Breakthrough (and Nigh Immediate Regression)

Tonight, in an unexpected and gratifying turnaround, hubby handed me the remote control and said -- here I quote -- "Pick something."

Joy.  Bliss.  Freedom.

So, I flipped through channels with the carefree insouciance so often experienced by those of the sterner sex.  I alighted upon a real keeper.  So I thought.

The Seattle Channel was hosting "Art Zone with Nancy Guppy." 

Featured tonight were an acoustic guitarist singing a self-penned anthem about Tent Cities, a clown act complete with red noses, a lady who wrote a song about her mother's death and yet mysteriously cannot play said song on guitar, and a band called The Femurs (my favorite bone!).

We got as far as the clowns. 

Really, I think he showed great restraint.  Alas, I was stripped of controller rights, probably forever.  'Twas brief; 'twas shining; 'tis passed.

On a brighter note, I think I have now some new lyrics for my work-in-progress blues song.  Maybe I can play it on the Seattle Channel someday . . .  

Mean Girls

Girls are mean.  Or, at least, too many girls are mean.  Mean in that deceitful, backstabbing, particularly vicious and underhanded way so particular to the so-called fairer sex.  Mean, mean, mean girls.

Girls like Kennama, an especially nasty example from Sadie's school.  What do you think of a girl who spends the entire school year acting as if my beautiful, precious daughter has icky germs?  Who squeals and carries on if Sadie comes too near her or -- heavens forbid! -- touches her desk or chair?  What do you think of a girl who then decides simply for kicks to act last week as though she is my daughter's new best friend?  Who gives her her Webkinz account name and asks that Sadie become her on-line friend?  Who says that she wants to set up playdates with Sadie and then gives Sadie a fake phone number?  And then, the following Monday, de-friends Sadie on Webkinz and tells her that they never really were friends -- that Kennama had only been playing a trick on her?  And then, when Sadie asks another girl to find out if she could still be Kennama's friend receives the cold reply, "Um, not going to happen."  What in the world do you think of a girl like that?  And, more importantly, what do you do about it?

Well, first I cried.  And Sadie cried.  And we had a good howl together in the car on the way home from school.  And then Sadie, being Sadie, seemed to let go of it.  Not so her mother, whose half-Italian status was fully awakened and ready to enact a vendetta.  I wanted simultaneously to yank Sadie out of school and punch Kennama in the nose.  Oh yeah.  In a heartbeat, I had the scenario well-developed in my mind, and I've played it out many times since for sheer amusement.  And then, after I had my fun with that, I called my dad and blubbered on the phone to him.  He said, "You really cannot do anything here, honey.  You just have to let it play itself out, though it breaks your heart."  "I know, I know," I agreed. 

Then, I e-mailed my dear friend, Flicka, and told her I was both bummed and livid over something that had happened to Sadie at school.  Because she is such a good friend, she knew I needed a call back and a hashing out together of this problem.  So, on the phone I spilled the whole stupid, sad, infuriating mess out.  And Flicka suggested that I go to the teacher and let her know about this bullying.  Ah, now that was a word I hadn't thought of:  bullying.  I guess I think of bullying as physical assault, not emotional.  But, this loathsome Kennama had really crossed a line with her devious plotting against my daughter's peace of mind.  It was bullying.

So, Dad is right; and Flicka is right.  I cannot do anything with this girl or her parents directly, but I can, at the very least, make the school aware of the situation and demand that this foul Kennama be allowed nowhere near my sweet girl.

What do you think of mean girls?  I was a mean girl only once, I think.  There was a well-developed (if you know what I mean) girl who was new to our school in seventh grade.  Oh, it must be a torture to look like a woman in a class of girls! What this poor kid went through.  Her name was Desiree, and in the first few weeks of school, we were tight.  But, because she was different, I soon came to understand that the entire cadre of seventh-grade girls was set against her.  And, you know, in that subtle, stealthy way that herd mentality influences without ever really saying anything, I began to realize that by being Desiree's friend, I was setting myself up for a fall.  And so, I dropped her.  I'll never forget the way it felt that night when I sat at the kitchen table, refusing to take her phone call.  My mom kept holding out the phone to me and I just kept shaking my head.  Eventually, my mom just apologized and hung up the phone, and I ran to my room and cried hot tears.  Because I did not want to lose Desiree; and I lost her just the same.  All so I could be "in."  And something changed in me that night -- I guess because it was so against my nature and my own desires -- and I consciously knew that what I had done was so wrong.  I knew I would never behave that way again.  And yet, for some reason -- probably shame -- I could not make it right.  I just could not bring myself to do it.  Desiree changed schools a few weeks after that.  I hope that someday, beyond the veil, I'll meet her again and be able to ask for her forgiveness face-to-face.  I've already asked for His.

So many times, when, in a pensive mood, I dwell on regrets (you know you do it, too), that is one of the first that comes to mind.  Mean, mean, mean Justine.  After that, I started hanging out with boys more.  Boys aren't mean like that.  "And if they are," my dad pointed out, "they turn out to be gay."  Boys are too busy trying to figure out how to get into your pants to play games with your mind.  And, somehow, that's a lot easier to deal with.

Inevitable

This poor guy knows my shame.

I guess that, in my heart, I knew it would happen to me someday.  And, now it has.

Mismatched shoes.  Unintentionally mismatched.  That I did not notice were mismatched until I'd been wearing them more than five hours.

So they were boots.  Both brown.  And that's where the similarities end.  Different heel heights.  Different leg lengths.  Different toe shapes.  Different shades of brown.

I blame the "spring forward," which got me out of bed at a truly ungodly hour to make 9:00 AM (read: 8:00 AM, bio-rhythmically speaking) service before teaching 11:00 AM Sunday School.  I felt ill-used, indeed.  And foolish.  Definitely foolish, because it wasn't until we were at lunch after church that I noticed the discrepancy.

At least no one else seemed to notice.  Or, if they did, they were kind enough not to say anything.

How did I walk around with two lengths of heel without limping?  Amazing.

UPDATE:

I was too lazy (and embarrassed) to take pics yesterday; but, today, by popular demand (from my pal Kadie), I am posting pics of the two unrelated boots that I wore yesterday in blissful ignorance.  Yes, it is nigh incredible that I did not notice the heel difference.  I will say that, once I noticed that they were mismatched, all of a sudden I realized that my right leg (the one wearing the lower heel) ached a bit.  I limped until we made it home -- much to the amusement of my husband. 

Little marching (but not "matching") boots.



The view from the top.  Silly, silly me.



Toe-to-toe -- something's not adding up!



Where's MY Support Group?

Women Who Love Honey Nut Cheerios Too Much.

Best. Cereal. Ever. 

(I could eat a box a day, and I only refrain from doing so because I live with other human beings who might look on in horror.)

I'm sick.  I need help.

Words Wanted!

Are you any good at coining pseudo-scientific, Latinish-based words?  Or, maybe you know of ones already in existence that can describe two physical and psychological reactions I frequently experience?

The first is that head-rushing, heart-racing euphoria that comes when I have one or more new books to read.  Also can apply to the general feeling of walking into a bookstore.

The second is that heart-sinking, anxious tinge of depression that I get when I count out the presumed number of my remaining days (which, really, I am probably too optimistic in calculating, because God only knows how much time I have left) and realize how many books I will have left unread at the end of this earthly time.  Also can apply to the general feeling of walking into a bookstore.

A cure for the former condition is not desired.  A cure for the latter is found in my confidence that Jane Austen, C.S. Lewis and G.K. Chesterton are all currently working on new novels and essays just on the other side of the veil (and who knows how many they've already completed?), and that enjoying books is not a pleasure for this world only.  All good things shall come through His grace in His kingdom, and few things are better than really good books. 

Read on, my friends!

Books are hindrances to persisting stupidity. ~Spanish proverb

Tiger Mom and the Math Olympics

Accommodating and nurturing Dad this morning to his daughter who will be participating in the Math Olympics today:  "Remember, no matter how you do, you're a winner just for getting into the Math Olympics."

Oh gag me.

Italian-Welsh, and newly-baptized "Chinese" Mom (inspired by Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua) to same:  "But, you'll really be a winner if you bring home a medal."

(Of course, were I really gung-ho Chinese, I might have said, "And don't even think of coming home without one."  But, I'm not that Chinese.)

Snow Bug! Part 2

Well, we got about 3" of snow last night, so you know what that means in Western Washington . . . SNOW DAY!!  Jason's parents (visiting from South Dakota) have been making fun of us all morning.

(We're only so wussy up here because of all the icy hills.  Really.)

Sadie has been having a blast this morning with the snow saucer we got her on clearance at Lowe's in January.  How cool that she's actually getting a chance to use it this winter!

And some still pics:

I hope you all are continuing to have a safe and happy winter!

Yessir, That's My New Baby!

It's only because I have one of the ten great husbands on earth, you know.  I mean, how great of a guy do you have to be to indulge your wife's equine proclivities with such equanimity?  Pretty darn great, in my opinion.

So, to the above left is my new baby.  His registered name is UDidWhaaat (Jockey Club # J28162), but the folks at the ranch call him Wayne.  I call him Big Red; and, boy, is he a hubba-hubba honey, or what?

I rode from the age of nine, until I left for college at eighteen.  It was the biggest part of my life.  The day I sold my last horse was one of the saddest in my life.  I've had horrible nightmares about him for the past eighteen years -- usually involving his sitting neglected in his stall with no one to care for him.  But, I had thought that I was over horses.  Until Sadie began to take lessons at the Pony Tail Ranch in Renton.

As I watched her learning the ins and outs of horsemanship, it all came flooding back to me -- coupled with an incredible yearning.  A few weeks ago, the owner of the ranch introduced me to Big Red.  Yowser!  He's an off the track Thoroughbred who was never raced.  You might think that's a lot of horse for an almost-eight-year-old and her eighteen-year-horse-hiatus mama to handle.  And, you'd be right.  But, it's not like this is uncharted territory.  My last horse, Spirit, was also OTTB.  I have a bond of natural sympathy with this noble breed.

So we're taking it slowly and having a blast.  He's a good boy -- very affectionate and willing.  I have every confidence that we'll get along swimmingly.  I cannot help but think that this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.  And I am so blessed to be able to share it with my daughter.

Beatles, Bieber and the Bug

All things considered, the Beatles are pretty cool.

"Well, duh," you say.  "We've had more than 40 years of knowing the Beatles are 'pretty cool.'"

But, you see, maybe your parents liked the Beatles and listened to them and exposed you early and often to their general "pretty coolness."  Mine did not.  I grew up hearing a lot of Gilbert & Sullivan, a lot of Mozart and Handel, and more folk and Celtic music than you can shake a lemon zester at; but, no Beatles.  Any knowledge I had was what I could glean from what little I knew of popular culture at large.  So, when Jason wanted to get The Beatles Rockband for Wii, I was indulgent and, yet, skeptical.  I mean, these Beatles -- they had one or two good pop songs, right?  Then they went all psychedelic and crazy.  Goo-goo-ga-joob.

Well, now it's Beatles in the morning, Beatles in the evening, Beatles at supper time in my home.  And, though I've learned to have a grudging admiration for their inventiveness and sheer prolificity, it is not I who is driving this latest local incarnation of Beatlemania.  It is my nigh-eight-year-old daughter.  Sadie has set her pre-tween sights on four mop-tops-come-hippies of my parents' generation.  And, I could not be more pleased.

Because, it could surely be worse.  It could be Bieber.

Here is how Justin Bieber first made his obnoxious presence felt in my life:  Sadie came home from a birthday party last October, shaking her booty and singing some song whose one lyric seemed to be an endless repetition of "baby."

"Oh gawd," I moaned.  "What's that wretched song you're singing?"

"Oh, Mom!  It's Justin Bieber.  He's so cool!"  Sadie returned to waggling her rear-end and singing the mono-lyrical anthem.

"Oy."  Sadie laughed at me and ran off to her room.

I turned to Jason, who was standing right there observing this atrocity in silence.  "How," I queried, "Could a girl raised on wonderful, meaningful lyrics and complex melodies ever indulge in such drivel?  I mean, Carolyn Arends, Bob Bennett, the Clumsy Lovers . . . and that's just the pop music!  How about Machaut and Josquin and Mozart and Handel and Tchaikovsky?  How about Gilbert & Sullivan, forsooth?"  Apples don't fall far from trees.

"Well," said my more temperate mate, "I guess that's what the kids are listening to."

"Not under my watch," I vowed.  And I kept close watch on my Sadie-Bug.  Was she really interested in this Bieber fellow?  I truly did not know much about him, other than this "baby" nonsense and that when I saw his face for the first time, it looked like a lovely one to punch.  And then give a haircut to.  Sheesh.  In the meantime, Sadie took every opportunity to rub salt in my wounded sensibilities by praising Old Biebhead each time she saw his pouting mug on a publication.

I suspected, though, that Sadie was just pulling my leg.  Getting a rise out of me.  Taking me for a ride.  And, my suspicions were confirmed when we went to see The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.  Shown in the previews was a trailer for a bio-pic that someone apparently felt was crying out to be made about this adolescent hack.  I sat there, just dreading that Sadie would turn to me in the dark and insist on going to see it on opening weekend.  I dug my fingernails into the arms of the theater seat and prepared myself for the brief whispered argument that was about to happen.  I glanced sideways at her.  She popped a Milk Dud in her mouth and chewed complacently.  She said nothing. 

Sadie is never one to be quiet when an idea or plan is brewing in her head.  Every movie night out begins with Sadie poking me in the dark and demanding to be taken eventually to the movies that excite her in the previews.  So, my suspicions blossomed into hope.  "This," I thought to myself, "Is not a Bieber fan.  Hurrah!"  And it made watching The Voyage of the Dawn Treader even more of a treat.

After the show, I turned casually to Sadie and said, "Hey, how about we go to that Bieber movie when it comes out?  That would be fun, huh?"

Before she could stop herself, she screwed up her face in disgust.  "Oh no, Mom!  Not that!"  Then, she remembered what her official position was (it was really her eternal "default" position which is, on every subject, What Will Annoy Mom the Most?).  "I mean, yes.  OK, let's go." 

"All right!" I beamed.  "I'll be sure to pre-order tickets for opening weekend!  I can hardly wait to see it with you!"

Sadie looked crestfallen.  She muttered something and stalked off, toward the theater exit.  I turned in triumph to Jason.  "Victory is mine!" I whispered excitedly.  He chuckled.

Over the next few weeks, whenever Sadie was being naughty, I would threaten to take her to see the Justin Bieber movie.  It never failed to get her back on track.  I finally got her to admit that she did not really like his songs and had only been acting like she did to get on my nerves.  Antagonistic child!  We've had a few nice months of Bieber-free-ness, now that Sadie has dropped the charade.

Anyway, she has the Beatles now, whom she really does like.  And with some reason, too.  She's decided to sing a Beatles song in her school's talent show tomorrow.  So, we've been rehearsing "Here Comes the Sun" every day.  And it is a really, really lovely song.  And I'm so glad -- and I'm so glad -- and I'm SO GLAD -- it's the Beatles and not Bieber.  I'll even let her put up a poster in her bedroom of the Lads from Liverpool.  That's a grateful mom!

Book Space

As someone who scored seven new books for Christmas and has since purchased six more, and as someone who bought four bookshelves in the month of January alone, I could not resist getting this button from Cafe Press:

And since I've been obnoxiously and obsessively seeking out potential homes for my BFF in a desperate campaign to move her and her delightful family out west for waffles and bacon and general gemütlichkeit, I have been peeking at the interiors of many for-sale houses on-line.  And they all seem so bare and strange.  Then, I realized that nary a one I had viewed contained shelf after shelf after shelf of books.  Weird, huh?  Do people simply pack away their books when they place their houses on the market?  Is it because books are so personal and revelatory that they cannot bear to parade them before the eyes of strangers?  I'd like to think so; because, the alternative is too terrible to contemplate.

May your 2011 be filled with good books!

Snow Bug!

6:00 PM, and it's still coming down outside!  The biggest snow fall since 2008!  Very exciting, indeed.  Prayers of safety for all motorists out there just trying to get home — especially Jason!

Sadie had some fun in the flakes!



The Difference Between Being Born and Bred in Southern California and Growing Up in South Dakota

Is never more apparent than when hubby (So. Dak.) and I (So. Cal.) wake up to a morning like this:

At 7:30 AM:

I am all that is delighted and giddy; he is all that is uninterested or mildly annoyed.  I know this isn't a lot of snow, but the delicate flakes are still silently falling and I've hope that we'll get a little accumulation.  Whoo-hoo!

Oh the weather outside's delightful
But Jason is just so spiteful
If we have to drive we'll take it slow
So let it snow!  Let it snow!  Let it snow!

Update at 9:45 AM:

It continues to fall!  I'm tickled to death; Jason is, I am sure, not as enthusiastic.

Update at 11:30 AM:

 And so the back door doesn't feel left out:

 All of this snow, of course, leads to this:

With this:

And this:

Happy Snow Day!

Justine's Christmas Music Showcase: Week 3

And now, a brand-new instrumental offering from BC's own Spencer Capier:

Album: Christmas Instrumental
Artist: Spencer Capier
Label: Independent, 2010

I really don't know anything about music, which makes me shy in writing about an album from a guy who know a whole heck of a lot about it and uses that knowledge so very well.  But, if my halting, yet appreciative, words can convince only one person to make the leap of faith to buy this exceptional collection, then exposing my ignorance in so blatant a fashion will be well worth it.

I have only a digital copy of this album — having had urgent need of it about three weeks ago, and no way to possess it immediately other than downloading the whole shebang from iTunes (sorry, FTL).  That means, of course, I have no listing of the instruments used on this album (though even my untrained ears can detect a host of the usual suspects — violin, bouzouki, and mandolin), nor whether any of the songs on it are original Capier compositions or obscure seasonal hymns pulled and polished for our pleasure.  I can really only tell you what I like about it, which is actually quite a lot, really.

So, with that lengthy disclaimer out of the way, welcome to Christmas Instrumental!  Isn't the cover art gorgeous?  I love the clever guitar trees and the wee perched bird.  I have a weakness for cheerful bright red, too.  It is very pleasing to the eye.  And, the album's inside matches its outside.

The opening track is "We Three Kings."  This upbeat rendition of an often melancholy classic sets the tone for the rest of the album — imaginative and complex and tinged with eclectic charm.  Flowing next is "In Dulci Jubilo," a song I was not familiar with, but one of my favorites from Christmas Instrumental.  I love the way it builds on joyful note after joyful note, with a nice rollicking beat in the background.

Here is an interesting thing about the collection of songs on this album:  You so rarely can sing along.  Christmas songs are ubiquitous in the minds of North Americans.  They are such a part of our cultural DNA, that any instrumental Christmas album runs the risk of being overshadowed by a boisterous outbreak of spontaneous singing on the part of those who really ought to be listening to the music.  Spencer has skirted this issue by choosing many songs that give a distinct wintry feel without being well-known to the larger, sing-along public.  This allows the gift of the music itself to really shine through.

A slower favorite on this album is "Not One Sparrow is Forgotten."  Spencer abandons the sprightly Eastern eclat for a moment to offer a sweet, sad Celtic-flavored song.  There is a calm center to this album, with a series of songs that evoke so easily wintry nights and firesides and long conversations with old friends interrupted by comfortable silences and trips into the kitchen to refill your mug of mulled wine or hot buttered rum.  "In the Bleak Midwinter" is finding a lot of acclaim, I've noticed — and rightly so.  Such a lovely, and yet again rather sad, song — one whose music matches well the poem on which it was based.      

I must confess that I do love when the album turns toward offering more well-known and frisky songs near the end (though I can rarely resist the temptation to add my most-unwelcomed voice to the mix).  "Ding-Dong Merrily on High" is fun — even without a group of Welsh miners singing along.  Probably my very favorite on this album, though, is "Here We Come a Wassailing."  It's got some sort of sound to it — darn it Justine! you ought to have payed better attention in music classes at Auggie! — I dunno . . . polka?  Is it blasphemous to even suggest polka?  Well, whatever it is, it rocks! 

"Auld Lang Syne" tops off this excellent offering, appropriately nostalgic and bluesy.  You won't want it to end; but, it will.  Lucky you, you smart fellow!  You bought the album and now you can start over again from track one!  This is an album that is definitely going into the "decorating the tree" rotation, and will also be on "driving around in the freezing rain while stuck in Christmas traffic" duty and — hopefully — will eventually make it to the aforementioned and highly desirable "hanging out with friends in front of a fire enjoying wintry drinks" round-up.  Thank you, Spencer, for giving us this beautiful Christmas present!  Merry Christmas!

Best Health Food Drink Ever!

Diet Coke Plus — Diet Coke with Vitamins AND Minerals!

Who was the marketing genius who dreamed up this idea?

(I know sarcasm is hard to convey through the written word; and, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure if I meant the above in a sarcastic way or not.)

Gilbert Keith Would LOVE This!

G.K. Chesterton prophesied about blogging (or, at least, an easily accessible form of written media for the populace), you know, as quoted in an earlier post on Trivialities:

"I am in favour of one man one house, one man one field; nay I have even advanced the paradox of one man one wife. But I am almost tempted to add the more ideal fancy of one man one magazine ... to say that every citizen ought to have a weekly paper of this sort to splash about in ... this kind of scrap book to keep him quiet."

Mr. Chesterton would have adored blogging.  Would have blogged and been fantastic at it, I am certain.  And, I think that he would also have loved this amazing new technological break-through I've only just discovered (though it's been around for a while, I can imagine).  It is Blog Talk Radio.  Have you heard of it?

I just found out about it via the blog of a very caustic and acidic (therefore, often very funny) lady down in Arizona named Nikki Richards.  She writes According to Nikki, and there she slaughters every sacred cow on the altar of her own frothy irascibility.  Some of my own hapless beasts have been led to sacrifice; I do not hold that against Nikki.  Nor do I hold against her her lapses into semi-coherence, her utter disregard for grammar and punctuation, and her issues with those troublesome homophones.  I just picture this feisty lady of the Southwest pounding furiously on her keyboard, with no care for our stringent rules of written language, simply because she has something to say — and it makes me smile.  Gilbert Keith would have given her his blessing.

Anyway, Nikki apparently co-hosts with her long-time (and, I can only imagine, long-suffering) friend Namaste (My Voice on the Wings of Change) an infrequently-aired radio talk show through this Blog Talk Radio thing.  How cool is that?  I have yet to catch up with the archived episodes, but the next scheduled one of American Polichics is on Thursday, November 18 at 6 PM EST.  Of course, that would be the exact time I have to drive the after-school carpool.  I guess I'll be stealth-archive-girl for a while.

If G.K. — who never shied away from conversation, and was the epitome of "disagreeing without being disagreeable" long before Michael Medved came into being — liked the idea of one man one magazine, how much more would he have liked two chicks one talk show?  Talk on, ladies — talk on!

As Ithers See Us

Sadie describes her mom:

"A woman of discontentment who is never satisfied with her daughter who happens to be awesome."

As Robert Burns once mused:

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!

Thanks, Power!

Justine's Christmas Music Showcase: Week 2

OK, so here is another album that was brand new last year, but that I never got around to reviewing.  The group is Canadian; the CD came from Tukwila, though.

Album:  How Many Kings: Songs for Christmas
Artists:  Downhere
Label:  Centricity Music, 2009

It was the cover art that caught my eye.  I liked the cheerful red combined with the interesting crown motif.  Downhere, eh?  Never heard of them.  How Many Kings . . . hmmm.  So, I flipped it over in the store and read with approval the song list.  "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" — good.  "Angels from the Realms of Glory" — interesting.  "Good King Wenceslas" — ah, nice one.  "Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella" — ooh, I've always wanted to hear that one.  And a bunch of new ones.  Sounds promising, I thought.  I'll try to find out some more information.

So, I Googled them.  Found out they were Canadian.  Went to my best resource on all things musical and Canadian: Spencer Capier.  He said he'd heard of them, but did not know too much about their Christmas album.  So, I went to my next best resource on all things musical and Canadian:  Carolyn Arends.  She not only knew of them, she knew the history of the lead singer, and a bit about their style of music.  Guess who is now my best resource on all things musical and Canadian?  Anyway, she also didn't know much about their just-released Christmas album, but said to let her know if I decided to buy it and what I thought of it. 

I decided to buy it.

And I let her know what I thought about it.  I took the album out just the other day, to see if what I thought about it had changed over the past year, and — no; it pretty much reads the same to me this year as last.  So, this is what I told Carolyn in aught-nine (in better thought-out words than I originally used):

The new songs walk the line of banality and inspirational and fall over onto the banal side far too often.  The "covers" of traditional songs, however, are remarkable. 

Based upon that succinct review, Carolyn did not seem too impressed.  I felt bad, as though I had done Downhere a disfavor.  Because, I was in no way trying to say that How Many Kings was not a worthwhile album or addition to any Christmas collection.  This year, I am going to clarify and finesse and write out better what I really think, to redeem myself in my own view as a thoughtful listener.

How Many Kings is a pop-rock collection by the Christian band Downhere.  The eponymous track opens the album as a musically rich and vocally powerful original.  While the melody is pleasing to the ears, and the voices convey emotion and conviction, I cannot find the lyric all that absorbing.  Our church sang it during worship around Christmastime last year.  Why?  I have no idea. 

So, I'll share the not-so-great first:  The originals on this album just leave me pretty cold.  I like a pretty different kind of lyric, I guess, and stringing a bunch of nice-sounding, vaguely-rhyming sentiments together just won't cut it for me.  "How Many Kings" is probably the best of the original offerings.  "Christmas in Our Hearts" is probably the worst.  Jason disagrees and thinks it is catchy. To each his own.

But, much like the little girl with the curl right in the middle of her forehead, when Downhere is good, they are very, very good.  And they are very, very good with pulling out some traditional songs and giving them a fresh spin.  "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" has a nice, funky beat and some terrific harmonies.  "Angels From the Realms of Glory" has just the right amount of soaring, swelling tone about it.  "Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella" is surely a treat of a little known French carol.  But, the crowning glory of How Many Kings is "Good King Wenceslas."  Oh my, this is a great song.  The lead singer has a fantastic Freddy Mercury twist and the ragtime beat is sublime.  Love it!

What sounds like a very mixed bag when you pick it apart individually is actually a well-put together and pleasing album in its entirety.  Even the more lyrically mundane songs work well in context because they are, as Jason said, catchy and the guys' voices are all very nice.  This is more of a nice "decorating the Christmas tree" album as opposed to a "driving around in the freezing rain and Christmas traffic and singing along" album, and it is certainly not a "weep uncontrollably in light of the amazing gift of God until complete strangers feel comfortable asking you if everything is OK" album (but so few are that).  It moves along and is sprightly enough to motivate you to tackle hanging the umpteenth box of silver ball ornaments.  Merry Christmas! 

Those Damnable French

O, pity all ye the Anglophile who constantly finds reasons to admire the French!

My dear friend, Flicka, loves to quote from Alan Jacobs's The Narnian that recounts a young Jack Lewis declaring to his father, "I have a prejudice against the French."  Asked why,the four-year-old coolly replied, "If I knew why, it wouldn't be a prejudice."



The comic genius, Jerry Lewis



Why do we hate the French almost reflexively?  Well, the Brits have their own reasons, I am sure, but for Americans it is most likely because we have the idea that they hate us.  The only actual French person I've ever had any sort of extended, friendly acquaintance with was a lovely young lady named Audrey who was from Provence.  She assured me that the only French people who hate Americans are the Parisians — and they hate everyone, including Provençals.  (She then went on to insist that Jerry Lewis was a comic genius, which I found almost too awesome for words.)

"The French are a smallish, monkey-looking bunch and not dressed any better, on average, than the citizens of Baltimore. True, you can sit outside in Paris and drink little cups of coffee, but why this is more stylish than sitting inside and drinking large glasses of whisky, I don't know."

—P. J. O'Rourke

It's fun to be anti-French.  No matter what your opinion on the Iraq War, you probably got a kick out of some of the barbs thrown at France's non-involvement with the coalition forces.  Calling them "cheese-eating surrender monkeys" was a snort-inducing one.  Or how about General Schwartzkopf's assertion that "going to war without France is like going deer hunting without your accordion"?  Conan O'Brien quipped, "You know why the French don't want to bomb Saddam Hussein? Because he hates America, he loves mistresses and wears a beret. He is French, people!"  And Jay Leno threw in, "I don't know why people are surprised that France won't help us get Saddam out of Iraq. After all, France wouldn't help us get Hitler out of France either."  It's all in good fun, right François?  Hey, pass those Freedom Fries, will ya? (h/t)

But what to do, what to do when the French just start being a little too exceptional, a little too marvelous, a little too fascinating?  I've been wringing my hands and gnashing my teeth these past few weeks, because the stellar side of French culture has been revealed to me time and again.  And it hurts a little to confess that I have found oodles of delight and no little awe in the Gallic world — even in realms I would not expect.



Manet's Olympia



I have long maintained that the best painters are, indeed, French.  Above me as I type is a large print of Manet's Olympia, every detail of her languorous repose a masterstroke.  And while Edouard is my favorite, so many other French painters also top my list: Ingres, Delacroix, Watteau, Fragonard, Caillebotte, Corot,  Degas — and even, occasionally, Toulouse-Lautrec, Cézanne, and Renoir.



Bastiat



Despite their modern association with socialism and sloth, two of the geniuses of classic liberal economics are also, alas, French.  Frédéric Bastiat and Jean-Baptiste Say are giants -- the former for his ability to translate economic theory into a fun, easily digested parable about The Law; the latter for his economic theorizing that led to, among other things, Say's Law (which my husband keeps trying to explain to me; but frankly, I'd rather have another drink and simply trust that Say is all they — ahem —say).  Not to mention that the whole term "laissez-faire" capitalism comes from an apocryphal story of 17th century French merchants and industrialists who, upon being asked by the Finance Minister what the government could do to help them, resoundingly answered, "Laissez-nous faire!"

In science, architecture, cuisine, fashion, the French have never failed to make their marks.  Stinkin' French even manage to write well, occasionally — the bastards.  Not that they can hold a candle to England's trove of literary lights . . . but still, their track record beats America's — so far.  As I said, I have been sadly reminded of the lovely side of France lately by several back-to-back encounters.  The first was the documentary film, Man on Wire.

I so did not want to see this movie.  I pulled such a moue when it arrived from Netflix.  Dolefully, I moaned to Jason, "I do not want to see some fey Frenchie skedaddle between the Twin Towers.  Bleh."  I was wrong — so very, very wrong.  This is a fabulous experience.  I defy anyone not to fall in love with Philippe Petit and his puckish face and exuberant attitude.  His quest to string a wire between the World Trade Center towers in New York City and dance upon the air between them is a testament to not only the indomitable spirit of man, but to a particularly French sense of whimsy.  You can only imagine that this is a man who grew up watching that utterly charming short film The Red Balloon.  To me, Monsieur Petit's insatiable yearning to conquer the towers has a spiritual kinship with the portrayal of Little Pascal's protection of and friendship with a sentient balloon.  Both are expressions of a particularly fragile and ephemeral sort of beauty and a playful homage to impracticality that is so foreign to we practical Americans, yet is strangely attractive, too.  Make of that what you will.

The second delightful, yet consternating, French intrusion into my life was reading Passionate Minds by David Bodanis.  I was pretty sure I would like the story (and with a subtitle that promised "sword fights, book burnings, assorted kings, seditious verse, and the birth of the modern world," how could I not?), but I was not anticipating or prepared to really like the main characters, scientist Emilie du Châtelet and the poet Voltaire.  Unfortunately, those crafty Frenchies won not only my sympathy, but my approbation, despite their combined numerous adulterous and even moderately incestuous cavortings.  There is an advantage to being French if you're going to act like a mink:  no Englishman or woman could get away with such goings on, both in their own eras or from an historical distance.  But with the French, you just wave a disparaging hand and move on.



Emilie



What was so captivating about Emilie and Voltaire's love story was that it was about so much more than sex.  It was about friendship and companionship and respect.  It was about two people from vastly different backgrounds meeting with minds as well as bodies to the benefit of the life's work of both.  In Mr. Bodanis's telling, the story more than delivers on its palpitations-inducing subtitled promises; but, the fast pacing does not detract from the point of the title.  In its entirety, it is about passionate minds, but — much like Philippe Petit — it is also about indomitable spirits.  From the standpoint of Emilie du Châtelet, the life she was able to carve out for herself in the midst of a stunted environment for an intelligent woman is the heart of the story.  From Voltaire's standpoint, the tide of societal change which he helped to front is the heart.  And the two hearts beat as one.



Voltaire



Though sex is not the point of the story, it does help to bring it to its end.  When no longer sexually involved with Voltaire, Emilie took up with a much younger lover and became pregnant at the age of forty-two.  Pregnancy was fraught with danger at any time during the 18th century, but it was even more so when the mother was older.  Emilie, having a premonition about her death that seems more the end result of logic rather than a supernatural revelation, worked in haste to finish her life's masterwork, a translation and illumination of Newton's Principia, entitled, Principes mathématiques de la philosophie naturelle de Newton, traduits du latin par Mme du Châtelet.  She finished the manuscript on August 30, 1749; she gave birth on September 3; she died on September 10.  Bodanis poignantly ends the main text of the book with this paragraph:

Voltaire was bereft: "I've lost the half of myself — a soul for which mine was made."  Months later, after Voltaire had abandoned Cirey [the country house they had shared] and moved back to Paris, Longchamp [his assistant] would find him wandering at night in the apartments he'd shared with Emilie, plaintively calling her name in the dark.  (p. 281)

Darn French — making me cry with their romantic ways!

That same Flicka mentioned earlier confessed to me today that, deep down in the unexamined recesses of her soul, she fears that she, too, may have an affinity for the French.  In fact, she let it slip a while back that she would like to go to Paris someday.  And, I am beginning to suspect that I may have to go with her — if only to visit the Musée d'Orsay and give some major props to my man Edouard.  It would even be worth it to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous Parisian snootiness to enjoy a glass of red with my BFF while overlooking the Seine.  That will be a moment of eating crow, indeed; which, considering what sort of cooking goes on in France, will probably be covered in some sort of heavy cream sauce.

Fin.