The Age of Reason...or Not

Good morning, Younglings.

Short blog today - just one of those things that just kinda "hit" me today.

The other day I picked up this little gem for a measly 10 cents at the Sevier County Library in DeQueen. 

I refer to art when I teach my music classes, because the characteristics of both art and music of a particular historical period share certain similarities. That's why I picked this up, because I don't have a lot of art books. 

One of these days, you may be subject to the proverbial art class either in high school or college. Don't groan, okay? Because some of it is really quite cool, like this guy, Francisco Goya.

Goya is one of my favorite painters, because he's like the "Stephen King of 18th Century Painters." I'd heard about him even before I took Spanish culture classes, but I especially favored him after getting my Spanish teaching certification.

You'll hear a lot some day about the differences between Classical and Romantic art, so I won't get into that right now, but Goya was somewhat ahead of his time. Most of the imagery he painted was more reflective of the following era, with an emphasis on the fantastic and supernatural versus the "civilized" and "enlightened" years that had come before. As I read through this book's section on Goya I was intrigued by an interesting interpretation about this particular drawing, with which I'm quite familiar:

This is "The Sleep of Reason" from a series of drawings Goya termed "Caprichos." The inscription reads, "The Sleep of Reason Brings Forth Monsters."
The author of this book, Kenneth Clark, believes this could mean two things:
"...either that when we are asleep our dreaming mind produces the bogies and witches...or, that human beings, when they abandon reason, fall into the horrible practices..."

That struck me as very relevant to the issues we grown-ups are dealing with in this century. I see a lot of "unreasonable" behavior out there in the world, by people I thought had a lot of more sense. Though the media sensationalizes such mayhem, there many things happening that make me sit back and think, "What the....????" I won't go into details, and bad behavior was most definitely going on in Goya's time, (Napolean, anyone??), but...people identifying as...cats?? 

I'd like to identify as a beach bum today. Can I do that, and still have a job??

That's just the tip of the iceberg. Whenever you read this, Younglings, some of 2017's current events will have passed, but I encourage you to Google them, if Google is still the place to go for that 10 or 15 years from now. I've never seen people so divisive just to be divisive. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me.

It defies reason. And I think that's the point Goya was trying to make. Or maybe he just liked drawing freaky pictures. Much like how people make freaky movies and TV shows like The Walking Dead and Supernatural. Maybe he wasn't trying to make a point at all. 

I still found it rather interesting. And when you get a chance, look up a nice little painting called "Satan Devouring His Children." Goya hung it in his dining room.

Oh, Mother!

Good day, Younglings. Mother's Day is Sunday, May 14. And that's why this blog gets re-posted somewhere on social media EVERY YEAR since its original publication.

Read on, Padawans, and enlightened you will be:


In honor of Mother's Day, I'm posting the article I wrote that appeared in HER magazine, May 2009:


Oh, yes! I definitely am! And that’s perfectly okay with me.

People have always considered me a “chip off the ol’ block.” Some women would have flames bursting from their eyes if anyone told them this, but not me. Growing up with “Carol Burnett meets Elizabeth Taylor” (minus the Richard Burton element), was never dull. My mom is funny, beautiful, and doesn’t take a lot of crap from anybody. I for sure got the funny part, because if I can make people laugh, I’ve done my good deed for the day. I’m still working on the beautiful part. That always took some work, because my mother couldn’t get me to wear a dress or makeup without great gnashing of teeth. She’s been accused of dressing up to clean house. I’m accused of having too many dresses and not wearing any of them.

When I got married, I instantly became the mother of four. I helped raised two of them on an everyday basis: girls, age six and nine at the time. I skipped colic, diapers, and potty training and went straight to slumber parties and tubes of lipstick left in the pocket of a pair of pants that got put into the dryer.

After a month went by, I called my mother and said, “I apologize for everything I’ve ever done.” I was in my late twenties, so that covered a lot of ground.

All four of these children are grown now; three have children of their own. This made me a grandmother at 31. (I could insert one of those online, IM-speak acronyms of shock here, but I’ll refrain.) It wasn’t until I started hanging with the grandkids that I really noticed how much I was saying things like, “Scat, Tom!” when someone sneezed. I haven’t started calling everyone “shug” yet, but that might be a future endeavor.

I was standing in line at the local discount shopping mecca and glanced through an article about something rather unmentionable in one of those women’s magazines that likes to broadcast things that most women really don’t want to see broadcast in the checkout line, and thought, “Gee! I knew that in the fifth grade!” Because my mother told me. She knows everything, like the names of obscure actors all the way back to the 1930s. My children now ask me, “Who’s that?” when old black and white films turn up on TCM. Nine times out of ten, I know exactly who they are, thanks to excellent maternal guidance.

My mom and I definitely have different musical tastes, although she did think Poison’s “Talk Dirty to Me” was kinda catchy. Without her, I wouldn’t have Frankie Laine and Andy Williams on my mp3 player, right alongside Black Sabbath and Nickelback. “The Theme for Rawhide” coming on right after “Iron Man” upsets the passengers in my car somewhat, but you know what? I really don’t care. “Rollin’, rollin’, rollin…”

My mother loves to read, and I remember frequent trips to the library as a child. She introduced me to Stephen King, and we both had extreme fears of Plymouth automobiles for a while. (Remember Christine?) I don’t know if that explains my sister’s avid interest in the film version of Cujo, but oh, well. If I had time, I’d follow Mom’s lead and join a book club, but I don’t think “Building Online Communities: Effective Strategies for the Virtual Classroom” is on Oprah’s reading list.

Mother-daughter relationships are complicated. Every woman knows this. Especially if they survived their teenage years and still have both arms and legs. Several films have captured the dynamic: Terms of Endearment, Postcards from the Edge, Steel Magnolias, and Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. (Hmm…three of those starred Shirley MacLaine. Wonder what that means?) Some women strive to be like their mothers, others…not so much. I really doubt Amy Winehouse’s future children will still be telling her to go to rehab when they become adults. We won’t even mention Joan Crawford or that woman who had the octuplets. Maybe Shirley MacLaine could step in and line up everybody’s chakras.

Regardless of whatever may have happened between birth and the day we looked at a stray digital photo and said, “Oh, wait! That’s a picture of ME! I thought it was my mom!,” one thing is certain: We are all shaped into who we are as woman because of our mothers, no matter what the relationship may be. Some of us have spent every day of our lives with our mothers. Other were adopted, or separated from their mothers due to divorce or death or other circumstances. Be proud of those traits you’ve picked up, either consciously or unconsciously, and remember those special women on their day this month. Without them, you wouldn’t be reading this column, and I wouldn’t be writing it!

THANKS TO ALL THOSE MOTHERS OUT THERE!! YOU ARE LOVED!!

C'mon, Baby, Light My Fire

And here we are, with the second "make-up" post. This will count as May 2015.

Notice the original date, Younglings. Some of you weren't even born yet. And that makes me feel terribly old.

This is the re-counting of quite an eventful night when I was living in Poppa Don's recording studio in DeQueen, and had just started working on my PhD. This originally appeared as a MySpace Blog posted November 21, 2008. I may chime in with new insight as you read along (in italics).



November 18, 2008


Or "Smoke on the Water." More like "Smoke Seeping Through Your Air Conditioning Vent."

At 5:30 a.m. you awake to the sound of a Siamese cat (Yes, Renegade Ted) hacking up a lung, not a hairball. And this rubbery burning smell.

What do you do? Here's what I did.

I got up and got dressed. I went upstairs to the bathroom. Could still sort of smell the burny odor but felt no heat. Came back down to the studio.

Was it hazy in here, or were my contacts just smudged? All three cats were crying now, perched on the drum divider, staring at me. I walk outside and look around. Hmm...don't really see anything. Go back in. It's not just haze now, it's billows of smoke filling the room.

Oh, expletive!

What do I grab first? My school books. Mainly because they're not mine. Then the laptop, because all my schoolwork is on it. Instruments. Because they aren't mine either-these guitars belong to the school. Bag of clothes. Then cats.

Priorities, man. Animals are last. Think about it. If I'm having to shove stuff in the car, they can leap out when I open the doors. I can't chase them down the street. I get Ted(not the guitar player, just in case you're confused), then Cash(surprisingly), and then I go for Tango, who skitters away into the closet with the fuse box, which is full of God-knows-what. I'm tossing out cans of paint, bags of ozite, sheaves of insulation. No cat.

Side Note #1: You know all of our cats, and are probably wondering who Tango and Cash are. They were feral kittens we found outside the Dowd Building in the early fall of 2008, where we use to rehearse the band. They stayed with me until this incident and were returned to the loft. Tango was sent to be a mouser at the Dowd Building, but escaped through a broken window. Cash became "Mama Kitty", thanks to Jack Hammer. I'll tell that story some other time.

Cash (grey) & Tango (yellow), sitting in my overnight bag, in said studio

Back to November 18, 2008:

Geez.

I go out...and see flames in one of the windows just next to the studio. I end up running down the street anyway...to the jail that isn't there anymore. I forgot they'd moved. I slip on the wet sidewalk and fall. Brilliant. Like some dumb girl in a horror flick. When the hell did it rain? I debate running two blocks to the empty fire station. A lot of good that would do.

Why am I running around the courthouse anyway, you ask? Why not just dial 911? Well, because there's nothing to dial it on. I only have Internet. And remember where I put the laptop? In the car!

Side Note #2: We'd already shut off the landline to the studio. And this was before I had a cell phone. Ancient technological times, my padawans.

I attempt to flag down Pilgrim's employees during shift change. No one stops. How nice. A nice man in a white pickup pulls up.  

"My building's on fire!"

It appears he doesn't have a cell. Just like I don't. (See??) "Oh, I'll call the fire department."

How clever. Poor guy.

I go back in and search for Tango for about a minute. The smoke has gotten so bad I can't breathe. I have to get out. So now I'm worried. I think of a recent house fire in Shreveport where they saved everyone but the family dog, who died of smoke inhalation, a lump of fur lying in the front yard.

Well, dead or alive, I'm getting my new "little kitty buddy" out of that building.

Before the fire department showed, two Pilgrim's workers pull up and start running to the front of the building, asking each other if they have their keys to the restaurant. They don't. So they're obviously connected to Lillie's Pad, restaurant in question. That's their place that's on fire. Uh oh.

The brave(huh) firefighters of DQFD pull up in 3 different trucks, meandering up Third Street to glance up at the flaming window. They hooked up hoses and set up a ladder to take on the inferno. Well, I say "they," more like one guy doing all the work and the others standing around watching. Like road construction workers. And sound crews. It looked like they got the flames out quick and spent the next half hour fanning the smoke out. It poured out every window. I got a little freaked out when a huge cloud formed outside the studio, but a quick glance into the door, propped open to allow venting, assured me there was nothing to fear.

I found it interesting that no one, not one firefighter spoke to me. Well, one did, asking me to park my car in the middle of Third Street, and whatever that other one is, Gilson, I think, to block the traffic. One other fireman waved at me. Gee, that's pleasant. I saw them speaking to the Lillie's Pad crew, now gathered up across the street at the courthouse, but no one came to ask if I was okay, or even who I was. Even when I was brave enough to venture back into the studio to search for Tango again, no one said, "Hey, lady, it's not safe to go back in yet!" I guess they thought I was some homeless person standing by the furniture store just taking in the scene. Yeah, okay, I was wearing a plaid flannel shirt and jeans but I didn't look like a transient. I'd even had time to brush my teeth and comb my hair.

The smoke had cleared somewhat in the studio so I went back in one more time to search for Tango. He was not in that closet. Then the power went out. Swepco had shown up, obviously to inspect the electricity, which I believe is the source of the fire. I had to go back out. Then it immediately came back on, so back in I went. I found the cat huddled behind my TV table. He'd slobbered some, poor baby, which is what some cats do when they're stressed, and his yellow fur was a little gray, but he was alive, and scared to death.

Ah, relief.

I picked him up and took him to the car, and he was welcomed by his "siblings" with open paws.

I hung around until the DQFD started rolling up hoses, which meant the danger was over. I made sure I had what I needed, locked up the studio, and decided to treat myself to breakfast. I had just enough cash for a McGriddles sandwich and a big Coke.

Now what? I considered scrapping going to Nashville and just going home to T-Town. I'm guilty about missing so much class already this semester(rare for me, really), so I decide to go to NV. I'll just finish Wagner and the late Romanticists and cut out early. But I knew I had to meet with the American Fidelity guy. A mandatory thing, grrrr. He'd only be in DQ today. More grrrr. The business office even called griping that I didn't see him the day before. Biggest grrrr of all. Well, y'know, I TEACH during the day? It's my JOB??!!?? I tried to see him Monday but all his appointments were full. The empty slots were during my class time. So I agreed to drive back to DQ to see this guy at 1. I don't even participate in that stuff because I have enough insurance.  

Okay, I digress.

From my DeQueen office, I messaged Don with my news. I dressed for class. I packed up what I needed for NV. Suddenly Andrew Day shows up to visit. Oops, don't have time for that. But it was nice of him to stop by. I pulled kittens out from underneath my bookcase, put them in the car. Fished Renegade Ted out from behind my computer monitor, put him in the car. I took them back to the studio until I could come back that afternoon. 

Went to NV. Played "Ride of the Valkyries." Skipped the Mahler symphony. Went back to DeQueen. Had to wait for what's-his-name (Grant is his name, very nice man) to get back from lunch. Visited with Sunni for a while. (It's so nice to have someone I can talk about school with, since she's in the same degree program with me at NCU. What a treat.) The American Fidelity guy showed, then I had to wait in line, for crying out loud. Listened to some of our employees talking about how bad they were in high school. (That's setting a real example...). Listened to the insurance spiel, signed my name to indicate he'd seen me. YES! I'm outta here now!

I go to pick up the kitties and take them home. They don't travel well. At least Ted doesn't. He likes to wander around the car and whine. I got to the flats before Ashdown and all three of them came out, sitting on top of the boxes looking at me. Ted decided he wanted to whine some more.  

"Do I have to turn on Peter Frampton?" Frampton calms him down, don't know why that is. I didn't turn it on. He did not like the Guns N' Roses, but "Sweet Child of Mine" needed some practice (I have no idea what I meant by that).

Anyway, I finally make it home. Frazzled but functioning. My husband was very happy to see me - smoky smell and all. (I did shower, but it didn't help. I can't imagine what spouses of firefighters have to deal with. I'll ask Heather. No, never mind.) We herded cats into the house and the little ones hid. Cash (aka Mama Kitty) ventured out some time later, but I didn't see Tango for a day. He was hiding behind some boxes we hadn't unpacked yet. He sat in my lap for over an hour the other night, demanding constant petting. Cash allows Don to touch. And if you knew Cash, this is a phenomenal event. Freaky cat, now bonding with Bug, the cantankerous old tom. Animals, animals, animals.

We had band rehearsal. I waited until Ted (now I'm talking about the guitar player) arrived so I wouldn't have to tell the story two more times. Don made an interesting comment:  He woke up at about 5:30 that same morning, which he never does, just out of the blue. He remembered thinking, "Something's up." Wild. I think there's a bit of psychic magic in those who are closely tied to one another.   

We practiced "My Sharona." Ah, music, rock and roll. Even if it's by a one-hit wonder pseudo-punk early 80s band. I felt much better. Big kiss to my Fender and some of the coolest musician guys in the whole world. My cool musician guy took good care of me that evening, and was thankful I was okay. He even gave Ted the Cat praise for waking me up. Now I have a life-saving kitty story, too. I lived through a really big fire once before, the Cerro Grande that wiped out about a third of Los Alamos. (Again, a big tale for another time.) But we had already evacuated and our duplex was spared. We even got our lost dog back. That was scary then, and even though I got out of the studio and the fire didn't destroy the building, I was still a little freaked out. I also find it interesting that this fire occurred the day after we all got a notice from our new landlord that we were to vacate the building by December 31 so he can begin "extensive renovations."

Hmmmm....

We were planning on moving out anyway, since we'd pretty much moved the studio to Texarkana. But we thought we still had some time. I feel really bad for Lillie, who was about to cook a big Thanksgiving dinner for the homeless and start a soup kitchen. She told me she really had no place to go. She also hadn't heard what really started the blaze. Like I said, it smelled electrical, like blown cables. She's completely out now. The thrift store is still there, something about a contract. Don't know the details there. And someone took my push-button light out of the upstairs bathroom. Bastards. That thing cost nine bucks!

(The building, the entire downstairs portion, is now Stilwell's Restaurant. The studio area was cleared out and is their formal dining room.)

The end of the DeQueen branch of Garth Vader Studios will happen in the next week. Don will come up and take the big items out of the front room, along with the tree stump and the auditorium seats (y'all know where those ended up!). I have removed all the records, and posters of past shows, some that included the Groovetones, from the wall. It's sad as I look at the "sheet music wallpaper" and remember how much work Don put into it. He was so proud of our little studio, and we had some great times there. We really did.

As far as where I will "crash" the days I'm in DeQueen, I have already been taken care of. One of the nicest people on campus has offered to rent me an extra room in her home, which is absolutely beautiful. It looks out over a pond and a gorgeous expanse of land, and it's not too far from where two of my favorite people used to live on Dog Town Road. I can take those walks in the country like I've been wanting to! I doubt I'll be riding the bike to school again-I saw some hills I just don't want to tackle. 

Yeah, so I was able to write a blog at the same time I was working on a fifteen page research paper, but that's done now. And I'm just glad I finally had a chance to write something besides distance education essays.


And that's the way it was...in November 2008. 

Playing Catch Up

Good day, Younglings. I haven't seen some of you in person in awhile, and it appears you are all doing quite well from the current pictures I've seen on Facebook and Instagram. We're still planning on the big Christmas trip this year...so be ready!

I confess I have fallen down on the "Blogging Just for YOU!" job. Unfortunately, it's called "Getting Through This Thing We Call Life." You will understand that one day, but hopefully we're teaching you all to rise above that, no matter how tough it may be. That can be approached two ways, I suppose:

1. You didn't blog because you were busy with school, work, raising your own family, etc.

OR

2. You didn't blog because you were out there ENJOYING life with REAL PEOPLE and not glued to an electronic device.

I'm going to blame #2! 😃

Which is partially true. In 2015, when I started this blog, my plan was to post monthly. Well...May and June get fairly busy when Poppa Don starts working his summer shows. I did post in July, and presented my entire Dissertation Debacle Saga Parts 1 and 2, so those count as both November and December.

2016 saw five posts: One about Prince, which was a "monumental" event in my case. "The End" was about my new job, moving me from teaching to administration, and that transition alone made a HYUGE impact on my free time. September was the best time to post about meeting your Poppa Don, and October was when the fabric store finally closed.

Then we lost our favorite Princess in December. Another post about a celebrity dying. I certainly don't want this to turn into Gigi's Dead Celebrity Tribute Page.

That makes 9 posts total, which means I owe you 15 more to make up for the months I missed. Oh, there are plenty that are already in the works, but some of those may take some extra effort (scanning of old pictures!!!) or are better reserved for a particular anniversary, etc. So I have an idea....

Gigi journals a lot. She has since she learned to write basically, so there is a vast amount of existing material to draw from. I won't bother digging through the diaries of my far distant youth ("Oh, wow...Shaun Cassidy is soooo cute!!")(You may want to look him up because you will not know who he is), nor will I bore you with the many ramblings of life as Ms Mac, although those will turn up on occasion. I have found however a few entertaining items from an old thumb drive that, with a little cleaning up (ahem), will make up for the months I was remiss. Some of these were previously public, as Facebook Notes (a feature you can't even access anymore), or MySpace blog posts, which have disappeared completely from the World Wide Web.

MySpace. Is that even a thing anymore? Have you kids even heard of it??

Anyway, stayed tuned for some blasts from the past, and I will try to update them as best as I can. In the meantime, here's a picture of the second most famous cat on the Internet:

RENEGADE TED

PS: This counts as one of the 15!! 14 to go!! Stay tuned!