Mrs. Markowe Goes to Washington

In 1975, I was 19 years old. I went with some friends to see a new ‘’horror’’ film titled The Stepford Wives (not the cheesy re-make with Nicole Kidman, but the classic one with Katherine Ross and Paula Prentiss.) While many of my female friends and me laughed at what was supposed to be a ‘’scary’’ idea, Peter, the only male in our group, wasn’t laughing at all. In fact, we all later found out, he was quite ‘’turned on’’ by the idea of having a woman whom one could program with all the qualities one needed, and eliminating the qualities, certain men find ‘’annoying.’’ Yes, ‘those’’ qualities – independent thought, speaking one’s mind, and, well, just speaking in general. Therefore, we girls made a pact right there and then, to gut Peter like a deer, but, instead, we chose the ‘’high road’’ and laughed it off. ‘‘Go ahead’’ Peter warned, ‘’laugh now, ladies. But you are all looking into your futures right here on this screen.’’ To Peter, this was no laughing matter this was the key to true marital bliss. To him, this was the ONLY way men and women could co-exist. Moreover, he did not consider this to be a just a mere film, this was a cutting-edge documentary.

Well, I’m now in my 50’s and I’ve lived through the civil rights era and a time when the term ‘’feminism’’ was something to be proud of. I hadn’t given the film much thought over the years, that is, until this past Friday when John McCain, the republican candidate for president, announced his choice of a running mate. In his introduction speech he said, ‘’she knows who she is, and she knows who she works for…’’ and out to the stage walked Bobbie Markowe, the tomboy turned perfect wife, from The Stepford Wives. Only now, she is going by the name of Sarah Palin.

One of the reasons I was so shocked was because I’ve only heard many republican men refer to women in rather negative ways. A conservative radio host insinuated on his program recently that a woman who uses her mouth for speaking her mind, rather than pleasing her man deserved to be cheated on. Hillary Clinton was regularly viewed as a ‘’ball buster’’ a ‘’nutcracker’’ or a ‘’whiner.’’ Therefore, I was understandably a bit surprised when I read that conservative pundits were as ‘’giddy as a schoolgirls’’ when they described Mrs. Markowe, I mean, Mrs. Palin as a ‘’gun-loving, bear-hunting, prom queen’’ with Christian family values, of course. They also mentioned that many republican men were ‘’thrilled’’ by the thought of a woman on the presidential ticket for 2008. Hmm, I thought, I’m getting that ‘’déjà vu’’ feeling. Where have I heard this before? Holy crap! My friend, Peter!

In the hours following McCain’s announcement, I’ve heard Palin described as a woman whose water broke during a high-powered meeting in Texas, caught the red-eye flight home in order to give birth to her fifth child on Alaskan soil. Damn! Not to mention the photograph of her sitting atop a dead brown bear, looking ‘’prom-queen’’ pretty while the corpse of a rather large Alaskan crab is perched atop the sparkling clean coffee table. Her glistening red shoes complimenting the crab’s shell thus highlighting the décor brilliantly. When she was asked about the role of a vice president she laughed (in a very feminine way, no doubt) and asked ‘’what exactly does a vice president do anyway?’’ Then they loaded up the truck and they moved to Washington – D.C. that is, swimming pools, movie star treatment.

Well, what do you know? Peter was right. The Stepford Wives really was a documentary after all.

Half Million Dollar Baby

I just read an interesting article about how the city of Palm Desert, California, is planning on spending $500,000 for a bus stop at Westfield Shopping Center. And the first thing that ran through my head was ‘’Are these people bloody insane?’’ Five Hundred Thousand Dollars for one covered bus stop? When that baby is complete I’m moving into that bus shelter and getting another dog. Because not only will it cost more than some homes in the desert, it will also have more amenities than most working people have.

Anyone who has had to wait for a bus at an uncovered stop in Palm Desert during the summer hours can tell you that it is far more pleasant lying naked in the middle rack of your oven with the temperature at 400 degrees than to, no, wait, it’s EXACTLY THE SAME! And while a luxurious, half-million dollar, softly misted rest stop would be like heaven - because, let’s face it, the only people using public transportation are working people and teenagers who are too young to own their first Bentley – I’m sure that many people would simply be happy to have an over-sized beach umbrella from Home Depot.

When I first arrived in the desert a few years ago, I had no idea of how hot it got in the summer. That’s why I foolishly put on a pair of shorts, walking sandals, and carried a large handbag filled with lots of unnecessary items and headed off in the morning, on foot, for a day in the city. I had no hat, no portable umbrella, no sun block, but what I really lacked was common sense.

Most of my memories of that time come back to me in waves, like the pain you feel from a third-degree burn. There is one image, however, that comes in clear. As I approached a bench at a bus stop that had been sitting in the full sun, I could see the heat rising from the surface. It created a ‘’mirage’’ like image of the approaching bus. Everything was blurred and wavy, like my over-heated brain at the time. I decided to run for it and go to the nearest mall for the rest of the day. As I got closer, the bus seemed to get farther off in the distance. That’s because there wasn’t really a bus, only something off in the distance that looked like one in the heat waves. I would have given anything, including my soul, for some shade to wait in. There wasn’t even a doorway to stand in, just that steaming bench and the metal sign. I was terrified of accidentally touching that pole and leaving a bit of charred flesh behind.

Now I get around the city by air-conditioned car, or zipping about on my electric bicycle. But I still see people waiting for buses at those dreaded uncovered stops. Some will be standing near buildings all crammed together to get as much shade as possible, while others simply sit on that grill-like bench looking as though they are being cooked alive.

Perhaps I will just have to make a point of going to a City Council meeting soon and give them my thoughts about how well $500,000 could be spent in Palm Desert. I sure hope there is a bike rack available at these meetings.

Lost in Translation

Today, Juneteenth commemorates African American freedom and emphasizes education and achievement. It is the oldest nationally celebrated commemoration of the ending of slavery in the United States. On this day, this week, and in some areas, this month, there will be celebrations of family gatherings, picnics, or events with guest speakers.

The celebration originated in Galveston, Texas in 1865. Since then, the observance of June 19th as the African American Emancipation Day has spread across the United States and beyond. It is even celebrated in France by the many expatriates living abroad as a way of connecting with their American heritage. But like most anything, the celebration looses something in the translation. Sometimes that ‘’something’’ is charming, and sometimes, well, unintentionally hilarious.

A few years back I attended a Junteenth event at the American Church on the left bank in Paris, France. The church is a place where many American families get together in an effort to find comfort in a very foreign city. And in recent years, many French people began attending the event in order to learn more about Junteenth and the members of the African American community who lived there.

The audience of attendees where from all over the world, and the participants who were not American were predominantly African or Arab youth who loved Hip-Hop music. While many did not speak English, they still loved the energy they found in rap music. Everyone was encouraged to participate and many of the speakers came from the American Civil Rights movement and either lived in Paris, or came specifically for this event.

The atmosphere was generally conservative as the church was located in a high-rent district with many wealthy patrons in attendance. The theme for this day was ‘’Tolerance’’ and many of the elder members were happy to let the ‘’young’’ people have a moment for the American music they loved.

I marveled at the eloquent speeches made and the passion their stories stirred in the audience. The number of young African and Arab teenagers who were there to participate also touched me. I spoke to two girls; both dressed in colorful clothing, who were about to perform a dance number for the standing-room-only crowd. Neither spoke a word of English, but they were so excited about dancing to American rap. I asked them what song they had selected for the performance. It was a song I hadn’t heard. But the title, which included many expletives and a couple of derogatory terms for women, didn’t seem to fit the agenda.

I put the CD in the player and listened to the lyrics. Both girls began moving their bodies to the rhythm and smiling at one another until they saw the horrified look on my face. ‘’What’s wrong?’’ one of the girls asked. ‘’Do you have any idea what these lyrics are?’’ I said. They didn’t. So, I explained, much to their horror that the words were anything but ‘’uplifting,’’ particularly for women and men of conscious. They stood there, ashen. I quickly explained that this was called ‘’Gansta Rap’’ and that it was a depiction of a certain type of inner city expression in my country. ‘’We can’t dance to this in this church!’’ they both said in unison, and riffled through their bags for another disc. A woman standing in the doorway motioned me to return to my seat. It was time for the next performers to go onstage.

I made my way back to the middle aisle and sat frozen waiting for those two lovely girls to take their place on the stage. The last speaker introduced the sisters who walked out in their brightly colored outfits. They stood center stage, facing each other waiting for the music to begin. My stomach knotted as the lights slowly dimmed. Then the music started ‘’I got sunshine, on a cloudy day. When it’s cold outside, I got the month of May.’’ The Temptations belted out ‘’My Girl’’ while the girls did their best hip-hop moves. The audience scratched their collective heads at the choice of music, but ultimately thought it was ‘’cute.’’ I, on the other hand, thought it hilarious. At the end of the performance, the baffled crowd gave them a standing ovation, and I went back to their dressing room to give them both a hug.

As I was leaving, I noticed that one of the girls had a book in her purse about ‘’Junteenth’’ that was written in French. I asked them if they were going to be performing here next year. Yes, they were. So, we took a Metro to the nearest bookshop to get a couple of French language books on the history of Rap in America.

Punto Finale

Boy that last episode of the Sopranos has really divided the shows' fans into two camps; the ‘’We Hate David Chase, Forever!’’ camp, and ‘’This Guy is Bloody Brilliant!’’ side. I have even read that some people are thinking of punishing HBO by canceling their service. Hmm, so this is what happens in a culture where ‘’closure’’ seems to be our birthright? Therefore, after receiving a number of emails from friends who felt cheated after spending 8 years with a man whose behavior, they ‘’tolerated’’ and became fond of, but who did not have to answer for his sins in a way deemed satisfying. It seems clear to me that they not only were out for blood, they wanted to view the body.

I find it interesting that ‘’we,’’ by this I mean the loyal viewers of The Sopranos, may find it difficult to accept that we have all been accepting of Tony’s sociopath behavior since the first episode. And, only now in the last series do we voice our displeasure in his inability to change because we want so desperately to believe that we ourselves were not simply enjoying his exploits vicariously. There is not one character on this brilliantly written program that has not been living in denial from the beginning. Yet, we not only knew them all intimately, we saw the ‘’human’’ side of them and chose to focus on that aspect. We the viewers lived in denial right along side our favorite characters. The fact that many of us even had ‘’favorite’’ characters of the killers-among-us crew is testimony to our ability to compartmentalize the things we need and discard those things that do not please.

So then, why is it that many are frustrated or surprised that a character like Tony, who has rarely accepted any responsibility for his actions throughout the 86 episodes, had learned little from his life in the last episode? He has never had to. There was always his crew there, and we the viewers, to help him justify his actions. Everything in Tony’s life that pushed him towards looking at himself in the mirror was someone else’s fault. It was his mother’s fault, or his father’s, or Carmela, A.J. or Meadow’s, or even the Fed’s. And, anyone looking for a ‘’glimmer’’ of insight on the part of Tony, could find it in his comment to Dr. Melfi about his mother, ‘’I think our mothers are the ‘buses’ that we ride into this world, but we are meant to get off and let them go on their own journey, instead of spending the rest of our lives trying to get back on.’’ You see? All those years in therapy did actually produce some insight. That was a very deep and insightful comment that, at least in my eyes, made me feel that his therapy did end up doing some good. Albeit, it took some years to get here, but then time flies when you are in the ‘’Waste Management’’ business.

Some viewers have called Chase a ‘’coward’’ for being unable to give us a Godfather-like death in a hail of bullets. However, I think that David Chase showed remarkable bravery in ending his series the way he did. Far from being a coward being unable to kill off his character in order to satisfy the viewers’ need for ‘’closure’’, or worse, making secret movie deals in exchange for suitcases filled with cash, He forced us to look at our own vicarious adrenalin-lust in living life through the eyes of a ‘’killer’’ like Tony. For the first very real time, Chase, in the last few minutes of the last episode, made us all feel, really feel, what it must be like to live a life of ‘’looking over your shoulder’’ and not knowing exactly when the plug may be pulled.

And in essence, we the viewers had been coddled by the a safe distance of our TV screens into enjoying 8 years of voyeuristic sex, drugs, and revenge killings that had us rooting for Tony to survive. Last night we all wanted Tony to pay the ultimate price for our guilty pleasure so that we could go to bed feeling that, yes, a bad man will have to pay for his sins someday, but not us for enjoying the ride. Well, last night, David Chase held us all accountable and we got to suffer the shock of having ‘’our’’ plug pulled right along side Tony’s. And it was not what we expected.