Rage is Outrageous: It Just Depends On Your Perspective

Like so many things in life, the way you approach it makes all the difference.

Take the word "rage."  In the jam band music scene, the word rage over the past few years has emerged as a positive description of a way to enjoy the live tunes.  As in:  "We're gonna rage tonight."  Meaning, "we're gonna groove to the awesome music and have lots of fun with good friends in a safe environment."  It is 100%  positive.  The first name of the keyboardist in my favorite band is Page.  It is typical to refer in a congenial way to the side of the stage where he performs as "Page Side Rage Side."  Some folks are taking this word and using it in a positive way in the music scene.  My friend Karen, The Tiny Rager, maintains a thorough, meticulously-cataloged list of current music happenings in New York City as well as detailed music reviews of various shows.  Where she finds the time, I do not know!   Another person takes wonderful professional photographs of various music shows at Rage It Proper.  Nifty stuff.

Speaking of being proper, Derek Blasberg, the fashion writer, is a champion of proper behavior for women, as I have mentioned recently.  His books are funny but true.

My grandmother, Martha Miller Loonin, may her memory be a blessing, was a proper, elegant lady.  She helped me keep up with current trends.  One summer in camp she sent me a package that contained "crazy ET headgear" that was "all the rage."  Here is her letter to me:

Letter to me in camp by my Grandma Martha Loonin z'l .  Note the 3rd paragraph "it is all the rage around town"

Here is the type of headgear she sent:

Wouldn't it be fun to bring back this early 80s rage inspired by the movie E.T.:  The Extra-Terrestrial.  Where, you ask, would a mother of 3 school-aged children don such headgear seriously?  No, not when I visit the Nordstrom shoe department.  Not at my friends' 40th birthday parties, which seem to be endless at the moment.   Not when I am waiting at the ice rink for lessons to end.  Perhaps at a raging music venue where folks know how to let loose and have fun.  Or maybe on Purim.  Or maybe both.  The headbands that Grandma Martha sent had much longer, boingier springs.   

Boingier.  That is a good thing.  We should all have more boing in our lives.

And now, the negative rage.

Of course, we all know about road rage.  Not good, not good.  Los Angeles, where this term originated, is a frustrating place to drive, but folks gotta find more ohm and calm when behind the wheel.

At a local gas station-mini mart, I noticed their store-brand slushy-type food coloring-laden junky drink.  Here is one of them, called Red Rage:

Cumberland Farms is absolutely correct that ingestion of a Red #40 drink will create great rage, despite efforts last year to dispel this theory.  The science exists to prove that.

And this makes me very sad.

Parents buy this garbage for their children, and then they start yelling at them 10 minutes later when they start  bouncing off the walls.  Couple it with a game on the DS of some birds that also have an angry rage face like this image, and you've got a lot of negative vibes.

Of course I realize that it is intended to appeal to children.  My boys love that image.  And the taste of the drink.  And they love to play Angry Birds.  They aren't stupid.  The stupid one would be me who allows it even as a special treat.  And I don't like the word stupid.  It is a very poor word choice.

Why can't we turn that negative rage into a positive rage of a good time?  Usually we drink water and minimize our food coloring and high fructose corn syrup intake.  We listen to good tunes and have fun.

I guess it just depends on where you are coming from.

I'm gonna put on my purple glitter alien headband and help the children to bed.

Boing, boing, boing...

All this rage stuff makes me want to just get positive.

Here is some George Harrison playing "Here Comes The Sun."  Rage it in the most outrageous way.

Drawings From The Film Beginners By Mike Mills

I was recently gifted with this book, a limited edition companion to the film Beginners by Mike Mills.

courtesy of Reprizent

Thank you, Michael Arkin!  (to the blogosphere:  I also wrote Michael a thoughtful, hand-written note of thanks.  Long before I was acquainted with Derek Blasberg's work, I was trained in proper etiquette by my mother).

My college boyfriend's father was gay.   I remember the great secrecy and emotion surrounding him telling me about his father in the early 90s.  Times are so different today for the gay community and this film gives a broader historical perspective about the lifestyles of closeted gays in the 20th century.

I have been told that I will like Mike Mills' style if I like Wes Anderson's.  This is too delicious!



Naturally, I have great affection for Christopher Plummer, who stars in this film, as he will always be the Captain singing "Edelweiss" in my memory.

More V Magazine, And Oh the Advertisements!

I got to V initially because I was subscribing to W.

And I got into W because, like guys who read Playboy "for the articles," I found such interesting information there.  I learned about Richard Gere's B&B in Bedford.  And Michael Steinhardt's private animal sanctuary. And so much more.

I strive for information and it also helps me with my wardrobe.  I think Derek Blasberg would like all of this. Derek, I will blog about you another time.  You are *the best.*  I heart Derek, even though we haven't met in person.

But check out this awesome LV ad:

The see-through bag reminds me of what all the women have to carry when they work in the department stores.  A total upgrade for Bloomie's employees.  And the ice cream shop chairs:  Oh, how Peppermint Park (which I hope to blog about another time).  It was an end of a Manhattan era when they shut them down.  Derek, ask some of your friends who grew up in and around Manhattan.  They will tell you how much they loved Peppermint Park.  And, nary a good reminiscence online.

And of course, about one year ago I blogged about Smashbox Studios.

Factors got some style and class.

 

This is their newest ad in V Magazine.

I am grateful to be literate.

The Basketball Coach

Though I already wrote him a handwritten note, since this is the ultimate expression of class (which Derek Blasberg recently wrote in his book Very Classy (click on that link to the Washington Post review from 12/2/11) which my own mother reared me properly to do, I have to thank one person in particular for his role in this phishy journey.

PurpleGirl's brother (not blood brother but her soul brotha), The Basketball Coach, is a tall guy.  He is gregarious and a true mentch.  He also happens to be very tall and easy to pick out of a crowd.  So, over the years when I would go to shows and my heart would be pining for my dear soul sista PurpleGirl (because I knew she was at the shows but it wasn't our custom to make a plan to meet) I would keep my little eye out for the Coach.  

Because everything happens for a reason, I often spotted the Coach, and would ask him to lead me to PurpleGirl.  And that would happen over and over again.

Which leads me to remembering seeing the Coach in the Hartford parking lot a few years ago where I met the very holy M.C. and his kallah as they belted out "Rider" (if you ever see a very sweet, cute, petite, married mandolin-playing duo in Israel please say hello).  Seemingly out of nowhere runs along the Coach, and he is sending his regards to me.

Just about this same time is when I saw the mysterious purveyor (I say this because I haven't seen him again since then) who was selling the Mr. Snuffleupagus's sister (or cousin) Alice t-shirt that you will only find from him because he created it (and was a staple on Dead tour, but as I only saw them once, in 1994, yes, I am a late-bloomer but all in my right time, I never saw that shirt before or after).  I  have since asked the Coach numerous times if he sees this shirt to please get me one and I will pay him back.  So, all of you 5 faithful readers out there, if you see that shirt please buy me one and you will make Loony smile, smile, smile.

Coach, you is da bomb!  (I mentioned that good-ole phrase to my 2nd son the Wolfman the other night and he had no clue.  It was really sweet trying to explain it to him).