Debate 10.09.16

Notes on the staging:

Terrible mix of people on stage, terrible lack of diversity not enough brown-- too much Ohio. Painfully white.

Tall bar chair really awkward 

She doesn't stop when they tell her the time is up

Hillary gets a little too intense about talking directly at you

She should NOT respond to stupid jabs he makes, she should treat them as beneath her

The Donald continues to sniff

He is speaking directly to his base-- sticking to his schitck.. They will truly believe he won, because they believe all his garbage. 

He's kept his composure much better than expected. 

Divorce time.

Sarah Vowel says that our country has always been this contentious, this divisive. We are locked in such an ugly tug of war. Both sides think the other is ruining everything and destroying everything they believe in, everything that makes this country great. Makes me wonder how it would be now if the south had won. If all those nasty racists just made their own rules for their own little government. All the rigid white Christians with their twisted ideas of what god wants can live together in harmony. They can find new things to fight about amongst themselves. And leave us alone to get on with taking care of our people and growing a healthy economy.

How would it be? From over here on the far left, the extremists---ahem ---conservatives on the right can generally agree on a majority of issues. For liberals it's all so much more complicated. Conservatives begin from the premise that everyone should follow the same rules, think alike, behave alike. A combination of the original hard puritanical .....

I began this post last July. Over a year ago.

Recent events have confirmed the value of revisiting my original idea.  Consider the advantages of splitting the United States.  We hate each other. Really truly hate everything the other side stands for. So why not just let them have their own damn country.  We've tried compromising and trying to get along for over 200 years now. So we've given it a fair shot. But this constant battle between our values and their values just leaves all of us feeling frustrated and unhappy at best, enraged and dangerous at worst. We've denied ourselves the pursuit of happiness. 

Now that the other side has quit pretending to be nice, maybe we could just shake hands and go our separate ways. Think of it. All the white people who only want to share with other white people can have their own sandbox. They resent us trying to make them share. How else could we have gotten to 2016 trying to get along with people who hate us. How else could we allow a world where black parents fear for their children's lives everyday.   It seems infinitely preferable--and safer-- to let them have their own space to live by whatever rules they want. Let them have their own country with as many assault weapons as they want. Let them keep making the poor poorer and the rich richer. Let them have the country they want. With their "boys only" and "girls only" and their whites only and Christians only, heterosexuals only and their patriarchy. 

We could all be so much happier apart. Here in blue land everyone is paid a living wage. Health care is distributed  without the insurance companies' interference. People could have good jobs maintaining all the bridges and roads that are currently crumbling. Our movies and tv shows could have people of every color and gender doing mundane and extraordinary things. Our schools could be the best in the world. We could lead the way in reducing our carbon footprint globally. We could focus our industry on environmentally  beneficial products.  We could have thriving factory towns where enough solar panels are made sell to the rest of the world. We could eliminate the prison industry that gets rich on our tax dollars. 

I have to stop for now.

Ladies and Gentlemen .... meet the Plum Bobs!!

Here's Lucy our lead singer--sim city's own teen idol! Lucy is our Simtown's first baby. first daughter to loving parents Michael and Bruce, who sadly are no longer with us. Lucy's childhood best friend /soulmate is Felix Holmes, son of Simtown's Mayor Sam Holmes and lovely wife Jane, a former fashion designer currently training for a Olympic diving medal. (Or a platinum orb!)

Lucy and Felix have been jamming together since they were age appropriate for an instrument and while Lucy started on keyboard and diligently learned to play drums, bass, and guitar, Felix has always pounded the skins.

Next up is Felix's younger brother Max, who brings his own kind of intensity to lead guitar. Lucy's cousin Eli comes in on bass guitar. ( his dads are Simon and Terrance. Simon is Michael's younger brother) 

 Mayor Sam's brother Leo's daughter and son round out the band with the lovely Camilla on keyboards and Phillip "Pip" Sawitus on rhythm guitar.

(Michael was a dedicated firefighter who lived too well and died too young. He was passionate about baking and collecting antiques. Bruce   , a retired astrophysicist enjoyed his healthly retirement years birdwatching, playing chess and rabidly collecting Mr. Whatchamacallit vintage action figures.)

The forty-ninth minute of the forty-ninth year

Counting down. The final minutes of this last day. The end of the first half century of my life. Fifty fucking years. 

It is a staggering number. Thirty and forty are major milestones to be sure. I bore those gracefully. But fifty is different. It's half of one hundred. It just feels like the ultimate dividing line of my life. The watershed. The year 1ad. 

Tonight I go to sleep feeling unusually content. This last day started off rocky. Sam difficult. Everyone cranky. But we made it to MoMA, and despite suffocating crowds we --Leo and I--managed to pay our respects to some venerable old friends. Annoyed with myself for having to look at the tags to jog my memory. But never mind. Leo took a ton of photos. My old friends will be his next. I get a huge thrill out if his delight when he spots a painting we have a print of at the monkey house.  (Incidentally, the more conceptual and HUGE the art gets, the thinner the crowds get.)

So then we split up and the boys went north for a dollar slice and the planetarium. I went south to my kasha knish mecca on 46th, then down to Greenwich and 6th. A perfect intersection. And then all the pieces fell into place. Popped in to see my guys at Hector shoe repair, left with my Blunnies gleaming. Across to Bigelow Chemists --seemingly the only place to buy my favorite lip balm.  Decided right then to acquire a haircut within the hour. Asked the woman who waited on me at Bigelow. She said sure, next block. Walked in and was brought to the chair of a delightful woman from Ukraine. I knew instinctively that she knew exactly what to do. She did indeed. I had so much confidence in her that I didn't even check the back before I left. 

From there I waked up 6th and found an AT&T store to get a little more juice for my dying phone. Then kept going to 19th to get my MUJI on. Perfect tiny travel bottles for face and hair goop. Happy. Walk down to container store and maintained complete self-control in the face of overwhelming odds. Stayed focused. Got what I came for. 

Next a bit of confusion as my battery began to die again and I was unable to contact Drew. Turns out his phone had already died. Decided it was getting to late to head east to Dok Suni for dinner as planned. So I hopped in a cab with my box if hangers and headed back up to 6 Columbus, our sweet little hotel where they take such good care of us. 

I should explain here that all further desires for the evening were more than ably met within a space of less than a quarter of a block. About 3 doors up is Sushi Doma, which nearly blew my mind.  Everything just that much better than the usual. Sam scarfed edamame. Leo had his pickled ginger fix with a salmon and avocado roll. Drew had an enormous plate of sashimi and an equally large sake to match. I had perfectly light, perfectly crispy gyoza followed by enlightenment. Arugula and avocado wrapped in meltingly fresh slices of tuna, lightly accented with swirls of spicy mayo. 

Good enough yes? Yes, but nowhere near done. Two doors over is Pinkberry. They have a special. Warm gooey apples topped with crumbley stuff, on top of that goes the original flavor frozen yogurt, then drizzled with caramel. Apple crisp is my number one favorite dessert, caramel sauce could only make it better. How did I not think of this?

The boys were all crashing hard, but the air had a delightful breeze, so they went up and I went around Columbus Circle. Then I had the brilliant idea to head back to the little nail place next to Pinkberry. They were closing, but still let me have a most excellent chair massage. 10 minutes for $13. I paid $20 and got a good deal.  It was the longest, and best ten minutes of the entire day. 

And after that, once more back across the street to the labyrinthine insanity that is whole foods. But I got my Switchel. A delicious new ginger beverage. My new obsession. Ahhhhh. 

Wishful Indulgence

I am on my way to pick up a mystery gift. I am fantasizing about what it might be.

The mother I haven't seen or spoken to in 12 years has canceled her trip planned for next week. I was so accommodating that I agreed to have lunch with her on Wednesday -- 9/11. But this morning her husband sent an email informing Zoe and me that the trip has been canceled. My mother is currently having a short stay in the hospital due to a mini stroke. More likely than not she's just had a panic attack and chickened out. Or she wigged out enough to give herself a trip to the hospital.

Possibly I seem unsympathetic, callous even. But I'm allowed to.

Now I will tell my children that the grandmother they've never met is not coming. I will tell them she got sick. I will not tell them I think she just flaked out.

I have never told them anything about her other than a vague indication that she did not take very good care of me. I have not spoken of her in way that would cause them to feel anything but open to her. I have barely spoken of her at all. When asked one can tell a child that a person they've never met is "gone". They will not press for details.

So I have never told Sam and Leo anything to justify her paranoia and anxiety. But of course she doesn't know that. And she's too paranoid to believe me even if she asked.

So today Zoë and I are bidden to collect the gifts she sent in advance of her arrival.

Right now I am indulging myself in the giddy feeling that something wonderful will be in that box. Not a dish towel, or an ugly tchotchke, or something in a frame that says god on it.

The email from her latest husband--either number 4, or 5 I think--indicated a small, square box. So I am dreaming--wishing with all my heart--that I will open it to find a card from Thos. Moser telling me something beautiful has been ordered especially for me. I am giddy, my insides are tingling and all my muscles are in that peculiar state of being both being ready to spring and ready to swoon.

Here sits a jungle cat, a panther poised in the instant before pouncing on its prey. Simultaneously I am locked in that precise moment when I am not touching my soon to be lover. When we are as close as two can possibly be, when the frisson blinds you both and the promise of what's to come--the bliss of joining, of melting together is an unstoppable force.

So for now it's something made of cherry, something made with love, alive and beautiful. Right now the contents of that box is the deepest, most profound way of saying something to much for words. This gift says take this thing of beauty, take it to your heart and embrace it as I embrace you. Be with it in your nest everyday, use it and love it and know that it's permanence is your steady reminder of my love for you. With this gift know that my love for you is always there. Even when I am not.

It will probably be a dish towel. With a lobster on it.

And the Winner is.....

Here at the monkey house, there is, on this Sunday morning, at the end of a particularly rainy July, on our beloved Maine coast, in the midst of our lushly overgrown--neglected--garden, there is a contest of sloth. Three of the four players have taken their dedication so far as to be unaware, even at this time, that they are in fact engaged in said contest. Such is their art!

Player number one remains deliciously tangled in luxurious comfort. After the previous night of bandit stalking, stepping even a toe out before noon would be a scandal.

Players two and three are the undisputed top scorers. Find the equally bathed in comfort as they lie in front of the screen surrounded by fluffy pillows and comforters. Plenty of crumbs are at their fingertips and they boast full possession of a working remote control device.

Their entertainment options are even more plentiful than the crumbs. An infinite number of devotees have made available to an unknowable number of fans films in which they provide full narration to various Minecraft activities they have previously performed. Or perhaps just something someone else has performed. For all I know they are all just continuously commenting on previous commentary.

In my innocence I thought the least doing of a thing was watching some kid describe his collection of Pokemon cards, although the opening of a brand new pack could potentially be over-stimulating. But I am now prepared to admit that the voice overs that accompany these mini Minecraft tours do have significantly less monotone, in some cases even dialogue between characters. Which leads me to consider accepting the watching of pre-recorded actual virtual mining and building, with all the accompanying foul language of the actual virtual thing being done not in real time is indeed evidence of more being done by doing less. Much less done, much more watching of less being done being talked about being done previously and in the future, that is to say both actual virtual future and virtual actual future re-telling.

To hold such a high rank in a sport whose very definition is the essence of an absolute lack of ambition shows a mastery which must be honored. By mastering their position while maintaining complete ignorance of their exalted status shows how much they who know nothing can truly know. The subtlety by which they maintain their superior ranking marks a profound gift for feigning the ignorance of ignorance. Forgive my immodesty, but my children posses spectacular brilliance.

As for player number four, the glory days of my youth are past. But I must take my defeat gracefully, as exerting any effort would betray what a true loser I have become.

The Grey of It All

Today a friend asked me why I like black and white so much. To my surprise I did not have a ready answer. I can't remember not loving black and white. My response to this particular combinationhas been so ingrained in me that haven't really thought about it. Except that I have. But the aesthetic came first. In film, photography, fashion, graphic and interior design, dishes—the black and white is what grabs me and holds me every time. (Speaking of aesthetics please excuse these truly dreadful photos. I couldn't really see the blotchy shadows while editing on my phone. And if I spend a bunch of time making beautiful photos I will avoid writing all together.)

I have always loved collage, although I've never liked any of mine. Knowing when to stop is key. It is highly likely that my passion for Legos runs deeper than the monkeys'. I could happily sit all day making collages with black, white and grey flats. And there is more than one shade of grey. What could be better?

I grew up watching old black and white movies on TV. Most people had b&w televisions when I was little. Color TVs were the big new thing. Walter Cronkite was b&w. The Dick Van Dyke Show was b&w. They were my surrogate family. Dear old Rose Marie. She was still in b&w for me when she held the center square for so long.

When I studied film noir in the '80s b&w really came alive for me. High contrast drama. Prior to that I'd begun shooting b&w photos. But they all looked like crap. I could never get enough light. In college I took photography and was able to realize my dream of the Nude Musicians shoot. Oh they were lovely. My friend Lorelei looked so good with her cello. The compositions were so enticing, but the shoot was ultimately a failure because I had no idea how to light flesh. Or anything really.

At one time I lost a friendship because of black and white. He said, "You either support the revolution or you don't. There is nothing in between and if you don't support the revolution you are on their side." I said but both of those choices are yours, you have decided on two options, and there are no others. I asked why he got to frame the debate only on his terms. He could not see the difficulty of only acknowledging one extreme or another. I saw how limiting black and white could be. My friend could not see grey. No grey at all. If I was grey I ceased to exist. Grey is the rational mind, the moderate thinker who weighs each position carefully and knows the best solution takes something from each side. Compromise. Sanity cannot exist without it. Absolutes can be so dangerous, so heavy.

There was a phase of trying to dye all my clothes black. I know how to get a good black now, but back then everything came out grey. I wanted black, but philosophically grey suited me perfectly. It's true I always wear black, but I do not like absolute black. Only a theater tech needs absolute black.

I have what some might consider a very dull wardrobe. Black jeans, black tee shirts. But I adore the simplicity and consistency of it. And no two are alike. I love subtle variations, heathers and textures. I hate brand new black black jeans. They are too black. They need counterpoint of an old scruffy black tee shirt.

I made a huge concession a few years ago. Because being a parent requires spending much more time out in the sun than I was previously accustomed to. I am not insane enough to wear all black on a gorgeous, sunny summer day. So I shocked myself and everyone who knew me by adding white. Specifically white linen. so that's it. White linen in the summer, black cashmere in the winter. Simple, easy, understated.

Black suits me perfectly. And if you know me, you know that my personality is quite loud enough. My clothes don't have to be.

Who? Where?

There's a Rothko in an office on Mad Men! I recently put up a bunch of Rothko prints in my bedroom. Lovely, but much too small. Your best Rothko experience is to be as close as Pete is. I'm blown away. It's just casually hanging there in the background. I wonder what a Rothko cost in 1968. It's killing me.

Sigh

This is what I want right now. My house gets messier and grosser every time I blink. I dream of a place that is just mine. A place where no one eats candy in bed, or runs in with sticky fingers, or throws little plastic beads all over the floor. A place with no crumbs. Oh and the sound of the ocean coming in through the window.

Saturday where are you?

Five non-matching laces of varying lengths. One pair of sneakers. The lace on top doesn't even count. No aglets. This afternoon I managed to seriously organize four drawers whilst searching for the mythical lost bag of shoelaces.

Or is it the mythical bag of lost shoelaces? Or the lost mythical bag of shoelaces? The lost bag of mythical shoelaces? Perhaps what I mean to say is this: The mythical bag of shoelaces is lost. The bag has not been located. The longer it takes to find it, the more I will worry that perhaps there never was a bag of shoelaces. That I only imagined this roving tangle of laces, turning up in one inappropriate place after another. They were never lost. They were just in the way.

Once I knew where things were. Really. I knew where everything was. I used to keep my belongings so organised that it really rattled me when I misplaced something. Because I was accustomed to finding things where I put them.

Now, there is an ongoing misplacement problem in my house. Persons who shall go unnamed regularly pick up things of mine, do whatever they please with them, and then leave them wherever. This type of object re-location is an issue unto itself. That is about indifference, carelessness, and a failure to respect boundaries.

But the mythical bag of shoelaces is my bag of cheese. Generally speaking, I think we tend to look for things in the sorts of places we are likely to have put them. I have various designated areas where I collect small miscellaneous items that are in limbo. So if I am looking for something small, I check those places first. This is logical. When I cannot locate objects moved by monkeys it is because said object is now somewhere I would never have left it. I don't look for scissors inside sneakers. I don't look for spoons on the bathroom floor. And if I were looking for my shoes I would not be looking under the kitchen table.

I regularly come across items that I don't want to leave shuffling around. Items that are important enough to want to get to them quickly. A camera. A flashlight. Extra headphones. A favorite bookmark. A nail clipper. A piece of paper with something important on it. So what do I do? I find places to stash things where they won't get lost in the traffic. The place is ideal. Except I no longer have any idea where that ideal place is. There are at least half a dozen missing things at any given time. I can recall putting it somewhere "specific", but that is all. I won't find the thing I am looking for until I am looking for something else I won't find.

The good news is that while I could have gone out and bought new shoelaces and been back in less time than I spent looking for that mythical bag, I did sort though and organise some pretty interesting stuff. Sweet things that made me feel all mushy right before Mother's Day. The discharge papers from the hospital. The receipt for parking between 5am and 5pm on July 10, 2005. The receipt from the restaurant we ate at on July 9th.

Tripping

I turn on the TV, and it's Entourage. They are on their way to Joshua Tree to eat mushrooms. The calm smile I sat down with shifts towards anxiousness. I've seen this episode. I know what happens. But I can't look away. They arrive and the camera pans around to show off the landscape. Can see how this would be a mecca for a lot of people. Exactly the sort of place people would go to find a connection with the earth, a sense of balance within. A destination.

It is big there. Very dry, very rocky, very big. Way too big. Too much open space. My chest tightens as I prepare to identify with the the sense of panic the first person to get lost will feel. It's Ari, and he begins to get scared very quickly. It's getting dark. He is hollering and no one is there. No one can hear him. The more alone he feels the more freaked out he gets.

My chest keeps tightening. I'm right there with him. He gets Lloyd on the phone. Lloyd is concerned because he knows the first rule of tripping is the buddy system. Always stay with a friend. Even though the other person is tripping too, their head will never go to the same place, so you will keep each other grounded.

I only once lost my sense of reality. Leaning over the back porch of a Cambridge triplex. Top floor of course. The overgrown mass of plant life below to looked like a very cozy, welcoming place to relax. And that lovely nest began to look close enough to reach. Fortunately my tripping boyfriend said the one most concise thing to snap me back to reality. He said, "You're acting like Pete." Our dear friend Pete was the guy you never give acid to. The kind of guy who is likely to dance along rooftops completely sober has friends who know better.

I miss Pete. I miss all those guys. I miss that who time in my life. I have several tales of Pete, and lots of rememories of that apartment on Beacon street. The Throwing Muses lived downstairs, but we were all scratchy garage rock back then, and we thought they were pretentious. Those stories are for another post.

Watch Your Step

Don't be such a  ______  nazi! Insert word of your choice. Or not.

I'm taking a stand against the lowercase nazi. 

According to Dictionary.com  a Nazi is:
1: a member of the National Socialist German Workers' party of Germany ...officially abolished in 1945 at the conclusion of WorldWar II.
2. A person elsewhere who holds similar views
3. Sometimes Offensive (often lowercase ) a person who is fanatically dedicated to or seeks to control a specified activity, practice, etc.: a jazz nazi who disdains other forms of music; tobacco nazis trying to ban smoking.

I excerpt from Urban Dictionary their definition of grammar nazi:
b – One who attempts to persuade or force others to use proper grammar and spelling.
d – One who advocates linguistic clarity; 
e – One who corrects others' grammar; the spelling police. 

Linguistic clarity. I think that means using the best word to convey your meaning. Also using a word correctly. I don't need to list examples. I like it when auto-correct adds apostrophes fro me. We'll leave it at that. 

Sometimes Offensive (often lowercase ) Many people are easily offended. People who consider themselves pretty open minded are usually are easily offended by something. For myself I give comedy a pretty free rein. Jokes or comments that are crass and unfunny to me are still free to roam in my world. People are free to have all the hateful attitudes they want. If they have a newspaper, or blog or tv show about something that offends me, that's fine. I can choose not to read it or watch it.

But here's the thing. The ubiquitously casual use of the word nazi has been bugging me lately.  A lot. I winced the other day when I heard a probably very nice economist on NPR refer to himself as a "numbers nazi", or a "statistics nazi". Something of the kind. He used the word so casually, yet he would likely be horrified at Ann Coulter's recent use of the word "retard" (I consider myself fortunate that I had not heard of her prior to this incident.) She went on to insist that "retard" is in common usage to mean idiot, or something similar. She did not bow to the PC police. Personally I am offended by her idiocy. I've heard whining about the PC police for years. But I've been ignoring it.

If you are a person without any sensitivity to, or acceptance of any person who is different from you, and your limited experience, then I'm sure you are not reading this. But even those who consider themselves well-regarded by the PC police can slip. The PC police—and I use the term loosely—are a good thing. It is hard to keep up. When I was young the Civil Rights movement was in full swing, and I remember distinctly when "Colored People" became Black. At the time I found myself wondering when the N.A.A.C.P. was going to catch up. Then it seemed like the only socially acceptable thing to say was African American. Unless I am talking to someone who has already said African American to me I've stuck with Black. (I've checked and been told its ok.) Likewise with Latino and Hispanic. My most recent intelligence is that either is acceptable. I've also heard that many Native Americans prefer to be called Indians. Native American feels more respectful and I think Indians are people from India. But its not up to me. I don't actually know if anyone from India wants to be referred to as Indian, or something else. Currently I have heard "Asians" used to include anyone between the Middle East and Hawaii.

The line keeps moving, and it will keep moving. I have been corrected many times and I am never defensive about being corrected.  I always appreciate the update. When I was 20 I was told I should not say "girls" I should say "women". But women who were young in the '30s and '40s like calling themselves girls. And "gals". It makes them feel youthful. I remember when "bums" became "homeless people". I remember when mentally retarded meant a person with a mental handicap. Not an insult. But "retard" always was . People used "cripple"to refer to those who are physically handicapped. That word truly makes me wince. I think the line has moved past handicapped to disabled or person with a disability.  But everything with that wheelchair symbol still says handicapped. People of color is a useful umbrella term. But I have heard people say "Persons of Color" with such emphasis that it feels like they are correcting you in advance. I used to say third world country. I've been corrected to say "developing nation". People outside the "developed" world used to be referred to as "primitives".  Now they are "indigenous peoples". The word primitive is itself very useful. But not when you apply it to people. Especially when it makes it easier to believe that you are doing them a great favour by "civilising" them.

We all know that many taboo words or stereotypes are acceptable within that group—I can insult my mother, but you can't. Queer was vigorously taken  taken back. Fag. Don't you dare use that word. You will not ever call something faggy. I have been close to many gay men and used a word loosely in that context, but that was a while ago. You will not use faggy when you mean un-manly. Now I hear "wussy" used a lot. A whole lot. I recently noticed that I use it too, and when I stopped to think about it I was horrified. It is too easy to pick up the speech habits of people around you. Wussy. I believe its meant to be a slightly less offensive way of calling someone a pussy. Shit. I have probably used it on myself when I admit to backing off something challenging. "I was such a wuss about that".

I have never and would never call someone a pussy. That implies being weak, unmanly, timid, girly. We know this. We know when we imply a male person is exhibiting any female characteristics we mean that as an insult. We know that men in a group do this as good natured ribbing all the time. We know they will continue to. But I should know better. 

Today I am here to ask the PC police—where are you when I need you?—to move that line again. Why is it okay bandy nazi around so lightly? Do we all need to remind ourselves about the six million Jews? And the Gypsies, homosexuals, and anyone else they didn't like. When you say soup nazi or grammar nazi, what you really mean is "martinet". Look it up. Ok, I'll save you the time. Here Merriam-Webster.com is a model of clarity.Martinet

1: a strict disciplinarian
2: a person who stresses a rigid adherence to the details of forms and methods


Shall I say it again? Martinet. You have been using the word nazi when you mean strict and rigid. It's not ok. I realize martinet doesn't roll of the tongue as easily. Nazi is an easy verbal shorthand. Just because Seinfeld is Jewish and he stared the whole soup nazi thing doesn't make it ok. I'm sure he got plenty of flack, but it was comedy. And it was funny. Soup martinet is not funny. And there is no joke left if you have to stop and explain what martinet means. Is it funny to call someone a slave-driver? Your boss is so mean, he's such a slave-driver. Ha, ha, ha. I'm sure your African American friend thinks that's just hilarious. I haven't heard anyone say that in a very long time. I hope that's because the PC police have pushed it out of bounds. Using a reference to our shameful and horrific history of slavery is not ok. Outside of the S&M/B&D world calling someone a slave is off limits.


Be a tyrant, be a dictator, be a bully. All of these are despicable, but are also non-specific. There is no capitol g geek. I can call myself a diamond geek, and you can tell me how geeky you are about anything to are devotedly interested in. No one minds. The geek flags proudly fly. 

Nazi is not generic. In a very specific place and time there were people who called themselves Nazis. Capitol N. Lowercase n doesn't belong in our everyday vernacular. Because being strict or rigid about something doesn't make you a Nazi. Being a Nazi makes you a Nazi. And there aren't any more left. Neo-Nazis are not relevant here.  And I prefer not to think about them.

A little while ago one of the monkeys was whining about something. I told him not to be so lame. What I should have said was, be a mensch.

Angry white guys aren't enough anymore

Republican strategists are admitting that they need to figure how how to get more Latino and Asian votes. Republicans Review Election Results For Insight : NPR

After sifting through the rubble the republicans have had to face cold reality. There aren't quite enough angry white voters to elect an uber-rich white guy who panders to extremists. The demographics are changing and all those nice racist people who think Obama is a muslim socialist out to destroy their way of life are terrified of being in the minority. The aren't the minority yet, but they are shrinking significantly. Bill O'Reilly said, "It's not traditional America anymore." Remind me please Bill, when was that?

Is the problem that everyone who used to be treated like dirt isn't fair game anymore? From the beginning the French had their own colonies in North America, and they weren't going to be pushed out like the Native Americans. Your "traditional Americans" were stuck with the French, so you looked the other way and they kept to themselves. But still you got to marginalize and despise the ex-slaves and the Chinese who worked like slaves. The Germans weren't so bad because they made beer. Then the Irish came and they were for a time considered lower than Blacks. Yes. Let me repeat that. There was a time in American history when Blacks were held in higher regard than the Irish. (Amazing right? Those are your people Bill. I'm sure you remember when JFK got elected it was a huge deal that he was the first Catholic to become president.)  But at first the big crime of the Irish was being dirt poor and Catholic. One could be any kind of protestant, but Catholicism might as well have been voodoo.

And if the Irish weren't bad enough, then came those pushy Italians. More weird, freaky Catholics and they smelled like garlic! By the beginning of the last century most of Europe started pouring in. That was a mess because they were all white. You couldn't tell them apart anymore!  They could change their names and act like everyone else. Jews were here from the very beginning, but they kept a pretty low profile until a ton of them arrived with all those other Europeans.

You thought it was bad then, but as long all those weird foreigners mostly kept to themselves—and did the jobs nobody else wanted— it was tolerable. In Brooklyn, and everywhere in New York City there are still Italian neighborhoods, Irish, Polish, Latvian, Hungarian, Jewish, Russian neighborhoods, and just about anyone else you can think of. But they are okay now, because at least they are all white.

I'm not going to get into the Civil Rights movement here, but even after they won the right to use the same water fountains, you still didn't have to let Blacks live on your block. You still had your whites only country clubs even though you weren't supposed to admit it, and we all knew that also meant no Jews.

But now it's the 21st century, and not enough people are white anymore. Its not that there aren't enough white people, its that not enough people are white. While some of you were getting richer and richer—and climbing on the backs of any white people unfortunate enough to be poor—something else happened. The Latinos started to vote. It was fine when they were just doing the grunt work. They took the lowest paying jobs that even the poorest white people wouldn't do. You could pay them as little as you wanted, because they had no green cards, and therefore no rights. But those people, instead of just being grateful you let them work here, did something under-handed. They made babies. That's right, all those Latinos started out-breeding you. And guess what? All those babies born here were legal US citizens, and they all grew up with the right to vote. Uh oh.

At first it wasn't critical. Many Latinos are very religious. You got their vote with your anti-abortion hook. But you can only treat people like shit for so long. Some people can see the bigger picture, and won't vote just on one issue. Maybe some of you noticed, it's pretty tricky to get the scared white vote and the Latino vote too. You can't kid yourselves. Even Romney couldn't dance around enough to pull that off.

If you haven't figured it out already, you've got another problem with non-whites. More people of color have arrived, and they are still coming. It's plain they aren't white, but its so confusing because they aren't all starting at the bottom anymore. This lot came to join the middle class, and they are jumping right in. You weren't concerned with the "Asian" vote when it was just some East and West coast Chinatowns. But more and more well educated people are coming here from Asia and the Middle East. Their numbers are growing and you are screwed because a lot of them are bringing religions you've never even heard of.

True, some of the newest wave of American immigrants are rich enough to vote with you. Ironically, I think you can take credit for that. When you moved all those blue collar jobs over to India and China, some of them got stinking rich just like you. But no matter how much you suck up to your new rich friends, you are still the one percent.

We can outnumber you. And we can out vote you. We just have to get enough of us to pay attention. You have been brilliant at the slight of hand. I've watched you win for years by riling up white fear. You will continue to succeed in the white states and cities and towns where your magical powers are most effective. The most passionate members of the tea party are the most frightened about their imminent loss of control.

On November 6 you got all the white votes you could. One of you even admitted that. You have that strong base of white males, but they aren't enough. You let the extremists take over your party. You scared off too many of the centrist republicans. Once upon a time there were nice republicans, and mean Democrats. That is to say fiscally conservative/socially liberal republicans AND fiscally liberal/socially conservative Democrats. Those guys could jiggle things around a bit and compromise enough to get stuff done now and then.

Too bad that's not what you meant when you said "Traditional America". I'd like that one back please.

Where Was I?

After openimg at least three or four links to interesting nytimes articles, my link-hopping lands me on Gothamist. I read the quintessential NYC fantasy-rent-controlled-apartment story. Soon I am  buried in Google maps, winding deeper and deeper into the web that is the West Village. I am an East Village girl, and I have zero sense of direction in the West Village. Even sitting here with the map right in front of me on my iPad, I am still getting lost. And I am under the spell again.

Only a short walk to your holistic eating counselor

The consistent sense of bewilderment is part of the adventure. This neighborhood wields a trance inducing power. Even if you never find your way out, you won't mind. You wander around looking for a place that you think is here, but isn't there either. Instead you find yourself somewhere nearly identical, but not quite right. Then there is the sensation of surprise when you arrive at a corner you know very well. "Oh!" you say to yourself, "I didn't know Pleasure Chest was just around the corner from Elephant & Castle" or that the Village Vanguard is so near the place where you bought your precious leather jacket so long ago.

But every familiar place exists in it's own orbit. Naturally—or not—these orbits have no consistency. They are more like bubbles floating aimlessly, sometimes they intersect, but mostly they pass in a whisper. At night the shifts are stealthier. Move your eyes in the wrong direction and you will miss the link. You might walk two blocks in any direction. You will be in a different bubble, or not. If the orbits shift you will not be able to walk back the way you came. Your previous location is no longer where you thought you left it.


Your map lists all the cheese shops and bakeries, cafes, restaurants, yoga studios, book stores. The names that grab you are the ones that held you fast in your former life. Wandering around from above you find yourself drifting back in time. You are on Greenwich Ave., stopping at the places you once haunted. You feel the giddy ripples lift you up and drop you down on the streets you wandered with good friends and better lovers. The drunken kisses in crusty doorways swirl through you teasingly. There is the dimly lit den where you talked and drank for hours. Here is the bright peppery taste of the arugula in your 3am omelette. The cafe that used to be here still makes best toast ever.

Does it help you to find your way if you know that W.4th and W.10th intersect between Bleecker and & 7th Ave South? Hmmm ... Does it help you to know that from Sheridan Sq. your choices are Christopher St., Washington Place, Grove St., Barrow St., 7th ave, or W.4th? Well really, how? Some of these streets don't even exist on the other side of the square. Nearly within reach is the legendary Stonewall Inn. Its less than a block from here, But only if you are heading toward Waverly ... Oh look, here is Waverly, but it's not Waverly anymore ... Now it's Washington Sq. North. That's where 5th Ave. ends. If you find yourself in Washington Sq., you are back in your zone. Back to where you are on a mostly navigable grid. But save the grid for another time, when you want a firmer grip on the illusion that you know where you are.

Jumped ship

While poised to jump on a five, was unable to leave Google maps behind. Have landed in a strange new galaxy. Must find new paths to my old friends.

Back button is brilliant.

Heart Racing

So much more than chrome. My heart is still fluttering. It's not just my heart. The feeling grips my core, my center, my soul. Intensity. Swooning excitement. The frisson when the person you've been aching to kiss is only inches away. The longing that builds until the merest touch of a fingertip makes sparks.

The Noise and the Smell

I hear they are planning adult only flights. Not the naughty kind of adult flight--as far as I know--just the option for adults to enjoy relaxing on a plane without babies screaming and kids shrieking. I believe there has been some outrage--naturally-- but it sounds good to me. When I am fortunate to enjoy some adult time, the last thing I want is to hear someone else's kids making a racket. When the monkeys were babies I was constantly jumping whenever I heard a kid that sounded like one of mine. Back then it was rare to shop without them, so it was especially intrusive. (That said I still say hello to every cute little I see.)

So how about no perfume next? When are people going to stop walking around in a gagingly thick cloud of stinky chemicals that give me a headache?

Here is the personal scent rule people: Smell like anything you want, but no one, and I mean NO ONE should smell your scent unless they are close enough to hug you, or whisper in your ear. No exceptions.

Biology and Civics

8:30am. On our way to art camp it dawns on me that rather than dreading the big schlep across town, this 20 minute drive is excellent monkey conversation time.

We begin with biology. Every sentence starts the same way. "Mama, what would happen if ...?" This morning Sam wants to know what would happen if he drank a whole swimming pool full of water. This leads to hydration vs. dehydration. I'm a little obsessed with the benefits of keeping one's body well hydrated. So I explain that the best way to know if they are drinking enough water is by the color of their pee. Pale, almost invisible mixed with toilet water is ideal. That means your body has plenty of fluid to flush the toxins out. So conversely, really dark pee means your body should have much more water. Since we have done several projects recently involving food coloring, I asked them to think about how one drop of dye in a huge bowl of water would tint the water just a little bit, while a drop in a tiny cup of water would make a much darker color.


Then they wanted to know how long Obama gets to be president. I explained term limits. I explained that if it goes really well, then the vice president might get the next turn. Sam put it together quickly. He said that if the president has a lot of stuff to do, if he needs to go out and has a bunch of errands and he doesn't have enough time, then the vice president would go out and do those errands and bring back whatever stuff the president needs. I love that Sam thinks about how people can be helpful to each other. And I love --having just watched the first season of Veep, which was hilarious--the image of the VP going out to pick up the president's dry cleaning surrounded by the fleet of secret service cars.

35 forever

How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?


Heard this yesterday and I can't stop thinking about it. At my advanced age of 45 I've been unwittingly collecting quotes about aging. Oh that it a typo. I just looked up and saw the number and realized it was wrong. As of April I am 48. How's that for denial?

How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?

I'm pretty sure I am just about 35.

As women we are always ripping someone famous who has messed up their face. I have not seen the photos myself, but I am told Goldie Hawn still dresses like she did when she was 17. I've seen Laugh In, I know what she looked like in 1967. I just found a more recent photo of her that was much too close to be flattering.  (grrrr, why can I no longer pinch photos from IMDB??)  She could possibly pass for my age. But she was born in 1945. Meryl Streep was born in 1949. They are both in "Death Becomes Her"—a bizarre send-up of the lengths women will go to for maintaining their youthful beauty. That movie was made in 1992, and Meryl Streep was quite, quite stunning. Truly stunning. I love the way she's let herself get cozily plump and maternal looking. She's relaxed about knowing she has nothing to prove. If I were Meryl's daughter I would not be embarrassed to be seen with her in public. If I were Goldie's daughter I most certainly would. I have heard Madonna's daughter is mortified by her mother's public attire. Mutton dressed as lamb.

Mutton dressed as lamb. Goldie is doing it. Madonna does it. Joanna Lumley does it for laughs, and is hilarious as Patsy on AbFab. She always looks like she's about to topple over and— when she does there'll be nothing left but a pile of broken toothpicks. Krysten Ritter does a delightfully heartless version of the younger Patsy on "Don't Trust the B in Apartment 23". It's a damn shame the rest of the show is such puerile rubbish.

I probably don't need to make a list of all the Goldies and Melanie Griffiths out there. We've all got our favorites who've turned themselves into a horror show. Mary Tyler More broke my heart. But she started aging before modern technology. I just got lost looking up before and after photos—it really slows me down—but it was worth it. I idolized Mary in her "Dick Van Dyke" show days and it has been painful to watch her age so badly. Likewise Marlo Thomas, who I couldn't get enough of on "That Girl". A smokin' hottie.  Of course I will never forget Katherine Helmond's deeply disturbing mockery of the desperate vanity of the aging beauty in Terry Gilliam's "Brazil".

At around age 40 I became slightly obsessed with looking up the ages of every actress I liked in a movie or on TV. Am I comparing my aging process to theirs? Sort of. Mostly I am scrutinizing them for signs of the work they've had done. At one point in the early '90s I began to suspect that a number of actresses had seen the same artful surgeon who had given them a very similar, yet beautifully sculpted look.  Daryl Hannah was the first one I noticed. Then Michelle Pfeiffer, Jodi Foster, and especially Helen Hunt. The guy who did them is a master craftsman, an amazing artist. It's a shame Meg Ryan didn't go to him. Michelle Pfeiffer is 53 and beyond beautiful. She says  "I'm all for a little something here and there - fine. It doesn't matter to me if people have plastic surgery or they don't, or if they do Botox. But when people don't look like themselves anymore, that's when you kind of go, 'Oooh,' and it's kind of sad." Well said Michelle. And she can say it, because she's pulled it off better than anybody. Except we all know that no matter how beautiful you are, no matter how perfect your bones are,  no one can possibly look that good at fifty three. I respect her though, because even though her looks are slightly frozen in time, her face is not frozen. She deliberately plays older women, and does it with a sense of humour. Photos of Michelle: I like the first one because she just has a natural smile, and it doesn't look so much like a pose.  The next one is your perfect head shot. Glamorous, yet natural. 

And here is Michelle at a party for "Dark Shadows". Holding up pretty well. But, just for a moment can we talk about that hair?? So many actresses have worn this awful do for quite some time now. I don't get it.  The whole scruffy, messy thing with the dark roots showing. Who decided that women who don't want to look old should all have visible dark roots? This what your stylist does for those "candid" shots of you with that "oh I don't fuss with myself" look. The "I just stumbled out of bed and oh no there's the paparazzi" look. I could do a whole other  rant on stars with that same hair.

Who besides Meryl has relaxed the most gracefully into old age? Diane Keaton of course. Annette Benning, Helen Mirren is one of the best. But British actors are a whole other thing. Off the top of my head, for unattractive actors who get great parts we have Oliver Platt, Paul Giamatti, Philip Seymore Hoffman, Billy Crystal, Kathy Bates. I'll think of more. (That would be a fun list for people to add to.) Not very many survive Hollywood. I'm devoted to Colin Firth, but he had to learn to smile with his mouth closed before he became a famous actor.

Okay. So there is a whole other rant about how in the UK they make brilliant movies with actors who aren't particularly good looking.  I am trying so hard to stay on topic and not get completely sidetracked. It's nearly impossible. I'm hopeless.


Aging in fairy tales. I need to look into how many tales don't involve a scary old hag of some sort. Now that I think of it, that is the plot of so many of them. Another whole rant. As a child we don't think twice about the hag in our fairy tales. But now it starts to make sense. The most marginalized person in Western culture has to be the old, old, lady. Go ahead and argue with me. Why are there so many stories about witches? And so much persecution in real life? Because witchcraft is all an old lady's got to get any respect. The old crone punishes those who don't treat her with respect. Sometimes she's a witch taking testing people to see if if they are pure-hearted enough to be kind to an old hag. Beauty and the Beast. Often she's a witch who steals something from the young and beautiful so she can be beautiful too. That one comes up a lot. Rapunzel. Snow White. Cinderella. Michelle Pfeiffer has played a witch superbly.

The next time I break my arm

He already has it planned. He wants an orange cast this time--last one was black because they don't make them in orange. He said I'll do it after my birthday this year. Before turning four he broke his clavicle. He broke his wrist last year just before his sixth birthday. But it hurts doesn't it? Oh no, I don't care. I reminded him that we postponed the party last year until the cast was off. He said he'd do it after his birthday this time. But remember how frustrated you were, trying to keep water and sand out at the beach? You missed a lot of boogie boarding. Barely a pause. I'll wait and do it in the fall. I'll break my arm jumping into a pile of leaves. Lots of kids do that. But why? Because everybody talks to me. Everybody wants to know what happened and they all ask me about it.