Dem Bones

Friday, September 19, 2008

Mad for Donald Man

I’m in love with Mad Men. It’s my era, the age of nipped in waists, crinoline petticoats and Merry Widow waist-cinchers, and well, yes, rubber girdles that steamed up at the drive-in movies. These were actually pure rubber and they came packaged in long tubes of silver and (I think) pink. Getting out of them was akin to wrestling with a window shade that wouldn’t roll up properly. If you lost control, you could strangle in the thing.

Fashions aside, I don’t recall ever having sex in an office, though I too slaved as a secretary, accounts payable person, and switchboard operator. It wasn’t easy walking to work in high heels, pounding forward in the Missouri heat (ice in winter), up the concrete hill, dressed to kill. My job in accounts payable (for a major corporation specializing in baked goods), meant I often opened letters of complaint from persons who found a rat turd or a fingernail, or worse, in their particular slice of bread from the ovens of Patterson Bakeries. My switchboard job involved riding the bus from Detroit to the burbs of all-Polish Hamtramck, where I smiled sweetly for my car dealership boss at Shore Chevrolet. He personified jerkiness, though I never actually saw him having sex in the office, and he didn’t drink, at least not so you’d notice. In those dim days, I paid a babysitter 50 cents per hour to take care of my little girl. The sitter rode the bus in from the dismal bowels of distressed Detroit. Always on time, she never missed a day of sitting, and even dusted my small apartment window sills which were eternally black from the stuff Detroit belched forth. Later on, I lived in a bona-fide housing project where the trashy neighbors let their kid crap on my doorstep, and threatened to slit my throat if I objected. Believe me, I couldn’t make this stuff up.

My life back then, except for two shirt-waist dresses that I alternated wearing, wasn’t at all like the fashionable lives of the denizens of Mad Men.

Where the guys in this television fluff find enough energy to be constantly performing in the sack, and/or pouring endless streams of booze into crystal glasses, is beyond me. But I love the cast, one and all. The bitchy red-headed head-secretary, Peggy the Catholic mouse and her frumpy family, and all the others sashaying about in tight skirts and tighter sweaters. The retro sets are amazing, almost like I remember things, except for the over-the-top sex and what seems like a bunch of people forever sworn to drink till they drop.

In one recent segment, there was actual attention paid to ART, specifically a Mark Rothko painting hanging in the office of the aging boss, who is some kind of great actor. The Milwaukee Art Museum has a Rothko, just in case you don’t know what I’m talking about.

(0) Comments • (0) Trackbacks • Permalink

Monday, September 15, 2008

Run Dick Run

Jane: Run Dick Run.

Dick: I’m running.

Jane: It’s hot!

Dick: Arizona isn’t Alaska.

Jane: Look Dick Look! Naked people hiding in the sage brush!

Dick: Where?

Jane: Over there stupid.

Dick: No one important. Job seekers I guess.

Jane: Run Dick Run.

Dick: There’s a big line of soldiers up ahead.

Jane: Their arms & legs are missing.

Dick: Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Jane: Look Dick! A money tree. Let’s rest in the shade.

Dick: This is my very favorite tree. I come here a lot.

Jane: You do?

Dick: There’s Cheney on the top branch holding onto to Dubya.

Jane: Who are those two chaps approaching with an axe?

Dick: Woodchoppers. Look Jane! They’re chopping my tree down.

Jane: Run Dick run!

(0) Comments • (0) Trackbacks • Permalink

Friday, September 12, 2008

Shimmy like jelly on a plate

Last Saturday evening, September 5, I found myself in the ballroom of the Tripoli Shrine Temple at 3000 W. Wisconsin. It was my first visit to the 1928 structure built to resemble the Taj Mahal, and the parking lot was filling fast when I swung into the guarded space and walked through the south entrance to the wonders beyond. The blaze-orange ticket in my hand said “Jim Boz, Middle Eastern Dance Performance Showcase.” For those not in the know, Boz is a leading figure in the art of belly dancing, and he traveled here from San Diego to pump the evening’s lineup of participants.

In the lobby fronting the hall – a lobby dripping with intricate mosaics and entwined tiles – a bar was doing a brisk business near a splashing fountain lit with multi-colored lights. Local photographer John December was busy taking shots of spangled ladies descending the impressive staircase. Here and there, clumps of women arrayed in gauzy somethings drifted by. In the grand ballroom, multiple vendors hawking multiple items necessary for exhibitionism exotica, waited to sell humongous hookahs, glittering headpieces, wild skirts and tops, and well, whatever one needs to shimmy and shake like sister Kate.

On with the show. In three segments with three 15 minute intermissions, out came a diverse assortment of smiling dancers, ready to do their thing to the beat of canned music: students led by their teachers and brave dancers prepared to perform solo.

All except two were women. One of the two male dancers, Richard Gaeta, is a friend of my sister, and earlier in the evening we had cocktails and eats at the Arts & Crafts home he shares with his partner. Richard confided he was very nervous about the whole thing (and never ever does he eat prior to performing), though he needn’t have fretted as he did just fine during his dance with a woman and the one other male, a veritable snake of a man who has been taking lessons for only four months. I wasn’t able to get a good photograph as I was sitting at the back of the room along with several people who were recording the entire night for posterity. The cheering audience (estimated at several hundred) seemed to be made up of mostly cheering and clapping friends and relatives of the performers. I heard an elderly lady comment, “40 years ago, I took belly dancing lessons.” A woman in a wheelchair with two huge oxygen tanks strapped to the back, clapped and cheered like crazy too, as if she was about ready to leap onto the stage and fling a few.

Not all of the evening’s events were strictly mid-east in persuasion – for example, a lovely interpretative dancer gave her interpretation of “Amazing Grace,” dedicated sweetly to her mom and grandmother who were likely sitting upfront. Another performed with a genuine white snake draped around her body, giving rise to my fears that PETA types were lurking somewhere near the room’s draperies, waiting to pounce. From my perspective, the snake seemed contented.

And then came a moment of pure hilarity: a guy in a hardhat strutted on stage, flexed his beautiful body, and whipped up a “Macho Man” satire. Not one inch of his compact flesh was left loitering. He twitched, undulated and rippled, then tore off his break-away tee and ripped the night asunder by dancing in his lean jeans while venturing onto a runway dividing the sweating crowd. A chap sporting a mullet-do went wild at the sight of a guy who, on command, could twitch not just one pectoral, but two, to a syncopated beat.

I didn’t survive for the third segment on the performances … the one featuring Jim Boz. Two hours in and my aching knees saw no chance to get to the front of the bar line during intermission. I searched in vain for a bubbler and even considered the splashing fountain as a thirst quencher. A guy standing next to me was considering the same thing, but he remarked, “No way. Kids have been washing their hands in it.”

If I got anything out of the extravaganza, it’s this: ladies of plus size persuasion, ladies whose flesh is ample, are every bit as graceful as those with lean mean bellies. In fact, dare I say, the more the flesh, the merrier the shimmering shimmy? As for the two lone male dancers (make that three, because Macho Man was testosterone laden), they fit right in, flat chests and all.

(1) Comments • (0) Trackbacks • Permalink

Ups & Downs

Mary Louise Schumacher, the art critic for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, beat everyone to the punch with her announcement of Nick Frank’s appointment as the “permanent” curator of Inova. “Permanent” is a rather risky word to use in the world of art, but after serving for several years as Inova’s “interim” curator, at least it seems Frank is more or less settled in. Inova operates under the banner of UW-Milwaukee’s Peck School of the Arts, and certainly it is no big secret that monies to carry forward will depend on grants, and as Schumacher wrote in a Frank quote, the “cooperation of artists.” It’s hard to believe the Inova galleries won’t be swamped with a tsunami of artists wanting to exhibit in the almost-new space on Kenilworth. In fact, their “cooperation” will likely be overwhelming.

Schumacher recently asked in her online space, if the placement of the admission desk in Windhover Hall at MAM is, perhaps, inappropriate for the carefully designed Calatrava addition. Far worse to my mind are the cheesy banners in the hall, the brainchild of former executive director David Gordon, and you can add to that gripe the morphing of the east wing (formerly the space for displaying strong sculptures) to a place to sip strong coffee. The north end of the east wing, a messy entry point to the old museum, resembles a mall kiosk.

These are only a few of my unfavorite changes. Of course, it isn’t the job of the museum’s board to micro-manage all the clutter. They have enough to do with keeping the bottom-line stable. During a visit last week, I ran into artist Taffnie Bogart, who is currently employed as a security person at MAM. Her spouse, painter Bruce Dorrow, is recovering from a very serious viral inflammation of his heart, and Taffnie, ever the trouper, jumped in to help with medical bills.

The summer 08 Wings newsletter from the Milwaukee Public Museum has a list titled “Body Worlds by the Numbers,” including 20 tons of ice used for fountain drinks sold, 338,593 persons attending the extravaganza, and 200 light bulbs changed in the exhibit. From Tuesday, September 9 through Friday, September 12, the museum will be closed to the public for major cleaning and maintenance. Anyone grousing about the inoperable powwow turntable, will be happy to know a new turntable is being fabricated and will be up and running in the fall of 2009. The Forest County Potawatomi Community Foundation chipped in on the $260,000 project.

(0) Comments • (0) Trackbacks • Permalink

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Do Rags Make the Woman?

My first dance demanded a special dress…long, lavish, and designed to fit a movie star like Rita Hayworth. It was nowhere near Cindy McCain’s controversial pumped up pumpkin-colored princess ensemble she wore at the Republican convention. Ah no, the dress of my dreams cost nowhere near the estimated $300,000 Cindy frock, but in all fairness, her outfit included a Chanel watch, diamond earrings and real pearls. The result made her look like Glenda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz. What was she thinking?

As I write, I’m thinking about fashionistas of the political persuasion. I’ve lived long enough to view quite a few, including Bess Truman who looked like a frump, no matter what her spouse, Harry S. said she could spend. My favorite era was Ike’s reign when Mamie-of-the-short bangs was on his arm instead of his mistress. Mamie favored tiny snippets of tiny hats.

It’s odd isn’t it how specific items of clothing define life’s route? Now that Mad Men is on the tube, I can identify fully with the nipped-in waist and crinoline thing, though when I was in my late twenties, living in a suburban tri-level, I was given to aping Jackie-O, whose spending must have driven Jack mad. She of the dark eyes and languid limbs made fashion exciting enough that I rushed out and bought two sheath dresses (with matching pumps). Hidden in my bathroom drawer was a “fall,” i.e. fake hair meant to be worn with a wide headband. Jackie did it, so I did too. Dressing to kill extended to nights at the Milwaukee Symphony, where I sat regally in a box seat, gowned in a black and white ball gown with matching elbow-length white gloves. If she could do it, so could I.

Pat Nixon (usually out of sight), Betty Ford (a former dancer given to drink), and Ladybird Johnson weren’t exactly runway material, but they weren’t exactly frumps either. Nancy Reagan preferred chic Republican Red, and compared to Nancy, Laura Bush is positively saintly in sensible suits with cropped jackets and slim skirts. Rosalind Carter’s clothes never ever called attention to Rosalind per se, and compared to Cindy, Jimmy shelled out a fairly modest amount of peanuts for R’s rags.

Hillary’s traveling pants suits were (and are) reliably hilarious in their diverse hues, and certainly their dull styling sends a message that Hil isn’t given to letting her clothes wear her. Sarah Palin passes muster (barely), even in her moose-hunting ensemble and 70s rock ‘n roll hair. Michele Obama? I recently read that one of her outfits tallied in at over a grand. That said, a simple frock she wore during the run-up was designed by a graduate of Mount Mary College here in Beer Town.

Perhaps all female candidates (wives or otherwise), should appear gowned in sackcloth, a crown of thorns on their heads, for who knows when a cub reporter wearing a Target special will leap from the bushes and report each and every fashion detail? It’s hard to feel anything for Cindy McCain, but yes, I admit, I do feel a tad sorry for any woman whose bones are picked over and thrown to the masses.

Bling or no bling, it must be hell being in the political spotlight. By way of comparison, I’ve included an image of my Grandparents. Standing outside of their home somewhere in South Dakota, they’re not entirely oblivious to fashion. Check out grandma’s beaver coat and her shoes embellished with buttons. Those shoes and that hat are in style in 2008.

(0) Comments • (0) Trackbacks • Permalink