May you always walk on cloud nine
Today is George’s 71st birthday! I wish it were a national holiday. We could celebrate by sitting cross-legged while learning how to play sitar. However, I can’t sit cross-legged due to spinal fusion surgery so I’d have to stand and play the tambourine.
There are only a few songs that make you stop whatever you are doing or thinking and experience the moment. “Here Comes the Sun” does that for me. Of course, the majority of George’s songs does that to a fanatic like me but that song I’ve heard since the womb. Today’s kids have heard Mozart in utero. I heard the Beatles. So there.
Gary Sinise with the Lt. Dan Band are holding a benefit concert tonight in Temecula for Marine Cpl. Juan Dominguez. who lost both legs and an arm in Afghanistan. Hugh Hewitt hosted his radio show from Baily’s in Old Town Temecula sponsored by KTIE 590. I was happy to be in the audience, not only because I’m a Hewitt fan, but that he celebrated the life of Andrew Breitbart, the recently deceased conservative commentator. Here are some shots of Hewitt on air:
And taking a break in between segments:
He was kind enough to come up to me and say hello. I was also lucky to get there just in time to snap this pic of Sinise:
Here he is talking to a representative from KTIE who commended him for all the work he does for the troops:
It was quite cold this evening at the show but it was such a wonderful way to celebrate Andrew Breitbart. May he rest in peace.
As a teen, I fell in love with you. I visited you with friends to buy the trendiest of clothes with my meager wages. I got Orange Julius though I didn’t know what was so great about it. I walked by girls (and boys) getting their ears pierced since it was the eighties. I snatched up every pair of parachute pants paying full price because getting spotted in K-mart was worse than leprosy.
Then in the nineties something smart happened. You became the place for The Intellectual. Electronic stores invaded, major book stores opened for the now mature shopper who no longer needed hair scrunchies and leg warmers.
One could sample music through headphones while sitting around other people like a music bar. Game and puzzle stores laid out chess games for passers-by to play.
You bore toy stores stepped up from the usual Barbies and fake flipping barking dogs. You sold science experiment kits and (gasp) art supplies.
If an artist or scientist suffered at an impasse, a trip to your glittery cages and “mall air” cured what ailed us with a salted soft pretzel, of course. Like when we eat ice cream while suffering sore throats.
Then the recession of ‘Aught 8 rolled in. Electronic devices blew up with books, music, movies and games that nobody had to touch except for touch pads. Book stores dropped you and set themselves up outside your parameters with no weary shoppers to wander in. Hot potatoes be damned.
Today, if we want to open a book we must do so whilst standing because big name book stores no longer offer comfy chairs to relax and browse. We must buy the magazine we want to look at along with a drink otherwise we can’t sit at the tables.
But face it, we get magazines solely to read in the bathtub because we can’t risk dropping our iPads in the water, unless you have a bowl of rice and a heat source handy to dry it out.
There’s hardly nothing left to touch before we buy. The only place left in your vast expanse for The Intellectual is the overly sterile Apple store. There’s nothing colorful to feast on except the casings for their devices.
All that’s left now, Dear Shopping Mall, are stores with clothes, shoes, shoes, clothes, clothes, jewelry, and shoes. And you know the sad part? Nobody’s in those stores. High-heeled Lady Gaga shoes sit on stands, shining their rhinestones and leopard and cheetah prints, lonely and soon to be forgotten in 2 months when they are shamefully out of date.
I shouldn’t complain, Shopping Mall. I’m typing this on a software program that provides me with links, articles and pictures to accompany me which is pretty nifty. I just wish something nifty was left over in your glass-windowed hallowed halls.
The Average Intellectual Shopper
I was in the mood for an artist’s date yesterday and in true form, I planned nothing ahead except for bring with me a free movie pass I won in a raffle.
Without checking to see what was playing, I went to the theater to see what movie was starting next. One couple bought tickets to Midnight in Paris. I’m not a movie goer so I’m not familiar with anything on the silver screen that doesn’t involve Harry Potter. The couple said it was a Woody Allen film. I’ve loved his movies for many years but got creeped out with him marrying Mia Farrow’s daughter, but I thought I’ll give it a shot.
And what a shot it was. We hear but not see Owen Wilson as Gil Pender talking to his fiancée (Rachel McAdams) about how tired he is of being a hollywood hack and how he wants to live in Paris to write a novel but she wants to stay in Malibu. They are in France on business with her parents so they take in the sights.
Gil goes for a walk at midnight and on a whim he gets picked up in a cab from the 1920s with some partygoers. At the party he meets Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, while Cole Porter entertains on the piano. The Fitzgeralds take Gil to a bar where they meet Hemingway then see Gertrude Stein (Kathy Bates) where he gives her his novel to critique. By the way, Picasso is with Stein analyzing a painting I swear looks like something my 7-year-old concocted, but hey, it’s Picasso.
This is the kind of movie I’d write. Or it would at least be in my dream journal. It was like walking through all of my lit and art courses in college. If this movie existed back then, I’d have straight A’s, no problem. We want to see the people we study come to life.
After the movie I felt inspired as an artist so on a whim I walked to Michael’s. I still felt like I was in the movie as I walked by an Italian restaurant as a street performer sang, “It’s a wonderful night for a moon dance.” I walked straight to the artist supplies and saw sketchbooks on sale, so I picked one up with some charcoal pencils. I plan on using these at the beach today like Reginald Marsh as he sketched by the ocean.
What a terrific unplanned artist’s date’ it’s something we all need to unblock our creativity. I give this movie a rating of all the stars Vincent Van Gogh ever painted.
19 years ago today I married Timothy Keith Jones. This is for him, my annual dedication of a George Harrison song. After a poll on Facebook, I chose this one:
There’s too much fighting and protesting and anger today. We got Libya, Egypt and Wisconsin holding up signs and marching through streets to the tunes of bongo drummers (I’m from Wisconsin and I never thought I’d ever lump my home state with Libya and Egypt).
Yesterday morning while Wisconsin, Ohio and Indiana senators played Midwest Chinese Fire Drill, I strolled into my Starbucks. A showdown between two sisters played outside:
I assumed it was Julie the other sister yelled at.
With all this unrest there is no better time for a holiday. I hereby declare February 25th, George Harrison‘s birthday, a spiritual holiday.
With the help of Mr. Harrison’s songs, here’s my outline on how to celebrate this day in those four rooms:
Take a yoga class. My orthopedic surgeon and dentist, both of Indian descent, recommended yoga for my back and thyroid. Indians in the medical profession got it goin’ ON. I can see why George was so fascinated with Indian culture and learned how to play sitar.
Play Scrabble online. You’ll learn new words when the computer gets away with words you never heard of, like Qi and Ka.
Read to improve your mental well-being. Adam Carolla‘s In Fifty Years We’ll All Be Chicks is good for laughter but it’s also eye-opening. Did you know you can get rid of a zit by taking a shower, sterilizing a pin to pop it, then covering it with Oxy-10? That’s what Adam says. Why didn’t I know this as a teenager? I just covered it with make-up with an icky way-overused sponge which made my acne worse.
Whenever we apply a method to deal with anger it never works. So I let Angry Birds take out my rage for me. Shooting birds shaped like bombs through sling shots to destroy little green pigs is at least a little entertaining. See if you’re still mad after that.
One of the easiest ways to enhance your spiritual life is to sign up for a daily e-mail. I get mine through Heartlight. They send me a Bible passage and a quote for the day. Rumer Godden’s quote popped up in my in-box just a few days ago.
Men, on George Harrison Day, grow mustaches. Respect the ‘stache! Since George Harrison Day falls on a Friday this year, you get a 3 day weekend to grow it.
So roll out your yoga mats, wear breathable cotton and go barefoot. Report back to me on Monday.