It's been almost a week, though it seems like much longer, since Malaysian flight #370, a massive 777 jetliner traveling from Malaysia to China and carrying 239 passengers, disappeared.
Just disappeared. Vanished. A frightening scenario out of "The Twilight Zone" or a Steven King novella, but not something that happens in the real world. Except that it did happen. This planet sometimes seems like an unsettled neighborhood where at all times there's always at least one tenant who's causing trouble, mixing it up and keeping the rest of us from getting along with each other. And yet when tragedy hits somewhere in the world we all feel it on some level or another, we connect, our hearts go out, we're anxious for the fates of the victims, we'll help in any way we can. All this is true in the case of the missing plane. But it's so strange, isn't it? Such a mystery, so few sound details that there's little to talk about among ourselves, little to discuss or conjecture over, litte except to keep asking each other and ourselves, "What could have happened to that plane?" For a while reports of elusive plane pings, radar blips, silent electronic communications, random bits and pieces that may or may not mean something continuing on for hours, offered a straw of hope: maybe the plane had somehow landed somewhere; maybe there were people still alive, safe. There were two passengers with fake passports on board. The plane's transponder, which sends signals identifying the plane's location, may have been intentionally shut down. But the two passengers could have merely been trying to gain asylum in Europe and an electrical malfunction could have caused the transponder to fail. But over the days evidence accumulated pointing to likelihood that early in the flight the plane turned around and flew out over the Indian Ocean in the opposite direction of its flight path; Why? Still a mystery. As of last night there was little hope that the plane could be anywhere but at the bottom of the sea. And yet the news has just broken: there's a thread of possibility that the plane could have landed on some remote island in the Indian Ocean. So we still wait. And hope. I do sometimes imagine some future cyber-historian sifting through the infinite archives of the cyber-universe and by chance coming across this blog. I imagine him or her studying the photos and deciphering my writing and translating the words into whatever language English will have evolved into and perhaps adding his or her findings to the body of information on life on earth in the second decade of the 21st century. And at this moment I'm wondering if, when my archivist reads over the post for today, March 14, 2014, he or she will nod and think, Oh, yes, the mystery that of missing jet liner. Amazing how that turned out.
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At the end of each piano lesson I teach it's my habit to ask the student if he or she has any questions; meaning, of course, questions about his or her piece or practice assignment.
But I finally stopped asking my very young students if they had any questions because they invariably took the broadest interpretation, asking me things like "How old are you?" followed by "How many children do you have?" then "How old are your children " and "What are their names?" Because with children one question generally leads to another. I did occasionally get a more unique question such as, "Do you ever get tired of talking?" or "How tall is the tallest person in the world?" I believe the most memorable question I've ever been asked ( by a very intelligent 6-year-old) was, "If they took all the blood out of your veins would your veins be clear?" Like I said, I no longer ask my younger students if they have any questions. But sometimes they ask me anyway, as one did the a couple weeks ago: "When do you eat?" my student asked me. Now I must admit, that was actually a good question. Because, after all, I'm a traveling in-home piano teacher, so I'm generally on the go from mid-afternoon sometimes until 9:00pm or later. "Oh, I eat along the way," I answered truthfully enough. "What do you eat?" At this point I almost lied, not the least reason being that the child''s mother was right there listening to our conversation. But then it's always been my belief that children's questions are a reflection of their trust in adults and therefore should be answered truthfully. "Combos and Diet Coke," I admitted. "In my car between lessons. But you shouldn't eat that stuff," I quickly added, shooting the mother an apologetic look. "What are Combos?" I described the little cheese-filled pretzel tubes, then my student turned to their mother and asked, "Mom, have I ever had Combos?" It turned out that the child hadn't. Neither had the mother. I wasn't surprised. They're a family of healthy eaters with a healthy lifestyle. So despite my professed prediliction for truth-telling, I now felt guilty that I, as a teacher and role model, might have given this child a bad example and introduced them to something that their mother might not have wanted them introduced to. But on the other hand, I rationalized, this might be a teachable moment for the mother to talk to her child about healthy eating and the fact that even piano teachers aren't perfect. Of course, the most likely outcome was that I over-think everything and that neither my student nor their mother would give another thought to what I eat. However... The following week my student greeted me with another question. "Guess what?" the child asked. "What?" I asked. "I had Combos!" I quickly changed the subject back to the piano lesson. My daughter's marriage is coming up and I still have to figure out some footwear. Something I'll have to wear all day long, dance in all night long, and be so comfortable in that my happiness will not be in the least diminished by how my feet are feeling. In other words, I want to wear sneakers. So why not dress sneakers? For women? And men? In fact why don't we start a huge social revolution and throw out our whole perception of footwear so that everybody can wear sneakers all the time? Sneakers for every occasion? Can you imagine how much better life would be if our feet felt good all the time? Though it doesn't seem that men have quite the shoe issues that women have and so maybe don't have the quite the need. I've always felt that men were more fortunate than women when it came to footwear. I mean, when a man is dressed in a power suit he stands on solid shoes with firm support. When a woman is dressed in a power suit she teeters on high heels that kill her toes and restrict her movement. So how powerful can you be when your feet are bound? Because when you think about the function and purpose, aren't high heels just a more evolved form of foot-binding? But don't get me started. Too late, I'm already started! What I'm saying is, whatever a guy wears, there are comfortable, sensible shoes to go with his outfit. Whatever a woman wears, there are cute shoes to go with her outfit. Don't get me wrong, I love cute shoes. On somebody else. I'd wear them myself if I could find a pair that feel as good as my Asics. Whenever I compliment a gal on her cute shoes I always ask if they're comfortable. Usually she will reply "not really." Or "Not too bad." Or "Tolerable". Which means they're really not. But they are cute, right? So it just seems to me that we have to invent a new, comfortable version - and vision - of cute. And elegant. Have any of you seen the movie "The Painted Veil"? (If you haven't, you should, it's one of the best movies ever). Anyway, I seem to remember that in that movie, set in the 1920's, in several scenes Naomi Watts wore some really cute lace-up shoes - remember those brown and white traveling shoes that she tapped in that mud puddle while reminiscing times gone by? Those were some cute shoes that, it seems to me could be reconstituted into sneaker form. In fact, for a very brief stint in the 1990's a sort of high-heeled sneaker was on the shoe racks. In 1995 one of my daughters for her sophmore year homecoming dance wore a pair of high-heeled sneakers in beige canvass with a chunk heel and pink ankle socks, which matched her pink dress (which she bought at the thrift store). Her shoes looked adorable and were so comfy for a change! I do wish I still had the photo taken at the dance which showed her whole ensemble, pink dress, pink socks, chunky shoes and all. I also used to have a photo taken before that dance of her in her pink thrift store dress standing with a couple of guys. I believe one of the gentlemen in that picture was my daughter's date, but I can't remember which one. Maybe they both were. Maybe neither was. I don't know. You know how nowadays the kids tend to go to their school dances in a bunch rather than with a date. As did another of my daughters one time. And then there was yet another of my daughters who went to her junior prom with her "Twinkie" (as she referred to her best friend, since they were close as two Twinkies in a wrapper). My daughter and her friend went to the prom dressed as fairies. My daughter's friend wore the same pink thrift-store dress worn by her sister but unfortunately without the high-heeled sneakers and pink socks. I do believe the current practice of going to school dances with a friend or friends of either gender or in a group or even going alone and meeting up when you get there is hundreds of percents better than the practice of my day, when you needed a date to go to the dance. Hundreds of percents better! Though I must say that back when I was kicking around in the mid-to-late 1960's women's dress shoeware was better: the style had temporarily shifted from pointed-toe spiked heel to round-toe chunk heel, even for formal wear, but that era of shoe history has, sadly, come and gone.
But anyway, we are now well into the 21st century and designing a woman's formal sneaker must be within the realm of possibility for some forward-thinking shoe artist. It should be a no-brainer, right? I mean, think black, sequins, sparkles, bling galore, there's got to be a way! And how hard should it be to design a men's formal sneaker? Black velour top over a black sole. Nothing to it. So then, shoe designers of the world, my daughter's wedding is in May, so you'd better get crackin' or I'm going to have to come up with something myself, which I just may. Who's with me in the sneaker revolution?! In this house we love our party left-overs. For us eating the left-overs is its own celebration.
There's even been some debate over which is better, the initial party food or the left-overs. As my daughter Claire once pointed out, when you're eating left-overs you're feeling relieved and stress-free, which is not especially the case when you're putting food in your mouth while up to your elbows in the event you're hosting. Because in truth you can't really relax until the party's over; only then can you bask in the good time that was had by all and really enjoy the food yourself. That's why having left-overs is so important, but there are other reasons: 1. Having plenty of left-overs at the end of the party means you can invite your guests to fill up a plate to take home, an extension of your hospitality and a message to your guests that they are so welcome that you'd like to give them a little extra. 2. After the last guest has left and you're faced with the inevitably gargantuan task of cleaning up, munching on left-overs while you buzz about helps the clean-up go down. (As Mary Poppins would understand). 3. Having left-overs preserves a bit of the party atmosphere for a day or two longer, though if you have more than can be consumed in that time line you can freeze the overage for some classy provisions at a later date. (Note: this works provided you are careful to prepare freeezable party food initially). 4. Having left-overs is an excuse for the kids or friends to stop by the next day for some left-overs. 5. After cooking yourself silly the days before the party you can now get away without cooking for a day or two. Of course, party left-overs are only as good as the food you start with, so to-die-for left-overs must start with to-die-for party food. In other words, you cannot reap wonderful left-overs from a ho-hum menu, or one that yields left-overs that seriously aren't worth the trouble of saving. Which is the real reason why whenever there's a feast to be thrown I always shoot for the stars so that we can look forward to those heavenly left-overs! The left-overs post-game round-up from Claire's shower: veggie stromboli - made 5. Sufficient* left-overs veggie egg rolls - made 30. Sufficient left-overs tomato, olive oil and garlic pasta - made 2 lb. Sufficient left-overs stuffed mushrooms - made 122. Meager left-overs cheese mashed potatoes - made 20 servings. No left-overs. green beans almondine - 8 cans. Meager left-overs salad - 16 ounces of of mixed greens. Sufficient left-overs guacamole dip - One recipe. No left-overs. veggies & dip - 1 basketful. Sufficient left-overs rosette cupcakes - About 75. Sufficient left-overs. cream-filled chocolate cupcakes - About 75. Sufficient left-overs. apple pie & ice cream - Made 2 pies. Finished 1. Sent the other to back to Chicago for Miguel, so no left-overs. berry trifle - Made 2. Finished 1, so sufficient left-overs.** * "Sufficient" indicates enough to last for a day or two past the party, possibly with extra to freeze. In this case the only left-overs to freeze were about 20 un-iced mini-cupcakes. **By last night (Monday night) the second berry trifle and almost everything else was history. On Saturday the last shower guests left at 9:00 pm, so the left-overs were being frequently re-visited even on the day of the event. Theresa and Claire stayed until Sunday night and Monday morning respectively, and Tommy and Randy came over Sunday night for (what else?) left-overs, so there was much post-shower noshing going on over the weekend. Yesterday for lunch and dinner Tom and I polished off almost everything that was left. All that's left now are a couple egg rolls, a little salad, a little bit of pasta and the memory of a good party and some great left-overs. Tomorrow, Saturday, at 1:00 pm is my daughter Claire's wedding shower. It's going to be at our house, there will be 17 ladies, and I'm doing all the cooking - what's left to do, that is; much of the feast is already prepared and chillin' in my freezer. But there's still a ton of preparation to do starting today, and from this moment on anybody who sets foot into this house is going to be lassoed into the work crew. Claire will fly in from Chicago this morning and Theresa will arrive from Cincinnati tonight, as will Katie, Claire's friend from Chicago who'll be spending the weekend with us. Tommy's out of town for the weekend and sadly, Maria can't make it in from Los Angeles. But my nephew Randy is coming over tonight to ice cupcakes. Also tonight Theresa will make the guacamole dip (her specialty) and Tom will do the cleaning and I plan to be all tied up (hopefully not in knots!) trying to reproduce a center piece I saw on the cover of a magazine. A few other various and sundry jobs will be passed around tonight, but by tomorrow morning, when every one will be up and at 'em including my friend Marianne who's coming over early to help and join in the pre-festivity festivites, the place will be in full-tilt-boogie, rockin' and rollin' like a bee-hive on steroids. So while there will be many worker bees buzzing around before our guests arrive, I'll be the one choreographing the activity and making sure the preparations run smoothly and on target time. But in truth the key to the success of the whole endeavor will be not myself but the several master lists I've drawn up. My lists are at the heart of the operation. My lists will run the show. Now I'll be the first to admit that I am by nature an anxious, disorganized person. But give me a list and in a flash the alphabet soup sloshing around inside my brain morphs into a high-functioning, super-efficient IT data processing multi-plex. I need a list to accomplish those tasks required of me on a daily basis. Without one in front of me each morning I can't get past the kitchen table. I usually make up my list the night before for the next day. Having a list empowers me, but there's more to it. I love lists. I love setting 'em up then knocking 'em off, item by item. Checking things off a shopping or "to-do" list is supremely satisfying. And calming. For me a list gets things done. "Got your list?" Tom's always asking me. Of course a big bash such as this wedding shower requires several lists and they will be constantly evolving entities over a span of weeks: first comes the menu, then numerous shopping lists as I buy and prepare much of the food in advance. The week of the event I start making my preparation lists of who's doing what when, one list for the day or days before the feast, one for the day of. The "day of" list is most crucial. But I've got it! I've got them all! And here they are in all their glory: 1. Claire’s shower menu veggie stromboli veggie egg rolls pasta in tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil stuffed mushrooms mashed potato casserole green beans almandine spring salad with pecans, granny smith apples and balsamic viaigrette guacamole dip & chips veggies & dip rosette mini-cupcakes cream-filled chocolate mini-cupcakes apple pie & ice cream berry trifle 2. Friday Clean - Tom Bake cupcakes -me Make cake for trifle - me Set up - me Make center piece – me Ice chocolate cupcakes – Randy, Claire, Theresa Guacamole dip– Theresa Cut salad - TBA Cut veggies - TBA Make pudding for trifle - TBA Mix cream cheese & cool whip for trifle - TBA Put together potato casserole - me 3. Saturday 6:30: defrost everything except mushrooms - me Put pop on ice - TBA 9:45: Make trifle - me 10:00: Ice rosette cupcakes – me & Marianne Salad: Marianne Veggies: Marianne Heat up pasta sauce - TBA 10:20-11:20: Mushrooms & potatoes: 400 degrees - me 11:00: Pasta - me 11:20-11:40: Egg rolls: 400 degrees, 20 minutes - TBA 12:00: chips, salt, pepper, sweet & sour sauce, mustard - TBA 11:45-12:45: Stromboli - me 12:30: Water, lemonade, ice tea, coffee, tea bags sugar, lemon, milk in small pitcher in refrigerator - TBA Everyone have a great weekend! 8) My practice rosette cupcakes One of my adult attempts at making a dress for my daughter's Barbie. At 13 I was still playing Barbies. Oh, I had other interests, too: Girl Scouts, Beatles, of course (big time!), and joining in pick-up games of soft ball at the playground or the not-yet-occupied section of the cemetery around the corner, touch foot-ball in my back yard, or half-court basketball in anybody's driveway that had a basketball hoop. Growing up in northeast Philadelphia we were city kids, hither and yon all day long at some occupation or other.
But here's the thing: I wasn't very good at team sports. Not that I didn't like running around with everybody else, but I was on the timid side and just could never seem to work up any real passion about winning or losing. And there was one awesome basketball player in our 'hood who systematically hurt my tender feelings by her high-handed attitude regarding my lack of prowess on the driveway. (I recall this same girl one day yelling at my friend Michelle during a game. "Dribble, Michelle, dribble!" she yelled. Wonderful Michelle stopped where she was, let go of the ball, and started dribbling [spit!] on the spot!). Ah, but at games of Barbie we shone, Michelle and I, along with a few others in our little Barbie coalition: Michelle's sister Mimi, our friend Judy, and occasionally a pretty friend of Judy's whose name I don't recall (forgive me, Judy's pretty friend!). Of course, playing Barbies at 13 was a more advanced variation of the 8-year-old's version. We were more into the clothes than anything, I think. One of our mothers made the auspicious discovery of a local woman who sewed Barbie dresses. Fifty cents for a short dress or a dollar for a long gown. We of the Barbie crowd believed we'd discovered a gold mine! The dresses were all of the same style and cut: bodice and shoulder straps, full puffy skirt at the waist, snaps at the back. But the dresses fit our Barbies' svelt forms perfectly, and what beautiful materials this lady used on her miniature creations! I remember that for my 13th birthday someone (probably Michelle) gave me one of these dresses, a ball gown in pink lace that was just too lovely for words. So we dressed our Barbies and, budding seamstresses that we all were back in the days when girls still sewed (I know, many still do), sometimes we sat around sewing our own primitive little Barbie doll outfits: a wide circle of material with a hole in the center and a snap made do for a skirt and a long rectangle folded in half with a neck hole cut across the fold and indentations cut along the sides then sewn up made a respectable blouse. Then there were the matching scarves, shawls, sashes and belts that we could all manage to produce, sitting and chatting away the time in our little doll sewing circles. I seems to me that by the time I'd reached 12 or so we seldom actually got around to playing with our dolls anymore, but what we more tended to do was dress up and set up the dolls, then together make up characters and story lines with dialogue, as in: "Let's say this is Karlene. Let's say she's just had a big fight with her best friend, Joanne, and really wants to get back together but Joanne won't talk to her, so..." etc, etc, etc. We'd decide upon our plot, pass some dialogue back and forth, then when the story was resolved to our satisfaction we'd put our dolls away. I remember once getting caught by Judy trying to pass off a story line I'd seen the night before on the Patti Duke show on TV. Judy had seen the show, too, but we all thought it was basically a good story so we tweaked the dialogue a little then went with it. A word about Barbie's other half, the Ken doll: you know, I don't remember any of us having much interest in Ken. We all had several Barbies and maybe one Ken doll apiece if that, but he more or less sat on the sidelines, one Ken doll in a harem of Barbies. We took even less interest in Barbie's "little sister", a doll named Skipper. It was Barbie who ruled the game. So go figure this: for all the hours I spent playing Barbies during my formative years, I've always hated getting dressed up myself. Never could be bothered with it. But I do still love making up characters and writing dialogue. Legos hasn't been the only toy getting some media shout-out these days.
There was Barbie last week on the cover of this year's Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, and the Mattel Company has thrown down the gauntlet and declared itself "unapologetic". Now, I'm not sure exactly what Mattel is unapologetic for: the fact that they've allowed one of their products to be used on a racy magazine cover or the product's existence in the first place. Speaking strictly for me, I think they actually should apologize for putting Barbie on the cover of Sports Illustrated in her bathing suit. But certainly not for having invented her. Because I love Barbie dolls. I always have. My first sighting of a Barbie was in a black-and-white TV commercial 55 years ago: I remember so clearly the sweet female voice describing the doll with her outfits, sunglasses and tiny wedge sandals while the camera zoomed in on the details. It was love at first sight for me, and from that moment it became my heart's constant desire to have a Barbie doll. I remember lying in bed at night thinking about Barbie and her tiny wedge sandals. I couldn't wait until my 8th birthday to arrive, and ultimately I didn't have to; so Barbie-centric had my life become that my mother folded and took me out to buy my birthday Barbie well in advance of the day just to give us all a little peace. Nor, apparently, was I the only little girl swooning for a Barbie; I may have been the first on my block to acquire one, but very soon we all had our dolls and our outfits and were busily at work playing Barbies. Facial features and physical proportionality aside, the beauty of the Barbie doll as a plaything was that each one was built exactly the same and wore the same size outfits; therefore these dolls became a means of social connection and communication among little girls, a shared culture and language. "Come over to my house and bring your Barbies," we said, offering and accepting from each other invitations that were the bonds of established friendships, as well as try-outs for potential new friendships. We shared each others' outfits and engaged in what is now labeled as cooperative play. Or sometimes, of course uncooperative play. I remember even at 8 years old developing a liking or disliking for a girl based on how she played Barbies. And then some girls were just more fun to play Barbies with than others. As for the theory that Barbie's looks and unrealistic body build promotes poor self or body image in girls*...you know, among us little girls that statement would have made no sense, and even if it had it still would not have computed in our young brains. I'm not saying that the seeds of low body esteem can't be planted in anyone from day one; I'm just saying that they weren't being planted in us by playing with our Barbies. Because our Barbies belonged to us, not we to them; they were our toys, our possessions, things of artistic beauty in our little hands, the prettier the better. Subsequently our Barbies became our creations: we dressed them as we pleased, we made up scenarios for them to act out, gave them thoughts, gave them dialogue, breathed life into them. Therefore our Barbie dolls functioned as any good toy should, by engaging our minds, hands, and imaginations. Nor can one compare the function of a Barbie doll to that of a baby doll. Baby doll play was more specialized: with our baby dolls we played the role of a mother caring for a child. With our Barbies we created grown-up (or our idea of grown-up) rolls for the dolls to play. Of course I realize that not every little girl likes playing Barbies. One of my daughters, Theresa, had absolutely no use whatsoever for Barbies, and I imagine the women who object to their daughters playing with Barbies were, as children, of the same persuasion as my Theresa. Which is fine. Lots of other toys on the planet, right? But me, I loved my Barbies. Tomorrow I'll continue on this subject with an exegesis on the role of Barbies in my middle-school journey. *Interestingly, I've never heard the same concern for the psyches of boys who play with those ripped, big -muscled plastic action figures. Everybody loves it. I thought I'd love it, too. I wanted to love it. I tried to love it.
So why did I not love the Lego Movie? I couldn't figure it out. I sat there amidst a theater audience full of little kids and grown-ups all equally immersed in glee while I waited for the magic to start. And I waited. And I waited. In truth I was bored. For anyone who hasn't yet seen the Lego Movie and is planning to, here might be a good time to stop reading, as I may be stepping into spoiler territory. But then, as those of you who've seen the movie know, the story took a sudden turn and my attention piqued. Ah, now this is interesting, thought I. But ultimately it was too little too late for me, and what I thought might have been a thought-provoking story centered around Legos was never developed, but rather just used as a quick contrived gimmick to wrap the thing up. Which didn't seem to lessen anyone else's enjoyment of the film. Now, I can understand the kids loving this movie. I mean, it was a kids' movie, right? Lots of colors, lots of toys, simplistic dialogue and plot line. But why, I asked myself, were adults swooning over it? Or, more precisely, why was I not swooning over it? Then, on the way out of the theater, it hit me: I could make no emotional connection to the Lego Movie because I had no emotional connection to Legos. But the others did. I heard it on the way out of the theater: kids chattering excitedly about which of the Legos sets used in the movie they owned, which sets they now wanted to acquire, and how, as one little girl exclaimed, "This movie makes me want to start playing with my Legos!" Which had to be music to her mother's ears. Because, the truth is, American parents love Legos. They buy the sets by the truckload for their children because Legos are, I don't know, probably educational, mind-engaging, creative, sturdy, good for small motor development, and probably a whole lot more. And they're 'way expensive. Which is why my children never had Legos. I never bought them any. Oh, I intended to. I was one of these mothers who took a holistic view of my children's education: what they learned in school I believed, was only part of it, and not always the most important part. So of course I intended for them to have Legos. Until I went to the store to buy some and saw the price. Truly, I was blown away! One insignificant little set with more doo-dads than building blocks was up over ten dollars - and that was well over twenty-five years ago. To acquire any meaningful quantity of Legos would have cost close to $100! And so I never bought any Legos. My kids had to play with generic, non-charismatic building materials. The end result being that as I watched the Lego Movie I experienced no positive association or transferrence with what I was seeing on the screen. There was no nostalgia, no remembrance of things past or connection to things presents blossoming in my brain. So, unlike my fellow audience members, I saw not a witty, engaging film. Just a very effective advertisement for Legos.
Back in 1977 Tom and I were living in Louisville, Kentucky while Tom worked on his master's degree at the University of Louisville.
There was a bar in a seamy section of the city (which happened to be where we were living at the time) that we used to pass all the time that had a sign in the window that read, "No Colors". We were pretty appalled the first time we saw it and shocked that even a low-down-places bar in Louisville, Kentucky could get away with such a sign. Back then there was some racial tension going on in Louisville as children were being bused to schools across town to promote racial integration. We figured the author of the "No Colors" sign must have been a cousin of the owner of the little discount store in our neighborhood who had a "No Froced Bussing" sign in his window. But "No Colors" was worse, even though we couldn't figure out why any person of any skin shade would want to set foot in such a seedy-looking place. We also wondered who exactly the sign was meant for: just African Americans, or would our friends, Tom's fellow graduate students, two young Iranian men named Meerdad and Atal, be foribdden entrance, too? At that time at the University of Louisville there were a number of Middle Eastern students and, sadly, they sometimes felt the sting of cultural prejudice mixed with racial over-tones. Anyway, as Mehrdad and Atal came over to our house once in a while for dinner or to hang out we always hoped they didn't notice the sign in our neighborhood bar. Then one day there was an article in the Louisville Courier-Journal about the "No Colors" bar. A white reporter had seen the sign in the bar and decided to do an investigative story on it. So one evening he went into the bar with a black colleague. No head turned as the two men entered the bar and took a seat at the most conspicuous table in the room. A friendly waitress came over and took their orders. They shot a round of pool. No reaction from anyone. Finally the reporter asked the waitress about the "No Colors" sign in the window. "Oh, that?" she asked. Then she explained that on the weekends they had a lot of motorcyclists passing through, and when they came into the bar flashing their gang colors, well, that's when the fights started. So to keep peace among the biker gangs the boss made the "No Colors" rule. Which I guess only goes to show, you can't judge a bar by its no colors. 8) |
"Tropical Depression"
by Patti Liszkay Buy it on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTPN7NYY "Equal And Opposite Reactions"
by Patti Liszkay Buy it on Amazon: http://amzn.to/2xvcgRa or from The Book Loft of German Village, Columbus, Ohio Or check it out at the Columbus Metropolitan Library
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