Phoebe Kate

…many things of note happened. 

For starters, the River of Strange (whose idiosyncratic and circuitous course flows through every one of the former Confederate states, including the four who “officially” remained part of the Union) flooded its banks on Thanksgiving Day and filled my guest blogger’s waterside mansion with the flotsam and jetsam of weird.  She is still trying to clean it all out and put things to right. 

All I can say is good luck, kid.  Glad you weathered the storm and glad I’m back.

The winner of the International Prize for Wholesome Living was announced.  The lucky person was Edna Parker of Shelbyville, Indiana and the award was 115 years and 220 days of life, which finally ended last Wednesday.  Mrs. Parker never sampled an alcoholic libation during her very, very long existence on this earth.  Nor did she support her state’s economy by enjoying a tobacco product, one of Indiana’s agricultural commodities. She got married at 20, was widowed at 46, dwelt alone in her farmhouse until she was 100, outlived her children and most of her relatives, and died in a nursing home. 

Let’s all get out our bottles of cheer and raise a toast (or two or three — who’s counting?) to Edna and the dubious honor bestowed on her.  And it goes without saying: by all means, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. 

Whilst I was gone, it was also proven that defining certain sins as ”deadly” is no piece of literary or ecclesiastical hyperbole but a cold, hard and brutal reality.  Last week, on the retail worshippers’ favorite feast day of Black Friday, Greed appeared with its insensate insatiability.  In the early morning hours, frenzied shoppers stormed a Wal-Mart and smashed through the doors before opening time, trampling one employee to death and injuring numerous others who sought to control the crowd and save the victim.  The angry mob refused to leave when the manager announced he was closing the store because of the death.             

Tis the season to be — well, you fill in the blank as you see fit.  Let’s take those bottles of consolation and raise a toast to the poor soul who died a futile and pointless death as a martyr to mercantilism in one of the crassest and vilest cathedrals of retailing ever known to mankind.

However, on a brighter note, a much-needed advance in the protection of women occurred whilst I was gone.  A Brazilian designer has introduced a line of lingerie that contains a global tracking device, thus enabling its wearer to be easily located in the event of a criminal abduction or act of terrorism.

Let’s celebrate the safety of ladies who love their lacies by uncorking a bottle of the bubbly.  And as we toast, let us remember what mothers from back in the day had to say to their daughters about inappropriate gifts from boyfriends.  At the top of the list of no-no’s was lingerie, which made my incorrigible friends and I LOL and hope to receive many packages from Victoria’s Secret from admirers. 

Well, I gotta admit you were right, Ma — and you were psychic.  What would be the perfect present for a stalker to give the object of his obessession?  A red satin push-up bra with a GPS, of course.  So let’s splash a little (okay, a lot) more bubbly in our glasses and toast the Old School, whose rules somehow, amazingly enough, still seem to apply, even today.

–phoebe kate  

Well, you can’t keep a good woman down long, eh?  Like the South from whence I come, I rise again.

You’ll still get a guest blogger, though, for  couple days.  She’s been involved creating another one of her magnificent pieces of art, but will get on the keyboard here and keep you amused for a bit.  Buckle your seatbelts, my friends, it’s going to be a wild ride with my buddy.

Enjoy!

–phoebe kate

Back in the summer of my sixteenth year, my ever-pragmatic father decided that I wouldn’t loaf around the house, hang out with my friends and waste three good months while waiting for my junior year in high school to start.  I was going to take a typing class so that if my anticipated career as a writer didn’t work out, I could be a Productive Citizen and put food on my table.

Well, I thought typing class sounded like a drag, but there was no derailing the Old Man’s plans.  So I made a counter-offer that would keep us both happy.  I would go to typing class if he also paid for me to take acting classes at New York University.  Always a reasonable man, he readily agreed to the terms.

Did I want to be an actress?  Not particularly.  But at 16, I had finally recognized how much my natural shyness held me back socially — and would ultimately do so professionally, no matter what career I ended up in.  I logically figured that if I could convincingly play a character, I could convincingly play ME in whatever circumstances I found myself.

The typing class went great.  I learned to type 95 wpm.

The acting class went great.  I overcame by shyness.  Oh, did I ever.

So which skill has served me best?  Well, I’ve had to fall back on my ten lightning fast keyboard fingers more than once in my career.  But by far, the ability to act has carried me through more situations than I can number.

Life has a way of perpetually putting us in tight spots and unpleasant spaces and difficult circumstances beyond our control.  And when it does, I call on the combination of calm detachment and inner focus to create the character who can best play the scene as it’s unfolding.

For the present time, the script calls for a character who will be brave and beautiful, no matter what.  And this part I can do.  After playing heroines like Blanche DuBois and Antigone and Cordelia, I think I can pull it off.

I will be away for a short while — maybe a couple days, maybe a week.  I’ll be back, though.  And in the meantime, a guest blogger (or two or three) will be keeping you entertained until I return.

So keep reading, keep safe and happy, be thankful for your blessings and remember that no matter what, the show always goes on.

–phoebe kate

What do Lindsay Lohan and Notre Dame’s football team have in common?

They both were used for target practice this week. 

The effed-up bad girl celeb got pelted by PETA for wearing pelts.  Angry animal rights activists hurled bags of flour on the fur-clad Lohan as she sashayed down Paris’s Champs-Elysees.  Instead of being pissed, Lohan ought to be thankful it was just flour flung at her.  PETA members used to use blood or red paint to anoint offending fashionistas.  Tres messy. 

The Fighting Irish faced a barrage of snowballs thrown by their fighting-mad fans yesterday after the underdog Syracuse team stole the game 24-23.   Oddly, it wasn’t the general public pummeling them — it was their fellow students.  Really dumb thing to do, guys.  Sheeesh, I don’t think I’d want the likes of 278-pound Carl Brophy and 277-pound Justin Brown mad at me..  Much safer to pelt the hacky sack squad. 

–phoebe kate

Well, there I was.  It was the end of a long, LONG day.  A good day, relatively stress-free in terms of events and interactions with people.  I’d watched collegiate basketball in the afternoon and my team won.  I’d gone out to dinner with my daughter and her life partner at a favorite restaurant.  We had some drinks, good food and a lot of laughs.  I came home, had a nightcap and watched “Dr. Who” and “Austin City Limits” and “Soundstage.”  Who could ask for a more pleasant end to a pleasant day?

But I couldn’t go to sleep.  Something was agitating my soul.  I paced about my two-floor house.  I checked my bills to make sure I hadn’t forgotten to pay one.  I counted all my credit cards to make sure I wasn’t missing one.  I checked the house and made sure my cats were accounted for.  I checked the bedroom to ascertain my husband hadn’t given me the slip while I was checking my bills and counting my credit cards and looking for the cats.  He was in bed, sound asleep.  Then I verified that the stove burners were off, the doors were locked, that I’d taken my nightly meds and the alarm was set for the right time tomorrow morning.  I lay down and said my prayers but I still couldn’t rest easy.

So I got up and in desperation went on the computer, hoping to be-numb my mind into sleep mode.  And there — oh, miracle of miracles and wonder of wonders! – on MSN headline news, was the blessed relief I sought.  The Vatican forgives John Lennon for saying the Beatles were more popular than Jesus Christ back in 1966. 

Oh, hallelujah!  And glory be!  I can sleep in peace at last.  Forty-two years of insomnia cured by a single news story! 

And tomorrow I’m fully expecting to see the images of JL and JC smiling at one another in my piece of breakfast toast. 

–phoebe kate