'Hunger' appeals to many Tastes

Have you satisfied your “Hunger” yet? 

By that I mean, are you one of the millions of teens and adults who flocked to theaters this weekend to watch the movie adaptation of “The Hunger Games”?

If you’ve been living under a rock, or don’t have a child between the ages of 10-15, you might not be familiar with the premise of “The Hunger Games”.  Based on a trilogy of books by Suzanne Collins, the story follows the adventures of Katniss Everdeen, a 16-year old girl who lives in District 12, one of a dozen districts crushed under the thumb of The Capitol in the dystopian country of Panem (a thinly disguised North America sometime in the future).  In order to avoid rebellion, the Capitol forces each district to send a boy and girl to participate in the annual Hunger Games, a battle to the death played out on live television.  The winner earns extra food for their district for a year.

I have to give author Suzanne Collins credit for creating a book series that has such mass appeal.  The “Twilight” series appeals to tween and teen girls and their middle-aged moms.  I should know; I’ve read all the books several times and own all the films on DVD.  However, being the mother of two boys, I can attest to the fact that Twilight holds no interest for them.  “The Hunger Games”, however, has enough action and weaponry for boys, while incorporating a love triangle that appeals to young girls. 

At the risk of sounding sexist with that last comment, Katniss also provides young girls with a strong, capable role model.  As the story begins, Katniss is providing for her mother and sister with enviable hunting and trapping skills.  She is brave enough to volunteer as a Tribute in the Hunger Games when her sister is chosen.  She adapts her skill set as the games progress, yet maintains her integrity and moral compass throughout.  For those of you who devoured “The Girl with The Dragon Tattoo”, Katniss is a more wholesome, less angry version of Lisbeth Salander.  She’s resourceful, loyal, savvy and smart.

The book and film are not without controversy in that they still boil down to a story of kids being forced to kill other children at the hands of an oppressive government.  Though the books are geared towards the young adult demographic, children as young as seven are reading the series thanks to older siblings.   While a reader that young may be able to handle the more graphic portions in print, the onscreen violence might prove too intense for the under-12 crowd.  My 14-year old loved the film, but my 11-year old found some of the fight scenes to be a bit overwhelming at times.

The idea of hosting a televised battle to the death sounds barbaric, something you’d only find in futuristic, sci-fi novels.   But should we really just dismiss the idea out of hand?  I mean, think about the months of campaigning our politicians endure, slinging mud and sniping at each other.  Perhaps we should just throw them all into an arena with a few weapons, some basic camping supplies and see who emerges victorious.  And while we’re at it, since the games are broadcast on live television, let’s do a version of the Hunger Games with the Kardashian family.  Don’t tell me you wouldn’t love to see Kris Kardashian battling it out against her children.  We can see if it’s true that some animals really do eat their young.  I don’t know about Vegas odds, but my money’s on that big one, Khloe.

We may be years away from devolving into the kind of behavior exhibited in “The Hunger Games”.  At least I hope we are.  In the meantime, if I’ve piqued your curiosity, stop by the library and check out a copy of the first novel, or make it a point to see the film.

I’ll bet you’ll find yourself hungry for more.

Of Snookettes, Salty Language and St. Paddy's

Another year, anther successful trip into South Boston for the St. Patrick’s Day parade.  This has become an annual event for my family.  We are fortunate that our friend, , KO, lives right on the parade route, just one block from Andrew station.  Each year she throws an enormous chunk of corned beef into a pot and opens her home to those friends and family brave enough to head into Boston during the height of what one Irish friend calls “Irish Christmas”.

First and foremost, we trek into town for the chance to reconnect with people we haven’t seen in a year. Between work, kids and life in general, it’s hard for all of us to find time to get together.  But no matter how busy we are, we always try to make time for KO’s St. Paddy’s Day party.

Getting there, however, is an adventure in itself.  I’m sure there are some foolish…uh…I mean hardy souls who think it’s ok to drive into South Boston on parade day.  Personally, I’ve never been that bold.  Each year we opt to leave the car in Braintree and ride the T into the city.  This is great because our car is parked safely in the lot and we need only walk a short distance from the train station to KO’s house.

The downside, however, is that five million other people have the same great idea.  This year the weather was sunny and warm, which meant that a record number of revelers were headed into town.  For the first time ever, we had to wait on line to get into the train station, then wait on another line to load up our Charlie card before boarding the train.  Swarming throughout the station were other families, couples and about a thousand girls with flat-ironed hair dressed in too-tight skirts, t-shirts with questionable sayings and large aviator sunglasses.  “Look”, said my husband nodding in their direction, “Boston Snookies!”

On the train ride in, we sat across from three Snookettes dressed in matching t-shirts similar to the shirts worn by the Dr. Seuss characters Thing 1 and Thing 2.  These shirts, however, were green and had shamrocks that said, “Drunk 1”, Drunk 2” and “Drunk 3”.   One of the girls had also had a baseball cap which read “I’m here to get drunk and …” (I won’t finish that sentence, but you can use your imagination). Her mom must be so proud.  She and her cohorts met up with some male friends and they passed around a large bottle of what appeared to be root beer for the entire ride.  At one point one of the male companions pulled a large bottle of raspberry vodka out of his backpack and took a long pull.  My son was horrified.  I had to agree: I mean really, who mixes raspberry vodka with root beer?

I’m sure some parents out there are thinking I’m irresponsible for exposing my children to this drunken behavior but I like to think of it as reinforcing the lessons they learned in D.A.R.E. class.   Pay attention kids!  People who drink on subway trains end up with bad tattoos and body piercings.   In a few years these same young men and women will be immortalized by the “People of Wal-Mart” website.

We exit the train station into bright sunlight and a sea of green-clothed bodies.  Fighting our way upstream, we arrive at KO’s house, greeted by the smell of boiled dinner and the sounds of U2.  Old friends are reunited and with the exception of a few pounds or a few gray hairs, we look pretty much the same as a year ago. 

The parade begins and the usual Irish staples are present:  Elvis, Darth Vader, Captain Jack Sparrow and, of course, The Ghostbusters.  You wouldn’t know it was a St. Patrick’s Day parade if not for the intermittent wheeze of bagpipes.   The red-faced politicians come through, sweating in the heat and slapping high-fives to the crowds.  We cheer loudly for the veterans, shouting our thanks while they salute us.  I jump out of my skin no less than five times as honor guards fire their guns, much to my sons’ delight.

During the course of the parade at least one perfect stranger asks to use my friend’s bathroom (seriously?) and a young man approaches me with a fistful of dollars asking if we have any beer to sell.  Sorry dude, it’s a party, not a packie.

As the parade peters out, we thank KO for her hospitality, hop on the train and head home.  There’s only a smattering of what my son calls ‘salty language”, and the most exciting part of the ride is a young man who may or may not be intoxicated, holding onto two hanger straps and spinning somersaults in the middle of the train. 

Each year we consider heading to the Scituate parade instead, which would cut down our travel time considerably.  But I’m pretty sure we’ll return to Southie next year; without Snookettes, drunk teenagers, Darth Vader and, most of all, our good friends, it just wouldn’t be St. Patrick’s Day.

Coaches Need to Know What Lessons They're Teaching

There are good coaches and there are bad coaches.

A good coach embraces the unique abilities of each team member and encourages teammates to do the same.  A bad coach singles out players who don’t measure up to his personal expectations and humiliates them for their shortcomings.

A good coach volunteers because she wants to share her love of the sport.  She wants to teach team members how to increase their abilities to the fullest potential, while learning how to work with others.  A bad coach volunteers for selfish reasons: perhaps she never reached the level of achievement she expected and is living vicariously through her team.

A good coach enjoys a win but teaches his team how to lose gracefully.  A bad coach wants to win at all costs, and heaven help team members if they don’t give him what he wants.

The good coach and the bad coach have one key thing in common: the ability to impact a child for the rest of his or her life.

I didn’t play sports as a child, but I do vividly remember my elementary school gym teacher, Mr. Embley.  He looked like Superman and was built like Jack Lalanne.  During a fitness test, I failed to do the recommended number of sit-ups.  Now Mr. Embley could have reacted in two ways.  He could have said, “C’mon Laura, I know you have a few more in you.  You can do it!”  Instead, he looked at me with disgust and said, “My grandmother could do more than that.”  Forty years later, I can still recall the shame I felt at that moment.  Does anyone recall a similar experience with their coach?

As a parent, I feel fortunate that my children have had some amazing coaches for soccer and baseball.  Neither child is an “A” player at either sport, but over the years their coaches have treated them with respect and worked hard to instill confidence in them and to nurture their abilities.  I know several friends who have not had the same luck with their children’s coaches.  One quit a sport altogether because of a bad coach. 

In October, I wrote a column about coaching and mentioned Joe Ehrmann, subject of the New York Times Bestseller, “Season of Life”.  Joe is a former All-Pro defensive linesman for the Baltimore Colts, and the author of “InsideOut Coaching”, a book that teaches coaches how to bring out the best in their players while looking inward to understand just why they themselves want to coach.   I had the pleasure of hearing Joe speak back in October.  On Sunday, Marcy 25, Joe Ehrmann returns to the South Shore, speaking at Norwell High School from 6–7:30 p.m.  This event is open to parents, athletes, educators, athletic directors and, most of all, coaches.

As a member of the committee organizing this event, I’m proud to invite you to come hear Joe’s important message about how sports can transform our children’s lives.  As a mother, I’m eager to learn what else I can do to help my children grow into confident, productive young men.  As a robotics coach, I’m hoping to gain some insight into why I volunteer and improve my skills for the betterment of my team.

Whether you are an athlete, parent, coach or all three, I hope to see you at the Norwell High School gymnasium on March 25 for Joe’s important message. 

Who knows?  It could change your life.  Or your child’s.

For Fun, Just Follow these Simple Steps

So you think you can dance?

That was the question I asked myself last week when I agreed to attend a dance night hosted by my church. 

Dance has become very popular recently, what with television programs like “Dance Moms”, “Dancing with the Stars” and “So You Think You Can Dance”.  Millions of viewers tune in each week to watch celebrities like Apollo Ono and Kirstie Alley strut their stuff. The classic film “Footloose” was recently remade with DWTS’s own Julianne Hough. In that film, an entire town prohibits dancing of any kind, at the urging of the local church.

My church, however, is the antithesis of the one in the movie. On two occasions our fellowship ministry team organized an evening of dance, bringing in a husband and wife team of instructors to demonstrate a series of dance moves. On my way out of church, I was persuaded to sign up, and returned home to tell my husband we were committed to an evening of dancing. I expected him to protest or at least roll his eyes, but his response was, “Oh cool!”

Prior to the event, I rented the Wii Game “Just Dance”. If you’re not familiar with the game, you hold the Wii remote in one hand while an on-screen avatar performs dance moves to contemporary music. It’s like “Dance Dance Revolution” without the pad.  I figured I’d get a little practice while getting a bit of a workout.  30 minutes later, I was puffing and sweating from renditions of Katy Perry’s “California Gurls” and LMFAO’s “Party Rock Anthem”. Although my avatar looked pretty fly, occasionally I would catch a glimpse of my reflection in the television screen, which made me realize I actually looked less like J-Lo and more like one of the dancing hippos from Disney’s “Fantasia”. To top it all off, I think I strained my neck with my overenthusiastic fist pumps during “Party Rock Anthem”.  Ouch.

On the night of the event, I decided to forgo my tutu for a more sensible outfit of jeans, sweater and comfortable boots.  Sneakers cause too much drag, not to mention all the squeaking.  Before heading to the church, we popped into the James Library in Norwell for the opening of local artist Mary Lizotte’s exhibit of paintings.  (The exhibit runs all month so be sure to stop and check out her beautiful work).  As we were leaving the library, we noticed several cars parked at the First Parish church.  Apparently, we were not the only folks dancing on Friday night.  We subsequently discovered that First Parish Church hosts a dance night most Fridays from 8-11 p.m.  Filing that information for future reference, we headed for our own church, UCC Norwell.

The event was held at Friendship Home, located just behind the church.  As we gathered with about a dozen other couples, I was relieved to see that beer and wine were provided.  Although one person hypothesized that perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to drink before dancing, the general consensus was that it was the perfect time to have a glass of wine to loosen up.  Our instructors, Marie and Tom Osterland arrived and promptly set us to work.

Having settled on the Rhumba, my husband and I faced each other and tried to master the basic box step. This consisted of me stepping from side to side, then taking a step back, stepping from side to side again, then taking a step forward.  Simple? Not when you consider that my husband had to take a step forward while I was stepping back and then reverse that while I stepped forward.  And we had to time the steps “…quick, quick, slow…quick, quick, slow…”  I had a slightly easier time given all my years of aerobics and Zumba. My husband, whose feet are fleet only when dribbling a soccer ball, had a tougher time. Just as we were starting to get the steps, the instructors introduced a spin, which threw both of us for a loop. Still we persevered and I only managed to kick my husband’s shins a couple of times.

Several couples opted to change partners once they got the hang of the steps, but my husband gripped my hands and pleaded, “Don’t leave me...I can’t do this with anyone else.” Once we mastered (a relative term for sure) the Rhumba, our instructors asked if we’d like to try to swing, prompting my husband to whisper, “I didn’t think it was that kind of party.” Elbowing him in the gut, I watched the instructors smoothly execute a basic jitterbug step. Perhaps it was the steps or the wine working its magic, but for some reason the swing step came more easily to us both.  “I think I just heard something creak”, my husband muttered as we tried to rotate our single step around the room.

As many of us paused to catch our breaths, a member of our group asked for a bit of space and then proceeded to break out into a fancy, improvised tap step, complete with tap shoes. Looking like something from this year’s film “The Artist”, she swooped and tapped as the rest of us stood on the sidelines and cheered.

By evening’s end, my hips and feet were a bit sore, but my spirit was rejuvenated.  As my husband and I drove home, I realized that it doesn’t really take much to try something new and have an enjoyable evening together.

You just need to take that first step.