Roxie's Watching: Mamma Mia!

(Photo Credit: Peter Mountain, Universal Pictures, via NYT)

Goose's Extremely Short Review of Mamma Mia!: I could watch Meryl Streep playing poop on toast and be utterly mesmerized. And happy.

Moose's Snarky Addendum to Goose's Extremely Short Review of Mamma Mia!: Agreed. But I would vote for Barack Obama if he promised to support a constitutional amendment banning Pierce Brosnan from ever singing in public again.

Goose's Pithy Rejoinder to Moose's Snarky Addendum to Goose's Extremely Short Review of Mamma Mia!: Agreed. And I don't suppose the fact that Brosnan is not a US citizen will be any impediment to the Great and Powerful Lesser being able to enforce such an amendment once it unanimously passes both houses of Congress and is ratified by all fifty-seven states. He Who Sees All will surely see to that.

Per usual, we digress, even when the subject is an estrogen-fueled summer diversion as puffy as a cloud of cotton candy featuring actresses we just flat-out adore -- not only Streep but the bad-ass Christine Baranski, whom we've loved since her days as Cybill Shepherd's drunken sidekick on TV's Cybill. A. O. Scott's review in the Times does a marvelous job of capturing the perverse delights and the deep flaws of Mamma Mia! Scott is kind to everyone in the film, with the possible exception of director Phyllida Lloyd, and happily succumbs to "its relentless, ridiculous charm" and its loopy disco-powered sensibility. (For those of you too cool to tune in to such vulgar tripe, Mamma Mia! is the musical that was always waiting to be plucked out of the oeuvre of ABBA, the phenomenally successful Swedish pop group who made the 1970s worth living, at least according to the chief Dancing Queen of Roxie's World. The show was brought to the stage in 1999 by producer Judy Craymer.)

Mamma Mia! requires nothing or everything of its audience, depending on your position on a) the musical as a theatrical genre, b) disco as a musical form and cultural force, c) movies adapted from stage musicals based on pop cultural phenomena of the 1970s, and d) major Hollywood actresses faced with a dearth of decent roles for women over the age of, um, 23.

• If you are among the happy people willing to enter into the illusion that figures on stage or screen would and should spontaneously burst into song and that all the minor personages cluttering the background of any scene will suddenly morph into a perfectly synchronized troupe of hoofers and belters;
• if you believe that a coherent plot may be an obstacle to narrative pleasure and not a source of it;
• if you believe that the end of the disco era was a cultural tragedy comparable to the assassination of JFK or the dropping of the atomic bomb;
• if you enjoy the spectacle of women well over 50 being goofy, sexy, unabashedly proud of their middle-aged bodies and unconditionally supportive of one another, while singing;
• if you have always secretly believed that "The Winner Takes It All" is better than anything Mozart ever wrote,

then you will enjoy Mamma Mia!. If not, go see The Dark Knight and come back here and tell us all about it. The truth is, we're not giving the film a top-of-the-chart 5-Paw Rating. It's a 4 at best, even with Streep having a ball and Baranski raising the roof of the theater with her killer performance of "Does Your Mother Know?" The movement from stage to screen is always tricky, and it isn't without its problems here. The illusions of the musical are harder to accept on screen and less comically effective than they are on stage. With the exception of Baranski, none of the leads is truly a great singer or dancer, and Brosnan is genuinely, cringe-inducingly bad. Moose left the theater muttering that he made Christopher Plummer's wan vocals in The Sound of Music sound like Pavarotti.

Nonetheless, if you love musicals, disco, Streep, and the azure waters of the Aegean, you could do worse than to spend a couple of hours giggling and humming your way through Mamma Mia!. Streep's 5-minute "The Winner Takes It All" is worth the price of the ticket, because in this brief interlude the film earns the emotion it's working a little too hard to get in other moments. Here, you feel the pain of Streep's Donna over her 20-year separation from Brosnan's Sam. And here, Streep cuts loose and lets you see that there's a real belter underneath the porcelain goddess with the MFA from Yale. Here's a snippet from the final minute. Work it, girlfriend:

Coming Soon to TeeVee: Butch PhD!

(Photo Credit: Rachel Maddow Official Web Site)

We would have pounced on this story yesterday when the New York Times reported that Butch Goddess Rachel Maddow is next on the list for a show of her own on MSNBC, but my typist was busy being a big drama queen about having a sinus infection of her very own. (Perhaps she was jealous of mine?) She lay on the couch most of the day, except when she was lying in bed, and devoted a considerable amount of mental energy to trying to decide whether her chest felt like it was being crushed in a vise or sat upon by, um, the late Chris Farley. How crummy did she feel? So crummy that instead of going to see the opening day of the much anticipated (in our house) Mamma Mia, the moms stayed home last night and watched last year's grim family flick, The Savages, with Laura Linney and Philip Seymour Hoffman. (Verdict? Awesome perfs, nice tribute to the salvific power of dogs [in the end], but not exactly what the doctor ordered for cheering up a sick chick.) Moose is feeling better today, thanks to the healing powers of antibiotics, Theraflu, Motrin, and an excellent bowl of Tom Kha Chicken soup Goose had brought in from a nearby Thai place that actually delivers. (Go on, suburban MD readers. Click on that link, and show a good neighborhood joint some love. The steamed dumplings are yummy, too.)

Anyway: back to Rachel. Y'all know Dr. Maddow (she has a PhD in poli sci from Oxford) is tops on the list of Famous Butches We'd Most Like to Date or Be here in Roxie's World. We've been dreaming of her having her own show for quite some time and would be delighted if MSNBC gave Maddow a timeslot in an effort to redeem itself from the idiocies of the caveman lefties who otherwise dominate its evening programming (yes, Chris Matthews, we mean you, as well as Mr. Unhinged by His Delusions of Being the Second Coming of Ed Murrow, Keith Olbermann). We're so excited by the idea that we can't even get upset about the fact that the Times story didn't run a full-on face shot of Her Butchness, instead using this admittedly odd back-of-the-head pic at the top of the story:

(Photo Credit: Bess Greenberg, New York Times)

Melissa McEwan cranks up some good feminist indignation over the Times' strange photo selections over at Shakesville, but we're going to continue with our happy dancing and our fervent praying that Rachel will actually replace Tweety when his contract is up for renewal next year. Oh, what a day of rejoicing that would be!

In the meantime, Rache, we took a vote and have decided to let you have Butch PhD (coined right here in Roxie's World) as the title for your show on two conditions:

• you must promise not to sacrifice one iota of your butch fabulousness in order to succeed in television. That means: no skirts, ever; no more makeup than is absolutely necessary to keep from looking like a corpse under those harsh lights; no tight, polite smiles when the Neanderthals start dissing some chick as a way of getting laughs or ratings.
• you must permit us to declare ourselves the Official Dog Blog of Butch PhD: The Rachel Maddow Show. That means: unconditional love, even when you screw up, though we will have to call you out on that; the devotion of the sizable Tough Girls Caucus here in Roxie's World, not to mention the Smart Kids, the Political Junkies, and the Boys Who Dress Just Like You; access to a sophisticated if quirky audience who for some reason appreciates news and cultural commentary from a canine/queer point of view. We don't know if you're a dog lesbian or a cat lesbian, but you gotta love that demographic, no matter what!

We know you're probably being deluged with advice and adoration from sycophants, hangers-on, and wannabes right now, but we hope one of your loyal butch followers up there in the lesbo-land of western Massachusetts will find a way to get this humble blog post to you. Roxie's World is ready to help in any way we can to advance your career and the cause of butch visibility. Call us, Rache. We are eager to please. You. Really.

(With thanks to Dog-Eared Book, who knows just what it takes to cheer up a sick chick.)

Pudd'nhead Pieties

The CEO of Roxie’s World has been out of the office this week for some health and beauty time – bath, haircut, and nail trimming at the groomer’s, a check-up at the vet’s to see how the latest course of antibiotics and pain meds is handling the latest eye and sinus infection. Never fear, though, kids. When the big dog’s away, the beta dogs step up to the head of the pack. Let’s look in on Moose and Office of Persona Management Director Mark Twain, who are having a working lunch at Ishmael’s, the bar around the corner from RW Enterprises’ global headquarters. Moose is tucking into a grilled chicken Caesar salad (dressing on the side) and a glass of non-sparkling water when Twain walks in, places his usual lunch order (a whiskey neat, fried mozzarella sticks, and a large order of hot wings with extra bleu cheese dressing), and slams the latest issue of The New Yorker down on the bar next to Moose.

Mark: Did you see this?


Moose: Of course. Nice to see you, too, Mark. By the way, if you keep eating like that, you’re going to end up like Tim Russert.

Mark: That self-important Irish gas-bag? Not bloody likely. Moose, I’ve been dead for ninety-eight years. Healthy eating is not high on my list of priorities, especially [with a sardonic glance at her salad] if it means suffering through bowls of rabbit food day after day. What did you think about this cover illustration?

Moose: Sorry, I forget about the whole dead thing sometimes. I thought The New Yorker cover was hilarious – edgy as hell and really gutsy in its willingness to traffic in images dredged up from the depths of America’s racial paranoia. That’s great satire, which we desperately need in this campaign as a way of publicly acknowledging how fraught and strange this moment is, as we stand on the brink, perhaps, of sending a black man to the White House. It beats hell out of a bunch of Kumbaya crap about how race doesn’t matter.

Mark: By Jove, Moose, for once you are right! That is exactly what I thought about the cartoon, but have you seen all the folderol about it in the press and the blogosphere?

[Twain begins pulling a bunch of press clippings out of his pockets and spreading them out on the bar.]

Moose: Oh, sure.

[Moose pushes aside her salad bowl and opens up her laptop. She has 17 tabs open in her browser, one on Roxie’s World, one on StatCounter, one on Facebook, and 14 to various blog and media reactions to the New Yorker cover. While Mark smoothes out his copy of Philip Kennicott’s ponderous Wa Po analysis of the politics and pedagogy of satire in relation to the cartoon of the Obamas in the Oval Office, she discreetly snatches one of his mozzarella sticks.]

Mark: Don’t think I didn’t see that. There is a madness about all this, don’t you agree? All these knee-jerk denunciations of a cartoon clearly aimed at shining a critical light on the scurrilous rumors that have swirled around Barack and Michelle Obama and at bringing to the surface white America’s lingering anxiety about the prospect of a black president. Isn’t it important to acknowledge that uncertainty as a force within the electorate, even as we rightly celebrate Obama’s presumptive nomination as the social and political milestone that it obviously is?

Moose: Oh, absolutely, Mark, but you know well the risks of trying to take a satirical approach to anything having to do with race, particularly for U.S. audiences. I mean, I get queasy every time I teach Pudd’nhead Wilson and have to explain the book’s complex tacking back and forth between biological and sociological accounts of racial and sexual difference, the thick layers of irony involved in its plot of “black” and “white” babies switched in infancy in a slave-holding community. Students are quick to dismiss the book as the racist product of a racist time, while I’m left unpacking the subtleties of satire and pointing out that you put quotation marks around the N-word in a troubling passage that seems to establish a determinative link between race and behavior. I gotta tell you, it’s not an easy sell.

Mark: “The N-word” – pshaw! If you capitulate to the demand to communicate in euphemisms, it’s no wonder you can’t explain irony to your students. What this country needs is a strong dose of truth-telling, and satire is an effective way to tell uncomfortable truths about the gaps between ideals and realities, hopes and fears. And here [gesturing toward an angrily annotated copy of Bill Carter’s NY Times article on the lack of humor directed at Obama so far] I see that comedians are claiming they haven’t found an aspect of Obama’s person or personality that seems ripe for comic exploitation. John McCain is old, they say, and we’re off to the comic races! Al Gore was pedantic, until he turned out to be right about everything, at which point he was re-anointed as prescient. But Obama, it seems, is precious – flawless and untouchable, beyond reproach, beyond the vulgar reach of humor. What rubbish! Uneasy ought to lie the head that wears a halo is what I say to that. No man is immune to the probing touch of humor, the withering deflations of the ironist’s deft sword –

Moose: Nor woman either, I hasten to add. Comics had no qualms about mocking Hillary Clinton’s blond ambition, her wonkishness, her marital woes.

Mark: Right you are, beloved feminazi. But I tell you, Moose, I see a danger to the republic in this reticence on the part of comics to subject Obama to even the mildest ridicule. The slavish press corps, reduced to being mindless purveyors of infotainment, has ceased to perform its job as the watchdog of democracy. It is left to the clowns, the comics, the jokesters, the wits to pull back the curtain and reveal the sniveling mortal who aspires to run the machinery of power. They alone can save the people from falling on their knees before a man who, in the end, really is just a skinny guy with big ears and a funny name.

Moose: Which, to his credit, Obama has repeatedly pointed out. It is one of his few genuinely funny lines, and it’s a great opening for comics, if only they would walk through it!

Mark: Why won’t they, Moose? How do you explain the reluctance?

Moose: It’s complicated, Mark. I think a lot of comedians have gotten caught up in the coolness of loving Obama. They can’t step back and mock him or it because they’ve invested whatever remnants of idealism they have in believing in this guy. Most political humor nowadays is about being snarky and cynical about politics and politicians, about proving that you’re onto the game and not being taken in by it. I think they’re afraid that if they start treating Obama the way they treat other political figures, he’ll disappear before their eyes. They’ll be left with nothing, and they’ll have forfeited their claims to snarky superiority in the bargain. Mostly, though, I think they’re worried about becoming you.

Mark: Me? Whatever can you mean?

Moose: Here’s the thing, Mark. You’re, like, the Great American Novelist, right? Brilliant guy. Taught us how to write in our own idiom, how to dig our fingers into the culturally devalued soil of the American experience and produce a rich verbal art that provoked laughter and a kind of awe. A hundred or so years later, Huck Finn is left off syllabi in high school English classes because its racial politics are too difficult to explain to young, modern readers. A single, searing racial epithet leaps off the pages and makes the book impossible to teach for fear of giving offense or sending mixed signals about appropriate and inappropriate language.

Mark: Oh, for goodness sake, Moose. No one is suggesting that comics should be using what you so delicately refer to as “the N-word” in relation to Obama, but would the etiquette police come pounding on the door if someone were to point out that his ears really are big and that his relentlessly high-minded yammering about hope and change, change and hope occasionally makes one long for a candidate willing to call on citizens to belch and fart, fart and belch? Actually, McCain could be just that candidate. What a brilliant line of attack for an old geezer who seems to have an intimate understanding of gastrointestinal distress!

Moose: Indeed. I will remind you that Roxie’s World has in fact pointed out that Obama’s ears are big, and there are some signs that comics are beginning to find their nerve. Jon Stewart did a hilarious bit last night on The Daily Show about The New Yorker kerfuffle in which he graciously offered the Obama campaign a comically and politically appropriate response to the cartoon (no, the senator wasn’t offended by the cartoon, because it’s Muslim extremists who get offended by such cartoons, and he is not a Muslim extremist) and chastised the media for producing their own two-dimensional caricatures of the Obamas. Here, take a look at this:



Mark: That is good. That Stewart fella is awfully funny, you know.

Moose: Oh, yeah. And our blog pal Jon Swift has a brilliant send-up of the whole affair in which he expresses his profound disappointment that The New Yorker had not in fact published the expose of Obama’s ties to Muslim and black nationalist extremism that he thought the cover illustration was meant to advertise. Or there’s this funny bit from 23/6 about how the illustration would have been a whole lot funnier if, like most New Yorker cartoons, it had featured animals rather than people (H/T to Eitan for pointing this out to us via FB). I know that analysis is fatal to humor, but maybe it’s a good thing that even the humorless Maureen Dowd is suggesting the Obama team should lighten up (ha-ha!), lest the candidate run the risk of seeming airless and inhuman. Maybe in the long run this tempest in a teapot will help us turn some kind of comic corner. Maybe people will realize it’s okay and even necessary to subject Obama to some friendly mockery as a way of acknowledging his palpable presence in our politics, our lives, our imaginations.

Mark: As always, Moose, your stubborn utopianism is a wonder to behold.

Moose: Now, come on, Mark, you know it’s true. To poke fun of someone – not malevolently, but not necessarily gently either – is a powerful way of signaling recognition in the social/political sense. To mock someone is to say I see you, I am taking you seriously enough to notice your quirks and foibles. I am taking your measure, and I will show you the respect of doing so out loud, in public, for all the world to see. That, as you well know, is equality. Comics are the truest democrats on earth.

Mark: Ah, my dear hormonally unbalanced friend. Wouldn’t you like a spot of whiskey to wash down that hot wing you just stole from my plate? And here, have some bleu cheese dressing, too. You know you hate that fat-free crap.

(Image Credit: Via twainquotes.com, with credit to The Dave Thomson Collection.)

Back in the Saddle

(Photo Credit: Mauceri/Abbot/INF in People; Christina Aguilera performing in Houston, 2/20/07)

Blog pal and rodeo gal Historiann may have gone on vacation, but we're back in the saddle here in Roxie's World, where the moms have unpacked, recovered from their jet-lag, and mapped out a strategy for surviving without the new iPhone G3 until September 2, the day their 2-year contract with Verizon expires. Yes, you should feel sorry for them. You say you're curious about their strategy, though? Oh, Goose will finish a book, of course, while Moose cleans out closets, diligently re-dedicates herself to her Tim Russert Memorial Lifestyle Adjustment Plan, and faithfully patrols the internets looking for strangely alluring images of Grammy-winning singers she's barely heard of. (Hey, who knew Aguilera had a song called "Candyman," with a killer retro-WWII-style video? Not us, but we hereby supply a link to said video, with affection for one of our sweetest and most favorite readers.)

We will also spend a bit of time between now and (our) iPhone Day monitoring developments in the presidential campaign so that Roxie's World can continue to offer the kind of hard-hitting political analysis our dogged readers have come to expect. For the moment, we continue to fly a Swiss flag here in these sacred precincts. We won't vote for McCain, but we haven't seen anything yet that has convinced us to vote for Obama. We are "neutral," then, on the question of whether loyal Clintonistas should follow Senator Clinton's lead and throw their support to Obama for the (alleged) good of the party or respectfully decline to do so as a way of registering dissatisfaction with the candidate and/or outrage over the manner by which he was selected. (That outrage is righteously summarized by pissed-off PUMA ringleader Riverdaughter here. Poor Donna Brazile. How does she bear the torrents of hatred cascading down on her broad shoulders from furious Clinton supporters? Why do we suspect the prospect of replacing Howard Dean at the DNC if Obama wins has something to do with her equanimity? Just a hunch, but remember you heard it here first.)

From the safe distance of northern Europe (where everyone to whom they spoke was surprised and disappointed by the outcome of the Democratic primary race), the moms watched in amusement as the abject Kool-Aid drinkers of the media and the "progressive" blogosphere reeled over the past couple of weeks at the spectacle of the Lesser proving to be -- oh, the shock! the pain! the wounded idealism of it all! -- a politician willing to adjust or flat-out abandon any position that proved to be inconvenient once the pesky matter of suckering Democratic primary voters had been taken care of. We're too late to the story to bother with going over the litany of positions that have been nuanced, calibrated, modified, and, um, righted by the whiz-kids who fostered the belief that Obama was a transformational leader with a clear vision and bedrock principles that wouldn't shift with every new political wind. Roxie's World never bought that hoo-ha, of course, but a lot of people did, so it is fun and fascinating to watch them trying to adjust to the now inescapable facts that Barack Obama is a) mortal, b) political, and c) as moderate and centrist as the evil, pragmatic bitch/shrew/whore he vanquished in the primary race.

How did the Obamaniacs not know this all along? Moose compares it to a brief period of her late childhood when she truly, passionately believed that teen idol Bobby Sherman was a great singer, greater than all the other superstars in that glorious heyday of rock and roll. Sometimes, she says sheepishly, the force of our desires blinds us to things we don't want to see -- or hear. Obama acknowledged something similar earlier this week when he candidly declared that those -- including many of his disillusioned "progressive" supporters -- who were accusing him of shifting to the center "apparently haven't been listening to me." NY Times columnist Gail Collins sits disappointed Obamaniacs down for a talk and compares their willful mishearing to a woman selectively listening to what a guy says when she is looking for a relationship and he is looking for a date.

Moose, Obama, and Collins are all right in their assessment of the human tendency to take information in through the filters of desire and the will to believe, but they all discount or overlook the extent to which the Obama campaign exploited this tendency in order to secure the Democratic nomination against an opponent whose experience was used against her -- as proof that she had been tainted by the corruptions of politics. It remains to be seen whether Obama's claims to purity -- which are key to the appeal of his brand -- can survive the public modulations of positions that ordinary politicians engage in as a matter of routine. (Dem strategist and analyst Bob Beckel has a good analysis of the challenge Obama faces here.) Having held himself up as other and better than that old-style kind of politician, Obama now has the audacity to pretend he hasn't changed at all and to blame his core supporters for being bad listeners. One wonders if, in the fullness of time, the iPhone candidate won't begin to sound like the guy in those old Verizon commercials, trying desperately to cling to customers fleeing from a devalued brand: Can you hear me now?

We're listening, Barack. Believe me, we are listening. Do us a favor and try saying something worth hearing, will you?

Random Travel Snaps

My typist is too busy drinking wine and savoring the last moments of the great Scandinavian Adventure to sit down and write about the Stockholm and Norway portion of the Moms' current trip, but here are a few photos I was able to pry out of her hard drive.

It was Fashion Week last week in Stockholm, and it would appear the Moms had some kind of major makeover. You'll have to agree it's a striking look -- and quite a change for a couple of style-challenged feminazis:

Yes, for those of you who were concerned, the Moms did manage to celebrate the Fourth of July in Norway. Their friend Janne kindly agreed to display an American flag/sock that she had had in storage during the Shrub years, and Moose fixed her famous beer-can chicken for a gathering of easily impressed Norwegians. The evening concluded with dueling choruses of the national anthems of the U.S. and Norway. The consensus was that Norway's singable, non-militaristic "Yes, We Love" is a much nicer song than the bomb-bursting, throat-busting American anthem. Here is Janne's pretty flag/sock:

Here is the lovely new Oslo Opera House, which the Moms saw during a relaxing boat tour of the Oslo fjord on Friday:

Mr. Bruce Springsteen has been following the Moms all over Scandinavia. He played Göteborg, Sweden on July 4 and 5 and will be in Oslo tomorrow and Tuesday. No, the Moms will not be going, but they did tune in to a great TV show about the Boss's passionate Norwegian fan base. Janne says the Norwegians appreciate Springsteen's authenticity and his loyalty to his humble roots in a small town on the Jersey shore. The Moms think perhaps the low-key Nordics really just love a guy who knows how to cut loose and tear a town apart through the gospel of rock 'n roll. Baby, we were born to . . . ice-fish.

Home on Tuesday, kids. Back to regular blogalicious programming soon. Sees snart! (That's Norwegian for "See you soon!")

Update: You really must check out this interview with two of Bruce's besotted Norwegian fans, who have been camped out in a cold rain for two days waiting for their meeting with the man from the other side of the Atlantic. Highlights: The guy's earnest performance of "The River," which sounds more Tom Waits than Bruce Springsteen, but we give him points for trying; the girl's tattoo of "Born to Run" on her ankle. According to our personal Norwegian translator, she explains that the text just fits with her life.

(Photo Credits: Moose, except for the Bruce poster, which we found here.)

Blinded by the Light

(Photo Credit: Moose; a clever guy's solution to the problem of the mid-summer Arctic sun, rolling through Finland, 6/29/08)

Post Card from Scandinavia (#1)

Dear Roxie and Legions of Loyal Fans,

I'm sorry I've been such a poor correspondent on this trip. We were pretty busy with the conference in Oulu, and we've spent a fair amount of time in various stages and types of transit (a couple of six-hour train rides and a bus trip that lasted, um, 432 years in dog years, I think, but we had lots of fun and a good bit of wine along the way), which has limited access to the internets and time for blogging. We are in Stockholm now, though, and will explore this lovely city for a couple of days before another long train ride to Oslo on Thursday to rendezvous with our dear friend Janne and her family. We are eagerly, even wildly, anticipating our reunion with Janne. Aside from the delight of seeing her for the first time in four years, we look forward to the comforts of Janne's several homes (the house in town, the cabin on the North Sea, and the hut in the mountains!), as well as home-cooked food. I have promised to prepare a beer-can chicken for the Norwegians, who are amazed by the ingenious American knack for finding clever things to do with beer cans and chicken bottoms.

Here are a couple of pics from our long day's journey into not-night earlier this week, which took us -- hooray! -- inside the Arctic Circle, which, it turns out, does not have polar bears or icebergs or special lanes for dog sleds on the highways. Who knew? We learned in the course of our long, long day (we left Oulu at 9:30 a.m. and returned at nearly 4 the next morning) several other important facts, including, let's see, that actual reindeer are not nearly as cute as cartoon reindeer and they do not have red noses:

We learned that a girl can get by with a sleeveless top on certain days of the Arctic summer, but if she tries it she'd better have nuclear-powered mosquito repellent. Here we are with a couple of our travel buds, whom we might call Papa Bear and Baby Bear or the Urbane Champaignians, though we know several of those at this point. Anyway, don't forget the bug spray if you're headed to the Arctic, kids. They've got mosquitoes up there that make our Washington critters look as harmless as Obama at a FISA debate.

Oh, and just because I could, I got all goofy and fierce-looking straddling the boundary of the Arctic Circle at Santa's village. Note to children: Santa lives in Finland, not the North Pole. Please direct your pathetic pleas for more crap you don't need or deserve to the proper address. Here's me:

And here's Santa's address:

And here's a pretty lake in Oulanka National Park, where we took a 3-mile hike during our long, long day:

And here's a pretty church in Helsinki, the name and denomination of which I failed to note:

And here are a couple of pretty shots of the old town and harbor in Stockholm, just to prove to you that we are actually here:


It's 2 a.m. in Stockholm, kids. Time to go to bed! We're far enough south now that it actually gets dark for a few hours. You'd think that would help us get back to some kind of normal sleep schedule, but that doesn't seem to have happened. What the heck -- We can sleep when we're dead, right?

Peace and love to all and thanks to Roxie for letting me borrow her humble little corner of the blogosphere for self-indulgent trip pics and commentary again. Oh, and apologies to the Pretty Boys for the lack of mouth-watering descriptions of meals in this post, but, hey, we've been in Finland. If it costs less than 7 trillion dollars, I don't want to write about it, and you don't want to read about it.

Much love,
Moose

P.S. Apologies also for the lack of links in this post. I had a clever one on the Obama allusion, but Blogger isn't cooperating. I'll update later if I can.

Because the Night

This is what 1:47 a.m. looks like in late June in Oulu, Finland, when, finally, it isn't raining:

And this is 1:03 a.m.:
And here is one more tiny bit of evidence that fear and loathing of feminism is universal (we think, though, of course, we couldn't actually read the article in the magazine, it being in Finnish and all):
(Photo Credits: Moose, though Goose threatened to take her wine away if she didn't get up off her duff and take the sunset shots.)

This brief post was inspired by the bright young Digital Museologist who said over dinner, "I miss the night." The moms know just what she means. The endless evenings of the near-Arctic summer are surreal and beautiful, but they are jarring, too. Time is impossible to judge, which partly explains why the moms slept past 11 a.m. yesterday. You realize in a place like this how much your sense of time depends upon the shifting of the light, the movement into darkness. Without it, dinners (happily!) go on and on, and energies that usually flag with the fading of the light get revved back up -- and so you find yourself strolling the streets of an unfamiliar city at nearly midnight taking silly photographs and laughing with strangers. You have a nightcap, but the night still hasn't come, and your body still doesn't feel ready for rest. You close the curtains to shut out the twilight, but you sense its presence anyway. Even in sleep, it hovers on the edges of consciousness. You miss the night, because without it you cannot recognize the day.

Dickinson wrote, "I see thee better -- in the Dark." I bet she would have missed the night, too.

(With pride in and affection for the Digital Terps who made the journey and performed so well. See y'all back in the 'hood soon.)