Enjoy.

“That’s not as ponderous as it seems.”

“They were not among the winners, only among the quasi-winners.”

“Because it’s Latin! That’s just the way you do it!”

“It’s a bulbous structure in the history of language.”

“Remember the cats? Say ‘goodbye’ to the cats!”

“I could draw you another map, but I think I’ll project instead.”

“We could make it darker if you want.”

” ‘Sarmatia’ is a nebulous Roman word for ‘we don’t know what’s up there’.”

“Oh, natural light! Aren’t you excited?”

“Be happy: it’s prose.”

“No parentheses in poetry, unless you’re writing a very particular kind of poetry that allows for parentheses.”

“Anglo-Saxons didn’t orate to objects.”

“You all grew up in a different century; do you know that?”

“There’s not a lot of precision in the names of fish in ancient Anglo-Saxon English.”

“At your leisure, you may enjoy the rest of the story which involves a big fish and the king of Ninevah.”

“It’s hard to know what any war is really about.”

“When it becomes nighttime, it’s so hard to elicit excitement.”

“A particularly rich and ambiguous word–no, not ‘lexicographer’–is the word ‘credit’.”

“You get pictures with your listening tonight, but you can close your eyes if you want.”

I remember turning in front of an oncoming semi truck at what I thought was a four way stop. I remember walking with a certain tall boy in college, and I remember his beige corduroy  jacket with the elbow patches. I remember slushing frozen lemonade in Disneyland and that my legs were sticking to the hot summer seats of the Matterhorn. I remember falling asleep on the bathroom floor hoping I was wrong, hoping things would be different when I awoke. I remember my dad’s glowy face when he brought me lunch in Mrs. Brooks’ class in third grade. I remember my mom and my aunt fighting over economy-sized tubes of toothpaste. I remember wrasslin’ with my cousin, Rocky Todd, and that he locked me in a trunk. When I got out, I whipped him with a bamboo switch. I remember praying in the misty morning, holding hands around the flagpole as a senior in high school. I remember being told in the parking lot next to the school that Gammy had passed away . I remember my first bouquet of flowers, with the note ‘I’m glad you got what you wanted.’ I remember my second bouquet of flowers, birthday flowers, that took my breath away. It was the first time I ever believed someone’s breath could really be taken away. I remember the day Jim Rogers saved my car, convincing my parents not to sell it. I remember he kissed the top of my head and hugged me when I cried, a few months before he died.  I remember eating pickled eggs and fried chicken on the beach in Newport. I remember meeting Jonny Lang.  I remember the first time I saw Crystal ever really cry, the day she came to say goodbye. I remember dancing with Sanjeev and Jennifer at the Mock Trial dance. I remember when the tall boy with the elbow patches moved his chair into the aisle, next to mine, when the class overflowed with high school visitors. I remember seeing my new neighbors before they moved in, one very pregnant and the other very tall.  I remember the first time I saw Emme.

Occasionally, the mind is wrong, and the thing isn’t important. Or it could have been life-changing but wasn’t. Or it was, for a time, monumental but then slowly changed; it could, for a time, have been the future but then slowly turned.  Still some other things really do deserve to be emblazened across all time and space in our brains, images that forever zing and shuttle up through our vision at the slightest provocation. They’re the highs and the lows that punctuate the softer in-between times. They’re the specific edges of life.

I saw a boy. I swept over him several times before he became really clear, separate from the others and worth notice. In my eyes, he blossomed. Tall and thin, with a love for his art that had to bespeak his love for life, his creative soul.

He played the guitar. That is concrete. And he was good at it. He must have been, for he made squinted eyes and slack-jawed o’s in his concentration, his face a portrait of the notes he dreamed and the focus they required.

He wasn’t beautiful enough to be immediately and obviously popular. His was a secret popularity. He existed in a sort of clean, intelligent, neutral bubble–his actions restrained and intentional, his movements certain and exact. He did what he did and he did it well, silently. In the background, in the place that made you think you could scoop him up before any one else found him.

He didn’t have an age or a name, only a face and a talent. He had to be young, the last little tendrils of boyhood growing out around his face. He had to be a little older though, shoulders already muscled out into long, lean arms.

His was a secret possibility. Of the beginning of hope. He was a new opportunity, fresh and perfect based on no information whatsoever. With none of those facts that crowd in and make an opportunity impossible.

And then, it was over. Unbeckoned, the facts of the thing marched themselves up to me, flaunted themselves, sunning themselves in the flicker. A girl, a photograph, the youth; the name and the age came, and it meant that it was over.

And back now. The story hadn’t been about the boy, he had merely supplied the situation. And he was over almost as soon as he had begun.

“There’s this guy who works at Starbuck’s, his name is Walt, and oh my goodness, he is so ridiculously handsome. Like, really, really cute. Like, Brad Pitt handsome.”

Well, I can’t take it anymore. Brad Pitt is not that attractive, for starters. Ok, he’s tan. That’s something. And I guess he could be described as having a “pert” nose or square hair, but he’s not actually, really, really, ridiculously handsome.

And if you subscribe to the idea that part of a man’s appeal comes from his character, well, ol’ Brad loses there. All that stuff that we shouldn’t even know about–like how Jen Aniston wanted kids, but Brad Pitt didn’t want kids when what he really meant was that he wanted kids but he wanted them with his hot co-star of Mr. and Mrs. Smith–really just shows the guy as a prurient little cheater. And it makes me just want to smack the smirk right of his smug little face.

Even though I can only base my assessment on the fact that he gave me a free shot of raspberry syrup, the kid from Starbuck’s still comes out ahead of Brad Pitt in the integrity test. And he’s better looking for it.

So, how to correct the problem. If we don’t want to say “he’s cute as Brad Pitt” what are we supposed to say? He’s as cute as Henry Cavill? (who’s that?) He could be a model? (too general, and too cheesy) He’s like a regal stallion? (anthropomorphically creepy) He’s as heavenly as a gossamer kiss? (oh, please).

What we’re really trying to tap into when we use Brad Pitt as a litmus test is his cut above-ness, his set apart specialness. He has some sort of mystique, some shiny global eclat that gives us some hope, somehow, that something in life can be perfectly beautiful. But really, Brad Pitt is just a place holder, sitting in the spot filled by Robert Redford, Elvis Presley, and Rudolph Valentino before him.

So, as with every thing in pop culture, this too shall pass. We just have to whip out our little conversational thesauri, find alternate means of expressing ourselves, and wait until this whole Pitt thing blows over.

And in the meantime, don’t even get me started on the freak-face that is Angelina Jolie.

Michael Castro's "In Love With a Girl"

Well, it’s time for a new season of American Idol. It’s our chance to see new singers, new ways Paula can style her hair, new Americans, and new idols. Here on the Wild Cherry Tree, last season’s idol was, obviously,  Jason Castro. Sure, his hair will ultimately have to go, but he scored our votes as the sweetest, least-encumbered-by-fame, has his head on straight, handsome little cutie of the season.
Fortunately for us, the Castro regime has not ended…not quite. Michael Castro, Jason’s be-pinked little brother, is one of the only idol siblings to ever make it Hollywood week. Singing a Gavin Degraw song and keeping a secret, Michael seemed right at home in his idol tryout…hopefully he’ll have the cords to stay alive.
Will he survive Hollywood week? His scant twenty day singing history isn’t at all encouraging, but if he can get through on a big dose of chutzpah and a smidge of coattails, then he just might stay around for the newly refurbished top 36.
And in a couple more years, it’ll be little sister Jackie’s turn.

 
For more info, check out I Am Second

Do you remember a few years ago when Sophia Coppola made Marie Antoinette? The story of a young naïf trapped in an emotionless arranged marriage? A dreamy, frosty princess movie saddled by an explicit chore—to bear a male heir? Well, if you don’t remember it, see it. And if you do remember it, you don’t need to see The Duchess.

Don’t get me wrong. Marie Antoinette is a slow, meandering movie, but it uses that daze and delirium to demonstrate Marie’s alternating bondage and frivolity.  But unlike Marie Antoinette, The Duchess’ sleepy story has no drive or purpose. It’s simply sad and boring, drawn out and frustrating.

Keira Knightley stars as Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, a young naïf trapped in an emotionless arranged marriage saddled by an explicit chore—to bear a male heir. The Duke of Devonshire, played by an android Ralph Fiennes, is a paper thin character who spends most of his time just standin’ around or eating mutton. Even so, the Duke provides almost all of the impetus for the dreary plot, first by shunning Georgiana, then raping her, then separating her from her true love, then giving away her child, and finally by bedding her best friend. If this sounds at least exciting, it isn’t. By the end of the film, we know only one thing: the Duke is one bad dude. But what we don’t know is why. Zero history or insight is given as to why the Duke is so cruel; he’s not even cruel for cruelty’s sake. He’s simply void, selfish, petty, and powerful, and he’s evil because the story requires him to be so.

Any fan of Knightley’s would assume that after enough bullying by her husband, she would summon up some of that good ol’ Knightley pluck and fight back.  Miss Swann did it; Elizabeth Bennett did it. Sadly, The Duchess does not. Like a high-strung horse, she is broken down, ultimately resigning herself to the Duke’s rein, a tack which Romola Garai took with much more depth in Daniel Deronda.

Aside from the lovely costuming and a resounding feeling of “But why?!”, there is nothing at all remarkable about The Duchess. The cinematography is so bland it could hardly be called cinematography, the score is sadly lacking despite being written by the usually brilliant period composer Rachel Portman, and the dialogue is plain and witless.  Even the emotion is contrived. A point is made of the Duchess wearing elaborately beautiful wigs, and yet late in the film, in a moment of what we’re to believe is intense grief, Georgiana’s wig—not her natural hair— is disheveled and tangled. It’s as if she told her lady-in-waiting that morning to ‘give me something that says “distress and angst.”’

A lineage tells us about Georgiana’s daughter and granddaughter, but it never quite makes it’s actual point—that the Duchess was the great-great of the late Lady Diana Spencer. And so it goes with the entire film. The point is never quite made, decisions are never quite followed through on, the villain is never quite understood, and the end doesn’t come quite soon enough. If it seems like I spent a lot of time discussing other films in this review, it’s because everything in The Duchess has been done before, and been done better, in other movies.  C-

The Low Down: This movie was excruciatingly boring and pointless. The fabrics were lovely. Dominic Cooper looks better without his wig on, but still has a sort of Cro-Magnon thing going on. Don’t go see this movie. But, if you do, watch out for the lines “Harryo, wahoo!” and “You can stay behind and take care of our husband” (said to the mistress!). These are the only bright spots in the movie. What to do the rest of the time? Um, popcorn? Take a book? Try that Etch-a-Sketch in the dark thing you’ve heard about? LD Grade: D

“Have you seen the wonderful Latin translation of ‘Cat in the Hat’?”

“You won’t catch Vergil rhyming.”

“Are we all straining to be literate?”

“Boy, the Romans loved dates.”

“To speak Latin in the ancient world was to be human.”

“Can you be heroic and ineffective at the same time?”

“How can you be interested in people you’ve hypothesized? Actually, sometimes they’re the most interesting.”

“English is the poor body that got buried under Norman armor and Latin books. English then clambered out of the wreckage and said, “I’m still here, I just sound different.”

“This was a generic snake. Well, not that generic because it talks to people.”

“That’s for your enjoyment, or for recycling.”

“Authoritarianism has never gone over well in England. Just ask Charles I.”

“This has been an extraordinary day, and not in the good way.”

” ‘I’ is about the slenderest word you can make.”

“Prose will make you happy if the poetry didn’t.”

“You spontaneously speak well, not because you swallowed a grammar book, but because you think clearly.”

“You all look very studious. We should have a photographer come in and take photos for the website.”

“It’ll be kind of exciting, like a picnic. We’ll have cookies and move to another room. We’ll make that warm, fuzzy feeling last all week.”

“If you see IT, tell them we’re killing trees because they didn’t fix our speakers.”

“There’s plenty to be scared of in life, but you can’t be scared of everything.”

“Would you prefer to be amused in the dark or in the light?”

“You were going to think and listen before, but now we’re going to imagine.”

“Lake Ontario–the least great of the Great Lakes.”

“There will be a Korean movie on Friday night in CB120. I will also be doing magic, you know, to lure people in.”

“A really mushy banana is worse than a crunchy banana.”

1. You hide from someone behind a door, and they find you.

2. You wave back at someone who’s not waving at you.

3. Your wife says she wants another baby, and you immediately think, “Crap, that’ll be another child support payment.”

4. You get caught watching High School Musical.

5. You make plans to see High School Musical 3 when it comes out on October 24. Yes, October 24.

6. You wolf whistle when you see Zac Efron, the feminine, bobbly little cutie.

7. You buy your cap and gown and tassel and then discover that your parents will be in the Caribbean on graduation day.

8. You accidentally reveal a secret while explaining how good you are at keeping secrets.

9. A date ditches you for a Def Leppard concert. No, actually, good riddance. I mean, Dep Leppard?

10. You can’t remember that one girl’s name, over and over and over again.

You should not be embarrassed if:

1. You don’t know what people are talking about. Just ask them.

2. You’re a Republican. It’s perfectly acceptable to be a Republican.

3. You like American Idol.

4. You’re telling the truth to a friend.

5. You love antiques and tea and lace; they’re quite lovely.

6. You’re giving your honest opinion.

7. He thought it was a date, and it was not.

8. You’re nervous. There is no shame in being nervous even though nervousness feels like it is comprised almost entirely of shame.

9. You’re not good at basketball. They can’t read as fast as you or throw a pot on a potter’s wheel.

10. Your stomach gurgles. Everyone’s does.