Category Archives: humor

But About Me…

Thursday night I went to a meeting of Herkimer Now, a group whose goal is to revitalize the Village of Herkimer, NY. I intend to write a fuller post about Herkimer Now, but today I’m going to talk about me.

When I walked into the meeting at Basloe Library (one of my all time favorite places), the guys that were there introduced themselves, so I told them my name.

“With?” one of them inquired. Oh dear. Of course, these were all local business owners or community leaders of some sort.

“Um, nowhere in particular.” Then, feeling some explanation of my presence was called for: “I write a blog about the Mohawk Valley. I thought I might write a post about you guys.”

So naturally they wrote down the name of my blog. One fellow asked was “girl” spelled with a “u.” Apparently that’s how all the cool gurls do it.

“I’m not cool,” I admitted. Hmmm. Mohawk Valley Gurl. Never thought of that. But now that I think about it, sometimes you see it spelled “Grrrl,” especially when it’s plural. I feel so conventional. It’s embarrassing.

Now, I write this blog every day. I get some pretty positive feedback. I know some of my posts are pretty good (if I do say so). But I’m still not entirely comfortable presenting myself as Someone Who Writes a Blog. Or even as a Blogger, which sounds younger, hipper and, it must be said, a trifle less literary. I worry that people will Expect things from me.

“That’s a good thing,” I can just hear somebody arguing, with or without an admonitory finger shake. “You should expect things of yourself.”

For one thing, there’s that dirty word “should” again. For another thing, setting up Expectations (Great or otherwise) has a distinct chilling effect on creative endeavors. Sometimes you have to back into these things.

My other concern is, as blogs go, this one is kind of, well, rinky dink. I was all excited to be over 150 followers. I’ve seen other bloggers get twice that many “likes” on one post. I am not exactly big time.

Then again, 150 followers is nothing to sneeze at. And every “like” or positive comment is appreciated. The Herkimer Now people may find my blog perfectly enjoyable.

Later on at the meeting, a man was talking about the newsletter and how he wanted to add articles, especially about local businesses.

“If only there was someone,” he said, “Maybe someone who just happened to walk into a meeting. Someone who likes to write about local things. Maybe who has a blog.”

I’m probably misquoting, but it was along those lines. I felt extremely flattered. Of course I would be happy to write for them. With writing and with theatre, if somebody asks me, my answer tends to be yes. Unfortunately, I left the meeting without giving them my email. It was the day my computer died, so I did not feel it was the best way to get ahold of me. I’m still computerless. In fact, I’m typing this on a computer at Basloe Library (did I mention it’s one of my favorite places?).

So perhaps we have a new feature: It’s All About Me Saturday. I like it. But stay tuned, I’ll have more to say about Herkimer Now. Um, later.

Lame Computers, Anyways!

Yesterday I began my post with a lament about what a lousy blogging week it has been. Little did I know, it was about to get worse.

Um, I mean, I began the post I was handwriting in my notebook while on a break at work. I don’t remember how I began the post that got published and, quite frankly, I do not want to go back and look. The computer told me I have 55 minutes of time and I may need all of it to move forward.

So yesterday, blog post that never saw the ether of the internet (as opposed to the light of day) in my spiral notebook (to differentiate it from a computer called a notebook, which I do not have), I called my husband Steven during the nine o’clock break, and he informed me that the computer was down. It is not a new computer. It was graciously given us by my sister whose daughter had no use for it. It has served us well (thanks, Vicki!) (oh, and thanks, Diane, the sister who gave us our previous computer; not good to go online with, but excellent for word processing purposes).

Lately our monitor has been going black for no apparent reason. This is NOT due to a mis-set sleep mode. It goes black when you are in the middle of doing something. If you turn the monitor off then on, it comes back on for periods lasting from one second to the rest of the session. Usually one second. If you re-start or turn off the computer then turn it back on later (an excercise in patience using bursts of one-second screen time) (but I don’t repine over that; I need to build up my capacity for patience), sometimes it is fine.

Until Thursday.

When I got home Thursday (Steven was at work by that time) (and don’t you just hate the way that works out sometimes!), I expermimentally turned on the comptuer. One second screen time, utilizing the off/on method. It was showing a message, however, which was difficult to read in one-second spurts. Something about a corrupt file in disc drive C, I think.

Well, I have a disc in that computer that I have never taken out. I save everything on it that I want saved. I thought, I’ll take that disc out and see what happens. Do you think that disc drive would open. No!!!

At one point, I realized it was almost 4:30, and I remembered the library closes at five on Thursdays. I sprang into action. I showered, threw on clothes (not neglecting earrings) and got to the library by twenty to five. I can make a blog post in twenty minutes! I’ve done it before!

There was a computer free. Yes! Unfortunately, library computers (quite sensibly, I admit) close down before the library. When I logged on, the computer told me I had seven minutes. It could still work!

I wrote a foolish sentence or two. Wanted to write more, as is often the case with me once I get going. Refrained. I even managed to log onto my email. Didn’t look at everything, but saw what was there (nothing earth-shattering, as they say) (that’s one of those hyperbolic expressions many poepl love to use; there’s a good topic for a future Lame Post Friday). I even had a few minutes of the seven left, because when I hit “exit,” the computer asked me was I sure I wanted to end my session early.

I went home, feeling a little inclined to burst into tears, although I know that as disasters go, this one was minor. I turned the computer back on and finally got the disc drive to open. There was nothing there. WHAT? What have I been saving to all this time?

I was by now out of ideas.

And now I have written a lengthy piece telling the whole sordid sotry, and I’m betting that when I get to the library after work, I will not have time to type it all in. Only, as you see, I did. HA! But what about tomorrow? Could be a problem.

Well, what does my blog do, really, but entertain a few people, most notably myself. The world will keep turning if I miss a few days. Literature and the blogosphere will survive. I suppose I will, too.

I Get So Proud of Myself

I went all day without being able to think of a single blog topic. I was seriously thinking of reinstating Wuss Out Wednesday, a feature I toyed with last Halloween. Then after work I went to Curves to exercise, and I will attempt to entertain with what transpired.

In case you didn’t know, Curves is circuit training. You go around a circle twice, exercising on the various machines and running in place on pads in between. At least, you don’t have to run in place. You can march in place, or do aerobics, anything to keep your heart rate up. I’ve seen some ladies shadow box. I usually dance. I like to do the twist. I figure it worked for Chubby Checkers, it’ll work for me.

At each machine, there is a little box into which you insert this computer tag they give you. It is set to you and records your workout. The little box flashes green if you’re doing good, orange if not. Monday I was unable to make the orange go away entirely on some of those machines. So today I wore an bright orange shirt, as a kind of a “Fine! Be that way!” to my body.

At Curves, I tend to be kind of a comic relief. I sing along to the songs I know. I make remarks about some of the lyrics (for example, have you ever noticed that Madonna’s “Open Your Heart To Me” is a total stalker song?). I sometimes dance in a very silly fashion. And when I get no orange or make the orange go away on a machine, when I’m done on that machine, I shake my fist at it and say, “Got you that time, you bastard!” I shook my fist a lot today.

After the workout (and stretching — LOVE the stretching!), you can put your tag into the computer and view your results. One of the results screen shows two views of a body (generic, not your own) with green or yellow dots on the various muscle groups. I keep getting yellow dots. Grrr! Today I got all green!

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” I jumped around and pumped my fist in the air. “I get so proud of myself,” I explained sheepishly.

And that is my story for today. I don’t know if Curves commentary is as interesting as running commentary, but this is all I got. I don’t know what I’ll come up with for tomorrow, but remember it’ll be Non-Sequitur Thursday. Hope to see you then.

Oh, For a Bare Sidewalk

I had planned to run today, and that was good news for me, because I did not have a blog topic and a run is almost always good for a post.

Was that a run-on sentence? I have a tendency to write these long sentences, then claim it is not a run-on sentence and invite doubters to diagram it and see. So far nobody has called me on it.

I put on my running clothes as soon as I got home from work, not allowing any time to talk myself out of it. I had not put out my running clothes last night, which would have been a good idea. However, I haven’t folded laundry the last couple of loads, and that was almost as good.

It was warm this afternoon. The forecast said 40. I didn’t check any thermometers, but it felt a little colder than that when I left work. Still, not frigid. I put on leggings and a long-sleeved t-shirt but not sweatshirt, hat and mittens. I was also hoping for some bare sidewalk.

It was a silly thing to hope for. Why, just the other day I was writing about Steven jumping over puddles. Did I think they had evaporated that quickly? They had not.

I skirted the long ones as best I could. Into the mud to get around this one, into the snow for that one. Watch out for that ice! Can I leap over that one? Splash! My feet got a little wet.

As I ran, I seemed to be moving very slowly. But at least I kept moving. Eventually I found whole stretches of bare or almost bare sidewalk. Bliss! I even looked around at some of the houses, envying screened in porches as usual. On one open porch I saw a row of red wooden Adirondack chairs. I’d like to get some cool furniture for my deck or front porch. Then again, I look forward to sitting outside even if it’s on dining room chairs I haul out the front door.

I ran for as long as I ran on Saturday. I even picked up the pace a little at the end. Not a full out sprint, which would have made me breathe funny. But I lengthened my stride and almost achieved that athletic lope I so envy in other runners. At least I told myself that was what I achieved. Perhaps it looked quite different to an impartial observer.

No matter. I ran, and that’s the important thing. I burned a few calories and got a topic for a blog post. Now it’s time to start pondering what I could possibly find to write about tomorrow.

Questionable Musings

Middle-aged Musings Monday is just about what I’m up to today.

Oh, I don’t feel too bad. I’m actually reasonably content with my lot in life today. For one thing, if I can just get through the week, I have a three day weekend. And Monday off makes next week only a four day week. Talk about a win/win!

But to get on with the musings, lately I’ve been alternately musing on and beating myself up over the fact that at this late date I still don’t have my act together. I’ve written posts about this before. It should surprise no one that writing these posts has been no help in the getting together of said act.

I marvel at my continued capacity to Just Not Do Things. For example, daily stretches to minimize my recurring back pain. Every couple of days I think, “Oh yeah, I was going to start doing those stretches every day. That would be a good idea.” Do I sit right down and start stretching? Do I even set a time to plan to do them in the near future? You can guess the answers to these questions.

Oh, but that reminds me of something else I’ve been musing about lately that I find more interesting than my ongoing tribulations: I HATE it when people don’t answer a question but instead make a remark calculated to convince you that you are an utter idiot for asking.

I used to have a rather nasty college professor whose favorite response was to look at you as if nothing could exceed her pity for such stupidity and say, “I think you can answer that question for yourself.”

I can just hear people with higher self-esteem than mine piping up with remarks such as, “As your professor, it was her job to challenge you,” and, “Didn’t you learn more by finding the answer yourself than by her just feeding it to you?” and, of course, “Well, you probably could answer the question for yourself.”

My response to these arguments is to realize that the world is just chock full of people who delight in trying to make me feel even more stupid. Well, you needn’t feel so pleased with yourselves; it isn’t that hard to do.

A favorite answer of army sergeants to questions they don’t feel like answering is, “Well, that’s where common sense comes in.” I always wanted to say, “In other words, you don’t know either,” but you want to watch how snarky you get with people who outrank you.

It is really no wonder that I got into the habit of prefacing questions with, “This is probably a stupid question.” The pat response to that, of course, is, “There are no stupid questions,” or “The only stupid question is the one not asked.” If this is truly the case (and I like to think it is), why do so many people not just answer the damn question?

I had one platoon sergeant who would say, “There are no stupid questions, only stupid people with questions.” This did not offend me, because at that time in my life especially (as, I confess, at many other times), I spent a good portion of every day feeling stupid. Also in his defense, he would usually answer the question.

I wonder if my low self-esteem and perception of myself as stupid have anything to do with my inability to get my act together. This is surely a point to ponder. I will not phrase it in the form of a question, however, because I have a pretty good idea of what some people would say.

No Spring in My Step

So there I was, having Wrist to Forehead Sunday. I had managed to grocery shop, do dishes, put in a load of laundry. Where, I asked myself, was the Mohawk Valley adventure in that? Then my husband Steven came home from work and graciously agreed to go with me and our schnoodle Tabby on a walk. I decree that it is perfectly acceptable to write a blog post about a walk.

It wasn’t bitter cold out; in fact, it was above freezing. This was evidenced by the fact that the snow was melting and making some major puddles. Still, I wished I had remembered my mittens. I compensated by pulling my hands into my sleeves. Unfortunately, I was wearing the coat that fits, not the insulated sweatshirt where the sleeves are way long, so this was not as helpful or as comfortable as one could have wished. Did I mention it was Wrist to Forehead Sunday?

As we walked down the sidewalk (can’t trust the cars around here to be careful of a cute little doggie after all), we saw a major lake of a puddle up ahead.

“Let’s not plow through that,” I said. “Let’s cross the street.”

The other side of the street had been neglected by the sidewalk plow, but there was a beaten path. Mushy snow offered less moisture to penetrate our sneakers. Tabby didn’t care either way: wade through water, plow through snow, she was happy.

We spent the rest of the walk skirting large puddles, crossing the street to avoid larger puddles, and walking through small puddles. It felt good to walk, and I did feel grateful that, after all, melting snow means spring is on the way. As happened on my run, though, I was not able to enjoy the scenery as well while watching where I could put my feet for the least soaking possible.

Then Steven got the bright idea to leap over a puddle. He got a running start. He leaped! He made it!

“I am not going to try that,” I said. And me the athlete of the family. I hang my head in shame as I type.

As we walked down Main Street, we came to a long expanse of bare sidewalk. Awesome! We sadly observed closed businesses. Less awesome. There are some signs of life. Pete’s Tavern still does a business. Collis Hardware is still around. Crazy Otto’s Empire Diner is a going concern. The lady in Hummel’s Office Plus waved at us as we went by. Tabby likes to go in and say hello sometimes, but I thought her muddy paws were best kept outside. Belly Up Pub was open too.

We went through Meyers Park and started up Bellinger Street. I saw a puddle up ahead.

“Are you going to jump that one?” I asked. Then as we got closer, “Oh, no, that one’s bigger now that I look at it.” Steven attempted it anyways. He got a running start! He leaped! He didn’t make it! I should perhaps mention that he had not changed out of his work pants before we started out. “Oh, no, and I already did laundry,” I lamented.

“Water dries,” Steven pointed out.

“Mud doesn’t,” I said. “At least, it does and then it’s dirt.”

I did enjoy our walk, even though I am SO looking forward to warmer temperatures and no snow. For one thing, it gave me a 500 word blog post. Unless I read the draft to Steven and he insists I take out the part about him jumping the puddles. Some of you are probably still thinking I should have attempted it, too (you know who you are).

Running Commentary to the Rescue

I started running again earlier this month but have not been having a great success of it. Among other things, the weather has turned against me.

Just as a side note: I feel a great resistance to including that last sentence. It is quite true that it got extremely cold and many people do not run in extreme weather. Yet when I admit that I am one of them, all I can see in my head are people giving me disdainful looks and getting out miniature violins.

But, you know, I think those people only live in my head, and I’m going to kick them out. I think most actual, non-head-living people can respect others’ choices to run or not to run. I know I would rather applaud people’s accomplishments than denigrate their shortcomings, especially when “shortcomings” means “failure to live up to arbitrary standards set by unreasonable people that live in their heads.”

Well, that was a digression. I had meant this to be a straight running post. I guess sometimes I can’t help but stray into a little half-baked philosophy.

Be that as it may, I decided to run today because it had passed 1 p.m. and I had neither hide nor hair of a blog post. I thought, “Running Commentary will come to my rescue!” (Oh, wait a minute, that is a much better title than “Well, I Had to Write About Something”)

As soon as I made the decision, I felt better. I have missed running. At odd moments I will suddenly think of a street that I only see when I run down it. I miss those streets! Then I think I MUST start running again and continue to work and build myself up, because most of those streets are not a short jaunt from my house (I see those streets all the time).

I got dressed, reminded my schnoodle Tabby that she doesn’t like to run with me, and set out.

The temperature was above freezing, and I could see a few raindrops in the puddles. The snow on the sidewalks was mushy but not yet slushy. I can understand why some people run in the road, but I choose not to. For one thing, on days like this it would have to be the middle of the road or I would be running in puddles. I took the mushy snow.

“It burns more calories,” I told myself. “It takes more effort.” I continued to make the effort.

As I went, I had to think that I probably did not look as if I was running at all. Slogging through the snow, dodging around the puddles — ooh, bare pavement! Awesome! Watch out for that ice. I did not look around and observe houses and yards, as I enjoy to do when I run. I figured it was a good way to end up on my butt if I hit some ice or ankle deep in water if I encountered a puddle.

Some of those puddles were like reservoirs, the snowbanks on either side making effective retaining walls. I confess, I was two blocks beyond the deepest puddle before I came up with “retaining walls.” At first I thought “dams,” but you don’t usually have a dam on either side of a reservoir (and, yes, I said, “Damn!” when I stepped in the reservoir). Well, I like anything that adds interest to my run.

It was really a pretty good run. I added a little bit to the length of time I ran (I always run for a certain length of time rather than a certain distance). I even kind of sort of sprinted at the end. At least, I lengthened my stride and picked up speed. It was awesome! My legs felt long, lean and powerful! I hoped I didn’t hit any stray ice.

Tabby graciously walked around the block with me for my cool down, as usual. When we were almost all the way around, the rain turned to snow and got heavier. How clever of me to get my run in before winter returned.

Tabby at the Theatre

This post is in the nature of Preview of Coming Attractions at Ilion Little Theatre. However, since to me the most interesting aspect of the evening was the extremely cute behavior of our exceedingly cute schnoodle I thought I’d put her name in the headline.

Tuesday night Steven had an appointment to listen to a possible accompanist for Dirty Work at the Crossroads, the play he is to direct for May performances.

We have been feeling a little discouraged about Dirty Work lately. Regular readers (Hi, Mom!) might remember that the play was originally to have been presented in October but ran into problems. When we postponed it to May the cast which we had FINALLY assembled seemed to think it would be OK. Turns out not so much.

Well, they do say life happens while you are making other plans. Our leading lady was forced to drop out by unexpected circumstances (I feel I must emphasize beyond her control, because in general the woman is the most reliable of actresses and wonderful to work with) (I do hope her circumstances will allow her to participate in future productions), and we have not gotten confirmations from three other cast members. On the brighter side, I know at least one cast member has been looking over his script (I go to Curves with his wife) (What, you thought it was me?).

Julianne Allen, who is directing the current production, The Crazy Times, highly recommended a young lady who is one of her piano students to be the accompanist for Dirty Works. Accordingly, we headed to the theatre to meet the young lady and hear her play. I guess technically only Steven needed to go, but Tabby and I went along to offer out input.

Tuesday, local readers know, is the day the weather got a little dicey in the evening. It actually was not too bad in Herkimer and Ilion. The snow was heavy and wet when I drove home from work around quarter to four, but it had stopped by the time we headed to the theatre for six.

Once we got into the theatre I let Tabby off the leash, and she delightedly ran around, sniffing everything and being petted by everyone there. I can’t say she sat quietly and enjoyed hearing the pianist though. She wanted to see what was going on so jumped up to sniff the keys. Steven called her back. It did not seem to phase the player at all, so I thought that boded well.

She is a very talented young lady, and her name completely escapes me. She also has experience accompanying vocalists, which is obviously important. So we were very pleased to add an accomplished pianist to the Dirty Works team. Now if only we can fill out the cast!

Regarding Julianne’s play, everything seems to be going well. We did not stay for rehearsal, but the set is looking good. Julianne showed us the latest addition, two doors stage left.

“This one opens in now,” she said, demonstrating. Tabby walked through the door, helping with the demonstrating. Julianne closed the door to show that the other one opened the other way.

“Tabby’s going to be scratching at the door,” Steven said.

However, while Julianne was describing the other things planned for the set, Tabby walked around behind the flats and emerged from the open door on stage right, looking extremely pleased with herself.

I suppose by now my readers are divided into two camps. Some of you are smiling and saying, “Oh, what an adorable dog.” Others are shaking their heads saying, “That dog should have stayed quietly at heel or on the leash. Or at home. Sniffing the piano keys, indeed!” Do I really have any readers who would say that?

Steven even contemplated giving Tabby a role in Dirty Work at the Crossroads. I play Mrs. Asterbilt, a fabulously rich society matron. Wouldn’t it be appropriate for me to have a French poodle? Tabby is only half poodle, but she could act, couldn’t she? I would call her “Tabitha” in the play, which is her real name anyways. Our only worry is that during my big dramatic scene, Tabby would leap to my defense with a crescendo of barking. Well, a life in theatre isn’t for every dog.

For more information on production dates and times for The Crazy Times and Dirty Work at the Crossroads, go to www.ilionlittletheatre.org or the Ilion Little Theatre Club Facebook page. If you are interested in piano lessons from Julianne, visit the Julie’s Music Facebook page.

More Vegetarian Zombies

Spoiler Alert! I don’t know why I bother with these Spoiler Alerts. Real movie reviewers never do. Then again, I think it’s clear I’m not a real reviewer. You probably didn’t need a Spoiler Alert to tell you that.

I was thinking of Monster Movie Monday when I watched King of the Zombies (1941) on Steven’s collection of 50 Horror Classics (so I missed it by a day). Speaking of spoiler alerts, the blurb in the booklet that comes with the collection tells you almost everything. I should have known better than to read it. Really, the word “zombies” in the title tells me everything I needed to know.

The movie opens on three guys on a plane about to make an emergency landing on — what else? — a mysterious, uncharted island. They seem to be getting some radio transmission from the island but they can’t understand it. This makes them hopeful (radio transmission) rather than suspicious (can’t understand it). Of course, the characters don’t know they’re in a monster movie. That kind of ironic pose did not happen in movies till much later (although I do seem to remember Heckle and Jeckle knowing they are cartoon characters. Does that count?) (But I digress).

The three guys are the pilot, a jaunty Irishman; the purported hero; and his valet, a black man. I guess they referred to African Americans as “colored” at this time.

It is no secret that movies of this era reflect the racism rampant in the country at that time. When black people got parts in movies they were usually servants or natives. They sometimes got to sing songs. They sometimes got to act really scared. They were often the comic relief. In this movie, the valet gets to act scared, provides comic relief and is easily the most interesting character in the picture.

The proprietor of the island assures the three that he has no radio, although he is happy to welcome them as his guests. He has a catatonic wife, a beautiful niece and an extremely creepy butler. The Valet is not best pleased when the bad guy (oh you knew he was the bad guy as soon as I mentioned him; I’m not going to keep calling him the proprietor for the rest of the post) sends him off with the creepy butler to the servants’ quarters.

Things look up for Valet when he meets a pretty maid in the kitchen. They take a turn for the worse when she warns him of zombies — dead people who walk. Oh, there’s also an old witch-doctor-looking woman brewing something in a pot.

A lot of time is wasted with Valet seeing zombies and his boss and the pilot not believing him. Not a whole lot is done with the catatonic wife and beautiful niece (it’s the wife’s niece; she’s only related to the Bad Guy by marriage, in case anybody was worried).

That was actually OK with me, because Valet and Pretty Maid were my favorite characters anyways. The Irish Pilot was pretty cool, too, but he didn’t really have enough to do, except die and get made into a zombie. Oops. Well, that’s why I put in the Spoiler Alert.

The zombies in this picture, once again, are not flesh-eating monsters. In fact, Pretty Maid serves them up some stew-looking stuff that is apparently pretty bland. She realizes Valet has not in fact become a zombie when he asks for salt. Apparently zombies can’t eat salt (high blood pressure in the undead? News to me, but, whatever). She puts too much on just to be sure, so I don’t think the poor guy gets any dinner.

I kind of stopped paying attention by the end. I seem to think the zombies revolted; in fact, I remember reading that on the blurb. As in Revolt of the Zombies, it’s not such a much.

I feel I should mention that I watched this movie almost two weeks ago and have been having trouble with the write-up. In these not-as-post-racial-as-one-would-hope times, I hesitated over my description of the black characters. Then I thought maybe I could write a whole blog post thrashing out my dilemma. Before I wrote that post, I re-read my draft of this one and thought, “Hmmm, it’s not so bad. Maybe I’ll publish it after all.”

And I’m Still Mad About the Dog

Spoiler Alert: I am pretty much going to recount most of the plot of today’s movie. I feel no qualms of conscience in doing so, because the only reason to watch this movie is Lionel Barrymore’s performance and you can enjoy that in any case.

Calling Dr. Gillespie also stars Donna Reed as a young and beautiful girl about to graduate from some girls boarding school somewhere. At the beginning of the movie she is meeting her young man. Donna’s father has at last consented to their engagement (cue romantic sigh from Donna’s young, impressionable roommate).

The fiance wants to elope right away, but Donna’s father has stipulated that she must finish school first (Yay, Dad, insisting on education! I’m a little sorry we never meet that character).

“I always get my way,” says Fiance with that demure, psycho look you often see in these movies.

“Not this time,” Donna tells him gently. He immediately kills a perfectly nice dog with a rock.

What the hell! I saw the dog and had fears for its well-being, but I hoped the poor thing would make it to the second reel at least. Donna is also upset, but not as upset as me, because she does not immediately terminate the engagement. She asks advice of the understanding headmistress, who recommends a psychiatric evaluation. She calls Dr. Gillespie (Barrymore), in hopes that it can be done so discreetly that even the fiance doesn’t know about it.

Dr. Gillespie calls in a brilliant young surgeon on staff at the same hospital. This young man wants to branch out into psychiatry but has so far been denied by the head of the hospital. The two of them go to the girls school. While Dr. Gillespie holds court with a number of fascinated young girls, Brilliant Surgeon takes Donna and the Fiance for a walk and asks some questions so subtle even I didn’t know what he was getting at.

Dr. Gillespie, Donna and Brilliant Surgeon meet with Fiance’s parents and family doctor. Fiance might be a mental case, our heroes say. Nonsense, says Family Doctor. Who do you think the parents believe?

Luckily, another demonstration of Fiance’s mental imbalance soon follows. No animals are harmed, but he smashes the window of a toy store and wrecks a plane, muttering threats against Dr. Gillespie.

So Family Doctor prescribes a long rest and a trip somewhere. Fiance smiles charmingly from the bed and says he feels fine. He doesn’t remember anything about the dog or the toy plane. As soon as he’s left alone he smashes Donna Reed’s picture and escapes out the window.

In talking with Donna, Brilliant Surgeons realizes that what triggers Fiance’s episodes of madness is the sound of a train whistle. You know, I don’t think the Hollywood screenwriters involved ever took a psychiatry course in their lives. For one thing, I never herd another train whistle for the rest of the picture, but Fiance kills two random guys to get a hot car to impress a dime-a-dance girl he’s trying to make time with.

Maybe it’s just me, but isn’t that a little inconsistent? Smashing a poor dog or a shop window because you’re frustrated and hear a train whistle strikes me as a slightly different psychosis from killing people to obtain a material object. Of course, his little murder for gain in a clumsy, short-sighted act, and the police are soon after him.

Donna Reed looks out her window and screams, because the first place he heads in the school garden. Headmistress, immediately consulting via telephone with Dr. Gillespie, sends Donna to the hospital with the school chauffeur, where she will supposedly be safe. Guess where Fiance is headed.

It is a big hospital. Fiance is able to kill a doctor and steal his glasses and his identity fairly easily (we don’t find out till later the poor other doctor is dead) (and we never meet him either, which saved the producers paying another actor). My first reaction was, “Oh, great disguise. They’ll NEVER recognize you with those glasses one!” But he only runs into people who don’t know him or the dead doctor as he continues to stalk Dr. Gillespie, intent on revenge.

Donna Reed, meantime, is hiding out in Brilliant Surgeon’s office suite, which includes sleeping accommodations (she does not avail herself of the invitation to put on a hospital gown, so don’t get your hopes up) (you know who you are). How fiance figures out she’s there so he can call her is never explained, but she ends up on hand for the final confrontation.

The thing that really annoyed me was Donna’s wailing at the end, “But it wasn’t really his fault!” Three men and a dog are dead! Why are you feeling more sorry for the killer? I’m thinking she doesn’t know about the dime-a-dance girl, for one thing.

On the whole, I thought it was a pretty dumb movie. It was saved for me by Lionel Barrymore and a few of the minor characters. There are a couple of nurses he spars with, as fictional doctors and nurses tend to do. A large, kind of doofy orderly is recruited to act as his bodyguard, unbeknownst to the prickly Dr. Gillespie. I also got a few chuckles from Donna’s roommate, a budding photographer and paramour.

In closing credits they advertised another Dr. Gillespie movie. I’ll have to watch for it. I do love that Lionel Barrymore.