Mongolian Cinema

I mean, haven't you had enough of Mongolian Cinema? I know, there are nights when you come home from work, fry up some chicken, boil some potatoes, steam some fresh green beans, brew a fresh pot of coffee to drink with your peach cobbler for desert and sit down to relax and say, "I know what will take my mind off anticipating the complexities of discussion after combing through excel sheets while working to meet revised accreditation standards by writing assessable outcomes for a family of courses forwarded by way of the unit plan to the curriculum revision committee on behalf of the Joint Boards Articulation Commission." I'll watch a Mongolian movie. I'll enjoy the relaxing panorama of endless tracts of Mongolian desert and the rich irony of western influences like motorcycles and televisions residing vis a vis ancient worship rituals and sturdy yurts of the Gobi region. I'll transport myself to a world of cinema where over ninety minutes of rising action builds around the question, "Will the camel allow her new born calf to suck the milk from her teat." Don't let anyone who's seen the movie spoil the ending of the "Story of the Weeping Camel"if you haven't seen it.

Like I said, I like Mongolian movies as much as the next guy. I have nights, when to take my mind off of the next strategic plan to fundamentally redesign the college through a shared-decision making process sensitive to the voiced needs of all stakeholders so that streamlined institutional agility can be balanced with global deliberation so we can boldly confront the millineal challenges in the future that lies ahead, I watch Paul Pena (pictured), the blind blues guitarist and writer of the Steve Miller song "Jet Airliner" go to Tuva, just north of Mongolia, to throat sing in the movie"Ghengis Blues"

I'm the first to admit it. I got caught up in Mongolian Madness. I bought the DVD of "The Story of the Weeping Camel." I think of Paul Pena every time I hear Steve Miller.

But enough is enough. I swear, I know why Neil Diamond doesn't get booked in Eugene. He can't get booked ahead of the Throat Singers. It would be one thing if Throat Singing had stayed in Mongolia. But it's worse than blogging. Every one is Throat Singing. Inuits throat sing. Bulgarians. Laplanders. There are throatsingers in India, Sardinia, and Quebec. And they all perform in Eugene. Everywhere.

Sometimes I'd like to just go down to the Hilton's lobby bar and listen to the house piano player pluck out "The Way You Look Tonight." Can't. The Eugene Throat Singers of Peace are performing. Throat singers perform at the University. They come to the Hult Center, our largest performing hall. They come to a smaller venue, The Shedd. I expect that next the Harlem Boys Throat Singers will be formed along with the Mormon Tabernacle Throat Singers.

Just last night, I turned on the radio. I just wanted to hear some classical music. Couldn't. More Throat Singing.

I love it, but Mongolian Cinema has been the bane of my existence. It's become like the Cane Toad in Australia, choking out all the native species of music and song. I'm afraid that I won't be able to go to the Chinook Winds Casino and hear Wynnona Judd, or count on Paul Revere and the Raiders playing next years Lane County Fair, or trust that I can see Wayne Newton if I go to Vegas: I'm afraid they'll all be squeezed out by bloody Throat Singers.

It's why I need to move back to North Idaho. I need to go back to where I can call up a good friend, go down to the Happy Landing or InCahoots and count on singing some Aerosmith on karaoke night or listening to a bar band do Merle Haggard covers or just be able to play a set of Styx and ABBA and Asia on the jukebox.

I pray that North Idaho never falls prey to this Throat Singing fad. I pray I can look to North Idaho for sanity in a world that just can't leave a fad alone.