Ray Bradbury Musical

Yes, yes, yes, I am writing about Ray Bradbury. Consider this post one of admiration for Who Noor Might Marry (for shizzle--thanks Snoop Dogg) Installment Two. Too bad he's in love with Bo Derrek.

Bo Derrek, before she became a Playboy model.

Thanks, New Haven mommies, for giving me a love for old men!

But honestly, I really want to see this musical. Here's the story: It's the year 2116 and a married couple of forty years is getting tired of waking up to each others' crinkly faces each morning. Enter the androids. They are traveling as door-to-door salesmen. What are they peddling? Marionettes, of course: custom androids, of course. The poor couple decides to give each other androids of their younger, sexier selves for Christmas and learn an important lesson: that by growing old with someone you love, you can keep your youth. Androids represent more than machines and catalysts for a great realization of undying love in this musical; they represent life becoming mechanical, and the lack of attention given to love. A robot may be good for lots of things, but you don't need a robot to see that you need someone.

"Wisdom 2116" is playing at the Fremont Center Theater in South Pasadena until February 27th. You can be linked to an informational page by clicking on the title of my post.



At his home in Los Angeles, Ray Bradbury explains his sappy love story: "the message in life is, love is everything...I'm a mamma's boy, I'm a sissy," he explained.

Ray on computers: "I hate them."

Yes, I realize I'm using a computer to say, I love you Ray Bradbury. I cried when I found out I missed your visit to the library two years ago.

Ray Bradbury when he was old, but not that old. And he likes kitties! My heart's melting...

Bradbury wrote the musical 55 years ago, for Charles Laughton and his wife who were about the same age as his fictional couple. Now 89 years old, he understands old age and old love. But he also understands his stories. He speaks of being invited into a circus tent as a kid. "I was twelve years old...I wanted to grow up and be a magician, and that's what happened, isn't it? I'm a magician, and you'll believe anything I tell you. And I'll live forever, so help me God."

OK, it's This American Life time. Bye!

Internship?

So, I wrote a post on my new internship a while ago but couldn't post it because, having ignored my system updates for so long, my internet had transformed from a sleek cheetah into a slimy slug. Ew, slime. Some slugs are good--in fact, some even eat mold, protecting us and our plastered shelters from the insalubrious fungi--what am I rationalizing? Slugs gross me out. They remind me of miniature, less dry, faceless Jabba the Huts. What does a slug's face even look like? But, digress. I recently began interning at a Pacifica Radio station, and I’m loving it so far.

Many people don’t know this (I know I didn’t), but Pacifica was the first public radio station in the United States. It was founded way back in 1946 by Lewis Hill, a conscientious objector who covered World War II in Washington, D.C. until he was fired for refusing to adulterate facts. The idea of a listener-sponsored radio station, rather than a government or corporate-sponsored media, appealed to him greatly and he began to gather a following. Although it was new-fangled, the idea grew, and he and his cohorts began broadcasting from Berkeley, California in 1949. KPFK in Los Angeles went on the air 10 years later and soon became the most powerful public radio station in the Western United States.

KPFK operates from a distinguished-looking red brick building in North Hollywood that seems to slouch slightly amidst its bustling surroundings. With a Panda Express across the street and an Indian restaurant called the “Bollywood Two” next door, along with cute local places like

(a slightly-seedy jazz club that serves all manner of interesting starchy-Solanaceae concotions including a Maple Ham, Corn, and Pineapple Potato; a Hot Dog and Sauerkraut Potato, a Marinated Steak Potato…the list of oddities goes on), and Universal Studios just a short tram ride away, the radio station seems a bit out of place at first. But its eclectic, electric spirit is represented in its diverse surroundings.

The radio archive at KPFK is the nation’s oldest, and the archives room has a great atmosphere. It’s dimly lit—the ceiling lamps have colored-cloth lanterns hanging over them, casting the entire room in an eerie, softly tinted light, and the rows of cases cradling books and CDs are perfect for crawling between for a post-lunch nap (no, silly, I haven't taken one). The walls are painted a pollen-like orange, with red, white, and yellow stripes running like equators across their bellies. The latitudinal lines are broken by towering chests of drawers filled with old chunks of history—50 years of grassroots political, cultural and performing arts history. There are recordings and interviews with greats like John Coltraine and John Cage, Langston Hughes, James Baldwin, Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and even Ernesto “Che” Guevara. I worked in the archives my first day at KPFK, and enjoyed organizing recordings while chatting with other volunteers (like Sylvia, an old woman at whom I nervously had to shout because she was "going deaf, dear"), archivists (like Edgar, who literally had a feather in his cap, well, fedora really), and producers.

I can’t really explain the first few days working on a show. I walked into the office and stood staring at all the posters for a while—Immigration Reform Now! Iraqi Workers Unite! Bush—the Only Dope Worth Shooting.

Researching was easy and enjoyable—preparing talking points was difficult. When writing segment introductions, I was suddenly struck by my power. A strategically placed qualifier, an extra sentence (or a sentence less), a few choice words, the emphasis placed on a fact, all led to radically different slants on the same facts. And the idea of framing a deeply complex issue in only 15 minutes was staggering.

The first segment I had to work on was the most daunting. It was about toxic chemicals used as flame retardants. These chemicals coat objects from pillows and pajamas to television sets and car seats. I read a lot about the issue, the history of legislation surrounding it, the chemical reasons it was bad, the medical problems it caused. But I still didn’t know what the public needed to be informed about. Did they need to know about the chemicals that had been recently banned? The effects of the chemicals? The science behind their toxicity? The corporate lobbyists that prevented them from being taken off the market? The civil rights debates surrounding the issue? The fact that I was in a position to decide what millions of people needed to know was difficult to wrap my head around, and everything seemed important. Sometimes curiosity is unrewarding. I eventually got the talking points in order, but they were too unspecific in some cases and too general in others. But I comforted myself—I’d get it eventually, and I have become better (but not perfect yet, oh no). Every story I research and help write astounds me. My parents are probably getting tired of me talking nonstop about French burka bans and torture in Afghan detainment camps and Scott Brown’s stupidity, but I can’t help it. Everything is too wonderful a prospect, everything seems so important.

Perhaps the biggest lesson I’ve been learning from Pacifica radio is the one that should be the most obvious—that journalism has a profound affect on the way that people act and think. That journalism is what brings people to the front lines. For someone like me, who has always believed she should (and would) become the driving force in every story—who wants to be each hero, the larger-than-life every(wo)man—this is a big realization. I’m learning that telling the stories is just as important, and I’m learning that my old views—my scorning the catalyst in favor of the protagonist—were naïve and, frankly, egotistic. How many people know of Edward R. Murrow and how many people know of Gandhi? It must have been some sort of complex, a

wanting to be great, to be known the world over. I don’t think I’ve quite gotten over it (who ever does?), but, as corny as this sounds (and I know it will sound corny), if it ultimately makes the world a better place, I don’t mind a bit of that yearning on my part or anyone else’s. But Sonali Kolhatkkar, the amazing broadcaster and journalist with whom I’m working (or, to be more correct, for whom I’m working), balances these roles of catalyst and proactive actor very nicely, working on her show, Uprising, and working as an activist in an Afghan woman’s collective. I can only hope that I’ll be able to find such an admirable balance later in life.

Let's Dance

So, I must say that hearing this on the radio made me feel pretty fly, so check it out and help inflate my ego!

Also, I apologize for all the pledge-fund pushing in this episode, but don't fast forward! And, you know, if the mood strikes, you can give us money :-)

KPFK Fund Drive Day 4

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I had to pick out clips from among much archival footage from and about the Depression era. They were all really fascinating. There was a piano-playing debutante who, after losing a million dollars in the stock market crash, pleaded for good souls to buy the only thing she had left--her 25,000 dollar mink coat. There were news clips from Chicago, where hundreds of couples participated in "Dance Marathons" where they would literally dance for months on end. The dancers were allowed to take 5, and sometimes 10, minute long naps. The attendants would take off their shoes and massage their tired feet as they collapsed into their cots. After the buzzer rang signaling the end of their time the dancers would be dragged from their beds and shaken awake. They circled the dance floor like zombies as hundreds of onlookers looked on. Here's a clip I love:

Dance marathons represent what the Great Depression was ultimately about: something very good going very wrong--the rebellious, youthful dance crazes of the Jazz Age morphed into something much more sinister. As Betty asks, "Well, do you think we can stick it out, Frankie?" she's not asking questioning whether she and her partner can keep their toes from dislocating or keep from collapsing of fatigue longer than their fellows. She's asking when it will be over--all of it.

One thread that ran through much of the footage was especially surprising. Many of them--archival television footage, documentaries, films, commentaries from ordinary people--supported a combination of rugged independence from government while promoting and sometimes practicing a public socialism. This seemed like a dichotomy to me at first, but now it doesn't seem too different from what many tea-partiers are pleading for today; the desire to govern themselves as communities. Of course, the world is different today--I doubt that many hardline republicans would like to live on communal farms, and their predecessors did not place as much faith in the free market or its currency as do their contemporaries.

Pavlov, Salivation On!

Last night I made the dough for these cookies.  Our food processor wasn't really working (much like everything else in the house--go figure) but lucky for me I am the proud possessor of a mortar and pestle.  All I can say is, a dough that is supposed to take 20 minutes to make took me two hours, and I got a nice arm workout out of it, chopping and pounding almonds, and combining them with sugar, butter, flour, and egg yolks.  

The cookies I made are called Ischlers, and according to my taste tester (my mom--I haven't tried them yet.  I can't handle any more sweetness today after licking chocolate ganache off a spoon) they are delicious.   Ischlers are sort of almond-shortbready, and they're filled with jam (usually apricot, but I thought that was weird so I used raspberry) and topped with (what else but)...chocolate ganache!  Making the ganache was much easier than I thought it would be.  I ate a lot of chocolate ganache cake when I was younger, and thought there was something mysterious about it, but it turns out that it's only chocolate and cream.  I must say, however, that finding bittersweet chocolate that I could use for this recipe was difficult.  I walked to Trader Joe's yesterday only to find that they sold bittersweet chocolate in 3-ounce bars for three dollars each.  I needed half a pound (or so I thought--I now have a small pirex-full of chocolate ganache sitting in my fridge.)  They didn't have it at Sprout's either, but they did have it at Ralph's.  I got it in time to come home and watch Emma on PBS.  Woohoo!  I always squirmed when my mom wanted to watch those old English dramas (except the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice--that's six hours of amazing), but they're starting to grow on me.  And what with my house smelling like almonds, sugar, butter and chocolate, and my finding the first season of Pushing Daisies at the library (along with a Juliet Binoche movie--that woman is so beautiful) I am pretty darn contented.  I've also made a pact to go to the beach every day, and so far I've been keeping it.  Seeing the ocean and smelling the salt air will not stop amazing me.  I appreciate it so much more now.  Anyway, I've been rambling.  I took the liberty of attempting to take oddly-lit photos, so feast your eyes on the scrumptiousness (for some reason they're not as bright on Blogger as they are on my computer, but, oh well).

The One Year Mark

It has been more than a year since this man made me cry. I have taken my "Yes We Did" poster down. The Kucinich for President banner is still hanging in my bedroom. A year ago, I watched Barack Obama take his place as President of the United States in suspended disbelief. On November 4th of 2008 I fell asleep in a daze, waking to joyfully cry into my cereal, and to tear up in Calculus as I announced that I could say truly for the first time that I was "proud to be an American." It was a time to be corny and patriotic, for eyes to glisten at what seemed like the holiest of times, the promises in the air tingling.

Maybe it was just the magic of living in New Haven, but much has changed since then. Or, to put it more succinctly, not enough has changed since then. The most magical of times has lost out to reality. How am I to clap my hands as loudly as I can and say "I believe in Obama"? He has more responsibility than Tinkerbell. And more power that he has used illy. He has convinced Congress to pass a bill that frustrated most Americans, and even he is not proud of handing money over, however temporarily, to big business. Health care reform would have been the strongest point of his first year, and he has not done his job, letting a watered-down bill through, and Americans will suffer as a result. His mythology can only take him so far.

Sorry for this...I'm just mad about the whole thing. What is he going to say in his State of the Union Address? He and the media are way past their honeymoon period.

Obsessions?

Hooooooooney, I'm hooooooooooome.

What movie is that from?  I want to say it's from My Blue Heaven, but considering I haven't seen that movie since I was oh, maybe five years old, I could be (probably am) wrong.  Any takers?

So, obviously I haven't written on here in a while.  I'm in a particularly writerly mood today, and while I spent a lot of time this morning writing in my journal by a fountain (and watching little kids throw pencils and pinecones and stones into said fountain), I feel like being all...spontaneous.  Or as spontaneous as one can be on a blog. Evidently, I'm being rather inelegant and I'm in a talkative mood.  Since it is nearly midnight, I am talking to no one in particular, and everyone.  So even though I could be writing about my first day at my internship, or how the girl in my yoga class this morning fainted, I won't.  At least not today. 

Lately, I've been thinking about all the random people with whom I am not associated, but whom I love.  In no particular order, here are the ones I can rattle from my clanking brain at the moment:

PEOPLE NOOR MIGHT MARRY (yeah, not really): INSTALLMENT ONE

1.) Jimmy Carter:

This old man is adorable.  And I know that old people supposedly don't like being called "cute" or "adorable" or just generally be squealed at.  But you know, Carter probably could have been elected to the presidency based on his winning smile alone, K?  Now you may be thinking, Noor's getting ahead of herself.  And her love for Jimmy Carter is the product of either a strange and unhealthy love for octogenarians, or the callouses on her stony heart have been sawed off by those disarming teeth.  Okay that was a weird sentence.  Don't say you weren't warned.  But in any case, Jimmy's not all beauty and no brains!  He was a really great President--in my mind, one of the best America ever had.  He tried to do what was right for his country without being overly concerned about his own popularity (he wasn't reelected), and even now he's keeping himself out there.  Good man.

2.) Kenna

I don't really know how to explain what Kenna is.  He can't be filed under pop or rock or hip hop or electronica, but some weird amalgamation of them all with bits African beats and stuff that seems like it should belong in a Pixar film but that is actually found in his voice.  Whoah.  His music is decidedly better without the music videos, although the one for "freetime" manages to be both cute and disturbing.  Kenna, I do not want to see you being dragged around by police in your underpants.  If You do, however, (you being the invisible people I encompass by sweeping my arms up and around and possibly elbowing someone very visible in the process), here it is:  

3.) The Implicit Association Test Folks

https://implicit.harvard.edu/implicit/demo/takeatest.html

I took the race test, and these guys blow my mind.  I don't really understand how all this works--how do they factor in people like me, who forget which keys my fingers are on and thus press the wrong button?  I won't say what my result was from the test, but I will say it was surprising.  I genuinely believe I hold people of all races equal.  Is there anyone who has ever gotten a "perfect score" in terms of having no bias towards black or white people?

4.) Ralph Nader  

Ok.  So this isn't really any sort of revelation or anything, but I really love Ralph Nader.  I think he could have become president if he just stood a little straighter--he's always stooped, ever since he was a strapping young lad.  And, as much as it pains me to say so, stooping does not project confidence/a presidential aura.  I mean, look at Warren Harding--he only got elected because he looked like a presidential sort of guy.  Yalla, ya Nader. Sit up, stand up straight as the status quo.  Ok, the status quo is crooked.  Rebel against the status quo in your posture.  Why am I addressing this to Ralph Nader, he'll never read this?  And besides, honestly, I like him just the way he is.  And as much as I hate the way seat belts chafe one's neck, I love him for them.  And nutrition facts labels.  And cleaner air.  And...

5.) David Sedaris

This man.  Is amazing.  If he wasn't gay, I would be his stalker.  Ok, actually I wouldn't be, because who really needs to become a stalker when there's facebook live feed or news feed or whatever it is we're being fed, but I would be letting his girlish voice lull me to sleep every night.  Wait.  I already do that.  Just kidding.  I am not quite so attached.  Only every other night.  And I am joking you again.  But seriously, he makes me draw in a huge breath after every essay in When You Are Engulfed In Flames.  His other stuff is excellent, but that is mind-blowing.  And it is the one that drugs figure into least.  Ah, the irony.  Although, his stories in Barrel Fever are quite wonderful; if you're looking for white trash on a more sophisticated level than King of the Hill, that's totally the way to go.  Perhaps the piece that fills me with the most toothy joy is one he wrote for The New Yorker last year on undecided voters; it's the best commentary I've ever heard on the topic, and I think it really hi-lights my favorite thing about him--his abashed subtlety.  If anyone writes to discover, it's David Sedaris.  He's not trying to be the smart guy who shoves his wisdom down your throat.  He's at his best when he's the cynic who thinks noone is as good as him.  And it's wonderful. 

http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2008/10/27/081027sh_shouts_sedaris?currentPage=all

and another fav, from Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim:  http://www.npr.org/programs/morning/features/2004/jun/sedaris/usandthem.html

6.)  Ira Glass

Some people have described Ira's voice as that of an old, obese man.  Others have described its dulcet tones as those of a gay hipster.  To me, it's pure love.  If you've never listened to This American Life...you're missing out.    http://www.thisamericanlife.org/

7.) Beck

I've always loved Beck, and now I'm really digging this song...

Heaven

As a young child, I imagined that heaven was a library.  I envisioned a great room redolent with the beautiful, musty smell of pages from ages past, holding every book imaginable, all while retaining the cozy atmosphere of a private library.  My heaven was full of big, squashy, chartreuse-colored armchairs, the kind a small child like myself could just sink into, each with its own little table next to it, and a lamp that provided enough light to read by and painted everything around its dim pool goldenrod.  Also scattered about the room, reaching from old book-ladder to book-ladder were hammocks hung expressly for my reading pleasure.  Ah, to find yourself in a place where, after having lived your own life thoroughly on Earth, you could bury yourself in the worlds of others, take part in every adventure embarked upon this little planet teeming with life in the midst of a nebulous universe.

If you'd asked me what I wanted to be when I grw up at that age, you most likely would have been presented with a list of every possible occupation--"doctor, teacher, waitress, soccer coach, soccer mom (I thought this was a job.  I also thought minivans were cool.), lifeguard, scientist (I imagined myself looking through a telescope at the stars and sighing), writer, racecar driver, restaurant critic, actress, book-editor, hobo...".  As I grew older, the jobs became more specific, but just as varied.  In fourth grade, I planned to be a marine biologist, a botanist scouring the world for natural cures to a botanist scouring the world for natural cures to diseases like cancer, and a discoverer of rare mushrooms.  And then my ambitions became just plain precocious, "I want to be a social anthropologist!  I'll be an adventurer!" I cried at age 12.  "I'm planning to become a public intellectual," I told people at 16.  I wanted to do it all.    A heaven full of books would be the perfect place for me. 

And really, I don't think my idea of heaven was too far off.  because that's what dying means, really--once you die, you know everything.  Whether you believe in Heaven or Nirvana or Shangri-La or not when you're living, you finally find out if you were right.  And if heaven doesn't exist, and you decompose, the particles of You become a new part of the ever-changing universe, just another component in the Law of Conservation.  So if you find that heaven does exist, and if yours is like mine, you join every living thing...with the added bonus of a squashy chair, a hot hearth to warm your feet on, a dim lamp, and a hot cup of tea.  Oh yeah, and a good book.  Lots of them.