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December 1, 2007 — From the Arts & Culture section

To see the printed version of the newspaper, complete with photographs
and additional content, visit and download the pdf
files. It’s free.

1. Dance: Poetry in motion (by Gayaneh Madzounian)
* Flamenco is where Lorie Baghdassarian comes from

2. Stage: A jack-of-all-theatrical-trades (by Andrew Kevorkian)
* But Paul Meshejian is a master of them all

3. Avet Barseghyan: Are you humming his words? (by Betty Panossian –
Ter Sargssian)

4. Film: Composer follows his passion (by Sarah Soghomonian)
* Jeff Atmajian has helped score the music of some of Hollywood’s
biggest pictures

5. Theater: Virtual theatricality (reviewed by Aram Kouyoumdjian)

6. Poetry: Writing from "some in-between world" (by Lola Koundakjian)
* A conversation with poet and writer Lorne Shirinian

7. Q & A with Rien Long (by Simone Abrahamsohn)
* Defensive lineman for the Tennessee Titans featured in Long Journey
>From the NFL to Armenia

8. Armenian revival: (Re-) introducing the Critics’ Forum (by Hovig Tchalian)

9. Essay: You can’t take it with you (by Armen Bacon)

10. Arthur-Best is the Pan-Armenian Star

11. Levity: How to live longer and why (by Dandeegeen)

************************************* **************************************

1. Dance: Poetry in motion

* Flamenco is where Lorie Baghdassarian comes from

by Gayaneh Madzounian

Lorie Baghdassarian’s life reads like the stuff that dreams are made
of. Her passion for Gypsy culture has taken her from a comfortable
life in Paris to the heart of Andalusia, where she lives in a Gypsy
community to master the spirited art of flamenco. Lorie was born in
Paris to a Lebanese-Armenian family. She was trained as a dancer from
a very young age, taking classes in ballet, jazz, modern, and Armenian
folk dance. Her artistic path took a decisive turn when she was 15.
That year, during a family summer vacation in Spain, Lorie discovered
flamenco. "I was speechless," she recalls. "I adored it from the
second I experienced it. I loved the music and songs, but most of all
the dance. Then and there, I decided this was what I wanted to do."

After her return to Paris, the high-school student lost no time to
begin taking flamenco-dance lessons from a Spanish teacher and immerse
herself in her newly found passion. Years later, as she was completing
her studies in history and ethnology at the Sorbonne, Lorie devoted
her final thesis to the history and culture of the Gypsies. Her
research revealed that they had left Rajastan, India, in the 15th
century and embarked on a long journey through Persia, Armenia, and
Eastern Europe before settling in southern Spain’s Andalusia Province.
Once she finished her thesis work, Lorie felt something was missing.
It didn’t take her long to realize that in order to better understand
her favorite subject, she needed actually to be among Gypsies — to
sit, eat, sing, dance, cry, and laugh with the people whose music and
dance spoke so directly to her heart.

That’s when she packed her bags and in short order found herself in
Granada, the capital of Andalusia.

"At first it was very difficult to penetrate the protective layer
that the Gypsies draw around them," she says. "Flamenco is sacred to
them, and they don’t like sharing it with outsiders — myself included
at that time. But slowly, as they took notice of my efforts to learn
their culture and dance without any pretensions, they accepted and
helped me. There I was, living in a culture not much different from my
own. Like the Armenians, the Gypsies get together to dance the joy of
being alive and sing the pain of a lost home or love."

Lorie believes that flamenco is a living art that will continue to
evolve and flourish as long as the Gypsies themselves exist.

"Flamenco in its present form dates back only two centuries," she
says. "It was created during the years when the Gypsies wandered
around the world, absorbing elements of the various cultures they
encountered along the way. Of course flamenco was also hugely
influenced by seven centuries of Arab rule in Spain."

Today Lorie is in Lebanon, helping organize and conduct flamenco
workshops. She was invited there by Fadia Yared, who heads a small
dance studio in the heart of Beirut. Yared plans to expand the
establishment into a full-fledged flamenco center, where aficionados
of the tradition can meet others and learn the dance. "It is very
interesting how people on the streets here in Lebanon look so much
like people you meet on the streets of Granada, Jerez, or Seville,"
Lorie says. "Of course there are tremendous commonalities between the
Arabic and Spanish civilizations, which perhaps explains the natural
Lebanese affinity for flamenco today."

The workshops have beginning and advanced levels. Commenting on her
collaboration with Lorie, Yared says: "Lorie is a blast. She is a
breath of fresh air. Everybody enjoys her workshops and we hope to
have her with us on a regular basis."

Notwithstanding her busy schedule, Lorie remains active in Armenian
culture. In 2003, she participated in the annual Hamazkayin Forum in
Armenia, which comprises a cluster of events that familiarize visiting
Armenian students from throughout the world with their homeland and
culture. Performing in a talent show during the forum, Lorie
mesmerized everyone with her beautiful dancing. Suddenly, everyone was
eager to learn. Lorie organized a class for the girls, and
subsequently those attending the forum gave a performance of their own
for their friends.

Word of Lorie’s flamenco work spread quickly, reaching the ears of
Armenia’s best guitar players. "There are a number of truly
accomplished guitarists in Armenia who are passionate about flamenco
and it was interesting to meet them," Lorie recalls. "The only sad
thing is that they’ve never had the chance to work with flamenco
singers and dancers."

Ever practical, Lorie is doing something about this. In April 2008,
she will spend a month in Armenia to collaborate with local dancers
and train them in flamenco. "I will take a guitar player and a singer
>From Spain with me," she says. "I want to do it right. This way
Armenian guitarists will have the opportunity to accompany a flamenco
singer."

Yet flamenco is not the only music and dance form that interests
Lorie. While she was in Armenia, she took the opportunity to acquire a
better understanding of Armenian dances. "At first it was very
difficult to learn them," she says. "The women’s dance parts are the
total opposite of flamenco. In the Armenian dances, females are meant
to be delicate and gentle. By contrast, the women of flamenco are like
fire, strong and tough. But it was a joy learning all that. Every
small detail helps me to better understand Armenian music and dance,
and certainly allows me to enhance my flamenco."

Today Lorie works as a dancer in the town of Jerez and teaches
beginners’ classes. "My dream is to travel the world through dance: to
perform in different countries, to teach what I know, and learn new
dances." Don’t be surprised to see this young flamenco dancer in your
own city, moving to the rhythms of a Spanish guitar.

***************************************** **********************************

2. Stage: A jack-of-all-theatrical-trades

* But Paul Meshejian is a master of them all

by Andrew Kevorkian

PHILADELPHIA — When he says, "this city has the best and most vibrant
civic-theater life of any city in the country," Paul Meshejian knows
whereof he speaks. But obviously, modesty prevents him from adding:
"And I am a vital part of it."

Since returning to his native Philadelphia, Meshejian has been a
producer, a director, and an actor with 10 of the city’s theatrical
groups, being involved in one or other of these capacities in more
than 150 productions. Add to that the companies in the surrounding
area, and one loses count.

He was last seen on stage, during September, as the "no foundation"
Arab in the Shakespeare Company of New Jersey’s production of William
Saroyan’s Time of Your Life. He was also the director of Last of the
Boys, at Philadelphia’s InterAct Theatre Company, which ran till
mid-November.

However active he has been directly with the stage, Meshejian finds
time to be a teacher at two local universities and at a local theater
company, and has undertaken a new project that he indicates may not
only be more challenging but also more rewarding.

He is a founder and artistic director of the three-year-old PlayPenn,
which he describes as a "Play Development Conference" created to help
budding playwrights submit their complete plays, their
work-in-progress plays, and their ideas for plays, with the ultimate
goal of an all-expenses-paid two weeks of intense help from
professionals.

As with the late Zero Mostel — who once said that he acted only to
be able to spend time with his first love, painting — Meshejian
suggests that he started acting to support his love of directing. And
now, it seems, he is directing to support and devote his time to
PlayPenn and help young (and not so young) playwrights.

"It’s a full-time, year-round effort," he says. "All else is on top."

The temptation is to ask: "And when do you sleep?"

Always interested in the theater, he didn’t attack it full time until
after his year of service in Vietnam, in 1970. He had gone to Parson’s
College, in Fairfield, Iowa, in 1966 — about as different from
Philadelphia as one can get. He stayed there for a year and then
"bounced around quite a bit" until he was drafted for that Vietnam
stint. On his discharge he returned to Parsons, "with its peace and
quiet," to tackle the theater "in a focused and concentrated way."

There, he married. After he worked in theaters large and small in
many communities in Iowa, Michigan (including directing a play by
inmates of the State Prison in Jackson!), and Nebraska, he was ready
to move on, and that opportunity came when his wife Michal was offered
a job on the faculty of Macalester College, in St. Paul, Minn. Off
they went — and that’s when his multi-career theater life took off in
earnest. At the college, he also got his first taste of teaching —
both acting and directing.

In both regions, his credits run from the experimental theater to
Shakespeare, with stops at classics (Shakespeare and Strindberg) and
old chestnuts (Agatha Christie and Jane Kesselring) and comedy (Neil
Simon) and virtually everything in between.

Having confirmed that the theater was indeed to be his life, and
realizing that he had gone about as far as he could go in Minnesota
("And the cold?" — a smile, but no comment), Meshejian returned to
Philadelphia in 1989, and for a while the pair tried a long-distance
marriage. He was eager to resume a closer relationship with his
parents after many years away from "home."

In time, his wife gave up her post in St. Paul, and joined her
husband in Philadelphia, and soon joined the faculties at both Temple
University and the University of Pennsylvania. She is a professor of
sociology.

The people in the Midwest, however, will still remember Meshejian. In
addition to serving as artistic director or producer for a number of
civic theaters throughout the area, Meshejian was founder of a
community theater in Fairfield, Iowa, and also of
StageOne:Collaboration, a small professional theater in St. Paul.

* "Saroyan really holds up"

Once settled in Philadelphia, he became busy. He started his acting
life with the Philadelphia Light and Theatre company’s production of
Our Town in 1990, and his directing life with Trifles with the same
company. A year later Meshejian had worked with every theatrical group
in the area. In addition to his teaching at Arcadia University, in
nearby Glenside, Meshejian has offered workshops in acting at Temple
University, University of the Arts, and Stockton State College, in New
Jersey.

In recognition of his many activities, he has been nominated for a
Barrymore — a local award. (The Barrymores were a Philadelphia
family, for those who didn’t know!)

Some people may recognize the name and face from television and film,
including the HBO production of The Wire; NBC’s Homicide: Life on the
Streets; Universal’s Twelve Monkeys; Rain City Productions’ Equinox;
the Independent production of Private Enemy — Public Eye; CBS’s The
Comeback; and the PBS production of Comedy for Rent.

With all those credits, "Why a small role in Time of Your Life?"

"I had never done a Saroyan, so I wanted to try it and understand him."

Did he?

"Oh, yes. Saroyan really holds up." After a moment, he adds with a
smile: "Although I am not sure that the guy is really an Arab." (There
followed an inconclusive discussion as to whether or not he is really
an Armenian and why, if so, Saroyan didn’t indicate as much.)

And, the current play, with InterAct? It is about two Vietnam
veterans, the psychological burdens they still carry despite their
long 30-year friendship, and one character’s family conflicts.
Meshejian met the playwright, Steven Dietz, when he was just beginning
to write, 27 years ago, "and despite having lived and worked in the
same community for some years, this is our first opportunity to
collaborate, even though it’s at a distance."

Along the way, in his 30-plus-year career, he has adapted or has been
co-adaptor of four productions as well.

But it is PlayPenn that Meshejian sees as becoming his major
contribution to the theater. Already it is receiving almost 200
applications a year, which professional readers reduce to six. Those
six playwrights are then rewarded with the two-weeks intensive
development. With only $100,000 budget, from individual supporters,
PlayPenn is seeking foundation money to expand the program. One play
has been successfully produced in Louisville, Ky., and another will be
produced by the National Theatre, in London.

Truly excited about its potential for theater in this country,
Meshejian feels that PlayPenn will be his way of giving future
playwrights some of the passion that has proved so rewarding to him.
If they do absorb that passion, the future for theater is bright.

***************************************** **********************************

3. Avet Barseghyan: Are you humming his words?

by Betty Panossian – Ter Sargssian

YEREVAN — Sitting at Artbridge, the tony café-bookstore on Abovian
Street in central Yerevan, the first thing I discovered about Avet
Barseghyan was that he once aspired to be a historian. But then his
artistic sensibilities took over, turning him into a renowned poet,
television personality, and lyricist. His Garmir, Gabuid, Dziranakuin
(Red, blue, apricot) became an instant hit during the 2006 Armenian
Fund telethon.

* The unknown poet

Long before he went into show business, Barseghyan was enamored of
theater and film. "As a child, I always yearned for the stage," he
said. "Everything about it enchanted me. I have never dreamed of
becoming a physician, a lawyer, or an executive."

Some people have a knack for being at the right place at the right
time. Barseghyan is one of them. He came into the spotlight just when
Armenian pop culture of the post-independence era was beginning to
emulate the glamour of the West.

In 2001, when Barseghyan was a history major, a lucky turn of events
catapulted him into a field in which he would soon become a dominating
figure. "It was by a very happy coincidence that one day I found
myself at the radio, and soon on television," Barseghyan recalled.
Within a few months, he wrote his first lyrics, for a tune composed by
Aram Avagyan.

That first song, Siro Harutiun (Love Resurrected), was inspired by a
real story about a man and a woman whom Barseghyan knew personally.
"Twenty five years after their first meeting, they crossed paths again
on a plane and their love was rekindled." Though the song, which was
performed by Ratik Gaprielyan, did not make waves, Barseghyan
remembers it fondly. "It remained something rather private," he said,
"and I’m glad for it, because I would not have wanted my very first
lyrics to cross the limits of privacy and be possessed by everyone."

That was not the first time Barseghyan had dabbled in verse. When he
was 14 and madly in love, he picked up his pencil and wrote several
love poems, in Russian. It had never occurred to him that one day he
would develop his flair for writing into a brilliant career.

* All about love

Love, but mainly an essential penchant for artistic expression, has
defined the turning points of Barseghyan’s life. "Everything I feel,
love or hatred, winds up in my poems and lyrics," he said.

In 2001, after completing his university studies, he put aside his
books and found himself at the National Theater of Song, now widely
recognized as Armenia’s top star-making vehicle.

It was at the National Theater of Song that Barseghyan’s budding
talent was honed, a process that had its share of trials. "There is an
incident I never forget," he recalled. "One day I entered the boy’s
make-up room. André, Arsen Safaryan, Aram Avagyan, and Arsen Grigoryan
were all there. I told them I had written something and went on to
read it. They all laughed! I told them, ‘Guys, one day I will come
back in my own way.’ And I am glad that that day has come. I am really
glad that they all are my good friends," he continued with a laugh.

Barseghyan first gained popular and critical acclaim as the lyricist
for Arsen Grigoryan. But his breakthrough came in 2005 with Im Sere
Kez (My Love for You), a song he wrote for André.

Today his educational background and present career may seem worlds
apart, but Barseghyan believes he is still very much enmeshed in
history. "To me history, writing lyrics, and hosting youth-oriented
programs are all interwoven. In a way, what I’m doing is recording the
history of our times: how the young people live their lives, how they
love, the way they interact and communicate," he said.

* An outpouring of passion

His lyrics are born in the most contrasting of situations. "I may be
equally inspired at my desk in the radio station, sitting at any café,
in the solitude and silence of my home, or by the side of the one I
love," Barseghyan explained. The effortlessness with which his songs
become beloved pop gems is matched by his ease in crafting them. He
can write a song in 15 minutes.

"The first letters of my lyrics have to be associated with the person
for whom I write the song. Their image becomes the very first letter,"
Barseghyan said. He adds that he works mainly with pop singers with
whom he feels an artistic and spiritual bond. Thus, for instance,
"Lyrics written for Hasmik Karapetyan open with transcendental words
asserting the preeminence of the divine, reflecting the soulful depth
of her music. To me, Arsen Grigoryan represents the anachronism of our
century. It is so hard to find someone as romantic as he is. So the
lyrics I write for him are always an attempt to capture his persona.
As for Shushan Petrosyan, images of woman and mother are at center
stage, aiming at a deeply philosophical resonance."

To date, Barseghyan has written more than 300 songs, for a growing
roster of pop stars including Nune Yesayan, André, Arsen Safaryan,
Aram, Razmik Amyan, Emmie, and Annie Christie.

* Color correction

Barseghyan said that the mere eight lines of the song Garmir, Gabuid,
Dziranakuin, which he wrote for the 2006 telethon, are now more
popular than all of his other songs combined. "It is a coda for the
positive attitude of the Armenian way of living," he explains.

Aware that a large number of young Armenians would learn about the
Armenian tricolor from his song, Barseghyan deliberately changed the
traditional narnchakuin (orange) of the tricolor to dziranakuin
(apricot) in the lyrics. "The orange color is not Armenian," he
stressed. "We Armenians have never had orange. On the other hand,
apricot is our national color."

* Still waiting to be discovered

At 27, Avet Barseghyan is a bona fide pop star, with a burgeoning
music, television, and radio career under his belt. His ambitions,
however, don’t stop there, as his childhood fascination with the stage
and silver screen has never quite left him. "I am waiting for a
filmmaker to discover me," he said, adding that any role, in any
genre, would interest him. "I think as an actor I can well overshadow
my work as a TV or radio host and lyricist."

********************************* ******************************************

4. Film: Composer follows his passion

* Jeff Atmajian has helped score the music of some of Hollywood’s
biggest pictures

by Sarah Soghomonian

When Jeff Atmajian began college at Fresno State in the late 1970s he
had to make a choice. He had to decide if he was going to play it safe
and study mechanical engineering or follow his passion and study
music. He went with music.

"For a long time I worried about how I was going to make a living,"
Atmajian said.

When Atmajian, now 47, graduated with his bachelor’s degree in 1983,
he headed to Los Angeles to continue his studies at the University of
Southern California.

While studying film scoring at USC, Atmajian worked odd jobs. He
often took gigs playing piano for dance classes. After graduation he
worked for a church in Southern California and as a copyist.

Atmajian never gave up on his dream to work in film scoring, but said
the competition in Hollywood was tough. Around his 30th birthday
everything began to fall into place.

"I was thrilled because I was working on films," said Atmajian.

Over the last decade and a half, Atmajian has helped score the music
of some of Hollywood’s biggest pictures.

Jeff Atmajian’s name can be found on the credits of films such as The
American President, Passion of the Christ, Blood Diamond, The Sixth
Sense and Terminator 3. He worked with Barbara Streisand on the Mirror
Has Two Faces and has rubbed elbows with some of Hollywood’s best
composers.

Twelve film scores on which Atmajian has worked have been nominated
for Academy Awards. He often works as an orchestrator for composers
such as James Newton Howard, Rachel Portman, Marc Shaiman, and Gabriel
Yared.

In the coming months Atmajian’s work can be heard in I am Legend
starring Will Smith and The Bucket List with Jack Nicholson.

Atmajian would like to make the transition to composer. He worked as
the composer on Screamers, a documentary about the Armenian Genocide
and composed a 2005 summer program, titled Creation, at Orange
County’s famous Crystal Cathedral.

"I’m trying to get my music heard in the hopes that someone is going
to say, ‘I want him to do my film, I like his music,’" Atmajian said.

As a child growing up in Fresno, Calif., he never would have guessed
he would be making a living doing what he’s doing, Atmajian says.

Atmajian began taking piano lessons when he was eight years old, with
his sister Carrie from Esther Frankian, the former organist at Pilgram
Armenian Church. But after some time he quit. "This is hard, I want to
get it perfect," Atmajian remembers saying as a teenager.

Atmajian did go back to piano because it was something that he said
he truly enjoyed doing.

Carol Karabian, Atmajian’s cousin, remembers piano being so important
to Atmajian that when the family would travel to Santa Cruz for
vacation, his mother, Donna, would drive him to the nearby university
so he could practice. "His music was always really important to him,"
Karabian said. "He just loved the piano."

Atmajian said his parents were always supportive of him. He knows his
father, Ron Atmajian, who died in 1984, would be proud of all he has
accomplished.

His mother, Donna Robinson, of Fresno, says that when she and
Atmajian’s stepfather Warren see a movie that Atmajian has worked on,
they wait with excitement to see his name in the credits. "We’re very
proud of him," Robinson said. "He has always been a wonderful son."

While Atmajian, who splits his time between homes in Los Angeles and
London, often gets back to Fresno to visit his family, he hadn’t spent
much time at his alma mater, Fresno State, since graduating.

On Oct. 22 he came back to where it all started as part of the
College of Arts and Humanities lecture series featuring distinguished
alumni.

Atmajian, spoke about the history of music in movies, using clips
>From films to illustrate the importance of the score. Without music
movies would lose the viewers’ interest and would make establishing
emotion more difficult.

"Music is the only thing that actually connects you to film,"
Atmajian said. "It draws you in."

Atmajian began the lecture by playing Janet Leigh’s death scene in
the Alfred Hitchcock classic Psycho.

"Pay attention to how the music makes you feel," Atmajian said, as
the audience watched Norman Bates stab Janet Leigh in the shower. "The
music is saying something really terrible just happened."

When Atmajian played the same clip without music, it had less of an
affect on the audience.

Atmajian went on to play the opening scene from movies made in the
1940s and 1950s, which Atmajian referred to as the "Golden Years of
Hollywood." The opening scene of A Place in the Sun, which featured
music by Franz Waxman, took the viewer to another place in time. "That
music is saying this is big," Atmajian said. "Hollywood was a place of
dreams."

In the early 1960s, Atmajian said, the music in movies became more
intimate. While an orchestra was still being used, it was on a smaller
scale. But by the late 1960s and the 1970s many composers found
themselves out of work, Atmajian said. This is because songs became
the new music of choice.

Atmajian cited The Graduate and its music by Simon and Garfunkel as
an example of the use of song in movies. "The words are saying
something to you," he said.

Atmajian credits Star Wars as the film that brought back the
orchestra. "It sounds like it could have come from the 40s," Atmajian
said of the opening film music.

Today music scoring is more advanced because of new technology.
Atmajian says the technology doesn’t always make things easier. "There
is a lot more choice," he said. "Nothing is finished until the last
possible minute."

Atmajian says he’s glad he had the guts to stick with his passion of
music, instead of going the more traditional route.

"It’s a fascinating and interesting thing to work in," Atmajian said.
"I’ve been fortunate."

************************************************** *************************

5. Theater: Virtual theatricality

reviewed by Aram Kouyoumdjian

Razmik Zargarian’s Virtually Real, which marks his first foray into
playwriting, was created for the best of reasons — to honor the
memory of Seroj Mirbegian and his life in the theater. The 50-minute
work, which premiered at the Luna Playhouse on November 16 for a
three-performance run, provided a glimpse into the play-making process
as it captured the chaos of an amateur troupe’s rehearsal session.
Despite its admirable point of departure, however, as a piece of
theater itself, Virtually Real proved woefully underdeveloped and
ultimately insubstantial.

Tentative from the start, due to undefined relationships and
conflicts, the production never managed to gain momentum. Rather, it
shuffled along to an uncertain end.

A tepid opening sequence served to introduce the line-up of
characters as they arrived to rehearse the play-within-the-play.
Nothing of interest was learned about any of them, except that Feave
(Araks Safarloo) was having issues with babysitting at home. As
rehearsal was interrupted so she could deal with this problem, the
remaining characters were conveniently left to discuss everything from
divorce to traffic tickets — though little of their conversation was
illuminating or even entertaining.

Matters only got worse in the play-within-the-play, a senseless
exercise about a man (Stepan Safarloo) cutting in line at a mini-mart,
to the consternation of other customers, including a flirtatious young
couple (Arin Keshishian and Karmen Zargarian). Even the actors
rehearsing the play-within-the-play recognized it as "terrible." To be
sure, self-conscious labeling can, at times, be a clever ploy; but it
cannot be an excuse for inert writing. Rather, for the conceit to
work, the play-within-the-play must be over-the-top awful — if it
must be bad at all — in order to be enjoyed or, at least, endured.

Zargarian certainly tested his audience’s endurance by setting an
entire scene in the dark — as an electrical short interrupted the
rehearsal. While the effect was initially intriguing, it became
exasperating as the scene went for minutes on end — an eternity in
the theater (or the dark).

To its credit, Zargarian’s script attempted to explore the gray zone
— the rehearsal, if you will — between the real world and the world
of make-believe. For this exploration to have been visceral, however,
the stakes needed to be higher so that the audience could have become
invested in the conflicts that afflicted the characters in the play
and the characters in the play-within-the-play.

While reflecting on Virtually Real, my thoughts often turned to Vahe
Berberian’s The Pink Elephant, a superb play that depicts a rehearsal
as well; yet its gritty and pulsating premise raises the stakes and,
in fact, makes them a matter of life and death. Set in Beirut during
the height of the civil war in Lebanon, the rehearsal unfolds amidst
relentless bombing that threatens not only the theater company’s art,
but the very lives of its members! Just as importantly, however, the
absurdist play-within-the-play lures the audience through its own
engrossing storyline featuring dissidents in a totalitarian state.

The script for Virtually Real lacked those essential elements.
Although director Maro Parian attempted to inject some vitality into
the staging, her relatively unseasoned cast was unable to improve on
the script, generally delivering broad performances lacking in craft.

Luna’s tenacious commitment to the development of new works remains
commendable. The playhouse should consider, however, showcasing novice
ventures through staged readings and workshops before unveiling them
for public consumption. Such an approach would inure to the benefit of
the creators, producers, and patrons of theater alike.

***

Aram Kouyoumdjian is the winner of Elly Awards for both playwriting
(The Farewells) and directing (Three Hotels). His latest work is
Velvet Revolution.

************************************* **************************************

6. Poetry: Writing from "some in-between world"

* A conversation with poet and writer Lorne Shirinian

by Lola Koundakjian

Lorne Shirinian is a writer and professor of comparative literature at
the Royal Military College of Canada in Kingston, Ontario. He is the
author of 20 books of poetry, fiction, drama, and scholarly studies.
His most recent creative work is Love Hemorrhage; his latest scholarly
work is The Landscape of Memory: Perspectives on the Armenian
Diaspora.

Lola Koundakjian conducted this interview via e-mail in October.

***

Lola Koundakjian: Having been born in Canada, are you considered a
first-generation Armenian-Canadian author?

Lorne Shirinian: I was born in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, in 1945. I
knew at an early age that I wanted to be a writer. It took me time to
understand that I was a first-generation Armenian-Canadian writer.
That commitment changed my life. As I look back, there was a cost to
this.

* The Georgetown Boys

LK: Your father was one of the Georgetown Boys. How did that flavor
your upbringing?

LS: My family history in Canada begins in 1924, when my father was
brought from an orphanage in Corfu run by the Lord Mayor’s Fund of
London, England, and Near East Relief to a farm home in Georgetown,
Ontario, northwest of Toronto. The Armenian Relief Society of Canada
petitioned the Canadian government persistently until they were
granted permission to bring 100 Armenian orphans to the farm home,
where they would be taught skills to make them Canadian farmers. These
were the "Georgetown Boys." My uncle Ardashes Mazmanian came with the
first group of 50 boys in 1923; my father Mampre Shirinian arrived a
year later in the second group. The relief agencies tried when
possible to reunite families and found my mother Mariam Mazmanian in
an orphanage in Lebanon. She was brought to the Georgetown home along
with about 30 other Armenian girls in 1927. They were soon sent out to
work as mothers’ helpers in Ontario. My parents met in the orphanage,
and when they reached the age of majority, they left for Toronto
together and opened a grocery store. I think my father was only 23 at
the time. Their story and their courage have influenced me enormously.
The Armenian community in Toronto was quite small in the 1940s. Our
house served as an unofficial community center. Weekends were filled
with visitors, and Sunday afternoons were given to picnics in our
backyard, where my father made kebab. I have vivid memories of their
friends dancing to Armenian music, which raised eyebrows in the
neighborhood. Inevitably, late in the afternoon, they would gather
around and in hushed tones retell stories of their families and what
they witnessed during the Genocide. All of this was my ongoing history
lesson; their stories were my introduction to the oral history of the
Armenian Genocide. Our history, I understood, was not an abstraction;
it was palpable, brutal, yet contained moments of joy despite the
terrible trauma.

LK: Did literature play a part in your childhood? Which authors were
you reading then?

LS: My father wrote plays in Toronto, which were performed in church
basements by members of the community. My mother danced on stage.
There were the makings of a diaspora culture in the city, but all of
that has become lost history as none of it was recorded. I do recall
seeing my father’s notebooks in which he wrote his plays, and have
been looking for them, but they too are gone like all members of that
early Armenian community. My father was a businessman. After the
grocery store, he went into real estate and worked hard to make a
living. Nevertheless, he had the most amazing collection of books in
the house — among them, the Harvard Classics. As a youth, I read all
kinds of literature from Huckleberry Finn to Les Misérables.

LK: When did you write your first poems and come to the realization
that you were a poet?

LS: I began writing poems at the age of 12. I read all the poetry I
could get my hands on and soon began to form opinions on what I
thought was good poetry. As a young teenager, I selected a bunch of my
poems and typed them up neatly, wrote an introduction, stitched the
signatures together, and glued pieces of leather on thick cardboard
and made a single hardbound copy. It was quite thrilling to see my
first book of poems.

* Choosing a cause

LK: What were your poems in the 1960s like, especially with Vietnam
and Cuba as conflict arenas, and the 1968 world movements?

LS: In many ways, living in Canada in the sixties was quite a
different experience from what young Americans were going through.
Many of us, too, were against the war in Vietnam and protested in
front of the U.S. Consulate in Toronto. At that time, there were about
100,000 American draft dodgers in the city, mostly around the
University of Toronto. We never had to fear the draft or the need to
sign up. Our government maintained a neutral policy. Of course the
Cuban missile crisis affected us all, but after, we never had the
violent reaction against Cuba that Americans had. I had friends who
spent time working in Cuba, helping with the harvest. There were no
real restrictions. I don’t believe any of these crises made their way
into my poetry. Perhaps the images and rhythms of rock were an
influence. At that time, my mind was dedicated to two things
primarily: world literature and the Armenian cause. Trying to
understand Armenian history and the Genocide and the aftermath of
genocide consumed me. To a certain extent, I think I said to myself,
"To hell with a world that doesn’t have the moral courage to recognize
and speak out against what had happened to our parents." This attitude
didn’t keep me from engaging with the world, but it did cause me to
select and focus on what I felt was important. There were plenty of
causes in the sixties; this one was mine.

LK: You have published poems in English and French. Some are
bilingual (including one of my favorites, "Gelinas"). Are there
particular themes and topics you write about in one versus the other
language?

LS: I studied French language and literature at the University of
Toronto and did my graduate work in comparative literature. At that
time in my life, I was into French culture. Even now, certain ideas
and lines present themselves in French rather than English. Living in
Quebec for 20 years added another layer to the mix.

* A theoretical framework

LK: You received your Ph.D. in comparative literature from the
Université de Montréal, specializing in Armenian-North American
literature. How did you persuade your department about your
dissertation topic, and where did you do your research?

LS: I did my doctorate in comparative literature at the Université de
Montréal. Fortunately, at that time, the department was at its height.
There were professors from all over the world. It was truly a
cosmopolitan experience. I wanted to do a thesis that was relevant to
my life. I and my fellow Armenian-North American writers were writing
about the Genocide and what it meant to our parents and our lives in
North America. I elaborated the elements I thought were essential and
proposed a thesis: "Armenian North American Literature: A Critical
Introduction; Genocide, Diaspora, and Symbols." Granted it’s a rather
heavy title, but the thesis and the book that came from it did create
a theoretical framework for understanding this corpus of texts. I had
the good fortune to have Wlad Godzich, a major figure in the field, as
a thesis director.

LK: You edited Armenian-North American poets: An Anthology, in 1974.
Tell us how you met some of the authors represented in that book —
like Leo Hamalian and Peter Manuelian.

LS: Part of the motivation for what I do has been the need to collect
and preserve. Almost all of my work as a scholar has been dedicated to
analyzing our diaspora culture. Because so much of Armenian life and
material culture were destroyed and the diaspora was so fragmented —
particularly in Canada, where the Armenian community is relatively
small, today about 80,000 — I wanted to set things down, to help
young Armenians to articulate their thoughts and feelings. I’ve been
successful in this, as a number of university students in Canada and
Europe have contacted me and used my scholarly and creative work in
their research and theses. My first book of poetry came out in 1971.
That was followed by Armenian-North American Poets: An Anthology,
which came from the desire to collect and preserve our culture in the
new world. Friends like Leo Hamalian, David Kherdian, and Raffi Setian
helped by sending me the addresses of poets who had had poems
published in Ararat. Over a period of about 18 months, I contacted
poets, received their manuscripts, made selections, edited, and
published the book. This was my introduction to the realities of the
Armenian community at large. Most don’t read. I naively had thought
that literature would be consumed by diaspora-Armenians eager to know
about their transnational culture. Not so. Since the advent of the
Armenian republic, the impetus and energy for developing a distinct
Armenian diaspora culture here has been lost.

LK: What drove these poets in the seventies?

LS: In the seventies we were driven by the need to express our
feelings about our lost heritage and our lives in North America. I was
quite integrated into Canadian society, but felt uncomfortable as an
outsider. The secret hope was that the Armenian heritage we might
recover would somehow fill the void. It rarely did. I always felt
trapped in some in-between world, not fully of one or the other.

LK: How similar or different were your experiences in the same
decade? How did they affect your writing?

LS: To a certain extent my experiences in Canada were similar;
however, they were tempered by the influx of new Armenian immigrants
>From the Middle East, particularly from Lebanon in the early 1970s.
They brought with them a viable Armenian diaspora culture. It helped
politicize what I was doing. That too has tempered today.

LK: Who do you see as the major players, and what are the major
themes, for the current generation of Armenian-North American poets?

LS: I haven’t kept up with new writing, I’m sorry to say. However, I
have read some good poems on your excellent website.

LK: Are you still writing poems?

LS: Yes, I’m still writing poems, although not as many as I would
like to. My last collection was Rough Landing (2000). I’ve been
writing fiction for some time and have now written a screenplay based
on my new novella, Love Hemorrhage. I’m working on a new collection of
poetry I’ve titled Rendering the Timeline.

* A top-ten list

LK: What would you consider to be the top 10 North American-Armenian
books — the ones you might select were you in charge of a
"bestsellers" list. And whom do you regard as the top 10 North
American-Armenian authors our readers should know about, but probably
do not.

LS: Let me collapse these last two questions into each other. Here
are the names of some authors who wrote or write in English who should
be read. The trouble is, finding their books is very difficult. Some
are from my generation; others are from an earlier period. I know
there are other good writers I have left out. I apologize to them.
>From the U.S.: William Saroyan, Richard Hagopian, David Kherdian,
Peter Najarian, Peter Sourian, Leon Surmelian, Emmanuel Varandyan,
Diana Der Hovanessian, and Archie Minasian. From Canada: Kerop
Bedoukian, Hagop Hacikyan, and Lorne Shirinian.

************************************** *************************************

7. Q & A with Rien Long

* Defensive lineman for the Tennessee Titans featured in Long Journey
>From the NFL to Armenia

by Simone Abrahamsohn

Rien "Vartan" Long, the humble 26-year-old defensive lineman for the
Tennessee Titans (#99) was featured in Long Journey from the NFL to
Armenia (directed by Peter Musurlian) at the Pomegranate Film Festival
recently held in Toronto. The documentary portrayed the pilgrimage of
three generations of Armenian-Americans visiting their ancestral
homeland for the first time: Rien and his mother and grandmother who
accompanied him on the trip. While Rien’s great grandparents fled the
Ottoman Empire in the early 1900s and settled in the U.S., many
remaining relatives perished in the Armenian Genocide. Rien — who
stands 6’6 and weighs 300 lbs. — strongly identifies with his
Armenian heritage, and has several tattoos which represent his roots:
a tattoo of the Armenian flag on his right arm and an Armenian
knot-work eternity symbol and representation of letters of his
Armenian name "Vartan" on his left arm. We recently caught up with
Rien in his home city of Nashville, Tennessee.

Q: What is your favourite aspect of Armenian culture?

A: I’ve always loved the whole process of sharing a meal — just the
social aspect. The lavish appetizers and wonderful meal — pretty good
way to spend a few hours! This is one of my favorite things to enjoy,
the good Armenian food, since I’m not into fast food at all.

Q: So, what’s it like living in Nashville — such a legendary town?

A: Nashville’s a great place. I came out here from California
originally to play for the Titans four years ago, and just love it.
You couldn’t ask for better fans. Everyone’s so friendly and they have
such a love for football. It’s almost like a community even though
it’s a city. People help each other out.

Q: How do you spend your time in the off-season?

A: My favorite way to spend time is hanging out with my 5-year-old
son, Gavon. Also, I’m passionate about scuba diving, so that’s going
to be in my son’s future too, definitely!

Q: What would be your career choice if you weren’t in the NFL?

A: Probably a CIA or FBI agent. I love watching shows like 24!

Q: Do you plan on returning to Armenia?

A: I am definitely planning on going back. I’m still in touch with
people I met while making the documentary and have a great connection
with them. I met such wonderful people there. A favorite highlight was
talking with Father Hovans (featured in the documentary) at the
Gandzasar Monastery in Karagh. So inspiring to hear his stories about
the war. It really puts things in perspective.

************************************ ***************************************

8. Armenian revival: (Re-) introducing the Critics’ Forum

by Hovig Tchalian

The article below first appeared in late 2005. It has been updated and
is being reprinted in the Armenian Reporter in order to set the stage
for the monthly publication of our articles in these pages. It is also
meant to introduce those readers unfamiliar with Critics’ Forum to the
group’s approach and purpose.

We are fortunate in the Diaspora, and particularly in the United
States, to be at the center of a thriving community of Armenian art
and culture. Not a week goes by, it seems, without the papers
announcing a theatrical production, art exhibition, poetry reading or
concert in Boston, Los Angeles, New York, San Francisco, Chicago, and
elsewhere. As a result, there is now a thriving group of writers,
poets, playwrights, and artists living and working in Armenian
communities in the United States. Despite the abundance of cultural
events in our communities, however, the time has come to cast a more
critical eye at the body of work we are collectively producing.

Our instincts for self-preservation may very well tell us that more
is always better. But considering the steady stream of Armenian
cultural events and performances available to us these days, we would
do well to reconsider that argument. The Armenian population in
Southern California, in particular, has grown and matured immensely
over the last several decades, having become one of the largest and
most affluent such communities in the world. The growth of our
collective appetite for cultural events reflects that development and
the larger economic and social forces driving it. As such, we can now
safely turn our attention from moral and material support of the arts
to their improvement, which amounts to admitting that we no longer
need more works but better ones.

The time is especially right for those of us living in Southern
California — to return once more to my own primary point of reference
— because there is something of a cultural revival taking place in
our community. Events such as the annual UCLA Graduate Student
Colloquium, for instance, have always attracted a good deal of
attention, and rightly so. But these events have been around for quite
some time. And they generally attract a small gathering of people,
mostly academics and those who attend other, similar cultural events
on a regular basis.

The revival I am talking about is taking place in a broader context,
one which is redefining the boundaries of the Armenian community
itself. For instance, a group of young people in Los Angeles has been
organizing theater evenings for the past several years. The group
comes together one evening every month to attend a play. And although
the attendees are almost all Armenian, the plays are decidedly not.
They have included the works of American, English and South American
playwrights. Another group has plans to fund an ambitious Armenian
Academy with a rigorous curriculum aimed at better preparing Armenian
high school students for college. The Armenian Center for the Arts
(ACA) represents another ambitious endeavor, this time to create a
cultural and performing arts venue in Southern California, for both
Armenian and non-Armenian audiences. And the large number of Armenian
candidates on the ballot for city elections over the past several
years, particularly in Glendale, has spawned its own group of events
and functions, many of a cultural or artistic nature.

There has been a critical mass of these events taking place over the
last few years. But sheer numbers alone do not tell the story. After
all, the rise in numbers is due in part to programs commemorating the
Genocide, and as I said earlier, the numbers have been rising more
generally for some time now. I am calling this series of events a
"revival" for an entirely different reason: the events have all begun
changing how we define our community, because almost all are taking
place in part outside it — whether the plays the theater group
attends, the educational goals of the Armenian Academy, the mixed
audience of the ACA, or the public offices the Armenian candidates
have so successfully filled. In fact, I would go so far as to say that
this revival could only have taken place in the process of extending
the boundaries of the Armenian community as we know it, providing a
perfect opportunity to reassess the quality of the cultural and
artistic works created in the various corners of the Armenian
Diaspora, and particularly English-language ones.

Of course, it is more than a coincidence that Genocide commemoration
should play such a central role in the cultural events, and not just
in the early part of every year. So many of the greatest Armenian
writers of the past century — Varoujan, Shant, Sevag, Oshagan,
Gaboudigian — have produced their finest works in the shadow of the
Genocide, and often in commemoration of it. The same cannot be said,
however, of Armenians writing in English. In the years since the
writing of Morgenthau’s letters, there have been countless and
poignant attempts in both English and other non-Armenian languages to
understand the historical significance of the Genocide. Ironically,
the most subtle and effective of these have been produced outside or
at the very fringes of the Armenian community. Some are of a more
historical nature and have come from non-Armenians following in
Morgenthau’s footsteps. Other, more strictly artistic, pieces have
been produced independently and on related subjects, such as Werfel’s
Forty Days. But few of the more compelling artistic works can be said
to have originated squarely in the Armenian Diaspora, and certainly
not in Southern California.

A good example is the much-lauded play, Beast on the Moon, a
professional production of which debuted a few years ago on the New
York stage and later made its way to the west coast. The play tells
the story of an Armenian couple, Genocide survivors living in the
American Midwest in the 1920’s. Their personal struggles gently
illuminate the significance of the Genocide in its more personal,
psychological aspects. The play was written by Richard Kalinoski, a
Wisconsin-born playwright whose wife is Armenian. Ninety years after
its occurrence — and perhaps now closer than ever to being accepted
as historical fact, with the introduction of the latest US
congressional resolution — the Armenian Genocide maintains its hold
on our collective imagination. But though we in the Diaspora have
commemorated it unfailingly for nearly a century, we remain as a
community understandably too close to the tragedy to be able to
represent it with any sense of emotional detachment or objectivity.

We need only think of examples other than Kalinoski’s play to judge
the accuracy of what I am claiming — that most of the outstanding
examples of Armenian Diasporan art of the last two decades or more,
and particularly in the English language, have been created outside
the immediate confines of the community itself. Peter Balakian’s
novel, Black Dog of Fate, was written after the New Jersey-born author
rediscovered his Armenian heritage. Atom Egoyan’s often extraordinary
films are those of an Armenian born in Egypt and raised as a Canadian,
directing as much for the audience at Cannes as those in Armenia or
the Diaspora. Egoyan’s two films on overtly Armenian subjects,
Calendar (1993) and the more recent Ararat (2002), despite their many
strengths and merits, are arguably too hampered by the weight of
history and the burden of their message. The Sweet Hereafter (1997),
the film that garnered Egoyan the greatest critical acclaim and is
easily his best work to date, succeeds precisely because of a certain
detachment from its subject. It tells of the devastating effect a
school bus crash has on the residents of a small town. The depth and
subtlety of the film’s psychological portrayals allow it to rise above
the particular tale it tells to the level of human tragedy, much like
Kalinoski’s play.

Admittedly, the detachment required to produce art rather than
polemic may be difficult if not impossible to achieve. We feel
compelled as a community to measure even our artistic achievements
with the yardstick of history. As such, many of the English-language
works created in the Diaspora are anchored to the Genocide — either
the tragedy of the event itself or of its aftermath, the immigrant
experience. Unfortunately for us, by anchoring ourselves to the past,
we have also compromised the quality of the art we produce. And more
importantly, we have compromised its ability to transcend its own
historical circumstances, not only those of the Genocide but of its
own maturation process. The effect is art whose real and imagined
audience is none other than the community of Genocide survivors and
immigrants who collectively make up the Armenian Diaspora. Even if we
hoped to create nothing more than effective polemic, we must admit
that no new converts to the Armenian cause can be had by preaching to
the converted.

If we compare this state of affairs to that in the Jewish community,
whose history is similar in a number of ways to ours, we notice some
interesting differences. There, a standout film about the Holocaust
such as The Pianist (2002), which won acclaim at the Oscars, was based
on the biography of a Jewish musician growing up in Poland during
World War II. The story it told, however, had universal appeal. The
earlier and critically acclaimed box-office hit, Schindler’s List
(1993), though spearheaded by a director of Jewish heritage, Steven
Spielberg, was conceived with a decidedly international audience in
mind. And I mention only two examples from several dozen
possibilities, whether films or other works. The Diary of Anne Frank
(1947), for instance, eclipses both of the films mentioned in
popularity, having long become an international phenomenon as well as
a cultural and literary classic. It is said to be one of the most
widely read books in the world.

No doubt this comparison between the responses of the Armenian and
the Jewish communities to historical tragedy is itself marred by
history — the international community has recognized the Holocaust
while continuing by and large to either deny or ignore the Armenian
Genocide. This well-known fact also suggests a larger truth: if the
Jewish community is still coming to terms with the devastating effects
of the Holocaust some sixty years after its recognition, then how much
greater must the need for a coping mechanism be in the Armenian
community during the ninety-year struggle for recognition. But by the
same token, the cultural works mentioned here are in large part worthy
of general critical acclaim, regardless of their subject matter. If we
are confident that Genocide recognition will indeed occur, then we
must also acknowledge the need to do a better job of preparing
ourselves and the rest of the world for it. And raising the bar on
Armenian Diasporan art includes paying more attention to what we
define as "art," regardless of its message. It also means better
defining the role and character of the Diasporan "artist."

There are many talented artists living and working in Armenian
communities all over the United States and the Diaspora more
generally. And some of them may very well be the Egoyans and Balakians
of tomorrow. But the process of getting there requires a genuine
dialogue between them and their audience as well as their potential
critics. By critics in this case, I refer not to those who might
undermine or discredit the art they see, hear or read. I refer instead
to those willing to "critique" or constructively analyze it, often
>From the more "detached" perspective we discussed earlier.

The most difficult truth we face may indeed prove to be that today we
have too many artists and not nearly enough critics in the community.
Some of those critics attend events such as the UCLA Graduate
colloquium I mentioned at the start. But they generally convene among
themselves, apart from the community of Armenian artists at large. The
genuine and necessary work of critique must be carried out in open
dialogue with artists and for the benefit of the entire Armenian
community, but with a much more cosmopolitan audience in mind. What we
need at this particular moment, then, is not so much an artistic
revival as a genuinely critical response to the art already being
produced in such great abundance. The success of any cultural revival
and the fate of the Armenian Diasporan communities that created it
demand nothing less.

A monthly column called Critics’ Forum represents a first effort in
this direction. The Critics’ Forum is composed of writers, artists and
critics whose works you may have read in these pages or elsewhere,
including Ramela Abbamontian, Sam Ekizian, Aram Kouyoumdjian, Adriana
Tchalian, Hovig Tchalian, and Lori Yeghiayan, among others.

The articles in the series will appear in the pages of the Armenian
Reporter, as well as being reprinted elsewhere. Each article will
highlight an event, a work, or a set of issues in one of four areas:

* Literature;
* Theater;
* Visual Arts;
* Film and Music.

This effort is supported by several others, including a website
(), which will archive the articles and provide an
additional forum for response, discussion and participation.

Look for our articles in the Armenian Reporter starting next month.
We also invite you to visit our website and read from a complete
archive of past articles or join our mailing list (by clicking on
"Join" at the top of the homepage), in order to receive electronic
copies of the articles each month. In the meantime, please feel free
to send comments, suggestions or submissions for review to:
criticsforum@sbcglobal.net.

With your help, we hope to start a conversation about where the art
we produce has been and where it’s going.

***

All Rights Reserved: Critics’ Forum, 2007

***

Hovig Tchalian holds a Ph.D. in English literature from UCLA. He has
edited several journals and also published articles of his own.

******************************************** *******************************

9. Essay: You can’t take it with you

by Armen Bacon

My husband and I were burglarized this past weekend. Let me cut right
to the chase, vent a bit, and tell you what they got: a new
flat-screen television, my wallet, and credit cards, almost every
ounce of jewelry I own, my cell phone, (painstakingly programmed with
the names and numbers of everyone who means anything to me), my
digital camera (that had my newest granddaughter’s birth pictures on
it), my husband’s laptop computer, and finally, my computer, including
the hard drive and 2 back-up systems.

At first, I was devastated. Disoriented. Disenchanted. That’s why I’m
writing. It sure beats wallowing, filling out the police report, or
acknowledging that I will probably never see any of these items again.
Yes, I know they are only things. That has been my self-imposed mantra
during the past 48 hours.

This has been one incredible e-ticket ride sort of week. It started
gloriously with the birth of Ani V., the newest addition to our
family, a precious, beautiful, and healthy granddaughter. Her arrival,
thank goodness, is keeping me sane and offering me perspective on this
whole violation thing. Later in the week, my very active and vivacious
mother fell. Nothing broke but she’s all battered and bruised and
homebound for a while. Thankfully, time will heal her wounds. The
worse part of the week, by anyone’s standard, was the constant news
coverage of the flaming infernos down south. The little defiant and
outraged voice in me kept saying, "enough already." And then we were
burglarized.

Just a few days earlier I had written an e-mail to my editor at the
Fresno Bee, inspired by one of her daily blogs about what people grab
when they are told to flee their homes. Her blog message, and of
course the San Diego fires themselves, have served as a huge reminder
of life’s precious and fragile nature — one that most certainly got
us all thinking about priorities. What, in fact would we grab in such
an instance? I wrote to her that her message had inspired me to start
a new essay titled: "You Can’t Take it with You." I was going to begin
writing it this weekend. Little did I know that it would be composed
on the heels of a personal home invasion. Without a moment’s notice,
or even a chance to grab my most prized possessions, things that meant
the world to me were gone. I’m sad to have to admit here that this
isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with that horrible feeling of
loss. It never gets easier. Once again, my universe has been rocked.

The worse part of this whole ordeal is the sickening feeling that
someone has violated and betrayed the basic goodness of mankind. That
same person has also probably sorted through and touched my underwear.
Once I gathered my senses and vacuumed up the shattered glass and dirt
>From the intruder’s footprints, I asked myself over and over again,
what is the lesson, what am I supposed to learn here, as I realize
that everything I have ever written, all of my best seller ideas, all
of my intimate journal entries, and all of my family photos and
special digitized keepsakes are gone. I’ll have to get back to you
with the answer to that question — I am still soul searching and
pondering its answer.

I don’t imagine for one moment that our intruder reads my essays, but
let me, nonetheless say this out loud, "You can keep the jewelry,
although the Armenian cross and the chandelier earrings that I wore to
my daughter’s wedding are of profound sentimental value to me. And
only to me. Please won’t you return them?" Okay, now I have said my
piece and I am letting them go and setting them free to the universe
or pawn shops that now most likely display them for sale.

Here’s the deal. I refuse to live in fear. I refuse to be a prisoner
in my own community. I loathe the idea that some stranger has violated
my space. But I’ll get over it. Right now I want to regroup a bit,
renew my spirit, and then retrieve my memories, remembering the
stories I so carefully crafted that chronicle my life’s journey. No
one can steal those from me. And then more than anything else, I want
to get on with my life.

Right now I am hurting like hell for the families in Southern
California who have lost everything. I know I only feel a small
fraction of their pain. Maybe that’s the lesson. The burglary brought
it home. Our possessions, even the prized ones, the ones we love the
most, are all so temporary. I keep saying to myself, you can’t take it
with you, so let it go. Move on. But in this very instant, I feel as
though a portion of my dreams has gone up in smoke.

Sometimes when we are stripped of our possessions or traumatized by
life’s course, we gain clarity of vision and refocus on what really
matters in our lives. As the San Diego family said as they stood in
front of their burned-to-a-crisp home that contained all of their
possessions, "We have our family. And we are still standing." I guess
that in the grand scheme of things, nothing else really matters.

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10. Arthur-Best is the Pan-Armenian Star

Pan-Armenian Star (Hamazkayin Astgh), the star factory on Armenia TV,
has successfully concluded its four-month run. The show produced a new
cluster of would-be stars in Armenia’s pop music industry.

A co-production of Tata Productions and Armenia TV, Pan-Armenian Star
screened hundreds of wannabe young singers from Armenia and
communities in the diaspora. For the past four months the focus was on
the twelve finalists who were selected. Following lots of practice in
all the fields relevant to pop music and show business, the talented
performers marched toward professionalism.

Currently the finalists are touring the regions of Armenia. There are
international tours on the agenda, too.

Viewers with their text messages had the final say in the results of
Pan-Armenian Star. From the twelve finalists Arthur-Best from Moscow
received the highest number of text-message votes and thus was
selected by the viewers to be the winner. His prize package includes a
new video clip and the release of a new album.

However, all the finalists were winners. Three of them conquered the
top ranks of the contest. Anna Azatyan, Johnny Karapetyan, and the
rapper pair Apeh Jan were voted to be the winners of Golden Discs. The
rest were awarded Silver Discs.

Keep these names in mind. They promise to be the new stars of
Armenian pop music.

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11. Levity: How to live longer and why

Dear Dandeegeen,

I am very excited that U.S. and Japanese scientists recently
discovered how to turn ordinary skin cells into stem cells so that new
scientific breakthroughs can happen. This opens the door for curing
diseases, but it also means that humans now can have the chance to
live much longer. If I have the chance to live for a long, long, long
time, what would I do with a few extra hundred years? I am already 68
years old and a little bored.

Sincerely,
Houshig

Dear Houshig,

Aman, first of all, if stem cell research holds up to its promises of
possibly treating a range of diseases and making humans live longer,
the first thing you should do is get new cells for your "old"
reproductive system so that you can keep having more babies and
repopulate the Armenian nation.

Just imagine if you and other Armenian women live up to being 300
years old. Imagine the number of children you can have, and how this
will make the Armenian population soar in numbers worldwide. Just
think, with a large population, we can be major economic competitors
with China! We can contribute to global warming, like other
esh-oo-chap countries! We can become imperialists and declare war on
other countries for their resources! We can build more and more
banquet halls in Glendale.

Now that I think about it, maybe being so big is not so good. OK,
forget it, use your stem cells and your long life for something else.
Like, you can keep remodeling and adding onto your house, and
hopefully within three hundred years, your house can be just as
impressive as mine is right now. Or your husband can add a diamond to
your wedding ring each year, so by the time you are 247 years old,
your ring will look somewhat like the one that is on my finger. Or,
you can devote your time to planning various Armenian fundraisers and
banquets for the next 400 years, so by that time you will have given
yourself enough time to raise as much money as I did, just in this
past year.

And most importantly, imagine, you can live with the same husband and
your in-laws for 500 more years. Oh yes, science promises so much!

Sirov,
Dandeegeen

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