Ahh, yesteryear

Every now and then, a ditty from my childhood pops into my mind unbidden. I do not know from whence it comes, but it comes nevertheless. One of my recent inexplicable memories was a child's book that included a song.

Back in the day, we didn't have all this here techno-gimmetry. We had a handful of read-aloud books with little 45-rpm records that fit into a slot in the back cover of the book. I'd get the turntable ready, and clumsily put my record on it, then set the needle in position and hurriedly open my book to read along to the scratchy story. I believe I had a rendition of Bambi, or maybe some other tragic Disney story, but my favorite read-along was Johnny Fedora and Alice Bluebonnet.

Being a clueless child, I didn't realize that the genius of Johnny and Alice's story was found in the liltingly beautiful voices singing the words to the storybook—none other than the fabulously talented Andrews Sisters. Add one corny, touching love story to those gorgeous pipes, and you have a winner.

I told my son about it, and he was curious. I found it on YouTube (of course I did, because if you look hard enough, you can find anything on YouTube). I made him listen to it, which he didn't mind because it turns out that my little storybook was based on a cartoon movie that accompanied the song. Then my husband heard us singing the words; it turns out that he was not familiar with this classic. Can you believe it? Grew up in a cultureless vortex, that one...

So we made him listen and watch, too. He wasn't as entranced as I thought he should have been. Alas. I try to bring meaning and purpose to his life in every way I can. If he refuses to accept my offerings? That is beyond my control.

What's that, reader? Is it possible that you, too, are unfamiliar with this gem of Americana? Well, now, we can't have that.

Go here. Enjoy. And remember a time when even children's entertainment was of a higher class.

Married to Mr. Rogers

I love Mr. Rogers. I grew up with him in our living room, and then he came back to visit regularly when my son was very small. He's a gem, that Mr. Rogers, a real national treasure.

He's actually an ordained Presbyterian minister who chose to share God's unconditional love through the medium of television. Mr. Rogers' gentle affirmations, exaggerated character voices, and deceptively simple musical compositions live in the minds of countless people in this country and well beyond.

He's awesome.

But I never thought I'd connect him to my marriage.

And then my husband bought these shoes.

I like the shoes a lot. They closely resemble a pair of my own shoes. And a pair of my son's shoes, as well. They're the ultimate spring and early summer footwear: comfortable, casual but not sloppy, fun without being too faddish. I am actually the one who found them in the store and recommended them to my hus.

I didn't realize how much this particular look connotes Fred Rogers' style until I began to trip over these canvas beauties around my own home. Each time I spy them under a dresser or tossed aside by the back door, laces wandering loosely, I think of Mr. Rogers. I have half a mind to find a cardigan sweater of some woodland color, perhaps a vintage style with wide blocks of vertical color on the front, and present it to my guy for Father's Day.

Would you be mine? Could you be mine? Won't you be my husband?

This is why I don't watch the news

Watching the news, any news, for more than a couple of minutes is nearly impossible for me. The stories on the news are either ludicrous, horrific, or feature mind-numbingly evil antagonists. And sometimes, those stories infuriate me.

The local news can be awful, but often equates a soap-opera news option—overly dramatic broadcasters, all blonde hair, raised eyebrows and deadpan delivery, covering fires in abandoned buildings, bearded men who are arrested for not placing reflective triangles on their buggies... Sometimes the stories are tragic, and sometimes it's just a slow news day.

The world news? That's usually too disturbing to watch for long. We've become immune to violence and death from over-exposure. How many people were killed in the bombing? Was that a dead body I just saw covered in rubble? There was another natural disaster? What was it this time? Oh.

Let's take a look at what's going on now. Okay, there was a large-scale exotic animal massacre in Ohio because some loon of a guy who had amassed all these amazing creatures decided to 1) release them and 2) kill himself. Huh?! What in the world? Why did he collect them all, and then why did he free them and take his own life? Did he think this was some sort of statement? Did he honestly believe the animals would roam freely and not come to harm? How did he even get them? Was it legal? Apparently there were complaints for years about this goofball, yet he continued to acquire (both animals and bizarre personal traits, I'm guessing) and here we are today with a boatload of animal corpses in Ohio.

It gets better. In Philadelphia, authorities uncovered a dungeon of suffering for mentally challenged adults and an assortment of youth who receive government assistance of some sort. A sick little trio of friends decided, apparently, this was an easy way to make some money. How in the world this seemed like a defensible idea to anyone, I will never know. I can't even go there. I am ill just considering the conditions and suffering that these people were held in.

Now, those are stories that turn our stomachs, as they should. I don't want to know about them, but I probably should be at least informed so I keep abreast of what people are capable of doing. I can't begin to understand, but I should be aware and be reminded: This is a really messed up place with some seriously twisted people in it.

But then there are stories that enrage me, too. Like the whole Occupy Wall Street nonsense. What are these people against, exactly? Joblessness? If they had jobs, they likely wouldn't be able to participate in this lovely demonstration for very long. So maybe that's the beef? Or is it that big, bad corporations weren't held accountable for money loss? Were they hoping for college loans to be forgotten and that didn't happen? Have they come to the depressing realization that they can't drive new, fast cars on their current budgets? Do these folks even know why they're there? Are they angry that their cell phones are out of battery power? That their designer duds got dirty and/or no longer match? What, really, is the main complaint?

I can't stand to watch much of it, these people camped out in the very spaces that corporations provide for them, the displeased crowds who all manage to have what they really value (technology, name brands, nice camping gear) but bemoan the lack of money and opportunity. I hate to burst everyone's bubble, but here's the truth: many lives begin with (and sometimes continue with) un-fantastic, uninspiring, unrewarding work. Many of us started there, and frankly, more than a few have remained there. I can tell you why the middle class is shrinking; it's because the middle class tries very hard to have a lot of the same baubles that the upper class enjoys. We here in middle world have a very serious case of misguided, confused priorities. I want to live in a country that appreciates hard work, the basics, and has values. I don't really care to join with a band of creative hippy types who are whining about the lack of handouts.

Stop looking for handouts. Stop kvetching about who got them. Contact the president who's exacerbating the situation, your local and state representatives (do you even know who they are? did you vote?) and share your frustrations with them, and then go to work somewhere. Drive a small used car, live in a smaller house or apartment, shop where I shop, and most of all, Shush. Vociferously occupying a space that lies in the shadow of the very corporations that fund your hobbies, hand-helds, and highfalutin pursuits is hypocritical. If we look back at the history of this country, our success has been the result of individuals who competed to make money and make things better, and who worked hard. Sometimes, success has rested on the ability of many to do without, to sacrifice willingly. Nobody got rich by spreading the wealth, which actually means taking someone else's wealth. Which that wealthy person likely worked to attain. It's not the government's job to provide for us. The government owes us nothing but rights, freedoms, and protection from crazy people.

All right. I'm stepping off the soapbox now. I'm getting fired up just thinking about all this, weird people, cruel people, uninformed spoiled people, etc. I don't want to live in a bubble, but I also don't want to immerse myself in a boiling cauldron of information that fills me with helpless fury.

So, I'll keep the television off, and limit my time online. If I want to maintain a healthy balance in my mind and heart, I need to restrict my exposure. I want to feel genuine love for my fellow man, but golly, they can be an unlovable bunch.

A little insulation, not just in winter

I don't watch the news. I haven't watched it for a long time now.

This is partly because I have a small child who sees all and who asks many questions. I am not eager to expose him to all the horrific events in the world. We do discuss the events of the world on a simplified surface level; he knows that a few years ago, some confused, angry men flew planes into buildings and hurt and killed many people. He doesn't understand it any better than I do. He knows that very recently, there was an earthquake far away and that it, too, hurt and killed people. He doesn't grasp how many; how could he? I don't even grasp how many. He knows that there are lots of fires on the news, and police cars, and robberies. He likes the flashing lights, and that usually distracts him sufficiently and he asks no questions about those things.

But he doesn't need to know yet that children are raped and beaten, starved even. He will have his entire life to learn about the cruelties that people impose on each other, not just on smaller ones but on other adults, too. He can go many more years without realizing that any object in the hands of an evil person can become a weapon. He doesn't need to know that sometimes, people take each other's lives. That sometimes the fire on TV has been intentionally set—that sometimes, it is set on the back of another human being. There is no need for such information to enter his impressionable, imaginative mind.

I don't want to shield him from reality. I suppose I just want to delay it a bit, until he's better able to handle it. (And when would that be, I wonder?) It doesn't help that all the local newscasts—and the national news broadcasts and weekly news magazines and semi-fictional police shows to boot—all of them delight in violence and gruesome detail and the apparent viewers that such gore rakes in. When they're all competing to see which one can shock the most, we are the losers. And as long as ratings rule the airwaves, I will continue to keep the box off far more than on.

I feel out of touch sometimes, but happily so. I read the news online, I skim the more conservative local newspaper on Sundays, and I listen to the radio sometimes; for now, those outlets will have to suffice. I don't know if I'll ever be a regular viewer again. It just doesn't fit too well with the mindset I'm striving to achieve. I know all those awful things occur; I won't insulate myself so much that I forget how fallen we really are. But I refuse to wallow in it, either. Our grown-up minds are no less impressionable and imaginative than my child's, after all.

..Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
-Philippians 4:8

Don't give my regards to Broadway

So, we were watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade. For a little while, at least. I turned it on, thinking I'd get a brief kid-talk hiatus in which to prepare sweet potatoes in peace. It had worked on me when I was a kid, hadn't it? Lots of floats, huge balloons shaped like cartoon characters, hordes of people, the occasional band marching... at least that was how I recalled it.

Not so these days. We flicked on the television and chose whatever station featured the least vapid and dull-witted commentators. First they blabbed, sharing prepared quips with all the natural flair of a water buffalo passing through a narrow gate. Then, a ridiculously corny cast of Hair performed a song... holy cow, how old is that show? It's still running? I was not amused but it seemed harmless, so I left the costumed fools prancing and crooning their decades-old song and hurried into the kitchen.

Within a few minutes, the kid was calling me into the living room. "What is this, Mom?" I returned. This time, kids were bouncing around the stage alongside a poorly acted dance instructor who rolled her eyes with gusto (part of the performance); the wise, witty commentators informed us that this fine number was from the play Billy Elliott. Huh? That's a play? Movie, yes. Play? News to me.

I scurried back to finish mashing potatoes, but only a few minutes passed before I heard, "Mom, you gotta see this." I peered back in. Where was the parade? I'd seen one Snoopy balloon, and...that's it. One balloon. In all that time. And on the screen now? Why, a bunch of grown people dressed as characters from the movie Shrek. A man decked out as a heavy-haunched donkey was stomping about madly, singing (or pretending to sing) "I'm a Believer." A green-faced fellow—Shrek himself,of course—sang along with his bride. Another guy was dressed as Pinocchio. All of them were shimmying, shaking, twisting and turning, grinning like mad, all while adorned in the most ludicrous costumes.

So, Shrek is now a Broadway play. Say it isn't so! Is nothing sacred? Broadway used to be more serious, didn't it? Wasn't the stage where "real" actors performed? These days, high theatre has fallen to meet the demands of the unschooled. Todd and I watched the costumed animals cavorting to the music and shook our heads. We wondered aloud: Do people who long to perform on stage all start out in such silly works? And if you land the part of Pinnochio, do you say so on your resume? Do you admit to such a role? I'm guessing you would, that any lead would be a step in the right direction. But at what cost to your pride? What is the price when you consider that your own self-image might be at stake?

If these folks are really enjoying what they do, then I guess it's worth it. But on Thanksgiving Day? To be dressed as a fairy tale character that may or may not be a beast? Knowing that you'll be wearing that disguise many, many more times, dancing the same falsely gleeful dance over and over? I don't know if I can buy that it's terribly fulfilling.

I can't remember if the parade was always this sappy and pro-NY culture, but if it was, I have to believe the plays were better when I was a kid. Every time I think the people can't reach a new low, they exceed my expectations. We've passed from the days of Annie into an age when any movie is fair game for stage interpretation—even those that shouldn't be. And the parade itself has all but disappeared, plowed under by dumbed-down commercialization.

Even my 4-year-old declared, "Time to turn it off!" when three sassy, big-haired gals appeared to perform a song from the new stage production of Dreamgirls. Enough is enough. We know when we're being force-fed the stuff of the masses. Give me Arthur Miller, give me August Wilson, give me turkey instead of more stuffing, and for cryin' out loud get some floats and balloons moving through this route, PDQ.

Ads that inspire...a chill

The world of advertising is slick and misleading anyway, but there are a few products and services whose ad campaigns really creep me out.

Abercrombie and Fitch: This one’s a no-brainer. The company’s been cited in the past for their inappropriate picture advertisements, almost all of which border on child porn. And they’re not just selling clothes to “aspirational men and women” (quoting the abercrombie.com site here)—they’re selling to children (see abercrombiekids.com). What are they selling? Clothes? Then why, on either site, are the clothes barely visible or entirely missing? Does that make sense? This is the image being impressed upon our kids: a precocious, seductive sexiness that is entirely inappropriate for the age being targeted. Frankly, it’s inappropriate for any public campaign. This company makes a lot of others who used to be questionable suddenly look tasteful.

Every prescription drug company that has ever advertised on TV or in a full-page magazine ad: I’ve already hit on this topic on an earlier post, so I won’t flog the dead horse here. Just remember how much money these companies make the next time your doctor starts touting the benefits of the newest version of something to save your life. How interested is this drug company in your health? Are they perhaps more interested in your pocketbook, or (gold mine!) your insurance company?

Botox injections: How many of you have witnessed this same toothy dame on television, repeatedly flashing pearly whites at the camera while “Express Yourself” plays in the background? Did anyone else notice her fruitless attempts to wrinkle her brow? Does any other viewer feel slightly ill when viewing her ageless but plastic face? What are we encouraging here?

Aestique Medical Centers, a local plastic surgery company: Okay, this is a more local ad blast. But I see the billboard on my way home all the time and it just irks me beyond belief. A woman— obviously no longer dewy, but redone, redistributed, and stretched in such a way so as to disguise this—is dancing with what appears to be a much older gent in a rather lurid fashion. And the caption? “Waste it again.” Youth, of course. Nice message.

Bebe: I don’t know much about this company, which appears to sell revealing women’s clothing, but the impression I’ve received from their splashy ads in bus kiosks is “Tramps R Us.”

I could go on and on. I won’t. Perhaps you have a few that stick in your craw? Do tell.