The Isolation Film Genre

I went into isolation from the Covid 19 pandemic on March 11, 2020. I had been putting off publishing various videos on all of the social media platforms.

So, I started a series on YouTube that was the stereotypical cooking format. Then, after realizing my isolation might be for more than a week or two, I bought the domain http://www.thelemonaidnetwork.com

I had already published a website as Pops Spedster where I shared educational information for people with developmental disabilities. But I also have a history of being an entertainer.

The Lemon Aid Network became an entertainment platform. Of course, what should happen around the same time? Everything went to the clouds.

I had always used Adobe Dream Weaver for coding in HTML. Then Adobe decided to base its HTML5 platform on a cloud and started a subscription program.

The reality of the average website designer is often more a matter of live updates. I first used Hot Dog many years ago. Then I became enamored with WS_FTP.

In any event, I began developing a pandemic-based entertainment genre which I called The Isolation Film. My production of my film “Veil of Secrecy 2020” is due to premiere October 27, 2021 on The Lemon Aid Network.

Most of that film was shot using selfies and green screens by the actors in five different states. Yes, they were all friends who agreed to be involved in the project in exchange for an equity ownership in any net profits from the film.

We shall see. And anyone else will be able to see the resulting director’s cut – just as soon as I finish editing it.

James M. Kemp, October 20, 2021

A Six Year Old Says F___ the Police

My friend Dawn said she didn’t like the idea of living in a country where a 6 year old is likely to say f____ the police.

I agree.

No 6 year old should ever be allowed, encouraged or taught to say f____ anything in the first place. So what in a society is it that produces children who can and do say f____ the police like our children do?

 

And exactly what children are we talking about.? My own white, middle class children didn’t say that until they were 14 or 15. Then, one of my sons was arrested at a local grocery store for shoplifting. He hadn’t. The other boy who got away, had been shoplifting – slipping comic books up inside his shirt.

Now my son tends to be a little dark complected with black hair. In those days, he and his twin brother used to cut each other’s hair – more or less for fun. That son in the grocery store, had his hair cut in a strange looking Mowhawk. That might have originated in a Denny’s somewhere in California when the twins were six or seven. A young woman was paying her bill as we walked by to our table. Her Mowhawk was dyed purple. She turned to my child and said, “What the f___ are you starin’ at?” That marked the beginning of my son’s Mowhawk Period. (He’s an artist).

 

Anyway, back to the grocery store, I am called at home by the police and told to meet them at the store. When I arrived, I was directed upstairs to the manager’s office where the manager, a city police officer and my son were standing. I was informed of the details and took my son home. On the way home, my son told me that the police officer said to him at some point, “So, you think you’re a mean Jose?”

 

Well, it was kind of like what I felt when I heard both sons tell me years later, that their step-grandfather had taken them for ice cream and while eating it in his car, he turned to them and asked, “Your sister still datin’ that Spic?”

 

Ahhh! I think you see where this is going. It is called Systemic Racism. It is almost archetypal inasmuch as human beings can be naturally cruel in some seemingly innocuous ways, having never been in any way violated themselves. Look at the primitive tribes still on New Guinea. They wage “coup” on neighboring tribes on a regular basis. That stuff is learned. And then… To what extent is it “natural”?

 

I would like to think that we have evolved socially and culturally to the point where we as the human race can conquer whatever it is that Nature has put into our makeup that makes us so willing to defame, torture and murder our fellow beings.

 

If we have not so evolved or even if evolving is possibly never going to be effected, then we are very much doomed.

 

How then do we undo that spell of doom? Let’s see – those things we all resort to when we are down and out – education, respect and decency. Until we adopt these standards as values, we are doomed. You can add Faith in there for good  (no pun) measure.

 

Now, we have agreed almost to concensus in terms of public opinion (nothing still living in caves of their own making included) that Racism is Wrong. We do affirm that value these days almost to total agreement.

 

So what is it that drives Racism? What is it that makes us “white” people so entitled and so unwilling to share status and entitlement with others? ‘Cause we’re f____ing bastards, that’s why. We are. As a separate, identifiable race, we are mean Mother f____ers. We slaughter each other at random. Sometimes, in the millions. And all so we don’t have to share power or status.

 

And they – the ones identifiable as being non-“white” – let us do it; let us bully them around. But we do not let others, even our own brothers, bully us around No sir. Or we would never admit being bullied to anyone so as to sacrifice our own status and wealth even.

And according the Ancestry dot com, my genetic past has one feature for the past 2000 years that never changes – being located genetically to the majority of people who came to live near the earth’s 45th parallel. And yes, I am also talking Asia, baby. Not genetically traceable (yet). We are a warlike people. We have an excessive sense of nationality or – say – an excessive sense of national – ness.

But the number one issue that even religion cannot claim to have conquered is the issue of one human  being having the urge, the assumptive-ness or the assumed right, to own another equal human being.

Slavery.

Slavery was and slavery still is the issue that divides us. And these days, it may even take the form of economic slavery, which has no real regard for any ancient system of classifying human beings and their personal existential value as being based on anything as puny as color of skin or slant of eye or curl of hair.

 

And we are so afraid. Afraid of losing lessons from the past that had been made public in ways that were insensitive to the paradigm of slavery. Afraid of losing our ownership of the Sacred Mother, a mother we have shamelessly raped and pillaged. Afraid of losing our identity due to all humans merging into shades of Brown.

 

Back to the original issue about the 6 year old child. Imagine that child was not “white”. Imagine that child was always made aware that the child’s ancestors were slaves. Now imagine living as an identifiable minority of no or little status, after years of brainwashing in school and out where small seemingly innocent comments about minorities were really  comments projecting minorities into the pejorative, and devaluing minorities as less than human, and therefore, more like property.

 

But imagine also that as this little minority child of slaves, had the benefit of truly public education, had been treated with respect and, for the most part, had been treated decently. But there in the public school yard, or courthouse lawn or public park, there stood a sacred bronze monument to champions of people who had enslaved your people.

 

Or that your very town had been named after a slave owner. Or your school. Or your park. Or your courthouse. Or your sports team.

 

How would you feel as that minority child, being forced to look at symbols of a heinous history in which your ancestors were then the victims and still are the victims?

 

Huh? How would you feel when the vast majority celebrated the demons who enslaved your minority? And forced you to pay a tax to be thusly humiliated?

 

How the f____ would you feel?

 

James M. Kemp

 

Two Different Approaches to Producing “Jesus Christ Superstar” in a Community Theater Setting

After having expressed previously my doubts about the abilities of local, Oregon community theater troupes to stage a successful production of “Jesus Christ Superstar” (JCSS), I respectfully assert that I have just experienced two such productions within the past few weeks. The Pentacle Theater (PT) of Salem, Oregon was one example. The Theater in the Grove (TG) in Forest Grove, Oregon was another.

These two productions took place very nearly simultaneously within a 100 mile radius of each other and within the boundaries of the Portland Metropolitan Urban District. In the case of PT, my wife and I are dues paying members of that group. In the case of FG, a fellow cast member from the professional production of “The Wizard of Oz” (in which I played the Wizard) was part of that show’s ensemble. While I have never been to FG before, we see near monthly productions at PT.

Both productions of JCSS were faithful to a theatrical gestalt consisting of a contemporary staging in an imaginary present time frame. However, the two productions were each successful for completely different reasons.

In Oregon, we have this very strong tradition of supporting local community theaters. Many have been around for decades. We attended PT’s 60^th Anniversary Gala in 2014. FG has been around for 46 years. In Oregon, we also have professional level troupes at each end of the state going along the I5 corridor from north to south. The Oregon Shakespeare Festival (OSF) along with Southern Oregon University (SOU) in Ashland, have been strong at informing statewide, academic instruction in “Theater”.

The Portland scene, on the other hand, has facilities that handle national road shows that often serve as a basis for informing community-based troupes whose directors attend Portland’s professional shows. It seems to me that local community theaters in Oregon, often derive theatrical instruction from these professional sources, on a level that tends to be more experiential than academic.

Recent acknowledgments of the Ashland academic community on a national level include Tony awards for one historically based drama about LBJ, and another for the book to the musical “Avenue Q”. OSF has been maintaining a more professional branch (if you will) in Portland at the old Armory building in the newly fashionable district called The Pearl. My wife and I have attended a number of performances at Portland Center Stage, one of the troupes housed at The Armory. There are however, other professional troupes in Portland. 

Where the two productions of JCSS are concerned, I theorize that the differences between the two productions can be explained by examining the dramaturgical differences between the two production houses. I feel that TP derives its traditions, upon which its well established systematically based product is based, from a dramaturgical history that is more experiential. FG, on the other hand, is located a few blocks from Pacific University, and seems to benefit from having access to talents that have been trained in a more academic setting. However, each seems to benefit from having access to academically trained personnel.

As a theater guild volunteer, I saw TP’s JCSS first. Having contributed financially to TP’s purchase of a new lighting system, I was watching for improvements in that feature. However, what surprised me most was the improvement in the sound system. It seems fair to suggest that both TP and FG are near state-of-the-art where those two theatrical elements are involved.

The program for the TP production lists 27 cast members. The program for the FG production lists 24 cast members. Both theaters managed to cast fully all featured roles as well as full casts of ensembles. But the differences between the two productions seem to be based on how each was staged. And that staging is inherent to my theory that each theater derived its dramaturgical concept from two different traditions – one experiential and one academic.

The most obvious difference in staging involved the use of the theatrical space itself. In the case of TP’s production, the director doubled as choreographer. FG’s production featured a choreographer other than the director. In fact, TP’s director has produced remarkable results in the past when she has functioned in both positions. Therefore, I cannot fault her for having the courage to take on both tasks.

But, this fact goes a long way in explaining the dramaturgical differences between the two performances. In the case of TP, the stage seemed to be consistently full of actors and ensemble acting in character, with credible movements and lyrics. In the case of FG, the stage was more often bare of ensemble with featured actors performing movement and lyrics with dramatic lighting and enhanced sound effects.

The difference is entirely artistic. Both managed to convey the content of the performances within the context of the artistic designer’s(s’) vision(s). But again, TP’s was experiential and FG’s was academic.

JCSS itself, in my humble opinion, has been mistitled. Based on the content of this 1971 rock opera, it should be titled “Judas Iscariot, Tool of Pappy”. With that suggestion comes another important difference between these two productions being discussed. JCSS is/was an emerging, contemporary genre evolving from the social and political fabric in existence at the time of its origin. It is/was rock opera.

In the case of the PT production, the director’s vision seemed to be focused on the rock-and-roll aspect. In the case of the FG production, the director’s vision seemed to be focused on the traditional operatic aspects. This might account for the former’s full staging and the latter’s more economic staging.

After experiencing each production, my mind was drawn back to the 1962 Ingmar Bergman film “Winter Light” (WL). WL focuses on a Swedish family and the classically, angst-ridden theme of alienation. WL concerns a family caught up in the disintegration of the Christian Church in a Socialist society. However, the one character in the film who sums up the thematic content (in my opinion) is the old, faithful church deacon who explains his personal take on the meaning of the life of Christ. He concludes that the Christ story is one about loneliness. He suggests that we imagine the loneliness felt by the Christ figure, hanging crucified on the cross, abandoned by his family, friends and by his father (whom he called Pappy in Aramaic).

The one feature of the FG staging that most impressed me was the mechanical cross set rear center stage almost at loft level. As we watched the human mechanisms that resulted in the crucifixion of Christ, we find that this mechanical cross, is a sort of elevator that moves from high above the stage down to stage level. Its first use as such, delivers the phantom of the dead Judas to the stage while the recently beaten Christ lies prostrate on the floor with his wounds apparent.

FG’s Judas is dressed in a white suit and wears a white knit shirt that reveals that actor’s well-defined physicality. FG’s Micaiah “Ky” Fifer had been stealing scenes and upstaging everyone with his physicality and operatic voice since the opening number. In this final scene, the mechanical cross delivers Ky into a Las Vegas style routine complete with a “show girl” ensemble, in which the entirety of Ky’s talents are revealed. Ky can sing. Ky can act. Ky can come close to equaling a Gene Kelly or a Fred Astaire as a dancer on any given day. The FG director’s call to have Judas and Jesus diametrically and theatrically opposed at all times, emphasized that traditional Morality Play aspect of the show’s book.

Prior to being taunted by the phantom Judas, Jesus (Matthew Brown) has been given 40 lashes by a military goon using a whip that appears to be capable of tearing flesh with accompanying sound effects that make the audience feel the pain of that whip. Finally, in terms of staging, the goon drags the wounded Jesus up to the stage level, mechanical cross and nails Jesus to it. The cross soars up toward the loft and the lighting dims to a single spot with Jesus hanging there on that cross with an otherwise bare stage. The visual effect is like seeing a flesh-and-blood (pardon the obvious reference) version of Salvador Dali’s, “Christ of St. John of the Cross”.

On our way back to the car after the show, my friend John commented, “I think Jesus hung on that cross a little too long.”

And that is the nature of the history of Morality Plays, of the pageants about the Christ and even of Wagner’s pagan opera, “Gotterdammerung”. FG’s production was in that academic tradition of the “Opera”. TP’s was a bold effort to recapture the excitement of that period in history that produced the modern theatrical genre called “rock opera”.

And that is all I have to say about that.

 

James M. Kemp Salem, Oregon

May 7, 2017

Why You Should See “The Aliens”

In the Pentacle Theater’s (of Salem, Oregon) current production of an Annie Baker play, there are no Death Stars or intergalactic vessels of any kind. “The Aliens” in this play are the young American males who are either un-or-underemployed, almost-starving artists.

KJ and Jasper are members of that youth club called “Hanging Out”. They are not all that young any more. But at least, they haven’t sold out yet to the American Dream. They are the wolf in the old La Fontaine fable about the wolf and the dog. The two beasts encounter each other one day, and the dog describes to the wolf just how great the dog’s domesticated existence is. The wolf is ready to get himself domesticated in order to get the “bennies” when he notices the hair on the dog’s neck. It has all been worn away by the collar the dog has worn. The wolf freaks out and runs away.

In this play, KJ and Jasper are the wolves. We probably see them every day; perhaps at the foot of the Marion Street Bridge, on a bench at Bush Park or in the food court at Salem Center. They carry their lives in their backpacks. Somehow, they manage to come up with enough cash to buy cigarettes or some “shrooms”. They may even have a floor to flop on at night. But those amenities are about as close as they come to buying into Capitalism.

They are however, religious. They put their faith in a god named Experiential Quality. Their god’s only begotten son is Artistic Expression. Their scriptures were written by Jack Kerouac and Bukowski. They carry in their backpacks, prayers in the forms of poems or song lyrics written on old paper bags.

Their sexuality is generally straight. But like typical candidates for ISIS recruiters, they have not held the hands of very many virgins for very long.

The third character in “The Aliens” is Evan. Speaking of recruitment material, Evan is ripe. He has experienced some success as a camp counselor and aspires to become a successful barista at the coffee shop behind which KJ and Jasper hold their daily and illegal jams. He is the dog in this tale. But he has his reservations about the necessary sacrifices he foresees that he must make in order to obtain the materials promised by The Man.

Where dramaturgical matters are concerned, the three actors in this production seem to have traveled the territory themselves and perform their docents act with professional acumen. The director, Jeff Brownson, has managed to get a show approved of and staged that might never have reached fruition within the button-down, pragmatic world of Community Theater. In this case, Pentacle’s own Tony Zandol has designed a set that is as real and starkly decorated as any urban alley can be. Brownson’s own son has created a sound track of urban noise that plays like the white noise coming from the exhaust fan on a brick wall.

“But why would I pay to see this seemingly contagious case of depression?” you ask. Perhaps, it is because it is contagious. It embodies that feeling you sometimes get when you pass a homeless person with a cardboard sign when you are late for work at some “guvmint”, sterile white office building. You resent that person at first. Then as you are pulling into your reserved parking space, you stop and wonder what it would be like if you simply dropped out of the rat race.

“The Aliens” could just be your answer to that question. See it!

 

Thoughts After the Scottish Play

I deleted all of the blog entries while I was playing a minor role in a local production of “MacBeth”. My entries were becoming too dark and reflected my emotional response to a compulsive activity that I have engaged in since the age of four – the act of acting out a role in public (as opposed to playful acting of children in the privacy of their bedrooms or playrooms or wherever else children act out their fantasies.

As an adult, I have played many roles in many public performances. But when it comes to the actual public performance of a play, I must say that I hate doing it. Doing it and the emotions I feel before doing a performance, consume me entirely. What I feel before going on stage must be similar to what a condemned man must feel before being executed. It is not stage fright. It is identity fright; it is knowing that in order to do one’s best on stage, one must go into a character and become something/ someone else. One must abandon oneself and create a new being that will be modeled so faithfully that no audience member familiar with the real me, will ever recognize the real me in the character I have created.

To accomplish that level of performance art, one needs very specific feedback from a director who has a vision of what the character must be like in order to be convincing. If the director either cannot communicate the concept or has no such concept in the first place, the actor’s efforts will be fruitless and doomed to create in the actor levels of anxiety that defeat the communicative purpose of the production in the first place.

What I prefer to do over the act of acting itself, is to somehow direct what happens in a production through creating and controlling an aspect of the production itself. This might consist of set design, costume design, properties design, composition of the drama itself or the act of communicating a director’s vision of what an appropriate interpretation of a script might look like in a totally collaborative and creative production environment.

My final analysis of my involvement in the recent production of “MacBeth” is that overall, I gained from the experience; that I enjoyed the community of actors and crew created in the production process; and that I was content with my own performances. But I also realized that I truly am getting too old to effectively being involved. The physical demands of acting out a part are becoming greater than this old body can tolerate.

Axe Me Again, Please

Axe Me Again, Please

a theatrical review by James M. Kemp, dzinor2013.wordpress.com

 

Lizzie Borden and her trusty axe (hatchet) are hacking it up at Portland Center Stage from now until June 29, 2014. A very short sneak preview can be had at PCS’s website, but the promotional snippet in no way prepares one for the actual experience of this rock opera.

What? You expected a docudrama? That’s been done years ago with Elizabeth Montgomery playing Lizzie on TV.

No, “Lizzie” is – pardon the expression – a rock-you-drama. Four very talented, triple threat actresses tell the story of this axe murderer in vivid color (blood red mostly), in a craftily designed set, with striking songs like “Forty Whacks”, “The House of Borden”, “Why Are All These Heads Off?” and “What The Fuck Now, Lizzie?”. It is as if four Hedwigs were not only angry, but determined to exact classical revenge from perpetrators. And yes, the axe murders themselves, do occur offstage.

Carrie Cimma plays the Bordens’ maid. Cimma lists credits including nomination for the 2010 Drama Desk Award for Best Actress in a Musical. It comes as no surprise that Cimma lists playing Lovett in a national tour of “Sweeny Todd” as one of her credits. Nor is it surprising that references to Fringe Events can be found in various other program credits.

While there are no weak links in this production, Cimma tends to upstage the other three women with her melodramatic facial expressions and exaggerated physical presence. But all four women never drop a line or a lyric.

Keeping-it-weird Portland, Oregon (can you say, “Grimm”?) is a perfect venue for this production that updates the Naturalistic theatrical themes in the tradition of the French Grand Guignol. I doubt that anyone will faint when the blood flies around the PCS stage since the exaggerated, hematological displays are both darkly humorous and obviously done with everyone’s tongues in their cheeks. But, when the axe comes down, the blood does fly!

The audience at the matinee performance on June 1, tended to be embarrassingly quiet. There was one round of applause after the first song, one at the end of the first act and one at the end of the second act. Granted, that final applause came from an audience standing on its feet. The atmosphere in the room was akin to what one might expect from a room full of retired people from Tualatin that had just watched a homemade production by the Addams family children, complete with an iron maiden and a guillotine.

While many mouths seemed to have been left hanging open in the audience, the reasonable cost per seat to the public for this professional level production might also be a cause for amazement and for the gaping pie holes. Who knows? Let’s hope!

 

 

Up From Coma

 

My name is Jim. My birthday is June xx, xxxx. I do not believe that the pill cup being offered to me by the older nurse who looks like my mother, in fact contains the Prednisone that she says it contains. I look to the other woman who hangs over my bedside table and ask if she recognizes the contents of the pill cup. She is a larger, younger woman whom I have never seen before. She says she is a respiratory therapist and is therefore is not allowed to know about patients’ medications.

The  woman claiming to be a respiratory therapist says to me, “I suppose taking it would do you more good than bad.”

I agree with her, tip the pill cup up to my mouth and empty the two tablets onto my tongue. The older nurse-woman pushes a straw through the hole in the side of my oxygen mask. I suck in enough water to wash down the pills. My throat is dry. I cough. I try to wipe my mouth, but the oxygen mask prevents me from touching my mouth. My lips are chapped. I ask the older nurse-woman for some Blistex. Then, before she can reply, I ask her, “Do you know the difference between Betadyne and Blistex?” (a recollection of the last event – June 2008, ICU Providence Hospital, Portland, Oregon – on bipap)

Older Nurse-woman nods that she does. I suddenly realize that not only does she look like my mother, she also looks like the nun at the end of the 1970s film “The Sentinel” who finally sits in the garret of a New York brownstone, staring out at the world while guarding the gates to Hell. But I conclude that Older Nurse-woman is not up for the job. So I tell her, “A nurse on second floor put Betadyne on my lips instead of the Blistex I asked for.”

Older Nurse-woman looked appalled and asked if I knew the offending nurse’s name. I responded that I had been in room 233 on Wednesday when she came in and smeared that brown liquid on my lips. By this time, Respiratory Therapist had disappeared, but I had not noticed her leaving.

“What’s your name?” I ask Older Nurse-woman.

“Mary.”

“You look like my mother.”

“Oh, are you sure? I’m rather plain.”              

“My mother is a good looking woman.”

Mary rifles through the items on my bedside table. Then, I realize what the game plan is. My wife is a nurse who works at this same hospital and has told me about a new, employee incentive program. The hospital is trying to identify poorly performing employees with a program that pretends to promote excellence while discretely eliminating poorly performing employees.

I conclude that Mary’s job is on the line.

Next, Mary shows me the tube of Blistex she has found on my bedside table.

“Oh, thank you, Mary. You are so sweet.”

“I need to take off your mask for a few seconds so I can put it on your lips.”

“You just go right ahead. I trust you.”

Mary pries up the mask and I feel a cool smear on my lips. It tastes like mint. I feel the effect of its moisture immediately. It is Blistex.

“Oh thank you, thank you. Now is it OK if I snooze a little?”

“Yes, you just go right back to sleep.”

I slink down in my bed, but I feel phlegm in my throat. I cough and realize I have a nice, big loogie in my mouth.

“Let me get you a new suction tube.” Mary pulls out a long, pointed clear plastic tube in a movement that seems to be quite magical. I conclude that in fact, Mary has some talents.

“You probably have a little blood in your sputum from the tube they had in your throat. This tube works just like the one your dentist uses. You just spit into the end and it sucks your sputum into that tank over there. There are holes in the side of your oxygen mask. We just used one for drinking your water. See? Just stick the tube through the lower hole in your oxygen mask, and you can hit your mouth.”

I do exactly as Mary directs. I hit the target easily. I place the loogie near the tip of the suction tube and Voila! Le loogie disappears into the tube. Well, it actually doesn’t disappear. Since the tube is clear plastic, as I pull the tube from my mouth and examine the tube itself, le Loogie has been transformed into a swirl of pink and white that clings to the inside surface of the suction tube. Le loogie has a strawberry sherbet appearance about it.

The tube continues to suck away, so I again spit into it. The spittle is more clear the second time. I discover that I can blend the pink swirl with the newer, clear spittle and create a different appearing substance altogether.

“Do you want to hold onto the suction tube for a while?”

I nod in affirmative.

“OK. You snooze for a while and I’ll keep checking on you. Here’s your call light. Do you know how to call me if you need me?”

I nod in affirmative. I close my eyes. When I blink them open again, Mary has disappeared. I close my eyes again and take a deep breath. I cough up another loogie. This loogie is clearer than the last. I conclude that I must be healing. I am content. I snooze.

When I am next conscious, I cannot tell how long I have been asleep. It may have been minutes. It may have been hours. I look around my bed. I know I am in the ICU because I had been on the same unit last summer with the same respiratory problem.

Then, I see Wilson. Wilson is a clock. On Wilson’s face, someone has pasted a chenille cleaner in the shape of a bright red mouth in a big smile. Wilson also has two bright blue eyes made from the same material. I think to myself, “How sweet. My special education students want to keep me oriented to the present, so they went to the Dollar Store, got a clock and some chenille cleaners and turned the clock into Wilson.”

 

 

            Then, for the first time, I notice what I call “the telemetry system”. This telemetry system consists of a wire curtain that moves around the soffit in the ceiling above the nurse’s station. A shortwave antenna is mounted on the ceiling nearby. A thin, blond ward clerk sits at a computer that shows a somewhat rough computer graphic image on the monitor of the entire unit in low resolution.

            I am now aware of pressure coming from my bowels. It occurs to me that I may need to have a bowel movement. When did I last have one? I cannot recall. In fact, I cannot recall anything since a nurse gave me an Ambien for sleep the first night I was admitted to the hospital. I find my call light and push the button with the red human torso on it.

            Mary appears.

            “Hi Mary, I think I need to use a bedpan.”

            “Let me find one.”

            I think, “OK. Find one? Where have I been having bowel movements? Maybe I haven’t had one yet. Maybe I’ve only been in ICU a matter of hours. Maybe my “stuff” isn’t set up yet.”

            Mary reappears and tells me she’s going to lower my head. When I am flat, she tells me to grab my bedrail and to pull my body to my right side. I obey. Then, I feel what I know is plastic being placed against my buttocks.

            Mary says, “Try and square up your bottom with the bedpan.”

            I think, “This will be a challenge because the bedpan itself feels like it is square. Will my butt fit to it?”

            Then, Mary says, “OK. Now roll back over onto your back.”

            I obey, and strangely enough, I feel secure that things will work out. I relax. I bear down. It works! Mary was right.

            “Mary, I need to pee also.”

            “You go ahead and do that. You have a catheter. See? It drains into this tube.” Mary lifts the tube and I see that it goes over the side of my bed. I know from experience that the tube drains into a plastic bag attached to the frame of my bed.

I now know for the first time, I myself have been catheterized, but I also know what a catheter is and what it does. When I was working my way through college, I worked in several hospitals as an orderly. In fact, I have probably taken enough paraprofessional classes to be at least a Certified Nurse Assistant. In fact, I myself have installed many catheters in many men in the distant past. So, while I didn’t like the idea of having my first catheter, I knew why I had it .I also knew that once it was removed, there would be no permanent effect on my involved body parts.

            Mary was correct again. I felt the pressure in my balder reduce.

            “Are you done with the bedpan?”

            “I think so. Thanks.”

            “OK. I have some soft cloths with medicine on them so you don’t become irritated down there. I’m going to hold the side of the bedpan while you pull yourself to the right again. Go slowly so we don’t flip the bedpan over.”

            I obey. Then, I feel Mary pulling hard at the pan, so I lift my hips as much as I can. Voila! Le bedpan is gone. Then, I feel Mary wiping me with the cloths. They are warm.

            “Wow. Those cloths are warm.”

            “I put them in a warmer. I’d hate to have cold cloths touch me, so…”

            “Oh, thank you, Mary. You are so kind.”

            “Now, roll back onto your back and I’ll raise your head.”

            “That’s great. Is it OK if a snooze again?”

            “You go right ahead.”

            I snooze.

            When I next become conscious, I am aware of a strange, young woman standing in a doorway across the unit, wringing her hands. She has bright red, curly hair and large, round tortoise shell glasses. She looks like an aging Orphan Annie.

            I think to myself, “That’s the doctor I’ve heard about. She may be a person with Asperger’s Syndrome. But, I hear that she is quite brilliant.”

            Then, I look at the ceiling in the nurse’s station again. This time, an entire section of the ceiling has tilted downward to reveal the inner workings of the telemetry system. For the first time, I notice what is located inside the ceiling.

            It is also at this time that I feel pinching in my neck. I conclude that I must still have some discomfort from what must have been a tracheotomy  tube. Having never had one before, I cannot imagine in what sort of arrangement my trach tube might been installed.

 I recall Millie, an LPN I worked with a long time ago. Millie had a medical episode once when she had needed a tracheotomy. She had pulled the trach out, and caused herself all sorts of trouble. My pinching feels like it is related to a trach tube. I push the button with the red human torso on it.

            Mary appears.

            “What can I do for you?”

            “I feel this pinching. Do I still have a trach tube?”

            “You had one for several days, but the doctor removed it.”

            “Why do I feel this pinching in my neck and throat?”

            “I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t get all the staples out.”

            I think, “Staples!? What kind of trach tube are we talking about? Did they have to sew it into place? Do I have a new hole in my body? Did I react like Millie? Am I still in danger?”

            “Let me look. OK. It looks like they needed to suture another line from your neck directly into the IV. Do you want me to remove the sutures?

            “Sure. I vaguely recall they had trouble finding good veins. I’ve had so many IVs and blood tests over the past year. My veins are scarred and hard to hit.”

            “That was probably it.”

            I think, “Probably? Mary, don’t you know? Didn’t anyone give you report about me?”

            Mary disappears and then reappears. I assume she has some instrument for removing sutures. I don’t want to watch, so I close my eyes. I feel Mary’s hands turning my head and the pressure from her fingers and she seems to be searching for sutures. Then, I feel a tug on my neck and a sharp pinch.

            “OK. Is that better? Someone forgot to remove some staples.”

            I nod in the affirmative. Then I think, “Still this staples thing. Mary, which is it? Staples or sutures?”

            “Do you feel like a little water?”

            “Sure.”

            “Here’s the straw.”

            “I forgot about my suction tube. Where is it?”

            “Right here.”

            By now, the pink swirl appears to have frozen in the tube. I put the tube to my mouth to test its effectiveness. I spit into it. Yes! It still works! I keep it in my left hand and allow Mary to insert the straw from the glass of water into the hole on the side of my oxygen mask.

            “Thanks, Mary. I’m really bushed now. OK if I snooze some more?”

            “You go right ahead.”

            I snooze.

            The next time I become conscious, I notice that the coiled, plastic threads that hold the drapes to the doorway of my room, are blowing mysteriously. At this point, I also assume that when I speak into my oxygen mask, due to the nature of the telemetry system, the ICU staff can hear what I say.

            I ask the staff if the waving threads on the curtains are a way of communicating to me about my allergic reaction which has caused this particular stay in the ICU. I hear a bumping noise from the other side of the curtain. I say into my mask, “Tap once for no and twice for yes.”

            I hear two taps. I think to myself, “OK. Confession time. These folks need to know my history. At least, Mary does since it seems that no one has given her report on me.”

            I say into the mask, “I know I look very white, but if you had known my Dad, you’d know the family secret – dark hair, dark skin, Indian. He had the Indian curse – alcoholism. He died of it. That’s what bothers me the most about this urine bag. I can’t see it. When I was 24, in May 1972, I watched my father die of alcoholism. His urine bag had filled with blood clots. He was lying back in his hospital bed with an electric fan blowing on him. At one point in the afternoon, he confused me with his brother, my uncle. Then, he just seemed to hold his breath. His face turned red, then blue and then black. I turned on his call light and stood over him screaming, ‘Breathe damn it. Breathe.’

            A nurse rushed into the room and told me to leave. I went down to the waiting room. She came in a few minutes later and told me he had died. I screamed, ‘Oh Jesus! Oh Christ!’

            The autopsy report said that my father died from an abssess that had formed near his heart. By the time of his death, he had drunk so much and for so long that his liver had turned to fat. He was 47.

Is this what you want to hear about?”

I hear two more taps.

“OK then. What else? You want to hear all that David Copperfield crap that Holden Caulfield wanted us to hear?”

No tapping.

“I said one tap for no and two for yes.” Nothing. “Ok. Here it is anyway.”

I announce this into my face mask, “They dressed me up like a girl. My mother and my grandmother. They took my picture dressed up in a dress. I had long, curly hair when I was a baby. They put a dress on me, a ribbon in my hair, posed with me and took my picture.

I’m sure Doc was pissed when he saw that one. Doc was what his friends called my Dad. I’m Doc’s Boy. To any of his old friends who are still alive, and in spite of my turning 60, they would probably still only know me as Doc’s Boy.

Being Doc’s Boy was quite an honor in many ways. It meant I got to hang out at the Pink Tavern on Saturday afternoons while Doc played pinocle and gave me his winnings to spend on Bun candy bars. It meant an annual trip to Northern Iowa to hunt pheasant with my BB gun. When I got older, it meant being able to claim back many favors that my father had done for others in his alcoholics’ community.

But, the dress thing ruined me. It wasn’t long before I found myself going up to my maternal grandmother’s bedroom where she kept a fishnet head scarf on her dresser. She had taken me to see Marilyn Monroe in “Bus Stop”. I was probably in first or second grade. Marilyn sang “That Old Black Magic”, wearing a pair of slightly torn fishnet stockings. Low and behold, I found that when I put that fishnet scarf on my bear legs, strange things happened in my private area.

OK, where is this all going? Do you want more of this or do you want some theories on what I think it is that’s making me sick?”

Two thumps.

“Well, for one thing, my mother took me to a cheap dentist when I was kid. My own dentist says all of my old fillings probably contain mercury.”

Mary appears.

“Mary, I was just saying that I still have mercury in the fillings of my teeth. Do you suppose the mercury is causing my respiratory problems?”

“I have heard of people having their mercury based fillings replaced, but you need to talk to your doctor about that.”

“Mary, I’m sorry to do this, but I’m feeling a little tugging on my catheter. Would you mind looking at it?”

“No. Let me see. There’s a little blood in the area where it goes in. It may be time to change it.”

“I understand. I used to be an orderly many years ago. I put in catheters daily.”

“Let me go get a kit.”

Mary disappears. I close my eyes. I open my eyes. Mary is standing near me as I realize my privates are exposed to the world of the ICU. Suddenly, a chorus line of clowns marches by my door shouting things like, “Whoopie!”

They shout out wolf howls and whistle, “Fwhoot. Fwhoo!”

Mary quickly covers me, then builds a mountain of sheets between me and the door. She next walks to the doorway and pulls that curtain with the waving threads across the door.

I realize that Mary has goofed up, and her colleagues on the unit are giving her a “heads up” about her error by marching by in their clown makeup. I feel Mary fumbling with the instrumentality inserted in me.

“So, what size is it? I always wondered what size Foley I take.”

“What? Oh, you have a 16 right now. So, I got another 16. Let me cut the filler and let the air out of the bulb. You probably know how these things work.”

I nodded in agreement, but I did not confess to Mary that I had always secretly hoped I needed at least a size 20 Foley.

“What about a sterile field, Mary? You don’t seem to have one going on there.”

“You know, actually I don’t need one. I checked your orders. They say that the doctor was going to remove this sometime today anyway. I’ll just leave it out.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Yes. My understanding is that you’re being moved to Intermediate Care today.”

“That’s the way they did it last summer.”

“In fact, your notes say that for breakfast this morning, you’re going back on a regular diet.”

“Sounds better and better,” I say this as I grit my teeth when I feel the rubber tube being pulled from my urethra. “If there’s  a urinal close by, just sit it on my bedside table. Is it OK if I snooze some more?”

“You go right ahead. Do you want me to turn off this fan?”

            I think, “Fan? Turn off this fan?”

 And I realize that ever since I gained consciousness, a small fan has been blowing in my face. It reminds me of the fan that blew in Doc’s face the day he died. I recall the blood clots floating in his urine bag. Just then, Mary lifts up my own urine bag.

“This thing is getting full anyway. That’s actually very good output. And it’s not so thick now.”

I look at my urine in the bag. It looks a little on the heavy side, but it contains no blood clots.

I am relieved. I snooze.

            The next time I open my eyes, I see Mary and the ward clerk. The two women seem to be arguing over something.

Then, I hear Mary say, “I won’t go.”

The ward clerk answers, “I’ll call Mr. Strong.”             My wife told me long ago that Mr. Strong is code for Security. I think, “Mary has finally pulled a boo-boo so bad that they are sending her home. Was it her exposing my nakedness to the rest of the ICU? Was there really an order to remove my catheter? Was that really Prednisone she had given me earlier?”

Next, I see Mary turn and disappear into the deep recesses of the unit. It is now that I notice the monitor on the ward clerk’s computer. I see a graphic representation of a female figure heading toward the top of the monitor screen. I assume it is Mary.

The ward clerk goes to the keyboard and starts poking buttons. I see the floor space represented on the monitor begin to shrink. Next, I notice the wire mesh of the telemetry system inside the soffit under the ceiling of the nurses’ station begin to turn. I realize that the wire mesh is shrinking with the floor space depicted on the monitor. I think, “That’s how they do it. The ward clerk wants Mary to go home. Mary has refused and has gone deeper into the unit. The ward clerk is using the telemetry system to control and to limit Mary’s movements.”

Soon, I hear what I assume are Mary’s fists pounding on some metal door where she has been confined by the telemetry system. Then, I hear nothing.

A tough looking male employee dressed in white enters from the opposite direction where I know the entrance to the unit is located. He walks toward the area where Mary is confined. The male disappears momentarily. I hear a metal door open and shut. Mary’s graphic image is no longer on the monitor. The male employee reappears from the recesses of the unit and walks out in the direction of the entrance.

I am somewhat relieved. If Mary is incompetent, the rest of the staff has been successful in convincing her to leave the unit and to go home. Now, it occurs to me that Mary is the only employee who has ever offered to help me with the bedpan. I begin the feel pressure building in my bowels.

Suddenly, Mary strides into view from the direction of the area to which she had been confined. I think, “She’s back! Of course. She’s an employee. She probably knows a code to override the telemetry system.”

 The ward clerk holds out her arms to stop Mary and then directs Mary to another computer in the nurses’ station. Mary sits down in front of this other computer, and I think, “Mary has made a deal. She has agreed to sit at the computer and review the mistakes she has made tonight. I assume that after the review, she will be allowed to stay, and (hooray!), Mary will even be allowed to help me with the bedpan. What a great system! I mean, admittedly, Mary did appear to be getting up there in years. She probably needs a refresher course or two.”

Sure enough, just as soon as I am sure that Mary is finished reviewing her mistakes, I push the button on my call light with the red human torso on it and Mary looks up at me and comes toward my doorway.

“Do you need something?”

“Mary, I am sorry to tell you this, but I think I need to use the bedpan again.”

“That’s not a problem. I’ll get it.”

This time, Mary returns with the bedpan and closes the curtain to my doorway. I am impressed. There will be no clowns marching by the doorway this time. I am very careful to anticipate Mary’s needs when she places the bedpan beneath me. I do my thing. Mary retrieves the soiled bedpan. Mary wipes me with warm, medicated cloths.

I turn back on my back and ask, “Could you also hand me that urinal? I need to use it too.”

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.” And a few moments later, “I’m done. Can you take it?”

“Sure.”

“Mary, I hate to ask you this, but I feel a little discomfort down there since you took out the catheter. Would you mind looking at it?”

“Not at all. Well, there is a little blood on it.”

 

 

 

My Response to A Linkedin Discussion on Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding

http://www.linkedin.com/groups?home=&gid=889607&trk=anet_ug_hm

The URL above is the location of a discussion group on LinkedIn. The topic dealt with how special educators react to having student advocates and attorneys attend meetings held under the mandate of the IDEA statute.

This is my response –

“Wow! What a great discussion! I just recently retired from teaching students with low incidence disabilities (LIDs) for a state agency in Oregon. While I was getting my SPED certification, I subbed at a youth correctional facility.

I have 8 years experience teaching students aged 18 to 21 in an adult transition program which had a store-front setting in a commercial district. I opened a Middle Learning Center in a local high school for students who were having difficulties in the resource room but who only qualified for services under the learning disabled category. And I taught students with LIDs for four years in a classroom at a local high school.

Possibly because I was a claims adjuster for 22 years before my special ed career, I have never felt intimidated when advocates or attorneys attended my meetings. I have discovered however, a wide difference in the degree of compliance with the IDEA statute among various states when I have had students from other states move into my classrooms with their out-of-state documentation.

My first 8 years of experience was in an environment of creative collaboration. My next 5 years was spent in a environment where finances drove district policies and not to the benefit of the students. I left after I saw IEP goals being driven by Common Core State Standards rather than by the needs and preferences of the individual student.

Now, I publish my website at http://www.popspedster.net and blog on WordPress. I look forward to reading the group’s comments.”

I also look forward to replies on WordPress.

The Price of Brass – the Case Against the Nancy Kerrigan “Mastermind”

Earlier this week, I chose to watch an ESPN documentary on Netflix. “The Price of Gold” is a retelling of the 1994 Nancy Kerrigan/ Tonya Harding knee bashing incident prior to the 1994 Winter Olympics. While the program presented a fairly balanced perspective, it did however favor Harding’s point of view to the detriment of her ex-husband and alleged mastermind of the plot to bash Kerrigan, Jeff Gillooly (aka Jeff Stone).

In the fall of 1994, I was employed by Southwestern Oregon Community College (SOCC) as an academic life skills teacher assigned to Shutter Creek Correctional Institution (SCCI) near Coos Bay, Oregon. Specifically, my duties included preparing inmates enrolled in the Oregon SUMMIT Program for taking the GED. I delivered instruction to inmates who had volunteered to possibly have their sentences reduced by participating in a military boot camp program that emphasized the words in the acronym Success Using Motivation Morale, Intensity, and Treatment. You can read all about it at – http://www.oregon.gov/DOC/OPS/PRISON/Pages/scci_summit_program.aspx

Jeff Gillooly had volunteered for the third platoon of inmates. The SUMMIT system typically allowed around 80 inmates from SCCI and from various other Oregon correctional facilities to arrive en masse by bus for “military” processing by Oregon Department of Corrections (DOC) officers who had been specially trained and experienced in military procedures.

My own team from the local community college was usually present for processing paperwork related to the academic classes the inmates were required to take in the SUMMIT program. We usually stood by and watched while the inmates had their heads and faces shaved bald so that no “special” characteristics of personality could be discerned. As we observed the shaved heads, one feature began to stand out.

We first noticed old suture marks related to traumatic head injuries. Then, we started to notice the remarkable number of head injuries. Finally, we started to note the relative locations of the head injuries on each head.

Since that time, I have come to the conclusion that, as a nation, we are systematically incarcerating an entire class of people – men with head injuries. Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI) has certainly come to the forefront of national concern after two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have produced so many tragic examples. We are even currently concerned about the incidence of TBI that occurs in sports. In short, we seem to becoming more aware of TBI as a valid disability.

While I do not even recall whether Jeff Gillooly was an inmate with TBI, I do recall the progress he seemed to make while engaged in the SUMMIT program.

I began each of my classes with the usual military discipline model – commands instructing the class on each movement they made in class. Then, after signing off on any “learning experience” any of the “troops” may have had (each inmate was evaluated each day by at least five different staff members, and inmates who failed an evaluation might be assigned a “learning” experience related to that inmate’s error(s)), I used an overhead projector with a slide containing pictures, quotes and phrases related to both the SUMMIT program content and to GED preparation.

In one of my earliest encounters with Mr. Gillooly, I had projected for his class the quote, “Never contend with a man who has nothing to lose.” I asked the class to discuss what the meaning of this quote might be.

 The general consensus of the class was it meant that to contend with such a person might tend to drag one down to the level of that other person.

Mr. Gillooly in a very serious manner, volunteered his idea on the matter, “Sir, this inmate feels that he should not contend with a man who has nothing to lose because that man has nothing that this inmate could win from him.”

Gillooly’s response demonstrated a classic criminal thinking pattern as defined by SUMMIT standards – manipulative and selfish; the answer of an egoist.

Mr. Gillooly however, made significant progress in the program. When he was in the computer lab, I watched him over a period of time as he taught another inmate how to read. He had no guarantee of an early release, and the typical SUMMIT “graduate” saw at least 50 per cent of the original volunteers fail the program and head back to regular prison.

In my humble opinion, the Oregon DOC made one error in judgment where Mr. Gillooly (Stone) was concerned. On the day of graduation, and in light on the intense interest in his incarceration, the DOC allowed every major television network to set up broadcast trucks at SCCI to cover the event.

And speaking of trucks, the DOC even allowed Jeff Gillooly (Stone) to drive away from prison in a new pickup truck with a beautiful blond on the front seat next to him. That was quite a message to send to other inmates, but perhaps not the appropriate one.

Where the continuing saga of Jeff and Tonya and Nancy is concerned, the ESPN documentary concluded with Tonya reaffirming her position that she knew nothing of the knee bashing before it took place. Her best friend and former fellow skating student was also interviewed throughout the piece and concluded with her opinion that Tonya knew everything from the beginning.

All we have heard from Jeff Gillooly publicly was his appearance on the Fox show “Lie Detector” nearly a decade ago. The “results” of the lie detector test agreed with Tonya’s friend’s conclusion – Tonya was involved.

Finally, in deciding which inmates successfully completed the SUMMIT Program and received early release, the entire SCCI staff voted. The primary standard upon which our votes were based was this – would you, as a pro-social member of society, want this now-reformed inmate to move into the house next door to your own?

We all agreed that Jeff Gillooly (Stone), in his state of being that we had evaluated during his treatment in the SUMMIT program, was fit to move into the house next door to our own.

Since that time, the SUMMIT Program has been closed. During its existence, it graduated 115 platoons of inmates.

 

Footnote from the SUMMIT Internet site –

“Effective July, 2012, the SUMMIT Program at SCCI will be closing, and a new Alternative Incarceration Program will be starting at Columbia River Correctional Institution.  The following lists the scheduled completion dates for inmates in the AIP SUMMIT Program.  Those inmates still in the AIP SUMMIT Program after July 10, 2012, will be transferred to CRCI to finish the remainder of their program.”

 

Community	Arrival Date	Institution Graduation Date
112	10/06/2011	04/17/2012
113	11/03/2011	05/15/2012
114	12/01/2011	06/12/2012
115	12/29/2011	07/10/2012
116	01/26/2012	At CRCI
117	02/23/2012	At CRCI
118	03/22/2012	At CRCI

 

Read more about Jeff Gillooly Stone at – http://deadspin.com/finding-gillooly-what-happened-to-figure-skatings-inf-1482669790
The photo posted with this blog is the property of deadspin.com

Toward an Aesthetic for Feminine Attire at Award Ceremonies

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I have always had an interest in feminine attire. As a prepubescent boy, I recall having had an interest in fashion when, in the late 1950s, fashion standards produced the balloon dress and the sack dress. I recall a Christmas visit to J.C. Penney’s with my sister when we had been given $20 by our father to buy a new dress for our mother.

            I talked my younger sister into buying a dress labeled “Bess Meyerson” without considering the appropriateness of style or size. If I could have made my mother look like Bess Meyerson, then that dress should have done the trick.

            It did not.

            While our mother acted graciously when she opened the gift on Christmas morning, the result was quite different when she emerged from her bedroom wearing (almost) the frock. First, it did not fit. Second, it was a pastel purple with a slim skirt.

            I think she later exchanged it for a simple house dress.

            That brings me to the point of this discussion – a proposal for setting some sort of aesthetic standard for feminine fashion worn at various award ceremonies.

            It is no coincidence that my awareness of this issue has been elevated by a friend’s blog that addresses similar issues. Last evening, I watched CNN’s three hour show “And the Oscar Goes to…”. While the program emphasized the degree to which the film industry has impacted public opinion about many social issues, I was focusing on the visual history of fashion displayed at the Academy Award ceremonies.

            Please let me share my humble thoughts on the subject.

            First, one might argue as to why we might need aesthetic standards for feminine fashion at award ceremonies. I can only respond that various critics more adept than I, have already made good arguments when they point out the various errors of judgment in accoutrement made by the stars and by their handlers.

            The first standard that I would propose in establishing rules for a fashion aesthetic has to do with the status of the woman herself. Has she been nominated for a current award? Is she a past recipient? How long ago did she receive the award? Has she made significant contributions to the industry?

            The second standard I would propose is age. I know that sounds like ageism. But some recent fashion selections by aging grand dams have been too obviously inappropriate. We all age. But at what point does what we choose to wear become garish? Transparent materials on a 20-something is one thing. Transparent material worn by a sexagenarian depends on what area of the body has been made apparent; not to mention the issue of fitness of any particular sexagenarian’s body.

            The third standard I would propose is more related to the issue of creating an aesthetic gestalt. That is, if the woman in question has been nominated for a particular role, to what extent does her attire relate visually to a gestalt of the film for which she has been nominated?

            Finally, given the nature of sensationalism associated with the ceremonies, consideration should be given to the question of to what extent the fashion chosen has been chosen to create a visual sensation (positive or negative) and to what extent that sensation successfully combines with the aesthetic gestalt to produce a desirable affect.

            After viewing the CNN show and after viewing decades of increasingly provocative fashion statements, I reached a conclusion about one specific model that exemplifies the standards I am proposing – the gown that Cher wore at the 1986 Academy Awards when she was nominated for “Moonstruck”.

            I am not saying whether I agree or disagree with the award being made to Cher. I am only commenting on the aesthetic of the fashion selection that she and her handlers made for the occasion.

            First, her status was a nominee. Second, in terms of age, Cher was a model for age appropriate feminine beauty. The transparency of the materials she chose was provocative. One might argue she looked more like a flashy Las Vegas show girl.

            However, the overall gestalt of the fashion was consistent with the role for which she was being nominated. If an Italian waitress from the Bronx had been nominated for an Academy Award, what would she have worn? I say, it would have been something very similar to what Cher wore.

            Furthermore, the gestalt was enhanced by the coiffure. The ringlets on her forehead were reminiscent of patterns commonly found on ancient Greek vases (in this case, on Roman reproductions of ancient Greek vases).

            As far as the issue of age appropriateness is concerned, Cher’s figure could be described as being “classic” at almost any age (that is, of any age she has reached thus far).

            For very similar reasons, I would also nominate Helen Mirren for her choice of fashion at the 2007 awards when she won for her role as “The Queen”. In that case, fabric and material created an effect that glamorized her and seemed to say, “Hey, if Queen Elizabeth had been nominated, she might have made a similar choice.” After all, as a peer of the realm and in the absence of the monarch, Mirren was the queen’s representative.

I am honored to have a comment posted by Marcy Forrest of Rouge Review. Marcy has asked that I post photos of Laetitia Casta which (I understand)will be the subject of Marcy’s Commentary.