Nancy Crochiere's Blog, page 2

The Dangers of snooping

It’s 2:30 am, and I’m prowling around my friend’s house, peering into her bathroom closets and cabinets.

I’m not normally this nosey. Really, what goes on between you and your pharmacist--or Skip, the friend who always has the good stuff—is your business.

But it’s the wee hours of the morning and some intestinal demon is wringing out my stomach like a wet towel. I need a Tums.

No doubt it was the Mexican food. In San Antonio, where I’m visiting my friend and her family, the cuisine packs some punch. I don’t speak Spanish, but even so, I should have been suspicious of a dish called “Camarones à la Diabla.”

Naturally, I recognize the risks involved in snooping in people’s bathrooms. You’re bound to stumble on things that are deeply personal—the kind of items that you try to hide in your pharmacy cart under a bag of cotton balls or a magazine you didn’t really want to buy. (And despite all these efforts, you unfailingly run into some nosey friend who picks up the magazine and announces, “Well, looks like someone is having a colonoscopy!”)  Consequently, I vow to rifle through all my friends’ most personal possessions in the most thoughtful and non-judgmental way possible.

I start my prowling in the guest bathroom. The drawers are completely empty except for one of those suction devices--shaped like a mini-turkey baster--designed to help clear an infant’s nose.  This seems odd, given that my friend’s youngest child is 17. Non-judgmental goes right out the window.

I’m amazed to find the under-sink cabinets nearly empty, as well. Shouldn’t any guest bathroom in the state of Texas have stockpiles of Pepto Bismol?  Do my friends host only enchilada-loving natives of El Paso or Guadalarjara?  Have they given no thought to the delicate GI tract of a New Englander?

I slip downstairs. Luckily, the master bedroom is not en suite, so I don’t have to tiptoe through their room to reach the bath. I understand the dog sleeps in their bedroom, and he didn’t like me before I started breaking and entering.

I search the master bath: its drawers, closet, and medicine cabinet. Nothing. How can this be? Do all Texans have stomachs of steel?  Is it part of their citizenship test?  (“Eat this burrito and record how you feel in half an hour….”)

I decide to try the kitchen, but halfway through the darkened living room I step on a snake. Or maybe it’s not a snake, but something shaped like a snake that moves and yelps, though neither as quickly nor as loudly as I do. It is the dog—or rather his tail. I try to resume normal breathing, certain that this whole experience just shaved two years off my life. Oddly, I find myself wondering how that translates into dog years.

Tiptoeing into the kitchen, I flip on a light switch over the sink. As it turns out, though, it’s not a light switch, but the garbage disposal. Another near-cardiac event.

I search the kitchen cabinets. Finally, in the last cupboard, I hit pay-dirt: a shelf with various prescription and other medications. Way in the back is a small box with the word “heartburn” written on it. I am so relieved. I pull out the box.

What immediately strikes me as odd is the photo of the dog on the cover. I look more closely. It’s not heartburn medication, I can now see, but heartworm.

I decide to pack it in. As a last resort, pour myself a glass of milk and, amazingly, this works. I find I’m able to sleep.

The following morning, I chide my friend about her lack of OTC medications. She looks puzzled and opens a door to a back entrance that—who knew?—offers yet another bathroom. She reaches into the cabinet and produces several boxes of antacids, in all shapes and flavors, colors and sizes.

Travel, for me, is all about education, and I learned several things from this experience:

(1)   never order a Mexican entrée that includes the Spanish word for she-devil;

(2)   have more respect for people who break and enter; it’s not as easy as it looks; and

(3)   when in trouble, always wake your friends, because only they know where they’re hiding the good drugs.

audiobook review: the goldfinch

Twenty years ago, I was the only person I knew who listened to audiobooks.  (Actually, back then, they were called “books on tape,” as they were offered almost exclusively on cassette.)

As a working mom, I resorted to audiobooks because the only time I had to read “real” books was late at night, in bed.  You can pretty much guess how that went.  No matter how good the book was: after two pages I was unconscious.

Fast forward a couple decades to the CD-era, digital downloads from your library, and Audible.com. Now, so many of my friends enjoy audiobooks that we trade recommendations not just on the book itself, but on the “performance.” 

A good narrator or reader can make an audiobook come to life; a bad reader can make you switch your car radio to a Weird Al Yankovic marathon and call that a relief. 

I recall trying to listen to an award-winning novel read by its author—a woman with a high, squeaky, childlike voice.  I listened for 2 minutes, drove around the block, and returned that audiobook to the library. 

In short:  for people who enjoy audiobooks, a good reader is nearly as important as the author.  That’s why going forward, The Mother Load is going to review not just books, but audiobooks.

My first review is of a book I loved--The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt—that has an equally fabulous audiobook performance by Jared O’Connell. 

Let’s talk about the book itself first.

Yes, admittedly, it’s on the long side.  Over 770 pages.  And if someone is going to complain about this book, that’s usually where he or she will go:  it could have benefitted from some editing.  I respect that criticism, but personally found the characters so fascinating, the story so full of tension, and the writing so vivid, I was drawn in from the first page and never lost interest. 

The Goldfinch is the story of Theo Decker, who loses his mother in an explosion at the Metropolitan Museum and ends up in possession of a tiny, priceless painting of a goldfinch—a secret that informs his life going forward.   Theo’s first-person account unfolds in New York, Las Vegas, and Amsterdam and eventually involves gangsters, drug rings, art thieves, and New York socialites. But in contrast to Life of Giants (reviewed earlier on this website), the situations never seem farcical or implausible. The main comic relief in The Goldfinch comes in the person of Theo’s Russian friend, Boris, and truly, you must read this book if for no other reason than to know Boris.  770 pages is not enough; you will actually miss him when you put the book down.

And perhaps this is where the audiobook narration by Jared O’Connell was most masterful.  O’Connell’s interpretation of the character of Boris deserves its own Pulitzer.  His voicing of Theo, Andy, Platt, and Hobie are also extremely well-done.  O’Donnell’s women characters are not quite as distinct as his male characters, but still quite good for a one-actor-does-all audiobook.  I would actually recommend the audiobook over the print--it’s that good.

So download this book and enjoy—at 32.5 hours, t will provide enjoyable diversion for quite some time.

Ready for the 4th��of July?

It’s fine to buy hot dogs and bug spray and cute little flags to wave, but if you really want to get ready for the 4th of July, read this guest blog by my friend Clark Baxter (and play the YouTube video). Instead of just clapping along to The Stars and Stripes Forever, you’ll appreciate it in an entirely new way. THIS is what Independence Day is really about.

The Stars and Stripes Forever is the song without which the 4th of July cannot be. If America has a National Song, this is it. Have you ever considered why?

Well of course it's lively and fun and it barrels along briskly. But so do lots of songs. It's loud and there are lots of trumpets and cymbals and tubas--like every other Sousa march. They always play it on Independence Day. Like The Battle Hymn of the Republic. 

Hmmm. Let's dig a little deeper.

To be French you're parents really need to be French themselves, and their parents before them. Citizens of Japan are, you know, Japanese. But to be an American you only have to show up, take a test, and buy into a central idea. To make it even easier, Thomas Jefferson wrote this idea down: All of us "are created Equal." That's it. Buy into that and you're an American.

But what does "equal" mean? I'm taller than my wife, who is more persistent than I am. And our daughter is smarter than either of us. The three of us couldn't be less equal.

Jefferson anticipated that. What he meant is that we are all equal in two basic ways: 

1. We all have (or are supposed to have) an equal chance to choose the kind of life we want: i.e., our own "pursuit" of happiness." 

2. In return for this chance to pursue our own version of happiness, our own American dream, we have an equal responsibility be good citizens, to help make our community and our country work so that others can continue to pursue their happiness. Of the people: sure. For the people: you bet. But also by the people.

So what does that have to do with The Stars and Stripes Forever?

Let's find out. 
Listen--and watch--as the Marine Corp Band, for whom John Phillips Sousa wrote this piece, performs it. 

After a brief introduction, at 0:27 (on the YouTube player) the brass and percussion snap us to attention with a rousing introduction.  

At 0:31 the full band plays the opening theme, making as confident a sound as a band can make. This is music to psych you up before that big presentation. The trumpets take the melody (what else is new?). But the trombones, fully psyched, barge in at 0:41/42 and again at 0:56/57. If you have a pulse and a US passport you're at least tapping your toe by now. Politicians, cable TV pundits and other assertive, extroverted Americans take their place on stage here.  

At 1:29 the clarinets lead the woodwinds into the quieter "B" theme (which at camp we sang as "Be Kind to your Web-footed Friends"). This is gentler, introverted music, music to ice skate to. All librarians and tech support personnel take stage--while the trumpets are muted. The drums weigh an idea for a poem, or maybe they're texting the cymbal players. Whatever they're doing, no one moves an unmusical muscle. And every uniformed band member behaves uniformly.

At 2:00 the trumpets, drums, and other extroverts can't stand the calm and play a 20-second interlude. And as they play something really striking happens: a single band member breaks ranks, makes his way to the front holding what looks like a pea shooter. It looks incapable of making enough sound to reach the audience. 

It's called a piccolo. And when it plays (at 2:22) you can not only hear it, the song it makes is a wild, ecstatic variation of the melody we just heard. And it's the climax of the entire piece.  If you aren't dancing by now, consider flying home to France. 

The piccolo, while comically unequal in size, plays a better-than-equal role--visually as well as musically--in our annual celebration of America's National Holiday. 

But note one final thing: the piccolo on its own does not generate as many decibels as a trumpet or a drum. The climactic moment it provides in our 4th of July celebration is possible only when the trumpets and drums (and trombones and other extroverts) pipe down, listen, and allow this tiny voice to be heard. Without it, The Stars and Forever is background music and July 4 is just another shopping day. But on Independence Day, the piccolo reminds us that all of us—trumpets and piccolos, shouters and whisperers—are created equal.

Dig deep. Work hard. Play harder. Pursue your happiness. But when the new kid in the woodwind section a few chairs down from you stands up to pursue her happiness, pay attention. 

Happy 4th.

********************

PS--The Stars and Stripes is an orchestral staple piece as well, of course. Here's a rousing "cover" by the NY Philharmonic.
The timings are different, the players wear evening clothes, and the Philharmonic can afford three(!) piccolos. But the impact is the same--if you listen closely you can hear thousands of sophisticated Manhattanites clapping with brio by the half-way point.
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Ready for the 4th of July?

It’s fine to buy hot dogs and bug spray and cute little flags to wave, but if you really want to get ready for the 4th of July, read this guest blog by my friend Clark Baxter (and play the YouTube video). Instead of just clapping along to The Stars and Stripes Forever, you’ll appreciate it in an entirely new way. THIS is what Independence Day is really about.

The Stars and Stripes Forever is the song without which the 4th of July cannot be. If America has a National Song, this is it. Have you ever considered why?

Well of course it's lively and fun and it barrels along briskly. But so do lots of songs. It's loud and there are lots of trumpets and cymbals and tubas--like every other Sousa march. They always play it on Independence Day. Like The Battle Hymn of the Republic. 

Hmmm. Let's dig a little deeper.

To be French you're parents really need to be French themselves, and their parents before them. Citizens of Japan are, you know, Japanese. But to be an American you only have to show up, take a test, and buy into a central idea. To make it even easier, Thomas Jefferson wrote this idea down: All of us "are created Equal." That's it. Buy into that and you're an American.

But what does "equal" mean? I'm taller than my wife, who is more persistent than I am. And our daughter is smarter than either of us. The three of us couldn't be less equal.

Jefferson anticipated that. What he meant is that we are all equal in two basic ways: 

1. We all have (or are supposed to have) an equal chance to choose the kind of life we want: i.e., our own "pursuit" of happiness." 

2. In return for this chance to pursue our own version of happiness, our own American dream, we have an equal responsibility be good citizens, to help make our community and our country work so that others can continue to pursue their happiness. Of the people: sure. For the people: you bet. But also by the people.

So what does that have to do with The Stars and Stripes Forever?

Let's find out. 
Listen--and watch--as the Marine Corp Band, for whom John Phillips Sousa wrote this piece, performs it. 

After a brief introduction, at 0:27 (on the YouTube player) the brass and percussion snap us to attention with a rousing introduction.  

At 0:31 the full band plays the opening theme, making as confident a sound as a band can make. This is music to psych you up before that big presentation. The trumpets take the melody (what else is new?). But the trombones, fully psyched, barge in at 0:41/42 and again at 0:56/57. If you have a pulse and a US passport you're at least tapping your toe by now. Politicians, cable TV pundits and other assertive, extroverted Americans take their place on stage here.  

At 1:29 the clarinets lead the woodwinds into the quieter "B" theme (which at camp we sang as "Be Kind to your Web-footed Friends"). This is gentler, introverted music, music to ice skate to. All librarians and tech support personnel take stage--while the trumpets are muted. The drums weigh an idea for a poem, or maybe they're texting the cymbal players. Whatever they're doing, no one moves an unmusical muscle. And every uniformed band member behaves uniformly.

At 2:00 the trumpets, drums, and other extroverts can't stand the calm and play a 20-second interlude. And as they play something really striking happens: a single band member breaks ranks, makes his way to the front holding what looks like a pea shooter. It looks incapable of making enough sound to reach the audience. 

It's called a piccolo. And when it plays (at 2:22) you can not only hear it, the song it makes is a wild, ecstatic variation of the melody we just heard. And it's the climax of the entire piece.  If you aren't dancing by now, consider flying home to France. 

The piccolo, while comically unequal in size, plays a better-than-equal role--visually as well as musically--in our annual celebration of America's National Holiday. 

But note one final thing: the piccolo on its own does not generate as many decibels as a trumpet or a drum. The climactic moment it provides in our 4th of July celebration is possible only when the trumpets and drums (and trombones and other extroverts) pipe down, listen, and allow this tiny voice to be heard. Without it, The Stars and Forever is background music and July 4 is just another shopping day. But on Independence Day, the piccolo reminds us that all of us—trumpets and piccolos, shouters and whisperers—are created equal.

Dig deep. Work hard. Play harder. Pursue your happiness. But when the new kid in the woodwind section a few chairs down from you stands up to pursue her happiness, pay attention. 

Happy 4th.

********************

PS--The Stars and Stripes is an orchestral staple piece as well, of course. Here's a rousing "cover" by the NY Philharmonic.
The timings are different, the players wear evening clothes, and the Philharmonic can afford three(!) piccolos. But the impact is the same--if you listen closely you can hear thousands of sophisticated Manhattanites clapping with brio by the half-way point.
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Dear George-How Could You?!

Dear George,

It’s been several weeks now, but I am finally coming to grips with my heartache. 

You have decided to get married. And not to me.

Oh, I realize that there were problems inherent in our relationship. The fact that we have never actually met was no doubt a stumbling block. 

Still, that little detail never stopped me from professing my undying devotion to you. Let the record show that I did this publicly, for 15 years, in my newspaper column. 

And yes, I admit, there was the somewhat thorny issue of my being already married. But don't all great love stories require that we overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles? Surely, if nothing else, Ocean’s Eleven taught us that! Think what it took for you to win Julia Roberts in that film. (Okay, now that's enough thinking about Julia Roberts.)

I always believed you and I had an understanding. You would continue to date Las Vegas cocktail waitresses, Dancing with the Stars contestants, and professional wrestlers, while firmly asserting your intention never to marry. I, in turn, could feel secure that you would never give your heart to one of these floozies. You would remain unattached, unencumbered, eternally...possible.

So what happened?!

How did you let yourself become involved with someone so darn worthy? What could you have been thinking when you started dating an Oxford-educated, tri-lingual, international human rights lawyer and activist?  Clearly, this woman was never going to make it on Dancing with the Stars!

And just where does that leave the rest of us, who have adored you, but don't have degrees from both Oxford and NYU? Those of us who don't speak three languages, but have been--I will now share, though I was keeping it as a surprise--doggedly studying Italian, with the dream of someday being invited to your villa on Lake Como?

If you had thought about others--well, me, in particular--you would not have gotten down on one knee when you gave her the 7-carat ring (that you yourself had helped design).  This behavior clearly falls into the category of kicking a person when she is down. 

Oh, George. Che peccato! as I have learned to say in Italian. Such a pity!

Still, I want you to know that I have forgiven you, George, and will try to be brave.  In the immortal words of Adele, I wish nothing but the best for you. 

And if, perchance, this marriage thing doesn't work out, you know I will have you back.

In the meantime, though—just to help me refocus a bit—would you happen to know if Jude Law is seeing anyone?
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The Perils of Room Service

Recently, I heard the story of how a hotel security camera caught a naked man placing his room-service tray outside his hotel-room door and accidentally locking himself out. It reminded me of the column I wrote in 2011 titled “The Perils of Room Service”—though, spoiler alert—no nudity is involved in my version, below.

I am in the lobby of an elegant San Francisco hotel, but I am not sipping a martini. 

What I am doing is hiding—behind a rather large column, in fact. (Doric, if I’m not mistaken. Or is it Corinthian? I always get them mixed up.)

Anyway, yes--I am hiding. 

I’m staying out-of-sight because my publishing colleagues—here, like me, for this company-wide meeting—are currently returning in droves from their group dinners and passing through this very lobby. These colleagues are dressed in what is commonly called “business casual” attire.

I, on the other hand, am dressed in what is commonly called PJs. I’m wearing a ripped t-shirt and a pair of flannel boxer shorts. 

Oh, and no shoes. 

(And no underwear, either, though that isn’t readily apparent…I hope.)

It’s 45 degrees outside on this January 3rd, and every time the lobby door opens, a cold breeze blows in. Not surprisingly, no one else in the lobby is dressed as I am.

So what am I doing here? 

Good question. You see, like Teri Hatcher’s character on Desperate Housewives, who always seemed to lock herself out of the house naked, I seem to get myself into goofy situations on a regular basis. But I swear, this one isn’t my fault. 

I blame it all on room service.

Allow me to explain.

I almost never order room service, even when traveling for business. It’s expensive and the rolls are always stale. Plus, it requires a lot of will power not to steal the adorable little salt and pepper shakers.

But this evening was different. 

I was still exhausted from the 7-hour cross-country flight seated next to a family who played Yahtzee the entire way. Do you have any idea what it’s like listening to dice rattling around in those hollow cups for 7 hours?

To make matters worse, once at the hotel, I had forgotten to change my cell phone to Pacific Time. So when the phone alarm had sounded early the next day, I had groggily showered, dressed, and gone downstairs for breakfast…at 3 am.

In any case, by the time evening rolled around, I was exhausted—so exhausted that I decided to skip dinner with colleagues. Instead, I changed into my PJs, ordered room service, and prepared to collapse.

All of which would have been fine if, when I had finished eating, I hadn’t tried to place the room-service tray outside my door. Because as I bent over to put down the tray, I felt the hotel-room door slam shut behind me. I was locked out. No room key. No phone. No ID. And no pants. (Just the boxers.)

What to do? I saw no choice but to plead my case with the front desk and hope the clerk would give me a new key. As I slipped into the elevator in my plaid boxers, I prayed the long descent from the 22nd company’s president.

And that’s how I ended up lurking in the lobby. Eventually, by sneaking in cartoon-character fashion from behind the luggage rack, around the ATM machine, to the far side of the column, I reached the front desk. Happily, the clerk took one look at my outfit and called a security guard to let me into my room (and check my ID).

The one redeeming aspect of the situation was that the security guard repeatedly called me “young lady.” This almost made the whole incident worthwhile.

Of course, that bright spot was overshadowed when the guard suggested: “Next time this happens, you should just use the hotel phone to call security.” He pointed to a phone hanging on the wall between the elevators, just outside my room.

Yes, it was pretty silly of me to miss that. 

But you know what bothered me more? The certainty with which the man said “next time.” SIGN UP TO RECEIVE NEW BLOG POSTS 
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"Life Among Giants" by Bill Roorbach

May's pick for The Mother Load Book Club.  (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, © 2012, 331 pages.)

I was attracted to this book by the suggestion (on the back cover) that the writing was John Irving-esque.  “A dizzy romp” said the New York Times Book Review, which goes on to note the eclectic cast of characters: mysterious ballerina, pro-football player, dead rock star, mad sister, tattoo-covered vegetarian chef, and his transvestite lover.  Not to mention the unsolved double-murder and ensuing mystery.  Sounded great to me.

And it was—it was lots of fun.  Life Among Giants is a great summer read.  It will keep you engaged and entertained, even if it doesn’t leave you reflecting on symbols or admiring metaphors.  (I’d venture that Irving has more to offer in this regard.)  My book group—a bunch of tough critics—gave it two-thumbs up, with one caveat: some folks found the narrator’s jumps from present to past to present a little jarring. 

So, pick up this book and head to the beach.  (Well, if you live in New England, as I do, be sure to bring a blanket as well…)
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The Boston Marathon: Once More, With Feeling

This will be my husband’s ninth Boston Marathon.  As is his habit, he has trained for months.  Some days he does hills, some days intervals, some days distance.  On Sundays during the spring, he’ll call out as he leaves the house, “Going for my long run now.  I’ll be back in 3 hours.”

He is ready.  Like a lot of this year’s marathoners, he is ready to run so we all can move on.

We were at the Boston Marathon last year.  Well, we were and we weren’t.  Depends on which Boston Marathon you mean.

Paul crossed the finish line in just over 3 hours—that is to say, when the finish line, and the marathon itself, still meant what it always had. 

We watched­—my mother-in-law, my older daughter, and I—from Boylston Street, when standing on Boylston Street still felt like it had always felt. 

Our Boston Marathon was, for all intents and purposes, a completely different marathon from the one that ended an hour and 49 minutes later.

I was driving Paul home—he, still recovering, eating oranges and sipping Gatorade—when the phone call came.  Our younger daughter, at school in Vermont, sounded frightened.  She had heard something about a bomb exploding near the finish line.  Where was Dad?!  Was he okay?

We turned on the car radio, but struggled to connect the words we heard—limbs, bodies, chaos—to the event we had just left.  I drove with one hand over my mouth.

Paul quickly checked my phone for messages and we let out a collective breath; our older daughter, who had stayed to watch the rest of the marathon, had texted.  She was okay. 

The second bomb had exploded a little over a block from where we had been standing.

Greater Boston is a huge community, and yet, when tragedy strikes, astoundingly small.  Almost no one enjoyed a full six degrees of separation from the events of that day, or those that followed.  Just among our family members, we knew a spectator who was injured, a runner who watched as the second bomb went off, a first-responder who carried out the wounded.  Our next-door neighbor had been standing on Boylston between where the two bombs exploded and ran for her life.  Our daughter and a friend had been innocently walking toward the finish line.

It was all very, very personal.

Before he ran last year, my husband had proclaimed that 2013 would be his last Boston Marathon.  He was tired of training in winter, he said. His aging knees were talking to him.  But from the moment we returned home that  day—and stared numbly at the TV coverage for hours, as horror and disbelief slowly morphed into anger and sorrow—there was never any doubt that Paul would run again this year.

And so, on Monday, he will.  He’ll join with the 37,000 other runners as they proclaim to the terrorists, “You didn’t win.” 

And as spectators, his daughters and I will be there waving our banners to underscore Boston’s message to terrorism:

Yes, you succeeded in changing us, but not the way you intended.

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The Greatest Movie Dance Scene You Ever Forgot��

What’s your favorite movie dance scene? Is it from West Side Story? Saturday Night Fever?  Dirty Dancing?

Recently, a video titled “The Greatest Movie Dance Scenes Ever” circulated on FaceBook, leading some friends and me, over lunch, to name a few favorite dance sequences that had been left out of the mix. Notably absent were some memorable dance scenes from romantic comedies.

Below, my friend and guest blogger, Clark Baxter, writes about how dance scenes often mark a pivotal moment in a romantic comedy.  He recalls the great dance scene in 1990’s My Blue Heaven, an utterly charming romantic comedy by screenwriter Nora Ephron. Check out the link to that scene below.

"What do women want?" asked Sigmund Freud, who really ought to have figured this out. 

John Updike once suggested that what women want is to dance. And Hollywood seems to agree.

Romantic comedies work in any setting, every era, most cultures, and among all sorts of characters. The plot, however, is as unvarying as the "plot" of a football game: a man and a woman (so far; but this is changing) meet. They dismiss each other. They meet again and their acquaintance soon deepens into distrust and loathing. 

After as many amusing catastrophes as the studio's production budget allows, two things suddenly happen: a change in the musical score music alerts the audience to stop texting: the characters are about to "discover" the attraction that everyone but they themselves noticed near the end of the opening credits. 

More important, the characters do in fact discover this attraction! And nine times out of ten, when they discover it, they're dancing. 

Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers set the template for these transitions from disinterest to attraction—from loathing to 
love—80 years ago. However it still works exactly as they created it, at least in the movies. Here's a more recent take on the form, from My Blue Heaven.

Rick Moranis is an FBI agent responsible for keeping mobster Vinnie Antonelli (Steve Martin) under wraps in a witness protection program. (Bill Irwin, also featured in the dance sequence, is Moranis’s FBI colleague.)  Joan Cusack is a San Diego DA trying to clamp down on the recent crime spree that has followed Vinnie to San Diego. Both of these "law-enforcement types," as Vinnie calls them, are straight-arrows whose partners left them because they were boring. Their mutual distrust grows, of course, as they spar over Martin.    

Moranis learned how to merengue (and to loosen up) from Martin in an earlier sequence, and here he asks a most reluctant Cusack to dance at a law-enforcement picnic. The emotional transition from 0.01 to 0:42 compares favorably with any Rogers/Astaire sequence.  As they switch locales over several hours their deepening attraction rivals that of Ginger and Fred in Top Hat or Swing Time. Check it out: Moral for the lovelorn: 
Step 1: Leave the house.
Step 2: Meet someone.
Step 3: Hit the dance floor
Step 4: Call a caterer; buy a mini-van; look for babysitters.
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The Greatest Movie Dance Scene You Ever Forgot

What’s your favorite movie dance scene? Is it from West Side Story? Saturday Night Fever?  Dirty Dancing?

Recently, a video titled “The Greatest Movie Dance Scenes Ever” circulated on FaceBook, leading some friends and me, over lunch, to name a few favorite dance sequences that had been left out of the mix. Notably absent were some memorable dance scenes from romantic comedies.

Below, my friend and guest blogger, Clark Baxter, writes about how dance scenes often mark a pivotal moment in a romantic comedy.  He recalls the great dance scene in 1990’s My Blue Heaven, an utterly charming romantic comedy by screenwriter Nora Ephron. Check out the link to that scene below.

"What do women want?" asked Sigmund Freud, who really ought to have figured this out. 

John Updike once suggested that what women want is to dance. And Hollywood seems to agree.

Romantic comedies work in any setting, every era, most cultures, and among all sorts of characters. The plot, however, is as unvarying as the "plot" of a football game: a man and a woman (so far; but this is changing) meet. They dismiss each other. They meet again and their acquaintance soon deepens into distrust and loathing. 

After as many amusing catastrophes as the studio's production budget allows, two things suddenly happen: a change in the musical score music alerts the audience to stop texting: the characters are about to "discover" the attraction that everyone but they themselves noticed near the end of the opening credits. 

More important, the characters do in fact discover this attraction! And nine times out of ten, when they discover it, they're dancing. 

Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers set the template for these transitions from disinterest to attraction—from loathing to 
love—80 years ago. However it still works exactly as they created it, at least in the movies. Here's a more recent take on the form, from My Blue Heaven.

Rick Moranis is an FBI agent responsible for keeping mobster Vinnie Antonelli (Steve Martin) under wraps in a witness protection program. (Bill Irwin, also featured in the dance sequence, is Moranis’s FBI colleague.)  Joan Cusack is a San Diego DA trying to clamp down on the recent crime spree that has followed Vinnie to San Diego. Both of these "law-enforcement types," as Vinnie calls them, are straight-arrows whose partners left them because they were boring. Their mutual distrust grows, of course, as they spar over Martin.    

Moranis learned how to merengue (and to loosen up) from Martin in an earlier sequence, and here he asks a most reluctant Cusack to dance at a law-enforcement picnic. The emotional transition from 0.01 to 0:42 compares favorably with any Rogers/Astaire sequence.  As they switch locales over several hours their deepening attraction rivals that of Ginger and Fred in Top Hat or Swing Time. Check it out:
Moral for the lovelorn: 
Step 1: Leave the house.
Step 2: Meet someone.
Step 3: Hit the dance floor
Step 4: Call a caterer; buy a mini-van; look for babysitters.