Psychoanalysis XXI

The story of my birth is extraordinary. I come from a small town where something very strange happened: a meteorite dropped nearby and every woman who was expecting a baby gave birth to a malformed child. No one knew why, not even science. The town became an overnight sensation, for the worst reasons. It was a freak show.

You know what people are like: a little superstition here, a lot of ignorance there, too many late nights watching "The Children of the Damned"... That's all it took for people to start thinking those kids weren't human and this was the beginning of an alien invasion. As if those kids hadn't enough grief as it was, it brought them a lot of unnecessary pain. Naturally they went through every test under the sun, and their DNA was predictably totally human -- all screwed up and mutant, but earthling.

Except for me. I too was an "alien baby" but I was miraculously normal. Not only did I not have any birth defects, I was a beauty -- and I mean the top-model, could win every beauty pageant kind. Envious parents glared at me as I walked by on my way to school, and then look at their "alien babies" and wonder, "Why couldn't my child have been the normal one?"

I could easily have made a living out of my looks. But I was a genius straight As student, and I decided instead to dedicate my life to clearing up the mystery of what had happened in my small town. That it had something to do with the meteorite was obvious, but what? And why had it affected only the unborn children, and no one else? Did it really have anything to do with aliens? A true scientist should consider every option. My ground-breaking studies were decisive in dealing with those questions, which at the time I had finished college remained largely unanswered.

I could never make friends with any of the "alien babies," (they all had serious mental handicaps and couldn't hold a conversation) but I always felt very sorry for them. All their lives they were under the shadow of suspicion, treated like menacing aliens with no right to be there. I -- or perhaps I should say, we -- sympathize. Of course we knew all along they weren't aliens. The only alien there was me. When one of the "alien babies" died shortly after her birth I was put in her place. Tests didn't reveal anything because our DNA is the same. You see, it was vital for us to learn as much as we could about the meteorite, in case it ever hit us.

And now it's time for me to go home. In spite of all the sorrow it brought I will miss looking at the crater left by the meteorite. I spent so much time there investigating it became a friend, sort of a home away from home.

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Vintage ad 82

Pullman bathing suit, 1937, originally uploaded by Gatochy.

This ad is a bit of a hit with my visitors on my Flickr account, and you can see why, it's so lovely.

"Pullman", 1937. Scanned from Taschen's "All-American Ads of the 30s". Click image for bigger version.

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Abracadabra

Quem Me Dera, originally uploaded by revista_antiga.

There is a fairy tale about two sisters, and one is good and one is bad. A fairy punishes the bad one by making it so that every time she speaks snakes and lizards come from her mouth; and she rewards the good one my making her speak precious gems and flowers with every word she utters. It's a metaphor on the power of words.

When you interpret the myth of magical words as a sort of parable it's pretty fascinating. Naturally there's no such thing as literally magical words because magic doesn't exist; but they can have just as much power as if magic were real. Words can turn other people's life around, they can demolish them, make them reborn, they can nurture them -- words can make things happen. But just like with magic they only have that kind of power when you believe in what is being said.

All the kind and nurturing words in the world won't have much effect on people who simply can't think anything positive about themselves. You might say they were cursed from childhood (by their unloving, witchy parents) and your words just aren't strong enough to break the spell, or you don't know THE magic word that would make a difference.

Other times it's pretty pathetic how some people believe that just by calling you names they will make you feel bad about yourself, as if just saying "You are a toad!" could magically transform you into one.

But just like with magic, it only works if you believe.

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Quotes 101

Dennis Wojtkiewicz, "Rosette Series #14"

No violence, gentlemen -- no violence, I beg of you! Consider the furniture!

-- Sherlock Holmes


(Beliefnet Buddhist Wisdom newsletter)

The realization that another person wishes to harm and hurt you cannot undermine genuine compassion?a compassion based on the clear recognition of that person as someone who has the natural and instinctual desire to seek happiness and overcome suffering, just like oneself.

-His Holiness the Dalai Lama


(Beliefnet Jewish Wisdom newsletter)

In finances, be strict with yourself, generous with others.

- Maimonides, "Yad: Deot"


(Beliefnet Hindu Wisdom newsletter)

He is not asleep.
He is not awake.
He never closes his eyes
Or opens them.

Wherever he is,
He is beyond everything.
He is free.

And the man who is free
Always lives in his heart.
His heart is always pure.

Whatever happens,
He is free of all desires.

-Ashtavakra Gita 17:10-11


(Beliefnet Daily Inspiration newsletter)

'New' doesn't equate with 'happy,' or there wouldn't be any antique stores.

-Wilfred Ford

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Wishful Thinking 71

Although yesterday was the first time I heard of least reinforcing syndrome I have long been of the opinion that you can't make people do what you want by making them feel bad about it.

For instance, sometimes you'll stumble upon a site that tries to guilt trip you into making a paypall donation, or into buying the blogger something from their wish-list, or anything like that. Almost invariably the response is underwhelming. And that's when trouble starts. The blogger will cry out indignantly "How dare you visit my blog every day, accept the free entertainment I provide and then not make even a small contribution when I ask it of you?" Obviously, because his blog being free is one of the reasons why people visit, and because he forgets what he's asking for is a favour, not a duty. He should make it worth other people's while, somehow turn it into a feel-good experience. Instead people almost invariably focus on upbraiding those who didn't make a donation, when they should be making a big celebration out of those who did contribute. Naturally, this puts people off. Slowly they start associating the experience of visiting his site with unpleasantness and aggravation and even if they can't explain why they begin to avoid it and eventually stop reading it altogether.

I don't know about you, but for me that has always been one of my main objections to the way summer campaigns go about preventing pets being abandoned. These campaigns are usually extremely sad and pathetic, focusing on what a shame it is to abandon a pet who trusted you and was your responsibility. People who do that shit don't care (if they did they wouldn't abandon their pets) and it depresses the rest of us who wouldn't dream of committing such a horror -- which pretty much leaves no one watching said campaigns. So who are they targeting?
It would be so much better if instead of uselessly upbraiding monsters for abandoning their pets they were to heap praises on those who adopt them. If instead of focusing on not abandoning animals these campaigns were to focus on asking people to adopt them. If instead of showing how pitiful animals become once they've been abandoned they were to show a happy pet surrounded by a loving family, so as to make people want to be that family and to have such a pet.

I would even go so far as to wait for summer holidays and other times of year during which pets are usually abandoned the most to promote award shows where families who arranged things to take their pets along with them would be given medals, with as many TV stations as possible recording the event. I can just see it now: a little kid being awarded a big shiny medal, appearing on TV next to his pet for all his school mates to see what a hero he is... Who wouldn't want to be like him? It would be much more effective.


PS, if you live in Portugal, here is an appeal to adopt an adorable cat who was abandoned by his owners.

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Cute Report 18

These Wooden Figures at Moolka Toys are charming. I especially love the rooster.





These decorative badges by Crowded Teeth synthesize the best in seventies' retro look.





I loved this embroidery made with pieces of cloth in Wataame's blog. The little frog puppet is a plus too. :)




Everyday I find a new trend in arts & crafts, new to me anyway. This seems to be a flickr group for people who like to decorate wooden purses with glued on jewels, painting, etc. The purses have a vaguely sixties'/seventies' design that can be very interesting.


And continuing in the spirit of arts & crafts, this is a flickr photo set with images scanned from a book on toy making, that made me wax very nostalgic.

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The thing about Paris

I think now I get the appeal of Paris Hilton. She has a life that a lot of people dream about: she is very young and pretty, very slim with blue eyes and blond hair. Lots of women wish they could look like that, and lots of guys wish they could date such a girl. She is very rich and powerful, and in spite of her youth she is totally independent. Of course almost everybody wishes they could be young forever, but not when that means being bossed around, like all kids are. But as far as I can tell not even her own parents seem to have any control over her. I was very surprised to see a photo of her embracing her mother the other day. You mean she has a mother? Where was she all these years, and why didn't she give her daughter any morals or intelligence?

Paris is obviously a very obnoxious and mean-spirited woman, amoral and superficial. But that too is part of her dream life appeal. It just means she can go globe trotting and sex video taping without being weighed down by things like what other people think, or a conscience, or dignity, or remorse, or compassion. There are too many stories of poor little rich girls whose good fortune is nothing but a curse and a burden. But Paris' story is not a downer, and for that alone I'm grateful. You know that for as long as she lives she'll never have to worry about money, and will continue to do her thing, go everywhere she likes, jumping on another plane, going to another party, without a care in the world. That is appealing.

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Vintage ad 81

Zales Jewelers, 1971, originally uploaded by Gatochy.

That's right kids, get a clue. Mom doesn't want a stupid card on mothers' day, or a crummy breakfast in bed -- she wants jewellery, gold, diamonds, le bling bling, get it?

"Zales Jewelers," 1971. Scanned from Taschen's "All-American Ads of the 70s" (click image for bigger version.)

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Image Association 273 - Celebrity Look Alikes

Rita Hayworth






Ann Sheridan

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Favorite Children's Books 27

Hugo Manuel, "O Feiticeiro de Oz," page 17, 1946, originally uploaded by Gatochy.

I've uploaded another children's book to my Flickr account. This is one you haven't see yet: it's a version of "The Wizard of Oz" by L. Frank Baum, translated by Maria Lamas and illustrated by Hugo Manuel (I'm assuming they were both Portuguese.)

It was published in 1946 by Livraria Civilização Editora, in the city of Porto, Portugal.

It was a gift from my maternal grandfather to my mother in 3 of February 1947, because she got a "special mention" in school (my mother was one of those prodigy children who get straight As at everything.)

Click here to see the first image, and from there you can see the rest (this time I only scanned the illustrations not every single page, because many of the pages aren't illustrated and the book is too big.) Don't forget you can click on the images to see them in a bigger version.

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What is art?

I've always struggled with the definition of art, because you know how it is: one man's cup of tea is another man's poison, what is art to me may not be art to you, etc. Which really should have tipped me off in the first place, but it's not that simple. You always imagine that art is something that gives you pleasure, and how can some people get pleasure out of some things? Freaks.

You could say Art is the art (so to speak) of making you feel the way you want to feel. There has to be some pleasure involved, even if it apparently makes you suffer, otherwise you wouldn't do it (like when you go watch a tear-jerker and you cry, but on some level that makes you feel good.)

In a way it's like sex: you may not get off on S&M, but some people do. I've seen a lot of art that's left me cold and feeling cheated, like maybe the artist is someone who took a crap and called it art, literally to see how much crap people can take. Like perhaps he wanted to test the theory that just calling something "art" automatically makes it so in other people's eyes, which seems like a very bad case of emperor's new clothes to me.

But if you can find me someone, just one person, who finds what I consider crap to be true art -- i.e., who through that work feels something they want to feel -- then I'll accept that art it is.

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Least reinforcing syndrome

This is an article written by Amy Sutherland, that I couldn't resist transcribing here. She explains how having learned from professionals about animals and how to train them she then proceeded to apply those techniques to her husband, hoping to make him a better companion, with surprising results. I especially liked the part about how you shouldn't react way when an animal is behaving in a way you wish they wouldn't, as any reaction including a negative one only reinforces the undesired behaviour. You get much better results by not reacting and then rewarding them when they do something right. I was never very fond of "tough love" or indeed any kind of conflict, and I hope I'll keep this lesson in mind in the future. Trey, who has done work in children's psychiatric, also gives his seal of approval. :)

What Shamu Taught Me About a Happy Marriage

By AMY SUTHERLAND
Published: June 25, 2006

AS I wash dishes at the kitchen sink, my husband paces behind me, irritated. "Have you seen my keys?" he snarls, then huffs out a loud sigh and stomps from the room with our dog, Dixie, at his heels, anxious over her favorite human's upset.

In the past I would have been right behind Dixie. I would have turned off the faucet and joined the hunt while trying to soothe my husband with bromides like, "Don't worry, they'll turn up." But that only made him angrier, and a simple case of missing keys soon would become a full-blown angst-ridden drama starring the two of us and our poor nervous dog.

Now, I focus on the wet dish in my hands. I don't turn around. I don't say a word. I'm using a technique I learned from a dolphin trainer.

I love my husband. He's well read, adventurous and does a hysterical rendition of a northern Vermont accent that still cracks me up after 12 years of marriage.

But he also tends to be forgetful, and is often tardy and mercurial. He hovers around me in the kitchen asking if I read this or that piece in The New Yorker when I'm trying to concentrate on the simmering pans. He leaves wadded tissues in his wake. He suffers from serious bouts of spousal deafness but never fails to hear me when I mutter to myself on the other side of the house. "What did you say?" he'll shout.

These minor annoyances are not the stuff of separation and divorce, but in sum they began to dull my love for Scott. I wanted - needed - to nudge him a little closer to perfect, to make him into a mate who might annoy me a little less, who wouldn't keep me waiting at restaurants, a mate who would be easier to love.

So, like many wives before me, I ignored a library of advice books and set about improving him. By nagging, of course, which only made his behavior worse: he'd drive faster instead of slower; shave less frequently, not more; and leave his reeking bike garb on the bedroom floor longer than ever.

We went to a counselor to smooth the edges off our marriage. She didn't understand what we were doing there and complimented us repeatedly on how well we communicated. I gave up. I guessed she was right - our union was better than most - and resigned myself to stretches of slow-boil resentment and occasional sarcasm.

Then something magical happened. For a book I was writing about a school for exotic animal trainers, I started commuting from Maine to California, where I spent my days watching students do the seemingly impossible: teaching hyenas to pirouette on command, cougars to offer their paws for a nail clipping, and baboons to skateboard.

I listened, rapt, as professional trainers explained how they taught dolphins to flip and elephants to paint. Eventually it hit me that the same techniques might work on that stubborn but lovable species, the American husband.

The central lesson I learned from exotic animal trainers is that I should reward behavior I like and ignore behavior I don't. After all, you don't get a sea lion to balance a ball on the end of its nose by nagging. The same goes for the American husband.

Back in Maine, I began thanking Scott if he threw one dirty shirt into the hamper. If he threw in two, I'd kiss him. Meanwhile, I would step over any soiled clothes on the floor without one sharp word, though I did sometimes kick them under the bed. But as he basked in my appreciation, the piles became smaller.

I was using what trainers call "approximations," rewarding the small steps toward learning a whole new behavior. You can't expect a baboon to learn to flip on command in one session, just as you can't expect an American husband to begin regularly picking up his dirty socks by praising him once for picking up a single sock. With the baboon you first reward a hop, then a bigger hop, then an even bigger hop. With Scott the husband, I began to praise every small act every time: if he drove just a mile an hour slower, tossed one pair of shorts into the hamper, or was on time for anything.

I also began to analyze my husband the way a trainer considers an exotic animal. Enlightened trainers learn all they can about a species, from anatomy to social structure, to understand how it thinks, what it likes and dislikes, what comes easily to it and what doesn't. For example, an elephant is a herd animal, so it responds to hierarchy. It cannot jump, but can stand on its head. It is a vegetarian.

The exotic animal known as Scott is a loner, but an alpha male. So hierarchy matters, but being in a group doesn't so much. He has the balance of a gymnast, but moves slowly, especially when getting dressed. Skiing comes naturally, but being on time does not. He's an omnivore, and what a trainer would call food-driven.

Once I started thinking this way, I couldn't stop. At the school in California, I'd be scribbling notes on how to walk an emu or have a wolf accept you as a pack member, but I'd be thinking, "I can't wait to try this on Scott."

On a field trip with the students, I listened to a professional trainer describe how he had taught African crested cranes to stop landing on his head and shoulders. He did this by training the leggy birds to land on mats on the ground. This, he explained, is what is called an "incompatible behavior," a simple but brilliant concept.

Rather than teach the cranes to stop landing on him, the trainer taught the birds something else, a behavior that would make the undesirable behavior impossible. The birds couldn't alight on the mats and his head simultaneously.

At home, I came up with incompatible behaviors for Scott to keep him from crowding me while I cooked. To lure him away from the stove, I piled up parsley for him to chop or cheese for him to grate at the other end of the kitchen island. Or I'd set out a bowl of chips and salsa across the room. Soon I'd done it: no more Scott hovering around me while I cooked.

I followed the students to SeaWorld San Diego, where a dolphin trainer introduced me to least reinforcing syndrome (L. R. S.). When a dolphin does something wrong, the trainer doesn't respond in any way. He stands still for a few beats, careful not to look at the dolphin, and then returns to work. The idea is that any response, positive or negative, fuels a behavior. If a behavior provokes no response, it typically dies away.

In the margins of my notes I wrote, "Try on Scott!"

It was only a matter of time before he was again tearing around the house searching for his keys, at which point I said nothing and kept at what I was doing. It took a lot of discipline to maintain my calm, but results were immediate and stunning. His temper fell far shy of its usual pitch and then waned like a fast-moving storm. I felt as if I should throw him a mackerel.

Now he's at it again; I hear him banging a closet door shut, rustling through papers on a chest in the front hall and thumping upstairs. At the sink, I hold steady. Then, sure enough, all goes quiet. A moment later, he walks into the kitchen, keys in hand, and says calmly, "Found them."

Without turning, I call out, "Great, see you later."

Off he goes with our much-calmed pup.

After two years of exotic animal training, my marriage is far smoother, my husband much easier to love. I used to take his faults personally; his dirty clothes on the floor were an affront, a symbol of how he didn't care enough about me. But thinking of my husband as an exotic species gave me the distance I needed to consider our differences more objectively.

I adopted the trainers' motto: "It's never the animal's fault." When my training attempts failed, I didn't blame Scott. Rather, I brainstormed new strategies, thought up more incompatible behaviors and used smaller approximations. I dissected my own behavior, considered how my actions might inadvertently fuel his. I also accepted that some behaviors were too entrenched, too instinctive to train away. You can't stop a badger from digging, and you can't stop my husband from losing his wallet and keys.

PROFESSIONALS talk of animals that understand training so well they eventually use it back on the trainer. My animal did the same. When the training techniques worked so beautifully, I couldn't resist telling my husband what I was up to. He wasn't offended, just amused. As I explained the techniques and terminology, he soaked it up. Far more than I realized.

Last fall, firmly in middle age, I learned that I needed braces. They were not only humiliating, but also excruciating. For weeks my gums, teeth, jaw and sinuses throbbed. I complained frequently and loudly. Scott assured me that I would become used to all the metal in my mouth. I did not.

One morning, as I launched into yet another tirade about how uncomfortable I was, Scott just looked at me blankly. He didn't say a word or acknowledge my rant in any way, not even with a nod.

I quickly ran out of steam and started to walk away. Then I realized what was happening, and I turned and asked, "Are you giving me an L. R. S.?" Silence. "You are, aren't you?"

He finally smiled, but his L. R. S. has already done the trick. He'd begun to train me, the American wife.


Amy Sutherland is the author of "Kicked, Bitten and Scratched: Life and Lessons at the Premier School for Exotic Animal Trainers" (Viking, June 2006). She lives in Boston and in Portland, Me.

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So Cute You Could Puke 126

Boy. What can I say about this squirrel figurine that you haven't already thunk?

I'm not an anti-kitch nazi, mind you. It can be lovely and happy and fun. And I'm not dead set against porcelain figurines either, in spite of all the horrors I've seen in my day. Hell, I even bought a kitch salt and pepper set once, because it was so beautiful.

But damn. Someone must have spent too much time under water and got all mossy and moldy. And there's something decidedly evil about that red lipstick smile, and sickly yellow hue on those pale white cheeks, and Joan Crawford red over-tweezed eyebrows, that truly makes me fear for the young one.

This is the squirrel you see in your nightmares. This is the fearsome kind of fluffiness, like the white bunny from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Run little squirrel, run while you can!

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Only in Portugal 42

Lisboa - Av 5 de Outubro, originally uploaded by jaime.silva.

Lisbon, 5 de Outubro Avenue.
Decorative tiles. Click image for bigger version.

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Vintage ad 80

Eve Cigarettes ad, 1971, originally uploaded by Gatochy.

"Eve Cigarettes" ad, 1971, scanned from Taschen's "All-American Ads of the 70s".

This is such a seventies' look. I just love how they put an innocent, angelic, all natural and flowery spin on smoking yourself to death. Smoking: it's pretty!

Click image for bigger version.

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Image Association 272 - Homages

(Clickable Thumbnails)


Alberto Vargas, September 1946
Jennifer Lopez



Velasquez, "Christ Crucified" c. 1632
Anonymous



"Showgirls" movie poster
Tono Stano, "Sense"



Sophie Delaporte
Balthus, "Card Game" 1950



Ingres, "The Valpincon Bather" 1808
Katerina Belkina
Mario Sorrenti

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Psychoanalysis XX

The girl had everything figured out. She had been trying to find her genetic father for years. She had bribed nurses, hired detectives, rummaged through garbage, much of it her own.

Then she finally found him. The search was over, but not the hunting. Now she had to find just the right moment to reveal herself, to walk up to him and say, "I am your daughter, the one you abandoned in the cradle, you bastard." She was going to do it somewhere public, where there would be lots of people to witness his humiliation, preferably his closest and dearest. Or maybe she would jump at him one dark and stormy night, like a monster from a horror film and let out the beast inside her. Maybe the old man would have a stroke and die of fright.

She stalked him, watched him from afar, biding her time, waiting for the kill. She got accostumed to seeing him walk. Till one day she just knew, this was the moment. "He is right there and now I'm gonna do it, I'm going to cross this distance between us and I'm going to speak to him, and whatever will be will be."

She kept looking at that peaceful distance between them, that velvety brown soil, her father in mid distance. Her favorite paintings were ones with perspective. Her father was the focal point of her vision, like so many portraits of Jesus she had seen.

She couldn't walk up to him and spoil everything. She loved to watch him. She loved him.

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Dear Abby, I'm a Pretender

Some time ago I was reading one of those "Dear Abby" sort of columns. I still contend that just writing the letter is enough, you don't actually have to send it. Reading it once will give you all the answers you need: the one you want to hear, and then the truth, if you can take it.

Anyway, the problem was trivial, and one I have read a million times in forums: a woman has a lover who won't commit, and one day he moves in with another girlfriend he's knocked-up, but he won't stop seeing his other girlfriend(s.) The (now) mistress says she has tried, but can't seem to end the relationship because she can't forget him, or stop obsessing over him, or stop lusting after him, and generally loving him no matter what. She still believes there's some good in him and they can have a worth-while future together.

And suddenly a light-bulb went up in my head, and her real reasons became so clear to me. Everything she said was just a self-projection. I once met a girl with no self-esteem and no friends. On her own anniversary she would give presents to her favorite people, those who didn't give a fig about her but whom she wished loved her and gave her something on her special day -- simply because she couldn't bare the thought of no presents passing hands on her birthday. That would be just too awful. Being the one to hand out the presents was as close to living her fantasy as she was going to get.

The woman asking for advice was like her. She was enacting the feelings she wished her lover could have about her: overwhelming attraction and love, in spite of all obstacles, like family obligations, moral objections, or society's repression. The more obstacles the better, the greater the proof of love. She wished she was totally irresistible.

I could see her clearly in my head, the opposite of all that: a frumpy-looking female who hadn't been loved by those who mattered the most, her parents. Growing up feeling like she wasn't entitled to being loved at all. Later in life only believing in love when she was wrestling it out of men and stealing it from other people's relationships. Getting a perverse feeling of victory over it, like "You wouldn't give me love, you made me feel like I wasn't entitled to it, but see how I get it anyway! Men can't get enough of me, I'm irresistible!" When a free man dates you and calls it off there's no escaping the fact he rejected you. When you date a man who is unavailable you can always console yourself thinking it was really you he loved all along and always will, but too many insurmountable obstacles got in the way.

The best medicine for that, if it were at all possible to administer it to such women, would be to convince them that the minute they dropped the acquaintance their man would totally get over them. That they wouldn't be lusted after, or remembered, or missed for so much as a second.

True as that is it's perhaps too bitter a pill for anyone to swallow, especially for those dependent on vanity instead of self-respect for their strength.

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Why I'm not going to see this movie -- Superman

I should really start a series called "Why I'm not going to see this movie," because I've done it often enough. Stupid people say you shouldn't judge something you're never going to see, but you don't go watch a movie without first passing judgment over it, and figuring it must be good - otherwise you wouldn't part with your money! When you don't feel like watching a movie you're not being more judgmental, it's the same thing.

So for starters, I was never much of a fan of the Superman look (the greasy hair with the little curl, the red and blue suit, etc.) The producers don't like it either, or they wouldn't have tried so hard to tone down the colours. They're not in this because they're fans, they just want the money. All they've done was succeed in making the red colour muddy, like maybe the man of steel should change his brand of detergent. Might as well have left it as it was.

Brandon Routh keeps expressions to a bare minimum. That photo you see up there? That's IT, finito. Christopher Reeves looked like a man and he was an ACTOR, and a good one. Brandon Routh is just a pretty boy.

Kate Bosworth has too high a forehead to wear that hair cut. I'm not criticizing her. I realize her hair says nothing about her abilities -- but it says plenty about the producers of this turkey, who are responsible for the decision. People who allow none other than the leading lady of the movie to sport such an unbecoming hair-do don't have any taste, or common sense or good judgment. So yes, the hair matters.

And finally, apparently in this movie Superman is the father of her baby and has abandoned them. Lois is understandably hurt and things are through between them. You know the drill, don't you? An evil master mind kidnaps his family and Superman saves them and all is well again.

I know I'm just one voice crying out in the desert, but I would like to ask Hollywood to please stop. If you see someone drowning and you think you have a good chance to save them it's your duty to at least try. But your good deed should be its own reward. If you want more than a word of thanks, like money, or sex from the person you just saved; if you want anything tangible in return for your heroic efforts then you should join the police or the fire department, where you get wages, commendations and medals.

Superman rescues people all the time, because he has the super-powers to do it easily, and he does it for free because he doesn't need the money and he's a good person. Naturally, if he saves the life of a woman she is in no way obliged to sleep/fall in love with/ marry him. A man he saves doesn't have to hand him over the keys to his car, his house, his ass. Things aren't like that, luckily. To imply that they are cheapens the people he rescues and it cheapens him.

If a woman (Lois) who used to date him no longer loves him or wants anything to do with him, saving her life should in no way imply that it is now her solemn duty to take him back into her life or into her heart, or indeed into any other part of her anatomy. Please, Hollywood, stop with this plot device already!

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Wishful Thinking 70

I love ballet and opera, but I never go because I refuse to endure the boring parts and God knows, there are too many of them. I love the opera "Carmen" with all my heart -- until half way through, that is. After Carmen runs away with her soldier, and until she finds her true love in the end, with tragic consequences, it's pure boredom in between. So even if the greatest opera singers in the world were in town I still wouldn't pay the price of the ticket, I can listen to all the parts I like, and sang by Callas! at home. But I would go if they were showing a condensed version. Watching "Cosi Fan Tutti" on stage -- the whole bloody opera from start till finish -- was maddening enough to make me doubt my love of Mozart. Nevermore!

The other day there was Giselle (a ballet) on TV and I sat down, determined to watch it, because I knew there were good parts and I hoped I could stand the rest. Those were ten minutes of my life I'll never get back. I gave up because I knew that even if the good bits were sublime by the time we got there I would be too resentful and stressed to enjoye them as much as they deserved. Is that really what the producers of these shows want?

Criticize me all you want for my attention deficit disorder, bla bla, but if I'm this way then most people are bound to be worse. This pretty much means the end of the classics on stage. But it needn't be like that.

I have the fondest memories of a great documentary on ballet I saw on TV many years ago. It was presented by a charismatic Russian dancer, herself a prima-ballerina, who had a delightfully thick accent. In that program you saw the best pas-de-deux from all the greatest ballets: Carmen, Giselle, Romeo and Juliet, The Nutcracker, etc.

So why not create a show that is like the stage equivalent of that documentary, a best-of with someone guiding you through the stories? After all, isn't that precisely what Leonard Bernstein did with his 1960s Young People's Concerts? Feed the audience bits of classical music in sizes they could stomach? Just because you can't eat a whole cake that doesn't mean you can't enjoy a small slice with just as much appreciation as the greatest connoisseur. I love good food, but I won't sit down and eat a banquet for five hours, and until things change I'll never go to the opera or the ballet again.

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Vintage ad 79

It makes me happy just to look at it!

This is a 1979 ad for "Mattel See n' Say Talking Toys", Scanned from Taschen's "All-American Ads of the 70s".

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