Turning Political ::

Being a bit of a Gilbert and Sullivan fan (thanks to the paradoxical The Pirates of Penzance, and brilliant The Mikado), I’m always on the lookout for well-done recorded performances of that famous duo’s other works: for while reading the scripts is great fun (which I have, and sometimes do, and if I ever invite you to watch one of my favorite G&S operettas with me, be assured that a script will be close on hand for convenient consultation), reading a play is nothing like seeing one; and reading a song is nothing like hearing it; and therefore only reading the lyrics to a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta is the epitome of depravity in regards to its full potential. Theater buffs would probably also continue that a movie of an operetta is the epitome of depravity in comparison to a live performance, and I would probably agree with them, but on the other hand it is much easier to spread the Gilbert and Sullivan joy if you can con your friends into a video.

That being said, this week we viewed the Canadian Stratford Festival version of Iolanthe. I really didn’t know anything about Iolanthe before watching this film, (for I did not read the lyrics ahead of time on this one), so it was an amusing diversion. The story’s ending was completely predictable and the entire plot held little of the genius of The Mikado, but one song in particular was so droll, I simply must share it with you here.

This song begins Act II of Iolanthe and is sung by a minor character, Private Willis, who is a night guard posted outside Westminster (which is where the British Parliament meets). I was most amused at how the political satire of 1882 England translated so consummately to that of 21st Century America, and thus, have purloined a copy of the lyrics. (By the way, “M.P” means Member of Parliament, and "conservative" is pronounced in such a way to rhyme with the appropriate preceding line).


When all night long a chap remains
On sentry-go, to chase monotony
He exercises of his brains,
That is, assuming that he's got any.
Though never nurtured in the lap
Of luxury, yet I admonish you,
I am an intellectual chap,
And think of things that would astonish you.
I often think it's comical--Fal, lal, la!
How Nature always does contrive--Fal, lal, la!
That every boy and every gal
That's born into the world alive
Is either a little Liberal
Or else a little Conservative!
Fal, lal, la!


When in that House M.P.'s divide,
If they've a brain and cerebellum, too,
They've got to leave that brain outside,
And vote just as their leaders tell 'em to.
But then the prospect of a lot
Of dull M. P.'s in close proximity,
All thinking for themselves, is what
No man can face with equanimity.
Then let's rejoice with loud Fal la--Fal la la!
That Nature always does contrive--Fal lal la!
That every boy and every gal
That's born into the world alive
Is either a little Liberal
Or else a little Conservative!
Fal lal la!


Incidentally, concerning my beginning this blog entry with an exhortation on the subject of W.S. Gilbert lyrics being incomplete without the appropriate Arthur Sullivan music; and ending same said blog entry with a copy of song lyrics: the irony has not been lost on me. Rather, the incongruity is put forth into cyberspace with a little grin and a nod to my favorite satirists: for imitation is the best form of flattery.

Never-Land (Caution: Non-Satirical) ::

Beyond the castle tower of a gorgeous sleeping princess; above an enchanted evening of dancing for twelve royal sisters; to the second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning, lives a boy: a laughing, untamed boy with a little wisp of a fairy for a best friend and a band of rowdy misfit boys for camaraderie; a boy who fervently clings to the dream of childhood, denies the evils of the future, and nonchalantly leaps from exploit to adventure. .

Peter Pan.

Surpassing all other fairy-stories, Peter Pan lingers as my favorite tale. Steeped in imagination, this story offers every attractive element of adventure. Pirates. Flying. Swashbuckling exploits. Runaway shadows, island coves, Indians, exploration, mermaids, crocodiles, quests, ships, Pixie Dust, mystery. A hook instead of a hand. Swordfights. Youth. Carefree escapades. Escape.

Peter Pan also holds imaginative paradoxes such as that villain’s villain, the tick-tock’ing crocodile. There is humor, and there is fantasy: but perhaps my fascination with Peter Pan’s story stems from its link with reality. Peter Pan isn’t completely set in a land “far, far away,” but in a real-life city, with believable children characters (I love it when the boys slash their wooden swords through a sheet tied up as a sail), and realistic parents (“…if I don’t find my cufflinks, we don’t go to the party!”), and the family quirk (if it isn’t a dog for a nursemaid, you know your family has something comparable). Interpersonal relationships focus on parents and children, children and siblings; and though there may be a veiled romantic interest involved, it is less "mush," more parental, and more pertinent to the story. And for Wendy, in the midst of life’s little misunderstandings and injustices, here comes a will-of-the-wind lad to whisk you off, to fly away, to escape the horrible future that awaits. Imagine!

I was on the brink of my teen years when I discovered the Disney version of Peter Pan, that colorful, carefree version that endeared the story to me. By this point in my life I had twice gone through losing house, home and virtually all worldly possessions, to natural disaster and fire; a potentially fatal though blessedly safe car wreck; and nearly losing my mother to complications post-childbirth. As I looked ahead to the unattractive prospect of “growing up,” I also took a look back and wished that I could somehow stay here: this point where I recognized the nonchalance of what childhood should have been, as well as the foreboding of adulthood; this point where I hadn’t yet entered the realm of grownups, and this point of sudden realization… I don’t want to grow up. How I longed for Never-Land, for Peter Pan, for Pixie Dust! And I’ll confess to more than one incident of standing alone in my room, thinking the happiest thoughts I could, and just wishing to fly off. It never worked. I didn’t have Pixie Dust.

If I had ever gotten to Never-Land, I’m not sure that I would have had Wendy’s grace, courage and constancy. I did feel the need to nurture the poor Lost Boys, and would have taken them in within the moment; but would I have been brave enough to choose returning home to face the future: the unknown, grownup future? Would I have been audacious enough to turn down the villainous Captain Hook and nobly walk the plank when all hope was gone?

It’s rather ironic that Peter Pan would end up being one of those stories that ripen with age -- a story that you enjoy more fully as time goes on, you get older, and grow up. I’m a picky movie-watcher, but if it’s Peter Pan anything, I’ll be there with popcorn. I love them all, because you can see a different viewpoint every time, discover new depth, imagine more completely, and enjoy the fun all over again. It’s a bit sad though that Father gets a bad rap, as most fathers do. Mother comes shining through a hero, and I used to think that was a bit over the top, but now that I’m a mother myself I have a new appreciation for all mommies. Peter himself stands to character scrutiny: is he a fun-loving fellow who just wants to keep at it forever, or is he running scared from the unknown future? I couldn’t fly away to Never-Land myself, but deeper and even more heart-rending is the idea that my own two sweet little boys are growing up so very, very fast even at this moment and I can’t fly away to Never-Land with them.

But to do that would be amiss, both in life and in the point of the story. Life isn’t meant to dwell ever in one time. Events, experiences change us, sometimes forcing us to grow up too fast: but true youth lies in the realm of the heart and the imagination. And just as the story shares: if there’s any person little lost boys need to help guide and direct, as they grow up into mature men who know the way back to the Never-Land of dreams, it is mother.

What a wondrous thing I would have missed had I really flown away Never-Land.

This is a test of the emergency blog-cast system. This is only a test.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

This has been a test of the emergency blog-cast system. Had this been a real emergency, the obnoxious alert tone would have been followed by instructions on removing bamboo shoots from under your fingernails, how to recognize poisonous snakes, and where to donate plasma.

Words ::

While setting up my own little corner of the world here at Blogger, I couldn’t help but notice that the profile section offers several blank fields, available for specifying certain favorites: movies, books, music; it even asks a random (very random) question. But try as I might, I couldn’t find a section for detailing my favorite words.

Favorite words? Why, off course, favorite words! English is a lovely language in its own quirky way; and if its auditory ring isn’t appreciated as being very beautiful or even interesting, that is only because the really appealing words have fallen into disuse.

Occasionally, we modern ignorant masses chance the great pleasure of coming upon one of these neglected words. My favorite is “indefatigable.” In’-de-fat’-i-ga-ble: adj : showing sustained enthusiastic action with unflagging vitality. If that isn’t an inspiration to life, love and apple pie in one single word, I don’t know what is.

Granted, I must admit that I was introduced to “indefatigable” by way of the A&E movie adaptation of C.S. Forrester’s Horatio Hornblower series: the Indefatigable is the ship on which young midshipman Hornblower sails with the ever-wise, equitable, and incisive (not to mention handsome) Captain Pellew. I have a big-time crush on Captain Pellew, but I’ll leave that subject - as well as the real Captain Pellew’s brave exploits - for another blogging day. Incidentally, the H.M.S. Indefatigable also really did exist: in fact, there have been six Indefatigables in the Royal Navy; Pellew’s Indefatigable being the first ship by this name, launched originally in 1784.

Not to digress further, or “go off on a tangent” as online classmates used to affectionately (and sometimes not-so-affectionately) refer to my tendency to insert marginally - and sometimes completely - irrelevant information into the conversation, I’ll return to the subject at hand and reveal the second of my “favorite words.” This one is not so noble, but oh, how well it rolls off the tongue: “ignominiously.”

Of course, “ignominiously” refers to anything marked with shame and debasement, which could be counted negatively towards it, but on the other hand it sounds so irretrievably charming that it simply must rank in my favorites. It sounds best if you savor the first two syllables, and then rush through the last four: ig… no… MIN-i-ous-ly! Ha ha! I am easily amused; perhaps too easily. But you must concede: I am rarely ever bored.

I could further my amusement by entering into some kind of psychological analysis regarding why my two favorite words are both 6-syllables long and both begin with the letter “I,” but frankly, it could prove dangerous, alarming, and just plain creepy. Besides, that would take away from the point I am leading up to, which of course is to complain about the sorrowful state of a society which has all but eliminated the use of such delightful words. If English is boring, it’s because we’ve austerely forgotten its finer points.

My personal recommendation is to purchase thesauruses as birthday presents for all relatives and minors in your acquaintance. That ought to get the ball rolling…

Hair is one of those pesky elements of life as we know it. Everyone deals with hair, or their lack thereof (which is still in essence dealing with it), to some degree or other: granted, some individuals might lose more sleep over it than others, but it's a necessary evil that can't be escaped. Hair just might stand as the single most emotional part of the body. Yes, emotional.

Hair Emotion goes way beyond superficial sentiments, such as aggravation, as in disobedient hair that refuses to behave itself until after 12 PM; or irritation, as in hair that grows in the wrong color; or frustration, as in hair that grows curly when it ought to be straight or vise-versa; or even green-green-envious-jealousy, as in the fundamental unfairness of men who possess effortlessly gorgeous locks. All of these are quite serious conditions for which there ought to be remedies, but hair can even cause someone to plummet to anger, and even madness.

Let’s suppose that you are walking through your favorite place of shopping, innocently minding your own business, when suddenly you are confronted with the inexplicably uncalled-for sight of a bad haircut: the kind where the owner of said haircut obviously chose that particular ‘do under the mistaken impression that it looks good, or worse, is attempting to make some kind of social statement with it. Now that, my friends, is just nearly cause for screaming madly, running through the store, and attacking that rebel hair with a pair of scissors.

Of course, there is also the “bad haircut” variety of individual who walks around with this pathetic aura of shame about them: obviously, an individual of that sort has fallen victim to some over-zealous stylist, and deserves compassion and a recommendation to a really good salon, poor soul.

Speaking of recommendations to really good salons and stylists, I would be ever-grateful for one or two such, as I seem to have fallen into yet another category of hair blunder personality: the clueless do-gooder. Possibly the most dangerous of all, people of this variety are the type who really try to do their part to eliminate anger and madness in the realm of hair emotion, but are simply callow in their sense of where to begin. We also fall excruciatingly to all the above hair emotions, because we don’t know how to get the elusive goodness of other hair types on our own heads. Thus, we collect photographs of celebs, stars and nameless models for their hairdos, obsess for an exorbitant amount of time, eventually make an appointment with our stylists (who by now have surely forgotten who we are), and then gimp along for the following weeks trying to style the latest ‘do on our own, naively admiring our new look; while in the backs of our minds we hope that we are not causing the person in line behind us to insanely look around for a pair of scissors.

Wait a minute; I’ll take a glance over my shoulder… safe. It’s one of those hair-apathy types. I wonder if I leave my extra bottle of shampoo on the counter if they will accidentally buy it and take it home?