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FEAR Features: Maurice Sendak
September 30, 2009 by NaysWay · 2 Comments
It should be a prerequisite for all children to read at least one book by Maurice Sendak. My one, and the one of most, was Where The Wild Things Are. Like most fans of the book, I’m excited to see its film adaptation. I am also extremely nervous. For one, a typical Maurice Sendak book is not that long. Most of it is illustration. Now there’s an entire ninety minute chunk of space for you to take it to a whole new realm of creativity… or completely, totally and utterly screw it up. No pressure, Spike Jonze.
Mooter, taking part in the 100 Book Challenge at her school, has picked up Chicken Soup With Rice and declared it her new favorite which is great because I thought we were going to be reading The Monster At The End Of This Book FOR-EH-VER. It wasn’t until she began reading it to me aloud that I remembered Really Rosie.
C’mon. ABC turned it into a Schoolhouse Rock-esque Saturday cartoon with Carole King singing the songs? No? How about now…
Please tell me I’m not the only one who remembers Really Rosie. It was a staple in childhood entertainment. I thought I was going to have to sedate Mooter when I played the above while she read along. All the MOMMY! IT’S THE SINGING! AND IT’S THE STORY! AND THE SONG! THEY’RE SINGING THE STORY! HOW DID THEY DO THAT? WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU SAW THIS AS A KID? YOU WERE A KID? WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT CAME OUT THE YEAR DADDY WAS BORN? DADDY WAS A BABY? YOU MEAN THIS IS OLD?
Apparently, Maurice Sendak came under a bit of controversy back in the day for a story I’d never seen or heard of but, as I’m finding out now, was also wildly popular: In The Night Kitchen. Heard of it?
How clever, the picture, because it’s wallpaper. In a kitchen. Get it? Because…
Nevermind.
Well, from what I saw while watching the animated adaptation with Mooter on my lap (God love YouTube, sometimes, you know?), there might have been a small, little, teeny-tiny reason for the controversy. Seems the main character – a child – showed his beans and frank in the animation. Granted, it was literally drawn to scale so there’s nothing to guffaw about. Yet it is mildly uncomfortable when your seven-year-old goes HEY! HE’S NAKED! I HAVE TO CLOSE MY EYES! …Right Mom?
Yes, honey. Close your eyes. And keep them closed until your 40.
FEAR No. 045 – Drown Deep
September 29, 2009 by NaysWay · 6 Comments
(I’m at the boogie baby) Never mean to drown
(I’m Underwater boogie baby) Can’t comprehend all the strokes
(I’m at the boogie baby) Why should I hold my breath?
(Underwater boogie baby) (he’s deep) Feelin’ that I might choke! Oh!–Aqua Boogie, Parliament (1977)
For a long time, I couldn’t swim. There were a myriad of reasons why and they varied in legend: I couldn’t get my hair wet (I’m black. It’s a long story.); my eyes couldn’t take the chlorine; my mother never continued lessons for me as a baby since, back in those days, they threw you in and said “swim”, and it freaked her out. This is how the legends go. Some I’m told, some I’ve lived.
One college quarter, I was asked to pick an elective to flesh out my courses. It was winter, and winters in Ohio are like going to sleep for six months. By the time we reach summer, we’ve forgotten its smell. I needed something to keep me from losing my mind for six whole months of snow and ice and potential hypothermia from the long walks across campus. Something warm. Something summer-like. I studied the registration catalogue. Boxing. Wine tasting. First aid. Blech. Oooh, look! I know. SWIMMING. In winter. After my first session, my wet hair forming icicles around my face, I’d come to better understand my knack for not thinking things through. But I was swimming. I couldn’t sit with the excuses much longer. I was getting too old for the burning eyes line when they’d now had this snazzy invention called goggles. Couldn’t use the baby thrown in the pool story because… well, I could never remember it happening. The hair was permed so nothing to say there. I had nothing to fall back on. Until…
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FEAR Features: Mike Polk
You may not know who this guy is. And if you’re not from Cleveland, you really don’t know who this guy is. He’s no big name. He’s not hugely successful. But last year, during one of the Inside the NBA on TNT shows with Charles Barkley, two of his co-anchors made fun of how much Sir Charles hates Cleveland. He hates coming here. Hates doing commentary during the playoffs here. Hates LeBron James. Hates, hates, hates. I’m not a fan of Cleveland either, but I’m from here so I get to talk about it if I want. It’s like having that annoying sibling you can’t stand and beat up every chance you get, but give a black eye to the kid up the street if he tries to do the same because, dude. That’s MY sibling. Only I get to talk about them.
To reward Sir Charles for his vitriol and show a modicum of empathy, a local comedian (that would be Mike Polk) made the following tourism video which aired on a night where Charles would be sure to see it and comment:
All of a sudden, we were famous for being a joke. Again. On national television. What you have to understand about us Clevelanders, though, is we have thick skin. We’ve heard it all before. We know we’re the joke. We’re laughing with you. Sure, sometimes we get offended and want to kick your teeth in. But then our rivers burst into flames, or we make lame attempts at having professional football and baseball teams, and then we’re all, yeah. We suck. Hahahahahaha. Ha. Ha. Whooo-o-o-o.
So take a look at Mike Polk if you live here, used to live here, were born here, know people from here, or just want to commiserate with us. Hey, we’re on the verge of losing LeBron James. Pretty soon, we’ll actually be worse than Detroit.
Yay us.
Why?
September 24, 2009 by NaysWay · 4 Comments
Why.
If you live with a three-year-old, know that this is a word you will hear often. Sun up. Sun down. Why.
And, try as you might, there is no real, satisfying answer to the question when asked. And when you’re exhausted with Why, and you use the old faithful, “Because I said so”, it never really, truly works.
Because Why is an insatiable question with an answer that must be in China somewhere. And it doesn’t matter how long, how far, or how deep you dig, the answer to Why can never be reached.
Not with a three-year-old, anyway.
Why is not asked with the impetus of knowing. Why is not asked for any philosophical metaphoric reason. Why is meant to torture you. Why is meant to see just. how. long. I. can. flick. your. ear. before. your. head. explodes. Why is LALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALA — what were you saying?
Why is Mommy. Why dat dog walking? Mommy. Why dat lady yarn wit her mouf? Mommy. Why dat light green? Mommy. Why you make dat noise? Mommy. Why you say no more talking? Mommy. Why you close you ears? Mommy. Why you leaving? Mommy. Why you no say nuffin’? Mommy. Why you close you ears wit you hands? Mommy. Why you open dat window? Mommy. Why you jumping?
Mommy. Why you lay dare on duh graown? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommymommymommymommymommy.
Daddy. Why her do dat?
La Heim
September 23, 2009 by NaysWay · 2 Comments
I would hope everyone, at some point in their lives, needs a mental health day. With my lifestyle and schedule, I don’t get many of those.
The summer before I went to college, I got the opportunity to intern for my district Congressman in Washington, D.C. Huge deal. Well, for my little seventeen-year-old brain, it was a big deal. I got to spend the summer on Capitol Hill, attend a floor meeting (Zzzzzz) and live on Georgetown’s campus. Two months. Alone. You’d think, because I was working, I’d be stressed. Boy, was I so the opposite of stressed. Two months of living college life before I’d actually gone TO college? With a real job?! The other kids in the internship program were using it as an opportunity to drink and hit the clubs. Me? I was working! On Capitol-frickin’-Hill! DUDE!
So, yeah, I was odd. Even at a young age. I like to call it “mature”.
Nowadays, I work. And work. And work. And that’s all I do. And it’s not glamorous. I actually miss those boring floor meetings; the stuffy politicians in their stuffier suits; the hobnobbing with office pages; the rides on the Metro; the long connecting bridge walk from Virginia to Georgetown.
But every year, our Finance team flies down from New York and graces us with their presence. I don’t mean this facetiously. These guys are awesome. I’ve worked for my present company long enough to have enjoyed at least six visits from them. Why are these visits so special? Because these guys are from New York and they do it big time and they do mental health in a big way. Not all the time. Just during our special time of year when they visit and we’re all stressed and cranky and irritable and done with working because, feh, working. Then they book an expensive local restaurant, and do this…
I think I just heard my step-dad yack up a lung looking at this. Mmm, tasty bugs.
If there’s ever a dentist in America who needs assurance that I have a healthy gum line, look no further.
Here’s to life and working and still having jobs. Oh, and mental health days. Don’t forget those.
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