Category Archives: commentary

Some Intrepid Girl Reporter

I think back pain must also effect the brain (cue brainless jokes) (you know who you are), because I had completely forgotten about another horror classic I watched on Saturday, The Corpse Vanishes (1942) starring Bela Lugosi.

Of course, starring Bela Lugosi is not a guarantee a movie will be any good or even that it will be a horror movie (remember when Boris Karloff played that Chinese detective?). Still, with the word “corpse” in the title, I figured we’d at least get to see those famous scary eyes.

The movie starts out quickly enough with a bride dropping dead just as she’s about to say “I do” (cue anti-marriage jokes). A photographer rushes in and takes a picture (paparazzi in 1942?). The undertaker takes the body away, and we catch a glimpse of some scary eyes in the back of the hearse. Oh boy! Then the real undertaker shows up. Oh no!

“Another kidnapping of a dead bride!” exclaims a girl from a newspaper who has just been denied an interview with the bride’s father. “What a story!”

At this point I sat up as straight as my bad back would allow and cheered. An intrepid girl reporter! Yay!

As per usual, Intrepid Girl Reporter gets no respect from her paper. The editor sends her to the next society wedding and he ONLY wants her to find out who’s there and what the bride is wearing.

“But what if I get a clue?” she asks. He does not deem this likely.

The mother of the bride in this wedding has demanded police protection. As the bride prepares, a mysterious orchid arrives, which she naturally pins right on. It MUST come from the groom, right?

Hello! Two minutes earlier the groom was at the door and was denied admittance. Would he not at that point have said, “Oh, well, give her this orchid from me.” That occurs to no one, and apparently the police protection does not extend to questioning deliverers of mysterious orchids.

Predictably, this bride also drops dead. They make sure the coffin gets on the right hearse, which is surrounded by motorcycle cops, but Bela cleverly steals it anyways. Intrepid Girl Reporter ends up with the orchid, which she — and nobody else — immediately recognizes as a clue.

Meanwhile, we follow Bela to his lonely mansion, castle, whatever it is (I missed the exterior shot), with the mysterious laboratory, and we find out why he wants the corpses of beautiful young women. He uses them (by means which are not clear but that hardly matters in a movie like this) to keep his wife young and beautiful. Does she have a wasting disease that makes her look old before her time? NO! She’s just old and doesn’t want to look that way! Come on, lady, none of us do! Slap on some Oil of Olay, schedule a Mary Kay makeover and drive on!

Perhaps I should be a little more understanding. These were the days before botox, after all. And, without this woman’s desire to look young, there wouldn’t be any movie. But she is so annoying! She’s crying with these big, loud sobs that go on and on, begging her husband to hurry, she needs [whatever he does] NOW! I was wishing he would give her a mysterious orchid so she’d just shut up already.

Intrepid Girl Reporter tracks down Bela through the orchid, which is surprisingly easy. What dumb cops they have in these movies. Law enforcement ought to sue Hollywood for defamation. Come to think of it, so should intrepid girl reporters, because this one is not a good representative. She spends a lot of time screaming and fainting (I think Fay Wray screamed once in The Mystery of the Wax Museum, but you really couldn’t blame her and she was intrepid the whole rest of the time).

It’s not a bad movie, in spite of Boo-Hoo Wife, Dumb Cops and Not So Intrepid Girl Reporter. There are some scary parts and a few creepy minor characters I haven’t mentioned (thought I’d save you something). One might wonder if it was really all that memorable, seeing as I forgot I had watched it till Monday morning when I was pondering my blog topic (it was kind of like, “Wait a minute, didn’t I see three movies on Saturday?”). But on looking back, I will give it this accolade: it was fun at the time.

Cheese Before Wine

Steven and I began our Friday Mohawk Valley adventures with a trip to Vintage Spirits in Herkimer, NY for a wine and cheese tasting. I was delighted to see that Three Village Cheeses was providing the cheese.

The wine tasting table seemed a little crowded, so I started with the cheese. Tom remembered me from last June. He had read my blog post from that tasting, so that established cordial relations right away.

I tried the feta first and immediately declared it my favorite. So smooth, so deep. I don’t know how people usually describe cheeses (notes of… what? I never taste the notes in wine either, so what does that tell you), but I thought the feta was substantial. The other heavy one was the tomme, which I think I declared my favorite last time. I like the ones that are more complex.

I happily nibbled the mild ones, too, and when I got to the Habanero Havarti (I think habanero should have a tilda over the n, don’t know how to do it on my computer) (point and laugh if you must), I knew I had found my cheese of the day.

I recently bought some store brand pepper jack at Hannaford and found I liked the bite. Well, this was a glorification of that taste. The cheese was cheesier! The pepper was peppier! It was better than yummy!

Having made up my mind on the cheese, I turned my attention to the wine. Of course, as I sipped I returned to nibble. Must experiment with wine/cheese pairings after all.

I believe I can purchase Three Village Cheeses at Ilion Farmer’s Market. If not, I will surely make my way to the cheese factory and retail store at 2608 Newport Rd., Poland, NY. I can get directions via their Facebook page. I think it is time to upgrade from store brand cheese. Sorry, Hannaford!

The Whistler Once Again

I was very happy on Saturday morning to see another Whistler movie listed for TCM. I naturally DVR’d it for Steven’s and my enjoyment on Sunday. By the way, Spoiler Alert! Although I do not intend to give away the ending.

The Secret of the Whistler opens with the usual shadow of a man and sound of whistling followed by voice-over narration.

I have not mentioned that all the Whistler movies have starred Richard Dix. So far we’ve seen him as a businessman who changes his mind about suicide by hit man, a mysterious stranger who enlists the help of a beautiful blond, and a rich guy who turns to murder after supposedly learning how to live. This time out he plays an apparently not very talented artist who nobody particularly likes living off his ailing wife.

The description of the movie in the Guide said an artist’s second wife suspects he killed the first wife. This is a plot that has worked very well in any number of gothic romance novels (these are the paperback books with a full moon, a castle and a beautiful girl running, not the teenagers with lots of black make-up) (I suppose I have just dated myself). It took me a while to realize they were going to spend most of the picture getting him married to Wife No. 2.

The movie starts out creepily enough with a woman ordering her own tombstone. At least, the movie clearly means for us to find it creepy or at least surprising. Haven’t these people every heard of pre-planning one’s funeral? The lady says, “You will be notified,” when asked date of death. Well, duh! I think it would have been a good deal more creepy if she had known the date. On the other hand, that may have meant she planned to commit suicide. Oh, hey, what if she would have put as her epitaph: “Murdered.” Just a thought.

Where was I? Ah yes, soon we have the set-up: unsuccessful artist husband sponging off dying wife while making up to beautiful blond gold-digger model. The other characters include a female artist, apparently successful, and her reporter boyfriend and another male artist who is friend and sometime employer of Blondie.

Richard Dix plays all sad-eyes my-wife-is-dying while Blondie plays all wide-eyed sympathy till we’re not really sure who is playing who. Actually, I wish they had played up Blondie as cold-hearted gold-digger a little more. For one thing, when she starts to suspect her new husband of murder she could have had blackmail on her mind. For all I know she did. I don’t think the actress was quite clear on the character’s motivations.

The movie takes an awfully long time to get going. A few times the Whistler addresses Richard Dix, asking him is he getting paranoid, is he getting desperate? I don’t think he did that in the other pictures. Once things do start moving, they move quickly enough gloss over a couple of “Wait a minute!” points.

For example, the loyal (to the first wife) maid is still around, per provision in the will (really, you would think first wife would have left the poor woman a pension, not just a crappy job). The maid says she’s staying to prove the husband a murderer. All she has to do is find the diary. Hello! They were on a three month honeymoon, during which time all the dead wife’s things were moved to the attic and the house redecorated. Even if the maid was locked out for the three months, are her duties so onerous she couldn’t find ten minutes to look in the attic since? It certainly doesn’t take Blondie very long to find said diary when she goes up there.

Things wrap up pretty quickly, as Whistler movies tend to do. Not a bad movie in spite of the slow start. I wish they had done a little more with the tombstone and given the minor characters more scenes, but what do I want in an hour and fifteen minutes? For a cheesy interlude on a Sunday, I enjoyed it.

Wrist to Forehead Walk

I am going to start a new feature and call it Wrist to Forehead Sunday (you know, that dramatic pose with a wrist to your forehead before you swoon from the stress). It seems I reach many Sundays convinced that I am utterly incapable of writing a decent blog post. Today I have at least three perfectly good Mohawk Valley topics to write on and I feel Blank. Rather than write yet another post about Why I Can’t Write a Post Today (which are, I guiltily admit, kind of fun to write), I dragged Steven and Tabby on a walk to the post office and I shall write about that.

To begin with I had written a letter to a friend (yes, I hand write letters which I send through the US Postal service and I delight in receiving one back). I had finished writing it earlier in the day, when I felt unable to write the blog post. I thought if I could write anything I could segue over. The segueing had not happened when Steven arrived home (I admit it: I had segued into doing a cryptogram puzzle in a puzzle book).

While he went up to look at the computer I had an inspiration that we would walk to the post office and I would write about that. First I had a Get Well card to write on Tabby’s behalf to a friend’s pet who is ailing. I wrote a letter from Tabby to Shadoe, utilizing the Historic Four Corners stationery I purchased at the Herkimer County Historical Society some time ago and had not used yet. I thought Tabby would appreciate having a letter from her written on stationery of one of her favorite places to walk.

We set out, walking down our street and admiring our neighbors’ Halloween decorations. One house had some cobwebs nicely covering the porch. I can never get those cobwebs spread out properly. They always bunch up. I pointed out to Steven some skeletons in a fishnet I had noticed earlier in the week.

We went through Myers Park to the post office. It had started to rain a little as we continued up Main Street. Steven put the hood of his jacket up, prompting Tabby to give him what I thought was a funny look. We bypassed the Historic Four Corners by going through a parking lot, in order to spend less time in the rain. This brought us out on Church Street, where I could show Steven the awesomely decorated house I had observed earlier.

They had added a coffin and more cobwebs. There were graves with a head and hand popping up I had not seen before, and some homemade graves I know were not there before. We pointed out to each other all the cool things, and I suggested we return for another walk after dark, because there are obviously things that light up.

After that it had stopped raining, so we continued up Prospect to German. We did not see any more Halloween decorations, but we observed a tree with some lovely orange leaves and a black cat on a porch. Nature’s own fall decor.

Well, I guess this turns out to be not a bad post after all. Or do I flatter myself? At any rate, I feel a lot less wrist to forehead now. See you on Middle-aged Musing Monday. Or Monster Movie Monday, depending on what I do for the rest of the day.

Disreputable Run

I guess Saturday Running Commentary is back.

This morning I ran a couple of errands (OK, one errand), so got running after 9:30. That is the joy of this time of year: you don’t have to get out the door prior to 7 a.m. to run in a comfortable temperature.

I have taken 13 days off running (I went to the calendar and counted). I can explain this as I explain many of life’s vicissitudes: shit happens. I almost talked myself out of it yet again, but then I thought I might be glad if I ran.

One good thing: all my running clothes were clean. I didn’t even have to search the laundry basket for socks. Bonus! I set out with determination and high hopes.

And at first it was not too bad. I knew I would not run any hills, and I knew I would not run very far, and I think everybody knows I do not run very fast. But I ran. I crossed German Street, because I saw a pick-up truck parked across the sidewalk. I did not feel like running around it, and I had a good opportunity to cross. Then as I got closer to it I was glad, because a guy was standing near it talking to two ladies on the porch. Not that I mind running by people and even saying hello, but to interrupt their conversation and run around their pick-up truck seemed a little complicated.

So there I was on the side of German Street with all the hills. Surely one little hill wouldn’t kill me. I decided not to take the chance. I ran up a block of Main Street so I could cross over and run down the nice path over what used to be a hydraulic canal. I looked at the houses now next to a nice path not a nasty ditch and thought they must like it. I saw a lady waiting outside a house. Waiting for a ride to work, I speculated. Then I speculated she worked someplace with a lax dress code, because she was wearing sweatpants. As I got closer she turned so her back was to me. I guess she didn’t want to take a chance I would say hello, but maybe I am again speculating.

I continued down German Street and ran up Dorf Street. I like Dorf. It looks a little back roadsy, because it is very quiet and there are no sidewalks. It curves around too, and that adds a little interest. Dorf crosses Prescott, a dead end street. I started to go up Prescott but saw a pit bull looking dog which may or may not have been on a leash. I turned around. He may have been a perfectly nice dog, but most dogs get a little agitated at runners.

I went back down Prescott onto German and quickly found a place to cross back to my side of the street. I saw a pedestrian walking on the side I’d just been on, coming towards me. I waited till she got closer to wave or say good morning. She kept her eyes pointed studiously ahead. I thought I must look more disreputable than I thought. I wondered if the pick-up truck people would have greeted me but turned off German before I got that far so I will never know.

After a while I got a little tired of running, but I persevered. It wasn’t a bad run at all, except for the people who acted like they didn’t want to look at me. But perhaps I’m reading too much into it. Still, before I go running again I may spruce up my running outfits a little. Too bad I don’t know how to post a picture.

Mid-Week Middle-Aged Memory

Alternative title: “When the Hand Dropped”

Last Sunday while watching It! The Terror from Beyond Space, I suddenly said, “I’ve seen this movie!”

A crew member is missing. The rest of the crew has not yet seen the monster, although the audience has seen its feet (which, come to think of it, look a little bit like the Creature of the Black Lagoon’s). One man is standing next to a ventilation grate, pondering. Suddenly, a lifeless hand drops down, inside the grate, right in front of him. EEEEEEEEEEE!

I remembered that hand dropping down. It is, in fact, the only thing in the entire picture I remember from that viewing. Do you suppose there are other sci-fi monster movies where a hand drops down in a grate? And what occurs to me now as I write this is why is that ventilation grate a great big square at eye level looking for all the world like a window? But that’s neither here nor there. I remember the hand.

It was the ’70s. My parents would go out for dinner and dancing on a Saturday night. These were more elegant times: my mom and her friends would wear long dresses, the men wore suits. I admit to being envious. My older sisters and I, once Victoria was deemed old enough to be the babysitter, got to stay up till Mom and Dad got home.

Oh, the joy and mystery of staying up late! These were the days when cable offered seven channels and some stations went off the air at midnight. It was a challenge to find something to watch. We loved it when one of the all night stations showed a scary movie. Who doesn’t want to see a scary movie? At least, who wants to admit to not wanting to seeing a scary movie? I seem to think I wanted to be scared, then didn’t necessarily like it so much when I was.

So there we were, ready to be scared. When the hand dropped, we jumped.

“I don’t think anything would have scared me more than that hand,” Victoria said.

“What if it was that things head?” I asked. I think the thing’s head would have been more scary.

I took all these fake monsters at face value. If I was meant to be scared, I was scared. I was scared of every monster on Lost In Space, even when I could see where they had recycled a monster from two episodes ago.

Well, maybe not as scared of the recycled ones. Then too, things are always scarier at night, especially when Mom and Dad aren’t home. Lost in Space re-runs were generally shown in the afternoon, so those monsters were automatically less nightmare-inducing.

Sometimes we could catch a scary movie on a Saturday afternoon. Didn’t there used to be a feature called Chiller? A six-fingered hand would rise up out of a swamp and a gravelly voice would say, “Chil-ler!” Those were the days.

I suppose now I could segue into a middle-aged musing about how I am trying to recapture my childhood by watching these old movies. I don’t think that’s it, though; I think I just enjoy writing about them. And, you know, really, what I’d like to recapture is my parents’ young adulthood and wear a long dress to go out dancing on a Saturday night.

Another Whistler Tale

Spoiler Alert! It is possible I will give away almost every plot point for the following movie. But I promise not to tell who the murderer is (there now, you see, I just gave away that there’s a murder!).

Saturday before last when I perused the listings for TCM, I was delighted to note a Whistler movie. After I reviewed two Whistler movies in this space, a reader told me there were eight Whistler movies. Naturally I would like to see them all. I even hoped this would be a weekly thing on TCM — a Whistler movie every Saturday for eight weeks. Alas, this past Saturday offered no Whistler movie. No matter; I still had The Voice of the Whistler on DVR. We watched it Sunday afternoon.

I noted that the movie was directed as well as co-written by William Castle. That boded well. The movie opens a little differently from the other two Whistler movies I’ve seen, with a shot of a lonely lighthouse on a rocky cliff with crashing waves. Still, a lonely lighthouse is good for a scary movie — remembering a movie I’ve reviewed recently whose name escapes me but which featured a character named Vi who gets pitched out of the lighthouse onto the rocks below.

We hear the familiar whistling and see the shadow, this time on a wild, craggy shore instead of a back alley in a city with a thousand secrets (I guess “city with a thousand secrets” sounds more Raymond Chandler than William Castle).

The entire movie is a flashback. Steven has pointed out that this is a common technique in old movies. The flashback is of course a time-honored fictional technique in many mediums. In general, telling the whole story as flashback is going a little far, but in this case it is appropriate.

We are introduced to a woman who despises and fears loneliness yet lives alone in this abandoned lighthouse (complete with cat). Why? It is a result of greed and murder. At least, looking back I can’t quite remember if the Whistler actually mentioned murder in his intro. But why would the Whistler be telling a story that did not involve murder?

As it turns out, we have to wait a long time for the murder. First we meet an industrialist. This movie is unusual in that we actually get to see what his business is — he makes cars. At least, he bought the manufactory and made a huge success of it. Perhaps he has other businesses to make a kind of an empire. At any rate, he’s filthy rich and has no friends.

Just about the time he decides to get a personal life, he has a heart attack. En route to a boat cruise, to relax and regain his health, he collapses again and ends up in the care of a cockney cab driver living in one of those movie working class neighborhoods I would love to live in.

Sparrow, the cab driver and easily the most likable character in the picture, begins to teach Rich Guy how to gain friends. It seems Sparrow was once a boxing champ, plenty of money but no idea who his real friends were or how to enjoy life. Now he walks down the street, greeting folks by name, asking about their families, and basically giving Rich Guy a lesson in a better way to live.

At a clinic to which Sparrow brings Rich Guy, we meet a beautiful nurse, who will eventually become Lonely Lighthouse Lady (complete with cat). She is engaged to a young doctor but is putting off marriage because she does not want her kids to grow up in the poverty she sees at the clinic.

Excuse me, what? The neighborhood is peopled with friendly working class salt of the earth. The clinic is a compassionate haven that strives to treat the whole person. Yet it is a hole of squalid poverty from which the nurse is determined to escape?

Everybody loves her. In fact, Rich Guy falls in love with her, after a series of events that I won’t spoil for you. Eventually the stage is set for murder.

I have to say, the Nurse/Lonely Lighthouse Lady (complete with cat) is not a consistent character. She veers from being a generic beautiful movie girl, to a dame with a hardscrabble past determined to make something of herself (by marrying; this is the ’50s, after all), to being a shrew witch, to being, you know, Lonely Lighthouse etc.

Her young doctor lover — “the young man who doesn’t have to be rich but doesn’t dare to be poor,” according to a later conversation — is hard to get a grip on too, but that may be because he is busy reacting to his girlfriend’s changes.

Rich Guy, in the meantime, seems to have forgotten the life lessons taught him by Sparrow. Did I say Sparrow is the most likable character in the picture? On second thought, he is the only likable character in the picture. Except for a few really minor players who we see only once or twice briefly.

The whole movie is really more of a character study than a thriller, horror or murder movie. Which would have been fine had the characters been better developed. As it is, by the time we finally get to the murder, it is too little too late.

And then it’s like they ran out of time, because the Whistler comes back on as a voice-over and wraps everything up. We are left with the image of the Lonely Lady in the Lighthouse, petting the cat. And the hope that TCM will show a more exciting Whistler movie soon.

Pre-Lame Post

Lame Post Friday is not till tomorrow. Yet here I sit with NOTHING to write about.

I’ve been thinking lately that I want to do more posts about bad movies. They are fun to write, and people seem to like them. Then I thought, will people think I do nothing but watch bad movies? Then I thought, what do I care what people think? Then I stopped arguing with myself and tried to finish writing this post.

I seem to watch a lot of television. In my defense, I usually crochet or knit while I watch, so I get projects done. Sometimes I write in the TV Journal, which is fun to do and fun to read later. I’d like to think that it is my legacy to future generations, but I rather doubt that future generations will bother to decipher my handwriting.

I often run into people who sniff, “I don’t have time to watch television.” Some of these people can still tell you the last couple of people to get voted off Survivor and which husband Kim Kardashian is on (I don’t know these things myself; what does that tell you, if anything?). Or maybe they truly do not watch television, but spend hours working on their fantasy football team or playing Farmville. To each his own, as the old lady said when she kissed the cow.

My point being, don’t sniff at how I spend my leisure time; we are none of us as productive as we could be. Oh, all right, I suppose some people are. I’m sure many, many people are at least more productive than I am. Don’t brag about it to me, though, or I will lampoon you in this blog as a thoroughly obnoxious person (ooh, scary threat).

Where was I? Nowhere, really. The real reason I’m at a loss today is that I have not been doing much this week. I actually have a topic I would like to write about, but I think that needs to wait till tomorrow at least. So I guess that’s a preview of coming attractions. Here’s a teaser: I’ll tell you my tentative title: “Dirty Break for Dirty Works.” Intrigued? Stay tuned!

Mike Brady But Not Vincent Price

“Don’t ask any questions. Just do exactly what I tell you to do.”

“What do you want me to do?

“I said no questions!”

Those were lines from a cheesy horror flick Steven and I watched on Sunday. OK, the last line wasn’t in the movie; I said it. I thought it was witty, or do I flatter myself?

I asked Steven to pick out a monster movie. When he read the description for Blood Lust (1959) on the DVD box for this one, I had my doubts. A group of teenagers find themselves on an island owned by a bad man. He used to import exotic animals to hunt, but he got bored with that and started to hunt people. In other words, no monsters per se.

Hunting people has got to be one of the hoariest fictional cliches going. I first encountered it in a short story I was forced to read in seventh grade called “The Deadliest Game.” I think it was here that my lifelong aversion to short stories began.

In seventh grade I took most things at face value. Now I ask questions like, how is a man with no gun more dangerous than, say, a lion? Men have no natural defenses. They have no instincts and natural wiles for hiding in the forest. They don’t even blend in particularly well. It seems to me a man would be a pathetically easy target for somebody who used to hunt big game.

And yet the hunted almost always win in these stories (now I’ve given away the ending, and I left off the Spoiler Alert. My bad).

The DVD box (50 Horror Classics) (they use both terms loosely) lists for each title the most well known actor in the cast as the star. In this case, it is Robert Reed.

“You know, Mike Brady,” Steven had to tell me (I don’t have to explain Mike Brady to my younger readers, do I?).

As the opening credits roll we find out Reed is not the star but a featured player. I think he actually did have the biggest part, as the main teenager. I must say it was kind of odd to see Mr. Brady as a teenager. Of course movie teenagers are usually in their 20s at least (hello, 30-something Steve McQueen in The Blob). That doesn’t bother me. It was the wise father voice in somebody who wasn’t supposed to be old enough to drink that I found disconcerting. I got over it, though, and settled in to enjoy the movie.

It starts out with four teenagers on a pleasure boat in the ocean. One couple is fishing and the other is skeet shooting. They can’t figure out what scared the fish. Oh yeah, they’re deadly game.

Apparently they are on vacation and have hired this drunkard to drive them around in his boat. they spot an island they’ve never seen before. When the boat guy passes out, they decide to row ashore and explore till he sobers up and can drive them home.

Excuse me, what? I guess this guy has been piloting them around all week and they are not perturbed by his dipsomania (how’s that for a $4 word?). As they row away in the row boat (Mike Brady can pilot the boat close enough to the island to go ashore in a row boat, but he can’t get them back to the mainland) (seriously, this is what he tells the others), the pilot wakes up and yells after them to not go to the island, you fools. Then he passes out again.

I’m afraid I started to lose track of the movie at this point, but they soon meet Bad Island Guy and his many henchmen. I think the folks that made the movie really really wanted Vincent Price for the part and the actor they got tries his best to oblige. Sometimes this kind of thing works (notably in Mrs. Santa Claus, where the guy playing the villain channels Tim Curry). This time not so much.

Eventually our teenage adventurers find out what going on and the hunt begins. At first it seems that Bad Island Guy gives his prey a sporting chance: limited crossbow arrows for himself, a gun and chance to find ammo for the hunted. I don’t think I’m giving too much away by saying he turns out to be a dirty double-crosser.

The girls get to be a little brave and clever, although the day ends up being saved by… well, you didn’t think I was going to give that away, did you? There are some decidedly creepy moments along the way as well as a few twists and turns. Perhaps I would have seen them coming if I would have been paying more attention. Which is a pretty good argument for watching these silly flicks as casually as I do.

Red-Headed Run

Not to be confused with red-headed stepchild, which is actually an expression I have never used. I say bastard stepchild in those situations, but that’s neither here nor there (I like that expression).

So I mentioned yesterday in passing that I dyed my hair. The box calls it auburn, but I think most people use the term red. Yes, I used a box. No doubt it would have been a good idea to go to a professional, but this was more in my budget. I’ve had good luck with boxes before, back in the ’90s, when I dyed for entertainment and didn’t have much grey. For the past few years I have embraced the grey, but then I thought, “Oh, what the hell.”

That is not what I meant to write about. I meant to do my usual Saturday Morning Running Commentary (I just suddenly decided to capitalize it, like it’s a Thing like Middle-aged Musings Monday or Lame Post Friday). The title Red-Headed Run came to me while I was running, so here we are.

I’ve mentioned in previous running commentaries how I think other people are looking at me and thinking this or that about “that old lady running.” Well, here I was with no grey hair. Surely I looked less old. No doubt I flatter myself. Probably nobody was looking at me this morning and thinking, “What a great hair color!” I’m not so sure anybody noticed me running with the grey hair either, but at least it makes for something to think about while running.

In fact, I started my run early enough that the streets were pretty bare. I did see a group of young people walking toward me on the opposite side of the street. They looked like 20-somethings, but I can never accurately guess ages. I wondered what they were doing out so early. Then as we crossed paths I heard one of the girls say, “Some people have slept already,” and I got it. They were not out early, they were out late. Ah, youth.

The run was actually a pretty good one. Regular readers know I started running again last weekend after a two week hiatus. Then, typical me, I didn’t run on Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday. In my defense, it was quite hot and humid, and I had auditions for Dirty Work at the Crossroads to worry about (I got cast). I have a number of things I ought to be getting done this morning, but I decided running (and writing a blog post about it) would be a priority.

The weather was not too hot. Some humidity, but not enough to effect my breathing. I was over half-way through the time I had set out to run for before I even looked at my watch. It was then that I realized: this run didn’t feel bad. My legs were not complaining at all. My back twinged a couple of times, but nothing too bad. I know running can hurt your back. However, being overweight can hurt your back, too, and running helps keep my weight down. I say, pick your pain and this was really more of a twinge than a pain.

I ran the sidewalks of Herkimer and admired other people’s houses. I saw a few screened in porches to envy, a few flower gardens to imitate next year. I saw one dog, but did not cross the street to pet him. For one thing, his owner was trying to get him to sit and the dog was not cooperating. I did not want to encourage canine insubordination.

I ended up running longer than I had run on Monday, and I must say I felt pretty good about it. As I walked my cool down with Tabby, I felt really good that I had gotten my run done. Whatever else I did not accomplish with the day, at least I had done that. Then I thought, I feel pretty good physically, too. Isn’t that awesome? After all the perseverance runs I write about, I finally write one without a single complaint (unless you count the twinge in the back) (and I don’t). Must be the red hair.