Elizabeth Dutton's Blog, page 14

Oh, I love this.

 

I love Old Crow Medicine Show and I love Mumford and Sons. Best of both.

Had a lovely day at our small town's fall festival. Hung out with the coolest, most zen and creative 4th grade girls ever (ah, hope for the future restored); saw two parades, one traditional with firetrucks et al and one all pets; heard great music, including the above gem, by a local band; laughed about getting glitter all over the street in front of the library; had some bites of really great funnel cake; marveled at the blue sky and puffy clouds; fell in love with this town all over again; was just generally happy to exist. What a Saturday.

Oh, and here's another version with both bands (and Gillian Welch)! The video is a bad camera-in-the-crowd mess, so just listen and forget all the garbage in the world and be happy to exist.

 

Here's the thing: nerdy freakouts

I had a couple of nerdy freakouts today. First, I yelled at the television screen, urging Inspector Lewis not to drink the possibly drugged tea the crazy woman offered him on PBS Masterpiece Mystery. Seriously, no one messes with Lewis and Hathaway. Moments later I was filled with total elation (displayed via a gasp and some toe wiggling) after discovering that Umberto Eco has a new book out in November. I pre-ordered, natch.

 

Here's the thing: we all have our own nerdy freakouts and I think we need to celebrate these moments. Some of my greatest hits include the first tomato setting in the garden each summer, finding shed snake skins in the woods, when the little tiny water acorns start to fall from the trees (right about now and I have the growing collection to prove it), getting tongue-tied and goofy over an Anne Lamott sighting (and strong-arming her into signing my copy of "Bird By Bird" –yes, I had it in my bag– despite her saying she never signs books), scoring really great information while doing research and getting giggly about it, and my yearly Halloween decoration and party plotting that redefines "overboard" without fail.

 

So all two of you who read this, what are your nerdy freakouts?

Here's the thing: Mousehole

For a number of reasons, I've been obsessed with Cornwall, England, of late. This is in addition to my other current obsessions with Italian and Spanish baroque artwork, the concept of memento mori, and the Oxford comma. (Not really on the comma business. I hate the Oxford comma, despite the fact that I used it two sentences ago. Whatevs.) Back to Cornwall. I want to go to Cornwall. I don't want to live there full-time. I just want to visit for an extended period.

As an aside, it's a crying shame that I am not thin and good-looking so that I could at least have a shot at marrying rich. I would make an excellent wealthy guy's bride. And I would be able to go wherever, whenever and just write and snap pictures and be interesting. Sadly, this is just not in the cards.

So, Cornwall. I miss the ocean. I am not too keen on the bath-tubbish waters of the Eastern Seaboard. It's creepy, that warm water. And I've had my share of the Pacific along California. I also miss the UK. Cornwall seems like it would be nice, what with the sun and the green and the water. Glasgow, I adore you but you nearly froze me to death and I think I may have had early onset rickets due to the lack of sunshine. So, Cornwall.

Here's the thing: I love research. I can research anything (and do!) for hours (and do!) for no real reason (and do!). Research is one of my favorite parts of writing — getting all the little details and learning things I'd never have any occasion to even hear about, let alone know. And that's how I happened upon Mousehole.

Mousehole (sadly, it's pronounced Mowzel…) is an adorable little village on the coast in Cornwall. Dylan Thomas called it the loveliest village in England. Sold. Get me there. Stat. There's even a cool little Isle off the coast.

I mean, come on. Look at the place:

Cozy as all get out, no?

Let's make this happen, people. Let's get me a holiday in Mousehole.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to look up information on some bracket fungus I saw on a downed tree limb while walking around in the woods earlier today… RESEARCH!

Kindle me, fool.

Save a tree and get 1,033 Reasons to Smile on Kindle.

 

I never thought I would be able to give up actual paper books, but I have fallen in love with my Kindle (and Kindle on the iPad!…and jet packs!). My book is also available for Nook. Check it out here.

 

Also, remember that I love you all very, very much.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's the thing: Music Nerd

I was driving in the car the other day and an old Beach Boys song came on the radio, followed by some Bob Dylan (Sirius 21: Garage is THE station). It reminded me of my childhood. Not because I was a kid when the songs came out. I wasn't even born. It reminded me of my childhood friends. Other than my brother (who, to this day, remains my very best friend), I didn't have a whole lot of friends before the age of 12. I was a nerd. Serious nerd. Aw, who am I kidding? I AM a nerd. There's no WAS involved. But back in the early 80s, I was a nerd who had a few friends but often felt isolated. What changed when I was 12? We moved and that move sent me to St. Theresa's Elementary and for the first time, other students were incredibly warm and welcoming and happy I'd joined them. All of this despite the fact that I had three-day-old cat scratches running down my entire face. That's another blog post, though.

 

Here's the thing: Music saved me then and it saves me now and it will always save me.

 

Hearing the Beach Boys made me think of this:

 

 

I didn't have a Walkman. I had one of these portable cassette recorders and a pair of earphones. That was my Walkman. I am pretty sure my grandma bought it for me at "The Base." My grandfather was career US Navy and this allowed my grandma access to local military bases, where she would shop at the commissary (no taxes!), let my brother get flat-top haircuts at the barber, and purchase sundry items at the Exchange. I seem to remember her getting me this player on the cheap, along with a shit-ton (my favorite unit of measurement, by the way) of C Cell batteries. I carried that cassette player everywhere and listened to it as I fell asleep at night. In addition to some Beach Boys cassettes, my musical arsenal included Duran Duran, Aretha Franklin, Van Halen, and homemade tapes of songs grabbed off the radio. High end shit.

 

In third grade, I took the school bus. I only remember certain things about this. I remember that we had a driver who would go fast over speed bumps if we all chanted "BUMP, BUMP, BUMP" before hand. Since we were without seatbelts, this gave us a millisecond of weightlessness, just long enough for all of us to slam our heads on the ceiling of the bus and then come crashing down to our seats. We were all very sad when that driver didn't show up anymore. I remember seeing the aftermath of a car on bike accident one rainy morning and feeling like I'd been punched in the gut all day. And I also remember listening to my Beach Boys tape and having some older boys (maybe 6th graders?) ask what tape I had in the player. "The Beach Boys," I told them. They all sort of nodded absentmindedly (probably because I didn't have a tape worth stealing) and then one of the boys said, "Did you know that none of the Beach Boys knew how to surf? It was all an act." I looked at him, studied his earnest face, and then started crying. The boys turned around and sat back in their seats, confused, I am sure, by the suddenly bawling little girl behind them. I don't know what this information crushed me. I guess I felt cheated. If the Beach Boys didn't actually surf, what else wasn't true? Did the members of Duran Duran actually wear lipstick, like my mom claimed? When the teacher said we didn't need to worry about earthquakes or nuclear attack, but still had to run drills and hide under our desks, was she (Nick Rhodes lip)glossing the subject? And a cynic was born.

 

It didn't stop me from loving the Beach Boys. Or Duran Duran. Or any other music. I get obsessive about music. Not in a Nick Hornby way with lists and quantification, but more in that I go on jags of certain artists for a while. I always seem to have some song stuck in my head. I closely associate certain songs with certain times or events. I have my iPod on me at all times.

 

It's a long way from a cheap cassette recorder to a 120 GB iPod, like another lifetime or even another planet. But I am still the same music nerd, needing that music to take me through this weird and marvelous life we lead.

The Mustard Field

I used to write poems. Tons of them. Now I focus on prose and shift back to poetry when I need to reset, to get back to the mouth-feel of words and that distillation.

This is a poem I wrote a while back about my earliest memory: the field of wild mustard down the road from the house my parents lived in when I was born. This was in Los Gatos, California, a town that has changed drastically since my arrival in the mid 1970s. What was once an odd little mountain town between the Bay Area and Santa Cruz is now an upscale Silicon Valley suburb full of chain stores and not enough parking. My California doesn't exist anymore, I fear. That's pretty much why I split.

Anyway, here's the poem:

 

The Mustard Field Rambles

 

Think back, you.

Think back as far as you can.

There I am.

In the empty black magnet of memory

I am the originator.

 

Dust and pollen

baking in the sun,

I'm golden, burning,

a yellow so pure, I'll scorch your eyes.

You'll never erase me,

I'm your oldest memory.

 

The melted gold of California poppies ring me,

a corona.

You are at the end of the road –

newly paved, an inky black –

the heat dancing

clear shimmy between us.

I'll stand for everything

from that time in your life:

 

What you know from photographs

            bonneted and crawling

            chubby-legged on a patch quilt

            the grass beneath in wide blades of

            brittle British racing green

What you've been told

            your mother in the shed

            piecing smoky crimson, cobalt

            glass together

            listening to The Dead

            your father on the roof

            sawing, finishing

            full of beer and about to

            tumble lazily into the hedge

What you feel

            this was the start

            where you started

            it is what came before

            what will someday be

            I'm always in the distance,

            the farthest thing you see.

 

Tinker with it,

make memory more,

and you're sitting with me

the hair on your head

muddy reflection of gold

just below my highest points.

 

I am all you'll really know

a dusty, ripe myth.

I'm plowed through now,

a ghost under someone's home,

gone.

Here's the thing: Sons of Anarchy and Powerpoint

What am I obsessed with this week? The return of one of my favorite shows.

Here's the thing:

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I would ramble on about how rad this is going to be, or even write about something far more interesting. But the real truth is that I have more pressing matters calling from another window on this computer screen (mine, not yours).

 

Here's the thing PART II: I have become a devotee of that evil incarnate known as PowerPoint. I am trying to convert all my class lectures over to PP so that I can just run through the slides and elaborate for my students as I go. No more scrawling on the board or overhead. No more ending class and then suddenly realizing I forgot to mention something. It's all in there. But that means I have to go now and finish up the presentation on agreement (both subject/verb and pronoun/antecedent). What has happened to my life? Maybe I should run off with a biker gang. I bet they don't allow PowerPoint presentations. Wait. Oh, god, what if they do? What if outlaw biker gangs routinely give PowerPoint presentations in their clubhouses, illustrating the fruits of their illicit labors (happy Labor Day, by the way, America works best when you say UNION YES and whathaveyou) with graphs and cheesy clip art? Perhaps there's simply no escape for me. Ah, well. Back to the drudgery.

Here's the thing: Infomercials

I, like much of the nation, spent the weekend watching 'round the clock coverage of Hurricane Irene. Here at Rancho Relaxo, we were just outside of that crazy gal's grasp and our weather was mild. But on my television, reporters stood for 14 hour stretches on wind-whipped pieces of oceanfront, demonstrating that, yes, it was kind of raining. And yes, there was wind. And lo, behold these rushing brooks taking out quaint farmhouses.

I rarely watch CNN or The Weather Channel. By rarely, I mean never. CNN lost me when they started asking people to tweet their opinions about news stories. Actually, they lost me when they joined in the Fox-honed practice of presenting opinion as fact. Plus, all the blonde reporters look the same and they generally ask idiotic questions and I can't stand how the talking heads will focus on some inane story for hours while the ticker running across the bottom of the screen teases us with far more urgent, and ultimately ignored, world events. And The Weather Channel? Watching it always makes me feel like I am in a hotel room on business and I just don't like that feeling at all. The notion that a twin set and PowerPoint presentation lurk somewhere in the dark shadows of my near future is not appealing.

As an infrequent viewer of these networks, I did not realize how heavy their advertising leaned on infomercials. I generally DVR my stories (ohmygawdIcan'twaitforSonsofAnarchySeason4tostart), which allows me to FF through the commercials. But watching disasters unfold live does not afford one such luxuries. My eyes were opened to the products that are currently shilled by whatever phantom company concocts such things…but wait! There's more!

Here's the thing: I am a divided soul. In many matters, my intellect and emotions cannot agree. Intellectually and spiritually, I know that I am an okay person. I know I have value. My emotions, however, override this and I usually exist in a state of somewhat deep self-loathing. I also know, both intellectually and spiritually, that violence is wrong. But my emotions often support my desire to punch certain people (Michelle Bachmann, child molesters, animal abusers, Guy Fieri) so hard in the face that their mouth collapses in on itself. (Fear not, I don't act on these emotional impulses…score one for the brain!). And then there's consumerism. Intellectually, I can't stand the rampant need to buy buy buy that has overtaken our society, that brutal need to constantly acquire new stuff. But then sometimes I see something and my emotions say, "ooooh, you really need that." Do I need it? Generally, no. Do I want it? Perhaps for a fleeting moment.

These infomercials are banking on our fleeting moments. Now, before I continue, I want to make it clear that I did not order one single thing "as seen on TV" this weekend, nor did I go online and make a purchase. I, like the brave New Yorkers and the seams on Governor Chris Christie's odd windbreaker with his name stenciled on the front in prison-issue font, held fast and weathered that storm.

What I saw in my endless hours of hurricane coverage was the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The Good:

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I think I need/want the EZ Moves Lifter. Okay, fine, I don't have a bunch of furniture that I need to move around all the time. But what if I did? It would be so easy! The guy moved a car, dangummit! And it has an adjustable fulcrum. AN ADJUSTABLE FULCRUM, PEOPLE! If I had this, my life would be EZ. I could sneak into my neighbors' homes and rearrange all their furniture while they are at church. They would totally thank me, by the way. I have a good eye. And I could move cars out of parking spaces that I want! Even though parking is not an issue for me anymore! There's plenty of parking here! And it's free! Exclamation point! Oh, dear. These infomercials have really done a number on me.

But look at the guy! He's so clean and happy and eager to unite you with an adjustable fulcrum. FULCRUM! I need to take a deep breath.

The Bad:

I guarantee you that this will tip over or catch on itself or just make your spice cabinet more confusing than it needs to be. Yes, I have a spice cabinet. As in, multiple shelves of faraway spices. Although I will say that the aspect that perhaps disqualifies this from the "bad" category is their suggestion that you use it to organize your many, many pill bottles. I have to take a lot of medication (to prevent Hulking Out and Excessive Mouthiness, which are the clinical terms thankyouverymuch), but I certainly don't take enough to warrant a sliding organizer system to put a majestic assortment of pharmaceuticals at my fingertips. Not that I wouldn't want to give it a shot, but… whatever. The Swivel Store is just lame.

 

The Ugly:

One of the most terrifying movies I've ever seen was intended as a comedy/social commentary but has actually become a future-vision documentary. I am talking, of course, about Idiocracy. Even dreamy Luke Wilson can't take away from the fact that this movie is a chilling look at the way that we actually live today. Basically, people are total idiots. Presidential candidates campaign on platforms crafted of soundbites and non-facts. People will deep fry anything. The public spends countless hours watching total morons parade around on reality TV (okay, guilty as charged). And then there's this:

 

I don't even know where to begin. I never knew using a side/end/coffee table was so stressful! This product finally — FINALLY – allows you to relax. You can just sit there with your Mountain Dew and finally relax, not having to exert any energy whatsoever to move forward ten inches and reach your arm out to pick up or put down your beverage. I think, though, that my favorite part of this ad is the clip of the kid having a jumping fit while the Couch Coozy keeps mommy's glass of box wine steady between the sofa cushions. What, exactly, is going on in that house? Why is the kid Tom Cruising it up all by himself while the wine sits unattended? What happened to his parents or guardians? Are they in the other room moving chifforobes around with the EZ Moves? Is dad out cruising the neighborhood wearing a pair of HD Vision sunglasses? Did mom lose consciousness after donning a pair of Miracle Socks? Thanks to Couch Coozy, Junior can snort all his ADHD meds (which he totally keeps in a Swivel Store, by the waaaay) and have a french fry freak out and no harm shall come to that glass of Two Buck Chuck. Whew. Idiocracy is now.

 

 

You can save your sofa, but it's too late for your sanity.

Author Central

Check this out:

 

Look, it's me!

Here's the thing: wow

In the last 72 hours, I have witnessed the following:

- two weddings

- surprise mid-ceremony wedding karaoke

- a wedding performed by the local undertaker

- the gnarliest thunder and lightning storm I've ever seen

- a tree that had been struck by lightning the night before, causing all the bark to shoot off and the ground around the tree to be littered with the fried remains of the extended squirrel family that once lived in said tree

- my not very small dog believing that the only safe place during the storm was inside my skull

- a student who began a question to me with, "Real talk…"

- a motorcycle gang rolling through town, complete with cuts and ape-hanger handle bars, that appeared to be teletransported from 1978

- very little sleep

 

Here's the thing: I dropped out and moved to the middle of nowhere in order to have calm and quiet. Not going to happen.

I am exhausted.