Mania

My two year old was at first entranced, then excited, and finally, overwrought and infuriated, by this video of the "Indian Beatles" from 1965. Shout out to poplicks for turning us on.

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The most sensational inspirational celebrational Muppetational

So, I ordered one of the "Best Of" the Muppet Show dvds from Netflix for the kids portion of Friday movie and pizza night. I guess I was eight or nine years old when my own family used to gather round our tiny black and white television set to watch Kermit and guests every Monday night. I never really cottoned to the movies that came later, but man oh man, I loved the variety show.

I was a little apprehensive about watching it again as an adult, wondering if my bubble would burst. But I maybe enjoyed it more. When I was eight or nine, I couldn't appreciate how great the guest list was. This dvd features the Peter Sellers, John Cleese and Dudley Moore episodes. No wonder my parents watched too.

The kids did not disappoint, either. They are watching it again this morning. "Play the one with the the transporter, Mom,!" ( a Bunsen Honeydew contraption that has Beaker popping in and out of scenes, making Kermit crazy.)

The adult feature was Grey Gardens. It was fascinating for the first 30 minutes, and had me thinking about hosting a Little Edie dress party. But then it gets kind of painful, and almost callous. It would have been more compassionate to offer some kind of contextual narrative, but the Maylses are too amused by the insanity to temper it with humanity. I was sort of wishing one of the Edies would up and eat them, Grizzly Man-style.

Postscript, Saturday afternoon--okay, I found the love I was missing in Grey Gardens. It's in the audio commentary by the two female director-editors. MUCH better. They speak directly in places to some of the discomfort I was having on the first viewing. Start here, at least through the first couple of chapters, then go back and watch the film without the commentary.

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Ride around, Ride around real slow

I think it would be fair to say that I neither distinguished nor disgraced myself on my first time riding. Undoubtedly it helped that I was wearing the flag of the old republic. I had the reputation of my people to uphold (for general hardiness and stoutness of heart, anyway; Newfoundlanders are not exactly renowned for horsey-ness).

Also, my teacher was exceedingly kind and patient, to say nothing of King and Dollar, who I know were annoyed with my directional handicap (I can't tell left from right very well, and everytime I was instructed to pull the reins one way or the other, I had to stop and figure it out). They contained their criticism to the occasional impatient toss of their manes, as if to say, "Well, which is it, woman?" Thank you boys, for not crushing me under hoof.

This morning, my thighs are sore in a novel way and I am wishing I could go straight back out again. Maybe I could mark L and R on the backs of my hands or the horses' ears or something.

My Mom said my Nana Ferne would have been proud (as long as we kept the whole left/right thing a secret). That made me happy. I lost both my grandmothers and my father within 18 months of each other. Neither branch of the family tree had much in the way of traditional heirlooms to pass down. I have my grandmother Mary's silver ring, her wedding photo, and a picture of her class at school. From my father, the brass chalice from the abandoned church in his ancestral parish, his good flyrod and his first communion portrait. I don't have anything of Ferne's at all, except a snapshot of her in her 80s that I begged from my mother last summer and a copy of a photograph of her as a child with her parents and siblings that must date about 1916.



I have begun to think of myself as the recipient and trustee of other, less tangible, heirlooms. Dad and Nanny's love of flyfishing and writing. Nana's passion for gardening and horseback riding. Those treasures, I can keep up and pass down. I can handle that. Even if I can't tell left from right.

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Giddyup

I'm going riding this morning. As in on the back of a horse. A girlfriend of mine is a horse trainer, and she's letting me tag along with her while she is giving riding lessons to a client.

My maternal grandmother was a great horse woman and rode bareback into her eighties. So naturally, I am expecting to throw my leg up over the horse, hoist myself confidently into the saddle, take the reins and amaze my friend and her student with my innate equestrian skill.

Like a fish to water. Or is it a duck?

Whatever.

If I come back in one piece, I will let you all know how it goes. Unless I just ride off into the sunset.

Kippy-yi-yi-yay.

k.

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