Category Archives: commentary

Another Serious Post

I am having trouble writing, because a rather terrible thing happened in Ilion, NY yesterday (Tuesday), and that is what I really want to write about. This being a totally fun blog (see subhead), it hardly seems an appropriate subject. More to the point, I don’t know that much about it beyond what I heard on WKTV News this morning. That makes this a purely opinion piece, and who cares about my opinion? I’m no pundit.

Then again, I’m a person. I suppose my opinion counts as much as the next person’s (depending on who the next person is). This is a personal blog. This happened in the Mohawk Valley. I shall write a little.

For non-local readers what I am referring to is a stand-off situation that left one man dead, one house burned to the ground, neighboring houses damaged, and a neighborhood (at least) upset.

It apparently began with a domestic dispute. Police arrived to find an armed man barricaded in an upstairs apartment throwing things out the window. The man refused to negotiate but threw burning objects, Molotov cocktails and a hammer at the officers. The hammer hit two of them.

About 2 a.m. he set the house on fire. Police and firemen were unable to rescue the man, who in fact did not seem to want to be rescued. Neighbors had been evacuated. Only next door neighbors were unable to return to their homes, due to fire damage.

One reason people are so upset is that this is less than a year after a man set a house on fire then shot six people, killing four, plus a police dog, before police shot and killed him. It seems every other day in the news we hear about another shooting or stabbing or something.

When these things happen, people always ask why, and the fact of the matter is, we don’t know. In this case we can’t ask the man, because he is dead. In cases where the perpetrator hasn’t died, he or she never seems to offer a reasonable explanation. At least I’ve never heard one.

Reactions range from compassionate — “Oh, that poor man, he was so desperate” — to angry — “What the H*** was the matter with him?” In cases where the perpetrator kills others before killing himself, Steven always asks, “Why couldn’t he have just killed himself?” It is easier to feel compassion when they only kill themselves. Still, what a destructive, obtrusive way to do it. Couldn’t he have just quietly taken some pills? I suppose that last was a dreadfully insensitive thing to say, but I think I have a point.

Tuesday’s fire could be seen as an act of despair. “Nothing in my life will ever be good again. It doesn’t matter what I do.” Or it could be seen as an act of entitlement. “If I don’t get what I want when I want it, I can act however the h*** I want to!”

None of which brings us any closer to preventing future acts of violence.

I think these acts are acts of disconnection. People who feel connected to their fellow human beings find alternative ways to behave. If this man had felt the slightest connection with the police officers, he would have responded to their overtures. If he had felt more connected to his neighbors, he might have reached out before things became so desperate. At the very least, he may have felt that the actions he took might hurt people, and he may have refrained from doing so.

Of course this is not a solution, or even a coherent plan of action. “Well, I’ll just go out there and get connected! Then nobody will burn anybody’s house down ever again!” I realize there are no easy solutions. But I would like to feel that somewhere there are solutions.

Perhaps what I am saying sounds very foolish. If so, I ask the following: please do not say, “You are STUPID!” or words to that effect. Instead, say, “What you say is wrong. Here is why…” and explain it to me. Start a dialogue. Begin a discussion. Dare I say, connect with me.

Well, this is completely not the sort of post Mohawk Valley Girl usually makes. Yet, I think it has done me good to write it. Sometimes I find it difficult to maintain optimism in these unsettled times. I like to think there is the possibility for improvement.

I’m Not a Basket Case

For this week’s Middle-aged Musings Monday, I would like to dissect a ditty I learned in elementary school. I still sing it on occasion, because it has kind of a catchy tune. Luckily for you, dear reader, this is not an audio blog. Without my awful singing voice, then, here is the first part:

There was an old woman tossed up in a basket,
Fifteen times as high as the moon.
And where she was going, I couldn’t but ask it,
For in her hand she carried a broom.

Excuse me, what? Of course, I’m no expert on astronomy, but considering how small the moon looks from here, how in the world is this guy seeing this old woman, never mind the basket and the broom (I say “this guy,” because there was a picture of a guy next to this song in my fourth grade music book) (although it might not have been fourth grade; I just thought the sentence would sound better if I was specific) (but I digress).

Who tossed her, the Incredible Hulk?

OK, let’s assume the guy has the Hubble Space Telescope, how does he manage to carry on a conversation with her, which he does, because the song continues:

“Old Woman, Old Woman, Old Woman,” quoth I,
“Oh whither, or whither so high?”
“To swee-eep the co-obwebs out of the sky-y-y!”

I guess that was how people talked back then, “quoth I.” In my younger days, it would have been, “So I sez to her…” These days, it might be, “So I’m like, ‘What up, Lady?’ and she’s all, ‘Sweeping the cobwebs, dude.'”

Do people still call other people “dude”? It was “man” in the ’60s and ’70s, “dude” in the ’80s and ’90s, and then I completely lost touch. I did mention that these were middle-aged musings, didn’t I?

Come to think of it, these days, he could have texted her. This probably would include “lol” and “fml,” but I really don’t know a lot about texting.

It just goes to show, though, how I took everything at face value when I was a little kid. You taught me a song about a lady in a basket, and I sang it. It isn’t till YEARS later that I finally say, “Waaait a minute!”

On further reflection, that basket may have been sixteen times as high as the moon.

Drat those Self-Satisfied Sorts

Well, once again it is Lame Post Friday, my day for random observations and half-baked philosophy, and, what a surprise, I got nuthin’. Today at work I told a friend I had not written anything yet, that I was going to sit at my computer and type, “I got nuthin’.”

“But then you think of other stuff to put,” she said.

“Yes.”

And usually I do. Today, it seems, not so much. Perhaps it is time to do the dreaded half-baked philosophy on New Year’s Resolutions. I haven’t started working on any of mine yet. All I’ve done is get a little defensive about those self-satisfied sorts who say THEY don’t make New Year’s Resolutions. I believe I have inveighed against those sorts recently.

But here is a half-baked philosophical question for me: why do I get so defensive against people who seem pretty happy with themselves? Could it be related to low self-esteem? Hmm… that sounds less like philosophy and more like therapy. I’m not qualified to do therapy, although I do indulge in table-top psychology on occasion.

Table-top psychology, in case I have not mentioned it before, is an expression I got from a friend, who was quoting her mother. She would use it when she was giving a lay person’s opinion (her own). She would qualify it with, “Table-top psychology,” and rap on the table. Of course, this lady was highly intelligent and insightful. Her opinions were probably based on experience and common sense. Me, I just talk.

So, I guess this was my random observation: I get defensive against self-satisfied sorts. And my half-baked philosophy was: why is that? Could be a job for a therapist.

I must, I positively must get back to having Mohawk Valley adventures and writing about them. We’ve been snowed and frozen in for the past two days, but there may be a break in the weather tomorrow. As always, I hope you’ll stay tuned.

An Unusual Voodoo/Witchcraft Kind of Guy

I’ve become suspicious of zombie movies, because the word “zombie” seems to cover such a wide fictional territory. Are they undead or just hypnotized? Flesh-eating or hate salt? Fast or slow? Body parts rotting or intact? There are many kinds of zombies.

Doubts aside, I DVR’d Plague of the Zombies (1966) from TCM in October. I ended up being glad I did. For one thing, it is a Hammer Film. I’m kind of a latecomer to the Hammer party, but I am a fan.

Spoiler Alert! I’m going to give away what seems to me important stuff, not just which kind of zombies these are. You might like to see the movie before reading this, if like me you like to be surprised.

The movie opens on some kind of voodoo ceremony. I don’t think the writers of horror movies research these things very well. I think they just put some half-naked Africans beating on drums and throw in whatever creepy stuff occurs to them at the time. In this case, it is a guy in a mask with a little doll (presumably a voodoo doll) and a vial of blood.

The voodoo doll is obviously female. Flash to a lovely woman sleeping restlessly. When mask guy starts chanting something weird, so does she. We see that her wrist is bandaged (and remember it later, of course). Suddenly she sits bolt upright and screams. End of prologue.

Next we meet a distinguished white-haired doctor and his beautiful blond daughter. They are going to Cornwall or the moors or someplace to help another doctor, who married an old schoolfriend of the daughter, investigate some mysterious deaths.

As the carriage rolls across the countryside, they see a fox, who is shortly followed by five guys in red coats on horses. What, no dogs? I don’t know much about fox hunting, but I thought there were always dogs. Anyways, the young bloods (I know that’s what they are, because that is how they are listed in the end credits) ask if anybody has seen a fox. Beautiful Daughter sweetly misdirects them.

Then it is on to the village, where a funeral is in progress. As Father and Daughter discreetly wait for the cortege to pass, the Young Bloods come thundering back and knock the coffin over a bridge. This makes for a nice creepy shot of the dead body.

The Young Bloods are mad at Daughter for misdirecting them. The brother of the dead guy is mad at both of them. I guess he blames them for the Young Bloods’ intrusion, which I personally thought a little unreasonable. Oh well, he is grief stricken.

It seems that twelve people have died. The families in this backward area will not allow autopsies, giving Distinguished Dad Doctor and Young Doctor a chance for some grave digging (“Could be worse; could be raining”) (oh wait, wrong movie).

We don’t have to wait too awful long to see the zombies, and they are scary. I was particularly fascinated by the motivations of the head bad guy, the leader of the voodoo/witchcraft kind of cult. He uses evil means to kill people and make them zombies, then utilizes them for a sound economic reason. He is also interested in beautiful young women for blood sacrifice purposes (less unusual in these pictures).

I kind of wish they had made more of the economic side of things, because that struck me as something different for a voodoo/witchcraft kind of bad guy. Any number of movie bad guys want to hypnotize beautiful young women for blood sacrifice purposes. However, zombie-izing young men to staff a haunted tin mine is a bit of entrepreneurialism that commands my respect.

Then again, I am a recently converted horror movie aficionado. Economics could play a time-honored role in zombie movies and I just haven’t seen enough of them. Obviously I have more movie watching to do.

In any case, I found Plague of the Zombies a delight. The dramatic conclusion is very satisfying, and Andre Morell as Distinguished Doctor Dad is an excellent hero. In post-movie commentary, Ben Mankiewicz mentioned that Morell is Watson to Peter Cushing’s Sherlock Holmes in Hound of the Baskervilles. That would be a good movie to see again. Love that Peter Cushing.

Once Again, I Say Too Much

While this is a post about Why I Can’t Write a Post Today, it is not another lament about Writer’s Block or Writer’s Blank or whatever it is I suffer from. It is a mere statement of practical considerations.

I have been Christmas shopping and plan to do more. Of course I love to plug local businesses, and this is a grand opportunity to give a few shout-outs. However, SOME people who MIGHT be receiving presents from me may POSSIBLY read this post.

Someone may suggest that I be cagey, mention the store but not the item. I could do like my Mom does and say, “I got you a … and a …” Well, my family is pretty clever. If I mention the store, they may guess the item. In fact, already I’ve said too much.

Additionally, I think it makes a better post if I tell what I purchased. It is the sort of concrete detail that makes the writing ring true. Or do I flatter myself?

My original plan was to not give presents this year. I was going to send each person a lovely handwritten note reading: “Dear (name), No present this year. You were bad. Love, Cindy Claus.” I eventually decided against it, because my handwriting is not all that good, and it really is not the sort of thing you would want to type. Perhaps a nice counted cross stitch, although I am also not very deedy in that respect (my computer is telling me “deedy” is not a word, and I cannot find it in the dictionary, but I am certain I’ve seen it used in a book) (it was a Regency Romance, so perhaps it is an archaic term)(how old must something be to be to be archaic?) (yeah, yeah, I know, how old am I — must you make such obvious jokes?).

Where was I? Ah yes, trying not to give away what I am getting people for Christmas. In pursuit of that object, I’ll shut up now.

The Zombie Eyes Have It

Spoiler Alert! If you think you might want to see White Zombie (1932) with Bela Lugosi, I would advise you watch it before reading this. I think it is better enjoyed if you’re not thinking, “Oh, this is that part she was telling us about.”

According to Robert Osborne’s pre-movie commentary, White Zombie is believed to be the first movie ever made about zombies. I find it hard to believe there are no silent movies featuring zombies, but I’m not that knowledgeable about silent movies (it’s difficult to crochet or knit during a silent movie, because you have to keep your eyes glued to the screen or you’ll miss something).

First or not, it’s an atmospheric, eerie movie. The zombies are the old-timey slow moving creatures with staring eyes. They don’t eat flesh, but some of them do kill a guy and try to kill a couple of others (I did include a spoiler alert, didn’t I?) (I think it’s a bigger spoiler to let you know they only try to kill someone, don’t you?).

The movie takes place in the West Indies, home of voodoo, zombies and assorted other creepy weirdness, it seems. A Beautiful Girl and a Handsome Young Man (side note: why don’t I just refer to him as a Boy and be symmetrical?) are in a horse drawn carriage (to give you an idea of period) on their way to some rich guy’s house.

At least, I think he’s rich. Yes, my famous lack of attention is once again my undoing. Rich Guy has gotten Handsome Young Man a job back in the states and wants the couple to be married from his house. It soon transpires that he is in love with the girl and is willing to use fair means or foul to make her his.

Enter Bela Lugosi. Ah, but before he does, Rich Guy’s butler warns him to have nothing to do with that sort of person. Well, it wouldn’t be much of a movie if the characters listened to sensible advice, would it?

First Rich Guy tries fair means, by propositioning Beautiful Girl as he escorts her to her marriage ceremony. Anybody still wondering why this guy is alone? Of course it doesn’t work, although she tries to let him down easily in the limited amount of time available to her. So it is on to foul means and the zombie meat of the movie.

The nefarious plot perpetrated by Lugosi involves turning Beautiful Girl into a zombie. It is not clear to me how he does it. Something to do with carving some wax and sticking it into the flame of a streetlight. She falls dead into her new husband’s arms.

Soon she is the glassy-eyed possession of Rich Guy. Well, that’s not the chick he fell in love with. He demands Lugosi turn her back into a person even if it means losing her. I guess he’s not such a bad guy for someone who resorted to foul means to win the girl. But Lugosi will have none of this and is soon tormenting Rich Guy in ways that ought to make anybody sorry for him, even viewers who still consider him a lousy beautiful girl stealer.

Lugosi, as usual, utilizes his scary eyes to good effect. The things that especially struck me in this movie were his wild and wooly eyebrows. I think Count Dracula must have tweezed.

Eventually Handsome Young Man finds help and hurries to the rescue, as you probably figured. But can he rescue her? I guess I can’t spoil everything. This movie is recommended. I’ll look for something cheesier next time.

To Encourage? Or Just to Blog?

A friend of mine recently posted on Facebook, “To blog or not to blog, that is the question.” I replied, “To blog! Always to blog!”

The sad part to me is that I seem to be the only one to have said to. Perhaps she does not have enough Writing Friends on Facebook. I count on my writing friends to encourage me. Sometimes my non-writing friends encourage me as well.

Oh dear, I feel a bout of half-baked philosophy coming on. That is for Lame Post Friday and today is Wrist to Forehead Sunday. Oh well, as I often observe, sometimes I can only write what I do. So I’ll just get on with it.

We all need encouragement at one time or another (don’t pretend you don’t; we won’t believe you). However, there is a school of thought that encouragement is not always the best thing. Some people, this school of thought goes, should cut their losses and stop striving for what they will never achieve. An example they point to is Zelda Fitzgerald, who apparently drove herself crazy with the physical demands of her quest to become a prima ballerina at the age of thirty-something.

I say this is too complicated a question to get into on Wrist to Forehead Sunday. I’m going to cut to the chase, answer the original question with “To blog,” and hit publish. Anybody got a problem with that?

Who Says You Don’t Learn Anything from Television?

Today’s post is in the nature of a PSA.

Many of us are always on the lookout for ways to earn a little extra cash. Some folks have a talent that way. They tap into that entrepreneurial spirit, look around with creative eyes, and the next thing you know, they’re pocketing a few extra bucks.

If you are one of those people, I express admiration and envy. However, I will make bold to proffer a piece of advice gleaned from years of attentive television and movie viewing:

Never blackmail a murderer.

I suppose it seems like such a good idea at the time. You see something you are not supposed to see. What do you do with this knowledge? True civic-minded sorts go to the police. Some people never say a word to anybody. Gossipy types probably tell a few trusted friends or perhaps post a Facebook status (although personally I have never seen such a status) (a source of some disappointment to me). Your true entrepreneur thinks, “How can I use this to make money?”

Well, I can tell you one really bad way up front: going to the murderer and asking him or her to pay for your silence. Think first! This is somebody who is not afraid to kill. They’ve done it once; they know how. Why in the world would they pay good money for the privilege of not killing you?

I’m just saying.

Not Up On All the Good Guy Rules

Two weekends ago, I watched an unusual Hammer Studios film in which Christopher Lee played the good guy, The Devil’s Bride (1968).

Before I forget, Spoiler Alert! I may even give away the ending this time. Perhaps I should also include a No Cheese Alert, because although Hammer Films are quite fun to write about and I do poke fun at them, I could not say they were cheesy. The production values are too good, for one thing. The films are visually appealing. Sets and costumes reflect effort and expense. Perhaps one day I’ll do a whole post pontificating on the cheesiness inherent in the horror genre. In the meantime, back to today’s feature.

The movie opens with Lee and a friend in a carriage riding to a reunion of some sort (you know I never bother about details). They decide to stop at the house of this guy that seems to have dropped from sight. We learn that this is the son of a friend of theirs. The friend is deceased, and Lee and his companion are pledged to take care of the son, now a fine young man.

When they arrive at the young man’s house, some party is going on. An innocent-looking girl says, “Oh, I thought there were only supposed to be 13 of us.” So in case we missed the title, we are clued in. Channeling Sherlock Holmes, Lee tells his friend to listen in on the other guests’ conversations.

When Young Man is all, “So sorry I can’t ask you to stay,” Lee pipes up with, “Can I just look at your telescope quick?” and bounds up the stairs.

The weird charts on the wall and cryptic symbols on the floor are explained away as decorations. Less easily explained are the two chickens Young Man tries to keep Lee from finding.

Lee says he would rather see Young Man dead than involved with this stuff, so this could have been a really short movie, although kind of a downer. Instead, Lee punches him in the face, knocking him cold.

I have to say it again, that is perhaps the movie cliche I find most annoying which is the least true. If it was that easy to knock somebody out with a blow to the face, most boxing matches would be a lot shorter. Oh, I know some boxers do knock their opponents out with one blow, but these are professional punchers and even they can’t do it every time. It is extremely unlikely that random movie characters can accomplish it so conveniently. Rant over.

So Lee and Friend get Young Man to Lee’s house, where Lee brings him around, hypnotizes him, slips a crucifix around his neck and sends him upstairs to sleep it off.

Of course he does not stay safely asleep or, again, this would have been a shorter movie. It’s round one to Satan (or rather his henchmen), but Lee says, “At least we saved the chickens.” That may be, but he leaves them in the basket in the telescope room closet. If he was really going to save them, shouldn’t he, for example, have brought them out to the chicken coop and gotten them some feed and water? Or is that just my Be Kind to Animals obsession talking?

Lee sends his Friend off to rescue the Girl, remember, the one who thought there were only supposed to be 13. Did I mention she is suitable for Friend to fall in love with? I can’t remember where Young Man is at this point. Lee is off to the British Museum for research. My inner geek rejoices at the thought of combating evil through books, but Lee puts an awful lot of faith in somebody who just now began to believe in Satan.

That is the first of several times Lee gives his second string good guys instructions and goes off to do his own thing. You know they aren’t going to be able to handle it. Only the main good guy can ultimately triumph over evil. Then again, as we said earlier, Lee usually plays the bad guy. He’s probably not up on all the good guy rules. And here I am again, carping on the usual means employed to keep the conflict going so the movie is feature length.

And then a bunch of stuff happens.

It seems the head Satan worshipper has vast if inconsistent powers. He can remotely hypnotize people, only sometimes it doesn’t work. And like all movie bad guys and monsters, his victims follow his nefarious instructions at differing rates of speed, depending on plot requirements. One of his followers picks up the hypnotism trick, too, although to what end, I’m not sure. She hypnotizes the guy who’s trying to save her through bondage (it makes sense in the movie), but spends the rest of the scene staring out the window at a storm. Awaiting further instructions, I suppose.

I confess there was a whole lot I did not pay attention to. For example, there is an outdoor worship fest that reminded me of the KKK rally in O Brother, Where Art Thou? I busied myself in the kitchen when I saw a goat and feared it would come to a bad end (there I go again with the Be Kind to Animals).

There is a little girl who is a pretty good actress, not too cute, not too bratty. Of course she is placed in grave danger. I blame Lee. He has the grown-ups (of the non-servant variety) upstairs in the middle of a fancy chalk circle with salt and holy water and whatnot. The kid is in bed being watched over by some old butler or caretaker. Not even a crucifix. Hello! What do you think is going to happen?

I don’t need a spoiler alert to tell you the movie ends with Satan’s followers vanquished (I’m sure the big buy survives to fight another day). Young Man says, “Thank God,” to which Lee piously agrees. You know, apart from the crucifix, there is very little reference to God. Shouldn’t He be the first one you call when you are fighting Satan? I’m just saying.

However, movies are more into the props and, as I mentioned earlier, maintaining the conflict to feature length. Speaking of length, this is getting to be one of my longer posts, so I’ll save the philosophical discussion for Lame Post Friday.

I Didn’t Even Mention the Fog

It cannot be denied that I am of a perverse disposition. I love bad weather. I drove to work this morning with the words, “I LOVE winter!” ringing in my head. It made me laugh, as did the weather itself, but I believe the sentiment has a legitimate basis.

Recently I came across the phrase, “the more sunshine, the less gumption.” I think it is true and not just a rationalization for those of us who live in a less salubrious climate (but don’t knock rationalization — oh, I’m sure I’ve covered that before). Winter is a challenge. And it can add interest to your morning.

Take this morning, for example. It is the first taste of winter in the Mohawk Valley, with snow in parts and cold temperatures for all. The newscasters on WKTV remarked that they had to scrape their cars. Well, they obviously go to work much earlier than I do. I was sure I would be fine.

When I got out to my vehicle… not so much. I wasn’t too worried, because I always leave extra early (so as to have time to write my blog post, among other reasons), but I could not find a scraper in my Trailblazer. I turned the defrost on full blast and went into the house.

“Scraper!” I called to Steven. “Where is a scraper?”

“In my car!” He grabbed his keys, which just goes to show what a nice husband he is. I could have gone to his car and found the scraper myself, leaving him to enjoy the warm house for as long as possible. I got my toque, which I had forgotten to put on earlier. Bonus!

The scraper was the one we inherited from my grandmother. It has a fur envelope around the handle. Another bonus.

In this short time the defrost had done its work. Not much scraping was required. I kept the scraper in my vehicle, thinking (a) Steven would probably not need one by the time he left for work and (b) he had time to find another one anyways.

So I drove to work feeling absurdly pleased about things. At work I asked my co-worker if she would like motivation to punch me in the face, then told her I like this weather. Luckily for me, she only indulged in a fake punch.

I indulged in a few choruses of “I Got My Love to Keep Me Warm,” and sat down to write my blog post (which you are reading).