An integral part of the next contract for actors on Lost should be...

drivers.

The only question is, should the actors demand them or should the producers demand that the actors use them?

Fires, part 3

Marine Son is fighting the fires.

Indian Princess and Baby A remain at home, feeling secure that they're far enough away from the flames. I hope so. My greatest comfort lies in the fact that they live in military housing, and the Marine Corps will evacuate their own if it's necessary.

But Baby A is breathing polluted air through lungs that have only been operational for 34 days.

So Grandma Bitty ordered an air purifier, and after an initial delay in the UPS system, the package is back in transit, due to be delivered on Tuesday.

Get it there on Tuesday, or even sooner -- that's what I want Brown to do for me.

Tales from the Second Life: Why Opera Is Not My Thing

Today's Question of the Day at Shakesville was custom-made for me. My comment seemed to be blog-post length, so I decided to add it here, too. Three posts in one day. Am I back, do you suppose? Anyway, here's my tragic opera tale.

When I was in high school, I managed to meet one of my fondest high school goals (just about the only time I did): I made the elite chorus. I don't have that fab a voice, but I can sing on key, so there you are. The cornerstone of the chorus, I suppose. I was so excited; our chorus director was beloved by all, etc. The chorus was chosen in the spring. I couldn't wait to return in the fall, when we took our new positions.

However, over the summer the chorus director moved into administration. Administration!!!

We faced a dour, disillusioned soprano when we returned, a woman who clearly had other plans for her life, a woman who never tired of warning us not to make her raise her classically trained voice.

She had a singing partner in her other life. To this day I can't remember if he was Mr. Fish or Mr. Trout. Whichever he was, we students privately called him by the other name.

It happened in a church basement somewhere in Baltimore. Dour Soprano booked our chorus all around the area to do Christmas concerts, and one night she booked The Trout to sing along with us...without telling us. I stood front and center, right next to him. When he launched into his overblown rendition of whatever Christmas carol we had on the program, I. Lost. It.

Bent-over-double-wetting-my-pants-getting-the-hiccups lost it. I couldn't stop couldn't stop couldn't stop. I had the hysterics throughout the song, right there in front of all those little old ladies who were groovin' to "Silent Night" or something like it.

The Trout probably had a very fine voice, but I simply can't hear opera without revisiting the moment of my greatest public shame.

Alanna, I hope we can still be friends.

Postscript: I once voluntarily heard Roberta Peters in concert, so maybe I'm not completely opera-phobic.

Fires, part 2

This satellite photo, found on signonsandiego.com, the San Diego's paper's website, offers a better look (better than what I'd seen before) at where the fires are...and aren't.

Marine Son is now off fighting the fires; another map I found suggests that Alpine has not been involved in the flames (this time).

Fires

The CNN map showing the southern CA fires is grim. I'd paste it in, but rather than being a photo, it's an interactive map. In essence, Marine Son, Indian Princess, and newborn A, in Oceanside, are surrounded.

Marine Son says that within hours he'll be on the way to help with the fires in some way. Indian Princess and A are at home. Marine Son says, using his best upbeat voice, that they'll "be fine," which is the way Marine Son speaks to his mother, even in the face of disaster.

According to San Diego Fire Battalion Chief Bruce Cartelli,

It will not end ... until it reaches the ocean or the winds turn around.

I asked Marine Son what, exactly, they were being advised to do. Should all of SoCal go stand in the ocean?

Marine Son says his best friend has a boat and they'll head out in that. I don't know if he's kidding or not. If he (and presumably friend) are fighting the fire, I don't see the two wives and the newborn launching the boat from what will probably be seriously crowded boat ramps.

I've had a pen pal in Alpine (east of San Diego) since 1979. I don't have her phone number (pen pal, remember?) and the last e-mail address she gave me is no longer valid. When I was visiting there in the summer of 2005, she took me around and showed me the charred areas from the last big fire, and told me the rather dramatic story of how a neighbor saved all their homes.

I have to wonder if her lovely home still exists.

Here's the latest from CalFire on Marine Son's fire:

Rice Fire
Rice Canyon
San Diego County
This fire has burned 6,100 acres in Rice Canyon in Northern San Diego County. 500 homes have been destroyed and another 30 have been damaged. 2,500 homes are threatened. The town of Fallbrook has been evacuated. Camp Pendleton and Oceanside are threatened. 170 firefighters are assigned to this fire including 11 CAL FIRE staff.

I hope Glenn Beck is happy.

In the category of memos that don't apply to me:

"The Social Security Administration (SSA) announced yesterday that the 2008 Social Security wage base will be $102,000, an increase of $4,500 from the 2007 wage base of $97,500."

A baby is God's opinion that life should go on

Considering the awful state of affairs in this world, it's easy to understand why some people are skittish about having children.

Others are more foolish -- or more optimistic. I throw my lot with the optimists.

As does Carl Sandburg, the official poet of Bitty's Back Porch, who famously said, "A baby is God's opinion that life should go on."

As do my son and daughter-in-law, as they make their awestruck transition to parenthood.

Little A was born last night in California, a thoughtful young man who limited his birthing process to the time between late morning and 11:23 pm, allowing his parents a little sleep -- except all they wanted to do last night was keep their eyes open and gaze at this commonplace miracle.

Barry "The Man" Manilow

So here I am coming out of hiding to cheer on my long-ago crush, Barry Manilow. Whether he declined the invite or was disinvited is not that important, but Manilow did not appear on The View because he refused to be interviewed by Republican Goddess Elisabeth Hasselbeck. Directly from the "latest news" portion of Manilow's website, complete with a misspelling of Hasselbeck's name:

I wanted to let you know that I will no longer be on The View tomorrow as scheduled. I had made a request that I be interviewed by Joy, Barbara or Whoopi, but not Elisabeth Hasselback. Unfortunately, the show was not willing to accommodate this simple request so I bowed out.

It’s really too bad because I've always been a big supporter of the show, but I cannot compromise my beliefs.

When you write the songs, you don't have to suffer fools gladly.

Mini Rant: Overexposed Names Edition

Attention!

Expectant parents: think ahead. Imagine the day you gaze lovingly upon the face of your newborn daughter, poised to call her by name for the first time. If that name is Brittany (in all its spellings) or Ashley, please, please, please, please, please, please reconsider.

Experts predict that the United States will exceed its Brittany-Ashley quota by the year 2010, approximately one year after the majority of American teachers' heads are predicted to explode over the confusion caused by 75% of all young women in the classroom being known by one of the two names.

Nature Imitates Art

...or something like that. When I logged on just now, I was greeted by a graphic of Hurricane Dean, except in the instant I first saw it, I thought it was a painting by Van Gogh.

Dean

Vincent

Foregone conclusion

What Be Your Nerd Type? Your Result: Literature Nerd Does sitting by a nice cozy fire with a cup of hot tea/chocolate and a book you can read for hours even when your eyes grow red and dry and you look sort of scary sitting there with your insomniac appearance appeal to you? Then you fit this category perfectly! You love the power of the written word and its eloquence, and you may like to read/write poetry or novels. You contribute to the smart people of today's society; however, you can probably be overly-critical of works. It's okay. I understand.
Drama Nerd
Social Nerd
Artistic Nerd
Science/Math Nerd
Gamer/Computer Nerd
Musician
Anime Nerd
What Be Your Nerd Type? Quizzes for MySpace

So when I saw this quiz at Shakesville, I took it myself, even though I knew the conclusion before I read the first question. Anyway, the questions hardly touch my nerdiness level. I mean, question #26, How many books have you read in your lifetime?, offers as its extreme answer 60 plus. What kind of book nerdishness does that signify? I probably own 600 plus. Never mind all the library books I borrowed and books I've given away. And those two degrees I have in literature? Not a single question about that.

I'm not a literature nerd. I'm a literature super-nerd. And what qualifies me as one more than anything is that I'm extremely aware of just how much I haven't read and probably can't get to in a single lifetime.

And as the ultimate proof of my literature nerdiness, I completed the incomplete sentence and corrected the grammar and punctuation errors in the narrative of the quiz results before I posted it. We won't be having any of that on MY blog.

Scribbles from the past

I found an old notebook, a small one, the kind I carry in my purse in case Something Needs to be Written Down.

Clues, such as an old Christmas shopping list that includes the name of my son's former fiancee, suggest that I started it about 3 years ago, then misplaced it for a while until I found it again last spring and used it to take notes from a lecture I attended.

It contains several lists of names, obviously students' names, but I don't remember most of these students. It sometimes distresses me how many of them simply flee my memory. In the early years I only taught a few classes at a time and over the years some students voluntarily came back to me for seconds, but a good estimate of the average number of students I've taught each year is 200. Nine years, 200 names a year -- probably I've forgotten 1600 of those 1800. This saddens me, because I tend to really like most of them.

I've found old to-do lists and notes from department meetings, and the thing that I actually wanted when I pulled out the notebook -- a folded-up handout from that spring lecture.

The oddest thing in the notebook, however, is this message to myself, in large letters, clearly intended to catch my attention:

POINT THE ARROWS TOWARD THE PATIO DOOR!

I have no idea.

I Hate When That Happens

I'm reading final papers, compiling final grades. Once that's done, I am finally free to CLEAN MY HOUSE! MOW MY LAWN! RECONNECT WITH MY FRIENDS! RECONNECT WITH MY FAMILY! GET BACK TO UNFINISHED PROJECTS! Etc.

So I took a break to have a snack and watch a little TV in my bedroom. (The living room TV has been disconnected for seven weeks; I was in mid-project when my summer semester began, and that's still the status of the project: mid.) The next thing I know, the poppies have overtaken me and I'm lying down. Ok. A half-hour snooze wouldn't hurt.

Four and a half hours later, I awaken.

Oh, this stinks.

Cool news

I made two major changes to my electrical consumption during the same week, about 6 weeks ago. I changed most of my light bulbs to compact fluorescents (the remaining light fixtures get used either rarely or briefly). And Tall Son finally rendered operational the recycled central air conditioning unit that he salvaged for me last summer.

This time last year I was cooling by using two window a/c units and keeping my spare bedroom and office doors closed, so I was only cooling a part of my house.

To add to the equation, two weeks ago I had removed the tree in front of my house that provided shade during the afternoons, so I'm sure that the a/c now has to work even harder to keep me cool.

I’ve spent one very comfortable month: I keep the temp at about 75, even at night (I sleep poorly if I’m hot).

So today I got the electric bill, and I fully expected that upon opening that bill I’d have to turn the a/c up to 80 and start living in the dark.

Wrong.

The bill is for $74.69. For a full month. In Florida.

The recycled a/c is a Trane, but it’s 10 years old, so I wasn’t sure it would be all that efficient. I suppose it is.

My electric company offers interesting statistics on the bill: the KWH total and daily average and the same info from the same month one year earlier. Last summer, same month, with partial-home a/c and incandescent bulbs, I used a daily average KWH of 29. This summer, it’s 25.

I won’t really know the impact of the bulbs alone until a/c season is over and I can compare KWH consumption during the heating months to last year’s consumption.

But for now...cool!

Where did the mud go?

Yesterday I was on the phone with my daughter, who was in her backyard, and I overheard her Littlest, age 3, approach her and ask, "Where did the mud go?"

Apparently the day before his toy had been muddy, but now it wasn't.

“Here it is,” my daughter said. “It dried up. It’s dirt now. Mud is dirt mixed with water.”

“It is?” he asked incredulously. “Mud is dirt?” Littlest has a most appealing way of emphasizing his words when he’s expressing his amazement. Like Shirley Temple, only less precious.

At age three, one finds much to be amazed by.

Like mud, whose secret identity is dirt.

Dear Netflix,

I know you’ve been worried about your movie. I’ve had it for over three weeks, and now you’re putting little notes on my queue, gently letting me know that it’s ok if something’s gone wrong with the disk; I can let you know without getting punished.

Well, Netflix, the disk is ok. I’ve just been really busy. You’ll see that other disks have come to and gone from my mailbox, but that’s because they’re episodic TV. I can fit in a 40 minute TV fix where I can’t manage a 120 minute flick.

And, oh, I don’t know. I think this disk was giving out vibes. I only vaguely knew what it was about anyway: general concept, big awards nominated and won. But I couldn’t get myself to actually put it in the DVD player.

Last night I did. Netflix, although it was tough for me to part with some films, such as Remains of the Day and Capote, you can have Adaptation back. I liked it and I hated it. I’m so confused.

(SPOILER ALERT!)

It was, at first, stunningly – almost annoyingly – clever, so not-Hollywood. I even loved the revelation of “Susan Orlean’s” secret life. Because I was rather enjoying myself, I had such a sinking feeling when the movie decidedly went Hollywood. “Susan” decides to solve her problem by becoming a homicidal maniac? What?

On the other hand, the ending might be part of the looping-around metatextual nature of the film. After all, everything changed immediately after Charlie had his one-on-one with Robert McKee, the motivational hack screenwriting coach. So, upon McKee’s advice, Charlie – the fictional and the real one – does precisely what earlier he said he wouldn’t: “I just don’t want to ruin it by making it a Hollywood thing.”

I either get it: Kaufman’s making an ironic statement about the inability to escape the Hollywood ending (and didn't Altman already cover that in The Player?).

Or I don’t get it.

Anyway, Netflix, stop worrying. The disk is in the mail.

Love,
Bitty

Mad Men

Obvious to anyone with eyes is that I haven't done much blogging lately.

I wish I could say I was having too much fun to blog, but really, I'm just too busy with the complications of life.

I've also paid little attention to television lately, so it was utterly accidental that I came across Mad Men this week. For this I must pop my head back into blog world momentarily.

Omigod.

Watch this show.

AMC has a fairly heavy rerun schedule for it (click on "episode 1 encore schedule" just below the giant picture), including "The Making of Mad Men," which I have yet to see.

It's about the early 1960s...but it's not. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose!

Two scenes particularly struck me: the moment that Joan whisked the dust cover off the IBM Selectric and told Peggy not to be intimidated by the technology, and Peggy's visit to the gynecologist.

Even though I didn't learn to type until 10th grade -- later in the 60s -- that jump from manual to electric was as jarring as driving a VW Beetle and then hopping out and driving a sports car. And let's just say that I was patronized almost as much at my first gynecologist visit in 1971, although I wasn't subjected to cigarette smoke, too.

I turned 7 in 1960, and I remember it well: the fashions, the cigarette smoke, the sharply delineated lines for men and women and no one with darker skin in sight.

This show is genius.

Now back to temporary blackout.

More about getting shot down

Apparently it's not just those nutty women who are full of excuses for dumping people. Now corporate America's in on the act:

Sprint Nextel is hanging up on 1,000 of its cell-phone subscribers because, the company said, they complained too much.

Sprint Nextel ... which ranked at the top of MSN Money's Customer Service Hall of Shame in April, apparently didn't appreciate when people called their customer-service lines to voice complaints, The Wall Street Journal reported Saturday. So the company told those unhappy customers to hit the road.

"The number of inquiries you have made to us . . . has led us to determine that we are unable to meet your current wireless needs," Sprint said in its [Dear John/Jane] letter.

However, the jilted customers get a consolation prize: their balances have been zeroed out and their early termination fee has been waived.

Thanks for not charging your customers for getting dumped, Sprint Nextel!

If She Doesn't Want to Date You, She's Probably Nuts

I've logged on a dozen times today and I even though I have no time for this, I can no longer remain quiet about the first "story" that AT&T offers me on the homepage today. Here's the teaser:

Guys Reveal: 'The worst turn-down I ever got was...'
Rejection is never fun, is it? Comfort yourself with the knowledge that some of the women who dole out these turn-downs could be, well, a little bit nuts.

Shall we scan these nutty shoot-downs quite apart from the comments made by the puff piece's author or its "expert," Dr. Lillian Glass?

"I was told that I'm too neat. Neat?!" —Gary, 56, Toronto, ON

"She told me it wasn't a good idea because she was anemic and was having her period." —Joe, 54, Justin, TX

"She didn't think her father and I would get along." —Curtis, 43, Jacksonville, FL

"One woman told me I was too intelligent for her. Sure." —Ray, 37, Raleigh, NC

"A woman told me she was probably going to be too tired the night I asked her out... but she told me this two days ahead of time." —Kevin, 41, Dallas, TX

"A girl I liked said she wouldn't date people born the same month she was." —Greg, 22, Wilmington, DE

"A girl said that her car broke down and gave me a big, long story about what was wrong. Only problem? I have a car and could have driven her. Plus, I'm a mechanic." —Wally, 20, Chicago, IL

"She told me she had to go buy the donuts for her Singles with STDs group. Point taken." —Greg, 32, San Diego, CA

Ok, I'm old, so it's entirely possible I have no idea what I'm talking about, but it seems to me that even though many a woman will go after a man who interests her, males still do much of the pursuing, especially cold-call pursuing (no prior acquaintance or even across-the-room flirting).

Again, call me on this if I'm wrong....

But as old me remembers it, a lot of men just won't take no for an answer. And the more attractive the woman, the more likely she'll be pursued by an overabundance of Randy Romeos.

If no doesn't work or if the sheer volume of unwanted advances gets a gal down, what then?

Well, mentioning menstruation will make him move.

Saying "STD" sends him slinking away.

Most of the rest qualify as clever putdowns. Telling a man he's too intelligent? (rejecting him with flattery) Telling a mechanic she can't see him because she has car trouble? (signalling she has utterly no use for him) Planning to be tired in two days? (an update of the "I have to wash my hair" meme)

Dealing with unwanted advances in a less-than-forthright way might be breezily classified as passive-agressive (and Glass uses that term), but fending off an advance with sarcasm or even a tall tale is simply not the same thing as "nuts."

It's dismaying that a female psychologist and a female writer would characterize women who reject men's advances in clever form as "nuts," an "embarrassment," "insecure," "hostile," "a liar," and "evil." Yet those are Ascolese's and Glass's words. That two women, one a purported communications expert, have pronounced these women (who just want to be left alone) as evil, insecure, hostile, embarrassing, lying fruitcakes suggests how deeply the idea runs that men have the right to expect that their advances will be welcomed. Anything else from women is a display of mental illness.

No wonder the women don't just come out and say hell, no.

Author Caitlin Ascolese breathlessly leads into the putdowns with "for once, guys, it might really be them and not you!"

No, Ms. Ascolese. It's still the guys.

And you're not helping any.

Separation Anxiety

My Netflix membership has changed my life. I've given up a bad habit or two (never you mind what) to make time for the films and I reward myself with a movie at the end of the day if I've been productive. (Or need to console myself because I haven't.)

I stand staring at the movie selection in stores in wonder because I needn't buy a single one of them. I "own" them all. I just pay Netflix a few bucks a month to store and ship them to me.

But sometimes it's hard to let the movies go back. I want to tuck them on my shelf, or buy myself a copy to keep. So far I've resisted the urge.

But it was so, so hard to return Capote and The Remains of the Day. So hard.

Now you know something about me.