Canon Fodder

I read a disturbing article by Casey Cep in The New Yorker a few days ago.  It examined some of the history behind Harper Lee's father, the autobiographical inspiration for Atticus Finch.  A lot of articles about To Kill a Mockingbird have been published lately in reaction to the opening of the play on Broadway with Jeff Daniels in the Gregory Peck role.  This article, however, did not come to praise Atticus, but to bury him.  Wait.  That's an exaggeration.  The article, "Power of Attorney," showed that Lee's portrayal of her father was, to put it mildly, idealized.  Lee's father may have started out as a liberal Democrat, but he ended up applauding the prosecution of the Scottsboro Boys and even joining a thinly veiled chapter of the Klan as a reaction to Brown vs. Board of Education.

But that was not the most troubling part of the piece.  Cep suggested that Mockingbird "is now a kind of secular scripture, one of only a handful of texts most Americans have in common."  I find it incredibly depressing that Mockingbird would be the text most Americans have read.  I read it as a junior high kid and I taught it to freshmen.  It was readable, occasionally clever, filled with great speeches and as such, easy to teach.  But I didn't like the whole idea of a wise and wonderful white father figure helping a poor black guy.  My favorite line in Cep's article is when she suggests that the real tragedy for the white readers of the book isn't that a black man dies, but that a white man loses his case.

But that's enough about the book.  The other troubling thing is the whole idea of a literary Canon that Americans should share.  It used to be just accepted in department meetings and college classrooms that there are some books that simply should be read.  Of course, we couldn't agree on what those books might be, but it was fun to talk about.  Toward the end of my career, that changed.  I know I'm beginning to sound like an old curmudgeon, the kind of person I went into education to overthrow, but I noticed that in department meetings with baby teachers, the idea of a Canon was anathema.  Kids should be allowed to choose their books.  That's the only way to get them interested. Blah, blah, blah.

I argued for the value of reading assigned books as a class precisely because I believed in and continue to believe in the idea of a Canon.  Even if the idea is absurd, reading books in concert with others fosters critical thinking and that's what I was trying to teach.  As a literature teacher, I think a lot of the tribalization of our country is because we have lost sight of a Canon.  What follows is a list of books that are my nominees for inclusion in the Canon.

First, some rules.  I'm a literature teacher, so my choices will all be fiction.  Since this is a list of books we all should have under our belts, the reading level can never rise above the eighth grade (Most published books are at that level anyway.).  My choices may not have footnotes or bibliographies.  That pretty much eliminates David Foster Wallace and all works by Thomas Pynchon.  My choices will obviously be limited to American authors.  Most importantly, my choices are simply that.  My choices.  However, I think the world would be a better place if we all, like one giant book club, read them over coffee and cookies.

THE EGG AND I - Betty McDonald
-Both my mother and grandmother insisted I read this very funny little book.  I was only about nine or ten, so my memory is sketchy, but it is about the trials and tribulations a lady has running her chicken farm and her family.  It made me laugh and if I was being pompous I could say that it gave me a rudimentary understanding of life in rural America.

A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN - Betty Smith
-I read this about the same time I read McDonald's book and for the same reason:  Mother and grandmother twisting my arm.  To this day it is one of the funniest books I  have ever read.  It does for life in the big city what the first book does for the farm.

THE LORAX - Dr. Seuss
-This is just the most obvious choice to list, but I think all of Dr. Seuss should be included on the list. There is just no way that Donald Trump and the rest of the Republicans in Washington have read any of Dr. Seuss' work.  Instead of starting congressional sessions with the pledge, wouldn't we all be better off if they all did a choral reading of Green Eggs and Ham?  I would also include here the complete oeuvre of Pete the Cat.

THE SCARLET LETTER - Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN - Mark Twain
THE GREAT GATSBY - F. Scott Fitzgerald
-I list these together because they are the obvious choices on any Canon of American literature.  Furthermore, I don't need to say why.  I might want to include something by Sinclair Lewis here, or Hemingway.  The names are all familiar and, for canonical purposes, pretty much interchangeable.

MY LIFE AND HARD TIMES - James Thurber
-I think our drearily exceptional country is suffering from a lack of wit.  No one is better at wit than Thurber, plus his collection of pithy stories make great humor pieces to read if you ever find yourself in a forensics tournament.  As long as we are being witty, I would strongly suggest Phillip Roth.  I just didn't think it would be appropriate to put Portnoy's Complaint in a Canon.

THE BLUEST EYE - Toni Morrison
-Her most accessible and maybe most beautiful novel.  Morrison has to be on the list not only because she speaks so movingly and with such authority about race, but because she writes better sentences than anybody.

CIDERHOUSE RULES - John Irving
-Irving's best novel.  It, like everything he has written, is an epic that explores moral issues that need exploring.  We need to make our own rules rather than ignore the ones written by others.

CATCH-22 - Joseph Heller
-This is the most difficult book to read on my list.  It is also funny, violent, sexy, horrifying, and hopelessly confusing.  Just like life.

TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY - John Steinbeck
-The quintessential book about America.  It is also a great book to read by the fire.  I would add here that this book violates my all fiction rule.  So sue me.

INVISIBLE MAN - Ralph Ellison
-A monumental piece of writing that also happens to chronicle racial tensions in the mid-twentieth century.

Okay.  There could be more women on this list.  More black authors.  I don't have a single hispanic author!  I could always go back and add some, but that would be cheating.  The south is under represented, but most southern novels I know are above the reading ability of lots of folks.  I don't think Faulkner would be a good choice here.  You will notice that To Kill a Mockingbird is nowhere on my list.

This is Katherine so don't be confused.  Now and then I hijack Jim's place here and write something.  This is one of those days.

I've polished off another bunch of books and thought I'd do some quick reviews while I can still remember the books.  Nothing inspirational today.

1.  Thinking Fast and Slow, Daniel Kahneman, Non-fiction. The first half of the book covers the psychology of System 1 (intuitive and speedy) and System 2 (analytical and lazy). The last part of the book connects to economics.  People prefer to avoid losses more than they seek gains.  Kahneman's work suggests people are reasonable, but not rational because their thinking lacks consistency (go figure). Libertarians vote based on the idea that we all will behave reasonably and that economic "nudges" in policy will drive rational thought. The book uses things like seat belt laws and social security as examples of policy increasing rational thought.  I learned some things, but the second half about economics was tedious for me. There's a lot of conservative rationalization in how the author argues for policy to limit safety nets for struggling folks. The writer is a prize-winning economist so I'm thinking if conservative economics are your thing, go for it.  It's several years old so I bet you can find it on sale. One more note, this book is in stark contrast to the psychology book I'm reading now (Why Buddhism is True) which says people are driven by evolutionary needs and we prefer pleasure because it is so fleeting.  Two Stars.

2.  The Monk of Mokah, Dave Eggers, Non-fiction.  Jim read this one after I did, but got a review up first.  His is more thorough.  I loved this book about an American son of Yemeni immigrants who returns to his country to try and create a great coffee from his homeland. He wants to restore Yemeni coffee to its glory days. Moktar (our hero) goes from being a San Francisco doorman to a successful brewer of specialty coffee. I learned about Yemen (war torn, but lovely in the mountains), coffee (how to grow and sort and roast and taste it), and the determination of this child of immigrants. Loved the book.  Four Stars.

3.  The Possessed, Elif Shafik, Non-fiction (I think). This seems to be a non-fiction book about a graduate student studying Russian Literature. She explores the lives and books of the Russian greats while mastering the language. Like me, she believes in the power of literature to heal and to pull you into so much more than a story.  Her life moves between books, boyfriends, campuses, and Russian landscapes. Her insights into Russian Lit are intriguing and make the tragic nature of it all more real and understandable.  I learned stuff and she writes good sentences. Not sure this is for everyone and I only picked it up because I read Anna Karenina not too long ago. I was sad this book never really discussed Tolstoy. Three Stars.

4. Birding Without Borders, Noah Strycker, Non-Fiction. I bought this book more to review the geography of the world rather than to learn about birds.  I learned so much about both, but the true lessons were about how wonderful people are all over the world and how much they will try to help you.  It made me feel sad about all the travel fears our country promotes and our fears of being any place without the comforts of home.  Sträcker moves through the world at a breathtaking pace notching off bird sightings (always confirmed by another viewer for verification's sake).  In each flight from one dinky spot to the next, local guides showed up when and where Strycker needed them and created miniature friendships. The geography and birds were both wondrous and Strycker limits what he shares perfectly. I really liked this book.  Four Stars.

5.  Many Lives, Many Masters, Brian Weiss, Non-fiction. Another psychology book. Our lives have messages and we just might not really know or understand what those messages are.  Weiss, a psychiatrist, leads a troubled patient, Catherine, through about 12 of her 86 previous lives.  He learns our lives have lessons and debts and we return to other lives for learning and repaying debts. Paying a debt can take many forms--living the type of life you imposed on another, dying the way you killed someone, or helping to guide another through a life from a different dimension as some sort of guardian angel. Most lessons are about overcoming greed, lust, and violence and evolving to unselfishness, love, charity and hope.  There is nothing religious in the book, but it feels very Buddhist to me. I read it on the advice of Terry Connell, a friend and acupuncturist,  I'd felt a real presence in the room when he treated me once and he told me about the book.  There is more about that, but not now:)  Four Stars.

6. The Fortunate Ones, Ellen Unmansky. Fiction.  This one reminded me a bit of The Goldfinch because it explores the power of art and how owning a great piece of art can change you. In fact the book talks about how art and history (both personal and of the world) change you.  The story covers how two women of two different generations each owned a famous painting (a fictional painting credited to Chaim Soutine). Rose's mother owned and loved the painting and it was lost to the Nazi's along with most of her family in Vienna. Lizzie, a hip California lawyer, threw a teenage party in the 60's the night the same painting was stolen from her father's house. When the two women meet and discover their connection, a lovely friendship blooms.  A good book.  Three Stars.

7. Bring the War Home, Kathleen Belew, Non-Fiction.   This is a powerful account of the growth of the while supremacy movement from the Viet Nam War until the Oklahoma City Bombing by Timothy McVeigh. The data is overwhelming.  The book documents the outrage of some Viet Nam vets and the growth of single-cell organization that made all the violence seem to be lone wolf behavior. Anti-abortion is the preservation of the white race and many defense positions were based on "protecting white women" who were complicit in the violence.  The theft from military bases (weapons), the use of the internet, the ability to recruit evangelicals and skinheads, and the fury over Ruby Ridge and Waco drive the movement.  Now we have Donald Trump.  A powerful and important book.  Not happy. Also Kathleen was a former student. We both are so incredibly proud. Four Stars.

8.  The Disappeared. C. J. Box. Fiction.  Joe Pickett books (he's a Wyoming game ranger) are my guilty pleasures. There's one a year. They aren't great, but he's covered all of Wyoming and I love learning the nooks and crannies of that state.  This one sends Joe to Saratoga to look for a missing British lady who vanished after a stay at a guest ranch.  Nate Romanowski and his falcons come into play in the story and I always enjoy that. He' a vicious good guy:) I like this one until the end.  There was no end. Now I wait until May for the next book.  C. J. Box just lost a star for that.  Two Stars.

9.  Less, Andrew Sean Greer, Fiction. Cindy Fite recommended this one.  I liked it.  The book follows Arthur Less around the world as he nears his 50th birthday.  Less is feeling low and lost.  He lover (Freddy and the ultimate narrator) has left him and Less is traveling the world to heal his wounds. Less thinks about loss, writing, grief, love, and age. He learns everybody does really like him.  It's a nice book.  Three Stars.

10.  An Odyssey, Daniel Mendelsohn, Non-Fiction.  A classics professor invites his father to audit his seminar reading The Odyssey. The book combines thoughtful literary criticism of Homer's work.  I thought about the meaning of words, the nature of heroes, the importance of recognition, and marriage. There were lots of times the book made me think about Jim and I as we age. The later part of the book, Mendelsohn takes his father on a cruise that supposedly retraces the Odyssey and ends all too naturally with the father's death.  I loved this book.  I even briefly thought about re-reading the Odyssey.  Four Stars.

11.  The Escape Artist, Brad Meltzer, Fiction.  I don't know why I bought the book.  Then I read the whole book.  I know I read a review that indicated it was about the history of the artists who work for the army and draw battle scenes and that intrigued me.  A character does that, but this is a pulp fiction, government conspiracy, silly short chapter book that I'm ashamed I read even though it was a big best seller.  Sometimes I wish I knew how to just quit reading a book.  I just can't do it though.  One Star.

That's it.  I managed 21 books last year.  I count:)

Aesthetic Distance

This country has a problem with maintaining aesthetic distance.  Let me explain.  I'm a literaturist.  That is another way of saying I am a retired English teacher.  As an English teacher, I tried to teach my students that in order to evaluate and write about literature (Art) they must first manage to distance themselves from the work.  They must allow themselves to be arrested by the work.  That's what Beauty does; that's what Truth does.  They make the viewers of Art step back and look at the work as it is frozen in time and space.

One must shed all preconceptions, all history, all expectations in order to fully appreciate the work in question.  Without the aesthetic distance, the meaning of the work is informed by the viewer instead of the work itself.  You see examples of this all the time.  There was a woman at Jenny Lake once who was appalled to find me reading Cormac McCarthy's THE CROSSING because it was cruel to wolves and she happened to love wolves.  I've had a few female students and female friends who could not deal with CATCH-22 because Yossarian treated women like objects.  Some folks complain about HUCK FINN because it peppers its pages with the N word.

I can't abide the reader who has to stop half way through a book because it makes him uncomfortable.  You know, the attitude that says "I can't read OLD YELLER because I once had a dog who died."  "I can't watch SCHINDLER'S LIST because I lost my grandmother in The Holocaust."  "I can't watch MY COUSIN VINNIE because my cousin used to drive a Cadillac just like that before he got hit by a train."  "I can't watch SISTER ACT because the nuns at my  Catholic school were mean to me."

Sometimes we should look at moments of Beauty, Truth, and Clarity as exactly what they are: isolated moments that make us sit up and take notice, that make us say "Wow!  I wish I had created that."

Look at MADAME BOVARY for example.  There is that horrible scene where Emma's bumbling husband Charles is talked into making Homais' club foot all better.  The snapping of Homais' Achilles  Tendon is one of the most powerful scenes I've ever read.  I cringe.  I get angry.  I feel sorry for Homais.  I feel sorry for Charles.  I know this is not going to end well.  I feel all those things because that is exactly what Flaubert wants me to feel.  But mostly I feel elation.  Elation that a member of my species could create something that moving.  That is what I mean by aesthetic distance.  It was the way I felt when I saw my first opera (MIDSUMMER NIGHT DREAM - Benjamin Britton).  I didn't get offended because I used to dream about strange stuff.  I just got transfixed, arrested.

Maintaining aesthetic distance is also important in negotiating daily life, especially given the tribalism that characterizes so much of what we do lately.  For instance, we all learned the other day that Trump didn't go to Arlington on Memorial Day.  The reactions on social media and main stream media were immediate and completely informed by partisan rancor, revenge, vindication, and the entire history of presidential behavior.  "Obama went every year!"  "So what if it was raining, here is a picture of Kennedy standing in the rain."  "Our soldiers don't get to stay home if it is raining."  "Just another example of Trump thinking only of himself."  Etc.

Wouldn't it be better if we just treated that action, or inaction, like what it was, an isolated moment that really doesn't mean much?  Maybe he had a good reason.  Why should we care?

And the real problem with this dearth of aesthetic distancing is that humor depends on it.  If I watch a Three Stooges movie and end up worrying through the whole thing that Moe is being unfair to Curly, that Curly must really feel pain when Moe keeps slapping him, that one of them could get seriously hurt and put an eye out, I'm probably going to miss the humor of the whole thing.  It follows that if I look at the world through the filter of my causes, my certainties, my outrages, my VICTIMHOOD, I'm going to miss a nuance or two.

Remember the NEW YORKER cover when Obama first won the presidency?  Barack and Michelle, dressed in Muslim garb, are laughing and fist bumping each other.  I was up at Jenny when the magazine first came out and Michael, the assistant manager, came breathlessly up to me to show me the outrageous image.  My daughter, Obama's trip director, was similarly outraged.  But that's because they were not able to maintain an aesthetic distance from the issue.  I had not made the same investment into Obama that my daughter had and I was able to see it for the rather brilliant piece of satire it was.

I'm afraid that seeing things for the brilliant satire they present is no longer a wise move in today's America.  As a recipient of White Male Privilege, my opinions about a wealth of things no longer matter.  I can weigh in on #MeToo only at great risk.  Since I am not a woman, since I haven't been systematically put down and made to feel inferior, I have no right to an opinion.  It is just like the white artist who created a powerful image of Emmit Till until the museum was forced to take it down.  White artists have no right to comment on the travails of black people.

I truly believe it is possible to "walk a mile in another person's moccasins" through the pages of a book, through a lifetime of learning to be empathetic.  I almost think it is more possible.  Sometimes baggage just gets in the way.

Hey, Why The Long Face

I got into one of those dumb Facebook wars yesterday.  Katherine keeps telling me not to engage, but I am just too immature to resist.  The situation in a nutshell:  Katie Hoffman, one of my all time favorite people, posted that some strange man had told her to smile and it pissed her off.  I understand her reaction completely.  I hate to smile, always have.  I'm 70 years old and the years of smoking, drinking coffee and red wine, plus deteriorating 70 year old enamel, have made me ashamed of my smile.  Don't worry.  I'll cope.  Anyway, the strange man was being rather presumptuous to tell some stranger to smile.  Katie should have told  him to fuck off and gone about her business.

Katie's post gave me no problems, but the stream of reactions struck me as being all out of proportion to the actual event Katie described.  It was typical of a culture that systematically hurts women, a bunch of folks said.  It was just another indication that women have to make themselves look pretty for men.  It was a sexual assault.  The anger, outrage, and fury were evident throughout and I thought it was a little silly, so I made a typical, for me, smart ass comment.  I mentioned that strange women and men have asked me to smile from time to time during my seventy years and I never felt condescension; I just assumed they were coming on to me.  I also suggested that a possible solution to the problem would be to look happy while walking down the street.  Finally, I mentioned that Katherine and I used to give bonus F's to kids who didn't smile and look happy in class.

I was mostly trying to reduce the arguments on the stream to the absurdities they were, but all hell broke loose.  A few of the ladies on the stream were more than a little outraged that I gave F's to kids who didn't smile.  Let me explain.  Sophomore Language Arts offered speech and drama credit, so a big part of our curriculum was designed to meet speech objectives set by the county and the state.  It became a discussion class with an equal stress on  participation and active listening.  We would have one forced contribution discussion a week and the kids were given grades both as a group and as individuals.  If everyone in the group participated, added comments, encouraged others, and basically acted like adults having a discussion, everyone in the group got an A.  If even one person did not participate, did not encourage others, did not listen and have the kind of body language that proclaimed his/her eager cooperation, everyone in the group got an F.  We were labeled communists, terrorists, etc., but by the end of the first quarter a visitor could walk into any of our classrooms and see 25 kids sitting in a circle, maintaining eye contact, nodding, smiling, doing all those kinds of things.  Mostly, you could see 25 kids engaged and having fun.  Katherine and I were pragmatic teachers and we did whatever it took.  So sue me.

Of course, most of the outrage was directed at the fact that I was making fun of women for freaking out when someone asked them to smile.  I guess as a man, I'm not entitled to participate in a discussion centering on sexual predation.  I even had the temerity to suggest that some of the participants in the stream did not have a sense of humor.  I learned immediately that telling a woman she doesn't have a sense of  humor is the biggest sexual assault trope of all.

And then it was suggested that I did not have a sense of humor.  No sense of humor?  Moi?  Please!  So I ended my participation in the stream by offering my favorite joke as proof of my highly developed sense of humor.  You  will find it quite germane to the whole discussion:  A horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, "Hey, why the long face?"  You can easily see why my classroom was such a hotbed of jocularity.

My final reaction to all this is a question and I really wish someone would answer it without resorting to calling me names or telling me how disappointed they are in me.  One person on the stream, a former student, even said she was sad to see how sexist I had become.  Don't be sad, Bucko.  The Dems took the House.

My question:  If a man asking a woman he doesn't know to smile is sexual assault, what isn't?  In Willa's first year of preschool, I went to her school to watch her participate in a fun run.  I was standing by the course with my daughter Franny and another mother of one of Willa's classmates.  The mother was furious because on the playground the previous day some of the boys were trying to put rocks in the girls' mouths.  I suppose they were trying to get them to eat dirt.  The mother was planning to complain to the principal that Ms. Barb did not properly discipline the boys.  "It's just another example of rape culture at work," said the mother.  I'm sorry, but I think that reaction is absurd.

Okay, putting rocks in four year old mouths is tantamount to rape.  What else?  I am actually quite polite and always hold the door open for people of both genders.  When I hold the door open for a woman, is that just a way to show male condescension?  If I tell some lady, even some lady I have never seen before, that I love her hair, am I traumatizing her.  People of both genders tell Kathie they love her hair all the time.  Should she be offended by that?  Kathie was having a hard time putting our Kitchen Aid mixer together two days ago and I stepped in and did it for her without even asking.  Is that a particularly egregious example of Mansplaining?  I went with C. Fite to see Kathleen Belew's book talk at the Tattered Cover.  We had drinks and snacks in the little bar next door and I think I might have picked up the tab.  Isn't that the height of male dominance on display?

I suppose there are right ways to tell some stranger to smile.

"It's a beautiful day out there isn't it?  Doesn't it make you want to smile?"

"Smile!  It's another glorious day in Colorado!"

"Hi there.  It's a great day to be alive isn't it?  You just can't keep from smiling."

And there are wrong ways.

"Smile, goddammit.  You're depressing the hell out of everyone on the street."

"Stop being such a grouch and smile why don't you?"

"Hello!  Do you think you could smile a little instead of being such a sourpuss?"

And there are appropriate ways to respond.

"Why it is a beautiful day isn't it?"

"Thank you and let a smile be your umbrella."  (gag)

"Hey, let me show you where you can put your smile."

"Fuck you, asshole."

I'm truly sorry if I offended or disappointed anyone in that Facebook stream yesterday, but I just don't see how it is possible to conflate asking someone to smile with sexual assault.  Maybe the strange man who pissed Katie off was feeling like Dick Van Dyke and was encouraging everyone he met to "Put On A Happy Face."

Oklahoma

I played bass trombone in the pit orchestra for Loveland High School's production of OKLAHOMA.  It was in the spring of my junior year, my first year in Loveland after having grown up in Estes Park, and I was beginning to feel like I belonged.  Jack Barkley had the other trombone part primarily because our first chair trombonist was playing Will Parker.  And Will, as any lover of musicals knows, was clumsily courting Ado Annie, played by Claudia White.

Ah.  Claudia White.  She was a sophomore who was a french horn in band and a member of the NFL (National Forensics League) just like me.  Not only that, but she played Nora in A DOLL'S HOUSE in the fall and was, at least to my eyes, wonderful.  She belted out Annie's numbers and stole the show.

It was an impressive show to steal.  Laurie's soprano just soared over everything and everybody and even though Curly was shorter, his teenaged baritone was perfect for the part.  Jud was menacing.  Aunt Eller was strong and loving at the same time.  Even the dream ballet at the end of Act One was a hit.  The show ran for four nights and in that time I committed Rogers and Hammersteins' first musical to memory.

I've seen the musical a lot since then.  I've seen the movie with Gordon McCray (don't know how to spell that) and Shirley Jones several times.  I even went on a double--more like a quadruple--date with Heather McCray in attendance (She was decidedly not with me.).  I've reviewed dinner theater productions of it.

I've seen two Green Mountain productions of OKLAHOMA.  The first was with Darren Chilton (I'm almost positive) as Curly and Samone Wright as Laurie and, if I'm not mistaken, Steve Cogswell as Will.  All great kids.  Kathie and I saw Darren play FDR recently in a Lakewood Civic production of ANNIE.  I remembered his big voice.

Franny was in the chorus in the other GM production.  I remember Lisa Martin was a wonderfully feisty Ado Annie.  The only other thing I remember is Sara Monson dressing up as a cowboy and sneaking into one of the cowboys only songs.  She was such a little scamp.

Yesterday was my most recent encounter with the show.  We have begun a tradition where instead of buying a present, although we still do that, we take Sammi and Brooklyn to the theater on their birthdays and Christmas.  We've been to Boulder Dinner Theater twice to see ANNIE (different production) and THE LITTLE MERMAID.  Great times both.

It was Brooklyn's 12th birthday this time and we decided to take the girls to brunch at Bistro Vendomme and then to the Sunday matinee of OKLAHOMA.  It was going to be an uptown day with Granny and Gramps.

Over beignets and a pate de la maisson that was exceptional, Kathie and I tried to prepare the girls for what they were about to see.

Brief Interjection:  You need to remember that both of these girls have grown up in, to put it mildly, a theatrical family.  Brooklyn has more than one professional gig under her belt.  Sammi's voice would melt your heart.  So, Kathie and I try to expose them to musical theater whenever we can.  We watch old musicals together when they spend the night.  We go to all of their performances, etc.

We explained to them that this show was really the first musical where the songs were simply part of the story.  Previous musicals tended to slip songs in.  Like we're all going to stop now and sing and dance.  OKLAHOMA wasn't like that.

We let them know that where most musicals opened with a big chorus number, this one starts with one cowboy walking across the stage singing "There's a bright golden haze on the meadow . . ."  We explained that Laurie and Curly were in love and you could tell because they like to tease each other.

Prepping all done, we went back to our brunches.  Sammi and Brooklyn had cheeseburgers; Kathie had an omelet; I had the scallops.  It was a wonderful time where we spent an hour at the table talking about school and family and theater.

Afterwards, we walked to DCTC and entered The Stage.  I remember one of the first times we went to The Stage was to see a production of ANDROCLES AND THE LION when Chris and Nate were in grade school.  It was part of the Monday night educational series they used to put on and after the show finished, every one came back out on stage for a question and answer session.  Chris' hand shot up and he asked them how they managed to create such an amazing set with giant sculptures of lions that must have been thirty feet high.  "Styrofoam."  Chris had plenty more questions to keep them busy that night.  I was, and continue to be, so proud.

Our seats were stage right, three rows up.  We had a nifty view of the conductor and were close enough to see spittle fly out of the mouths of chorus members.

But enough of that.  It has been awhile since I've been to a production at DCTC, but I think this was the best musical production I've ever seen in Denver.

When they started promoting the show, the producers made a big deal of the fact that it was an all black cast.  The territory of Oklahoma did in fact have numbers of black only communities and there was even a chance that the whole state would be a haven for black people.  There are even a series of educational posters lining the halls explaining some of this history.

While interesting, I didn't see how having an all black cast (all except Ali Hakim, who was white) made much difference.  Let's face it.  It is hard to inject soul into "People Will Say We're In Love."

I'll tell you what I did notice.  The cast, black, white, whatever, was maybe the strongest I have ever seen.  Every voice was perfect.  Every dancer pulled his weight.  I was even able to forgive the contrived conflict between Curly and Jud and the stupid gizmo with the knife.  Don't ask me to explain.

The main thing about the show is the music.  I don't think there is another first scene in all of theater that has as many show stopping songs as OKLAHOMA.

The set was sparse and colorless just like the land.  Set changes were smooth and almost instantaneous.  And the entire play, including intermission, took two and a half hours.  In other words, a perfect thing to attend with two young theater buffs.

I kept looking over at Brooklyn and Sammi to see if they were having a good time.  Did they laugh at the right times?  Did they look worried at the appropriate moments?  Were they nodding off?  At the end of the show when Ali Hakim, a defeated man, comes back on stage led by his new wife Gertie, Brooklyn's laugh made my day.

Go to OKLAHOMA.  Take your grandchildren.  If you don't have any, rent some.

Life in a Catholic Boys' College

I was a freshman at Regis College, a Jesuit all boys' school, in 1966.  I suspect it felt a lot like Georgetown Prep where Kavanaugh attended high school.  Since it was college, I suppose our academics were more rigorous, but probably not that much.  I mean very few of my classmates turned down an acceptance at Yale to go to Regis.  On the other hand, there were a lot of privileged young men there.  I was not one of them.  Like at Yale, a goodly number of my classmates went on to become lawyers, doctors, politicians, business moguls, etc.  A few of us went on to be high school English teachers, but hey, I'm not complaining.

I've read a couple of op-eds the last two days suggesting that Kavanaugh's alleged behavior is typical of the all male clubs that comprise many of our elite schools.  The drinking culture.  The good old boy insinuations about females.  The bragging about sexual conquests, real and imagined.  The sitting around dorm rooms drinking beers, lighting farts, sharing information on what certain girls at Colorado Women's College or Loretto Heights would let you get away with, and just generally acting like assholes.  All of that behavior, the op-eds suggested, was typical of the kind of schools that groom our "leaders."  And that, the op-eds again suggested, explains all the problems we are having now with sexual politics.

I admit that kind of behavior went on.  I am not ready to admit that it is as typical as the op-ed writers suggest.

At Regis, there was a guy who lived just down the hall from me.  His only purpose for going to college was to bed as many girls from Loretto Heights and CWC as he could get his hands on and he was quite successful at it.  The guy was a lot like Stradlater (a rather evocative last name) in CATCHER IN THE RYE.  He took a long shower in the morning with the rest of us.  He took another one after his ten o'clock class.  Another one after lunch.  Another one mid-afternoon.  Another one prior to going out on an evening's conquest and another one when he got back to the dorm late in the night.  He was a psych major's dream come true.  Calling Dr. Freud!

Some of the guys on my floor pinned bras onto their bulletin boards as trophies.  I was thinking about borrowing one of my mom's bras so I could fit in, but I thought better of it.

There were plenty of bull sessions in other rooms where we compared notes on "famous" girls from one of the plethora of undergraduate schools in the area.

On weekends, we would all forget about our books and head up into the mountains for a woodsy.  We didn't call them keggers then.  And the goal of all those weekend beer brawls was to get drunk as quickly as possible, throw-up, and eventually pass out.  The guys did it.  The girls did it.  I suspect a lot of the Jesuit priests did it as well only they were using vast quantities of scotch.

When it was too cold for a woodsy, we would have motel parties at the round Holiday Inn by Mile-High Stadium, or the Center Motel on 6th and Federal.  We would stop by at North Denver Liquor on the way to the party and get our booze from George who happily kept the underaged drinkers at Regis supplied.  Most of us left the motel rooms by early morning.  But others spent the night and those that did spend the night probably forgot everything about the experience, either out of convenience or because they were too drunk to remember.

All that illicit behavior was the stuff of legends at Regis.  Those of us who didn't bed anything that moved, or who didn't pass out every Saturday, or who didn't use female undergarments as a bulletin board decoration, looked on the ones who did with a certain amused detachment.  The constant showerer and his cronies were in the minority.  There were only a few of them, but they made a lot of noise and just assumed that all the rest of us who still had trouble getting up the nerve to ask a girl for a date, were wildly jealous.

They were wrong.  We weren't wildly jealous; we were quietly offended.  I know.  I know.  We shouldn't have been quiet about our feelings, but we were just eighteen or so and just assumed that we were fundamentally lacking in social skills.

But you know what.  All my classmates who went on to be lawyers, politicians, and the like, the Tim Harts and Placido Herreras, and Tony Rottinos, were a lot like me.  We didn't prey on girls, even though we might have liked to give predation a try.  We didn't approve the behavior.  And when we got drunk on weekends, we almost always ended up getting sick by ourselves and spending the next day in misery.  We were good kids, but the operative word here is "kids."  I look back on those times and don't really regret any of it.  Well, that's not completely true.  I still wish I had that great Regis sweatshirt that I lost up at tunnel number one.

I don't know what to believe about Kavanaugh.  I tend to believe his accusers simply because they are willing to subject themselves to the recriminations of old Republican males (is there any other kind?).  I do know the kind of atmosphere Kavanaugh lived in when he was an undergraduate.  Temptation and peer pressure coming at him from all sides.  If he withstood all that, if his accusers are not telling the truth, then I can see him being a Supreme even if I don't like his positions on almost everything. On the other hand, if Kavanaugh was anything like the constant shower guy down the hall, the idea of him becoming anything more influential than a homeless person begging for scraps is unacceptable.

Flag Waving

I was on the Color Guard when I was a grade school kid in Estes Park, Colorado.  We had five different teams, one for each day of the week.  When it was my day, I had to wear dark slacks and a white shirt as a sign of respect.  It was okay in the mornings and afternoons before and after school, but wearing the dorky outfit the rest of the day was a constant source of embarrassment.

We Color Guardians had a training session before the school year where we learned to fold an American flag properly.  We were also made to feel terrified at the prospect of letting the flag touch the ground, or not acting promptly enough to bring the flag in out of the rain or snow.  I loved being at one end of the flag, stretching it tight, folding it into that little triangle configuration with the stars on the outside, and tucking it under my arm as I carried it into the main office.

I was also on the Safety Patrol, but standing on the corner with a white shoulder belt on while protecting my classmates from oncoming traffic (there was no oncoming traffic in Estes Park) paled in comparison to handling the flag.

My only regret was that I wasn't allowed to play the anthem on my trombone.  That job was left to Billy Checkas and his silver trumpet.  I will grudgingly admit that Billy, while a complete bust as an altar boy at Our Lady of the Mountains, killed on the trumpet.

Later, in marching band, I got to play the anthem at the beginning of all home football games.  In the pep band, I did the same thing before home basketball games.  Of course, by that time I was a junior and senior in high school and my rendition of the bass trombone part on the anthem was made smoother by the little sips of the vodka I had cleverly poured into my slide oil bottle.  Don't worry, I put the bottle in boiling water first.  The brass section of the pep band always left the games in good spirits, win or lose.

I was a full fledged hippy freak wannabe when I went to college.  There was a flag flying daily over the administration building (The Pink Palace) at Regis.  There were flags hanging on the walls in almost all of the classrooms.  And when civic unrest found its way to our pretty little campus at 50th and Lowell, the flags started finding their way onto clothing.  One guy had a ratty pair of jeans with the flag sewn over his ass.  Others wore flag headbands.  In a rebellious mood, I bought a green tee shirt with a green hued flag emblazoned on my chest.  I wore that shirt the day after the murders at Kent State when I alternated between weeping and shouting with clenched fist.

Later that year I heard the Woodstock recording of Jimi Hendrix' version of "The Star Spangled Banner."  I was thrilled by its irreverance, but more than that, I was inspired by its genius.  I guess my respect for the good old red, white, and blue was all but lost.

To tell you the truth, since my Color Guard days, I have always been skeptical of flag waving patriotism.  For some reason,  I immediately distrust anyone wearing an American flag lapel pin.  I always assume they think putting that little symbol on their lapels excuses all their people hating behavior the rest of the week, their votes against the welfare state, their conspiracy to protect what's theirs, and screw the rest of us.  I know that's an unfair characterization, but that's what I think.

The little lapel pin flag demeans the real flag.  It shrinks what it stands for.  On the other extreme, a giant flag flapping in the wind and rain in front of a mattress store is even more degrading.  It is taking the flag and monetizing it by using it to get around anti-billboard zoning regulations.  Of course, I suppose monetizing the flag is the most American thing of all.  How patriotic.

I have to admit here that I am something of a coward,  I was at the Bronco run Sunday morning hanging out with Bud while Kathie and Janet ran.  When some young lady started singing the anthem, Bud immediately stood, hand on heart.  I stood as well.  It was reflex, but mostly I didn't want to make Bud mad.  At baseball games, I will stand because I don't want to ruin the whole thing. But I always feel like a jerk.  The flag isn't what it once was.

Our flag flies over detention camps where families are systematically ripped apart.  Our flag flies over an Environmental Protection Agency that is systematically removing those protections.  Our flag flaps in the wind on presidential motorcades to tax payer funded campaign events where the President lies with every utterance.  Our flag flies over the killing fields that we call public schools because the elected representatives sitting under that same flag in Congress do nothing but rake in campaign contributions from the NRA, from Winchester, from Smith and Wesson, etc.  Our flag flies over botched wars in all parts of the world.  Our flag flies over the geo-political mess we have left behind in Central America and the Mid-East.

Of course, our flag also makes appearance in less fraught situations.  It flies over school assemblies, games, marching band contests, and the like.  It flies over baseball stadiums, boxing matches, horse races, and yes, football games.  And I see it flying over the Audi dealer across the street from the Y where I work out every morning (most every morning).  

And, once again, when I stand for a flag that does all that, I feel like a coward.