Today in My Typist Is STILL Too Busy to Blog

Now With Tiny Violins!

Srsly. More than a week of radio silence around here, and my typist still insists she doesn't have time for a proper post. Dammit, Moose, we gotta give 'em something! I don't want to become known as the Grover Norquist of East Blogistan, starving the beast of my vast readership because you're having a hard time keeping up with yourself these days. Fine, Moose grumbled as she struggled to stuff all the balls she'd been juggling into her book bag before heading off to campus. Here, Rox. Throw 'em a bone. Let 'em watch the adorable vid I shot of the Norwood School orchestra earnestly sawing away on "The Star-Spangled Banner" at Sunday's game against Duke. It's cute, even if I didn't get the whole song, very nearly as cute as a damn cat video, and it proves that our national anthem is very nearly as hard to play as it is to sing. Throw in a Whitney Houston tie-in, and we're good to go.

Desperate times, desperate measures, people. Sometimes you go with the post you got, not with the post you want. These kids really are cute, and the Lady Terps snatched victory away from the Blue Devils with brilliant play in the final minute. The hearty "woohoooooo" you hear as the little fiddlers finish off the anthem is of course Moose, beside herself with excitement as tipoff approaches. She was so psyched for the big game that she even indulged in a bit of face-painting -- and learned by halftime that the reason face-painting is for kids and not for grownups is that grownups get stressed out when their team falls behind by 12 points early in the game, rub their faces, and turn a pretty red "M" into a big schmear that starts at the cheek and runs all the way up the forehead. Oops.

In any case, here, for your mid-week pleasure, are the little fiddlers of the Norwood School, forcing us to wonder, yet again, why we have marching bands but not marching orchestras. Don't say we never gave you nothin', people. Peace out.

 

Tuning In/Out (Live!) to Melissa Etheridge

Caption this (kinda blurry) photo, which does indeed show rocker Melissa Etheridge sandwiched between Moose and Goose backstage last night at Baltimore's Pier Six Pavilion:

(Photo Credit: Emily Rodgers, 8/9/11)

What? You're surprised to see a couple of humble English profs consorting with a Grammy Award-winning mega-dyke? On a Tuesday night? You're shocked to see Moose 2.0 in the arms of a woman with a, um, reputation for getting around with the ladies -- while Goose looks on with a smile? You didn't imagine that Moose's new wardrobe included sexy belts and at least one Peter Pan/Robin Hood/Jane of the Jungle-type tank top?

Well then, darlings, it's possible you don't know the wimmin of Roxie's World quite as well as you thought you did, isn't it?

Here's the scoop, you brave and crazy gals and non-gals: The Moms have the good fortune to be represented in the Maryland House of Delegates by the awesome and openly gay Heather Mizeur, who just happens to be good buddies with Etheridge. (Because, yes, all lesbians know all other lesbians and hang out with them on a regular basis. Which is why Moose has spent the better part of thirty years waiting for Jodie Foster to call, dammit!) The meet-and-greet with Etheridge was a fundraiser for Mizeur. The Moms were happy to contribute, because Heather is the real deal, a politician who truly believes in government of, by, and for the people. We see a great future for her and look forward to being seated in the friends' box when Heather is sworn in (by, uh, Chief Justice Elana Kagan) as the first openly lesbian president of the United States of America. Moose is already trying to decide what to wear.

Anyhoo, dolls. You are probably dying to know what they talked about and what morsels of gossip they picked up among the dyke-erati. The Moms impressed Melissa by recalling that they had seen her at the Bayou in Georgetown way back in the day -- 1988, Etheridge was quick to recall, before she had really broken through to popular success. (The Moms credit one of Goose's very first grad students with bringing Etheridge to their attention -- and getting them down to the Bayou that evening.) A totally unexpected bonus was that Etheridge's new partner, Linda Wallem, was also in attendance last night. Wallem is a TV writer and producer who co-created Showtime's spectacular Edie Falco vehicle Nurse Jackie. Moose did not quite get down on her knees to thank Wallem for designing and developing one of the most extraordinary female characters in the history of series television, but she came close. Wallem, we are pleased to report, is a funny, friendly gal. We wish her and Etheridge many years of attracting and captivating one another.

Oh, and the concert? Fabulous, of course. Etheridge, who turned fifty in May and faced breast cancer seven years ago, still rocks her guts out on stage. We think even Comrade PhysioProf, who usually takes strenuous, visceral, Anglo-Saxon exception to our musical taste, would have enjoyed the show, which was loud and tight and kept the audience on its feet all night. It was a sweaty, satisfying evening, which is more than one can say for a lot of Tuesday nights in Baltimore, n'est-ce pas?

Now, aging rockers, about those captions you are going to write: Hop to, will you? You come up with some pithy lines of dialog, and then we will tell you what Moose was actually saying as the world's most famous lesbian rock star wrapped her bare shoulders in a vise-like grip, while her partner of 27 years looked on with delight. Go on. We know you weren't really planning to work this afternoon. Go on and close your eyes, imagine yourself there last night. You know you want to.

Peace out.

Tuning In/Out to Stevie Nicks, In Your Dreams

The long. hot. horrible. summer of 2011 continues, and Roxie's World is working hard to ignore it. Why? Because we don't have any economists or climate scientists on staff, and political prognostication is really just kind of a hobby for us. Besides, we figure our legions of smarty-pants loyal fans know where to go to get their fill of bummer-inducing news and analysis and come here to get little dribs and drabs of health and happiness to try to keep their glasses close to half full while they wait patiently for the handbasket to come whisk them away to Hell. Which should happen, like, any minute now, don't you think?

We'll return to more serious programming over the next few weeks as the Moms shift into Back-to-School mode. (Srsly, kids, I swear: Moose is not going to turn this into a health, food, and fitness blog, recent appearances notwithstanding.) Meantime, let's indulge in a little musical interlude to wile away a cloudy summer evening.

Stevie Nicks released her first solo album in ten years a few months ago. It's called In Your Dreams, and it's been in extremely heavy rotation in Roxie's World ever since it arrived. It's a smooth, tight record, as dreamy as its title would lead you to expect, with 13 songs written by Nicks and, mostly, producer Dave Stewart. Nicks' voice is in fine form. The singer is 62, and you can hear the marks of time and experience on a voice one reviewer described as having "steely sides, but its center is worn and approachable, like suède." Perfect.

In Your Dreams doesn't break new ground, lyrically or musically, but it comfortably mines the emotional, intuitive terrain Nicks knows so well. Moose has a soft spot for "Cheaper Than Free," a sweet celebration of love in which Nicks' and Stewart's middle-aged voices blend to give rich texture to the admittedly sappy words -- but, hey, high passion is demonstrably better than high fashion. Both moms are keen on "Wide Sargasso Sea," a hard-rocking synopsis of Jean Rhys' novel, and "Annabel Lee," a lush adaptation of one of Poe's creepy/beautiful poems on the allure of a dead woman. These two exercises in feminist criticism induced Moose to describe In Your Dreams as the album you always wished Gilbert and Gubar had made.

And you did always wish that, didn't you? Isn't that how everybody got through the 80s? In any case, treat yourself to In Your Dreams. It will mix well with all those other albums by husky-voiced wise women that are rattling around in your record machine. We'll play you off with "Annabel Lee," because that's the cut Goose has been passing along to all the 19th-century poetry geeks in her acquaintance. Take it away, Stevie.

Smoothie/Ruby Tuesday

(Photo Credit: Moose, 7/19/11)

Moose couldn't take it anymore. Over the past couple of weeks, she's been subjected to a barrage of ads for McDonald's new mango-pineapple Real Fruit Smoothie. The commercials are peppy and fun and summery, and the fruit is so luscious and juicy-looking that Moose's mouth would water every time she saw the ad. Damn, she'd think to herself, I want me a mango-pineapple smoothie! Finally, instead of driving to McDonald's, which she has not done in several decades, she ordered Goose to pick up a mango or two on a recent trip to the grocery store. This morning, she decided today would be the day she made her very first smoothie.

Yep, kids, this is what passes for culinary adventure as the household moves forward on the effort to maintain Moose 2.0: A Considerably Less Broad Broad Than She Used to Be. You want high-fat food porn? Photos of risotto swimming tantalizingly in a sea of butter and white wine? Recipes that call for half a pound of ricotta without offering the nutri-Nazi qualifier part-skim? Then head on over to our pal Comrade PhysioProf, whose latest nom de plume is the apt Comradde RisottoProffe. He'll keep you fat and happy or permit you to indulge in some safe full-fat voyeurism if that is what floats your boat.

Here in Roxie's World, however, the name of the game is keeping the points low and the satisfaction high, which means, ladies and non-ladies, that it's time to start your blenders!

Moose did some surfing around the intertoobz looking for a smoothie recipe, just enough to realize that you don't really need a recipe. Here's what she ended up doing, and the results were deelish:

Moose's Mango-Pineapple Smoothie:

1. Peel and chop a mango. Toss into blender.
2. Chop a nice thick slice of pineapple. Toss into blender.
3. Slice a banana. Toss into blender.
4. Dump 3/4 cup of non-fat vanilla yogurt into blender. (We've been enjoying Brown Cow yogurt lately. Just sayin'.)
5. Dump about a cup of ice into blender.
6. Put lid on blender, press "smoothie" button, and pulverize the heck out of that healthy $hit.
7. Pour into a clear glass, photograph for posterity, and present to skeptical partner, who, a few minutes later, will squeal happily, "I feel like Popeye eating his spinach!"

So, what's (not) cooking in your blenders, nutri-Nerds? Moose brought some of the season's first peaches home from the market on Sunday, so we're betting tomorrow's frothy mix will include a fuzzy orb or two. What do you do to sex up your smoothies? Are there any fans of flaxseed out there? Debauchees of dates? We're new to this liquid breakfast business, so we are eager to hear your thoughts.

Meantime, since it's Tuesday, here's a little glimpse of Ruby, whose been spending quite a bit of time curled up with a new toy the Shy One brought for her the other evening. It's a pheasant, and Ms. Ruby has been obsessive in her devotion, spending long hours in her crate and refusing to let anyone else get near the adored stuffed critter. She loves it so much she hasn't even disemboweled it to get at its squeaker yet:

(Photo Credit: Moose, 7/19/11)

Ruby Tuesdays are about songs, so here's one from Lucinda Williams, who the Moms will be seeing tonight at Wolf Trap. Technically, it's not a Ruby song, since that name is never uttered, but it's a beautiful song about how all dog's children are born to be loved, which means it has a special resonance for a girl rescued from the cold cruelness of a puppy-mill and transported to the paradise of Roxie's world. Sing it, Lucinda, and remember, darlings: You weren't born for nothing either. Peace out.

RIP Clarence Clemons

(Photo Credit: Scott Audette, Reuters [via])

Clarence Clemons, aka "the Big Man," incomparable saxophonist in Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band, has died from complications of a stroke he suffered last weekend. Here's how the news was announced in Jersey. And New York. And here's a statement Springsteen put up on his website:

Clarence lived a wonderful life. He carried within him a love of people that made them love him. He created a wondrous and extended family. He loved the saxophone, loved our fans and gave everything he had every night he stepped on stage. His loss is immeasurable and we are honored and thankful to have known him and had the opportunity to stand beside him for nearly forty years. He was my great friend, my partner, and with Clarence at my side, my band and I were able to tell a story far deeper than those simply contained in our music. His life, his memory, and his love will live on in that story and in our band.

The E Street Band was, is, and ever shall be the official house band of Roxie's World. We are devastated. That is all. Except, of course, for this (a sublime Clemons sax solo starts at 4:20):



Peace out, darlings. And play on.

Ruby Tuesday

Or, Songs in the Key of Ruby, Part Deux: Dream on Me Edition

Last week, we launched a series of posts aimed at "exploring the colorful cultural heritage of the new dog in Roxie's World, the adorable Ms. Ruby, whose name, with its sassy, slutty connotations, has figured into many a crooner's tune. Really -- Lots of them!"

Today, we offer the second installment in the series with a smackdown between the glorious Ray Charles and the (to us) obscure Uncle Walt's Band on the mellifluous "Ruby," the theme from a 1952 film, Ruby Gentry, starring Charlton Heston and Jennifer Jones. The song was composed by Heinz Roemheld, with lyrics by Mitchell Parish. It's a dreamy, haunting sort of song that makes you want to take a pretty woman by the hand and lead her out onto the dance floor for some suave cheek-to-cheek action while a tuxedo-clad waiter brings a couple of fresh dry martinis to your little round table. That is definitely the vibe conjured by Charles' smooth-as-silk version:



Uncle Walt's Band plays it a little more down-homey, but their take on the song is also easy on the ears. It'll make you want to take a pretty woman by the hand and lead her out onto the dance floor while some dude in a tee-shirt brings a couple of longnecks and some fresh peanuts to your table:



Which do you prefer, music lovers? And what are your all-time favorite songs or other pop-cultural tributes to critters named Ruby? It's the first day of summer school, and the new kid in Roxie's World has a lot to learn. Help us teach the young dog some new tricks about herself!

(Many thanks to the devoted but previously unknown reader who de-lurked to send us the Uncle Walt's Band version of "Ruby." We appreciate your dedication and your musical taste. And the Texans among us are delighted to discover a hippy band that recorded a live album at Austin's fabulous Waterloo Ice House. Thanks for reading -- and writing!)

Songs in the Key of Ruby

Grades are in. Let's dance!

To honor the official conclusion of the Semester That Would Not Die (and Is, In Some Tedious Yet Important Respects, Still. Not. Over), we do hereby inaugurate a new series dedicated to exploring the colorful cultural heritage of the new dog in Roxie's World, the adorable Ms. Ruby, whose name, with its sassy, slutty connotations, has figured into many a crooner's tune. Really -- Lots of them! We'll make our way through as many as we can before, you know, we forget we launched the project and turn to our usual summer subjects of food, movies, and travel.

"Rock 'n Roll Ruby" is a little ditty written by Mr. Johnny Cash in 1955 and recorded by Warren Smith in 1956. (Read the story about Cash handing the song off to Smith and the band, The Snearly Ranch Boys, at the Cotton Club in West Memphis, AR, here.) We especially like this song because in this instance Ruby is not a slut or a siren but the source of a prodigious energy that captivates the crowd in the juke joint and "satisfies [the] soul" of her male companion. She can't not dance, and once she starts her joyous rockin', we scream for more as a way of tapping into those vital energies in our own uptight selves. Ah, sweet Ruby, how my soul needs what you reach in me!

We'll pause here for 2:54 to give you a chance to brighten up your Tuesday morning with some toe-tapping rockabilly fun. Ready? Set? Click!



Groovy, yes? For purposes of comparison, take a listen to Cash's stripped down, country version, which we also quite like:



Rock out, little darlings, and, whatever you've got to do today, here's hoping it satisfies your soul.

Magic in the Making

Moose and her crew are puttin' on their annual big show tomorrow at QTU. It's totes free and open to the public. Y'all should hop in your personal flying machines and get here for the fun! There'll be world-premier scholarly work from award-winning queer historian Regina Kunzel and QTU Victorianist Jason Rudy. There'll be poetry by Julie R. Enszer and Jason Schneiderman. And whole lots more.

Time for someone to go get her beauty sleep. The Gleeks among you do not need to ask what song Moose will be using to pump herself up for this year's shindig. Kurt sang it in Tuesday night's ep as he (finally! mercifully!) made his way back to McKinley High and was happily reunited with his pals (and his glorious solos) in New Directions.

We'll have early morning madness / We'll have magic in the making -- Sounds about right, don't you think? Sing it, Kurt. Sing it out for smart, elegant, hard-working, high-kicking queers everywhere. Everything's as if we never said goodbye. Amen to that!

Gay Action Figures of the Week

• Pretty Boys Division: Glee's Chris Colfer
• Tall Girls With Short Hair Who Vaguely Resemble Moose Division: Glee's Jane Lynch

Why? Because, dahlings, the moms have gone Hollywood (read all the way to the end of that link or you won't get the cryptic allusion), and so we care deeply about profoundly superficial things like the Golden Globe Awards and the silly, sardonic, or sentimental speeches actors make when they win them. And because Glee is the queerest thing on TV ever, the best excuse we've found yet -- and, trust me, we are always looking -- for spending Tuesday nights on the couch belting out big songs.

At the Globes this past Sunday evening, Colfer and Lynch ran the table in the Best Supporting category for their performances on the show as, respectively, Kurt Hummel, the brave, tender faggot with the gorgeous counter-tenor voice, and Sue Sylvester, the ambiguously gay cheerleading coach whose diabolical machinations are often as close as the show gets to having a plot.

Lynch, shown at left (via) at the awards show with the woman she wed last summer, Dr. Lara Embry, picks up a bonus Gay Action Figure of the Week for her acceptance speech, which was a funny send-up of the winner's obligatory performance of false modesty that ended with an utterly unselfconscious shout-out to "my wife Lara" and their two children. Oh, Jane, you are so suave, so splendid, so deft with the deadpan line and look. You make tall girls everywhere want to square their shoulders and stride gleefully across the stages of their lives. We would dream of gay-marrying you if you -- and, oh yeah, we -- weren't already taken.

Meanwhile, the luminous Colfer, at left (via), whose character's torment at the hands of a homophobic/gay-panicked bully has sparked tears and motherly/teacherly fantasies of rescue over the course of this season, was poised, eloquent, and fierce in accepting his award. He opened with a quip about having dropped his heart "somewhere between Natalie Portman and Julianne Moore" and ended with his own very special shout-out:

Most importantly, to all the amazing kids that watch our show and the kids that our show celebrates who are constantly told no by the people in their environments, by bullies at school that they can’t be who they are or have what they want because of who they are. Well [pause, wave trophy in air], screw that, kids! Thank you [exit smiling].

Yes, my pretties, we understand that visibility in pop culture is fairly low on the totem pole of queer political aspirations (or maybe it isn't -- guess that depends on the queer, doesn't it?). Still, we feel moved to celebrate these proud, public actions by Lynch and Colfer as modest yet significant contributions to the cause. There are still stunningly few openly gay actors in Hollywood, so Colfer in particular, at the ripe old age of 20, is to be commended for beginning his career by being unabashedly out and vocal on issues of importance to the community.

And Glee, for all its flaws (and we admit there are some), deserves its own bit of commendation for its commitment to queer plots and characters and for the extraordinarily good timing of its attention to bullying. (Oh, and that EW there on the left, with Colfer and the adorable Darren Chriss on the cover, should be on newsstands now.) We may be biased, but we think the show is at its best when it focuses on Kurt's proud yet uncertain efforts to grow up gay and strong. We are genuinely conflicted about who sings the best (Kurt? Rachel? Rachel? Kurt? Mercedes? Rachel?), but Kurt's stories win hands down for their emotional texture and their potent political force. Colfer's pitch-perfect performance makes the character's dignity and vulnerability so clear that the audience can't not root for him. We want a world in which Kurt can thrive. We want to hold his hand and try, together, to bring that world into being. Don't we? Yes, Kurt, we do. We want to hold your hand, too. Peace out.

And So This Is Christmas . . .

. . . in our neck of the woods. What does it look like in yours?

(Photo Credits: Moose, in the Land of the Moosians, 12/24/10)

Peace out, my pretties. May all your Christmas dreams come true. Here is your musical thought for the day:

Winter Solstice, Lunar Eclipse

Tonight (by which we mean after midnight, or Tuesday the 21st) is the longest night of the year, darlings -- the winter solstice. And tonight, in case you haven't heard, the moon will go into full eclipse, starting at 2:41 AM Eastern. When was the last time a total lunar eclipse occurred on the winter solstice? Oh, not long ago, as the universe reckons such things -- December 21, 1638, according to NASA by way of WaPo, which is where we picked up that pretty pic of a 2001 eclipse by AP photographer Heribert Proepper. We'll take NASA's word for it -- There were no photos in 1638 and no Intertoobs for speedily transmitting them upon. 1638: The Thirty Years' War ended in March of that year, and Anne Hutchison was banished from the Massachusetts Bay Colony for heresy, also in March. We learned that on the Intertoobs, with a little help from our faithful research assistant, Wick E. Pedia.  Oh, and King Louis XIV of France was born, on September 5.

What does it mean, this remarkable convergence of astronomical shenanigans? Two things at least, my pretties: 1. As of tomorrow, the days start getting longer, which dramatically increases the possibility that life will start sucking less. 2. My typist has a certain cheesy song from 1983 stuck in her head, and the only way to get it out is to pass it along to you. I am so very sorry for subjecting you to it, but it's a bitterly cold night and her grades aren't finished yet. We simply must get the cheesy song out of her head.

Peace out, darlings. Snuggle up to something, for dog's sake, lest you freeze to death -- or fall apart.

Glee Minus 8 Days and Counting . . .

. . . Until we find out which of these splendid outfits Sue Sylvester will sport in the Season Two premiere of G-L-E-E-E-E-E:

(Photo Credit: Todd Heisler, New York Times, 9/12/10)

Can you stand it, darlings? Are you nervous about how the show will hold up under the pressure of sophomore year, a pressure intensified by two Emmy awards (yay, Jane!), that killer Springsteen sendup that opened the Emmy show, and a New York Times mag story declaring it a "bona fide phenomenon?" (Click on that Times link to see the whole glorious gallery of Todd Heisler photos from the set of Glee. You'll be glad you did.) The Times credits the show with "inspiring a resurgent interest in musical theater among young people," which we're pretty sure means it is making kids gay, something we think all the best shows do. (You know, like this one.)

Our pal Jill Dolan over at The Feminist Spectator did a nice piece on Glee early last season that did a great job of capturing the show's "incipient queerness" and its gently satirical take on adolescence and the pop-cultural faith in big dreams and bigger song-and-dance numbers. We think Jill's right, though we have to confess we turn off our irony meters every time Lea Michele, who plays Rachel, opens her mouth. Her sublime duet with Chris Colfer (Kurt) on "Defying Gravity?" Her audacious take on a song we thought no one on earth but Barbra Streisand should be allowed to perform? We think the show is seriously invested in the potent combination of discipline, desire, and jaw-dropping talent that fuels Rachel, or maybe that's just us, or, more precisely, the one of us who felt like a nerdy outsider in high school, except, of course, for those moments on stage, when the lights go down and the music begins and everything is . . . possible.

I gotta fly once, I gotta try once,
Only can die once, right, sir?
Ooh, life is juicy, juicy and you see,
I gotta have my bite, sir.

We digress, darlings, as we are wont to do when reminded of old dreams and the different forms they assume over the course of a life. Suffice it to say we are looking forward to S2 of Glee, which we hope will do a better job of negotiating the politics of race and disability than it did in its freshman season. Much as we adore Rachel, we hope to see and hear more of Mercedes this year, and we pray every night before our shrine to Judy Garland that the show's writers will realize that disabled characters can bring more to a plot than opportunities for able-bodied characters to be inspired, ennobled, or "helpful." Please, folks, this year could we let the deaf kids perform a song all by themselves? I mean, srsly, imagine that!

Have a Gleeful week, my pretties, and remember that in our book every single one of you is the rose of sheer perfection. March your band out. Beat your drum. And when it's your turn at bat, slam the little sucker right out of the park. Because you can.

(H/T to a Queerly Optimistic friend for knowing we would want to peek inside Sue Sylvester's closet.)

Come Back to the Mat Ag'in, Moose Honey

The academic blogosphere and press is exploding with back-to-school posts. We used to sharpen pencils and polish shoes to get ready for the start of a new school year. Now we sit down and bang out lengthy essays full of advice, resolutions, political prognostication, and attacks on or defenses of PowerPoint (or other presentation software) in the classroom. Augmented by hilarious yet inspirational music videos. Here’s our contribution to the genre for this year. We approach the topic indirectly, as is our habit, but hang in there with us, kids. We’ve got a killer vid in the end, I promise.

Once upon a time a few years back, Moose was driving through our neighborhood and rolled unthinkingly through a 4-way stop sign that had recently been installed. A police officer pulled her over and pointed out what she had done. A sheepish Moose said, “I’m so sorry, officer. I drive this road all the time and just didn’t notice the new sign.” He let her off without a ticket but offered a word of wisdom that has stuck with her ever since. “Ma’am,” he said, “just because the road is familiar doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay attention.”

Moose loves this story, because the officer's gentle reprimand has always struck her as a reminder of the importance of cultivating what Buddhists call "beginner's mind." No matter how familiar the road, the task, or the activity may be, you need to pay attention to where you are going and what you are doing. Also, though, and this is the hard part, you need to approach the journey or the task without preconception, expectation, or judgment. Even if you've been doing it for years, approach it as if it were brand new. See it with fresh eyes, open to delight and new insight. See it as a child would see it, not as a world-weary, grouchy adult. See it as you are now, not as you were five months or even five minutes ago. (Those last two points are not as contradictory as they might sound. We're kinda in the realm of paradox here.)

(Image Credit:  Picked up here.)

Beginner's mind was on Moose's mind yesterday as she found herself in a yoga studio for the first time since April's unfortunate wrist incident. Moose is a tall, wide-hipped, middle-aged woman, not one of those petite Elastigirls with biceps of steel who gaze serenely out at you from the cover of Yoga Journal. Still, she has come to love yoga in the past couple of years and was terribly disappointed that the wrist injury put her mostly out of commission yoga-wise for awhile. (She actually went to one class in her splint but felt so frustrated by what she was able to do that she decided to take the summer off to heal completely.) Yesterday's class was a good way to return to the mat, because it was a workshop on -- what a coinkidink! -- how to take care of your wrists. To add to the appeal, it was taught by Moose's teacher for the past two years, Joe.

Moose is inordinately fond of Joe. She teases him that she doesn't do yoga; she does Joga. Aside from his physical skill and his patience as a teacher, what Moose loves about Joe's classes is his insistent playfulness. Joe encourages beginner's mind in his students by refusing to take any of this yoga stuff too seriously. When the class is working on something especially challenging, he'll break the tension by quipping, "And you thought yoga was going to be all about candles and incense, didn't you?" He teaches timing by telling students to hold a pose until "you start having violent thoughts about me." He'll often end classes with a smile and a friendly, "Thanks for playing today."

Joe is obviously quite serious about this yoga stuff. He has been studying anatomy and the philosophy behind the ancient discipline he teaches for more than twenty years. His irreverence in the classroom is an effective tool for demystifying the discipline and for helping students to enter into it in their own way and at their own level. It's a technique that helps the high-achieving Washington types who flock to yoga classes around here to relax and worry less than they are inclined to do about "getting it right." The important thing is to keep playing. The body you have right now is just fine. The pose you can do right now is perfect. Keep playing. Keep learning. Keep beginning. Again. And again. And again.

The World Is Just an Extension of the Yoga Mat

Moose actually said those words once to a friend and fellow yogi. They sound pretty cheesy and obnoxious, and yet they may help to make a point. Moose does not have the nerve of Natalie Houston, who has adopted techniques she learned in yoga to the undergraduate English classroom by having students do a minute of conscious breathing together at the start of each class meeting. (Go read that post. It's fascinating. Could you imagine doing anything similar in your own classes?) Nonetheless, Joe's emphasis on play as a pedagogical strategy is similar to Moose's own approach as a teacher, which is to keep things light in the hope that students will learn more by worrying less and not noticing how hard they are working. We mention that here not to tout her skill as a teacher, but to remind her, as she prepares to return to the classroom after a year away, that teaching is fun. Srsly.

More than many other professional worlds, academia encourages and rewards the cultivation of a beginner's mind. We have to keep learning throughout our careers in order to be able to do our jobs. If we are fortunate enough to have job security and our institutions haven't eliminated sabbaticals and leaves, we have opportunities to take time off for concentrated study, research, and writing. We can change fields, develop new areas of expertise, design courses that take us into new intellectual terrain. Further, that back-to-school buzz we get every year as we meet new classes and new students reminds us that in this business we are -- always, literally -- beginning again. And yet: it can be difficult to sustain that beginner's mind, especially these days, when so much creativity on campus has been hacked to bits by the budget ax or choked to death by bureaucratic make-work schemes. (Yep, LOA, we're talkin' 'bout you again. Still hate you. Mean it!) It's easy to get discouraged and to fall into communal habits of bitching or complaint. (See, for example, that previous parenthetical remark.) Yes, there is plenty to bitch about, on campus and off, but merely bitching never changed or fixed anything. As a tee-shirt Moose still has in a drawer somewhere suggests, "Stop Bitching -- Start a Revolution."

While we are waiting on -- or working toward -- the revolution, however, all of us in Roxie's World want to help Moose maintain her beginner's mind as she returns to yoga and the classroom in the next little while. To do that, we're going to play her off with a favorite song from her show queen's childhood, presented in a wild and wonderful 21st-century way that makes it entirely new. Click on the vid, darlings, and as a new school year unfolds, keep the wisdom of the great Zen master Fräulein Maria close to your own ever-young heart: "Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start."

Namaste, my pretties, and thanks for playing today.

(Not) So Far Away

Or, Just Another Wednesday Night with James and Carole -- and Nancy and Hillary

(Photo Credit: Moose, on her iPhone, Verizon Center, Washington, DC, 6/23/10)

Oh, we could pretend that strange silhouette effect was exactly what Moose was going for when she snapped the above photo of James Taylor and Carole King on stage at the Verizon Center the other night. We could wax all poetic and philosophical about how the whiteness at the center of the frame underscores the powerful sense of identification the aging hippie audience clearly felt with the aging hippie yet still going strong singer-songwriters who cruised impressively through a two-and-a-half hour show. We project ourselves into that space, just as, over the course of decades, we have projected ourselves into spare and simple lyrics that seemed to be telling the stories of our lives.

It would be so fine to see your face at my door . . . .

I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end . . . .

Close your eyes and think of me
And soon I will be there
To brighten up even your darkest night . . . .

Can I believe the magic of your sighs
Will you still love me tomorrow . . . .

That's all true, more or less, but the truth about the photo is that it was the least crappy shot Moose was able to get on her (flashless, zoomless) iPhone non-4G. At least you can see what awesome seats she and Goose somehow managed to snag at the last minute. They were in the fourth row, directly opposite Hillary Clinton and Nancy Pelosi, who seem to be dating and ruling the world. Pelosi's smiling face was shown on the Jumbotron during the encore, but Hill had already left the building, no doubt to go back to spanking generals in the Sit Room. (Well, somebody should be spanking them, don't you think?)

Anyway, the show was great. Catch it if you can, sometime between now and its conclusion in Anaheim on July 20. (Ooh, Tanglewood on the 4th of July! Wouldn't that be nice? "I Feel the Earth Move," under the stars! with Roman candles!) The music has held up remarkably well, and so have Taylor and King, who manage to make an arena show feel as intimate as an impromptu singalong in somebody's living room. The intimacy is created in part by Taylor and King's obvious warmth and ease with one another, but it's enhanced by a round stage that slowly revolves to bring the performers closer to more members of the audience and by the old photos of both singers that are flashed on screens above the stage throughout the show. Cheesy? Perhaps. Guaranteed to crank up the waterworks in the overwhelmingly white, female, middle-aged audience? D'oh!

Well, so what? King is 68 and seems to be having the time of her life, boogieing around the stage on stiletto heels and braving the high notes, despite a bit of weakness in her upper range. Taylor is 62 and is genial, serene, as honey-voiced as ever. The show may traffic in nostalgia, but the bittersweet poetry of their lyrics reminds us over and over again that the good old days were full of pain, loss, and struggle. Moose was 12 years old when Tapestry came out in 1971, yet she totally resonated to the sense of romantic exhaustion animating "It's Too Late": "Something inside has died/And I can't hide and I just can't fake it." Who knows what youthful hurt felt expressed for her in those lines? Nearly 40 years later, the resonances are all different and the wisdom feels more hard-won. Because it hurts like hell when you wake up every morning and realize you truly won't get to see someone you always thought you'd see again. And yet, it also matters that 40 years later you know the answer to the all-important question, Ain't it good to know that you've got a friend? Oh, yes, it is, my darlings, oh, yes, it is. Call out my name, and I'll be there, wherever there may be. Cross my heart.

Now, go read this nice profile Anthony DeCurtis did on Taylor and King in the Times a few weeks back. Then close the door, get out your hankie, and click on this vid of a lovely 1971 performance of "You've Got a Friend." JT does the vocal, Carole is on piano, and Leland Sklar, who, along with his amazing beard, is part of the band currently touring with Taylor and King, is on bass. Peace out, aging children, and happy Friday.

Express Yourself

Big doings over at QTU today, so let's put up a song to get Mama and her hard-working kids going this morning. Don't go for second best, kids -- If you're gonna do it, do it right!



Have a great day, darlings, and if you are anywhere in the neighborhood of College Park, stop by and see what's happening in that spiffy building the English department finally got moved into. Peace out, and rest assured that somewhere in the English countryside, in a stately manor home, Madonna is smiling today.

Sue Says, "Vogue"

And in Roxie's World, what Sue says goes.



That is all. You may go to bed now. Sweet dreams, my little Cheerios.

Mental Cases

As in . . . .

1. State of Nebraska is just a governor's signature away from requiring that women seeking abortions be screened for "mental and physical problems that might result from an abortion." Nice. Meteor Blades over at Daily Kos has a helpful chart doctors might want to use to help them decide whether the brainless unstable ninnies who come to them for help in exercising their constitutionally protected right to reproductive freedom are mentally tough enough to live with the alleged, possible emotional consequences of the procedure. Outlook? We'd say for straight sexually active women in Nebraska it's cloudy with a chance of baby. Here's the handy chart (picked up via Nan Hunter):

2. Glee returns with fresh episodes tonight, and we're a little mental about it here in Roxie's World, because, you know, our heads are aching from trying to keep up with the late-season twists and turns on Damages. (OMG, there's that red car! She totally bought that red car we've been seeing all season!) We need us some singing and dancing and we need it now! Advanced word on the 9 new eps is good. We will put up with having to watch a budding romance between Will and Emma and ongoing drama between Rachel and Finn for the thrill of seeing Kurt join the Cheerios (what? no same-sex love interest for the finest interpreter of Beyoncé the world has ever known?) and, of course, the endless delight of seeing what deliciously diabolical Sue Sylvester will do. Mark your calendars now, Gleeks, for the all-Madonna episode on April 20. We don't know what Sue will do that night, but here's a peek at what she will wear to inspire the Cheerios to scale the heights of Material Girlishness:


You heard it here first, darlings. Don't say a word for the rest of the day, 'k? You'll want to save your voice for the power ballads, won't you? Come back here when it's over and tell us what you thought. We'll be here, honor bright. Sing your little hearts out. It's good for your mental health.

Love, Ice Dams, "Hallelujah"

(Image Credit: Our sweet, secret Valentines over at MLA2010.)

This isn't really a Valentine post. The moms aren't so into the Valentine thing, being congenitally opposed to all commercially manufactured public displays of emotion. Well, maybe not all of them. As you know, they would occasionally dress me up in wizard costumes and reindeer ears to honor certain other holidays that have been turned into orgies of commercial excess, but that was always about cuteness and irony, not the rank sentimentality of Valentine's Day.

Wow, this post is running off the rails as fast a Metro train on a chilly afternoon, isn't it? Yes, yes, my pretties, love conquers all and the moms are happy to raise a glass to love in all its shapes and sizes. They ventured out yesterday to see Jean-Marc Valée's The Young Victoria, which turned out to be a very Valentiny thing to do, given the film's emphasis on the I'll-take-a-bullet-for-you kind of love between Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. (That whole bullet thing? Not true, as it happens, but, hey, we cannot let historical accuracy stand in the way of a good story, can we?) And this afternoon, they'll head over to the Comcastle to watch the Terratots take on Clemson, which is also all about the deep, abiding love of sports fandom -- as well as, yes, the thrill of seeing strong, sweaty women in, um, action. Before the game, though, Moose has some ice dam work to do, which is why she can't linger in the red chair trying to explain the mysteries of love to you. She is going to suit up and go outside to investigate the source of a new leak in the casement windows in the dining room. Moose loves those windows, deep and white, and is offended by the idea of their being ruined by water. She is even threatening to ignore all the advice about not going out onto the roof to try to remove snow, because she is so determined to protect this house. It may not be I'll-take-a-bullet-for-you, but if you knew anything about Moose's sense of balance you would realize it was a significant death-defying kind of risk. In Roxie's World this morning, we do sincerely hope that love conquers all -- or that it is at least clever enough to find a way to conquer ice dams.

In the meantime, we offer you this little Valentine, by way of the Reclusive Leftist -- the vid of k.d. lang's performance of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" at the opening ceremonies of the Olympics Friday night. There are many reasons to heart Canada, of course, but surely one of the best is that our neighbors to the north would decide to kick off the Winter Games by having a beautiful barefooted middle-aged butch belt out a breathtaking song that has not the slightest, even remotest, connection to sport, athleticism, internationalism, victory, or defeat. Yeah, we heart Canada, and we heart k.d. lang. And as always, darlings, we heart you. Hallelujah.

Long Overdue Postmortem on the 00s

A Highly Unsystematic Look Back at the Decade Lately Concluded

Postmortem -- Get it, kids? I promised you there'd be laughs after death, didn't I? And you know I always keep my promises. Postmortem!



I do sincerely apologize that my untimely, though not unexpected, demise last week threw a monkey wrench into all our year-end blogging plans here in Roxie's World. I mean, heck, you all count on us to keep a paw on the zeitgeist, and here we let a new year and a new decade break out without even a token attempt at a summing up or a looking back, no snarky lists of Best Ofs, Worst Ofs, and Why Oh Why Did We Let That Happen? Time waits for no blogger, though, and now such a feat feels so enormous and belated that my typist's grief-addled brain can barely imagine it. She had scribbled down a few notes before she and Goose took off for the MLA convention, but they barely make sense and have a slightly, um, idiosyncratic feel to them. See what you think.

Epic Fail of the Decade, From Which So Many Avoidable Catastrophes Sprang: Supreme Court decision in Bush v. Gore, which handed George W. Bush the presidency of the United States on December 12, 2000. John Nichols identifies that appalling act of judicial activism as "the root cause of what made the Noughties such a miserable decade for the republic." Sounds about right.

Why the Decade Would Just Flat-Out Suck Even If Nothing Else Had Happened: September 11, 2001. 'Nuf said.

Album of the Decade: Raising Sand, Robert Plant and Alison Krauss (produced by T Bone Burnett). Why? Because it was released in 2007, and it's still in heavy rotation here in Roxie's World. Sorry, Mr. Springsteen, but nothing you did this decade even came close to this extraordinary collaboration.

Film of the Decade: There Will Be Blood (directed by Paul Thomas Anderson). Why? Because qta declared it so in the incredibly thorough and thoughtful review of films and performances he put up on Facebook. The truth is, if we had seen more movies and considered them with the same diligence qta did, we might have come to a different conclusion, but we didn't, so we will happily defer to his judgment.

Best Meal Moose and Goose Ate in the Decade: Alinea, Chicago, December, 2007. The moms still talk about the course that was delivered to the table on little pillows inflated with a nutmeg-scented steam that gently wafted out as the dish settled onto the table.

Most Thrilling Athletic Moment of the Decade: We deny any QTU bias in declaring the winner here to be Kristi Toliver's 3-point shot at the buzzer to put the final of the 2006 NCAA women's basketball championship into overtime -- Sports Illustrated called Toliver's cool-handed move "the shot of the decade." It set up QTU's stunning 78-75 victory over a Duke team that everyone in the country but Moose, Goose, and upstart Coach Brenda Frese had picked to win.

Book of the Decade (Nonfiction, Theory Geeks Focused on Critters Division): When Species Meet by Donna Haraway. A witty, profound analysis of dogs, people, and what they become by being in relationship with one another -- What's not to love?

Book of the Decade (Fiction Division): It's a tie between Marilynne Robinson's Gilead and Marilynne Robinson's Home. Why? Because they are glorious books, and we are just thrilled to see the author of 1980's Housekeeping publishing novels again. Oh, and we haven't finished Toni Morrison's A Mercy yet.

Feel-Good Moment of the Decade: Watching Barack Obama take the oath of office on January 20, 2009. Y'all know this blog never harbored great exuberance (critical or uncritical) about Obama's candidacy, but we readily admit that his inauguration was a thrilling spectacle and a milestone for the nation he leads. We are still waiting to see whether the feel-good presidency will turn into the lead-with-courage-and-tactical skill administration, but we'll take that up another day.

Most Succinct Statement We've Stumbled Across About What a Sour, Disappointing, Generally Sucktastic Period of Time it Was:

. . . [F]rom an economic point of view, I’d suggest that we call the decade past the Big Zero. It was a decade in which nothing good happened, and none of the optimistic things we were supposed to believe turned out to be true.

From Paul Krugman, of course.

Poor little 00s. You're gone, and we still don't know what to call you. How about just calling you -- mercifully, finally -- OOver? And not a moment too soon.

(Photo Credit: "Dog Funeral: 1922," from Shorpy, the 100-Year-Old Photo Blog)

Bruce = Gaywad!

And in Roxie's World, of course, gaywad = good.

(Photo Credit: Michael Williamson, Washington Post)

Coinkydink -- or proof that not all of Roxie's World's Garden State fans are English profs? You decide:

Just days after this humble dog blog wrote eloquently of "the proud, passionate dyke you always knew was at the heart of Springsteen's music," the cool rockin' daddy of the boardwalk announced his unequivocal support for same-sex marriage, which is being debated in the New Jersey legislature in the twilight of the administration of defeated Democrat Jon Corzine. The Boss put the following statement up on his Web site this morning:

Like many of you who live in New Jersey, I've been following the progress of the marriage-equality legislation currently being considered in Trenton. I've long believed in and have always spoken out for the rights of same sex couples and fully agree with Governor Corzine when he writes that, "The marriage-equality issue should be recognized for what it truly is -- a civil rights issue that must be approved to assure that every citizen is treated equally under the law." I couldn't agree more with that statement and urge those who support equal treatment for our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters to let their voices be heard now.

Oh, Bruce, how we heart you, you old fighter for justice, you beefy butch boy with adorable homoerotic tendencies (see photo above and this) and a deep archive of music largely dedicated to exploring the queer (= troubled, troubling, uncertain, unhinging, unsettling, eccentric) nature of desire and intimacy. We dig that you are using your considerable influence in your home state as a force for good and not for evil. We are pleased that you are coming out in support of same-sex marriage -- and refusing to play at the inauguration of the state's Republican governor-to-be (and die-hard Bruce fan), Christopher Christie.

No, darlings, marriage isn't the only thing, and, yes, we're as tired as the next homo of the issue sucking up every precious ounce of queer political energy in the universe. Hell, who knows? If we had the right to marry, we might endeavor to auction it off to help pay the bills during furlough season. Nonetheless, the battle is here, we have to win it, and we need all the friends and allies we can get to help advance the cause.

You are a most excellent gaywad, Bruce, by which we mean, of course, a genuinely fierce advocate for LGBT equality, as opposed to, you know, a weasel. Paws up to you, sir, and we will look for you, as always, out on the backstreets. No retreat, no surrender. Amen!