"It will lead you into some strange pursuits, lead you to the land of forbidden fruits. It will scramble up your head and drag your brain about. Sometimes you gotta do like Elvis did and shoot the damn thing out."
In 1990, Columbia opened up its vaults and released 58 previously unreleased or alternate takes of Bob Dylan songs. Because Dylan is the most widely bootlegged artist in history the set was appropriately named The Bootleg Series. What was stunning about the set was that if these 58 songs were the only Dylan songs ever heard, an argument could still be made that he would deserve our respect as one of the finest songwriters and performers ever. Songs like Blind Willie McTell, Mama You've Been on My Mind, Foot of Pride, and Series of Dreams, are among Dylan's greatest songs, and thus some of rock's all time greats.
For Dylan collectors the boxset was appreciated but there was also a sense of disappointment knowing all that wasn't included. Soon after, some entrepreneurial fans compiled an entirely different collection of songs and called it The Genuine Bootleg Series. Again, what's startling is the quality of material Dylan has determined wasn't good enough for official release. Songs like Trouble In Mind (one of the most effective songs from his Born Again phase), and Hero Blues, are vital pieces to the Dylan catalog.
A second set of alternative and unreleased songs was "unofficially" released a couple years back and now a third set, The Genuine Bootleg Series Vol. 3 has found its way onto the market. Again, the quality of songs included is quite impressive, none more so than an alternative take of TV Talkin' Song a song that was originally included on 1990'sunderrated and under appreciated CD, Under the Red Sky (I know one person who believes every line on the CD has a direct Biblical reference- to which I point: Wiggle wiggle wiggle like a bowl of soup...).
"TV judges and TV clerks, TV repairman to fix it so it works. TV daddies and TV moms, and on the TV cities under bombs."
TV Talkin' Song is a rant against the pervasive influence television has on our society. The officially released take of the song doesn't make a dent as far as the impact compared to other Dylan sermons. But this glorious and previously unheard take is among Dylan's spookiest efforts. The song uses a skillful pullback narration technique where in the end the point of view spans out, and the events the narrator is so vividly describing turns out to be happening on TV.
TV Talkin Song is a song that Don Was, the producer of the sessions, has been quoted as saying was lost somewhere in the attempts to rewrite and rerecord it. Initially the most striking difference between the released take and the unreleased version is the quality of Dylan's vocals. In the Under the Red Sky version, Dylan's voice is raspy and hoarse and adds little to the performance. In the Genuine Bootleg version, Dylan sings the song in his lowest register, and the growl of his voice delivers the lyrics in a haunting and frightening way. The other notable difference is Randy Jackson's rambling bass which is insignificant in the official take and invaluable in the unreleased version. The melodic bassline counters Dylan's rumble through an angry tirade against how TV robs people's desire to think and feel.
"The news of the day is on all the time, All the latest gossip, all the latest rhyme, Puts your brain inside your eye and penetrates your skull, lays an egg inside your head and makes you dull."
The structure of the song is such that we don't know if the narrator is a believer in the sermon he is hearing. We do know however, mostly from the conviction of the vocals, how the songwriter feels about the issue. Unlike other high haunt Dylan songs like Ballad of Hollis Brown (political poverty), or Man in the Long Black Coat (personal poverty), TV Talkin Song is the type of doomsday rap that makes you question whether or not the writer has gone off the deep end. But just as you are about to make that judgment, events like from the past few weeks happen and you realize the paranoia of the song might be more grounded in reality than you originally thought. How far is it from the preacher in Hyde Park's sermon to the news of Jerry Falwell outing one of the Teletubbies? Maybe all those dollars spent in therapy talking about bunnies does have something to do with the many hours of Captain Kangaroo my mom let me watch as a child.
One wonders if Dylan truly believes the message of the song, why he rerecorded a version of Chimes of Freedom (with Joan Osborne) for the awful four hour NBC TV movie, The 60's, that recently aired. Having endured the entire dreadful scrubbed up summary of a decade just to hear the new version of a wonderful song, I must admit it was almost worth it to be able to hear the by-play between a voice joyfully singing a song he rarely sings anymore, and the familiar swirling organ sound from Al Kooper. In the end I figure the egg laid was more on the screen than in my mind.
Monday, February 22, 1999
Monday, February 8, 1999
Smegheads
It's cold outside, there's no kind of atmosphere, I'm all alone, more or less. Let me fly, far away from here, fun, fun, fun, in the sun, sun, sun... I want to lie shipwrecked and comatose, drinking fresh mango juice. Goldfish shoals, nibbling at my toes, fun, fun, fun, in the sun, sun, sun...
OK I'll admit my recent schedule has meant I have neglected my TV viewing obligations. I feel bad about not having the time to do my cultural duties but I figure my four to five hours of sleep a night can't be sacrificed. The two shows I will not miss under any circumstance these days are Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Red Dwarf (Channel 2 Sundays 10:30 - 11:30 p.m.)
I think most of you know about Buffy but for those of you unfamiliar with Red Dwarf, let me advise you to check it out. No bigger an expert on TV than our very own Al Brown, got me hooked on the show. Al, of course, is the finest connoisseur of British comedies I've ever come across. Perhaps the thing I miss most about working in the stores is having the chance to have Al point out another British show I should check out. I'll be forever in his debt for my many hours of being entertained by such fare as The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, The Black Adder, Allo Allo!, and Yes, Prime Minister.
Red Dwarf is the story of a northern English working class man, Dave Lister, who was caught for three million years in suspended animation on a giant space ship, the Red Dwarf. The human race no longer exists and this spaceage version of "Everyman" is joined on the ship by an doting android, Kryton; an intelligent but vain and shallow descendent of the cats that remained on the Red Dwarf after the human crew died; a hologram of a dead crew member, the prudish officer wannabe, Rimmer; and a less than intelligent computer, Holly.
What makes the show special is that it isn't so much a parody of the genre as it is a true science fiction show. The show's creators, Rob Grant and Doug Naylor, obviously have a fondness for sci fi. There also is a certain poignancy in the characters plight. They are forever stuck on this giant spaceship annoyed with each other's company at the same time as needing one and other to endure the doldrums of every day existence. Isn't it the universal truth that the ones we often have to spend the most time with are the ones that annoy us most? Lister is the perpetual underachieving slob; Rimmer the insipid egoist; Cat the self absorbed superficialist; Kryton the robotic dichotomy- forever just wanting to be what he knows is the inferior being.
Red Dwarf is one of those rare situation comedies that the more you watch the more you really come to appreciate the writing and the unusually well developed characters. You come to like the characters not despite of their shortcomings and faults, but because of them. Because they are so well developed, you just know how each character will react to the situation the plot puts them in, and while you appreciate that consistency, you also are moved as each grows just a little bit in each episode.
Last Sunday I saw my all time favorite episode (so far). In Back to Reality, the crew (or so it thinks) finds out that all that has come before is some elaborate hologram game in which they were merely playing the roles of the characters we have gotten to know so well. In reality (or so we think) they are the opposite of what they have thought they were. Lister is a rich businessman; Rimmer is a down and out bum; Kryton is an unsuccessful detective; and Cat is a dorky, uncool, unfashionable geek (with obscenely large buck teeth). As each tries to deal with this reality, there is a certain sadness in seeing that what they thought they were, and thought they wanted to be, is far different than what they have to be and are trying to escape.
Not to suggest that the show is too esoteric to enjoy (beware after viewing it you may never be able to go back to other science fiction shows). Nope the opposite is true. It is fun and funny and so well done that you find a thing or two in each episode to relate to despite the usual limitations of the medium. It can be as sophomoric as it is clever, relying less on slapstick than it does on the comical nature of human behavior when put in unique situations. In other words it has all the elements of the finest British comedies.
OK I'll admit my recent schedule has meant I have neglected my TV viewing obligations. I feel bad about not having the time to do my cultural duties but I figure my four to five hours of sleep a night can't be sacrificed. The two shows I will not miss under any circumstance these days are Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Red Dwarf (Channel 2 Sundays 10:30 - 11:30 p.m.)
I think most of you know about Buffy but for those of you unfamiliar with Red Dwarf, let me advise you to check it out. No bigger an expert on TV than our very own Al Brown, got me hooked on the show. Al, of course, is the finest connoisseur of British comedies I've ever come across. Perhaps the thing I miss most about working in the stores is having the chance to have Al point out another British show I should check out. I'll be forever in his debt for my many hours of being entertained by such fare as The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, The Black Adder, Allo Allo!, and Yes, Prime Minister.
Red Dwarf is the story of a northern English working class man, Dave Lister, who was caught for three million years in suspended animation on a giant space ship, the Red Dwarf. The human race no longer exists and this spaceage version of "Everyman" is joined on the ship by an doting android, Kryton; an intelligent but vain and shallow descendent of the cats that remained on the Red Dwarf after the human crew died; a hologram of a dead crew member, the prudish officer wannabe, Rimmer; and a less than intelligent computer, Holly.
What makes the show special is that it isn't so much a parody of the genre as it is a true science fiction show. The show's creators, Rob Grant and Doug Naylor, obviously have a fondness for sci fi. There also is a certain poignancy in the characters plight. They are forever stuck on this giant spaceship annoyed with each other's company at the same time as needing one and other to endure the doldrums of every day existence. Isn't it the universal truth that the ones we often have to spend the most time with are the ones that annoy us most? Lister is the perpetual underachieving slob; Rimmer the insipid egoist; Cat the self absorbed superficialist; Kryton the robotic dichotomy- forever just wanting to be what he knows is the inferior being.
Red Dwarf is one of those rare situation comedies that the more you watch the more you really come to appreciate the writing and the unusually well developed characters. You come to like the characters not despite of their shortcomings and faults, but because of them. Because they are so well developed, you just know how each character will react to the situation the plot puts them in, and while you appreciate that consistency, you also are moved as each grows just a little bit in each episode.
Last Sunday I saw my all time favorite episode (so far). In Back to Reality, the crew (or so it thinks) finds out that all that has come before is some elaborate hologram game in which they were merely playing the roles of the characters we have gotten to know so well. In reality (or so we think) they are the opposite of what they have thought they were. Lister is a rich businessman; Rimmer is a down and out bum; Kryton is an unsuccessful detective; and Cat is a dorky, uncool, unfashionable geek (with obscenely large buck teeth). As each tries to deal with this reality, there is a certain sadness in seeing that what they thought they were, and thought they wanted to be, is far different than what they have to be and are trying to escape.
Not to suggest that the show is too esoteric to enjoy (beware after viewing it you may never be able to go back to other science fiction shows). Nope the opposite is true. It is fun and funny and so well done that you find a thing or two in each episode to relate to despite the usual limitations of the medium. It can be as sophomoric as it is clever, relying less on slapstick than it does on the comical nature of human behavior when put in unique situations. In other words it has all the elements of the finest British comedies.
Monday, February 1, 1999
Picture This
My mother once told me that she always knew I'd go into journalism because it was in my blood. Her brothers were in the newspaper business. For me the lure was in the writing. I began keeping a journal when I was in third grade. I fell in love putting into words what was going on inside. To use and play with words, to write something another connects with, to get a smile or a tear from somebody just by something jotted on a piece of paper, that is a drug I've been addicted to ever since.
The big step came when I began writing for my junior high school's newspaper. To see my words printed out and distributed to so many- to see my classmates reading something I wrote- made me realize this was something I not only wanted to do- I needed to do it. It indeed was in my blood.
Not that sharing yourself is ever easy in any manner. I used to get queasy the days I knew the newspaper was going to come out. What if they didn't like what I wrote? Worse, what if no one read what I wrote? Over the years, on my high school's newspaper, on my college's newspaper, on the local newspapers I interned with, and now with the newsletter and another job where my writing actually goes worldwide on the Internet, that anxious feeling still remains. It may not be as intense but it still hits me with every issue of this publication and every article that I write.
A few years back I reached a dark and desolate place where even the words disappeared. It was then, more than ever, that I knew to get my balance back I needed to write. And it was then, I learned that my writing as important as it was to me, couldn't mean as much to others. That was a heartbreaking realization, yet at the same time it was a liberating one. I always wanted to write something that would change the world- just like a J.D. Salinger or F. Scott Fitzgerald short story, or Bob Dylan song did for my world. To accept that writing was an important part of me- to be able at times to write something where I had no idea where it came from- to at times accurately capture something inside- that in itself was world changing.
My mom has saved just about every article I've ever had published. So although at times it has felt like such a solitary endeavor, I know there are a few out there I've reached a time or two. It always feels good when someone tells me they liked something I wrote. It's great when that person is a complete stranger- it's heartwarming when it comes from the voice of a proud parent.
A few weeks back my mom pulled out the family pictures so that each of us kids could go through and take with us our favorite photographs. There was a period of my life when I began a project to prevent any further photographs of myself. I'm now glad I didn't succeed with that project. The premise was that the only evidence I wanted to leave behind were my words not images from a camera. I figured my words could leave an accurate picture of what was inside where photographs merely captured an outside shell which could be all too inaccurate of what was really going on at the time. But the problem with relying on the pictures inside your head is that they can became fuzzy real quick. The heart tends to influence their color. So the objectivity of the camera lens has its benefits.
It was fun going through the pictures of my family. It was fascinating sorting through the many images of myself- some which I remember being taken, some I stare at and wonder what became of the kid pictured. At the same time I was able for the first time to look through my parent's wedding album and pictures of them growing up. The youthful enthusiasm, the look of dreams in their eyes, was quite touching. It is hard to imagine that your parents were at one time your age, and were once facing some of the same things you now are trying to deal with. Being a self inflicted history major, I must admit sometimes I even can convince myself to believe I somehow managed to stumble across my destiny in college.
To sort through the years worth of black and white photos was to remember how it once felt to feel so secure; to feel that all of life held so much promise and the mere impatience of wanting to get to where you thought you were destined to go. There are pictures of me standing out in my parents' front yard. The trees which now tower over everything are just beginning to grow. The landscape looks entirely different than it does now- both inside and out. It is staggering to think of the many memories of days long gone, days never to return, and yet which forever remain a part of the person I now am. My mom and I over the last few weeks have been remembering little moments from the past- like in kindergarten how I had to decide what I wanted to be called, David or Dave- and how that was the first major decision I had to make. That my Mom asked me to make the choice says plenty about how I was raised. I'm never sure when I set pen to paper if I'll get it right. But sometimes it's more important just to get it out. The old adage is that a picture is worth a thousand words. Sometimes your heart needs both.
The big step came when I began writing for my junior high school's newspaper. To see my words printed out and distributed to so many- to see my classmates reading something I wrote- made me realize this was something I not only wanted to do- I needed to do it. It indeed was in my blood.
Not that sharing yourself is ever easy in any manner. I used to get queasy the days I knew the newspaper was going to come out. What if they didn't like what I wrote? Worse, what if no one read what I wrote? Over the years, on my high school's newspaper, on my college's newspaper, on the local newspapers I interned with, and now with the newsletter and another job where my writing actually goes worldwide on the Internet, that anxious feeling still remains. It may not be as intense but it still hits me with every issue of this publication and every article that I write.
A few years back I reached a dark and desolate place where even the words disappeared. It was then, more than ever, that I knew to get my balance back I needed to write. And it was then, I learned that my writing as important as it was to me, couldn't mean as much to others. That was a heartbreaking realization, yet at the same time it was a liberating one. I always wanted to write something that would change the world- just like a J.D. Salinger or F. Scott Fitzgerald short story, or Bob Dylan song did for my world. To accept that writing was an important part of me- to be able at times to write something where I had no idea where it came from- to at times accurately capture something inside- that in itself was world changing.
My mom has saved just about every article I've ever had published. So although at times it has felt like such a solitary endeavor, I know there are a few out there I've reached a time or two. It always feels good when someone tells me they liked something I wrote. It's great when that person is a complete stranger- it's heartwarming when it comes from the voice of a proud parent.
A few weeks back my mom pulled out the family pictures so that each of us kids could go through and take with us our favorite photographs. There was a period of my life when I began a project to prevent any further photographs of myself. I'm now glad I didn't succeed with that project. The premise was that the only evidence I wanted to leave behind were my words not images from a camera. I figured my words could leave an accurate picture of what was inside where photographs merely captured an outside shell which could be all too inaccurate of what was really going on at the time. But the problem with relying on the pictures inside your head is that they can became fuzzy real quick. The heart tends to influence their color. So the objectivity of the camera lens has its benefits.
It was fun going through the pictures of my family. It was fascinating sorting through the many images of myself- some which I remember being taken, some I stare at and wonder what became of the kid pictured. At the same time I was able for the first time to look through my parent's wedding album and pictures of them growing up. The youthful enthusiasm, the look of dreams in their eyes, was quite touching. It is hard to imagine that your parents were at one time your age, and were once facing some of the same things you now are trying to deal with. Being a self inflicted history major, I must admit sometimes I even can convince myself to believe I somehow managed to stumble across my destiny in college.
To sort through the years worth of black and white photos was to remember how it once felt to feel so secure; to feel that all of life held so much promise and the mere impatience of wanting to get to where you thought you were destined to go. There are pictures of me standing out in my parents' front yard. The trees which now tower over everything are just beginning to grow. The landscape looks entirely different than it does now- both inside and out. It is staggering to think of the many memories of days long gone, days never to return, and yet which forever remain a part of the person I now am. My mom and I over the last few weeks have been remembering little moments from the past- like in kindergarten how I had to decide what I wanted to be called, David or Dave- and how that was the first major decision I had to make. That my Mom asked me to make the choice says plenty about how I was raised. I'm never sure when I set pen to paper if I'll get it right. But sometimes it's more important just to get it out. The old adage is that a picture is worth a thousand words. Sometimes your heart needs both.
Monday, January 25, 1999
Lexi Lavitschke
As a little girl she used to sit at night, staring out her window to the skies above. The stars in her eyes were the inspiration to many an endless dream. There was something soothing in the infinity of the black star speckled landscape of the heavens. She had memorized so thoroughly the star patterns that when she closed her eyes she still could with picture perfect precision see all the constellation formations. At the same time the predictability, the knowing that whatever was up above would be there long after her own life was over, was of great comfort. There was something meaningful out there that was far bigger and more important than the daily tasks she had in front of her.
It didn't matter how the events of her day left her feeling. At the end of every day her gaze into the stars filled her heart with wonder and comfort, her mind with all that she could look forward to. Then one day she read a newspaper report saying that those who had the power to, were considering downgrading Pluto from a planet, to something else. The unthinkable was about to happen, she was going to lose a planet. And it was her favorite one on top of it all.
The news was of quite a shock and she began to see that the things she had come to take for granted and rely on were not as eternal as she had always believed. It was a gnawing, disheartening realization that was interrupted by a loud noise from outside. The noise startled her. She looked down at the wintery scene below her beloved stars. Something was out of place but she wasn't quite sure, nor could she see enough from her window to know what it was. There was something alarming about the sound that made her think about those people frightened at the prospect of the end of the millennium. Their fears seemed so crazy. She knew the sky wasn't going to fall. She rocked herself to sleep, her mind racing a mile a minute.
The next morning she wandered out to the lake outside her house. The frozen lake was covered with an undisturbed fresh sheet of snow, so smooth, so white that she wondered if the events of the previous night had just been a dream. She looked farther out on the lake and noticed a hole in the ice. As she got closer she noticed no footprints leading to the hole which she could now see was star-shaped.
Instinctively she looked up to the gray sky. Something was different than ever before. She couldn't see it with the naked eye, but she somehow knew that bigger than the hole in the ice was a hole in the heavens where Pluto would usually be. It must be tough to accept a loss of planet status, she thought. She was now directly over the hole. The water below seemed as deep as it was cold. She couldn't see anything underneath the rippling green of the exposed water. She was due to be at work soon so she slid her way back to her house and began her daily routine. On her way to work she turned on her radio and heard that local officials thought the hole in the ice she had seen was caused by a meteorite.
When she got to her work, she wondered if she should tell any of her co- workers about her recent events. But the words weren't there. Instead she pulled out her notebook and jotted the following: "Due to a limited lexicon I have a legitimate liability that can't be legally levied. Lots of leprechauns are less lucky. So soulfully I sing to the sinners who sold their salads for a song and dance." It didn't make any sense but somehow it made her feel better. She closed her notebook and carefully put it back in her desk in its familiar spot.
She decided she indeed could accept what she now knew, even if such an admission (and the internal confession of that self discovered admission) would've been inconceivable just twenty four hours before. How she felt, how she saw her world was forever changed yet there wasn't a choice in returning to the comfort of what she always knew. She pulled out her favorite comic book- the only comic she regularly read and its pictures were as familiar as those stars she sat underneath every night. Maybe the heavens weren't as reliable as she once thought, but at least the pictures of the yellowing pages of her favorite comic book would always be familiar. Yes she could always rely on her favorite storyline to remain consistent and true- Popeye forever in love, forever chasing the admirable independence of his heart's true love, Olive Oyl. The dependable 70 years of courting made her feel calm and relaxed. She knew she could always count on them to remain true to their code...
It didn't matter how the events of her day left her feeling. At the end of every day her gaze into the stars filled her heart with wonder and comfort, her mind with all that she could look forward to. Then one day she read a newspaper report saying that those who had the power to, were considering downgrading Pluto from a planet, to something else. The unthinkable was about to happen, she was going to lose a planet. And it was her favorite one on top of it all.
The news was of quite a shock and she began to see that the things she had come to take for granted and rely on were not as eternal as she had always believed. It was a gnawing, disheartening realization that was interrupted by a loud noise from outside. The noise startled her. She looked down at the wintery scene below her beloved stars. Something was out of place but she wasn't quite sure, nor could she see enough from her window to know what it was. There was something alarming about the sound that made her think about those people frightened at the prospect of the end of the millennium. Their fears seemed so crazy. She knew the sky wasn't going to fall. She rocked herself to sleep, her mind racing a mile a minute.
The next morning she wandered out to the lake outside her house. The frozen lake was covered with an undisturbed fresh sheet of snow, so smooth, so white that she wondered if the events of the previous night had just been a dream. She looked farther out on the lake and noticed a hole in the ice. As she got closer she noticed no footprints leading to the hole which she could now see was star-shaped.
Instinctively she looked up to the gray sky. Something was different than ever before. She couldn't see it with the naked eye, but she somehow knew that bigger than the hole in the ice was a hole in the heavens where Pluto would usually be. It must be tough to accept a loss of planet status, she thought. She was now directly over the hole. The water below seemed as deep as it was cold. She couldn't see anything underneath the rippling green of the exposed water. She was due to be at work soon so she slid her way back to her house and began her daily routine. On her way to work she turned on her radio and heard that local officials thought the hole in the ice she had seen was caused by a meteorite.
When she got to her work, she wondered if she should tell any of her co- workers about her recent events. But the words weren't there. Instead she pulled out her notebook and jotted the following: "Due to a limited lexicon I have a legitimate liability that can't be legally levied. Lots of leprechauns are less lucky. So soulfully I sing to the sinners who sold their salads for a song and dance." It didn't make any sense but somehow it made her feel better. She closed her notebook and carefully put it back in her desk in its familiar spot.
She decided she indeed could accept what she now knew, even if such an admission (and the internal confession of that self discovered admission) would've been inconceivable just twenty four hours before. How she felt, how she saw her world was forever changed yet there wasn't a choice in returning to the comfort of what she always knew. She pulled out her favorite comic book- the only comic she regularly read and its pictures were as familiar as those stars she sat underneath every night. Maybe the heavens weren't as reliable as she once thought, but at least the pictures of the yellowing pages of her favorite comic book would always be familiar. Yes she could always rely on her favorite storyline to remain consistent and true- Popeye forever in love, forever chasing the admirable independence of his heart's true love, Olive Oyl. The dependable 70 years of courting made her feel calm and relaxed. She knew she could always count on them to remain true to their code...
Monday, January 18, 1999
Plant Parenthood
CYCLAMEN (Cy'clamen)
DESCRIPTION: These gorgeous plants have heart-shaped leaves marked with silver and they produce double or single flowers that are colored white, salmon, lavender, or red, on top of slender stems. Some flower in the fall, others in late spring. These plants range from Greece to Syria. A minimum temperature of 45 degrees is required.
For Christmas I went to a floral shop to buy my mom a plant. I had no idea how to pick out a plant my mom would like so after much contemplation, I looked at all my many options and decided just to go with the one I liked best. I ended up with a Cyclamen which I must say was a terrific choice. What a fine looking plant it is.
I eventually chose the Cyclamen because of its color. It is a light violet, a shade that suggested something between peace and beauty. But as with everything with me, once I made my choice I needed to find out all I could about this new discovery and share it with everyone I know.
I've never been much for taking care of plants. The fact that you actually have to work at keeping them going has been more than I wanted to attempt. And for the last seven years I've had a roommate with a fondness for eating any shrubbery I may bring into our humble abode. Yet the plant I chose for my mother is the type I think would brighten up my own home. There is something quite rejuvenating about watching its cycles: from flowering to wilting to regeneration of new buds. And while each is new, the cycle itself breeds comforting familiarity. Just when you think it won't come back, a new bud is born again. Yes indeed, I've become a Cyclamen man.
This has been an extremely long week. I'm tired and as I put the finishing touches on the newsletter, I must admit all I can think about is my new found knowledge. Thus the following is just about all you'd ever need to know about my new favorite plant. Go ahead, go pick one up for yourself! It's guaranteed to liven up any room!
POTTING: Young plants should be planted in small pots filled with a compost of two-thirds loam and one-third leaf mold, with an abundance of sand added. A warm, dry atmosphere must be avoided. Ashes placed on the benches will humidify the air by the moisture they hold. The greenhouse must be ventilated well in mild weather and the floor and benches dampened often. As the Cyclamen grow, they need to be continuously repotted. By early summer, they should be in pots that are 5 or 6 inches in diameter, these are usually the final pots in which they will bloom. For the final potting, the soil should consist of two-thirds loam, one-third leaf mold and dry cow manure, with a scattered amount of sand, charcoal and bone meal added.
During the summer, they should be placed in a shaded area where the atmosphere is cool and moist. In hot weather, it would be beneficial to sprits them with water. Do not over water these plants, but make sure they don't dry out either. In the spring, when they have finished blooming, the plants are usually thrown out, but it is possible to keep old plants and replant them the following year. If this is to be done, the plants are to be watered until they die. As the leaves whither, less and less water is given. When they have completely died, the pots holding the tubers are left in a shaded area until late July or early August. They are then taken out of the soil and repotted in the compost as described above. Place them in a cold frame where they will start growing again if the soil is kept fairly moist. Near the end of September they need to be placed in a cool, ventilated greenhouse. These plants may also be planted in the garden. They'll thrive in partially shaded areas. Some leaf mold and pieces of sandstone or brick should be mixed into the garden soil, unless it's already suitable. In cold climates they should be protected with leaves in the winter. When planting the tubers of hardy Cyclamen, make sure to set them at the correct depth. Those of C. neapolitanum should be covered with 2 to 3 inches of soil, but the others should only be set under about an inch. The best time to plant those that bloom in the late summer and fall is in July or August. Those that bloom in the spring should be planted in August or September.
PROPAGATION: Seeds should be sown in pans full of leaf mold, sifted loam and sand and placed in a shady frame or a cool greenhouse. Since they don't germinate at the same time, it is necessary to sow them thinly, so the first seedlings can be transplanted when they're large enough to be handled.
VARIETIES-Autumn Flowering: C. africanum (lg. marbled leaves & pale reddish flowers); C. cilicicum (pretty leaves & light rose flowers); C. europaeum (lovely marked leaves & fragrant rose colored flowers); C. neapolitanum (pale rose-red flowers opening before the leaves).
Spring Flowering: C. coum (rose-red); C. ibericum (rose-red); C. repandum (reddish-crimson).
DESCRIPTION: These gorgeous plants have heart-shaped leaves marked with silver and they produce double or single flowers that are colored white, salmon, lavender, or red, on top of slender stems. Some flower in the fall, others in late spring. These plants range from Greece to Syria. A minimum temperature of 45 degrees is required.
For Christmas I went to a floral shop to buy my mom a plant. I had no idea how to pick out a plant my mom would like so after much contemplation, I looked at all my many options and decided just to go with the one I liked best. I ended up with a Cyclamen which I must say was a terrific choice. What a fine looking plant it is.
I eventually chose the Cyclamen because of its color. It is a light violet, a shade that suggested something between peace and beauty. But as with everything with me, once I made my choice I needed to find out all I could about this new discovery and share it with everyone I know.
I've never been much for taking care of plants. The fact that you actually have to work at keeping them going has been more than I wanted to attempt. And for the last seven years I've had a roommate with a fondness for eating any shrubbery I may bring into our humble abode. Yet the plant I chose for my mother is the type I think would brighten up my own home. There is something quite rejuvenating about watching its cycles: from flowering to wilting to regeneration of new buds. And while each is new, the cycle itself breeds comforting familiarity. Just when you think it won't come back, a new bud is born again. Yes indeed, I've become a Cyclamen man.
This has been an extremely long week. I'm tired and as I put the finishing touches on the newsletter, I must admit all I can think about is my new found knowledge. Thus the following is just about all you'd ever need to know about my new favorite plant. Go ahead, go pick one up for yourself! It's guaranteed to liven up any room!
POTTING: Young plants should be planted in small pots filled with a compost of two-thirds loam and one-third leaf mold, with an abundance of sand added. A warm, dry atmosphere must be avoided. Ashes placed on the benches will humidify the air by the moisture they hold. The greenhouse must be ventilated well in mild weather and the floor and benches dampened often. As the Cyclamen grow, they need to be continuously repotted. By early summer, they should be in pots that are 5 or 6 inches in diameter, these are usually the final pots in which they will bloom. For the final potting, the soil should consist of two-thirds loam, one-third leaf mold and dry cow manure, with a scattered amount of sand, charcoal and bone meal added.
During the summer, they should be placed in a shaded area where the atmosphere is cool and moist. In hot weather, it would be beneficial to sprits them with water. Do not over water these plants, but make sure they don't dry out either. In the spring, when they have finished blooming, the plants are usually thrown out, but it is possible to keep old plants and replant them the following year. If this is to be done, the plants are to be watered until they die. As the leaves whither, less and less water is given. When they have completely died, the pots holding the tubers are left in a shaded area until late July or early August. They are then taken out of the soil and repotted in the compost as described above. Place them in a cold frame where they will start growing again if the soil is kept fairly moist. Near the end of September they need to be placed in a cool, ventilated greenhouse. These plants may also be planted in the garden. They'll thrive in partially shaded areas. Some leaf mold and pieces of sandstone or brick should be mixed into the garden soil, unless it's already suitable. In cold climates they should be protected with leaves in the winter. When planting the tubers of hardy Cyclamen, make sure to set them at the correct depth. Those of C. neapolitanum should be covered with 2 to 3 inches of soil, but the others should only be set under about an inch. The best time to plant those that bloom in the late summer and fall is in July or August. Those that bloom in the spring should be planted in August or September.
PROPAGATION: Seeds should be sown in pans full of leaf mold, sifted loam and sand and placed in a shady frame or a cool greenhouse. Since they don't germinate at the same time, it is necessary to sow them thinly, so the first seedlings can be transplanted when they're large enough to be handled.
VARIETIES-Autumn Flowering: C. africanum (lg. marbled leaves & pale reddish flowers); C. cilicicum (pretty leaves & light rose flowers); C. europaeum (lovely marked leaves & fragrant rose colored flowers); C. neapolitanum (pale rose-red flowers opening before the leaves).
Spring Flowering: C. coum (rose-red); C. ibericum (rose-red); C. repandum (reddish-crimson).
Monday, January 11, 1999
Pennies from Heaven
My friend promised me that if I got a job she would come over and help me clean out and organize my closets. So with this extra bit of incentive I decided that yes indeed, it was time to end my retirement. This past week I took a position with the Senate Publications Office (for those of you who HAVE to read every word I write you can see my work at: www.leg.senate.state.mn.us). True to her word, my friend was over on Saturday to work on the project I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.
I have a bit of a secret. The reason my house looks as clean as it does is that everything of clutter is thrown into my limited closet space. There is stuff stored in my closets that I haven't looked at since moving into my house three years ago. Darn if my friend didn't do a miraculous job. She reorganized my closets to better organize my clothes. She showed me how to properly fold my pants so that I don't end up looking like a hobo. She even suggested buying a pants hanyer (or as we Maeda's say, "hanger." Since when is a "G" silent I ask?) which can hold multiple pairs of slacks and a tie rack to organize my impressive collection of hideous neckwear.
So as I prepare to begin my new job on Monday I may still have the same old clothes but now I can better find them and they don't have a permanent wrinkled look to them. My appearance promises to dazzle all down at the State Capitol. I'll knock their socks off, and now that my own socks are neatly arranged, I may even have on a matching pair my own self.
My friend left with some further suggestions as to how I could reorganize my rooms and closets and furniture to get my money's worth from my space. So as I was rearranging some furniture (in between bouts of anxiety worrying about whether or not this is truly the time the Earth has broken out of its orbit and we are hurdling away from the sun- thus the frigid weather) I accidently bumped into my dresser and down crashed my whiskey bottle full (and I mean FULL) of pennies. Glass and pennies flew everywhere. Mr. Max proved he hasn't lost any of his reflexes. I've never seen a cat bolt out of a room faster. I spent the next hour trying to separate the glass from the pennies. It seemed like an insurmountable task and for a moment I seriously considered giving up and leaving the mess there- my own little version of what Ground Round does- only with pennies on the floor instead of peanuts.
Of course as I carefully separated the glass from the pennies I couldn't help but get a little philosophical about my blasted predicament. Life is like a jar of pennies. You save up in hopes of building up a nice nest egg. Most often throwing the pennies in the jar is an afterthought- you have nowhere else to put them. You never think what you collect will add up to much. But after a period of diligent saving you actually accumulate a nice little stash. (Heck I may have enough where I can put a nice down payment toward another whiskey bottle.)
But through clumsiness or laziness or lack of attention you bump into the savings you have taken for granted and it all comes crashing down. Now the valuables you have saved are mixed in with dangerous sharp pieces of glass- some so tiny you don't seem them until after they cut you. And it's up to you, and you alone, to clean up the mess that's left behind. You grab a plastic water pitcher you never use and begin to put the pennies inside. You fret that it doesn't look as impressive without the clear container that allows you to watch your collection grow. But you soon realize that the container isn't nearly as important as what is inside. It's the inside that most often matters.
One by one you gather up the pennies. You wonder if you'll ever be able to get them all bottled up again. Sooner than you expect the pile doesn't look so intimidating any more. You actually see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. And the moment eventually comes when you are done. You sweep up the glass and look at your dirty hands. You may have made the mistake of carelessness but you have corrected that mistake and you have the sweat and blackened palms to prove it. You've even learned a valuable lesson from your experience. Whoever said never put all your eggs in the same basket didn't have it quite right. It's more accurate advice to say you shouldn't put all your pennies in a glass whiskey bottle. And it is always quite helpful getting advice about what should and when you should come out of your closet.
I have a bit of a secret. The reason my house looks as clean as it does is that everything of clutter is thrown into my limited closet space. There is stuff stored in my closets that I haven't looked at since moving into my house three years ago. Darn if my friend didn't do a miraculous job. She reorganized my closets to better organize my clothes. She showed me how to properly fold my pants so that I don't end up looking like a hobo. She even suggested buying a pants hanyer (or as we Maeda's say, "hanger." Since when is a "G" silent I ask?) which can hold multiple pairs of slacks and a tie rack to organize my impressive collection of hideous neckwear.
So as I prepare to begin my new job on Monday I may still have the same old clothes but now I can better find them and they don't have a permanent wrinkled look to them. My appearance promises to dazzle all down at the State Capitol. I'll knock their socks off, and now that my own socks are neatly arranged, I may even have on a matching pair my own self.
My friend left with some further suggestions as to how I could reorganize my rooms and closets and furniture to get my money's worth from my space. So as I was rearranging some furniture (in between bouts of anxiety worrying about whether or not this is truly the time the Earth has broken out of its orbit and we are hurdling away from the sun- thus the frigid weather) I accidently bumped into my dresser and down crashed my whiskey bottle full (and I mean FULL) of pennies. Glass and pennies flew everywhere. Mr. Max proved he hasn't lost any of his reflexes. I've never seen a cat bolt out of a room faster. I spent the next hour trying to separate the glass from the pennies. It seemed like an insurmountable task and for a moment I seriously considered giving up and leaving the mess there- my own little version of what Ground Round does- only with pennies on the floor instead of peanuts.
Of course as I carefully separated the glass from the pennies I couldn't help but get a little philosophical about my blasted predicament. Life is like a jar of pennies. You save up in hopes of building up a nice nest egg. Most often throwing the pennies in the jar is an afterthought- you have nowhere else to put them. You never think what you collect will add up to much. But after a period of diligent saving you actually accumulate a nice little stash. (Heck I may have enough where I can put a nice down payment toward another whiskey bottle.)
But through clumsiness or laziness or lack of attention you bump into the savings you have taken for granted and it all comes crashing down. Now the valuables you have saved are mixed in with dangerous sharp pieces of glass- some so tiny you don't seem them until after they cut you. And it's up to you, and you alone, to clean up the mess that's left behind. You grab a plastic water pitcher you never use and begin to put the pennies inside. You fret that it doesn't look as impressive without the clear container that allows you to watch your collection grow. But you soon realize that the container isn't nearly as important as what is inside. It's the inside that most often matters.
One by one you gather up the pennies. You wonder if you'll ever be able to get them all bottled up again. Sooner than you expect the pile doesn't look so intimidating any more. You actually see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. And the moment eventually comes when you are done. You sweep up the glass and look at your dirty hands. You may have made the mistake of carelessness but you have corrected that mistake and you have the sweat and blackened palms to prove it. You've even learned a valuable lesson from your experience. Whoever said never put all your eggs in the same basket didn't have it quite right. It's more accurate advice to say you shouldn't put all your pennies in a glass whiskey bottle. And it is always quite helpful getting advice about what should and when you should come out of your closet.
Monday, January 4, 1999
1998 Woman of the Year
Previous Women of the Year:
1992- H. Ross Perot
1993- St. Francis of Assisi
1994- Newt Gingrich
1995- Cal Ripken Jr.
1996- The Dole Campaign
1997- Dolly the Sheep
Due to the uproar and outrage that was voiced by protest groups angry with last year's selection of Dolly the cloned sheep as our newsletter's Woman of the Year, committee members met early in 1998 to discuss the selection process. The committee also met with protesters from the most vocal opposition group, People Against the Newsletter's Selection of Dolly the Sheep as the Woman of the Year (PATNSODTSATWOTY).
Protesters of PATNSODTSATWOTY expressed concern that the selection of Dolly did not meet the standards written in the committee's bylaws as to what qualifies as a Woman of the Year. The newsletter committee tried its best to explain the selection citing the criteria for Woman of the Year states that the winner must "meet the high standards" that sets Cheapo apart from its competition. Dolly met this criteria according to the newsletter committee due to the innovation behind her creation and the fact that her "used" DNA was metaphoric for Cheapo's reputation as the finest used music store in the Twin Cities area.
While the newsletter committee stood behind its selection it was agreed there were issues involved that needed to be addressed to alleviate concerns over the fairness of the selection process. These concerns included incidents such as the "erroneous coin flip" and the increase in the number of pass interference calls. To avoid similar problems in the future it was agreed that each committee member look within themselves to examine what could be done to improve the process.
Eventually it was decided that each committee member should devote more energy toward the selection process and thus it was mandated that to serve on the Newsletter Woman of the Year Selection Committee, members had to quit their other occupations and become full time committee participants. The other major improvement was to upgrade the selection committee's computer. Unfortunately the funds were no longer available seeing none of the committee members had any income coming in so the old computer equipment was once again utilized for this year's process.
With renewed vigor and energy committee members ferreted through reams of information about perspective candidates. Hours upon hours were devoted to intensive research, discussion, and debate. Once all the information was fed into the computer, it became apparent Y2K issues were rampant in the hardware and software utilized in the process. For whatever reason no matter what data was fed in, only one name was generated: Susan B. Anthony. While Ms. Anthony's credentials impressed all the committee members, none of the members were too fond of that whole Susan B. Anthony dollar coin fiasco of years back.
Thus the committee resigned itself to manually selecting this year's Woman of the Year. Although there were numerous qualified candidates the committee quickly narrowed its choices down to four. Consideration had to be given to the cast of characters involved in the Washington debacle that occupied so much of our nation's attention this past year. The committee considered Hillary Rodham Clinton for her admirable strength and dignity through the whole ordeal. Either Ms. Clinton has nerves of steel or she hides her turmoil better than any human this side of the Mississippi. Also considered was Linda Tripp because she single handedly focused attention upon the tape industry- an industry our company still has a stake in. After much discussion both women were eliminated from consideration because the scandal involved goes beyond absurdity. Enough already.
The runner up candidate too received far too much attention for the committee's tastes. But of course any year end review consideration had to include Mr. Ventura. Yes Jesse's story was quite remarkable and the next four years should at the very least be entertaining (something government rarely is). Jesse's last bit of publicity was to suggest his wife should be paid for her first lady's duties. The newsletter committee tends to suspect Jesse made the suggestion less out of concern for women's rights issues and more out of concern for the Ventura family pocketbook.
When it came down to the wire the winner was rather obvious because 1998 was nothing if not the year of the storm. It blew. It came. It went. The damage left behind is still a tad indeterminable. But it left its mark. For every disaster there was someone out there who was willing to blame it on our winner. And in that end it all kind of makes sense. We have been told by one who should know that our winner's name is considered offensive by those who speak the language. Still, no name was heard from as much in 1998. Congratulations to the 1998 Woman of the Year: El Nino.
1992- H. Ross Perot
1993- St. Francis of Assisi
1994- Newt Gingrich
1995- Cal Ripken Jr.
1996- The Dole Campaign
1997- Dolly the Sheep
Due to the uproar and outrage that was voiced by protest groups angry with last year's selection of Dolly the cloned sheep as our newsletter's Woman of the Year, committee members met early in 1998 to discuss the selection process. The committee also met with protesters from the most vocal opposition group, People Against the Newsletter's Selection of Dolly the Sheep as the Woman of the Year (PATNSODTSATWOTY).
Protesters of PATNSODTSATWOTY expressed concern that the selection of Dolly did not meet the standards written in the committee's bylaws as to what qualifies as a Woman of the Year. The newsletter committee tried its best to explain the selection citing the criteria for Woman of the Year states that the winner must "meet the high standards" that sets Cheapo apart from its competition. Dolly met this criteria according to the newsletter committee due to the innovation behind her creation and the fact that her "used" DNA was metaphoric for Cheapo's reputation as the finest used music store in the Twin Cities area.
While the newsletter committee stood behind its selection it was agreed there were issues involved that needed to be addressed to alleviate concerns over the fairness of the selection process. These concerns included incidents such as the "erroneous coin flip" and the increase in the number of pass interference calls. To avoid similar problems in the future it was agreed that each committee member look within themselves to examine what could be done to improve the process.
Eventually it was decided that each committee member should devote more energy toward the selection process and thus it was mandated that to serve on the Newsletter Woman of the Year Selection Committee, members had to quit their other occupations and become full time committee participants. The other major improvement was to upgrade the selection committee's computer. Unfortunately the funds were no longer available seeing none of the committee members had any income coming in so the old computer equipment was once again utilized for this year's process.
With renewed vigor and energy committee members ferreted through reams of information about perspective candidates. Hours upon hours were devoted to intensive research, discussion, and debate. Once all the information was fed into the computer, it became apparent Y2K issues were rampant in the hardware and software utilized in the process. For whatever reason no matter what data was fed in, only one name was generated: Susan B. Anthony. While Ms. Anthony's credentials impressed all the committee members, none of the members were too fond of that whole Susan B. Anthony dollar coin fiasco of years back.
Thus the committee resigned itself to manually selecting this year's Woman of the Year. Although there were numerous qualified candidates the committee quickly narrowed its choices down to four. Consideration had to be given to the cast of characters involved in the Washington debacle that occupied so much of our nation's attention this past year. The committee considered Hillary Rodham Clinton for her admirable strength and dignity through the whole ordeal. Either Ms. Clinton has nerves of steel or she hides her turmoil better than any human this side of the Mississippi. Also considered was Linda Tripp because she single handedly focused attention upon the tape industry- an industry our company still has a stake in. After much discussion both women were eliminated from consideration because the scandal involved goes beyond absurdity. Enough already.
The runner up candidate too received far too much attention for the committee's tastes. But of course any year end review consideration had to include Mr. Ventura. Yes Jesse's story was quite remarkable and the next four years should at the very least be entertaining (something government rarely is). Jesse's last bit of publicity was to suggest his wife should be paid for her first lady's duties. The newsletter committee tends to suspect Jesse made the suggestion less out of concern for women's rights issues and more out of concern for the Ventura family pocketbook.
When it came down to the wire the winner was rather obvious because 1998 was nothing if not the year of the storm. It blew. It came. It went. The damage left behind is still a tad indeterminable. But it left its mark. For every disaster there was someone out there who was willing to blame it on our winner. And in that end it all kind of makes sense. We have been told by one who should know that our winner's name is considered offensive by those who speak the language. Still, no name was heard from as much in 1998. Congratulations to the 1998 Woman of the Year: El Nino.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
