Frasier Turns 20!

 

     You didn't think a truly devout Frasier fan would let this day go by without some kind of acknowledgement, did you?

     I've already written so many posts about my favorite TV series of all time, including My Favorite Frasier Episodes  and of course My Least Favorite Frasier Episodes, not to mention my series "Niles Crane's Greatest Lines" (link above), it would seem there wouldn't be anything left for me to write about—but there is, and I'll probably keep writing Frasier posts as long as there are Frasier fans. And when will there not be Frasier fans?

     For now, just a little something: while I love all the principal characters in the series, I certainly don't love them equally. It's no secret that Niles is by far my favorite and, I daresay, the favorite of many viewers. My reasons, besides my being a huge DHP fan, are outlined in this post.

     My second favorite is Eddie. Yes, I consider him to be a principal character, as eloquent and developed as any of the others. (I would also add that I think Moose, the first Eddie, was much more facially expressive and generally charismatic than the second Eddie, Enzo, who incidentally was Moose's son.)

 

Moose, the first "Eddie"

Enzo, Moose's son and successor

    

     My third favorite character is Marty. I love the way he mellows over the course of the show; I love his forthrightness, his no-nonsense approach to life, his down-to-earth charm, and the integrity that Frasier and Niles admire in him. Plus, he's funny as hell. 

     Tied for fourth are Daphne and Roz. I have to say, I like Daphne better in the earlier seasons, and a lot better before she and Niles get married. After their marriage, she seems to lose some effervescence and much of the adorable, ingenuous wackiness that won our hearts early on. I know she had to grow up, even more so than any of the other characters, because she started out (according to the producers' conception) in her late 20's and ended the series nearing 40. Everyone else in the show starts out in their 30's or older, already past that long maturity spurt which is our 20's. (At the start, Frasier is 40, Niles 36, Marty 63, and I think Roz is around 32.) Still, I find myself regretting a bit Daphne's acquired gravitas in seasons ten and eleven.

     Roz is one of those characters that most women like a lot. She's brassy, aggressive, wears her sexuality like a flashy blouse, and isn't afraid of anyone, including Frasier. If I were writing this post twenty years ago, I would have placed Roz ahead of Daphne without any hesitation. Now, however, my values and views have changed, and while I love Roz's humor and essential good-heartedness, I identify personally much more with Daphne. The early Daphne. Conversely, I like the later, post-pregnancy Roz much better than the early Roz. Like Marty, she mellows over the seasons without losing her humor.

     Ironically, the title character is my least favorite of the principals. That isn't to say I dislike him. It's only to say that he annoys me much, much more often than do the other characters. In fact, none of the other characters ever annoy me. There are many times when Frasier is unbearably self-centered and petty, and I just want to slap him. What I love most in him is his deep love for his father, and also for his brother (despite, or perhaps because of, their sibling rivalry). And he has afforded me one of my very favorite comic moments in the whole series—his unforgettable rendition of "Buttons and Bows."

 

     Oh, yes—the minor characters. Both Bebe and Bulldog had to grow on me. I started out not liking them at all, but now I appreciate them, Bebe because she's just a brilliant caricature portrayed by such a brilliant actress (Harriet Harris); and Bulldog redeemed himself in my eyes when he revealed himself to be a sucker for children and genuinely in love with Roz. Kenny is your stock "boob," and I like him as well.

     The one and only character I still wrestle with is Gil. Nothing against the fine Edward Hibbert; I just don't understand why Gil is there at all. And I find nothing really likable about him.

     At any rate—Frasier is twenty years old today, but it hasn't really aged at all. The writing is so good, the show and its unforgettable characters are still fresh, and will stay fresh for many more decades to come. It is television at its most excellent.

The Exaltation of the Holy Cross

 

     Today the Catholic Church celebrates the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, a day that is especially meaningful for me because it was my feast day when I was a novice, my full name in religion being Sr. Maria Simona of the Passion and Cross of Jesus.

     During my novitiate I wrote a hymn text in honor of this feast. The meter (organists will understand this) is 7.6.7.6., and the tune I recommend it to be sung to is ST. THEODULPH, although  ELLACOMBE works well, too.

 

"O Holy Cross of Jesus"
for the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross
7.6.7.6.

1.  O Holy Cross of Jesus,
     We honor you this day.
     Christ shed His blood upon you
     And gave mankind the way
     To blessèd life eternal
     With all the Saints above,
     Where angels sing in chorus
     To praise the Father's love.

2.  O blessed Cross of Jesus,
     The victory is won;
     Our Father, in His mercy,
     Did send His only Son.
     And through His bitter Passion,
     His agony and pain,
     The bonds of sin were broken;
     His death became our gain.

3.  O glorious Cross of Jesus,
     Forever may you be
     A symbol of the God-Man
     Who came to set us free
     From death's eternal prison,
     From night that never ends.
     The legacy of Adam
     God's love for us transcends.

4.  All praise to God the Father
     And to His only Son
     And to the Holy Spirit,
     Almighty Three in One!
     O Cross of our salvation,
     Upon your wood He died
     To give us life eternal,
     In body glorified.

© Leticia Austria 2005

     Unfortunately, I never did get to hear this sung in the monastery. We have, however, used it at the little chapel where I currently cantor and play the organ.

     It was Christ Crucified that brought me back to my faith. The Holy Cross will always hold the most hallowed place in my heart. When I look at Jesus on the cross, I see nothing but love, a love I will strive to repay as best as my feeble soul can. And that's all I will say.

 

Tune: ST. THEODULPH



Tune: ELLACOMBE

From My Big Orange Book: Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

The Philosopher

 

And what are you that, wanting you,

     I should be kept awake

As many nights as there are days

     With weeping for your sake?

 

And what are you that, missing you,

     As many days as crawl

I should be listening to the wind

     And looking at the wall?

 

I know a man that's a braver man

     And twenty men as kind,

And what are you, that you should be

     The one man in my mind?

 

Yet women's ways are artless ways,

     As any sage will tell,—

And what am I, that I should love

     So wisely and so well?

The Scarlet Cupboard

This little poem was most definitely influenced by both Christina Rossetti and early Emily Dickinson.


There is a scarlet cupboard
     Inside a scarlet room,
Whose door is locked
And cracks are sealed:
     A silent, scarlet tomb.

It stands in scarlet penance
     While days and nights dance by
With lilting or
With ponderous step
     Till earthly time shall die.

Then shall its door be opened
     And all its content known;
The scarlet notes
And scarlet knots
     To judging eyes be shown.


© Leticia Austria 2007

Blasts from the Past

     I used to think reunions weren't my thing. I thought they were only for people who were happy in high school and had nothing but great memories—in other words, class reunions were for football players, cheerleaders, class officers, and the "popular set." I was none of those things (bet you could have guessed I didn't play football). No, the only bright light for me was choir. Choir I knew how to do. Choir was my lifeboat in the dark, turbulent waters of high school. But even my good memories of choir weren't enough to entice me to wade through the crowd of "others" in search of a small handful of fellow choir geeks.

     So it shouldn't be surprising that I haven't attended any of my class reunions, and there have been several, both major and "mini." Granted, I sometimes had legitimate excuses; for instance, I couldn't go to the big 20th because I was in Italy at the time, but I did order the book for which I and my classmates wrote short summaries of our lives since graduation. I was rather proud of mine, as I thought it a sort of vindication for the negative social status and miserably low grades that marked my high school career. "Choir Geek Makes Good in Major World-Class Opera Company." It is a sad aspect of my character that puts so much importance on other people's opinion of me. I've never been able to do anything, anything at all, without wondering how it would look to other people. But at least I'm aware of this shortcoming, and it is indeed a shortcoming—it's called pride.

     One of the things that can conquer self-pride is love for others. Last weekend, there was a reunion, not of my class, but of my high school choir. I couldn't participate in the concert they literally threw together willy-nilly, but the temptation to see after so many decades some of my old choral comrades was just too great. So when they went to lunch between rehearsals for the concert, I joined them, literally for just an hour; but that hour was one of the happiest I've had since November 4, 2009 (you're probably wondering what happened on that date, but I'm not telling, and please get your mind out of the gutter!). This sounds so terribly cliché, but everyone looked exactly as I remembered them. That's because I was looking at them through, to quote Frasier, "love goggles." These people made high school tolerable for me, and I loved them for it.

     A couple of days later, I made a date for coffee with one of them. She and I didn't really get a chance for a good chin wag at that flying lunch, but we certainly made up for it over our laid-back coffee at Starbucks. She brought with her a copy of my book of juvenile poems and song lyrics which I had given her as a graduation present. My own copy of the book, and it was the only copy I had, went missing back in the '80s. Needless to say, I'm thrilled to have my old poems and lyrics again, horrible as they are. Believe me, they are horrible. But since I threw out all my adolescent journals during a fit of depression in college, these horrible things are the only written record of those turbulent years. So they are very, very precious to me, like a bratty kid whom you love anyway because he is your child. And my friend was everything I remembered her to be: one of the sweetest, kindest people I know.

     I came away from that weekend with the conviction that there should only be specified reunions of choirs, bands, football teams, pep squads, drill teams, clubs, etc. You can keep the big, general class reunions. But I'm only speaking as one for whom high school wasn't a generally great experience.

    

Drink or Drown: Part Three

To read Parts One and Two, click "Italian Plays in Translation" above.

SCENE 5

(enter ARIBERTO.)

 

ARIBERTO     (To himself, on the threshold.)  They are laughing—a good sign!  (MARCELLO goes to meet him.)  Well?

MARCELLO     (Aside to ARIBERTO.)  It's done!

ARIBERTO     (Aside to MARCELLO.)  You have reached an understanding?

MARCELLO     Of course!

ARIBERTO     Good lad! I'm proud of you!  (To BEATRICE.)  Well, then?

BEATRICE     I must speak with you privately!

ARIBERTO     (Believing to understand.)  Ah! Quite right—after an interview with the son, it is only natural you should wish one with his father.  (A small smile to MARCELLO.)  Marcello, you may leave us for moment.

MARCELLO     (Glad to go.)  Very well.

ARIBERTO     Wait! First—come here.  (Affectionately.)  You are a good son. I feel the need to embrace you!  (Extends his arms.) 

MARCELLO     (Drawing back.)  Later, Father!  If we should begin straightaway, Beatrice may laugh!

ARIBERTO     These blessed men of the sea! That is how they are—bears on the surgace, lambs underneath.  (MARCELLO makes to go.)  What? You would go, without even—  (Motions meaningfully to BEATRICE.)  Come now, I believe even she—

MARCELLO     (Moves to embrace her.)  With all my heart!

BEATRICE     (Pulling away.)  That is enough for today.

MARCELLO     You see, she does not want to. As for me—

ARIBERTO     Be off with you; if she says 'enough', then that is enough! Do not insist.

MARCELLO     I am not insisting. But you have seen for yourself that she does not want to.  (Aside to ARIBERTO.)  I've done my part—now for you to do yours!  (To himself as he exits.)  If you can pull it off—bravo!  (Exits.)

 

SCENE 6

 

ARIBERTO     (Sits near BEATRICE and takes her hands affectionately.)  So—we are alone, my dear child. I believe I can guess what it is you wish to tell me! Oh, if you only knew the weight which has been lifted from my heart!

BEATRICE     (Placing herself directly face to face with him.)  Clever Uncle—very clever, indeed! This is going too far!

ARIBERTO     What do you mean? What is wrong?

BEATRICE     (Reproachfully.)  I shall not enter a suit against you—

ARIBERTO     (Surprised.)  A suit?

BEATRICE     No, I shall not; for I should like to believe that if you wished to deceive me, it was for a good cause. But—

ARIBERTO     But what?  (Believes he has guessed.)  Ah, I understand! Marcello has blurted out to you that he arrived last night, and that I—

BEATRICE     Last night? This too?  No, he did not tell me that. But he has told me ... other things.

ARIBERTO     (Beginning to feel uneasy.)  What is all this business?  (As before.)  Ah—now I have it! Before tying the knot, your betrothed naturally wished to make a general confession to you.

BEATRICE     Precisely!

ARIBERTO     (To himself.)  He should have kept it to himself!  (Aloud.)  He has been an upright young man—it is to be commended. (Jokingly.)  Puhh! It really is no great matter. I suppose he spoke of certain love letters he should burn—a lock of hair to toss out the window? Mere bygones; things of the past! Do not take them seriously. The gentleman on the verge of taking a wife may liken himself, more or less, to the painter who has finished a picture and is not content with it. He destroys the canvas, changes his palette—and where there once were clouds, flashes, and bolts of lightning, he now paints a beautiful sky studded with stars. And where there were once crashing waves and great, heaving billows, he now paints a sea calm and clear as a mirror, as sparkling as your own two heavenly eyes! The past—and what is still to come! He might have kept silence, yet he chose to speak—and you must appreciate his loyalty, smile upon the picture he paints of his future, which is also yours—and destroy the canvas of the past!

BEATRICE     Ah, yes; but once one begins destroying canvases, there may be no end to it. You do not know what he has told me.

ARIBERTO     (To himself.)  Heaven help us!  (Aloud, with growing interest.)  Speak up, speak up. What has he told you?

BEATRICE     That he loves another! That he has pledged his constancy to a woman who possesses the most beautiful eyes he has seen.

ARIBERTO     (To himself, biting his lip.)  Scoundrel! He has duped me!

BEATRICE    Come; justify yourself now if you can!

ARIBERTO     (Attempting to joke about it.)  Ha, ha, ha! And you believed it? Did you not see it was all a plan?

BEATRICE     (With conviction.)  Uncle! What good is this? It is useless to seek excuses. You have gone quite red. One lie is quite enough.  (Soberly.)  This marriage cannot take place.

ARIBERTO     (Shaken.)  Do not say that, even in jest! After all, Marcello's past indiscretion was but a brief flame.

BEATRICE     Save me from such a flame!

ARIBERTO     He is truly a good man, deep down. Once you are his wife, he shall adore you!  (Gravely.)  Do you believe that I should be capable of inventing a falsehood without having your happiness, your best interests, at heart?

BEATRICE     (A little maliciously.)  My happiness? Mine alone?

ARIBERTO     (Staring at her in astonishment.)  You would doubt it?
BEATRICE     (Dissembling.)  No, no! Rather, I acknowledge it. Only I should have preferred you told me the whole truth. You might have spared me some distress!
ARIBERTO     It is that—you see—I also believed—  (Angrily.)  That scoundrel Marcello! If you knew how it grieves me to see you unhappy!
BEATRICE     (Sadly.)  I thank you, but it is nothing! I, too, had built many castles in the air. I took much pleasure in the thought that we might be a family. But now—I understand too well that it is not possible.  (Under her breath.)  For you—you could not sacrifice your own life to be the guardian of a spinster niece. Your own aspirations, hopes—
ARIBERTO     (Puzzled.)  What hopes?
BEATRICE     (Continuing.)  Do not worry on my account! You know how I love the country. I live eight months of the year there; I shall add another four, to make up the whole year.  (Emotionally.)  It means that—if I cannot stay here as a daughter, nor as your ward—when you are no longer alone—when, as is natural, you have also chosen a wife—
ARIBERTO     I? What the devil are you saying?
BEATRICE     (Continuing in the same tone.)  Well—if my—aunt should have no objection, I shall come back to stay with you both. And, as I have done today, I shall adorn your parlor with flowers.  (Wipes away a tear, then smiles.)  I told you that I should never call you Papa—it seems my heart had a presentiment!
ARIBERTO     Beatrice! Do you know, you have become quite serious. Speaking in such a way—I've never heard you speak like this! Your laughter makes me want to weep in spite of myself ....  (Stomps his foot.)  I could give myself to the devil, when I think that that scoundrel had a treasure in his hand—and he tosses it away!
BEATRICE     (Pacifying him.)  Do not trouble yourself! It is much better this way. Marcello, to begin with, is two years younger than I. We women are already old at thirty. You men, at forty, are still in your prime.
ARIBERTO     (Smiling.)  Not quite ....
BEATRICE     It is so! And, supposing Marcello should, by and by, discover all those lovely things which you have attributed to me—do you really believe they would be enough for him? Unfortunately, those qualities do not last forever! And when my hair has become quite white—while his remains dark, like yours—do you think the silver of my locks would be compensated by the hidden gold of my virtue? Let us not delude ourselves!  (With conviction.)  Oh, if only Marcello were ten years older, then I could not say—! But, being two years younger—with those almond-shaped eyes locked in his heart—come now!
ARIBERTO     Oh, that will, that cursed pride in the family name!
BEATRICE     Guidobaldi? Well, it is a beautiful name. There is nothing more to say of that.
ARIBERTO     Yes—the name of honest people, if you will! But if there are only two men in the world of that name—my son and myself ....  (He seems suddenly struck by a vague idea; he looks at BEATRICE; he stands, then sits again; settles his cravat and smooths his hair. He is disturbed.)
BEATRICE    (Pointedly, preoccupied.)  Yes ... there are only two. Your son, and ....
ARIBERTO     (Promptly.)  Me.  (Pulls out his handkerchief and wipes his brow.)
BEATRICE     (Almost mechanically.)  ... and you!  (They stare at each other.)  Uncle—why do you stare at me so?
ARIBERTO     (Embarrassed.)  I? Nay, my dear; it is you who are staring at me!  (Rouses himself, gets up, passes in front of the mirror and glances furtively at his reflection, saying to himself.)  Ugh! This heat!  (Sits down again and fans himself with his handkerchief. BEATRICE does the same. He does not know how to resume the conversation.)  Tell me: you spoke before—of age. You said that, generally speaking, the happiest marriages are those in which the husband is—somewhat older?
BEATRICE     I have said so, and I believe it to be true.
ARIBERTO     (Elated.)  And ...  (Draws nearer to her.)  I beg your pardon; I cannot recall. How many years older did you say?
BEATRICE     I don't know—ten—fifteen—
ARIBERTO     (Hinting.)  Eighteen?
BEATRICE     (Flushing.)  Oh, yes—even eighteen!
ARIBERTO     (Even more elated.)  And then, if the man were well-preserved—if he had all his teeth—and his hair—?
BEATRICE     (A bit tongue-tied.)  Well, certainly ...  (Abruptly.)  Uncle, what is your age?
ARIBERTO     (Wiping his brow.)  My age? Calculate for yourself! I married at twenty, fathered a child at one-and-twenty, was widowed at five-and-twenty; my son is now twenty—so then—
BEATRICE     (Counting to herself.)  Nineteen!
ARIBERTO     How came you to that number?
BEATRICE     I mean to say—you are nineteen years older than I.
ARIBERTO     Beatrice—do you know, your way of arithmetic makes my head spin!
BEATRICE     Uncle—do you know what Marcello suggested to me earlier?
ARIBERTO     (Ill-humoredly.)  Something beastly, to be sure!
BEATRICE     (Coquettishly.)  No—he suggested I marry his father!
ARIBERTO     (Stunned.)  Did he?  (To himself.)  The idea! Poor boy!  (Aloud, with increasing emotion.)  Ah, did he, now? And you—?
BEATRICE     I? I laughed at first.
ARIBERTO     (Hanging on her every word.)  And—now?
BEATRICE     (Emotionally, her eyes shining.)  And now—I am no longer laughing.  (Having said this, she quickly runs out, leaving ARIBERTO bewildered.)

END SCENE

 

To be continued.





On the 2nd Anniversary of This Blog

     I don't know—are 382 posts a lot for two years?

     Considering that I spent my first few blogger months in a veritable frenzy, writing the history of my monastic vocation and my musical background, and that I've posted almost every poem I've written since 2005, I suppose 382 doesn't seem like an outrageous number.

     In the first year, the most viewed posts were those concerning monastic life, and particularly those about my visits to the Abbey of Regina Laudis. Given that the Abbey's prioress, Mother Dolores Hart, former Hollywood actress, is the most well-known cloistered nun in the country (along with Mother Angelica), this is no surprise. And now that Mother Dolores' memoir has been published, those posts have had a resurgence of hits in recent months. But there are obviously many women in the world who are discerning a religious vocation or are simply curious about religious life, and they fine-comb the internet for anything about the subject, so my monastery-related posts get hits every day. I'm very happy about this, happy to help in any way I can to encourage those who have felt a call to the religious life, especially to the cloister.

     The more popular posts in the second year have been those dealing with "Niles Crane's Greatest Lines." Again, not surprising. But I think it highly amusing that the two "poles" of this blog are monastic life and Niles Crane. Which is why there is no longer a brief description of this blog under the blog's title. I tried to put one up there, tried various versions, then just threw up my hands. Any first-time viewer can simply look at the page categories at the top and scratch his head trying to figure out what the focus of this blog is. Well, there ain't any. I write whatever comes into my head, and I have many interests in life, which is why this is called "A Spectrum of Perspectives."

     That brings us to poetry. I used to have a whole other blog devoted to poetry and music, and yet another devoted exclusively to reading, but I chucked both of them as superfluous. Why not, I thought, just pile everything onto this one blog and make it even more confusing and unfocused? Sadly, for me anyway, the poetry posts are the least viewed—except for two: Regret and A Sonnet of Sonnets (revamped). These two posts are, astonishingly, the most viewed of all 382. I have absolutely no idea why, especially "Regret." I mean, I've written some depressing poems in my time, but that one takes the proverbial cake. Maybe the painting by Ajvazovskij has something to do with it. Now, with "A Sonnet of Sonnets," I can sort of see why. It consists of love poems that are easy to understand and that many people can readily identify with, as they deal with unrequited/unprofessed love. I truly believe the world is starving for old-fashioned love poems. Still—beating out Niles Crane in page views? Who'da thunk???

     At any rate, I'm very, very grateful that anyone at all reads my random ramblings. (Hey—maybe that's what I should have called this blog!) I hope I can keep you all interested enough to keep reading!