Wait Five Minutes
When I first looked out the window this morning, you couldn’t see a thing. Looking closely, you could see a tiny glow where the streetlights are, but nothing else. The fog had rolled in.
Five minutes later, you could see the shoreline.
Now, there is still a thick fog, but you can see through it.
I didn’t have any hope for a good sunrise this morning, but I was pleasantly surprised. I had a gleam of sunshine about 7:30:
Five minutes later:
And five minutes later:
And in my head, I hear the ineffable strains of Break Forth, Oh Beauteous Heavenly Light, which when I went to U-Tube, I found this wonderful version by the Florida Agricultural and Mining University, beautifully done with another appropriate hymn, Deo Gratias, or, as we say in Arabic, Thanks Be to God!
Magnificent Concert
There isn’t much I ask of AdventureMan, he is busy supporting us and feathering our nest for retirement. When I ask, he is such a sweetie. I had asked about last night – there was a very special concert I wanted to hear. He took me, even though he had an early flight out this morning and hadn’t packed, hadn’t even picked up his shirts from the cleaners.
It was so totally worth it.
The Al Ahmadi singers did their “Holiday” concert at the SAS/ Al Hashemi Ballroom. It was wonderul, and moving, and a great way to get into the spirit of the Christmas season. I love that ballroom, it has so much character, even though the outer reception area smells a little moldy – what can you expect, right on the sea like that? The place is clean, and has an amazingly elegant feel, with it’s fabulously intricate wood parquet floors, it’s ship-light inspired chandeliers, it’s coffered ceilings, it’s heavy wood staircases to the upper deck/balcony. It has a great ambience.
Thanks be to God, in Kuwait, the Al Ahmadi singers can even sing excerpts from The Messiah, have readings about the meaning of Christmas, and celebrate the birth of the tiny baby Jesus. Can you see my great big grin? Even the memory makes me happy.
The orchestra supporting the chorus, under the direction of Joanna Kowalla, was also amazing. Very very good. Lucky Al Ahmadi singers, with such a great director, Richard L. Bushman. The soprano soloist, Vernica Grmusa, took our breath away with her excellence. The alto soloist, Jessica Olson, had a couple of really fun numbers, composed by the concert conductor’s wife, Harriet Petherick Bushman.
It was just the evening I needed, exquisite music, performed with spirit and excellence, in an atmosphere of joy. It was a total wow.
Just a couple reminders to people who may not have a lot of experience with attending concerts:
1) Turn off your cell phone. It is selfish and rude for you to be talking on your phone. I don’t care if your friend is lost, I don’t care. The conductor is making the SECOND announcement now about turning off cell phones; he means YOU. Everyone around you is glaring – can’t you see? Turn off your cell phone.
2) If you are late, and if they allow you in anyway (in most places you have to wait until an intermission or pause) enter discretely and find seats quickly and SIT DOWN. The key word here is discrete. Most of us are excited about the concert and eager to hear the music. Your grand entrance is lost on us. We don’t care how good you look, we just want you to sit down. Waving to all your friends, attracting attention to yourself makes us want to kill something – watch out. It might be YOU.
In spite of my complaints, above, the concert was so overwhelmingly good that even these minor rudenesses didn’t spoil the overall joy of an evening particularly well spent. Bravo, Brava, Al Ahmadi Singers, orchestra and soloists!
A Moment for Mirth
As we complain about traffic, write passionately about the environment, and wonder what on earth is going on with our government(s) (What? you thought it was just Kuwait?) and even worse, as we start to talk about the good old days, back in the day . . . whoa! Oh no! We are starting to sound . . . like our parents!
So, for a moment of fun, take a look at a song from a very old musical, The Music Man, set over a hundred years ago, where he talks about the new phenomenon corrupting the youth of the country. Watch how the parents get all worked up. And remember – it is all part of his agenda.
Motorcycle Moments
A non-food related entry while killing time before Iftaar š As the weather cools, even slightly, we are seeing more cyclists hitting the roads. Be safe out there.
There are some very very clever people on U-Tube:
Leader of the Pack
From that all time need-for-speed movie, Top Gun:
Peter Bowen: Wolf, No Wolf
“You have to take this. You’ll really like it,” Sparkle insisted as I inwardly groaned, thinking of the TWO stacks of unread-must-reads by the side of my bed, and my already bulging suitcases.
“I know it doesn’t sound like something you’ll like,” she went on, slightly frustrated with me, with herself, “but once you start reading, you’ll get into it.”
Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but good enough for me. I always KNOW what I think she will love, and she has done me many a favor in return, introducing me to authors and series worth reading.
“It’s about Montana. The main character is mixed Indian and French and some other things, a grandfather, and it all takes place in a small town in Montana . . . ” she sort of fizzles out. “I’m really not doing a very good job of making this interesting.”
And she sighs in frustration.
So, about a month later, just because I love my sister, I pick the book up and start reading while waiting for my husband to get home for dinner. As it turns out, he is very very late – and I am very very glad. I don’t want to stop reading!
When you first jump into Wolf, No Wolf by Peter Bowen, it takes you a minute to adjust your ear to the way they talk. These aren’t people most of us have met before. Gabriel DuPreĀ“ is mĀ“etis, a mixed blood. His ancestors are French who came early to the great continent that is now the US, Canada and Mexico, and they trapped and hunted, married native American wives, and developed a culture all their own. His language pattern is similar to that of the Cajun in Louisiana.
He is a cattle brand inspector in this small Montana town. His children are grown, he has so many grandchildren he can’t remember all their names. Every now and then, he pins on his deputy sherrif badge to solve a mystery in the small town of Toussaint, Montana.
Here is how Wolf, No Wolf opens:
Du PreĀ“ fiddled in the Toussaint Bar. The place was packed. some of Madelaine’s relatives had come down from Canada to visit. It was fall and the bird hunters had come, to shoot partridges and grouse on the High Plains.
The bird hungers were pretty OK. The big game hunters were pigs, mostly. The bird hunters were outdoors people; they loved it and knew it, or wanted to. The big game hungers wanted to shoot at something big, often someone’s cows.
Bart had bought a couple thousand dollars’ worth of liquor and several kegs of beer and there was a lot of food people had brought. Everything was free.
Kids ran in and out. The older ones could have beers. Bart was tending bar. Old Booger Tom sat on one of the high stools, cane leaned up against the front of the bar.
“You do that pretty good for someone the booze damn near killed,” said Booger Tom. “I know folks won’t be in the same room with the stuff.”
“Find Jesus,” said Bart. “It’s not too late to save your life.”
He went down to the far end of the bar and took orders. Susan Klein, who owned the saloon, was washing glasses at a great pace.
One of Madelaine’s relatives was playing the accordion, another an electric guitar. They were very good.
Du PreĀ“ finished. He was wet with sweat. The place was hot and damp and smoky, so smoky it was hard to see across the room. The room wasn’t all that big, either.
Madelaine got up from her seat, her pretty face flushed from drinking the sweet pink wine she loved. She threw her arms around Du PreĀ“ and kissed him for a long time.
“Du PreĀ“,” she said, “you make me ver’ happy, you play those good songs.”
. . …
Someday this fine woman marry me, thought Du PreĀ“, soon as the damn Catholic church, it tell her OK, your missing husband is dead now so you can quit sinning, fornicating with DuPreĀ“.
I’ve never hung out in a bar in Montana, fiddled, or had a girlfriend named Madeleine (!), but already I feel like I know these people and this life. Peter Bowen is the Donna Leon of Montana, introducing us to the kind of crimes that happen in those sleepy looking towns we drive past on the superhighways, glancing at, or stopping to fill our gas tanks.
DuPreĀ“ is a good man, and, like many a good man, sometimes has to do a bad thing to protect those he is sworn to protect. Policing is not pretty business.
The first story has to do with the re-introduction of wolves back into the Montana highlands, something not at all popular with those who have been raising cattle there. The second book in this two-book collection has to do with serial killers, how they stay under the radar, and how very difficult it is to catch them.
In both books, it is as much about a new way of living and thinking as it is about solving the crime. DuPreĀ“ consults often with his friend Benetsee, the local medicine man, who sees things we don’t see. One of the FBI Agents is Harvey Wallace, also more than half native American, whose real name is Harvey Weasel Fat. The books are about how men and women fight, the nature of male friendships and female friendships, and very much about the human condition wherever we may be.
Life is short. I can never live in all these places long enough to even scratch the surface of the flavor of each variety of life. But these books help, they give us glimpses into another way of thinking, another way of doing things, and stretches our little minds just a little so that we learn to think more flexibly.
So who is going to write the Kuwait detective series? Who will take us into the diwaniyyas seeking information, who will take us out on the shoowi to gather information against those delivering drugs to Kuwait, with whom will we camp in the desert, avoiding explosives left over from the Iraqi invasion? I think his name is Anwar al Kout (the light of Kuwait!) and his wife is Suhail (the Yemeni Star!) – somewhere out there is someone who can take us into Kuwait and bring it alive. Where are you?
(You were right, Sparkle. I loved it!)
Corporate Dancing
Maria, at A Time to Dance writes a lyrical and insightful comparison of Salsa dancing and the subtleties of corporate leadership – and followership. In a very original and poignant article, Maria juxtaposes her subjects with deft elegance.
Big Girls Don’t Cry?
Listening to SUPERSTATION 99.7 as I am working, I find myself exasperated, from time to time, by the lyrics to some of the songs.
Today, it is Big Girls Don’t Cry. I remember a totally different song with the same name from back a while ago, and actually I like this one better, because she talks about cutting it off and just moving on – and I agree. Sometimes you just have to cut your losses.
But I think big girls – and guys – do cry.
(Picasso’s Weeping Woman)
A researcher actually explored why we cry:
Frey investigated a question his mother had asked him: “Why is it that people cry tears?” He would pursue the answer, alongside his Alzheimer’s work, for many years. He took a scientific approach to her inquiry, and he discovered emotional tears were chemically different from other tears. That research resulted in interviews with People magazine, the Today Show, Good Morning America, and others, as well as a book, Crying: The Mystery of Tears (Harper and Row). “Perhaps the reason people feel better after crying is that they’re removing chemicals that build up during stress,” Frey suggests, adding that the question remains open to further research.
This is from a Washington University Alumni magazine.
I don’t know if there has been any further research on crying, but originally, I remember him stating that emotional tears carried away poisons that stress build in the body. It makes sense to me. I don’t cry all that often, but when I do, when I cry and it’s one of those blow-it-all-out cries, the kind that give you a headache if you carry on for too long – afterwards, you just feel wonderful!
And you wonder why you even let her/him/it assume so much importance in your life?
And you wonder “What was I thinking???”
Sometimes a good cry just puts everything back in proportion and you really CAN move on.
Or that’s how I see it. I don’t mean to go all drama-queen, I am just talking about a good old fashioned lock-yourself-in-the-bedroom-and-cry kind of cry.
But maybe you see it differently. I think big girls DO cry, and for good reasons, and then we move on. But this might be a cultural thing, and I am willing to entertain other ways of looking at it. What do YOU think?
Ridin’ Dirty
My sis made this comment in my blog today:
BTW – it makes me giggle to think of you as my āGangsta Sistaā with her throwdownā¦and bling, too, as I read backwards in your blog! LOL, LOL, LOL!
It gets worse, sis. My rental is this long sleek black thing. I’m not used to being so close to the ground, and the thing drives like a boat – it’s heavy and luggy, and it wasn’t my choice, it’s just what I ended up with.
And I was really uncomfortable driving it, I felt just WRONG. Finally, I figured out that the seat was tilted back, and that’s what was making me have to drive with my arms straight out. I’m slow, but I’m slow . . . it only took me a few days. Now the car is still lunky, but at least I am sitting up straight.
And the takeoff, by Weird Al Yankovitch -White N Nerdy:
No bling for me, dear sis. But hey – don’ t YOU have a birthday coming up soon? š
Friday Fun: Wishin’ and Hopin’
To hear this dusty old Dusty Springfield classic, you can go down to the U-Tube video below, or you can put on My Best Friend’s Wedding, just for the intro, where the song is acted out, all in pink if I remember correctly, a very 50’s rendition.
Here are the words, found at stlyrics.com. And a big thanks to Little Diamond who by finding all the lyrics to “Put the Lime in the Coconut” for me, taught me that anything, ANYTHING is available on the internet, if you have the time to search!
Artist: Dusty Springfield Lyrics
Song: Wishin’ and Hopin’ Lyrics
Wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’
Plannin’ and dreaming each night of his charms
That won’t get you into his arms
So if you’re lookin’ to find love you can share
All you gotta do is
Hold him and kiss him and love him
And show him that you care
Show him that you care just for him
And do the things he likes to do
Wear your hair just for him, ’cause
You won’t get him
Thinkin’ and a-prayin’
Wishin’ and a-hopin’
Just wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’
Plannin’ and dreamin’ his kiss is the start
That won’t get you into his heart
So if you’re thinkin’ heartbreak
True love is
All you gotta do is
Hold him and kiss him and squeeze him and love him
Yeah, just do it and after you do, you will be his
(You gotta)
Show him that you care just for him
Do the things he likes to do
Wear your hair just for him, ’cause
You won’t get him
Thinkin’ and a-prayin’
Wishin’ and a-hopin’
Just wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’
Plannin’ and dreamin’ his kiss is the start
That won’t get you into his heart
So if you’re thinkin’ heartbreak
True love is
All you gotta do is
Hold him and kiss him and squeeze him and love him
Yeah, just do it and after you do, you will be his
You will be his
You will be his
So on this lazy Friday morning, ponder this – Is My Best Friend’s Wedding really a comedy? Is there both truth and fiction in the above song lyrics (the song itself is a hoot – irresistable! Go take a listen!) And while we are laughing, to what extent do you sacrifice who you really are to attain a mate?
Update: Holy smokes, Skunk, it’s THAT easy???? Thanks again!
Trains and Boats and Planes
Adventure Man, this is for you . . . old Dionne Warwick, as good as ever, singing the smokey, soulful Trains and Boats and Planes
I’d forgotten how GOOD she is!
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