Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Cell Phone Operetta and a remix of Macbeth staring Mama Grizzlies

I get lots of odd ideas which I seldom act on. Probably for the best.   For the last congressional election, for example, I was working on a "remix" of the Macbeth  witches speech featuring Sarah Palin, Sharron Angle from Nevada and the sorta-kinda witchy woman from Delaware. OMG, I have forgotten their names already.  Yes, Christine O'Donnell.    Instead of Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd, I had Thrice the wounded moose has called
That sort of thing.  

Round about the  tea pot go;
In the poisond' rhetoric throw.

Would it have gone viral for my 15 minutes of fame?  Macbeth?  Viral?  Ha. ha.  My remix would have been beaucoup work and I was trying to finish my book.  Priorities, damn it, priorities.

So, another idea popped into my head today, for a cell-phone opera.  Two women, a soprano and a contralto yakking on their phones all day, while their husbands/boyfriends try to reach them.   The bass and the baritone.  No tenors need apply.    The scenes would be in an SUV and in a supermarket, a locker room at a health club, trying on shoes at DSW, and of course there would be cause for a lot of drama.  Stuck in traffic, no baby bok choy today, running late, the dry cleaners ruined my blouse. A typical day in the life of a suburban mom.  Imagine  the soulful arias,  the grand gestures, and the collective children could be the chorus.  Solos, duets, sturm und drang.

Sometimes I wonder what I've been smoking, and then I realize nothing.  Just the clean, exurban air.   
We fed the cows to fortify them for the upcoming storm, and I fed the birds as well.  The cats have enjoyed 3-D entertainment with the birds on the deck, not three feet away.   The little sparrow that hangs around all the time was eating suet yesterday.  Omnivorous.  As are we. 

We're eating chicken cutlets in a sauce of lemon juice and capers.  Tomorrow, the snow storm menu is chili with sirloin and black beans.  I bought stone ground corn meal for the corn bread.  And fresh buttermilk.  My grandma always called "regular" milk "sweet milk," to distinguish it from buttermilk.  In New England, buttermilk is underappreciated.  Low-cal and tart, wonderful for baking and pancakes and  waffles. Drink more buttermilk.  Eat more possum.  Whatever. 

Me and an organ grinder in Berlin, summer, a few years back. 
The falling barometer must be making me weird.

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