The Whole Megillah



The Jewish holiday of Purim begins today, so I thought I'd pass along this scene from Christopher Guest's mockumentary, "For Your Consideration."  Not because it sheds much light on the holiday; just because I think it's funny. 

The holiday of Purim is - in brief - a celebration of the events described in the book of Esther, which is one of five books in the Bible referred to as "megillot" (or, scrolls).  Each megillah is relatively short, and each is read liturgically on a particular holiday during the Jewish calendar.

Thinking about the megillah of Esther today called another song to mind (one even catchier than "The Purim Song," above) -  "Come Blow Your Horn," written by Sammy Cahn & Jimmy Van Heusen and popularized by the late, great Mr. Frank Sinatra (who else?).  The first bridge of the song employs the Yiddish phrase "the whole megillah," thus providing our very tenuous connection to Purim.

"Come Blow Your Horn" was used in a movie by the same name, based on a Neil Simon play, which tells the story of a swingin' sixties bachelor who tries to convert his younger brother to his womanizing ways. In the lyrics below, we see the older brother's philosophy of life, as he indoctrinates his younger brother on how to make a splash with the ladies:

Make like a Mister Milquetoast - and you'll get shut out
Make like a Mister Meek - and you'll get cut out
Make like a little lamb - and wham you're shorn
I tell you chum - it's time to come - blow your horn

Make like a Mister Mumbles - and you're a zero
Make like a Mister Big - they dig a hero
You've got to sound your "A" - the day you're born
I tell you chum - it's time to come - blow your horn

The taller the tree is - the sweeter the peach
I'll give you the whole magilla [sic]- in a one word speech - reach!

Make like the world's your pudding - but light the brandy
Even the mildest kiss - is a dan-dan-dandy
There'll be no love in bloom - come doomsday morn
I tell you chum - it's time to come - blow your horn

In civilized jungles - females adore
The lions who come on swinging - if you want to score - roar

You can be either read to - or be the reader
You can be either lead - or be the leader
Don't wait until you're told - you're old and worn

Take in some air - and get your lips puckered
Before you find - you're simply too tuckered

I tell you chum - it's time to come - blow your horn.

Fun song, right?  But  - beyond the use of "megillah" - how does it relate to Purim?  Well, it doesn't.  Not really.  I just had a Sinatra song stuck in my head, and I felt like sharing.

And yet - hang on just one dan-dan-dandy second - maybe there is something of the spirit of Esther contained here in these Sammy Cahn lyrics after all?

Granted, the book of Esther does not condone swingin' machismo - no roaring lions looking to score. King Xerxes, whose carousing & bravado led to unfair treatment of his first wife and rash promises to his assistant, is not the hero of the Purim story.  Nor does the Bible condemn being meek or lamb-like across the board.  Rather than getting you "cut out" or "shut out," these qualities are your ticket in to God's presence.

However, there is a "doomsday morn" in Esther's story, and in light of this impending destruction she is advised by her uncle not to wait, not to do nothing, but instead to blow her proverbial horn.  To reveal her true identity to King Xerxes while there was still time.  To sound her "A" and exercise her position of power. Because "who knows but that [she had] come to royal position for such a time as this?" (Esther 4:14)

So there you have it - a call to action, a call to boldery, a call to blow your horn when the time comes.  A tall order in a short megillah, a catchy song by Sammy Cahn, and something to celebrate.

Happy Purim, chums!

Ice 'Capades

Only a few more days remain of the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympic Games.  Are you sad?  I'm kinda sad.  What will we do & what will we talk about once they're over?  I'll have to take up knitting (again), or read up on health care reform, or finally get around to writing my Christmas cards, or find some other sort of activity to fill my time until the drama begins anew on July 27, 2012. (London!)

But as long as the torch still glows in Canada...let's discuss!

The One with the Waggily Tail

At the 2008 Dachshund Spring Fiesta

The Pioneer Woman is having another photography contest today.  The theme?  Dogs.

I spent large chunks of my day staring at all these dog portraits.  Swooning & sighing over them.  They are heart-breakingly adorable and dear.  I have eighty-five most favorites, at least.

There are pictures of dogs running.  Is there anything more happy than a dog running?  Some of the photos show a dog holding something (stick, newspaper) in its mouth.  Is there anything cuter than that?  Some of the photos show a depth of emotion that you may never have thought possible in a canine.  Other pics are of dogs wearing hats and sweaters and cones-of-shame.  Some just have dogs sleeping.  Or riding in cars.  Or playing in snow.  So much cuteness - it's really been more than my little heart can bear.

I'm going to tell you something, but you have to promise not to judge me.  Ok?  Here goes: I've been talking to these photos.  Saying things like, "Aww, who's a good dog?" and "Hi, baby!" or "Look at da liddle precious schmoopy puppy!"  It's disgusting, admittedly, but I can't help it.  I just love dogs.

In fact, I almost stole one this weekend...

Take Two 
 

Grand Central's ceiling

Improv class began again this week. Though I’ve watched a lot of Improv lately, I haven’t done much Improv since my last class ended two months ago. In the interim, it had started to seem a little foreign and bizarre.

What's it all about, again? I would wonder. I remembered liking Improv...remembered being energized by it. But lately, the very idea of standing in front of people without a script just sounded strange and weird and...impossible. Fear of failure loomed large.

In Short: The Short

Snowy Boston, 12/31/09

The title of this post may be something of a misnomer: my comments on last night's Olympic figure skating event are anything but brief. I managed to fill several pages with my thoughts on the men's short programs; in fact, the lengthy diatribe below is actually the pared down version of the original manifesto.

I realize that my commentary is unsolicited, and I'm guessing that you probably don't care as deeply (nor as dorkily) as I do about this event, so please do not feel any compunction if you choose not to read this entire post.  I actually encourage you to spend your time doing something more worthwhile than reading this post, such as watching these heart-warming (and completely realistic) scenes from The Cutting Edge.

However, if you'd like to know what I think...

A Snow Bunny Survives

This here house is where I stayed last weekend.  It is close to some mountains, and not much else.  All around us were snow-covered fields, and winding roads, and a big sky with visible stars.  I didn't hardly miss sky-scrapers at all. 

The place was decorated in a most unusual fashion. If you are feeling nice, you could say "eclectic." Otherwise, you could call it "weirdzies." (And you'd be right.)

I was traveling with a big group of hilarious people.  The kind of people who just might purchase snowflake sweaters at the Salvation Army and wear them ironically to dinner one night.  The kind of people who might try to scare one another with a freaky-deaky doll found in the living room.  The kind of people who enjoy trash-talking Canada, and the kind of Canadian people who can trash-talk right back.  The kind of people who made me laugh. A lot.

I learned to ski, which was fun. But also scary.  Sometimes I'd make it all the way down the hill without falling!  But other times I would fall.  Sometimes spectacularly (I've got the battle bruises to prove it).

Occasionally I said curse words as I zoomed over icy patches, 'cause holymoly and knightsofcolumbus, I was going *fast*!  But CJL coached me off the chair lift, and SBG coaxed me down the hill, and my fellow beginning skier, T-Bone, gave me the freedom to fail.  Because if you don't have the freedom to fail, then you have nothing...am I right, T-Bone?

Sunday was the dreaded holiday but I survived that in the same way I survived the ski slopes: laughing with friends.  Sharing lifts up the mountain, and high-fives at the bottom of it.  Eating meals around a big table, making cups of coffee to stay warm.

Oh yeah, and I got by with a little help from beignets.  Dozens and dozens and dozens of home-made beignets.

There were horses on the premises of our rental house.  This guy's name was Nugget.  He gave us knowing looks each morning as we headed off to the slopes, and he greeted us each evening when we returned to make soup and watch the Olympics. And wear snowflake sweaters. And laugh at the freaky-deaky doll in the living room, who we worried might come to life (ala Child's Play) and terrorize us at 3:30 in the morning.

But luckily the doll didn't come to life.  Luckily we survived.  I survived!  And I had a wonderful weekend.

A Little Night Music...

...is playing on Broadway and I saw it a few weeks ago. While overall it was an enjoyable afternoon of theater-going, I left a bit confused by the story. Specifically the ending, which - judging from the score's bright finish - was intended to be a happy one. However, the romantic arrangements that the characters have settled into by the finale seemed to me more oedipal and pitiable than health-ful and happy.

But if someone has a different take on things, I'd be glad to hear it! In the meantime, I wrote a little poem. Just 'cause.

The set design is simple but entirely effective
Chorus members add an unusual perspective

Quite the cast of characters populate the stage
‘Fredrika’s voice delights despite her precocious age

Angela, that grand dame, delivers lines with vim and vigor
(One wishes that her part could have been a little bigger)

Catherine Zeta is just lovely, treading boards in her bare feet
Singing “Isn’t it bliss?” with irony, after ‘Desiree’s defeat

And though I might give praise for Send in the Clown’s melody
It’s harder to applaud the characters’ infidelity

When curtain fell on second choices and second chances -
Marriages broken to make way for new romances -

I wondered if Sondheim had meant it all for whimsy?
The “happy ending” for me just felt a little too flimsy.


(Meter's broken, but I'm too lazy to fix it. Oops!)

Poetry In Motion

The frozen Charles River, 1/1/10

Dust of Snow, by Robert Frost

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

One of the poems now appearing on a subway car near you is the above, by Mr. Robert Frost. I like it. It reminds me of my practicing-joy endeavor.

And of being watchful for those small moments when God's beauty becomes apparent, when it comes barreling at you, and though you were determined to be sullen and grouse over all the injustices handed you that day, you can't help but walk away in awe, and possibly even with a smile, certainly aware of your smallness, once again thinking about eternity.

FunFactFriday
Beauty Walks A Razor's Edge

A boarded-up brownstone on West 76th Street

I took this photo last fall, while on a Sunday morning wander through the 'hood. Public art installations are one of the things I love about NYC, but I had some questions about this painting. Like - who was responsible for it? Squatters living in the building, a passer-by graffiti artist? Or was it a commissioned piece to commemorate a landmark in Bob Dylan's life?

Time to go to Google.

I learned that the painting is the work of reknowned graffiti artist, Jef Aerosol. Rather than free-handing a design, Jef first cuts his image into stencils (between 1-4 layers, depending on the complexity & number of colors) and then transfers the image to a wall using spray paint.

(To see more of his work, go here. For a step-by-step of his process, look here.)

Stencil graffiti finds its roots in a technique called Pochoir (French for stenciling; Aerosol is a Frenchman himself) which originated in Asia, before making its way to France in the 19th century. There it was used to create prints for illustrations in books and fashion journals. The pochoir process had its gilded age during the 1920s – not only in France but in other publishing centers in Europe and the US as well.

Exampes of Art Nouveau / Art Deco pochoir

Stencil graffiti took pochoir to the streets and gained popularity in the early 1980’s with artists such as Blek le Rat, Miss Tic, and Jef Aerosol¹. Aerosol often depicts cultural icons – Charlie Chaplin, Patti Smith, Mick Jagger, Brigitte Bardot, Dylan, and more recently, JayZ – but he also paints anonymous figures, too. Some works are witty, some playful, some seem raw and reflect a surprising amount of emotion.

Says Aerosol of his work, “I have tried with pictures and words to call forth memories, emotions, feelings, joy and sadness to honor those who have fed my life with their music, words, art works, movies, ideas and ideals.”

For the past few decades, Aerosol’s art has appeared on city walls all over the world – Paris, London, Amsterdam, Tokyo, and beyond. He currently has a show of some of his canvas work open here in New York! If you're interested, it's at the Ad Hoc Art gallery in Brooklyn, through Feb. 21st.

¹ As graffiti is kinda illegal, many street artists use an alias.

Once Upon a Time in Europe

“Florence is full,” we were told, and the No Vacancy signs displayed in every pensione between the train station and the Arno confirmed this uncomfortable truth: we had arrived without reservations and now had no place to stay.

When Ivano, with his long black hair and shirt open to the fourth button, called out to us – two young American travelers wearing backpacks and expressions of mild panic – offering us beds in his sparsely furnished, make-shift hostel, advertised only by a piece of masking tape over the door buzzer which read (in faint pencil font) “The Backpack Shack,” we agreed, fearing our only other option was camping on a hard bench back at the train station.

In postcards home, we wrote our parents about the art-full Uffizi gallery, the shop near the Duomo that sold fifty flavors of gelato, and the surrounding Tuscan countryside, but we tactfully omitted mention of our lodgings, the unctuous proprietor, and the police raid that (may or may not have) happened there that night we had no reservations in Florence.

Carrying the Torch*


Have you ever had an idea for something that you thought would be kinda funny, but then it turned out slightly creepy?

* * *

On a completely unrelated note, I made a collage of tiny Bob Costas heads.

Only ten days until the Olympics. Are you ready to capture the dream?


*Refering of course both to the Olympic torch and the constant flame of admiration I carry for Mr. Costas in my heart.

Travelers

Sarah Siskind's boots, Rockwood Music Hall, 1/30/10

BANaNAs came for a visit this weekend. We took in some Improv (because I can't seem to go a weekend without it, now), traipsed around town in the cold, sought refuge in West Village coffee shops, ate Venezuelan food in Chelsea, and listened to live music in the Lower East Side.

So all that was great.

But what was really great - what was respite for my soul - was just spending time with someone who knows. BANaNAs knows every note of the song I'm singing, 'cause she's singing it, too.

And there's a sweet sense of freedom that comes with not having to defend, justify, or explain yourself - a freedom to just be because you are understood.

Thanks, friend, for the company. All that, and cupcakes, too.

A good weekend.

Oh, my brother, help me when I walk
I've been running faster than I can talk now.
Oh, my sister, help me when I cry.
I want to dry the last tear from my eye.
Now, show me where to go.
Lead me down the road.
I don't know the way.
Teach me how to sing.
Tell me what to bring.
Anything you say, I am listening
I am listening.

-Sarah Siskind