Dimpled Chads 2000, Carols for a Cure 2009 & Peace on Earth…Today

I wasn’t too familiar with “dimpled chads” until I sang about them — to the tune of “Silver Bells” — one Christmas season with comedian, Barry Mitchell on an ABC late-night news show.

That’s where I met my friend, Lynn Pinto, producer of Broadway’s Carols for a Cure. She was the other backup singer hired to sing this particular political/holiday/election parody.

Lynn’s not only a producer, but, a talented musician and her 2009 Broadway’s Carols for a Cure can be purchased on the Broadway Cares website.  (She’s produced eleven editions of Carols for a Cure now along with the same organization.)

When we caught up this week, we spoke mostly about music, our children, our faith, and how life sometimes keeps certain doors shut — for the purpose of protecting us — from the things we think we really need.

Walking by faith is difficult — but it’s the only road to true peace.

But, for a caffeine-induced moment, let’s go back to the dimpled chads of 2000 or more precisely, the Christmas of 2000…

With eyes set upon the birth of the Christ child during the Holiday season, my eyes — and most others — were set on flakes of dimpled chads falling like snow somewhere in the suburbs of south Florida.

Who would be the next President? Who would lead our country?

I obsessed that Christmas season over the next leader with questions like “Who is right?’ “Which party knows best?” “Which party will lead us to…goodness?  ”to… peace?”

I’ve concluded neither.

I’ve grown tired of words like “Read my lips, no new taxes; “I didn’t have relations with Monica Lewinski” and “Saddam has weapons of mass destruction.”  I’ve simply concluded that I personally, peacefully, and humbly serve another king.

A King who did not come with the anticipated military might that the Pharisees had expected or a King who did not bring with him the power or strength of excessive wealth or stock options; but instead, a King who broke through eternity into time itself in the form of a baby. Born in rejection (There is no room at the Inn) and shown to a barn (with an animal’s feeding trough for a crib). A child born in poverty; rejected then. Rejected still.

But in this child, the meek and poor understood that this was not only their true king – But the Creator of the universe itself.

So this year as silver bells ring, I’ll set my eyes and hope on the New Born King.  Peaceful, Chadless and Hopeful.

Peace.

The 2009 Carols for a Cure CD contains an amazing version of the Bing Crosby/David Bowie song“Peace On Earth” sung by the cast of The Lion King — with a South African drum arrangement.  Also, the entire cast of West Side Story performs a traditional carol that — fits like a mitten — into the show itself.

Lynn, Mary, and Barry sing of holiday chads

Sha-La-La & Deck the Halls!

Some years ago (she clears her throat) — many years ago — I played bass guitar and keyboards for a few rock bands; two simultaneously.  One was The Chris Stamey Group and the other, Venus-2.

Simply put, Venus-2 was a girl-group who dressed up like galactic princesses from Venus with teased hair and eyeliner up the wing-wang.   Feeling like rock-n-roll-Judy Jetsons, we deemed ourselves Venus- 2.  ”Venus” for the music goddesses we proclaimed to be and “2” in that there were two of us.  (Talented AND mathematical!)

Cathy Harrington (one of the best keyboard players ever) and I (of marginal talent) would use our little, graceful, sparkly-polished fingers to play five keyboards — all at once –at clubs around New York City and the East coast.  We’d play our keys while donning shimmering veils over corsets and spandex pants, (Corsets?  Spandex?  Is this blogger really a Christian writer? Yes! and Amen!) singing catchy lyrics like “Big Boys Make Promises” (note to myself:  send copy of song to Congress, White House, Long Island Receiver of Taxes…)

We rocked.

During the same period, we added our chops (Is that word still in use?) and voices to a Christmas album called Christmas Time (a Chris Stamey project) on which Cathy wrote and sang an updated Deck the Halls song which she entitled Sha-La-La.  It’s a great rendition of the traditional Deck the Halls song with a Mary Weiss/Ronettes/B-52/Space-princess-from-Venus type of sound.

Feeling somewhat merry this week, I figured I’d post the song on my blog roll.  Enjoy!

By the way, that’s Cathy in the photo above with the white muff (a staple for any person of galactic royalty) and me with the cheesy Christmas garland sweater.

So click on Sha-La-La on the right.  The song starts around 1:10:00 on the timeline.

As a side note, Cathy now plays with an Asbury Park band called Living Proof.  If you like Bruce Spingsteen, you will love this band. I’ve heard them on youtube and they are extremely good and worth seeing if you’re in the New Jersey area.

On another note, the entire Christmas Time CD by Chris Stamey’s group and the dBs is an interesting and fun addition to one’s Christmas CD collection.

Girls with attitude: Venus-2

The Real Christmas Rush

While shopping for Christmas cards, I walked out of CVS empty-handed as I could not pick a fitting sentiment and frankly, I was in a rush.  I sensed the same feeling of impatience amongst the other shoppers.  So,  I’m thinking a suitable card for 2009 might read as follows:

Return e-mails

Check voicemail

Google some irrelevant article

Attend some bogus meeting…

And between it all,

we beg God to give us some purpose

We plead “Let me know You”

We pray “Please have presence in our lives”

And as we wrap another Christmas present,

as we answer the phone,

as we check the Drudge Report for the latest on Tiger,

God shows up in the middle of the day

And all we can say is…

“Sorry, but…there is no room at the Inn.”

May Christ’s love and wonderful peace be present in our lives today and throughout this Christmas Season!

Tradition and The Broken Arrow Band

Thanksgiving sometimes feels a bit lacking — in a non-tangible way — for this household.

What’s missing each Thanksgiving?  The “tradition” of  seeing Broken Arrow play at The Brokerage.

But I think it’s time for a change…time, time, time…

What is she talking about?  Has she had one too many Emeril’s bold K-cups?  Well, probably, but not completely.

My husband, Mark, and his friends, Joey and Hanky Perez and Stephen Murphy had a great rock band called Broken Arrow.  The Broken Arrow Band would play around New York in the 80s and 90s.  When I say they were great, I mean, they were great.  But greatness sometimes is found in unassuming places, yes?  In the past, greatness was found in the trumpet of a Harlem jazz club or in the stroke of a paintbrush in Arles France, and yes, sometimes it was very much found in Bellmore, Long Island.

So, if you actually know what I’m talking about, come!  We’ll see you at Mangiamos, 15 New Street, Huntington, New York on Friday, December 4th, 2009.  Come and appreciate some good art.  They go on at 9:30 P.M.

Broken Arrow Band (for Friday, December 4th, 2009) will come in the following shape and size:

Mark Phillips, guitar

Joey Perez, bass and vocals

Vinnie Perez & Alfred Canonico, drums

Stephen Murphy, guitar and vocals

Leo Rizzo, vocals and keys

Guest appearances by:  Paul Ammendola, Danny Langdon, Mary the caffeine addict…

God bless Hank Perez and us all.

Thanksgiving Reflections

In 1608 a group of religious seekers we now know as the Pilgrims left behind the “Rome-ish” persecutions and economic distress of England for freedom to worship as they wished.  It was around the time of the Reformation and they felt, just felt, God was not a possession solely owned by The Church of England.  What a notion.

Seeking a safer, “purer” environment, they ended up in Holland only to be stuck between a rock and a hard place.  For here was materialism, worldliness, and ungodliness.  They wanted out    (Not that I can blame them; try living in New York.)  But they wanting out in a big way and booked the Mayflower pronto.  (I do have to say the Bible verse regarding being “in the world, but not of the world” might have been of some benefit to them here…but what do I know.)

So, on they went, to create their own community, land, or kingdom.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  It requires only to be with your family, eat a delicious meal (or decent meal, if I’m cooking); kids are off from school and there’s just something extremely comforting about left-over-turkey sandwiches.

The story of Thanksgiving gets a bit complex, which doesn’t surprise me — in that  – life is complex.  Just getting a few people to sit down together to share a meal can be near impossible.  You need to look no further than our own government to prove that point:  two parties — with philosophies not nearly as opposing as the Pilgrims and the Wampanoags — unable to break bread together without the turkey carving-knife ending up in someone’s back.

The “so called” first Thanksgiving was celebrated in 1621.  It was a celebration to commemorate the plentiful harvest reaped by the Plymouth Colony.  It had been a particular harsh winter and yes, we all know how difficult life can be, but to be thankful that most of your family members made it through winter alive, sets a different tone of grace than the one in which I live.

I’m thankful when things go my way, my bills are paid, and my peppermint latte is extra foamy, so, I appreciate the genuine grace in which both Native Americans and Pilgrims gave thanks that day.

I’m also slightly embarrassed by the abundant harvest I reap and pervert each day of my life; the clothes on my back were not made by my pilgrim hands; the food I eat was not hunted or grown with any sweat of my own.  I buy…I eat.

The discrepancies of whether the first Thanksgiving was Governor William Bradford’s special mark on the calendar in 1621 or George Washington’s colonial mark in 1777, or Abraham Lincoln’s Thanksgiving Proclamation doesn’t interest me much.  Fighting over who was thankful first is like wrestling over whether or not to break bread with another non-perfect person.

So this November, I am thankful for my life, my family, my home and the Thanksgiving meal on the table.  I am thankful to God who knows my heart and thankful that He alone will judge me and allow me to one day sit down at His table.  I am thankful for the day, for the air, for food, for each other.

Mary C. M. Phillips

Food for Thought:

I dreamed I was in the desert

without any love

Stone gray clouds

Hovering above

Silence all around me

I was wondering alone

And I realized there is nothing

anyone can really own

-  Leigh Nash

Happy Thanksgiving to All My Friends

What are you thankful for?

****

Dirt and Water

I go to a church in my neighborhood.  It’s a charismatic church; filled with artsy, quirky people, so I fit right in.

The first time I took my son to Sunday school, he was about three.  I sat on a tiny red chair and watched a women teach about Jesus healing the blind man.  She was holding a naked baby doll and had two bowls on the table; one filled with dirt and one with water.

All the kids were lined up waiting for their turn to scoop some dirt into their little hands and squish it in the baby doll’s eyes, making mud, as Jesus did in the Bible (with his spit.)

Pure excitement filled the air.

First, they’d squish, and then, Maria (the woman teaching, now a good friend) would plunge the dirty little doll into the bowl of water, raise it above her head and shout, “I can see!”

It was completely absurd.

I decided then and there “this will be my church.”

The Sky Under My Feet

I attended only one musical on Broadway when I was a child:  Pippin.

I remember watching this cute guy with wavy hair in a pair of tights singing about some corner somewhere in the sky and how he just had to find it.

Strangely, sitting there next to my friend, Paola, I too related to what he was whining about.

I went home thinking about this corner and quickly learned how to play the song (with far too many triplets, I might add) on piano.  Rivers belong where they can ramble; eagles belong where they can fly; I’ve gotta be where my spirit can run free; Gotta find my corner of the sky.

I sang this song and played it on piano till I (and probably most of my family) was positively sick of it.  Till this day, if I hear that song,  (or Rhinestone Cowboy) I get all squeamish like.

I thought the ironic thing about his (Pippin’s) search for the ultimate corner was that he was not living in poverty or hardship by any means.  In fact, he was more like some princely type of guy with the best castle in town and rich parents and he had that wavy hair.  I, on the other hand, had no money, an absent alcoholic father, and no chance of ever becoming a princess.

(He now reminds me of King Solomon in a way, with all his gold and wealth writing those words:  Meaningless!  Life is meaningless!)

But I digress.  Back to Pippin and his corner of the sky…

See, as I listened to him I remembered thinking that I needed that corner, more than he did.

But to me, that corner Pippin sang about  – and I’m probably taking these lyrics a little too seriously — but, the way I see it, it’s so obvious:   Of course rivers belong where they can ramble.  That’s what rivers do.  And of course an eagle belongs where it can fly.  A-duh.

But I guess what the lyricist is really saying is that we all “belong” somewhere.  Fitting in somewhere all perfect and tight.

And as I listened I became confused, ’cause, I never heard someone say, “Oh, Tommy so “belongs” behind that deli counter” or “Susie just really “belongs” behind that desk answering those phones.”

The thing is…and here’s the epiphany:  we’re not eagles with wings and talons and we’re not cool-wet rapid rivers.  We’re free only when we’re warmly wrapped in each other’s arms, not coolly flowing over rocks.  We’re free only when we’re bending to help others — not just flying about over any old mountain.

I bought a little lapel pin the other day in a craft store.  It’s a little brass flower that cost about three dollars.  I liked it because it has this little inscription on the bottom:  Bloom where you are planted.

That’s what Pippin needed to hear.  That’s what we all need to hear.

The floor right here beneath my feet is my corner of the sky. So, I figure I’m going to work on blooming right here in my personal corner.

And let’s face it:  the sky is such a huge, big place.  We’d just get lost out there.

Pumpkin and Coffee

There is something about the unique flavor of pumpkin that tells my taste buds:  Okay, summer is gone and the cold winds of winter are just around the corner.

In a comforting sort of way, it softens the blow.

I love the taste of pumpkin.  Whether it be pumpkin pie, pumpkin cake, pumpkin pancakes, or a hot pumpkin-spiced-latte…nothing quite says: “You’re safe and warm and cozy now, but I’d get your sweaters out of storage if I were you” better than the taste of pumpkin.

A hot cup of coffee with a slice of pumpkin pie could be, without exception, the best meal in the world.  It could be…would be…my personal food of choice for that hypothetical desert island, where only one food, one drink, and one book are allowed.

I would sit on that one-food-one drink-one-book beach sipping coffee from my Keurig coffee maker (which would be plugged into a magical outlet on the trunk of a palm tree), enjoying a warm delicious slice of pumpkin pie, whilst I read a morning verse from my Bible.

With my toes sifting the sand, I’d sip and gaze upon the horizon for the remote chance of a lost helicopter.

But even so, as the sun would toast my tanned shoulders, I’d still have that ever present feeling – that feeling that only pumpkin pie can bring – that summer is about to make an exit, winter winds are close and menacing…but… all is okay.

I’d sip in peace.  I’d have the peace of knowing that I had had the wisdom in choosing the best food for my desert island life.

Or maybe I just picked the right book.

Yeah, that’s probably the case.

Fifth Grade History

“Mom, did the Algonquins settle along the Hudson River and the Delaware River?”

“Um, sure.  Whatever you say.”

My son is doing his fifth grade homework and I’m at a loss.  The fact that the Iroquois were also known as the Haudenosaunees seems to have slipped my mind.  There is just so much information my brain can hold.

I can remember back when I was in fifth grade, I’d present similar questions to my father.  He was a history teacher, so I figured I had it covered.  Unfortunately, that same year (the year I was in the fifth grade), my father — also a manic-depressive — was in the midst of leaving our family.

It was a difficult time.

“Dad, why did Abraham Lincoln issue the Emancipation Proclamation?” I asked.  He said, “Here’s your answer, Mary.  Write this down.”

I got my Number 2 pencil and ditto sheet.  He dictated as I wrote:  “Mary Todd was not an easy woman to live with.  A man can only take so much.  Do you know what it’s like to live with someone who is always depressed?  It takes its toll.”

I handed my homework in the next day.

The teacher never said a word.

Aloysius, as in James Joyce

While standing in line at Staples, the clerk asks an associate for a “price check. “  ”Hey Al, what’s the price on this cartridge?  Hey Al!  Aloysius!  What’s the price?”  Aloysius, I thought.  That was my father’s middle name; James Aloysius.

So Al gives her the price, and notices my big smile.  “Is your name really Aloysius?” I ask.  “Yeah” he says, like, “Yeah…what’s it to ya?”  I tell him that my father had carried the same unique name and he then mentions that he has only met one other Aloysius in his life.

“Where did that name come from?”  I ask, suddenly embarrassed for not knowing the origin my own father’s middle name.  He says “All I know is that it was James Joyce’s middle name.”

What?  How did I not know that?  My own father’s name being James Aloysius and I had never connected it with James Joyce?  James Aloysius Joyce, that is.

What am I…an idiot?

I wish I would have known that fact years ago when I spent six weeks of my life trying to read Ulysses.  Maybe I would have had more patience and gotten past page 40.  Yes, that’s right.  Six weeks of reading and all I got up to was page 40.

Have you read the thing?  It’s a whale.

I can remember having two different dictionaries beside me as I attempted the enormous task.  I held a bit of confidence having already finished Dubliners and had set my mind toward Ulysses.  (That’s like saying you can ride a bike, so you’re now ready for space travel.)

So, when I got home from Staples, I got out my “Portable James Joyce” to find and confirm the name Aloysius somewhere within.  I was unsuccessful.  So off to “wikipedia” I went to confirm that Aloysius was Joyce’s middle name, but still unsuccessful.  I find lots on St. Aloysius, but that’s not who I’m looking for.

But as I venture on, I find a well-written biography on James Joyce by some Joyc-ean fanatic and “Ahoy!” or “Aloy!” there it is:  James Augustine Aloysius Joyce.   Born in Ireland, father very smart but humbled by life of unemployment; mother pianist in a Catholic Church; unhappy; moves to France; dies in Zurich.

Okay, enough about Joyce.

I’m thinking of my father today, James Aloysius McLernon who was born just several years after Ulysses was first published in 1922.  I’m missing James Aloysius today, but not the one who traveled to France; not the one who became an acclaimed writer; not the one people know.

I’m tempted to pick up Ulysses again, but only for a moment.  (Is it me…or is it overrated?)

I’m choosing to pass on it, as it never moved me.

Instead I reflect on an old photo in a silver frame here in my dining room of a teacher from Queens holding the hand of his little daughter.