I always thought “The Sublime and The Ridiculous” would be a great title for a soap. Oh wait—there are no more soaps. ABC has canceled One Life to Live and All My Children, and I am shocked and saddened to my soap opera loving core. General Hospital is still with us, interesting, given it’s morally ambiguous and violent content. I’m not complaining, mind you; it has Maurice Bernard as crime boss Sonny Corinthos, and he’s just yummy. Maurice Bernard was also equally yummy, Nico Kelly, on All My Children. Remember when Nico and Cecily got married? It was a beautiful wedding. Oh, not as fancy as Cliff and Nina’s with the horse drawn carriages and all, but very nice, and in Hawaii. I must confess that I’ve had steamy recurring dreams where Maurice Bernard pleaded with me to leave my husband and shack up with him for some really hot sex in Port Charles. But since Vanessa Marcil came back from the dead, again, as Sonny’s soulmate, Brenda, I am not indulging that dream anymore. Destiny designed them to be together and even in my rich fantasy life, I would never mess with that. That would be soap opera evil.

I have been watching All My Children (AMC) since it’s black and white half-hour debut in 1970, along with One Life to Live (OLTL) and General Hospital (GH), and have given them up only when my work schedule interfered and when Vicki, played by the terrific Erika Slezak on OLTL died and went, for weeks, to the lost city of Eterna. (I mean, really, there is only so much silliness a soap fan can take). When I couldn’t watch I would quiz all of my stay-at-home pals for story updates in a game I liked to call, “Their lives are a living hell.” Who died, who came back from the dead? Who accidentally fell in to bed with whom? Who’s faking being paralyzed to get revenge on whatever nasty bit of business needs revenging? Why does Todd look so different? Because we’ve cast a new actor and Todd had a face transplant. That’s why! LOVE IT!!!!

All that, of course, would be the ridiculous part of soaps, but on the sublime side, are the social issues the daytime dramas have addressed over the years. All My Children alone has tackled anti-war sentiments during the Vietnam War, abortion—in 1973 Erica Kane underwent television’s first legal abortion, teenage prostitution, pregnancy after 40 (first time I ever heard the word, amniocentesis), domestic violence, gay teens, suicide, and same-sex marriage, sexual harassment, AIDS, drunk driving, alcohol and drug addiction recovery, bone marrow, heart, liver, kidney, and yes! face transplants, rape, racism, autism, and custody battles galore. Soap operas have reflected us back to ourselves through some the best and worst writing and acting anyone could hope for. How I wish I could re-run Luke and Laura’s wedding, or Jesse and Angie’s escape to new York City, or Adam Chandler deviously throwing poor, hapless Dixie Cooney into a mental institution, and then watching, thrilled, as Tad the Cad came to her rescue just before the lobotomy, and I’d love to see just one more Brooke and Erica cat fight before I die.

I guess I’m most disappointed in the death of television writing, and soap writers really have had a ball playing with the sublime and the ridiculous, but with soaps viewership declining and they cost a mint to produce, daytime will become yet another reality show wasteland filled with stupid games shows, Rachel Ray-type chat shows, Dr. Phil, and more Maury Povich. YEECH!

I’d like to thank my friend, Gail Dreifus, for hilariously providing me with my research material, All My Children—The Complete Family Scrapbook that she bought me for my birthday when All My Children celebrated it’s 25th anniversary. Who knew it would become a collector’s item?

Cathy finds a beautiful day in the bay, sunny, cloudy and confusing

There’s a new girl in town: a new weather girl. Yes, they still use that term. Even though she’s a full-grown woman and an ordained meteorologist, she’s the new Bay Area “girl” and she’s H-O-T.

Meet Christina Loren, Today in the Bay’s morning cup of sexy; and boy does she pour it on. Case in point: see screenshot above. While she’s got a rockin’ bod (if you’re into the Barbie look), she’s actually got brains too and a fun on-air personality, but what she’s selling isn’t what’s behind her botoxed forehead or what’s coming from her bee stung lips; she’s selling what sells, S-E-X.

Loren wears short dresses and tops that are so tight I wouldn’t be surprised if she isn’t single-handedly keeping Lycra in business. This bombshell likes to accentuate her “assets” all right: buttons on nipples? Really? (Talk about high beams!)

The NBC station affiliate isn’t missing a beat; there’s an ad campaign in full swing. Numerous bus shelters and billboards show Loren perfectly coiffed and glossed, seated with a deep blue sky and white fluffy clouds behind her, “It’s always a beautiful day in the Bay.” No, I don’t think they’re referring to the weather.

Frankly, I can’t remember who was doing the weather before Loren breezed in; I think it may have been a man. The regular morning news anchors are a married couple that recently had triplets, so now anchor Laura Garcia-Cannon is perceived as a mom, in other words, no longer hot.

Based on Loren’s look and posture, I wondered if she was a graduate from a spokesmodel academy, but after a bit of research I found that she holds a B.A. in Economics and minored in Communications. She started out as a traffic anchor (note: they don’t use the word “girl” in this context) then extended her repertoire with some grad work and a three-year certification program to become a meteorologist.

When Loren left traffic reporting in South Florida for her new California gig, there were comments about her departure. Here are two examples, from both the male and female perspective:

NewsRoomDiva:
Wow… *speechless* she likes to dress sexy. I felt like I was watching a Forever 21 ad instead of a weathercast. I really have no words. She has a nice presence on air — so I don’t understand why she dresses so “trendy”.

Mike:
Really going to miss her perky attitude and her implants. Perfect for South Florida in the AM. Hopefully they’ll get someone just as perky but with bigger implants.

Sigh. Christina Loren is a grown-up example of what historian and author Stephanie Coontz calls the new feminine mystique — the “hottie mystique”. She describes it as the idea that “young women have to not only achieve in ways never expected…but to compensate for that achievement they must show that they are completely hot, sexual and desirable.” When I heard Coontz talk about this on Fresh Air, I thought, yes, that’s true! The stereotype of smart used to be the asexual schoolmarm and now it’s all about sizzling hotness — a head for business and a bod for sin.

I disagree with Coontz however when she says that a lot of women grow out of the “hottie mystique” phase in their teens. It’s difficult to outgrow pressure to be desirable and hot, and even if you do succeed, it can take years (or menopause).

An Indiana University study found that for male television viewers, the sexual attractiveness of female news anchors keeps them from recalling the actual content of the women’s reports. (They needed a study for that?) So if Today in the Bay is looking to boost their male ratings rather than inform viewers about what’s on the Doppler radar, then they’ve chosen well.

My local weather girl isn’t a “dumb blond” after all; she just plays one on TV and, as the philosopher of our times Paris Hilton says, “That’s hot.”

Connie stays the course while Madison Avenue tries to mess with her mojo

I watch a lot of TV, I love TV, in fact the TV guy is here right now, even as I type, installing my brand new flat screen HD TV upstairs in my bedroom. Oh, I can hear you now—“TV in your bedroom??? A terrible idea, it’ll ruin your sex life”. Well, “pish-tosh,” says I, basketball season is upon us and the ol’ ball and chain will be occupied till May, so I’m delighted to have the company up there.

Because I do watch TV, I’ve been noticing a very interesting marketing trend. Advertisers are really hitting our age group hard. Instead of just producing commercials for Metamucil, Viagra, Depends, and that yogurt-like stuff Jamie Lee Curtis is shilling so we can all poop better; we are seeing trotted out, resplendent in their magnificent menopausal middle age, the big guns of the baby boomer generation.

Oscar winner/nominees Susan Sarandon and Julianne Moore are touching and hilarious starring in Revlon’s Age Defying Make-up. Experience Susan Sarandon’s deep emotional connection to us as she wraps her perfectly lipsticked mouth around the word “Botafirm”. Marvel as Andy MacDowell uses her limited acting chops to defend against PHOTO-AGING with “Revitalift”, because remember, “every time light touches your skin, it causes more wrinkles.” And there’s Cate Blanchette pleading with us to “touch the miracle” with SK-II, a “Miracle Water” with naturally derived Pitera to make our skin clearer, and more radiant looking in just two weeks.” Two weeks? Why, it took 59 years for me to get the skin I’m in right now. Gosh, that really is a miracle. I’ll buy it today. Funny though, Dr. Perricone, that the more “science-y” the words you use to hawk your beauty products are, the more expensive they are.

It goes on and on, of course. I’m studying my go-to resource materials at the moment, In Style magazine and Vanity Fair, and they’re chock-a-block with ads that claim, “You will no longer need concealer as a crutch”—Noxzema. “Kill crow’s feet with StriVectin—more science, less wrinkles.” Now you can have it all with one smart, multi-tasking beauty solution, Illumifill—More than just make-up.” Really? Oh, and here’s Julia Roberts looking like her skin is “lit-from-within” in her Lancome Teint Miracle. It couldn’t be that she was just born that way, could it? You mean it’s possible for me to look like Julia Roberts??? Where can I buy it NOW?

Now, I do not begrudge those fabulous ladies for appearing in commercials, for they surely got paid a small fortune, and a girl’s gotta work, ya know? But I wonder how many college educations, or trips to Europe, or plays, or artwork I’ve spent over the years because I’d rather look like Susan Sarandon than Dame Judy Dench?

I wonder if this “happiness gap” I keep reading about isn’t so much about the bad economy or that we’ve become so distracted by media, but that we’ve disconnected from our authentic selves. Maybe this endless infantile desire to stay young and/or skinny is at odds with the natural order of life. Maybe we’re dishonoring our mothers and grandmothers and fostering a dangerously unrealistic ideal in young women by not embracing where we are in our lives right now.

Be healthy, active, curious, and connected to family, friends, and community, and laugh a lot. That’s true beauty. OK. Now what’s on TV?

Flash Mob Victoria Station

Connie Stetson mixes it up with inspiration, perspiration and dizzy dancing feet.

Dear readers, we have become so close now, I feel I can tell you anything. I know you won’t judge me harshly when I confess to you how very much I love the “reality” game show. The contestants, the competition, the prize—the whole format, well, it’s all just so darn much fun.

I love Survivor, The Amazing Race, American Idol, The Bachelorette, Top Chef, Project Runway and even the great American cheese-fest, Dancing With the Stars. But by far and away, I love So You Think You Can Dance. Partly because at one time I did think could dance, and partly because I now wish I could dance as well as I once thought I could. Watching these beautiful, talented, athletic young dancers sends me into a pulse-pounding frenzy of vicarious joy; and I am with them every soaring step and heart stopping stumble along the way. I am hooked and I am also impressed.

In 2009, producer Nigel Lythgoe, actress Katie Holmes, dancer/choreographer Debbie Allen, and a host others, began The Dizzy Feet Foundation . Its mission is to support, improve and increase dance education in the United States, provide scholarships, set standards for dance education and insure that disadvantaged children have access to dance. The Dizzy Feet Foundation has also declared Saturday July 31st, National Dance Day. View the cool choreography that Napoleon and Tabitha have created to get America off our collective asses and onto the dance floor. They have made it easy enough for anyone to learn and I’m getting down right now with my very bad, very funky self.

To encourage my community to participate in this wonderful day I, along with a few others, are planning a spontaneous outburst (ever notice how deftly spontaneous outbursts must be organized?) a guerilla Conga dance down Hwy 140, the Main Street of our town. Several of us will be milling about casually, then we’ll crank up the music, bust out the Conga line like a mini flash mob, and see if we can get people to just jump in. I’ve cleared it with the sheriff and he said as long as the local merchants don’t mind, it’s okay— and he’s out of town then anyway. So it’s a GO.

Thanks SYTYCD, for reacquainting me with my younger, lighter, stronger, more lithesome self. The self that didn’t really believe in gravity or bad knees—the self that still lives in the dance classes in my head. And thank you, too, brave new dancers for not being self-absorbed snots, but grateful and dedicated and self-sacrificing young artists on the brink. You are dazzling and inspiring.

And so everyone—move to the groove, shake your booty, put on your boogie shoes, Disco, Salsa, Hip-Hop, or Bunny Hop if that’s all you can do, but get up off that thang and dance so you can feel better on National Dance Day, Saturday July 31st. YIPPEE!!!!!!

For Connie Stetson, accompanying her actor husband to New York City was all glitz, glamour and excitement, but coming home was a true revelation.

Hi all—the lovely Mrs. Stetson here.

Lee and I had a perfectly wonderful trip to New York City enjoying the many sights (our hotel was right in the shadow of the Empire State Building) and sounds (does the horn honking never stop?) and smells (ahhh, the smell of falafel in the air….) We hit the ground running our first night there and had a great Turkish dinner with my dear old friends, Barbara and Jim. Day two we set off walking, did some shopping, and then readied for our black-tie gala celebrating the premiere of Ken Burns’ The National Parks—America’s Best Idea on Ellis Island.

I showed up quite glamorous in my black satin trousers, white tuxedo shirt, stiletto strappy sandals, Cathy’s fabulous black and white embroidered shawl and oodles of pretty great looking faux pearls, and except for the satin, the shawl, pearls and stiletto’s that’s what Lee wore too (the lucky, cuz’ my feet were killing me!!). He looked mah-velous, darlings. We sat at the muckymuck table with Ken Burns, Dayton Dalton, Shelton Johnson, Gerard Baker and their lovely Missesses, Roxann and Mary Kay. We enjoyed our desserts to a live performance of Alison Krauss and Union Station. Pretty darn good.

The next day was a concert in Central Park for PBS. The weather was just perfect for smiling and nodding! We hobnobbed with Counting Crows, (why, oh why could I not have been twenty-two and covered in tattoos for just that day?) Peter Coyote, Carol King, Jose’ Feliciano, Eric Benet, Adam Arkin and Peter Yarrow, Alison Krauss and Union Station, and of course, Ken Burns and Dayton Dalton, Gerard Baker from Mt. Rushmore, and Shelton Johnson from our own Yosemite National Park. Lemme tell ya, we ain’t got NUTHIN’ like this in Mariposa. I was in a tizzy of excitement.

Thursday we dashed off to TKTS for half-price Broadway theater tickets and bought seats for a premiere of Memphis, a musical about the birth of rock n’ roll and race relations. Yup. Pretty darn good. Friday, a perfect East Coast fall day, we walked through Central Park and went through the zoo, and that night took my friends Nancy and Bobby out for her 50th b-day to Tree, a restaurant I saw featured on the Food Channel’s, The Best Thing I Ever Ate. Yup. Pretty darn good.

As we flew home on Saturday, I found myself sowing seeds of discontent. I live in the sticks, the tullies, the weeds. There is nothing up here…well, there’s that park, but what about art, theater, music, food, shoes, accessibility to all the finer things in life? What about the NY Times, falafel, public transportation—I mean, it takes me two hours just to get to a Target. What about that? The glamorous, lovely Mrs. Stetson wants, no needs more!

Well, maybe it was the jet lag making me snarky, because this morning I woke to a perfect Sierra day. A cool, almost chilly wind made all the treetops swish and sway, a covey of about twenty quail casually meandered around my little orchard, I could see the beginnings of fall leaves changing color, the sky was sapphire, and as I was walking back into the house, I heard a very loud thwap! I went out to see what hapless bird had broken its silly neck on my window, and there, only just stunned, was a beautiful young hawk.

I gently and carefully scooped him up in my hands and let him rest there. Brown and rust, with black stripes on his tail, probably an immature Cooper’s Hawk getting a look a Mojo, my cat, to see if he’d make a nice lunch. Magnificent. After about fifteen minutes he shook off his encounter with his reflection, flew up to a nearby tree branch, and I thought, “Yup. Pretty darned good.” They ain’t got nuthin’ like this in New York City.

Tom Jones, photo by Cathy R Fischer

Cathy Fischer’s hot fun in the summertime means live music, good friends and not postponing joy.

Tom Jones knocked my socks off. He danced, he sang—soulful and sexy. From Prince’s “Kiss” to “Sex Bomb” to the classic “It’s Not Unusual,” Sir Tom (yes he is a knight) had the crowd in a frenzy. Those of you who scoff, think again. The crowd spanned teenagers to baby boomers—singing along, dancing and eagerly throwing multi-colored lingerie. Then when Tom pulled up his sweat-soaked shirt to reveal a very fit 69-year-old body, well, I…I digress…

Staying “hip to the groove” is a state of mind.

Recently I joined my 50-something pals Mara and Shelly and our friend Jeff at the Outside Lands three-day music festival in Golden Gate Park. Leading up to the day, I was certain we’d be the oldest ones there—me, with my salty pepper hair and all—but I was mistaken. There were other gray-haired folk, not just old hippies (not that there’s anything wrong with that). There were California girls sporting bikini tops and flowing skirts and toned topless boys donning dreadlocks and tattoos, all of us soaking up the summer fun with music ranging from small indie pop bands to big acts like the Black Eyed Peas and Dave Matthews.

While large crowds are not normally my cup of tea, the lineup was great and with good friends coming to town, not to mention VIP access, I was in. This well-planned festival had VIP level admission, allowing those who shelled out the dough (or in our case, knew someone) to have access to seats, a shaded bar area and most importantly, VIP bathrooms. If Port-o-Potties are coach, these toilet trailers are first class. There’s nothing like freshening up from time to time to keep you at your ten hour concert-going best.

Sometimes I forget that music is a healing force, especially when I get bogged down by work or chores, or driven mad by news of crazies who won’t let their children listen to the president talk about the importance of education. Going to this music festival reminded me that music is my refuge and that live music, especially experienced with other humans, reverberates emotion, recalling the joy of feeling and the essence of being alive.

Today, out of nowhere, my acupuncturist asked me if I had done something creative recently. When I told him about the concert, he nodded wisely, as he does, and said music is essential for my health. I guess my hunch was right.

I pleasured in all sorts of music that weekend. I swayed to reggae and Zap Mama, nodded to Pearl Jam and jumped non-stop to the Black Eyed Peas. Before the concert, I filled out an online questionnaire. The Outside Lands “picker” did the math and based on my birthday, it determined that I was 100% Tom Jones.

That’s right, I’m 100% Tom Jones and proud of it!

1969 is known for Woodstock and “The Summer of Love,” but for Christie Healey, it was a special winter day when she was at the right place at the right time.

I was doing a little paintwork touch up around the house the other day, musing about my life and thinking how satisfying it can be to paint over things—chips, scratches, cracks, dust. NPR was playing in the background and I heard a review of Ang Lee’s new movie, Taking Woodstock. I don’t remember much about Woodstock. Not because I was there, I (unlike others of my generation) will emphatically state, I was not there. My defining music moment happened in January of 1969.

I was working in the marketing department of Tyne Tees Television, a commercial TV station that occupied the fifth floor of an office building on Savile Row, London near Regent Street. My boss, Oliver Trigg and his tall, handsome sidekick, John Finch, were off to the boozer for their usual lunch of a pint and some rib-sticking food. They asked if I wanted to join them. I was working on some magical marketing numbers that needed to be presented later that day and, reluctantly, said no. I settled down in Ollie’s office to study the most inventive fiction ever created by humankind, audience demographics, when I noticed some activity on the roof opposite. I opened the window and leaned out.

There was lots of musical equipment being set up, drum kit, amps, guitars on stands and mikes. A door to the roof slowly opened and some women drifted out and settled themselves off to one side. Good Lord, it was the Beatle women. Then the door opened again and the Beatle men appeared. By this time I am hanging out of the window about 30 feet above the opposite roof. The first chords struck and the Beatles launched into their last concert.

It was so loud traffic stopped in Regent Street. People flooded out of offices and filled the street, looking up in wonder. The police arrived on the roof, talked with the Beatles for a couple of minutes then settled themselves down opposite the women, instinctively knowing that this should not be stopped. The music continued, some blues numbers, old rock n’ roll and Crikey, they even played “God Save the Queen.” When they played “Let It Be,” I knew it was over. They were moving on and this was their gift to those who by happenstance were lucky enough to hear, and for some see, their final wave and nod to us. Ollie and John got stuck in the crowds and could not persuade the police to let them back down Savile Row. I could never mention that day in their presence without seeing them wince with regret. Not long afterwards, I left Tyne Tees TV and moved in with John. We had a wonderful couple of years together before time and the tides of our separate desires parted us.

One Christmas afternoon about 10 years ago, I was watching television with my husband and my son, Fred, when we came across a documentary about the Beatles and started to watch. It was a long doc and I got up to make a cup of tea when Fred said, “Mum, look.” The screen showed a grainy black and white image of the Beatles last concert on the roof of Apple Studios, the camera panned around to the building opposite and there’s 21-year-old me, leaning way out of a window.

The memory faded and I sat back in my house in Saint Paul, rested my paintbrush and thought, funny how painting over some things can sometimes help uncover so many other things.