Hello Dear Readers,
It's twilight. nearing dark. Just finished watching Papillon, a classic prison movie from 1973 starring Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman. Mcqueen plays Henri Charriere, the french thief know as Papillon for his tattoo of a butterfly on his chest. Back in the 30s Papillon escaped from a French Penal colony called Devil's island. There are several classic prison-escape movies. Cool Hand Luke is the best because it is the least sparing in its handling of the audience's wish to see a victorious escape for the sake of simple wish-fulfillment.
Of course they are not about prison, these prison-escape movies. They are allegories of the human condition, brilliant tales of personal courage and longing for "freedom," and usually they feature an unlikely, but poignant friendship at the center of the plot. Often the prisoners are captured and returned to confinement. This is heartbreaking for the WOmbury. Absolutely heartbreaking.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>
We finally staged the 6th grade play last night. Was it a "roaring success"? In the sense of a beautifully performed work of art, the answer is a resounding "no." In terms of a brilliant theatrical event, then "yes." There were fishes and loaves of parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts squished up together, excitement rippling throughout the crowd.
And before you know it, it was over. The Wombury doesn't have the energy to relate the last-second pangs of panic-stricken terror caused by several latecomers. Nor does he have the energy to describe the acute mental pain of beholding Joan, his principal, as she surveyed the pre-show chaos in the auditorium. With sheer bewilderment she simply and quietly said, "They're so loud." Yes, yes, Joan, they are. As I ticked off the names of students with critical roles who had yet to arrive, she asked me, point blank, "Don't you have a back-up plan?" Charades anyone?
To the kids' credit, they convinced the Wombury to stall, to buy time, knowing their comrades would arrive. And arrive they did, in the nick of time. The show went on, with several hitches, and then it was over, and people were happy.
Joan asked me today what I plan to do for the next month. No idea.
My thoughts are elsewhere. Tomorrow the Wombury is taking the Harlem Line of the Metro North to a town called Pawling, east of the Hudson, 60 minutes north of the city, where he is interviewing for a position teaching in the upper school of an boarding school. There will be dinner, a conversation with a headmaster, a spring concert, an overnight stay, and Saturday morning interview held at 8 a.m.
And tonight the Wombury has to make a phone call. One of those phone calls that hatch a colony of butterflies in the stomach, the kind of phone calls where you attempt to rehearse the conversation, attempting to anticipate responses in order to have a witty comment or anecdote at hand.
And the mood is subdued. Things are moving fast. Decisions will be made. The path will change once again. The ground beneath the feet grows soft and your steps are unsure, and the difference between this way and that is unclear. And every decision you ask, what movie is this, what film is "right" about the human condition? Are we in the Bridge on the River Kwai, building a life and career as Colonel Nicholson builds his bridge, manufacturing meaning and purpose out of thin air, only to see it blown to bits? Are we all papillons, finding meaning in escape? And do we ever escape? And when we take this position or make that phone call we cannot but ask, "is this a step towards freedom or more confinement?"
Until then,
The Wombury
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Fundraiser
Hello Dear Readers,
Wombury here. You know, someone, who shall remained unnamed even though we all know its "Anonymous" commented that the wombury "still has readers" even though they "only rarely and anonymously comment." The WOmbury will overlook the unflattering portrait of a desperate blogger clinging to a small legion of a die-hard readers unable to look away from the carnage of one man's car wreck of a life, rather, the WOmbury would like to point out some of the unexpected consequences of not only having "a few readers" but working and living among those readers.
Like this past Saturday night, in Manhattan, in a drinking establishment located in the always tasteful Upper West Side, the WOmbury found himself with a gentle lass, a lovely gal, one the Wombury finds agreeable in all ways, but one who also reads the WOmbury's public record of woe, and who mentioned the girl he used to know several times. "I really liked the video of your students in drama class", she said, "they seem to like it; you seem like you're making a difference." Oooh, this is good, methinks, the altruistic, but pecuniary vocation of public teaching is finally paying off, but then she said, "but I don't know if it's enough to get her back..." Wait, what, no! Let us not talk of these things. Let us drink too much and make bad personal choices regarding the amount of clothing we are wearing! The Wombury tried to redirect the conversation, but what could he do? The writing is sort of literally on the wall. THe bathroom wall that is the blogosphere. "That's the general theme, right? I mean it's all over you blog how much you want her back, right?" Wow. Brutal. Note to self: stop writing about personal feelings. forever.
Then, just last evening, at the Italian Center of Columbia, where Bronx Letters holds its annual fundraiser, there the inestimable Wombury was, dressed in some fine threads from Marshalls (Anonymous, you saucy tart, I know you're a big Park Slope snob now, but don't ever forget your roots) chatting it up with Ms S, his colleague-and recent blog reader. Ms S is very hip. The wombury suspects that she reads several blogs daily encompassing a wide range of content. The fact that Ms S has read more than one post if very flattering. And it too has strange consequences like turning MLevy into a celebrity of relative sorts. With totally sincere curiosity Ms S inquired about the identity of "that smart person who always comments on your blog." Ah yes, MLevy, font of wisdom. Way to go Mlevy, way to go.
Anywho, Ms S asked the womby womb if he would write about the fundraiser, to which he replied, "No! I'm saving up to write about the play." (Because I am. Because the third (THIRD!) rescheduled date is tonight, May 14th, 6 pm in the auditorium. Everyone's invited-even if you're one of the Wombury's readership in Milwaukee-love ya' wombysis-just come to the South Bronx and look for the school that looks like the factory it once was. and is now, if you count standarized tests as products). Where were we? ah yes, the fundraiser, with Ms. S. There we were. Glasses of wine in hand. People in nice clothes. the Wombury asked Ms S if he could "put more of her personality into the blog". And she said yes. With the all the wry humor the wombury has come to appreciate in Ms S. (See, Ms. S, more of you is already in this. Wow. Is this like being featured in a Saturday Night Live skit, but one that only 25 people watch? Ms S didn't REQUEST to be included in the blog, but if she or someone else did? How would the wombury feel? Should there be a hard and fast rule about this? Probably)
Another colleague asked what Ms and I were talking about, so we told him, then he asked for the addressed and we both shook our heads effusively, protecting, one supposes, the dignity of the Wombury, since so much of what the wombury writes could be construed in a damaging light. like the story of stealing a bouncer's bar stool, or nearly stealing another man's wife (ah, sakura, where are you my delicate bi-racial flower?), or the fact that the wombury writes about boozing it up too much.
"It's like a well-written but totally uncensored diary", was how Ms S put it. the wombury added, "it's a public record of all the ways I fail in work and love." The wombury could've added, "and it's usually written in the third person for no good reason at all." (Actually, most that dialogue was just now fabricated since the Wombury's recollection is skewed by all the liquor and after Ms S said, "well-written" the wombury's brain function ceased as it lingered on the phrase. That's some good self-esteem for ya'.) Now, if the wombury was famous, reading his public diary would be worthwhile, but he's not, so recommending it feels unethical.
Finally, the Wombury spoke with Mr T, his friend and colleague in the glee club, about the aforementioned glee club performance of Saturday. The womby complimented Mr T on a fine job of both singing, and navigating the rocky waters of introducing your boyfriend to your conservative parents without really acknowledging him as such. Then the Wombury addressed the matter of singing Old Man River. "It was a fine concert," said the womby, "but I found the inclusion of Old Man River a little unnerving."
"But did you hear that voice?"
"The guy singing looked like an honorary member of the Hitler Youth"
"So are you going to say that glee clubs all over the world aren't allowed to sing Negro Spirituals?"
"Yes. That is precisely what I am going to say, right now. 'No all-white chorus is allowed to sing Negro Spirituals. Ever.'"
Does not Mr. T and his merry, jolly band of ruddy-faced Aryans understand that Negro Spirituals were songs sung to make the experience of SLAVERY more palatable. This is not okay. There is no way for a good clean way for a white man to sing slave songs, even, and especially, if said slave songs are sung CHEERFULLY and with excellent diction. I mean, this guy was BEAMING as he belted out lyrics about working the land, as was the silver haired gentry in the audience. You could hear them thinking, "Oh, I just adore negro songs especially when the negroes aren't included." Why was the Wombury's play, even for a moment, being equated with white men singing slave hymnals? What the fuck is wrong with this planet? Mr T then tried to stump the Wombury by posing this question:
"So are you saying the Harlem Boys Choir can't sing classical music?"
The Wombury understands the point Mr T is trying to advance, and Mr T is a kind man of high standards and principles, but, let's "unpack" the question to see what's really buried beneath that question: "Black people can call each other nigger, so why can't we?" It's a matter of degree, not kind, kids. Like the postmodern muppets of Avenue Q sing, "Everybody's a little bit racist!" I bet Ms S has seen Avenue Q. More than once.
Until then,
The WOmbury
Wombury here. You know, someone, who shall remained unnamed even though we all know its "Anonymous" commented that the wombury "still has readers" even though they "only rarely and anonymously comment." The WOmbury will overlook the unflattering portrait of a desperate blogger clinging to a small legion of a die-hard readers unable to look away from the carnage of one man's car wreck of a life, rather, the WOmbury would like to point out some of the unexpected consequences of not only having "a few readers" but working and living among those readers.
Like this past Saturday night, in Manhattan, in a drinking establishment located in the always tasteful Upper West Side, the WOmbury found himself with a gentle lass, a lovely gal, one the Wombury finds agreeable in all ways, but one who also reads the WOmbury's public record of woe, and who mentioned the girl he used to know several times. "I really liked the video of your students in drama class", she said, "they seem to like it; you seem like you're making a difference." Oooh, this is good, methinks, the altruistic, but pecuniary vocation of public teaching is finally paying off, but then she said, "but I don't know if it's enough to get her back..." Wait, what, no! Let us not talk of these things. Let us drink too much and make bad personal choices regarding the amount of clothing we are wearing! The Wombury tried to redirect the conversation, but what could he do? The writing is sort of literally on the wall. THe bathroom wall that is the blogosphere. "That's the general theme, right? I mean it's all over you blog how much you want her back, right?" Wow. Brutal. Note to self: stop writing about personal feelings. forever.
Then, just last evening, at the Italian Center of Columbia, where Bronx Letters holds its annual fundraiser, there the inestimable Wombury was, dressed in some fine threads from Marshalls (Anonymous, you saucy tart, I know you're a big Park Slope snob now, but don't ever forget your roots) chatting it up with Ms S, his colleague-and recent blog reader. Ms S is very hip. The wombury suspects that she reads several blogs daily encompassing a wide range of content. The fact that Ms S has read more than one post if very flattering. And it too has strange consequences like turning MLevy into a celebrity of relative sorts. With totally sincere curiosity Ms S inquired about the identity of "that smart person who always comments on your blog." Ah yes, MLevy, font of wisdom. Way to go Mlevy, way to go.
Anywho, Ms S asked the womby womb if he would write about the fundraiser, to which he replied, "No! I'm saving up to write about the play." (Because I am. Because the third (THIRD!) rescheduled date is tonight, May 14th, 6 pm in the auditorium. Everyone's invited-even if you're one of the Wombury's readership in Milwaukee-love ya' wombysis-just come to the South Bronx and look for the school that looks like the factory it once was. and is now, if you count standarized tests as products). Where were we? ah yes, the fundraiser, with Ms. S. There we were. Glasses of wine in hand. People in nice clothes. the Wombury asked Ms S if he could "put more of her personality into the blog". And she said yes. With the all the wry humor the wombury has come to appreciate in Ms S. (See, Ms. S, more of you is already in this. Wow. Is this like being featured in a Saturday Night Live skit, but one that only 25 people watch? Ms S didn't REQUEST to be included in the blog, but if she or someone else did? How would the wombury feel? Should there be a hard and fast rule about this? Probably)
Another colleague asked what Ms and I were talking about, so we told him, then he asked for the addressed and we both shook our heads effusively, protecting, one supposes, the dignity of the Wombury, since so much of what the wombury writes could be construed in a damaging light. like the story of stealing a bouncer's bar stool, or nearly stealing another man's wife (ah, sakura, where are you my delicate bi-racial flower?), or the fact that the wombury writes about boozing it up too much.
"It's like a well-written but totally uncensored diary", was how Ms S put it. the wombury added, "it's a public record of all the ways I fail in work and love." The wombury could've added, "and it's usually written in the third person for no good reason at all." (Actually, most that dialogue was just now fabricated since the Wombury's recollection is skewed by all the liquor and after Ms S said, "well-written" the wombury's brain function ceased as it lingered on the phrase. That's some good self-esteem for ya'.) Now, if the wombury was famous, reading his public diary would be worthwhile, but he's not, so recommending it feels unethical.
Finally, the Wombury spoke with Mr T, his friend and colleague in the glee club, about the aforementioned glee club performance of Saturday. The womby complimented Mr T on a fine job of both singing, and navigating the rocky waters of introducing your boyfriend to your conservative parents without really acknowledging him as such. Then the Wombury addressed the matter of singing Old Man River. "It was a fine concert," said the womby, "but I found the inclusion of Old Man River a little unnerving."
"But did you hear that voice?"
"The guy singing looked like an honorary member of the Hitler Youth"
"So are you going to say that glee clubs all over the world aren't allowed to sing Negro Spirituals?"
"Yes. That is precisely what I am going to say, right now. 'No all-white chorus is allowed to sing Negro Spirituals. Ever.'"
Does not Mr. T and his merry, jolly band of ruddy-faced Aryans understand that Negro Spirituals were songs sung to make the experience of SLAVERY more palatable. This is not okay. There is no way for a good clean way for a white man to sing slave songs, even, and especially, if said slave songs are sung CHEERFULLY and with excellent diction. I mean, this guy was BEAMING as he belted out lyrics about working the land, as was the silver haired gentry in the audience. You could hear them thinking, "Oh, I just adore negro songs especially when the negroes aren't included." Why was the Wombury's play, even for a moment, being equated with white men singing slave hymnals? What the fuck is wrong with this planet? Mr T then tried to stump the Wombury by posing this question:
"So are you saying the Harlem Boys Choir can't sing classical music?"
The Wombury understands the point Mr T is trying to advance, and Mr T is a kind man of high standards and principles, but, let's "unpack" the question to see what's really buried beneath that question: "Black people can call each other nigger, so why can't we?" It's a matter of degree, not kind, kids. Like the postmodern muppets of Avenue Q sing, "Everybody's a little bit racist!" I bet Ms S has seen Avenue Q. More than once.
Until then,
The WOmbury
Sunday, May 11, 2008
A trip to Marshalls
Hello Dear Readers,
It's always a surprise to the wombury what will trigger memory relapse. A trip to Marshall's for instance, triggers not only memories of the girl, but memories of a long thread of conversations about the importance of things. I use to tease her about shopping at Marshall's. To me shopping at Marshall's was like having plastic pink flamingos planted in your front lawn, and having a girlfriend shop at Marshall's and worked at Marshall's was like having a girlfriend. Plus, the wombury has exceptionally bad memories of buying school clothes at places like Marshall's. To the wombury, mothers who insisted on buying their children's school clothes from the clearance rack were cheapskates who had no regard for the importance of appearance. For years I avoided low-end retail, preferring to waste good cash at J. Crew. Therefore, I didn't realize the Marshall's gimmick of selling decent brands at discount. And now the WOmbury needs decent brands at discount prices. So to Marshall's went I. And sure enough, they have what I need. It's still a shit-hole of a store, don't get me wrong; and if I have EVER in my life have the means, I will go back to stores selling high quality men's apparel. But she wins. She wins the argument about cats and she wins the argument about slumming for clothes. Dammit. But Coldplay still sucks. Or do they?
The WOmbury
It's always a surprise to the wombury what will trigger memory relapse. A trip to Marshall's for instance, triggers not only memories of the girl, but memories of a long thread of conversations about the importance of things. I use to tease her about shopping at Marshall's. To me shopping at Marshall's was like having plastic pink flamingos planted in your front lawn, and having a girlfriend shop at Marshall's and worked at Marshall's was like having a girlfriend. Plus, the wombury has exceptionally bad memories of buying school clothes at places like Marshall's. To the wombury, mothers who insisted on buying their children's school clothes from the clearance rack were cheapskates who had no regard for the importance of appearance. For years I avoided low-end retail, preferring to waste good cash at J. Crew. Therefore, I didn't realize the Marshall's gimmick of selling decent brands at discount. And now the WOmbury needs decent brands at discount prices. So to Marshall's went I. And sure enough, they have what I need. It's still a shit-hole of a store, don't get me wrong; and if I have EVER in my life have the means, I will go back to stores selling high quality men's apparel. But she wins. She wins the argument about cats and she wins the argument about slumming for clothes. Dammit. But Coldplay still sucks. Or do they?
The WOmbury
Two Concerts, Two Impressions
Hello Dear Readers,
Yesterday the wombury attended two very contrasting concerts. The first concert was held at Frank D. Whalen middle school, deep in the Bronx, featuring musicians from junior highs and high schools all over the Bronx. Similar all-boro concerts were also taking place in Queens and Staten Island.The Wombury was the invited guest of one of his former 10th grade global studies students, Evan. Evan plays the bass clarinet. The band played ten selections, mostly classics like the Pink Panther, Tequila, and the James Bond theme song. The concert was sparsely attended, with perhaps an equal number of musicians and audience members. Most kids and parents probably think playing in a band is corny.
The second concert took place in the Danny Kaye theater of Hunter College, on 68th and Lexington in Manhattan. My coworker invited me to watch him sing with the University Glee Club, and large men's chorus comprised of members who sang for their university's glee club. Most of the men were old, stentorian white men. most of the audience was old money white folks, but also good natured. It was, after all, a GLEE club. One of the few non-white audience members happened to be seating next to me, and happened to be my coworkers first serious boyfriend.
It was a congenial, but old-fashioned evening but two or three selections perplexed me. The group sang three negro spirituals, including Old Man River. I looked to my coworker's boyfriend to see if his face had registered anything troubling about listening to lily white chorus sing negro spirituals, but he seemed totally indifferent. Not only did they sing Negro spirituals, but they sung them in an exceptionally white manner. It was like Whiteface. Like back in the '50s when Pat Boone sucked the living soul out of Tutti Frutti and other R&B classics with his rhythmless Heartland bullshit. My reaction was: this is racist, or at least racially offensive. Especially Mr. Aryan Nation sang the line "if the land ain't free." this concert was sold out.
Black kids playing white songs and white men sing black spirituals. You can't make this shit up.
Here are the lyrics.
Dere's an ol' man called de Mississippi
Dat's de ol' man dat I'd like to be!
What does he care if de world's got troubles?
What does he care if de land ain't free?
Ol' man river,
Dat ol' man river
He mus'know sumpin'
But don't say nuthin',
He jes'keeps rollin'
He keeps on rollin' along.
He don' plant taters,
He don't plant cotton,
An' dem dat plants'em
is soon forgotten,
But ol'man river,
He jes keeps rollin'along.
You an'me, we sweat an' strain,
Body all achin' an' racket wid pain,
Tote dat barge!
Lif' dat bale!
Git a little drunk
An' you land in jail.
Ah gits weary
An' sick of tryin'
Ah'm tired of livin'
An' skeered of dyin',
But ol' man river,
He jes'keeps rolling' along.
Colored folks work on de Mississippi,
Colored folks work while de white folks play,
Pullin' dose boats from de dawn to sunset,
Gittin' no rest till de judgement day.
Don't look up
An' don't look down,
You don' dast make
De white boss frown.
Bend your knees
An'bow your head,
An' pull date rope
Until you' dead.
Let me go 'way from the Mississippi,
Let me go 'way from de white man boss;
Show me dat stream called de river Jordan,
Dat's de ol' stream dat I long to cross.
O' man river,
Dat ol' man river,
He mus'know sumpin'
But don't say nuthin'
He jes' keeps rollin'
He keeps on rollin' along.
Long ol' river forever keeps rollin' on...
He don' plant tater,
He don' plant cotton,
An' dem dat plants 'em
Is soon forgotten,
but ol' man river,
He jes' keeps rollin' along.
Long ol' river keeps hearing dat song.
You an' me, we sweat an' strain,
Body all achin an' racked wid pain.
Tote dat barge!
Lif' dat bale!
Git a little drunk
An' you land in jail.
Ah, gits weary
An' sick of tryin'
Ah'm tired of livin'
An' skeered of dyin',
But ol' man river,
He jes'keeps rollin' along!
until then,
The wombury.
Yesterday the wombury attended two very contrasting concerts. The first concert was held at Frank D. Whalen middle school, deep in the Bronx, featuring musicians from junior highs and high schools all over the Bronx. Similar all-boro concerts were also taking place in Queens and Staten Island.The Wombury was the invited guest of one of his former 10th grade global studies students, Evan. Evan plays the bass clarinet. The band played ten selections, mostly classics like the Pink Panther, Tequila, and the James Bond theme song. The concert was sparsely attended, with perhaps an equal number of musicians and audience members. Most kids and parents probably think playing in a band is corny.
The second concert took place in the Danny Kaye theater of Hunter College, on 68th and Lexington in Manhattan. My coworker invited me to watch him sing with the University Glee Club, and large men's chorus comprised of members who sang for their university's glee club. Most of the men were old, stentorian white men. most of the audience was old money white folks, but also good natured. It was, after all, a GLEE club. One of the few non-white audience members happened to be seating next to me, and happened to be my coworkers first serious boyfriend.
It was a congenial, but old-fashioned evening but two or three selections perplexed me. The group sang three negro spirituals, including Old Man River. I looked to my coworker's boyfriend to see if his face had registered anything troubling about listening to lily white chorus sing negro spirituals, but he seemed totally indifferent. Not only did they sing Negro spirituals, but they sung them in an exceptionally white manner. It was like Whiteface. Like back in the '50s when Pat Boone sucked the living soul out of Tutti Frutti and other R&B classics with his rhythmless Heartland bullshit. My reaction was: this is racist, or at least racially offensive. Especially Mr. Aryan Nation sang the line "if the land ain't free." this concert was sold out.
Black kids playing white songs and white men sing black spirituals. You can't make this shit up.
Here are the lyrics.
Dere's an ol' man called de Mississippi
Dat's de ol' man dat I'd like to be!
What does he care if de world's got troubles?
What does he care if de land ain't free?
Ol' man river,
Dat ol' man river
He mus'know sumpin'
But don't say nuthin',
He jes'keeps rollin'
He keeps on rollin' along.
He don' plant taters,
He don't plant cotton,
An' dem dat plants'em
is soon forgotten,
But ol'man river,
He jes keeps rollin'along.
You an'me, we sweat an' strain,
Body all achin' an' racket wid pain,
Tote dat barge!
Lif' dat bale!
Git a little drunk
An' you land in jail.
Ah gits weary
An' sick of tryin'
Ah'm tired of livin'
An' skeered of dyin',
But ol' man river,
He jes'keeps rolling' along.
Colored folks work on de Mississippi,
Colored folks work while de white folks play,
Pullin' dose boats from de dawn to sunset,
Gittin' no rest till de judgement day.
Don't look up
An' don't look down,
You don' dast make
De white boss frown.
Bend your knees
An'bow your head,
An' pull date rope
Until you' dead.
Let me go 'way from the Mississippi,
Let me go 'way from de white man boss;
Show me dat stream called de river Jordan,
Dat's de ol' stream dat I long to cross.
O' man river,
Dat ol' man river,
He mus'know sumpin'
But don't say nuthin'
He jes' keeps rollin'
He keeps on rollin' along.
Long ol' river forever keeps rollin' on...
He don' plant tater,
He don' plant cotton,
An' dem dat plants 'em
Is soon forgotten,
but ol' man river,
He jes' keeps rollin' along.
Long ol' river keeps hearing dat song.
You an' me, we sweat an' strain,
Body all achin an' racked wid pain.
Tote dat barge!
Lif' dat bale!
Git a little drunk
An' you land in jail.
Ah, gits weary
An' sick of tryin'
Ah'm tired of livin'
An' skeered of dyin',
But ol' man river,
He jes'keeps rollin' along!
until then,
The wombury.
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