We went a local park this afternoon and played on some old live oak trees. I wanted to get some pictures of The May Queen climbing on the branches, but she was more interested in taking pictures of me. She would tell me where to stand, what to do, where to place my hands. It was a hoot. Here are some of the more fun shots(and, I admit, more vaguely flattering... in the 50 or so she took there were some BAD ones!):
Just call me a tree hugger Look! a hole!
Peekaboo, too! The photographer did come out from behind the lense a few times, with some prodding.
I do think she makes for a much cuter subject.
So... what do you think? My future Annie Leibovitz?
She gave her strapless gown one more yank firmly into place before taking her father's arm and rounding the corner. She looked down the long aisle as the music started to play. She walked down the aisle, smiling at the familiar faces until suddenly... a yank. A cool breeze. Her father had stepped on her train, pulling down her strapless dress and revealing her breasts to all the assembly. Time seemed to slow as she tried to cover herself, grab her dress, and run back down the aisle. As the bride ran down the aisle the mother of the bride began crawling over the pews, hurling obscenities, until she was close enough to start hurling punches at her ex-husband for ruining their daughter's big day.
This evening* I had three very New Orleanian moments:
1: Standing in a storefront gallery I practiced songs with an old cast for a theatre's fundraiser, watching out the window as Mardi Gras Indians, in all their finery, gathered in the battered street.
2: In a small, fenced backyard lush with the first blooms of spring I swatted mosquitoes and talked with a gentleman about his next documentary: a history of the evolution of jazz (going back to before the Civil War).
3. Walking to my car I passed a house that still bore a "Katrina Cross" spray painted between the open front windows. I could hear the sound of a trumpeter practicing his scales inside.
I feel that no matter how long I live here, I will never stop discovering New Orleans' culture, history and charms.
The question seemed to come out of nowhere, but then I realized she was looking at the print my aunt and uncle had just sent us. It's a photograph of an angel statue... a statue I tried to show them in a recent cemetery tour, but the tomb had been locked. They must have found it in their time in NOLA, and later mailed it to us as a thank you gift.
Weeping Angel photo by me, 2007
What is the angel doing?
Well... the statue is over a tomb, and I imagine the sculptor made the angel crying as if the angel was sad that the person had died.
But that doesn't make sense to me. I don't think an angel would cry. I think an angel would rejoice because when someone dies they go to heaven to be with God and the angels. Right?
Like how Grandma and Grandpa might die soon. Because they're not doing so well.
Yes. We may cry, because we're sad and we miss that person here on earth, but I think that the angels rejoice.
(I'm blogging about TV, people. TV. Has it come to this? Life is too complicated to blog about right now. This whole undercover operation... let's call it Operation Beige (because every good undercover operation needs a name)... is progressing slowly but surely, and I just. can't. share. And I'm not doing a show. So TV it is)
I apologize if you watch and enjoy The Bachelor.
No, actually, I don't. I think it's crap, and I think you should be ashamed.
There. I said it.
Now, I do have to confess that I've never watched a full episode of The Bachelor. I've seen the commercials. Caught a few moments at the end... you know, the stuff that records on the front of my DVR's recording of Castle (which I completely enjoy. Fun stuff).
But this is my basic understanding:
A handsome guy is charged with slowly narrowing down the field from a bunch of really hot women, who vie for his attentions. They go on dates and the like. The girls scheme and backstab and try to woo the man. The guy is dating all these girls at once trying to figure out which one he is going to marry.
What sane woman would put herself into that situation? What sane man would want to dedicate the rest of his life to a woman willing to play that game? What kind of a sick man enjoys watching all the women around him play that game?
I cannot possibly believe that it is even remotely about finding true love. It is about being on television. It is about proving yourself desirable.
And I'm horrified that people watch it. Yes, perhaps it's like watching a car accident. You can't look away from the tragedy. But people seem to actually care about who the bachelor picks. Like they think these two very beautiful egomaniacs are going to find love and longevity together, and that somehow gives them hope for the world. I worry for the watchers of the Bachelor. As if romantic comedies weren't screwing with our idea of what love should look like enough already.
Crap, crap, crap.
And it's the downfall of scripted shows. Shows that hire writers and actors. Shows that maybe, just maybe, tell a story worth telling. A story that might have some redemption or some catharsis or some hope for the world. A story that in its fiction has more truth in it than any episode of The Bachelor ever will.
But... as Dennis Miller used to say... that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
A friend of mine and I were playing Scrabble on Facebook earlier, and we come up with silly names for each game (why do you have to NAME your games?). I named a new game "undercover" based on something we had been chatting about. Then, these were the first three words played: Yes, we are easily amused. (And do you know how excited I was to look at my letters and see "coital?" Very.)