The Sound of Silence

Hearing aids circa 1990

Back in the Jurassic Age, I was a lawyer.  Courtrooms could be cavernous, swallowing up sound, so I plunked down money for state of the art hearing aids.  That meant that they were molded in one piece and fit in the ear.  I could control the volume on the piece and didn’t need a little black box that hung around the neck or fit in a pocket.  I loved them until I realized they magnified all the noises I could already hear and nothing else.  They drove me crazy.  Into a drawer they went and years later, out with the trash.

So 27 years after my first failed experience, I decided to try again.   Although I’ve been hearing impaired since birth (mostly deaf in the right, partially in the left), what remains has been gradually disappearing.   Friends told me that I heard less.  I found myself growing quieter and quieter in noisy social situations.  I’d become so accustomed to the sound of silence that I didn’t realize how bad things were until the audiology test.  To my dismay, the spikes and lines dipped much lower and the good ear had lost a great deal of word comprehension in noisy environments.  Literature lying around warned that increasing deafness carried a higher risk of dementia.  So I bought more state of the art digital hearing aids, fully programmable, and geared to amplifying the sounds I need.  My geeky soul was thrilled.  The audiologist stated he wouldn’t program the devices to full capacity so that the wall of noise wouldn’t knock me over. Instead he would increase the volume over a 45 day trial period which would allow my brain to adjust.  Even so, the variety and loudness of sounds have been startling.    Literally.  I’ve jumped at every odd noise since beginning this post.  Is the strangely loud washing really breaking down?  I have clue.

The new high tech. Starkey Halo 2 hearing aid

Naturally my high tech gear has not come without glitches.  The devices should be programmable with my iPhone allowing me to take calls and listen to music – that is if the damn phone will see them.  One hour with the audiologist and  two and half hours with Apple troubleshooting have yielded no fully functioning hearing aids.  There’s another audiological appointment on Friday. Apple swears they are working on their end, and I’m about to bring Starkey, the manufacturer, into this.  Needless to say, these iPhone friendly devices will be returned if they aren’t iPhone friendly soon.

All of this reminds me of another type of deafness which leaves people isolated in their personal bubble of silence.  Simon and Garfunkel sang about it in Sound of Silence.

Simon & Garfunkel – The Sound Of Silence [HD]

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Interlude XLIX: Another One of Those Shots

Courtesy of that hotel shoot. Please let me know which one so I can give credit.




So I combed through Pinterest of all places looking for photos and found another one from The Infamous Shoot.  It’s another example of what should have been a stunning picture.  Not that it’s bad, but RA appears either too lit up or wears too much make up.  As it stands, this is one of the better photos from that shoot.

Serene Sunday: Hamilton – Acappella Medley

Tony award winning Hamilton is one of my fave musicals I’ve never seen yet.  So I checked on YouTuber Peter Hollens to see if he had taken a shot at it.  Lo and behold, there was the tribute video.   So here is Hollens and company with a medley of hit from Hamilton.


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Hamilton – An Acappella Medley. Nine Months in the making… Join my community! Support my videos on Patreon: Stream or Buy This Anywhere: Watch Evynne’s FULL VERSION of “BURN” – Featuring: Eppic! (CHECK HIM OUT!!!) – Click Here To Subscribe!


Surreal Saturday: Hi Stranger

Today’s entry is the creepiest little life affirming thing I’ve ever seen.

Breathe in.   Breathe out.

Hi Stranger

It’s been a while… omg and there’s merch here: Written, Directed, and Animated by Kirsten Lepore Voice by Garrett Davis Final Sound Mix by David Kamp Thanks to: Dan Kwan Kent Osborne Late Night Work Club

Foolish Friday: The Nose Has It

Courtesy of Microlina


Welcome back class.  One of the downsides of protracted absences is I lose the advantage to stir the pot, as it were.  For instance, take the old news of Richard Armitage’s nose job that sneaked up on us way back in 2013.  At the time, there was heated debate over whether it had actually occurred or that anybody would suggest it had.  Clearly, he had a slight nose bob with the faintest shaving over the bridge bump.  The change is subtle but obvious overall when seen from different angles.  Great job, eh?  I applaud the cosmetic surgeon who showed restraint in altering it from the allegedly “mean” and “sinister” looking (according to RA) to a more classically formed Caucasian nose. 

Personally, I like the result.  RA stated repeatedly that he never

Courtesy of Microlina on Tumblr

liked it but had become resigned to it because his mother discouraged him.  It’s likely he finally did it to satisfy himself and gain access to more roles and advance his career.   I say more power to him.  If it makes him happy, then it’s all good.

Now that three years have passed and the heat has died down, what to you think?  Is he better with the new nose or should he have left it alone?  Is it too pointy and “Disney prince” like?

Comment below.

Recap Thursday: It Happened One Summer

[This was my first The Man story published in August 2012 as a stand alone piece.   I wrote it in one sitting in response to a policing blow-up in the ArmitageWorld blogverse.  Sadly, the policing still goes on today, although in other media. 

The more things change, the more they stay the same.]


In the plate glass window, the man watched the reflection of three girls, young women actually, arguing across the road.  His own image reflected there revealed a fit, bearded, middle-aged man, dressed in black from his sunglasses to his boots, sipping black coffee and munching brioche in front of a Pret A Manger.  From their furtive glances and head tilts, he knew they recognized him.  He really wasn’t into the whole celebrity thing and had half a mind to get up and continue on his way.  But his new PR people had warned he had better get used to it, especially once the film hit the theatres.  So here he sat, watching a curious drama unfolding.

The shortest girl spoke sharply and turned as if to cross the street towards him.  The tall, bossy one shot out a hand to stop her, while the middle looked on helplessly.  Bossy wagged a finger in clear admonishment. The man frowned.  A bit full of herself, wasn’t she?  Bossy appeared to be making points as she ticked off finger after finger. Shorty’s face drooped a bit further with each one.  The man’s brow furrowed as he pondered what the problem could be.  Maybe they didn’t want to intrude on him eating.  He stood, pushing the last bite into his mouth.  Placing a hand casually in his pocket and still sipping the coffee, he turned slightly towards the girls.

Shorty’s head dipped a bit as her shoulders sank in defeat.  The man didn’t like Bossy one bit.  Look over here, Shorty, he thought. He turned fully towards them and smiled in open invitation.  Shorty and Middle noticed and stood, rooted to the spot, while Bossy kept lording it over them. Oh hell.  He had to cross the road and pass them anyway. He would be extra sweet to Shorty just to show Bossy.  Tossing the cup in a bin, he caught the green light and crossed.  He could see Shorty and Middle tracking his every step.   He rehearsed what he might say as he strode closer.  Good morning, ladies? Nice to see the sun today, ladies? What the fuck is going on here, ladies?   But before he could get within hailing distance, Bossy whirled around and spotted him.  The three of them turned and fled into the park entrance. The man stopped at the entrance in disbelief, watching their retreating backs.  They ran away!  He knew he was tall, but he didn’t think he was scary.  He rubbed the back of his neck. Well, there was no telling what went on people’s minds.  He shook his head, chuckled and went on his way.


The man walked in the mist, the collar of his jacket turned up against the unusual summer chill.  He’d been a bit glum since the last project ended.  He knew this was to be expected; he’d been gone a long time, the longest in his career.  The next project did not begin for a few weeks, so he felt caught in a limbo of sorts.  Reasoning that he simply needed to get re-acclimated, he had taken to walking around the city.  He kept his head down and avoided eye contact, hoping nobody would recognize him.  Since his return, practically nobody had, except for those girls near the park, the ones who ran away.  Down Under, nobody knew him, so he blended in easily.  Here, at least one or two fans approached him weekly for an autograph or picture.  But for the past month, nobody at all had come near him, not on the Tube, on the buses, in the parks, or even here, in Leicester Square.  He relished his new-found anonymity; it would disappear soon enough in a few months.  But if he were honest, a tiny, eg0-driven part him worried that he might have been forgotten. He smirked; ah, the insecurity of actors. As if to prove the point, he lifted his head, squared his shoulders and sought to make eye contact as he walked through the square. He’d darkened the hair again and shaved the beard. This should be easy.  He thought he’d caught a few glances, but their gazes slid from his and back to their own worlds.  A tired-looking woman approaching in a sodden-looking Burberry looked his way and did a double take, her eyes widening in recognition. An instant later, he chided himself.  Feel better now?  Remember, *you* started this.  He readied a charming smile.  She stared for a few seconds before suddenly averting her gaze and striding by quickly.

The man stopped in his tracks and glanced over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t simply lost her nerve.  Nope, still walking.  Hearing a gasp, he glanced at two young women standing by a theatre door with bored-looking boy.  They stared and whispered, clearly recognizing him, but none approached.  He took a deep breath and walked on.   He felt glum again.


The man’s head throbbed.  On the agent’s desk in front of him sat a pile of scripts covered in post-it notes.  In his hand, he held a sheaf of paper detailing recommendations in close, cramped writing.  He had asked for the stack to be delivered to his house.  Then he had asked for his fan mail.  That’s when the headache started.  There was no mail.  Well, there were the usual requests from autograph seekers, but no long missives, no gifts, not even complaints – none of the stuff that had kept him connected to his fans for years.  He, the agent and the marketing strategist stared silently at the stylish sweater, mangled in the post, sent for his birthday as the fandom’s communal gift.  They thought his profile might require some upgrading. He was unable to follow the marketing strategist after that.


The man poked at the dry cake with his fork.  He glanced over at his lunch mate, an outgoing, gregarious, affable bloke with a high forehead and a wave of reddish blonde hair.  This guy was a hot property, touted as the Next Big Thing, who was beating him in entertainment polls.  They were eating in the most chic, but not appetizing, restaurant in the city, a place to be seen, according to his strategist.  Their lunch date was discreetly broadcast to arrange a casual meet and greet with photographers and fans. The bloke had already chatted up the staff and half the restaurant, all of whom seemed to adore him.  His date pushed aside his own dessert shrugged and smiled wryly.  Showtime, he sighed.


They rode in silence.  The photo and fan op had occurred without a hitch.  The man felt ridiculous relief as a handful of fans waited for him to approach.  He found himself trying to chat longer, but they seemed content to collect their autographs demurely and pictures and eager to leave quickly.  Meanwhile, the other bloke’s fans swarmed him; everybody chatted and laughed as if it were a small, impromptu party.  The man decided to wait in the car.   It had taken awhile for the thing to be over. The man thanked the bloke for taking him home.  The bloke waved away the thanks, saying any time.  As the man turned towards his house, the bloke rolled down his window.  Hey, I’m really sorry about your fandom, he said.


The man stared at the monitor, willing himself not to move again.  He’d gotten up ten times and gulped two glasses of wine.  His fans had all “defected?”   Well, yes, he had been away, engrossed in that long project he couldn’t talk about, but he’d sent a Christmas message, and a birthday message, and some other message, he was sure.  He jumped up, sloshing the glass of wine.  So those fickle bitches left me?  After all these years?  For the latest, youngest hot totty?  He wallowed in self-pity for a moment before chiding himself.     That’s the ebb and flow of things, fans come and go.  There was bound to be some attrition while I was away.  No matter what the bloke said, he still had people who liked his work.  Resolute, he sat, set the glass down none too gently, tapped at the keyboard.  He would visit his fan sites.  Years ago, he had sworn he wouldn’t, to avoid getting his feelings hurt and being swayed by opinion, but he had to know.  He had to see for himself.

Thirty minutes later, he sat back.  The three main fan sites still existed, all following his career and updating with the latest releases. He checked the membership rolls at the bottom.  Yes, they seemed troublesomely low, but they all didn’t defect, so there, red-haired bloke.  The participants in general forums chatted about his work, interviews and public appearances, all in glowing praise.  They chatted about themselves, a lot about themselves.  There was nothing remotely critical.  It was very pleasant and wonderful and well, uninteresting.  When did that happen?  He gulped more wine.  Clearly these sites would tell him nothing.  Time to google himself.

He typed in his name, leaned forward eagerly and scanned the page.  Blogs!  Yes, he’d heard about blogs and actually read a few theatre ones himself.  The bloggers were an independent, unpredictable lot.  They would tell him what he needed to know.  He eyed the top listed ones; his name appeared in the titles.  With another swallow of wine, he hesitated, then clicked.  404 page not found.  What?  He clicked the next link.  404 page not found.  The blog was gone?  He clicked a different blog link.  404 page not found.  He scrolled through several Google pages, clicking on blogs about him.  404 page not found.  He checked links on blogs not focused on him, but frequently mentioning him.  404 page not found.  He checked tumblr links.  404 page not found.

An hour later, he sat back.  All the blogs and tumblrs concerning him had disappeared.  Sometime over the summer, they had all vanished.  His fan forums were decimated.  What happened?  The only bit of information he found was a farewell post remaining on a defunct tumblr: I will not abide by The Rules. I will create a new account elsewhere.  If you know me, you’ll know where to look.  Rules?  What rules?  His fandom had no set rules. He returned to the main fan sites, searching for rules.  He found something on etiquette, but nothing to cause an exodus.   Finally his eye stopped on a section: members only.  Of course! Rummaging through the desk drawer, he found the secret name and password he had used to join the site years ago.  He’d chickened out and never used it, allowing that his fans should have privacy.  But he would use it now.

Entering the logon, he clicked.   There they were — The Rules — in large bold type.  Due to the defection of old fans and expected influx of new ones, in order to promote proper respect for our actor, a reorganization of this fandom is necessary. Compliance with the following rules is necessary for membership. He groaned as he scanned the lines: 2. Our actor is a busy man.  Approach him only at approved public events designated as publicity for his work. At these events, interact with him briefly, politely and respectfully, and leave as soon as possible.  But what if I have time to stay and chat?  the man thought. Don’t chase them away!  4. Our actor is a shy, private person.  He has stated in interviews that he does not care to give autographs in the street.  So if you see him out and about, leave him strictly alone.  He moaned.  That’s not what I meant!  Now they’re running away from me.   6.  Real Person Fiction in any form or access level is forbidden. Since it involves the person of our actor, character fiction in any form or access level is also forbidden. Such works are potentially distressing to our actor, his family, and friends, and thus disrespectful.  He pistoned back in his chair.  When in the hell did he say this? His eyes fell to the last line: 10. These rules are non-negotiable and will be strictly enforced.  Violators will be brought before a tribunal of their peers for the enforcement of appropriate penalties, up to and including exclusion from the fandom.

His mind reeled, confusion and wine overtaking him.  His head sank slowly to the desk.  What’s happened to my fandom? he thought.


Interlude XLVII: These Eyes

Courtesy of Armitagina








Cold is cycling fast. Feeling in better spirits too. 

My psyche trio and a peeved Patty the Pomeranian are clamoring to make another appearance which demands to be written.  That is coming soon. 

In the meantime, here is another photo for your close consideration. 

What? Is the photo too big?

Review: Beauty and the Beast (2017) SPOILERS

Just because you can remake a movie, doesn’t mean you have to.

Disney takes a second shot at its own 1991 classic animated film by the same name.  It offers what you would expect: big lavish production values, an array of stars, and a sense that this live action version must achieve parity or surpass the first mega-hit.  As I read in another review, Disney seemed to “ask themselves in every scene whether it met the original and the answer was no.” So they added new songs and subplots which served both to lengthen the story and, I suppose, justify the additional material.  Considering that Disney intends to remake its other classics like Little Mermaid in live action films, the stakes are very high. 

Unless you have never been the original, it’s impossible not to make comparisons.  In fact, several scenes are replicated line for line, frame by frame.  But there’s an inherent problem with comparing live actors to their animated counterparts.  Does Emma Watson look like Belle?  (No.)  Can you overlook it? (It depends.)  Is her voice good enough?  (That’s debatable.)  This running dialogue ran through my head all during the movie.  However, some actors rose above the chatter.  Luke Evans as Gaston has a good voice and Josh Gad is a wonderful DeFou. The scenery is beautiful.  The production is spectacular. The movie delivers on the extravaganza.  It even has some magical moments towards the end that pulled me in.

But Emma Thompson singing the title song isn’t Angela Lansbury.  Kevin Kline is miscast as Belle’s father.  Dan Stevens’s Beast needs to learn from Richard Armitage’s Thorin and use his eyes to convey emotion under all that fur.  The added songs and subplot are unnecessary and unmemorable.  The story-line changes in odd ways.  Cogsworth, Lumiere, and Mrs. Potts lose their charming animated expressions of the original.  Even though the big razzle dazzle Big Our Guest seems to strain to be as Over the Top as OTP could ever be, there is something missing.  In sum despite all the lavishness, some essential charm has been lost. 

Audiences have apparently been coming in droves to see why Disney would want to risk remaking its own classic.  Well, it’s for the usual reason: to insure that these old classics continue to make money by retreading them every generation.  That’s not to say that this Beauty and the Beast is a waste of time.  I didn’t leave wanting my money back.  Those who have never seen the original should enjoy it.  It’s just that for old-timers like me, there is a reason why a film becomes a classic after all.

Serene Sunday: Beauty and the Beast

One of my favorite animated films is Disney’s Beauty and the Beast released in 1991.  Twenty-six years later, Disney decided to release a live action version.  Naturally I wonder why they would want to do that when they had already achieved perfection?  Still my curiosity is piqued, so I will go see it.  I’ll tell you what I think.

In the meantime, you can compare the two versions of the title song.  Here is the official 1991 video with Peabo Bryson and Celine Dion.

Celine Dion & Peabo Bryson – Beauty And The Beast (HQ Official Music Video)

Celine Dion & Peabo Bryson’s version of Beauty And The Beast is simply just magical! In honor of the new Beauty and the Beast Diamond Edition Blu-ray and DVD coming out next year, here is a High Quality Version of the Music Video. I edit the Audio to the studio version.

Ariana Grande and John Legend perform the new 2017 release.  It is more lushly produced.  What do you think?

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Stream #BeautyAndTheBeast on Disney+. Disney+ is the only place to stream your favorites from Disney, Pixar, Marvel, Star Wars, National Geographic and more. Access it all at Coming to UK, France, Germany, Spain and Italy March 2020.


Foolish Friday: Moisturize Him!

Courtesy of I have no clue. Let me know.

Well, hello class!  Yes, AGAIN.  I know I’ve been away quite a few times actually but think of it as your teacher taking sabbaticals for her – mental health.  Please know that the blog will transition away from Richard Armitage as soon as I start cranking out original stuff – but not just yet.  There are still issues I need to address about him. Let’s get on with the foolishness, shall we?

I’m as shallow as I’ve always been.  I have the uncanny tendency to pick actors starting in their mid-30’s at the height of their masculine beauty then following them until their 40’s when they reach the cusp of youthfulness.  Then it’s downhill from there and I kick him to the curb.  Well, imagine my wistfulness when I beheld this picture from a last year’s photo shoot after being away for awhile.  (This is not a great one but my source of current photos seems to have tried up.)  At first glance, he’s quite the fit, handsome, dapper man.  But look closer.  Use a magnifying glass.  The lines are more pronounced.  The softness around the eyes is disappearing.  The lips are paler.  The jawline isn’t as firm.   Yes, our Richard is aging

Well, this may not be a shock to you, but it was to me after all this time.  Now this ordinarily would not be a big deal.  I’m sure many men would love looking like this at 45.  But RA is an actor who doesn’t move in ordinary circles.  His vocation idolizes youth and the ability to project youthfulness as long as possible. Here is he is just finally achieving wide success and The Powers That Be ordain that men his age should either move on from lead roles to action parts or secondary characters.  He has reached the time when moisturizer is a given and dermabrasion is recommended.  Dare I mention a facelift on the horizon?  (Personally, male beauty care if fine, but I don’t like facelifts on men. It makes them look too artificial.)

What’s he to do class?



Recap Thursday: On Erotica; or How to Write Porn

[My mind wandered off today so I started sifting through the archives for ideas.  Then it occurred to me that there may be newcomers who might like to read some of the older posts.  Here is one written over FIVE years ago.  How time flies!  Please note that the chat room no longer meets, although you are still free to use it if you like.]


I knew that would get your attention.

For the last few months, the regulars in the ArmitageWorld chat room (it’s the place to be 9PM – 1AM EST) have been asking, “Judi, when are you writing some porn? More porn! More porn!” (they are a classy bunch).  Each time I say I don’t know when I’ll write more *erotica.*   I encourage them to write their own, but they plead ignorance.

Let me start right off by saying I don’t have a clue how to write erotica either.  No, seriously.  Before posting my story over Christmas, it had been a long time since I wrote fiction, and never since writing erotica.  Since my readership is so demanding (I’m looking at you, chat room gals), I knew getting away with an erotica-free Guy story wasn’t going to happen.  No cutaway to exploding fireworks would work for them.  So I researched it.

After quickly realizing Google would take me places I really didn’t want to go, I headed to which turned out to be a vast depository of erotica and how-to books. I spotted one called literally How to Write Erotica and the other, The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing Erotic Romance.  The latter one had me at “Idiot’s Guide.”  I purchased them both and waited.   Since one was an ebook, I didn’t have to wait long.   By page 182 of the 266 page book, I was yawning and still hadn’t gotten to the “good part” – how to write the mechanics of explicit sex- which my readership explicitly requested.  When the other honest-to-goodness-paper book arrived, I noted its thinness and made short work of it.  An hour later, I came to a realization – I’d learned nothing.  So, how do I write good erotica?

Needless to say, this was no help to me at all.   But because I was running against a self-imposed deadline, I simply dove in and started throwing sentences and paragraphs together to see what sounded good.  Then I realized the books were absolutely right in what they had been trying to tell me all along.  They could give pointers, but nobody can really teach how to write erotica.   As one book suggested, you simply have to get over your inhibitions and write it.

Obviously I’m no expert in erotica with only one story under my belt, but this is what I found: what eventually occurs in the story reflects how comfortable you are with the scenes and how far you want to go with them.  If you’ve never read erotica, you need to find some and read lots of it to learn different styles of prose.  Do you want to the sex to be implied or explicit?  Do want a sensuous (of the senses) tone or a more sexual (carnal) vibe or something in between?  What words do you feel comfortable using in describing the human body?  How does the scene work to move the story along?

Basically imagine what you would like to read and write it.  If you like it down and dirty and it fits in with the story line, then that’s the way to go.  If using clinical anatomical words would throw you right out of a scene, then don’t use them.  If more romance with only implied sex is your style, then that is what you should write.  If you’re uncomfortable with an action, then don’t go there because your reader will sense it immediately.

If there is one secret I’ve culled from reading, it’s this – if it doesn’t turn you on, it probably won’t turn on the reader either.


The Non-Joy of Photoshop

Program cover for the upcoming Music Inspires 2017 concert.

Unless you’ve been following me on Facebook, you may not know that I have become Girl Friday for a friend who is a fine arts chairman at posh college preparatory.  I point out the poshness because it’s the only way the school can afford the many concerts and productions it has a year.  Aside from assisting in musical production (such as Phantom of the Opera and Les Miserables), I’ve taken over creating programs for her musical events. 

It’s not just a matter of slapping information on a flyer.   Oh no – you know me.  Each flyer must be a production in itself, a work of art, starting with the cover.  It must have acceptable graphics.  In the past, I was content to surf the internet looking for freebies.  But since the music department has upped the ante with lavish musicals, I realized that I needed to take the covers to the next level.  In other words, create my own graphics like the one in the picture on the left.  Looks pretty simple, right?

Let’s talk about Adobe Photoshop.  I used the program for years to perform simple sharpening, cropping, etc.  Then the program became increasing exorbitant and too rich for my blood.  Now Adobe allows users to pay a monthly subscription for the software that’s always kept updated via uploads.   Okay, I thought.  I can teach myself how to slap some elements together and voila, my vision will be realized.   I downloaded Photoshop CC 2017 and opened it. 

Let me say, right out of the box, the program isn’t the least bit intuitive.  Adobe prides itself on saying there are 10 different ways to do one thing.  I had trouble discovering one.  The software has become so bloated and involved.  The drill down menus have drill down menus.  I had to google how to turn off the splash screen.  The Adobe site had tutorials but not the ones I needed, of course.  So I visited for lessons.  What was I trying to do? The music bar in the picture did not have a transparent background which meant I had to cut it out or mask it.  Masking is an action Photoshop has always done and it even has magic masking that failed to work like magic despite control tweaking.  And – you know me again – I’d picked a graphic that required detailed painstaking masking around the bars, between the lines and notes and flowers.   Then I discovered that only keyboard commands worked some of the actions, so simple clicking would not do.  Fun. Fun. Fun.  By the time I realized properly adding text to the graphic wasn’t really intuitive either, I was ready toss everything out the window (but the desktop is expensive and really heavy).  Eventually I broke down and added the text using Microsoft Publisher.  And that was just over masking. There was still the zillion other things Photoshop could do chirps Adobe.

I may have to bring my visions down a notch.  Sheesh.


I’ve hardly been back any time and already weird searches are hitting my page stats.  Here are some head scratchers:

  • xxxvidoes – 5 visits – I have no idea what this even means.  And no, I have no XXX-rated videos on this blog; maybe a risque story, but nothing XXX-rated.  *Cough.* (Follow the bread crumbs, newcomers.)
  • (not provided) – 63 visits – So informative!  So many visits; I’m dying to know what this possibly could be.
  • klingon – 2 visits –  WTH?  The only time I ever mentioned the word was when…ohhhh…nevermind.

And my all time favorite:

  • how to get more beard – 1 visit – Now here’s a loaded search term if I ever I saw one.  I have some beardy posts during the Hobbit years but certainly nothing about how RA could get MORE.

Now I feel disappointed that some viewers are going away empty handed.  Hmmm.


Deutsche Sprechen

I’m still rusty in the writing department but at least The Man has been rescued from London 2014.  Thanks to Servetus for her expert help.



The Man tried not to fidget in the low-back, short-seated chair.  No, think in German. Chair, sessel.

He’d folded himself as gracefully as possible but still felt all jutting knees and elbows.  His bum had gone numb and an earlier wiggle told him the chair’s fabric was every bit as itchy as he feared.   He longed to jump up and shake his arse.  That might make this interview junket more interesting.   An image of him dancing to Taylor Swift’s Shake It Out sprang to mind.  A smirk tugged at his lips.  Arse.  He knew this one: arsch

His earpiece fell silent.  The interviewer on the small television just out of camera range smiled with an air of expectancy.  The Man blinked.  Oi!  What had the journalist been asking… a synopsis of his new spy series…yes!  Ja!

“The show is about a CIA operative who is sent to the Berlin bureau…”  Yes, he hadn’t missed a beat and he’d been practicing his German to boot.

A few more questions and the face on the screen changed again.  The stage manager cued him again.  He began his spiel again. To promote the series,  his PR people had scheduled twelve interviews back to back in rapid succession.    Which one was this?  He’d lost count.   Hmm, count!  Eins, zwei, drei! 

To be honest,  the press junkets weren’t all that bad.  He’d learned variations of the same answers so that each interview seemed fresh.  He knew what the questions would be; nothing could really surprise him.  It was a small price to pay to stay a successful actor.  He had to promote his work. There was only one downside actually -the boredom. What was German for boredom?   It was hard to not drift off- Wait, what was that?

“…tall for a dwarf role. How tall are you?”

Okay, maybe there was another downside: inane questions about his work.  If he had a pound for every time he’d been asked that he could retire now. 

“I’m six feet three and three-quarter in my stocking feet.”  He smiled.  Last interview he said six feet two and half.  No worries.  Keeping it fresh.

“…trained in a circus.  Is that true?”

The Man sighed.  Clearly this would haunt him the rest of his days.  Couldn’t he just say he slept with the elephants and swept horse shit?  Scheisse.  Yes, he would. 

“Yes, I did it to get my actor’s equity card.”   Nah, he couldn’t do it. 

The interviewers switched again.  Ah, the last one.  Who was this one?  Ah, Gretchen with an accent. Not American.  Definitely European.  Maybe German?  This might be interesting.

“So your career began in a circus?”

Maybe not.   Hmm, speaking of German,  he’d been conjugating verbs on his own all summer.  Recalling them could help with the boredom.  Let’s see… to say is sagen. Ich sage, du sagst, es sagt.  To love: lieben. liebe, liebst, liebt.  To live: wohnen.  Wohne, wohnst wohnt.  To get something: besorgen. besorge, besorgst, besorgt.  Didn’t his colleagues on set teach him some phrases too?   Ich konnte es…. her?…ihm…no, ihr ….not…nicht…besorgen.   I couldn’t get it for her.  His friends had seemed particularly proud of his pronunciation.

“Yes!  Ich konnte es ihr nicht besorgen!”

His earpiece fell silent.  He blinked.   Uh oh, he didn’t just -. 

On the small screen, Gretchen smiled wryly.  Her eyes twinkled.  “I see.” 

He mentally kicked himself and smiled.  “I’m so sorry; my mind wandered.  I’ve been practicing my German.  Getting ready to start filming for the second series.” 

She pursed her lips.  “Love scenes maybe?”

His froze.  Why? What did I just say?”

“What do you think you said?”

He swallowed.  “I couldn’t get it for her.”

She broke into a full grin.  Well, yes. But I was asking you about a girlfriend, maybe?  So it could also mean, “I couldn’t get it up for her.”

Oh shit, I’m going to kill them.   What were his PR people going to say about this, especially after the whole social media/mobile thing?

“But don’t worry.  It made an interesting interview.  Auf Wiedersehen, Mein Liebster.”

The screen went black.

The Man slumped.  Well, they could edit that out later.  At least it wasn’t live.

Was it?


Serene Sunday: For Once in My Life

Got waylaid last week, but thanks to antibiotics I’m back on track. So here I am, awake at 12:48 AM on a Sunday morning waiting for the clocks to change to Daylight Savings Time (I’m pro) and sifting through YouTube for something “serene.”  Then I began reminiscing about my parents’ voluminous record collection and the ones I enjoyed.

For Once in My Life, as a song, isn’t technically in my top 10 list of best songs even though it’s been covered by many artists.  Even when Stevie Wonder popularized it in 1967, I never cared for the upbeat rendition.  Why?  Because Jean DuShon’s version had captivated me first.

According to our pal Wiki, the demo of the song was recorded as a ballad by Barbara McNair but first released by DuShon in 1966.  Then through DuShon lost the right to sing it.

“Jean DuShon was one of the singers who was originally tapped by Ron Miller to demo the song as he was fine-tuning the composition. Miller was impressed by DuShon’s rendition, and her version, produced by Esmond Edwards, was issued as a single on Chess Records’ Cadet label in October 1966. It was chosen “Pick Hit of the Week” by Detroit’s WXYZ radio. Although the record label gave the sole songwriting credit to Murden, Motown CEO Berry Gordy discovered that Miller – who was contracted to Motown – had co-written the song, and reportedly asked Chess not to promote the single.  DuShon dropped “For Once in My Life” from her nightclub act and later said: “It was a very big disappointment in my life. I stopped singing it ‘cause I didn’t have the song. I didn’t have anything. It wasn’t mine anymore.””

DuShon’s version was overshadowed and forgotten which is unfortunate.  It was DuShon’s powerhouse singing and the soaring orchestral arrangement that gave the lyrics the deep soulfulness it required.  Some people may prefer a simpler version but I’m a sucker for power ballads.   As the joke goes, “back in my day, singers could sing, and we liked it.”

By the way, my record was broken during the move.  Thank goodness for YouTube.


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Writing Wall: An Untenable Situation

This is a short story I wrote a few years ago based a friend’s elderly mother.  Enjoy.


It’s not true I hate everything.

Sure, I don’t like this dinner with the overcooked turkey, dry stuffing, and mushy potato salad.  I hate the ugly knit pantsuit picked for me and despise the way Elise styled my hair into a ratty bun.  The pumps pinch my bunions, and I really need to scratch in a delicate place.  I would throw my plate across the room to get the attention of this nattering family if I could raise my bum arm.  Instead, I sit in a wheelchair, scowling into my plate, blinking back tears, and thinking of the last Thanksgiving when I prepared the holiday dinner fit for a queen – or me, at least.

Sigh.  Elise fusses again, hovering around me like a bird around a wilting flower.  She’s my favorite child.  We decided I’d live with her when the time came, but it hasn’t been anything I anticipated; I imagined being independent, living downstairs in the “mother-in-law” apartment, driving to my usual daily walks around the mall, the Wednesday night bridge games, or the occasional night out with the girls.  Instead, I exist in a jerry-rigged bedroom off the kitchen.

Elise’s smothering cheeriness sucks the very breath from me.

I can’t seem to wrap my tongue around words like before, but you’d think I was speaking gibberish the way they repeat outlandish things back to me.  Really, after ninety-two years on this earth, people should know me by now – understand me.  Shouldn’t they?

“Mom, would you like some more green beans?”

Oh, good heavens, no. They taste like Sissy dumped them from a can and cooked them to death to boot. I taught Elise to cook, but obviously she hasn’t passed it down to her daughter.  Surely Elise must remember all the fluffy mashed potatoes, the delectable roasts, and the fresh string beans from our modest garden.  She certainly knew how to cook turkey to perfect, juicy done-ness; Sissy only presented this dry, tasteless excuse for a bird.  And what was with all the mushy food?  Really, I’m not a babbling baby who needs to gum her meals.

“Elaine, did you hear her?  Have some more, you need to eat.”

Yes, I can hear just fine, Stephen.  No, I’m not hungry and don’t need my son-in-law to keep harping on my diet. That’s another thing: the portions are too big.  I eat what I can; the rest they should save.  There’s no reason for me to paw over it so they can throw good food away.  Back when times were hard, we did not waste food like that.

Ah, time for everybody to disperse to different rooms. I see the young ones trooping into the den to play on their video games.  Must be time for Stephen and boys to puff their cigars outside; the smoke isn’t good for me, you know.  Sissy’s cleaning the kitchen.  I’d love to hear the gossip in there but-.

“You look tired, Mom.  Ready for a nap?”

Yes, all that hovering and nattering has tired me out, but I really don’t like being put to bed like some toddler. Well, it’s not so much the naps I hate; it’s the gloom that falls after the door closes. It’s just me, wrapped up in the blankets, the darkness and the quiet, confined to a bed until somebody moves me.  Often I lie awake staring at the walls, the silence so deep that Death could come any second and take me at last. I’ll close my eyes and never wake up; he’ll take my hand and we’ll walk out the front door together.  When I feel ill, I warn Elise I’m waiting to die, but she gives me a vacant look and bustles around as if I hadn’t said a word.  I hate when she does that.

The day nurse doesn’t demand I take naps.  When I’m tired, I can doze off in the comfy winged-back chair with the music of Lawrence Welk on the television. I don’t mind sitting in companionable silence – no nattering, no hovering … just the click of her knitting needles.

Then I can cast my mind back to better days with dear Albert and our times together, to when we first met as children at school, our first date at the local soda shop, our courtship spent jitterbugging the nights away, and the lonely separation during the war.  I think about our modest wedding after the army released him from the hospital.  I relive the births of each of our children, their first hesitant steps, their graduations, their weddings.  I think about life after my Al: the bridge games, the mall walks, and the grandchildren.  I loved those things.

So, it’s not true that I hate everything.


Serene Sunday: Oh Maria

Two of my favorite Whoopi Goldberg comedies are Sister Act and Sister Act 2 made in the early 1990s.  Goldberg plays a lounge singer in 1968 who is placed in protective custody as a convent nun in order to escape a mob boss.  Sister Act was popular, grossing 231 million worldwide.  The soundtrack album debuted at #74 and eventually reached #40 on the Billboard Top 200 Albums Chart where it charted for 54 weeks.  Having attended parochial schools from the 8th grade starting in the early ’70’s (complete with nuns in full habit), this movie struck a chord with me. 

One of the issues facing the Catholic Church today is how to make religion relevant to current times.  In the movie, Whoopi as Delois, demonstrates one way by using music with a modern flair to attract young people to the church.   The resulting choir scene is fun.


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