yep. this one will be chalked up to the WTF category.

you silly american pig-dogs, thinking i’m talking about a different obsession from the 1980s. this one comes from france, le pay avec des pommes frites de ‘freedom’, mais oui?

who is etienne daho? well, using all the french-reading-powers that i can summon from four years of francais (avec ma professeur madame donovan pour trois des ans! mon dieu!), he’s a soulful guy who writes, produces, and sings. beyond that, i need to consult with my friend, mr. wikipedia. apparently — and like jerry lewis — daho is big in france and england. oui! he has even had marianne faithfull on one of his tracks, reading from her great-uncle’s creepily famous work, venus in furs. (yes, virginia. as in the one sung about by the velvet underground.)

(ou est la salle de bains, s’il-vous plait?)

of course, no one in america seems to know of him. so how did i stumble onto this guy with the hot voice?

simple. one day, while writing, i put on the french cafe station of rhapsody. amidst a sea of songs with accordians and songs that sounded like what the hip starbucks on the seine might play, this song came on. it stuck out. i was captivated. je ne sais quoi.

not feeling particularly wordy today, so just go ahead and give it a listen. extra BONUS points to anyone who feels like translating.

fin.

oy gevult! there’s a new american girl.

and she’s a nice jewish goil, to boot.

at least the book illustrations make her look a little jewish. or italian.

recently, an american girl catalog made it’s way into my mailbox. for those of you who do not have a girl between the ages of 7-10 in your home, let me school you.

american girl is the wildly-successful doll/book franchise now owned by mattel. they sell you a doll from a specific period in american history for about $100. then, you’re free to buy the ultra-expensive accessories as well as books that tell the story of said doll. if you’re REALLY insane fanatical up for spoiling your child beyond the realm of what is okay excited by the series, you can take your child to have a special tea at one of the american girl doll stores, located in a few major US cities. to the tune of several hundred dollars. (that must be one hell of a cup of tea.) for the record, we’ve never bought any of the dolls, but we have read plenty of the books thanks to our local public library. we couldn’t get through the hispanic girl’s saga, but we especially enjoyed spunky kit kittredge’s tale as well as that of the revolutionary war era doll, felicity merriman.

while rebecca rubin, the newest addition to the american girl family is not actually the first jewish girl doll offered (there was once, for a split second, a jewish girl doll offered as part of some sort of calendar doll thingy about 20 years ago), she is the first here-to-stay jewish girl doll, with a full backstory and tons of expensive props.  (i can’t wait to hear about little cornfed midwestern girls begging their moms and dads (and santa) to bring them rebecca’s sideboard and sabbath set, complete with challah and candlesticks. does it come complete with brachot (blessings/prayers for the non-tribal set)?)

anyway, in truth, i have a warm spot in my heart for this little doll and for this effort already. rebecca lives in new york city in 1914, the child of jewish immigrants from russia. i haven’t read the stories (yet), but i suspect they involve the pull jewish immigrants of the time felt between staying true to their cultural roots while immersing themselves in their new american identities.  my grandmothers, also NYC dwellers back in that day, would have either been a trifle bit older or a trifle bit younger than rebecca, so i can smile to myself a bit, thinking about what their lives must have been like back then.

i know their families worked their tails off, that’s for sure.

i wonder, in fact, whether there’s any mention of things such as the horrible working conditions these immigrants (and their italian, polish, irish, and other internationally-born brethren) endured back then — i suspect a mention of the triangle shirtwaist factory fire would be something i would want to talk about with my kids. if there is, i’m sure it’s like a whisper that won’t be noticed except by parents like me, who will pounce on it as a teachable moment.

anyway.

mattel took several years to get this one right. and while the actual face of the doll is exactly like every other american girl doll (let’s all join hands and sing we are the world. we all look alike, you know! seriously, don’t you think people would have shrieked if they gave the jewish girl a beak to remember? so i guess i understand that move.), there’s something kind of wonderful to finally be recognized, even in this small way, as american. my ancestors wanted so much to be accepted as american. they were sometimes greeted with signs like this:

even when it seemed that jews were a bit more accepted in american society, there are still holdouts, people who think we can’t be americans if we also have a warm spot in our hearts for israel. i still remember when i, a high school rising senior, was being interviewed as a candidate for new jersey girls’ state. the craggy-faced american legion men asked me a question that infuriates me to this day:

if america went to war with israel, whose side would you be on?

no one asked any of the other interviewees whether they would side with america or ireland, or america or italy, or america or england.  people seem to think that you can’t be an american and a jew, which is an idea that is unfathomable to me.

my grandparents and their parents worked incredibly hard to experience the american dream. they had their struggles, and then, my parents probably had their own challenges growing up jewish in america. jews are not the only people who struggle here; but because it is our ethnicity as well as our religious and cultural background, it has been harder to gain acceptance. you can be irish or italian or polish, but you can still share a sausage and a smile. for us, it’s a little more of a difficult proposition. not insurmountable, though.

i am an american jew. being jewish infuses everything there is about my americanism. and being american pervades  every aspect of my judaism.

and when i see mattel bringing forth an american girl doll like rebecca rubin, i know that the struggles of my ancestors to be american have not been in vain.

somewhere, my grandmas are kvelling*.

*Kvell: (Yiddish) to take great pride and pleasure; a peculiarly Jewish joy most often associated with the accomplishments of one’s family members

i didn’t want to like the bangles. blame it on my first copy-editing gig.

yes, virginia. once upon a time, i worshipped before the altar of  AP style, thanks to my short but eventful career at the miami hurricane. (i know, i know. you wouldn’t know it reading my blog now.) i’d spend my freshman year sunday nights and wednesday nights crouched before antediluvian computers, trying desperately to make heads or tails out of other people’s words. this, of course, is how i became good friends with my pals fern, gibbons, and my best pal murph. murph and i (and mr. lexicon himself, john barret) would hurriedly try to get things straightened out before they had to be sent downtown to the miami herald.

we were so MOD-ren then: the words would get typeset. then, editors (like me, eventually) would drive downtown, where we would take razors and splice up the copy for layout (or in my case, try not to bleed all over the equipment after i’d accidentally spliced more than the columns.) then, the good employees of el herald would make our papers. finally, i’d awake monday and thursday mornings to papers all over campus, as some sort of magical fairy picked up the finished copy and distributed them everywhere.

anyway, during that freshman year, there was a young woman who would write our music columns. this young woman had ins everywhere, it seemed, and wrote some compelling articles. however, editing her was often the stuff of legend. i think murph and i would secretly avoid editing her because you knew when you got one of her articles, interesting as they often were, they required an inordinate amount of time and patience to complete, something that is in short supply on a sunday night at 10pm when you know you have an 8 am class on monday morning.

yet i will admit now, after 25 years — i think i was the better avoider, as murph got the lion’s share of these articles. poor murph. this was around the time that this young woman seemed infatuated with the bangles. i should point out that, at least in the 1980s, miami was not a bastion of popular music (unless it was club music or, dog help us, local girl gloria estefan and the miami sound machine.  i often thought that a popular song of the day in miami was actually a remedial aid for the UM football team.) a local radio station, SHE 103 (SHE’s only rock and roll) kindly fed us the stuff that would become classic rock, but nothing alternative hit my dorm room unless my BTD shared it with me (the REM Murmur tape he gave me was worn to shreds; poor poor pitiful me never heard of the smiths until i transferred north to Rutgers in 1985.)

and this writer girl, who had cool ideas but definitely required serious editorial backup, went on a bangles binge. at least, it seemed that way to murph and me. (or maybe just me.) i was thinking to myself, who the hell are these girls and why are they treading on hallowed Go-Gos ground? would she please shutthehellup and write about clapton, or van halen, or SOMEBODY else?

it would take me another year or two to remove the stick up my ass listen to the bangles. when i did, it was love at first listen. susannah hoffs has the smoothest rough voice i’ve heard; and their material often took beatlesque turns in a fresh, new wave way that was purely 80’s. sure, the world was introduced to them with the prince-penned manic monday — or maybe walk like an egyptian. but me? hero takes a fall won me over, hook, line, and sinker.

that girl who had the ins and who wrote amazing, albeit editorially-challenging stuff? she’s now works in country music, managing some major acts. she has even co-penned a kenny chesney hit. she doesn’t know me from adam, as i was just a lowly frosh copy editor. but i will give her some serious props anyway, as someone who led me to a band i may not have otherwise discovered back then.

clearly, AP style was no match for that chick. and thank goodness for that!

both BC and hellboy have started camp this week. so far, the only casualty involved would be hellboy’s swim trunks and rash guard, which he lost the very first day and which are not present in any of the lost and found bins. i’ll chalk it up to his inexperience and try to not fret, considering he was growing out of that set anyway.

hellboy lucked out. his best girlfriend from kindergarten, M, is in his group at camp. on the first day, i hid behind a tree, stalker-helicopter mom that i am, watching the group get organized. hellboy had a deathgrip on M’s hand, which another little girl didn’t like very much. the other little girl, who i found out later was M’s friend from preschool, was very much interested in tearing this couple asunder. ultimately, though, they’ve all apparently settled their differences. besides, hellboy has made friends with one very nice-sounding little boy and another little boy, who curiously started out their friendship by kicking hellboy in the nuts while in the post-pool shower portion of the day. (i have had friendships start in even odder ways, so i guess i will take a deep breath and see where this one goes.)

madame, as is typical, knew no one in her group when she started. [how wonderful for the moms (and dads!) who get themselves organized enough in january to get their kids together with other children at camp. this was not a year like that in this house.] fortunately, you could drop BC in a crowd of millions and she would make a life-long friend (if not several) by day’s end. (this of course would be thanks to my gene pool contributions.) so i don’t usually worry about BC in new situations. she goes through the same motions i do — she frets that she knows no one, then she just finds someone who looks like they could do with a friend, and voila! instant social scene.

this year, BC has already made her friend for the session. per usual, i asked BC which local school her new friend A is from. mommy, she replied, A is from saudi arabia. we have lots and lots of people from all over the world in these here parts, so i figured, sure, she’s from there, but where does she live now?

she lives in saudi arabia, girlfriend replied, getting irritated. her family is here for the summer and they sent her to camp.

alrighty. well, that’s got to be interesting, huh? has she told you anything about saudi arabia? i asked.

yes, she was born in philadelphia, but her family is from saudi arabia. that makes her american because she was born here, right?

i replied, yep. how lovely — you might make a new penpal, i replied, hopefully. where is this going?

she’s muslim. i helped her out today and told her that she shouldn’t eat the pepperoni on the pizza they gave us for lunch. she can’t eat pork, either, but i don’t think she knew what pepperoni was. so i helped her. i remembered DiDi (BC’s beloved friend from daycare, who is really named kareem and who is apparently still the man she wants to marry) can’t eat pork because he’s muslim. so i figured she couldn’t, either.

i scratched my head a little. my parents never had to navigate these sorts of situations. well, that’s a mitzvah that you helped her keep with her beliefs, honey. and besides, her beliefs aren’t that much different than yours are. does she know you’re jewish?

sure, BC replied, i told her. but she doesn’t know what jewish means.

should i chalk it up to youth? should i chalk it up to purposeful omission? i don’t know. but i believe that peace happens, one person at a time. i have to be positive and hopeful and not make assumptions, not jump to any stupid or misguided conclusions. because peace no longer just starts with me.

it starts with my kids.

in honor of my beloved friend karin, who is stuck inside of casper with the jersey blues again.

i attended a womens college in the mid 1980s. that should be sufficient enough an explanation for why i love kate bush and her glinda the good witch voice.

but for those of you who a) didn’t attend a womens college in the mid 1980s or b) don’t grasp the talent that is kate bush, think of this: she was signed at 16, thanks to the recommendation of pink floyd’s david gilmour. she wrote this song, as well as her single wuthering heights (later made more famous, and perhaps more sonically palatable, by pat benatar) sometime before she was 19.  sure, she sometimes sounds like a bag of cats being tortured. but she writes some of the most moving music and lyrics. i think her to be quite a pioneer, actually.

anyway, back to the man with the child in his eyes. bush wrote this one when she was 13 years old. when i was 13, i was writing songs, but nothing even remotely close to this.  it’s such a beautiful song with compelling lyrics. (my lyrics were far simpler, with romantic images of acid rain. no lie.) of course, it didn’t do much on the US charts in 1979; everyone here was still caught in the throes of crap like roller boogie, i’m sure.

but she persists. she has been lauded many times. and i don’t care if you laugh at me: i lurve her.

(and as for you karin, here’s a kate bush extra. love you.)

oh, adolescence is going to be fun.

the kids and i just returned from a trip to what passes as an army-navy type store in our little upscale enclave of nirvana. (this being arlington, it’s more of an outdoorsy, camping, indy REI-like thing. no soldier of fortune mags here.) while at the army-navy store, BC saw a preppy little girlfriend from school who i’ve not yet met. they smiled at each other, and then BC did what she does with all her other girlfriends: she hugged her.

the other girl loudly announced: that was weird, rolled her eyes, and then stalked away.

BC looked at me a little puzzled.

that was rude, i retorted. who is that girl?

a girl i know from school, BC replied.

perhaps she doesn’t like to be hugged? i asked.

no, we hug at school.

a puzzlement.

BC and i are huggers. we are affectionate people. part of it may be cultural mixed with gender; but i suspect we is who we is. i remember the first time i met my father in law, a very shy and quiet man. he held out his hand to me; i took it and i hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. he was taken aback, i’m sure; i remember him stiffening up. i of course thought i had made the Blunder To End All Blunders.

but from then on until the day he passed twenty-one years later, that man always had a hug and a kiss for me. what’s more — he started to hug and kiss my husband, too.

i realize that some people are really nervous about their personal space. they fear getting close to people in both the literal as well as the figurative sense. i just don’t have that fear. maybe i’m stupid because of it, but there are very few people i genuinely dislike. and not one that i hate, not matter how crappy he or she might have treated me. (i let karma take care of things like that. i don’t waste my time plotting any sort of revenge scenario.)

but the hippie in me believes that love is contagious. and so even though there are people in the world who don’t care for me, i still greet them with a hug and a smile.  you never know how you might change someone’s day, someone’s year, someone’s life.

so i thought: how sad. this child is going to make my BC feel self-conscious about embracing the world and all the people in it.

not on my watch.

BC, i said to her as we drove away, there are some people in the world who just don’t deserve a hug from you. but there are lots of people who will always welcome those things.

like me.

oh, naughty pete shelley. call a song homosapien and think you can pull a fast one, huh? no. one. fools. the. BBC!

i often wonder who at the Beeb is responsible for banning music. what his/her day must be like:

hmmm, let’s ban this one because of its political overtones. let’s ban this one because it sounds like an advertisement. let’s ban this one because he drops the f-bomb.

being the modern-day bowdler must be wildly rewarding.

[i laugh, especially since the aforementioned example dinged for political overtones (thanks to the falklands conflict) was eventually covered by aussie kiddy group the wiggles:]

(i’m a mom. that’s how i know.)

so pete shelley, esteemed founder of hugely influential punk band the buzzcocks, pretty much trips through the BBC’s wires with this little dance gem. was this your coming out song, pete? i imagine it was, though there was certainly an element of sexual intrigue in lots of the buzzcock classics: ever fallen in love (with someone you shouldn’t've) took on a whole new meaning after i first contemplated shelley’s world.

so i often wonder: did the Beeb ban homosapien because of it’s overt sexual references — or did it ban homosapien because of it’s overt references to gay sex?

who cares. banning a song almost guarantees that people will clamor to hear it. and gay, straight, or otherwise gendered, anyone can dance to this song.

(and some can copy it, too — tell me this doesn’t remind you of shelley’s song!)

hey, at least i didn’t choose take the skinheads bowling.

yeah, i know. i’ve ranted for years about inadequate song covers. and i would be remiss if i didn’t point out that this is a cover of an excellent psychedelic single by a still-extant UK band called status quo. to be sure,  camper van’s critically acclaimed album from 1989 key lime pie could stand all on it’s own merits without this cover ((i was born in a) laundromat is classic) — but to me, pictures of matchstick men just puts it over the top. the quivering violin removes the psychedelia from the song, to be sure, but it adds a certain earthy grittiness that was absolutely of its time. i regularly drive BS insane by randomly breaking into that riff — with my voice imitating the violin in what must be the sound equivalent of seinfeld’s elaine’s dance.

and then, of course, there’s david lowery, who founded camper van and cracker — two bands i’ve adored for a long, long time. (besides the famous teen angst, which smells WAY better than teen spirit, cracker performed an excellent cover of jerry garcia’s loser (bringing the latter into a doldrom-laden territory where i wondered whether it was recorded in a meth lab.)) there’s something about his voice that seems more approachable and unpolished — in a very good way.

i understand that cracker and camper van play around from time to time. i only saw cracker once (in the early ’90s, pre-kids, of course), which is one more time than i ever saw camper van.  it looks like they have a weekend fest in california in some place called pioneertown. gee whiz, i wonder whether we could just bring the kids

now that i’ve pinched myself and woken up from that thought… i can always hope that they come back to our area someday.

at least i still have the CDs…

you and i must make a pack… a pack?

when i was young, i knew it wasn’t cool to like the osmonds (even though i watched their cartoon series every saturday morning.) however, i had no such fear of being uncool when it came to the jackson 5 (whose saturday morning cartoon i also watched. i often wondered whether the people at rankin/bass just altered the cartoon osmond’s faces and tweaked the storylines a little bit. no matter to me. i watched anyway.) in retrospect, i often wonder whether the older kids in both families felt screwed because their respective little brothers got all the attention. it’s 40 years later, and while i still know the names of the other brothers from both families, i couldn’t tell you who was who. i bet marie. la toya, and janet thank their lucky stars they were born girls.

but back to michael, michael, i LOVE you michael (a phrase i continue to hear in my dreams, decades after a particular concert.) somehow, the song i’ve always connected with, the song i’ve always cherished from their repertoire is i’ll be there. sure, there are moments when the pronunciations of certain words mystified me (as i alluded earlier, i could never figure out what michael meant when he sang  you and i could make a pack — we could bring salvation back. what the hell kind of pack did he mean, i wondered — a bag full of hope? a pack of lies? oh, if only the child could include a t at the end of that word.)

ah well. the song tugs at the heartstrings; and while i know there are many of my friends who think it incredibly uncool of me, i have loved this song for decades. this may change, now that an insurance company has taken it over and made it the center of their latest commercial campaign. i just don’t want to have to associate this song with state farm.

(once again, they’ve paved paradise and put up a parking lot. gah.)

i guess michael needs cash now that he’s gone belly-up. and, true to form, this song is there to help.

welcome to today’s edition of boot camp bottom feeder!

(or why i refuse to let a knife and fork dig my grave.)

in a moment of insanity fit of hysteria second when i was inspired to just do something about my weight and health, i committed myself to an asylum a month-long bootcamp. a bootcamp that i can continue with until the end of september if i so desire. a bootcamp that is both land-based AND amphibious. (as in we run AND we swim, somewhere in between squats and other excruciating moments with our instructor, a triathlete.) a bootcamp for which i must awake at 5 am every morning (and which also means BS must awake at 5 am, causing him much unanticipated happiness, as you might imagine. who loves you, BS? the most wonderful, supportive husband on the planet i have, you know.)

today was day three of the saga that you’ll hear about already in progress; and i’m here to tell you that i am, in fact, the class bottom feeder. because of the bionic knee (and the zillion pounds atop it), i ran/walked a timed mile today (where others did two. yes. there were people who lapped me. they did two miles in less time than i did one.) yesterday, i swam a timed 150 meters where others did 200. (and also lapped me.)

and in between it all are pushups and squats and all sorts of torture designed to make your muscles wake up and realize that they have a purpose other than waving at the french fries as they pass by on their way to the tummy. damn – every time i rolled over in bed last night, i woke up in pain — my stomach muscles are probably in complete and utter shock, having been on vacation since 2003. our instructor is cruel but fair.  she’s a late-20s lady who probably does all of these things and more before she comes to our class. but bless her heart, she does the job.

okay, okay. so the only reason i didn’t come in dead last today in the run was because a 50-something guy who is a runner had knee surgery, so he has to walk. (his wife is also a triathlete. what is UP with these people. they do this FOR FUN?) but here’s the good part:

i finished.

and i figure, if i keep this up and i watch my food intake, i might lose a few pounds like my pal leifer, who is slimming down, too.

it’s funny — i’ve been working out on ellipticals and treadmills and such, and yet none of that seemed hard, like this is. i think i have a tendency to coast when i  am on an exercise machine. (hell, i sing and dance on the elliptical when a great song comes on, much to the laughter of the people at the community center who pass me by. like i care.) so for now, i’m trying exercise the old fashioned way.

yeah, it would be more fun if i were playing a sport. but i figure i’ll do this. i need to think up a reward system: finish a week, do X. finish 2 weeks, do Y. finish a month?

achieve nirvana?