Where Seclusion and Gaudiness Meet

"The Blue Room" often plays on my internal AM Radio. The algebra of secluded hideaway+ secret life with cherished loved one+garish monochromatic decorating+Rogers & Hart jazz standard= stuck in my head since 1998. I like the concepts. I like the tune. Had I but known that the blue room, blue rooms, even, existed I would have taken my sentimental ass to the Madonna Inn long ago. Trip slated for winter 2k9. How excited am I?




all pictures by Phyllis Madonna, from the Madonna Inn site.

High School Rehashbrowns

I'm going to go see High School Music 3. I haven't even seen the first two, but I think Zac Efron must be emitting yet unheard-of tele-pheromones, against which I'm powerless. Tie me to the mast so that I cannot heed his siren song! Incidentally, that siren song is about winning at basketball.

Picture Provided By: TeenIdols4You.com
High school has been on my mind lately, probably because:
1. People I know from high school have been hanging out with me, and it's been nice/sometimes I hang out with people who might be in high school, and it's been... I'm old.
2. The tentative flirtations exchanged with my math teacher during that time continue to eclipse the emotional intensity experienced in any of my actual romances.
3. My interactions with friends have been colored by an uncharacteristic unwillingness to be forthcoming, and my communication has taken the least-forward form modernity has to offer-- texting. Hey, I'm just fearing rejection(s) and savoring that high school flavor! (Tastes weirdly like caffeinated mints).

Dyspeptic Daughters of the Golden Fried West

I looked into joining the fraternal organization The Native Sons and Daughters of the Golden West, because I'm a 7th generation Californian. I took a peek at the group picture of my local chapter, only to find about 20 overweight, middle-aged, dyspeptic-looking women in voluminous hairdos looking like they should belong to a club called Hometown Buffet and Applebees Enthusiasts of The Golden West. I'm not sure what I was expecting to find-- either something younger and hipper or, on the opposite end of the spectrum, women in prairie dresses and blue bonnets, having freshly escaped from some kind of Mormon sect. I don't need to join--the spirit of the pioneers manifests itself in my restlessness and wanderlust. I hear the El Camino Real bell ringing in my ears! The trains rattle my house at night and I feel I must go! Sometimes my grandpa gets up from the dinner table and inexplicably says, "Last of the frontier" as his parting remark!

Additionally, I just broke my cassette player listening to The Sons of the Pioneers tape. Outdated technology... last of the frontier...

Recession Romance 2k8

I'm pretty sure the number of eggs I consumed today exceeded six. The weather's changing, so that means the same Danish clogs, but with the diabetes socks (bunching, as they do, at the ankles), and scarves over 2006's most threadbare shirts. Despite the cooling temperature, I seem to be developing what could only be called a sweating problem with accompanying smell problem (like pine-scented solvent meets carne asada).

And yet, I've never been more on top of my game. I'm just gonna kick back in my pajamas that double as evening wear with a Garfield anthology and a mug with my astrological sign on it and let the popularity roll on in.

File Under: Terrifying Early Childhood Memories

In addition to Greatest American Hero, my other earliest childhood television memory is Zoobilee Zoo. Zoobilee Z00 was essentially a half hour of humans dressed as stuffed animals making wild facial expressions and erratic movements whilst singing about problems every human child faces-- like making silly mistakes. Or being an anthropomorphic cockatoo.

I mainly remember Ben Vereen, dressed in what appeared to be a dusty, bedraggled leopard costume stolen from a dumpster behind an off-Broadway production of Cats and one of Prince's least favorite jackets, slinking over the top of a piano while attempting to impart a condescending moral lesson. As always, I turned to YouTube to jog my memory further. I was pleased to find that the voices are badly out of sync with the characters' mouths, and sound as if they were recorded separately using a YakBak.

The characters whine and shriek in infantile voices while capering about an obvious soundstage, scattered with irrelevant props painted in garish day-glo colors. There is a pink thing that looks a lot like a live-action Popple, but is supposedly a kangaroo flautist. There is a beaver who looks like Orville Redenbacher, a Teddy Ruxpin-esque "adventure" bear (whatever that is), an irritating squawking bird with a Chiquita Banana style accent and headress (easily the most believable character), a lion whose interest in art is eclipsed only by his uncanny likeness to Chaka Khan in the "I Feel For You" video, and finally, the most terrifying character, Bravo Fox.

Bravo Fox, I believe, must have been styled heavily after John Worthington Foulfellow, the manipulative fox in Pinocchio, only with a curious middle Atlantic accent that usually sounded like he ran afoul of Betty Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. He is played by a statuesque balding man in a threadbare butler's uniform with orange tufts of "fur" bursting from every seam. Bravo Fox haunted me for years after I stopped watching the show, and was the subject of several recurring nightmares when I was seven. In these nightmares, he was usually a criminal mastermind with supernatural powers. He would send me puzzling letters ala the zodiac killer detailing his evil schemes. I eventually published a book about him and appeared on talk shows to educate the good citizens of our country about the impending danger. This only made him want to kill me, and I'd spend the remainder of the dream seeking protection from the skeptical, unfeeling police department.

Probably the weirdest thing about this show is that it's only weird in retrospect. When I was a kid, I loved it and wanted to be a Zooble.

The Man with Golden Buttered Popcorn Tresses

I realize that, originally, I started this blog to catalog my adolescent experiences with Easy Listening. I realize, also, that I have become very tangential. Gentle reader, I apologize for straying, but I've only just begun. I want to share with you my first crush ever, who I had forgotten about until yesterday.
Here's how I remembered:
I'm on the horn with Amanda, discussing the trajectory of our journeys through life as ENFPs (I wish I were joking). I admit to her that sometimes, when confused about my personal trajectory, I listen to the original Broadway recording of Pippin. I identify with the main character, I say. I explain that the themes of Pippin-- coming of age, the restlessness and confusion of early adulthood, trying to find one's place-- are very relevant now. Pippin, I suggest, is a total ENFP. "Rachel," she says, "you sound like some kind of second rate theater school reject." Fair enough. This derisive comment didn't stop me from watching Pippin on Youtube for the next hour. I wrote the lyrics to this song in more than one high school yearbook. Second rate theater school reject. Once I saw William Katt as Pippin, I got a strange feeling of familiarity. Where had I seen him? After some truly wild synapse firings, I remembered:
Of course! He's Ralph, AKA Greatest American Hero AKA My First Crush Ever. Considering the competence of my television babysitter, it's no small wonder that the opening sequence of Greatest American Hero is, without a doubt, the cradle of some of my earliest memories. I remember forcing my dad to rush me home from my grandparents house so that I could watch this show, it being a life or death (tantrum) situation. I also remember him fashioning some homemade "I Love Ralph" stickers on a primitive label maker for me. I stuck them on the blue chair I sat in during rapt Greatest American Hero viewings. I'm not sure why, at age 3, I found him so appealing. Perhaps I was just recognizing the universal appeal of semi-androgynous men with hair the color and texture of buttered popcorn (see also: Christopher Atkins). I can't remember what the show is about, really... I think Ralph found a red suit which, when worn, imbued him with superhero powers. He never really mastered flying in the suit, and would usually make hilarious crash landings.
This is my first crush. This is my earliest memory. Second rate theater school reject. Something worse?

In Search Of...?

"But, I want you to give me-- to give your spirit to me-- that golden light which is you--which you don't know--give it to me--" from Women in Love, D.H. Lawrence

I spent the last month or so reading Women in Love, and I experienced many instances of "Yes, yes exactly" along on the way. The fact that the movie of the same name is very aesthetically pleasing probably didn't hurt my affection, either. So often, that dark thing called What I Want is totally nebulous until the right combinations of words or images, in a book or song or movie, help give it its true shape. Then I'm struck with an epiphany; I know it is always what I wanted. Eureka. Insomnia is abated, if only temporarily, while I set to work obtaining What I Want.

For a long time (I'm talking most of my teen years here), my most penetrating desires could be expressed succinctly and perfectly with this early 60s folk-pop song.

I think I may have had (or at least, was on the long and muddy path to) What I Want before, both in the loftier, philosophical D.H. Lawrence sense, and in the simplistic cornball "Angel on My Shoulder" sense. So now what? How goes the "obtaining" part? Imagine me with a dog-eared copy of a Penguin Classic in one hand and a half drunk mug of Constant Comment in the other, searching for the answer now. A sillier picture you never saw, but just between you and me, I haven't slept well in days.

2008: Mission to Render Myself Totally Ineffectual Is A Success

A quick timeout to acknowledge my self destruction:

Guilty of putting all of my eggs in one basket, the horse before the cart, and several other adages related to poor planning, I face, yet again, the monumental task of deciding what I want to do for money and where I want to live. Evidently, having no previous forklift driving experience can really hinder your ability to find meaningful work! I find myself pulled in so many different directions, that usually I just wind up wallowing in indecision and, let's face it, self-pity. I spend a lot of time on self-indulgent, masturbatory tasks like rating every single song in my itunes library, writing down dreams that I had (Nyquil + B Vitamins= hideous psychadelic landscapes), and worst of all, writing blogs. Refusing to build a life for myself here out of pure obstinacy and for fear of getting stuck here has left me, well, stuck here. Once a week I leave town to visit one of my many far-flung friends, wondering, "Should I live here? Should I get a job here?" then going back home to 4139 Pity Party Lane, Sacramento, CA before any progress can be made. At what point did I decide that I can't do anything by myself, and how do I unlearn this? Advice, lectures, and silent disapproval are welcome.

Indulge me now, as I'm so fond of doing for myself, and watch this Dean Martin clip. The song is about being pathetic, so it's the official anthem of this post.