier, make my computers run better, make me discover some music that will change my life….So the gigantic towering, wide wall of magazines remains. Pretty soon I will become W H Smiths, and they will become an empty shop unit save a few lad mags loitering on their shelves.
Consequently, one of my big fears now is that, if I were ever to go missing (God forbid) and the police came into my flat to search for clues, I can see the press reporting that I was some sort of crazy lady who collects rubbish, when really, I was just about to clear it out….Honest, if I could just have a day off work where I’m not doing work, then I’d get through at least part of the magazine tower, clear the stacks of bills and post that need attention on the coffee table, find somewhere in my bursting wardrobes to put away the clean laundry alps in my bedroom, and start living slightly more like a human again. No doubt, after a few months, the police would find that I actually had been in my flat all along, not kidnapped, but perhaps buried under an awful lot of Stuff. Stuff that I was going to get to sorting soon, honest…..or have my maid clear after I win the lottery tomorrow. It could happen. Yes, it could; it will have to!
Anyway, I fully acknowledge that I need to get my act together and write down the millions of things I have in my head and on my (recently stolen) USB drive, and stop stockpiling ideas like I pile up magazines. I must work through them all and be less of a ‘dull boy’ and a more frequent, briefer and better blogger. Maybe there’s a self-help DVD, a Dummies Guide or magazine I can get that will show me how to accomplish that…...
Monday, 25 February 2008
Graceless Gracenote Entries
Having upgraded my MP3 player and finding myself with twice as much space than before, I’ve recently spent way too much time loading up the more obscure albums and compilations that didn’t make the ‘first cut’ of my previous player, which still had a significant capacity. As time went on and my compulsive CD buying continued, I had to prune more and more songs from the Creative Zen so that I could fit in the new albums, and I ended up being much more satisfied with the outcome, as the continued random shuffle regularly touched upon more prized songs, rather than so many would-be B-sides and easily forgettable tunes that I’d not heard for years, often with good reason. A bright and booming random playlist frequently lifted my spirits, even more so than when I created my own playlist, which is odd as I have for so many decades made myself and friends mixed tapes, then mixed minidiscs then mixed CDs, where the order of the songs was crucial to the overall effect.
At the end of my time with my Zen, it contained about 30GB worth of favourite songs, as I had removed the less interesting ones and most of the dross. I marvelled at how, when I first bought it, I had thought to myself that 30GB was a huge amount of space so I loaded up any old CD, and the whole CD, rather than selecting only my favourite tracks. I would even add things like The Best of Gilbert and Sullivan, when I’m not even that big a Gilbert and Sullivan fan, and umpteen classical compilations even if they contained 10 minute symphonies that I usually found too dull and syrupy and would have no interest in or patience for whilst out and about.
So you would think that I would heed my own warning, having lived through that and having to recover from my initial blind bloat of MP3s, and only load up a carefully chosen selection to my iPod—-YES, I caved in and (bitterly) got an iPod, which I will go into another time, but it offered more than twice as much space and the imperfect 60GB Creative Zen was no longer available. But no, I’ve found that I’ve just spent a week loading up a tonne of CDs that have held so little interest for me over the years that I had to look up my (admittedly anal) rating of and comments on each song when I first played it, which I scarily keep in indexed books. I’ve again recklessly added all sorts of obscure classical music collections including Flemish Romantic Horn Concertos and loads of free CDs with Classic FM magazine, I’ve added albums full of big bands and CDs of singer/actors like Doris Day and Danny Kaye, and have worryingly considered adding that Noel Coward CD I bought years ago after some nostalgia trip but never even unwrapped. (The latter thought was sparked by a review of the new West End stage version of Brief Encounter mentioning that they play A Room with a View at the end.)
There are artists I liked once in their day but haven’t recently, such as Lou Dalgliesh, and some whose albums were given to me by friends long ago but I just didn’t really ‘get’ them, like Eleanor Shanley, Robyn Hitchcock and Paul Kelly. I’ve added them in case I liked them more than I remembered, giving them a chance a resurgence, and maybe when I’m sitting on a train some time, one of their songs will come up and I’ll be bewitched by it. It’s like having my own radio station where all of the 10,000 songs that might be played have been pre-selected by me, but there is still plenty of room for discovery amongst them, as well as a smile raised when the most loved favourites rear their beloved heads. Or maybe I’ll want to delete the less loved ones, and then I’ll miss the fact that the Zen would let you do such pruning instantly whilst out and about, whereas the vastly less flexible iPod would make me remember which song I want to remove and do so when I’m next on the PC that contains my iTunes directory, and frankly, there’s little chance that I would even remember by then that I’d wanted to delete anything.
But those are rambling musings, and now for a rambling rant. Gracenote, the CD track identification service used by iTunes and other software to gather the information on the audio tracks…. I fully acknowledge that this is a blessing, as all we have to do is insert our CD—even some obscure collection of Lithuanian Disco classics played on the fipple flute that you bought in the Woolworth’s bargain bin in 1987, which you can’t imagine anyone else owns—and suddenly all the information you need comes up automatically. iTunes has accessed the Gracenote database, and in theory, everything you need to know is there—the name of each tune, the performer, the composer, and the album name. It is a blissful change from the days when I had to enter the title and artist on the minidisc by rotating a dial to painfully select each individual letter at an excruciatingly slow speed. Even when I invested in a package that would hook my minidisc and stereo up to my PC in the early days and enable me to type the titles in, that still was a lot more work than the simplicity offered by Gracenote. In theory, I shouldn’t have to do anything as some other owner of the CD in question has already gone to the trouble of typing in all the information and adding it to the database.
But why can’t they do it properly? Okay, I accept that I’m a terrible pedant. I get annoyed by typos—which we all make, it’s just a shame that they’re in the now official version that pops up for everyone—and the shortcuts. I don’t want it to say '10 Pole Tudor', making me go back to change everything to ‘Tenpole’-—and I usually try to race the downloader and get it fixed before each song is added to my collection. I don’t want every single track on one album to say ‘Beatles’ so I have to go back and add the ‘The’, or remove it from ‘The Counting Crows’. I can’t cope with someone having put the artist throughout a whole album in the form of ‘Hewerdine, Boo’ when all the other albums display the first name first. But mostly, classical music is a nightmare. I am so completely grateful to the poor souls who painstakingly entered every bit of the many, many details—the aria name, the key it is in, the catalogue number, in which act it appears in which opera, which tenor backed by which orchestra conducted by which conductor performed it, sometimes even including the acute é’s and so forth so everything looks perfect.
But most of the souls have even less patience than I and have, for some reason, entered the artist, that is the performer, as being ‘Beethoven' or ‘Puccini’, which is intensely irritating, particularly when they have also entered the composer’s name in the song title section (eg “Puccini: O Mio Babino Caro”) and in the composer’s section, so I cannot understand their thinking. I also hate the cop-outs who put ‘unclassifiable’ as the genre description of albums; I can understand having loyalty to an artist who might claim to be so, but what if you want to listen to a particular genre one day and that artist is hidden away as ‘unclassifiable’?
Some of it is personal preference, of course; I prefer to put ‘(Live)’ at the end of song titles so I can distinguish the live version from the studio recording, particularly when iTunes coughs up a list of duplicates. I also prefer to mention performers who make a significant contribution to a piece. For instance, it might be Colin Reid’s album and him playing guitar (wonderfully) on Never Going Back Again, but it would surely be silly not to mention Eddi Reader at all when she is providing lead vocals, as you might otherwise come to wonder who you are listening to (were it someone with a less distinctive voice), but the Gracenote contributors often omit the significant additional artists, even though there is also a section for ‘album artist’. I would prefer to put the song’s artist as ‘Colin Read & Eddi Reader’ if not Colin ‘featuring Eddi Reader.’
Clearly, my insane rant here is driven by the fact that I have spent too much time adding too many albums at once, necessitating quite a lot of amendments in my iTunes catalogue. Tackling a listing for a classical CD can be utterly exhausting. I’m sure normal people don’t bat an eyelid about this and are thinking I need to get a life, which is true, I know. But if anyone out there is the first to enter a CD’s details into the database, and that may well be true if you eagerly rip open your copy of Word magazine (or fellow pedants can point out my hypocrisy here as they’ve changed the name to The Word, but I can’t bring myself to adapt to that as it just makes me think of Terry Christian) and you load up that issue’s excellent free compilation CD, please have some respect for the anal among us who need the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed, or at least the songs spelled correctly and the performers to be given due credit. Though no doubt by tomorrow, I’ll have recovered from this ordeal and remembered that it’s of serious little importance, and I’ll want to ask for your forgiveness for my scary whingeing….Perhaps listening to some music for a while will calm me down. I’ll go put on my favourite album of Mozart performing ABBA’s greatest hits.
At the end of my time with my Zen, it contained about 30GB worth of favourite songs, as I had removed the less interesting ones and most of the dross. I marvelled at how, when I first bought it, I had thought to myself that 30GB was a huge amount of space so I loaded up any old CD, and the whole CD, rather than selecting only my favourite tracks. I would even add things like The Best of Gilbert and Sullivan, when I’m not even that big a Gilbert and Sullivan fan, and umpteen classical compilations even if they contained 10 minute symphonies that I usually found too dull and syrupy and would have no interest in or patience for whilst out and about.
So you would think that I would heed my own warning, having lived through that and having to recover from my initial blind bloat of MP3s, and only load up a carefully chosen selection to my iPod—-YES, I caved in and (bitterly) got an iPod, which I will go into another time, but it offered more than twice as much space and the imperfect 60GB Creative Zen was no longer available. But no, I’ve found that I’ve just spent a week loading up a tonne of CDs that have held so little interest for me over the years that I had to look up my (admittedly anal) rating of and comments on each song when I first played it, which I scarily keep in indexed books. I’ve again recklessly added all sorts of obscure classical music collections including Flemish Romantic Horn Concertos and loads of free CDs with Classic FM magazine, I’ve added albums full of big bands and CDs of singer/actors like Doris Day and Danny Kaye, and have worryingly considered adding that Noel Coward CD I bought years ago after some nostalgia trip but never even unwrapped. (The latter thought was sparked by a review of the new West End stage version of Brief Encounter mentioning that they play A Room with a View at the end.)
There are artists I liked once in their day but haven’t recently, such as Lou Dalgliesh, and some whose albums were given to me by friends long ago but I just didn’t really ‘get’ them, like Eleanor Shanley, Robyn Hitchcock and Paul Kelly. I’ve added them in case I liked them more than I remembered, giving them a chance a resurgence, and maybe when I’m sitting on a train some time, one of their songs will come up and I’ll be bewitched by it. It’s like having my own radio station where all of the 10,000 songs that might be played have been pre-selected by me, but there is still plenty of room for discovery amongst them, as well as a smile raised when the most loved favourites rear their beloved heads. Or maybe I’ll want to delete the less loved ones, and then I’ll miss the fact that the Zen would let you do such pruning instantly whilst out and about, whereas the vastly less flexible iPod would make me remember which song I want to remove and do so when I’m next on the PC that contains my iTunes directory, and frankly, there’s little chance that I would even remember by then that I’d wanted to delete anything.
But those are rambling musings, and now for a rambling rant. Gracenote, the CD track identification service used by iTunes and other software to gather the information on the audio tracks…. I fully acknowledge that this is a blessing, as all we have to do is insert our CD—even some obscure collection of Lithuanian Disco classics played on the fipple flute that you bought in the Woolworth’s bargain bin in 1987, which you can’t imagine anyone else owns—and suddenly all the information you need comes up automatically. iTunes has accessed the Gracenote database, and in theory, everything you need to know is there—the name of each tune, the performer, the composer, and the album name. It is a blissful change from the days when I had to enter the title and artist on the minidisc by rotating a dial to painfully select each individual letter at an excruciatingly slow speed. Even when I invested in a package that would hook my minidisc and stereo up to my PC in the early days and enable me to type the titles in, that still was a lot more work than the simplicity offered by Gracenote. In theory, I shouldn’t have to do anything as some other owner of the CD in question has already gone to the trouble of typing in all the information and adding it to the database.
But why can’t they do it properly? Okay, I accept that I’m a terrible pedant. I get annoyed by typos—which we all make, it’s just a shame that they’re in the now official version that pops up for everyone—and the shortcuts. I don’t want it to say '10 Pole Tudor', making me go back to change everything to ‘Tenpole’-—and I usually try to race the downloader and get it fixed before each song is added to my collection. I don’t want every single track on one album to say ‘Beatles’ so I have to go back and add the ‘The’, or remove it from ‘The Counting Crows’. I can’t cope with someone having put the artist throughout a whole album in the form of ‘Hewerdine, Boo’ when all the other albums display the first name first. But mostly, classical music is a nightmare. I am so completely grateful to the poor souls who painstakingly entered every bit of the many, many details—the aria name, the key it is in, the catalogue number, in which act it appears in which opera, which tenor backed by which orchestra conducted by which conductor performed it, sometimes even including the acute é’s and so forth so everything looks perfect.
But most of the souls have even less patience than I and have, for some reason, entered the artist, that is the performer, as being ‘Beethoven' or ‘Puccini’, which is intensely irritating, particularly when they have also entered the composer’s name in the song title section (eg “Puccini: O Mio Babino Caro”) and in the composer’s section, so I cannot understand their thinking. I also hate the cop-outs who put ‘unclassifiable’ as the genre description of albums; I can understand having loyalty to an artist who might claim to be so, but what if you want to listen to a particular genre one day and that artist is hidden away as ‘unclassifiable’?
Some of it is personal preference, of course; I prefer to put ‘(Live)’ at the end of song titles so I can distinguish the live version from the studio recording, particularly when iTunes coughs up a list of duplicates. I also prefer to mention performers who make a significant contribution to a piece. For instance, it might be Colin Reid’s album and him playing guitar (wonderfully) on Never Going Back Again, but it would surely be silly not to mention Eddi Reader at all when she is providing lead vocals, as you might otherwise come to wonder who you are listening to (were it someone with a less distinctive voice), but the Gracenote contributors often omit the significant additional artists, even though there is also a section for ‘album artist’. I would prefer to put the song’s artist as ‘Colin Read & Eddi Reader’ if not Colin ‘featuring Eddi Reader.’
Clearly, my insane rant here is driven by the fact that I have spent too much time adding too many albums at once, necessitating quite a lot of amendments in my iTunes catalogue. Tackling a listing for a classical CD can be utterly exhausting. I’m sure normal people don’t bat an eyelid about this and are thinking I need to get a life, which is true, I know. But if anyone out there is the first to enter a CD’s details into the database, and that may well be true if you eagerly rip open your copy of Word magazine (or fellow pedants can point out my hypocrisy here as they’ve changed the name to The Word, but I can’t bring myself to adapt to that as it just makes me think of Terry Christian) and you load up that issue’s excellent free compilation CD, please have some respect for the anal among us who need the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed, or at least the songs spelled correctly and the performers to be given due credit. Though no doubt by tomorrow, I’ll have recovered from this ordeal and remembered that it’s of serious little importance, and I’ll want to ask for your forgiveness for my scary whingeing….Perhaps listening to some music for a while will calm me down. I’ll go put on my favourite album of Mozart performing ABBA’s greatest hits.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
