Here Come Da Judge...

Flashback -- 1950. Imagine...

Here we are at a kid’s fourth birthday party. Lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Not many little children celebrating the double birthday, but there appear to be four, each expected by their proud parents to out do the other with a memorized poem, song or story. The mothers watch with eyes glowing, almost teary. The dads are trying to figure out why they are in party hats instead of golf shoes.

There is an infrequent fight over whose turn it is to ride the metal pony, but it is quickly over when it is time for another performance. The kids, anything but ordinary to their parents, seem to be having a pretty good time. There is however, one exceptionally bright (and incredibly cute) little boy who seems to excel at poetry recitation. Although not the youngest of the children, certainly the most dapper. His outfit, a white shirt, bow tie, blue shorts & socks, are child model worthy ... His parents own a men's clothing store, but that's not what makes him extraordinary. It is, rather, his three year old's determination to excel -- even without parental pressure.



Yesterday, I saw that same determination as Justice Andy Hurwitz, nominated by President Obama for a seat on the Federal Courts, testified before a distinguished Senate Judiciary panel. His wife Sally, younger brother Gary (now a Mandy Patamkin look alike), and his wife Holly, me and a few friends sat in the peanut gallery while Andy took questions from the Senators. There was no “gotcha” attitude although we were told later that there are a few Senators who hold up nominations simply because it’s what they do. But there were no softballs. They asked questions about judicial decisions he made in the past (unlike those asked on Friday nights after a game at Paul’s Diner), his answers were cogent, reasonable, articulate and thoughtful.

l-r: Andy, Sally, Holly, Gary, at the Senate


It was a wonderful proud moment for all of us who were there, for all the old friends who were not, and for all our parents watching down on us. I’m glad I didn’t kill him when he tried to get on my metal horse. He has made the world a better place to be. And given me a good reason to vote for (as opposed to against), President Obama. We’re just sayin’… Iris

It's a Parlor, a Bee-you-tee Parlor

A few days ago I started a blob writing that there were three things I wanted to write about. Well, a senior moment or if you prefer, a brain fart, and I have no memory of the things I wanted to share. Lucky for all our loyal readers, there is never a time when I can’t think of something else.

When I was in high school, my mother, who was always colorful, decided that she should be a beautician. In our family, when someone decided they wanted to do something—it was never half-assed. Like my Uncle Lou decided it would be fun to have a toy store—in his basement. It was a virtual Toys R Us. My guess is that he bought all the toys he wanted to play with, after which he gave them to us. Or there was the time my Uncle Jack told us he had a silver mine…. Never mind, back to the hairdresser.

There was a “finished” basement in our house. Not fancy, but finished enough – I’ll get back to that. Anyway, it was never clear as to whether or not mom ever got her beauty license, but she was never one to stand on ceremony. She was, as I said, not one to do anything half heartedly. So she created the perfect little beauty salon in a space that was finished but other wise unused. We had a black salon sink. A pink chair that could be used for washing, dying, rinsing, and then setting. A 1956 hairdryer that looked like an old fashioned space helmet, (I have since made it into a very cool lamp which lights up when you close the plastic top) and a few chairs in which customers could lounge. Her customers were friends and family – no one who would ever turn her in to the authorities.

As it happens, she had quite a feel for her newly chosen profession. (There were a multitude of other kinds of work she attempted. But this was the most fun for me and all my friends.) Because when she wasn’t playing beauty parlor, we were. Talk about exciting. We practiced curling, and waving, and perming and we once dyed my friend Joyce’s hair green. She was not happy when she realized that despite our efforts to convince her that the light was making it look green, it was a pretty bright green.

Until yesterday, it had been a long time since I got to play beauty parlor. But thanks to my cousin Joan (an expert with a flat iron,) yesterday we played beauty parlor or hair salon – whichever makes you more comfortable. It was such fun we didn’t bother with the washing part of the program, but having had my hair curly for so many years, we skipped right to the straightening. I should mention that when I had my hair cut a few days before, my stylist did straighten it – so I was desperate to see if it could be done again. And yes it could. In fact when my stylist did it, it looked remarkably like a wig. When Joan did it, it looked absolutely adorable (my hair not my face).

There are those moments when you are so comfortable in a simple situation, that you wonder why you can’t always feel that way. It might be when you are eating a peanut M&M, giving a hug to someone special, holding hands, trying on old clothes, or playing beauty parlor with some product and a flat iron. For whatever it’s worth, those moments and feeling like you are smiling inside as well as out, are the moments that make everything not so great, OK. We're just sayin'... Iris

Hike it to ME!

With football season coming to an end, I do have a confession. I will miss it. Over the years my loyalties to different teams have changed, and now come full circle, but like many people who love watching the game, if it’s a good game I just like to watch it.

Some people think my adoration for the game can be credited to my high school boyfriend, who eventually played for Miami, in the Super Bowl-- several times. But this is not true. Although I did drool over him long before I liked the game, I continued to like the game even when he married someone else and even when he wasn’t involved.

There was a time, in fact, when we had Patriots season tickets, first when they played at Harvard Stadium, then at Boston College, and finally in the old Pats Stadium, (which I might add, was horrible). In those years, when the Pats played the Dolphins (and usually lost), my high school beau would get a sideline pass for my X. He and a few of the players would come over to my house the night before the game and have dinner—usually pizza and scotch, because we were very poor. One dinner is even mentioned in a book the hero wrote, when he recounted how, during a particularly nasty rainy game, he reminded the guys who had been to dinner to “keep their mouths shut when they got tackled, because it would be a crime to ruin the good scotch.”

The truth is, I like to root for someone. If there is a direct connection even in college football , (my niece went to Michigan and my best friend and ‘ludafisk’ sister lived in Wisconsin), but the connect has simply provided me with an excuse to pick one team over the other. Some team that allows me to yell at the TV. My male friends always thought my football watching behavior was obscene because I behaved in exactly the way they did – cursing when there was a bad call, muttering when I was unhappy, jumping up and down, and screaming when the team did something good—or bad.
As I said, I just like the game.

And I love that my grandchildren and my friends grandchildren get as excited as the rest of us – what joy, what pain, what purpose.

So what’s going to happen tomorrow, in the final games before the Super Bowl (which, for whatever reason, is hardly ever a good game). It’s a silly question. Last week I rooted for Green Bay. That was an embarrassing game. While I wanted them to win, I didn’t mind that they lost to the Giants. Because, I want to see the match between Giants and the Pats go to the Big Game, starring – yes… Madonna! Then, I am rooting that the Pats will have the victory they deserved (yes, and screwed up), in the last match between the two. This forces me to watch the game alone or take a great deal of crap from my New York family. But this is the price one has to pay for loyalty – and remember, the joys of full circle. Oh, and because I’m easy, if the Pats lose tomorrow, my heart won’t be in it but, I will be behind those Giants at least 65% -- in honor of all my NY cousins. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

The First Topic...of Three

There are three topics I wanted to address in our moving and oft prophetic blob, and I will, but they are just too much for one sitting. And so I will begin with a memory.

Jordan was a bit under the weather, and thinking about how far away she is, and my inability to be with her, took me back a long way. It is unclear to me whether this was something the female members of my family did, or it was something that happens in every family. But when we were kids (OK and adults), and we didn’t feel well, the first thing our mothers would do was to put their lips on our keppie’s (foreheads) and use them as a thermometer-- to see if we had a fever. There was hardly a time when they would use an actual instrument to measure the heat in our bodies. “Feh, what for,” they would say. They didn’t trust us to keep a thermometer in our mouths and we ardently refused to have one inserted in our ‘tuchas’. It’s funny, but whenever I’m out of sorts, I can still feel all those lips on my keppie. Hope my kids can as well.

The other day I was in a rush, but I needed to do some bank business and there was only one person in front of me. How long could it take, I thought. My answer came when 15 minutes later, the woman was still in line, but she wasn’t doing business. She was chatting with the teller like they were old friends. The conversation was not quiet so there were a few things that became apparent. 1. The teller had never seen her before and 2. The woman was lonely and had no where else to go. No place to be. No friends with whom she could converse.

Yes, the conversation was not only desperate it was embarrassing. The teller wanted this customer to move on, but that was not to be. At this point, rushed as I was, I couldn’t tear myself away. The woman was married with children. Her husband had disappeared years before and her children were never around. “They have their own lives,” she offered. She lived alone in a studio apartment which was rent controlled but she had no income anymore. She had been a secretary, but the older she got, the less interested the boss was in keeping her. There were minimal savings, no health insurance, and no possibilities for a future of any kind. It was very sad, but people were anxious to cash their checks, make deposits or argue about a charge with which they did not concur. What I realized was that, this was not the first time I had been in a line where a customer ahead of me, just wanted to talk to someone. And if they bought as little as a cup of coffee, they would have a captive audience – the server – until they were forced to move on.

I’m the type of person who talks to everyone. I’m friendly – good with people. David would say, “You think every person is just another person who you think needs to know you.” Don’t they? I think. (My kids are the same way—as is David, but he pretends the stranger makes the first move. ) Anyway, there has never been a time when I bared my soul to a stranger while in line at a Sonic, or Dunkin Donuts. But most of us have other ways to share our lives.

There was a time when people depended on their community (family, neighbors, business associates), to share concerns. But we have become a society which depends on anything but face-to-face communication for a relationship. Social media has nothing to do with being social. It is convenient and it is easy, but what have we lost by depending on it so heavily? Well for one thing, we no longer know what those lips feel like when we’re feverish or blue… and that feeling can not be replaced by an e-mail or a server at a fast food restaurant or even a bank. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Talent Added: Photojournalism

I just wish I’d known it would be that easy. Some things just fall into place. Others, well they need a little work. A little concentration, a little effort. When I first signed on for the Yearbook (the “Olympian”) staff in high school, I was 15 years old, looking for , as my mom reminded me any number of times, something that would qualify as an ‘extra-curricular’ activity if I had any hope of actually getting into college. You couldn’t simply own a decent GPA, attend classes dutifully, and hope to be able to get into a good school. As a member of the first class of the Baby-Boomers, competition was fiercer (more fierce?) than we ever thought it could be. So I suppose I had secondary interests in the back of my mind when they accepted my yearbook application, and I had to fill in which staff I thought would be appropriate for me: Literary, Business, Art, and Photography. I ticked off – in a negative way – each of the first three, and ended up, with some ambivalence, as Photography got my vote. I had no idea what it would entail, but it was the least uninteresting of the lot. When I finally received word weeks later that I was accepted on the Photo staff, I was excited to see what it was all about. I was a pretty good Chemistry and Physics student (yes, I could fire a steel ball-bearing from a spring on a bench, and calculate how far it would go before it hit the floor – oh, that gravitational constant!) The first day of school the following autumn found me with several other newbies in the darkroom with our advisor , Mr. Blackham ( a rotund but very game Math teacher) huddled around a not yet antique Omega enlarger, watching him project a picture of the French club onto a sheet of white photo paper. His hands moved in a few phantom patterns (I would eventually discover what burning and dodging was ) over the photo paper, and then the enlarger light went dark. Mr. Blackham then lifted the paper out of the easel and slid it into the Dektol. In a room bathed in the yellow glow of a safe-light, I saw my very first photographic image appear, magically, like some kind of sorcerer’s alchemy, on that piece of photo paper. No tongs for him, Mr. Blackham reached in and grabbed a corner of the picture…. Shaking it gently, as the tones slowly went from light to dark gray, and some to black. It really was magic.
a school crisis, the "leadership meets," 1964
A few days later, I was given a roll of Tri-x and a Rollei, and told to go shoot a Friday afternoon football game. I wandered out to the field, looking around, trying to figure out where to stand, how to hold the camera, when it dawned on me I had NO idea how to set it. In one of those scurrying moves, where you can feel the sweat starting to ooze through your pores, I raced through the halls of school, trying to find George Carmen, one of those kids whose dad had gotten him started in photography in Jr. High, and who I knew would be able to guide me in the mysterious world of Shutter Speed and Aperture.
the Graham Special at the Salt Flats, 1963
When I finally did find him…. he helped me set both, and back I went to the game. It was one of my first days as --- dare I say it – a photographer. And if you carry on the idea of what I was doing that day, it might have even been my first day being a photojournalist. I don’t think I was even aware of what ‘photojournalist’ meant or implied. Sure, like most families we subscribed to LIFE and LOOK, those magazine stalwarts of photographic storydom. The twenties and thirties saw the birth of photo magazines, first in Germany, and England, and later in the U.S. The idea of taking cameras out of the drawing room, and using them to photograph actual “things and events” was quite new. It was the birth of what would become Photojournalism. And let’s face it, there is a bit more cachet to ‘photojournalist’.. working on a ‘reportage’ than a photographer working on a mundane ‘assignment.’
George Romney (Mitt's dad) speaks about his Presidential aspirations to the Utah Legislature, 1967
In the beginning I counted myself among the latter, until sometime in college – my Senior year after I’d had a summer internship with TIME in New York – some snotty NewEnglander kid a bit my junior was explaining that his older brother was busy creating, as his Locust Valley Lockjaw might have put it, “reh-pour-TAHZE.” I had to admit that his way of putting it made it sound pretty cool. It took years, of course, for the rest of the world, and the rest of the business to use “reportage” on a daily basis. I still feel a little funny when I use the word “reportage” but, it sounds way too groovy not to.
Bobby Kennedy speaks at BYU, 1968

All of which leads me to think, that given my forty plus years of photographing ( O M G, next year it will be fifty! Don’t tell anyone!) and feeling that even now as I’m learning something about my chosen field everyday, that this is a world of unending possibilities. I write this on a plane flying across the country, and in the seat pocket in front of me, are copies of Pop Photo, and Shutterbug. There are a zillion cool things inside of each, little techniques, little hints of things yet undiscovered. You never really know it all. Every day is full of new possibilities, new ways of expanding your personal vision. So it was all the more amusing when I recently received in my email inbox one of those updates from LinkedIn, that crazy, billion dollar company (how did THAT happen?) which advised me that one of my LinkedIn contacts had updated their profile, and added “Photojournalist” to their list of talents. Apparently they are already working as a photojournalist somehow, somewhere, but forgot to mention it when they filled out their profile. The most amusing part of the message was the imploring by LinkedIn, to me, that I add the talent “Photojournalist” to my own profile, and that it would … well.. make me a Photojournalist. Damn, I had no idea it was that easy. Just add it to your list of attributes and you’re IN. Like many of the misunderstandings which clouded my early days in the photo world the lights went on more quickly than I could keep up with them. In 1969, when I moved to Miami to be the TIME contract photographer based in the SouthEast/Caribbean, I had a card printed up. I had already poached what I thought was a cool line from Norm Betts, an AP shooter I’d met the previous winter. My card read

David Burnett
Photojournalist
655 Eldron Drive
Miami Springs, FL

“Matthew Brady is alive and well, and living in Argentina”

Oh, there was a phone number on there as well, and so I thought that once I’d printed up my card, and started passing them out, the phone would start to ring off the bloody hook with offers to shoot hither and yon. In fact, nothing was more frighteningly silent than my phone. It just refused to ring. But hey, I was a photojournalist. Eventually, thank God, things slowly began to change, and my career grew as I started to understand what it took to connect with editors, and make pictures which would be worth looking at.
the Vietnam "Moratorium" in Miami, 1969
Recently, we were saddened by the passing of Jim Atherton, who worked in Washington DC for UPI, and later the Washington Post. He spent decades shooting the pants off young’uns like me. Jim Atherton was one of those guys who really got it. He understood that elusive point where life intersects with the camera. That in fact, for the most part, we “make” pictures, not “take” them. We do all that is necessary to get our viewfinders in the perfect place where the pushing of the shutter button creates that moment in time, frozen forever. Unlike the rookies like me, who would arrive early, and look around at a Senate hearing room, trying to figure out how to spend the next three or four hours squatting on a knee-high bench, looking for some key image of a semi-famous person, Atherton would make the rounds of the Capital, usually arriving somewhere in hour 3 or 4. While the rest of us had so tired of looking, so fatigued we could barely see any longer, Jim would walk into a room, and like a sniper hunting his target, peer though his squinted eyes, sum it all up in a few minutes, and just BE where he had to be, to get a picture the rest of us usually missed altogether. Bang! Another time I’ve been knicked by Jim Atherton. He did it time and again, never settling for the obvious.
John Dean being sworn in at the Watergate hearings (1973), Jim Atherton bouncing in on the right for his exclusive
Atherton was a special breed. He apparently more than once corrected someone who called him a ‘photojournalist,’ saying that no, he was a News Photographer. He imbued the idea of “News Photographer” with something special, and though I doubt he was ever on LinkedIn (what, really would have been the point?) he was the quintessential definition of the term. It was his years of perceptive seeing, and listening, and watching and knowing. You couldn’t just add that talent to your resumé. No, it’s just not that easy. We’re just sayin’…. David

Assume you are making assumptions

Remember when you were a kid and you asked your parents for something specific and they either said no, or ignored you. You may have assumed that they didn’t like you or were just mean or stupid. And remember when your first true love broke up with you. When it happened to me, there was no e-mail or texting. So the only way to communicate was by phone. Sometimes I would leave a desperate message. And sometimes I would talk, but whoever I was trying to reach never responded with what I wanted them to say. Which was probably, “I made a mistake and can’t live without you.” (OK this happened with David but I convinced him that all the other women would never make him happy – which is pretty interesting since I had put all the precious possessions he had left in my care.)

Never mind, we are living happily ever after. I was right. None of those other women would have made him happy or given him the amazing kid I did. But that’s not the point of this blob. People make assumptions to fill in the blanks. You reach out, they reach out, if it goes on long enough the “fill in the blank” can become, “you don’t want to speak to me.” This need not be the case. Your timing was simply off. You didn’t hear the phone. You were in the shower. Or maybe, and this is totally rare, you just didn’t answer the phone because you wanted some time and space to be by yourself, (a concept unheard of in the 24/7 you can’t be by yourself, I must reach you), culture.

We all make assumptions. We do it because we always feel we need to fill in the empty space that lies between, “you said and I said”. Aye, there’s the rub…. Too much empty space. Or maybe what you said and I said. Or, maybe an assumption is made because no one says anything – what we meant to say, is assumed.

Tonight I had a conversation with someone I love. She was telling me about a friend of hers who, no matter what my friend does, her friend never responds. “I call and there’s never a return call.” , “I leave messages that never get answered”, “No matter what I do, I never hear back. I think she must be angry with me. I think I must have offended her. I don’t know what I can do to make it different and I can't find out.

This is why I should have been a life coach… “Maybe”, I said, “It has nothing to do with you at all.” Maybe, she is just not someone who feels like she needs to respond. Maybe, she has her own stuff going on and because you are her friend, she knows you will understand the lack of communication.

Now, back to the Presidential Primary Race. When did we even mention that you ask. You assumed I was not going to talk about politics because I was talking about assumptions. But that’s all Presidential politics is…. Someone assumes they can run the government better than anyone else, and they assume that they can raise enough money and build a good enough campaign to get elected. Then there is an assumption that people will like you better than anyone else and you can make their lives better. Whew, that’s a lot of assumptions. Personally, I would rather not assume that anyone knows how to be the President. It would just be nice if all the people who think they know better than the rest of us, would not make assumptions about our lives. If they would learn bout the people they want to lead, and follow a path that just makes good sense for most of us. Aye… there’s another rub. Good Common Sense. We're Just Sayin... Iris

I Hate Goodbyes

When someone we love dies, and we think about their lives, we often think about the life in terms of us. It’s not really all about me, but we have memories that are ours and that’s what we remember. So forgive what’s all about me and share in my loss.

When we were kids, me and my cousins lived pretty close together—geographically. We all lived not five blocks away from each other. And our parents expected we would bond [as they had done growing up in the 20s and 30s]. But we were 10, 6, 3 years apart so we always had different priorities.

There were always rules when we were at Aunt Fritzie’s. (For whom Jordan is named). Whatever else we did, Stevie and I were not allowed to touch our (older) cousin Larry’s stuff. It was like an invitation. We would run into Aunt Fitzie’s, go directly to Larry’s room, and touch everything we could find. Then, of course, when we saw him we would sing “we touched all your things.” Oh My God, he would chase us until we dropped and then he didn’t know what to do with us, so he would say, “you stay away from my things – or you die!”

Larry always had the best stuff. Clothes, toys, and cars. His cars were amazing. Always a Corvette or some other incredibly hot vehicle which no woman could resist. There was one day when Stevie and I were in Hebrew School, and Stevie put a pencil under my tush as I sat down. It broke off and I had to go to the doctor. For whatever reason, the Rabbi was unable to reach anyone but Larry. He took me to the doctor, but made me sit on my knees. Not so the pencil wouldn’t go deeper, but because he didn’t want me to bleed on the car’s upolstery.
Eden and I, touching Larry's Corvette (circa 1958)
Yesterday, we said our final goodbye to my incredibly entertaining, outrageous, and yes, courageous, cousin Larry. Larry was the first of the biological first cousins to die. Our beloved Elaine died years ago, and Allan, a second cousin did as well. Both very serious losses. But for those of us who grew up with Larry as an integral part of our lives, this was very “there but for God go I.”

I don’t want to minimize the loss the family has suffered with anyone. Larry, however was such an important part of my life – he could decide if we lived or died -- that the fact that as adults, we got to know one another and actually like “us” as adults was incredibly special.

So I say, without any regrets, I loved my cousin. I am glad we resolved all those problems of youth. And I will miss the Larry I just started to know. Goodbye my friend. I’m going to Atlanta and touch all your things. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Eye Oh Aye

It’s 5 till 7pm. The Iowa caucuses are about to start. David has been meandering around bemoaning the fact that he’s not yet (or hopefully ever will be) involved in this political campaign season. I, on the other hand, couldn’t be happier. Especially about not being involved in Iowa. When I went to Iowa with a Presidential candidate—it was my worst nightmare. Let me share a story, then I will tell you who I think will win. (I’m not giving you dates – just remember, cell phones didn’t exist, we had no Blackberry’s, there were no fax machines. We used radio’s when they were available—if we had the money. And a telecopier, which was then new technology, was so new that the campaign got more people to attend a telecopier briefing, than a campaign event with the candidate.

Iowa is extremely cold in January. While we thought it would be fun to travel all over Iowa in a campaign bus, after the first day we realized we were incorrect. It was just cold, and tedious, and cold, and exhausting and cold. At that time I was traveling with the Candidate as part of his personal staff. This meant that it was my job to make sure his wife (who was hilarious and smart) did not get drunk and humiliate the Candidate. In addition, when the Press Secretary, may he rest in peace, got drunk, I became the press secretary. And the highlight of my job was to babysit the Candidate’s children (who, as adults, did not ever need a babysitter.) At most, they needed a briefing about the campaign events.

In my capacity as babysitter, (which I finally found out was because there was no money for my housing), I shared a room with the Candidates eldest daughter. The daily schedule went something like, Wake up at 6am, schmooze with the national press – get them to get on your bus -- have breakfast on the run. Jump aboard the bus. Brief the Candidate’s wife about her schedule. Fight with her about what was on her schedule. “Move that bus!” Usually there was a campaign event with the Candidate. It was generally a breakfast speech, an elderly event (you could count on them to show up at their caucus), a speech with people committed to the Candidate, a coffee, a meet and greet of some kind and a press opportunity. (This was a time when the media had total access, if they wanted it.) . Then we would get back on the bus and go to the next town, where there would be a luncheon speech, a community event, a small fundraiser, and a press opportunity. Back on the bus. There would be a spouse press opportunity on the bus, where she would say she loved cooking and knitting. (She wouldn’t have recognized a knitting needle if it was stuck in her leg.) I would sit in back of her trying not to guffaw. In the meantime, the Candidate would do more people events, fundraising, and press opportunities. At the end of the day, we would reconnoiter on the bus and head out for our RON (rest over night).

We were on the bus for two weeks, but it seemed like a lifetime. There were some unforgettable moments. One happened on the first overnight. It was so cold, so windy and snowed so hard, that when we got up in the morning, there were three inches of snow in our motel room. You can only imagine how cold the room had to be for the snow not to melt when it came inside. The other was on the night we were all supposed to fly back to DC. We were all excited to be going home. But when we got to the airport we discovered that the Candidate’s brother had cancelled our campaign plane without finding out if there was any other way for us to get home. There wasn’t. I won’t get into the gruesome travel details, but it took months for all of us to recover. In addition to which, we were forced to pay for the rest of the campaign on the Candidate’s personal American Express card.

Needless to say, I don’t miss Iowa – or the Presidential primaries. So who do I think is going to win. Governor Huntsman, because the Iowa Caucus have settled nothing. But Huntsman (who never even went to Iowa), will do very well in New Hampshire and that will give his campaign a boost, and him an opportunity to be heard. Isn’t it terrible to think that the Republican candidate will be the person we are least afraid of. And the Democrat will not face any real opposition. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

The New Year Beetle

Ordinarily, the last weekend of the year, I reflect on all that has happened, and try to make you laugh and cry, preferably at the same time. But not this year. It has been a difficult year but I’ve decided not to dwell. Instead I want to share happy family news, and then a story which has nothing to do with anything. The happy news… It’s Allegra’s birthday. For those of you who don’t know Allegra, (and if you did you would know that you know) I was there when she was born and thankfully, I was too young for it to have ruined my New Years. More happy news… we welcome to our family Elaina Turner. Amy’s first grandchild and the family’s first female great great great , Sorry the great great, great, tantes aren’t here to enjoy her… but we know they are watching to make sure whatever we all do is done the way they would do it. (It’s probably easier to explain her as sixth generation Dubroff. But as a regular reader, you know I never make anything easy, nor did any generation of Dubroffs.)

When we moved to Newburgh we were introduced to the most ridiculous species of Beetles. They are fat, and beige, and move in any direction that appears convenient. They don’t jump or fly. They wander aimlessly and seemingly without purpose, up and down the wall, shades, floor, windows, screens – anywhere they are able to go. (Yes, they defy gravity.) But here’s the thing. We never see more than one at a time. So we are now convinced that it is actually only one indestructible beetle that keeps appearing and reappearing, no matter what we do.

Squishing, flushing, suffocating, and freezing do not have the desired effect. ( I do not want to hear from any PETA people – the little bug has an indeterminate number of lives). Like the seasons, or a bad dream, it just keeps coming back. Some people may argue with us about whether or not it is only one beetle. But those people don’t live in our house. There is one beetle, whose sole purpose in life is to die a multitude of deaths. Why should this surprise anyone. A Cat has nine lives. Why can’t a beetle have numerous opportunities to keep getting reincarnated as the same beetle? (Does this make sense—probably not to a religious Hindu priest.)


The other good news is that 2011 is over. This means we can once again start with a clean slate. We can choose to be happy or sad, make wise or stupid decisions, go on a diet or eat like there’s no tomorrow. We can hope that our elected officials start to work for the good of the electorate. And we can pray that our family and friends have joy, peace, prosperity, and nice personalities. I love the idea of a clean slate. But in the words of one of my favorite people, I simply need to stop being a ninny. Happy New Year. Hoping a clean slate does not mean I forget all my entertaining words. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Dancing in the Light

Last night I watched the Kennedy Center Honors. They have a special place in my heart because in 1978, Liz Stevens asked a few of the Carter political appointees to help out with this new project her husband was working on. She said it was simple work. We just had to escort an Honoree while they were at the Kennedy Center for the evening of special activities. It sounded like fun and I agreed to help out.

The nominee I was assigned was Fred Astaire. When I was a little girl I dreamed about tapping like Fred, (whom I worshipped on the silver screen), but my mother didn’t think I would practice, so tap lessons were not on the list of things I could do. Oh, my cousin had an old accordion available so she encouraged me to do that. But the damn thing was so heavy I couldn’t carry it from school to the lessons.

Anyway, tap was always a passion. And in my imagination, Fred Astaire was always my partner. You can only imagine how excited I was about meeting him. But meeting was only the beginning. We were all introduced to our Honorees early in the day. Since most of us worked at the State Department, we could walk the short distance to the Kennedy Center. (Some of us galloped).

There were five nominees that year. Although they were exceptional performing artists, they were neither voted on nor was there any particular reason they were the first, except that they accepted George Stevens invitation to be honored. They were Fred Astaire, Marian Anderson, Richard Rogers, George Balanchine and Arthur Rubenstein. The people in Washington were ecstatic…. Real artist/celebrities coming to their town. And not just any old celebrity – Marian Anderson and Fred Astaire! All of them would probably dress up and even glitter. (Washington in 1978 was not the sophisticated city it is today. There were two restaurants that were open late – both in Georgetown. One was Spanish (not Mexican) and one cheese. (You can only imagine).

Fred Astaire was absolutely charming and incredibly forgiving. When we were introduced I could not remember my name. But he looked at my tag and reminded me who I was. He insisted that I accompany him to the celebrity cocktail party and that I wait backstage (instead of outside the box) so I could see the tributes and meet the artists. He assured me that he would call me on my radio if he needed anything, but said there was no way he was going to miss a moment of the show to go to the bathroom. The cast from “Chorus Line” performed as part of his tribute. It was so exciting to be there backstage and witness the frenzy. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G04bPJeqMTs

It was very late when I went to retrieve him after the show to escort him to the after dinner. The technology was such that it was done in real time. He was elated and exhausted by the kudos (Hollywood loves Washington, and Washington loves Hollywood), after the show. While we were walking through the Center he asked me if I enjoyed the show and did I like to dance. I told him yes and admitted that he was my fantasy dance partner and had been from the time I was a little girl. And he asked me to dance. Right there in the middle of the Kennedy Center lobby, in front of God and all the other VIP’s in the hall. I didn’t hesitate for even a minute. “Yes, I would love to dance with you.”
It was Thrilling. Thrilled, moved to tears at the same time, I was laughing and listening to my heart beat louder than it ever had in my life. He sang, “Dancing in the Dark.” The lights were bright but for those few moments, there was no one else in the hall. A treasured memory, to say the least..

DANCING IN THE DARK -- TILL THE TUNE ENDS,
WE`RE DANCING IN THE DARK …AND IT SOON ENDS

We’re just sayin’… Iris

It's Pronounced "DRAY-dul"

It's Christmas morn. Since I don't have to rush to see what's under the tree, (that would require a tree), I thought I would take a minute to share the most absurd discovery of this holiday week -- because I don't know how long it will last -- and if you can, you should discover it as well.

Jews are kind of left out on the 25 of December. We might celebrate with friends, or try to recreate the holiday, in a bastardized form (a Hannukah bush never had the same magic) and my mother would have burnt the bush, and probably the house down with a Hannukah candle, if we ever set one up.) I'm not denying that I love the whole Christmas spirit thing -- lights, decorations, Santa, the Salvation Army, ringing those bells on street corners and in front of the market (food not stock).

But we have a wonderful holiday to celebrate, often at the same time. The Miracle of the Lights... Hannukah. When we were kids, my cousin Stevie and I would light a candle each night and then receive a small gift. Some were memorable. Like once we got our cousins’ used Schwinn bikes, and one year we got Winky Dink screens and since we only had a 14" screen, we would fight over who got to use their screen. (The fight ended when I screamed, "Uncle Phil, he hit me," and Stevie was dragged off to his room for some medieval torture).

Anyway, I'm getting way off track. Except some Jew who also felt denied, created the Hannukah channel, #68 on your XM or Sirius satellite radio. When the words Hannukah appeared as I was flipping through the stations, I was surprised and yes, delighted. A holiday station without "Oh Holy Night"' or “Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer" or my new favorite, "Grandma Got run over by a Reindeer" - which David has on a hat with moving, lighting up, sing-along antlers.

Still off track, allow me to share some of the songs that have become favorites, which I have never heard before and, I assume, I will not hear again until next year. On the top of the list is a ballad entitled, "I'm Just a Latke (potato pancake) Waiting for Hannukah." [ see here... http://adasemuno.blogspot.com/2011/12/festival-of-latkes.html ]This is a serious outcry, from a latke, who is lonely without someone who will enjoy his crispy flavor. Trust me, this is for real. My next favorite was Ma Atsur (The Jewish Rock of Ages), sung as a Rock-A-Billy tune. ( Rock-a-Billy is even more distasteful than the Blues, and I hate the Blues). And what do you know, " Eight Days of Hannukah" sung with a Bluesy tune. There were lots which were sung to the tunes of famous Christmas Carols, old Rock songs, and children's music. (Why can't people be original if they are trying to do something different?) But wait, there were some imaginative, original songs. One, and I apologize for not remembering the actual name, was an upbeat ditty which decried the use of anything fake, or fat free, in a kugel (noodle pudding). And while I agree with the sentiments (having once made a fat-free sweet kugel), the sentiments clearly did not necessitate a song... Where the rhymes are stretched well beyond acceptable rhymability.

Sure, there are a great many old favorites sung in Yiddish, Hebrew, and English, but they are well disguised as tunes which are better off not being aired in public. The whole concept of a Hannukah Channel is hilarious. The Jews are unprepared for music to express the power of the holiday, and some of us are not prepared to listen. Years and years ago we found a charming Hannukah cassette tape (that pretty much means the early 80s). It was music to celebrate, music you could dance, sing to, and even enhance the celebration with a variety of kid like musical instruments. If I were doing the programming for XM68, I would play a few ridiculous songs, and then I would play this music 24/7, and just go with what works for the spirit of this special holiday. I bet Christ probably lit a few candles in his time.... Or was that too early in the Hannukah timeline? Anyway, let's celebrate whatever holiday happens to be ours, and wish for Peace, Love and the retention of our rapidly eroding First Amendment rights... We’re just sayin.... Iris

Joi Bangla!! + Forty Years....

Blobbing is one of those exercises which is remarkably like exercising. That is, you take what you think might be an alloted time, set it aside, and say to your left-side brain “write! you simpering bastard, write!” But it never really ends up like that. In much the same way that I regard the spinning bike and dumb bell weights as friends in the long road to longevity, a keyboard brings with it an implied obligation which is at times difficult to endure. There are days when my fingers fairly fly across the keys. Others when they seem like a set of over-burdened mountain donkeys, whose lives of impressed labor for small Mexican mining firms, has given them just enough energy to do absolutely nothing when lined up in the Churchill Downs starting gates. (Think Treasure of the Sierra Madre, and then “Seabiscuit”... how unalike those situations really are.) Now, finally, a week after my return from Bangladesh, I hope to share a few points about what has turned into a marvelous avocation (and a surprise at that!) – working with fellow photographers in a workshop with the collective known as “Photographers for Hope.” ( P4H) This little group got together a year ago for the first time, the brain-child of Anna Wang and – marginally – myself. Though really, I just helped to sharpen a few of Anna’s ideas. She is someone who spends her days doing the “vision thing” (GHW Bush, 1992 if only HE had understood what it was really about) but doing it with aplomb and great insight.
Shahidul, Anna, and I
For starters, she was a student at American University twenty years ago, and had the joy of taking more than one of Professor Burnett’s classes in the Communications School (Iris, not me.) After a long period where they lost touch, Iris and Anna ran into each other last year somewhere in DC, and decided to stay in touch. She lives in Geneva, married to a Danish UN diplo, and has two wonderful and talented daughters. Much of her professional life has been in the area of producing documentary films. But her real love, as we jointly discovered, was photography. She had taken a couple of workshops with some seriously good photographers (Gary Knight and Marcus Bleasdale), and when we spoke early last year, prodded me into thinking about doing a workshop – more accurately doing “our workshop.” We thought it would be fun to do something in the realm of sport (the UN has a whole Dept. of Sport & Development) and we ended up spending two weeks in Rio de Janeiro in Sept 2010, chasing several sporting events (including the Homeless World Cup of Soccer – an event so amazingly named that you cannot NOT want to know more about it) and working with some local NGO’s whose mission is to use sport as a tool to try and keep kids in the favelas more interested in boxing and soccer than in running drugs for the local bosses. It all sounded big and far fetched, but when 9 photographers gathered in Rio, we opened a wonderful box of surprises which continues to amaze to this day. Through the NGOs we were all given a bit of access to Brasilian society which would have taken us individually much longer, and as we left the country, our pictures were not only in an exhibit sponsored at the NIKE store, but in use by those NGO’s to try and promote their agendas for helping kids out. It was, in that deplorably overused vernacular phrase, a win-win.
A rickshaw (and yes, he has a mobile phone)

Midnight Edits

night market workers...


Photographers for Hope was thus born, and the strength of the idea is simple. The group, which varies in membership but which has drawn several members half way round the world two or three times, continues to try and find projects which will benefit not only those of us who are coming from the ‘outside’ to make better pictures, but the people and groups we team up with locally. It gives us a chance to see things we might not, otherwise. And to share our joint visions when it’s over. We did another small project over the summer in Glasgow, giving small point/shoot cameras to homeless news vendors, coaching them in their photo technique, and letting them tell their own photographic stories about their lives. That, too, was a wonderful coming together of intention, inspiration, and creativity. (You can see all the work on the photographersforhope.org website.)

For at least ten years, I have been invited to join the biennial photographic festival which takes place in Bangladesh known as Chobi Mela. Started by Shahidul Alam, the multi-talented Bangladeshi photographer and photo maven (of Drik.net agency fame, as well as the Pathshalla photographic school, both in Dhaka) Chobi Mela has become a goto stopover on the world Photo festival tour, every other January. As one of the few photographers still working (there are several – Kennerly, Abbas, Raghu Rai...) who covered both the enormous influx of refugees across the East Pakistan border into India in the summer of 1971, and the subsequent Indian-Pakistan War that December, I have had a standing invitation to come to Chobi Mela. I just never made it. It requires a bit of determination... its an ankle-numbing 24 hour flight to Dhaka from New York. But this December – last week to be exact – was the 40th Anniversary of the end of the War, and founding of what would become Bangladesh. It’s a big anniversary: how many people are actually around for the 50th or 60th anniversary of anything they remember? Not so much, not so many. So, 40 is a good one for getting things in order, and above remembering what the hell you were doing there. I was a young Time Life photographer living in Saigon (yes, I had a deal with both TIME and Life) and it was only a couple of hours flight from there to Calcutta, which was the jumping off point of both the Refugee crisis in July ’71 (which yielded my first ever TIME cover) and later that fall, the war.
a small P4H contingent
After partition in 1948, the part of eastern India which was heavily Moslem was left aligned with Pakistan, even though the two countries were separated by India, and 1000+ miles in between. It was definately one of those geo-political decisions which was done by men wearing funny fluffed pants stuffed into riding boots, and whose predeliction for gin with no ice was a constant source of amusement. Over time (the 50s and 60s) as the self-governing movement grew in East Pakistan, the authorities responded with iron fists to put it down. By 1971, it was a cauldron of unrest, and the authorities had begun (check your history books, Dr. Kissinger again finds himself on the wrong side history) a ruthless and deadly program to try and rid the country once and for all of this notion of independence. The result was, quite predictably I suppose, millions of refugees leaving East Bengal, and heading into West Bengal (India) for safety. In the end some 6 or 7 million people walked the walk that summer, leaving virtually everything behind, in a bid for safety. For me, a 24 year old kid from Salt Lake with a Nikon in his hand, it was something quite amazing to behold. By the thousands, the people kept walking towards me (I was working out of Calcutta, and spent time near the border as the refugees just kept coming.) I had never seen anything like this, and was mesmerized by both the visual power of those moments, and the strength of the people who had given all up in favor of some unclear sense of security.

Later, in December, when the Indian Army began moving into East Bengal, liberating town by town en route to the capital of Dhaka, I accompanied those troops, though the final couple of days, when I ought to have arrived in Dhaka with victorious Indian Army units, I fell ill to nausea and world-class headaches (I didn’t know at the time, but it was malaria... I had neglected to take my pills in Vietnam) and had to leave those historic moments to others. In the early battles, near the Indian border, I was shelled numerous times by artillery made in Massachusetts. It was a weird feeling being bombed by stuff your tax dollars paid for. (The US supported Pakistan for some vague real-politik reasons, rather than those who fought for their own freedom.. yet again!)

A few of my pictures were published, no so many, but at the very least I had helped contribute to the visual history of what would become Bangladesh. So it was kind of a big deal to finally return there this year, and help lead a photographic workshop. The older I get, the more I seem to be trying to close some of the open loops of my career. And this one was another moment when I was happy to be able to finally get to Dhaka, albeit some forty years after the fact, that I should have.




a few Dhaka images: Cricket kid, fish monger, a "dude", and the everpresent water

Bangladesh today remains a country in development, one which relies still greatly on the manual labor of its workers, and yet at the same time, possesses an energy and sense of purpose which is remarkable. It would be easy enough to dismiss the lack of automation as a “third world” thing, but in fact, there is something quite exciting and notable about the way in which people throw themselves into their lives. As several of our group noted, “you don’t see a lot of people sitting around here... everyone is doing SOMETHING.” Whether its whacking at the side of a small freighter in dry dock with a hammer to clean the hull, excavating heavy clay in the middle of a street dig to redo sewage pipes, or making bricks by the thousands by hand – there is something quite magnetic and admirable about the energy and commitment of the workforce. In the city there is an amazingly self-governing sense to the often horribly overcrowded traffic. Rickshaw drivers, whose thin brawny bodies power their two-seat charges across town in the midst of hundreds of honking cars, remain quite a physical presence. There are a few cabs, but its mostly rickshaw, small buses, and private cars. The brownian motion of their crisscrossing is a dizzying site, yet virtually no accidents were seen by any of us the ten days we were there. Every intersection is a close call, something out of a Spielberg movie, worthy of Indiana Jones. Traffic lights? Yes, they exist, but they are, to put it politely, just a suggestion or perhaps an option. Red means “look twice but don’t bother to stop if you think you can make it...”

DB & Rupert
Our photographers worked in the slums (which in Dhaka are a rather admirable term for a poor neighborhood... lacking the sense of put-down which reigns here), the docks, the waterside markets, and in homes of families. It was a chance to try and capture some of the spark and excitement of this place. The point is, it was life going on, not just something which existed for the sake of a workshop. And when we would huddle in the common room of our guest house (the Ambrosia is a great place to stay if you are headed there) editing in small pools of light cast by Macbook screens, we were able to see what did and didn’t work, and what might be done better next time. This is a surprisingly accomplished group of photographers, and I think we all felt, by week’s end, that it’s really a “human life force” workshop, with a bit of photography thrown in. The best of times are like that. You live a life different than the one you know so well, and in those moments of displacement and discomfort, that is when you really start to understand the balance between looking, seeing, feeling, and eventually, capturing a moment. When that balance is positive and uplifting, as it was in Dhaka, the pictures usually rise to the occasion. It meant that editing our work (“.. never edit your own work!”) was even more difficult. It had been arranged through the good folks at Drik.net and the good offices of the US Embassy cultural office (that means they sprung for it!) that a show of the work would be put together and put on display on the backs of freight-style rickshaws. (see the pictures... it was too good for words.) We had, on the anniversary of Victory Day, 10 rickshaws wrapped in our photographs, and which spent that day at the University, with teeming thousands of onlookers and celebrants taking in the pictures. The plan was for those photo-exhibit-rickshaws to spend this week driving through the city, taking the show back to the people. It was a smashing idea, perfectly executed, and as far as we know, not a single rickshaw was run off the road.




the Rickshaw based exhibition on Victory Day + 40 Years

One of the other reasons Bangladesh was a perfect candidate for this kind of project was the general level of photographic achievement. Whereas a generation ago, there were a few very good photographers, in the new post internet age when learning is available to those who care to, an amazing scene has developed.
under the gaze of young Pathshalla photographers
The Pathshalla School of photography has helped create dozens of very talented shooters. The pool of talent there now is quite amazing. To the extent that if there were another big, big story to take place, I would have no chance of being assigned (as I was 40 years ago) since there are so many good photographers already living there that it would make no sense. It is exciting to see photography just take off, and become such a powerful tool of communication. In the end that’s what it’s all about. (See the work of a few friends... Abir Abdullah and Munem Wasif, for example.)

I suppose nothing can really describe the joy that comes from common and shared endeavor. Working with this small group of photographers everyday for over a week, forged us, once again, into a kind of family. One in which we care for each other and each other’s work. One where jealousy and suspicion are completely absent. It is anchored in the good humor and positive sense of accomplishment we all share. And in the post-modern age of fewer and less resourced magazines (which were the highlight of my career for over 40 years) it is a powerful demonstration of the true power of photography and humanity, to work together, and share our visual ups and downs, before returning to our own lives, ones that by comparison, feel unusually bounded by obstacle. There probably isn’t going to be a way to include everyone who would like to be a part of P4H, but the one thing we have proven is that you can do this on your own. The new electronic world has given us many gifts amid the tumult: organize yourself, your friends, your colleagues. Reach out to do things you didn’t think were possible, and you will find out just how wrong you were. It’s still f/8 and be there. But if you divide f/8 by 12, you come up with something like f/1.4 and be there. That works for me, too. We’re just sayin’..... David

Team P4H

Change? Why?

One of the problems with moving, or change for that matter, is that nothing stays the same. Duh! Nothing. Barack Obama said that change is good. I am not convinced. Take for example, all the things that get lost or left behind in the move. David left all his files in the file cabinets and just moved them packed beyond full. My papers were pretty much organized and in order. So I packed them in boxes.... Which disappeared into the great morass of who knows where. Of course, it's probably ok since my file cabinets never made the trip, so I would have had no where to put the files. Or take for example the elimination of dial phones, or hard line phones. But I'll get back to that kind of change later.

Since we have moved to NY, I never see the NY friends I always saw when I lived in DC. Maybe it's because you think they are so close you can see them anytime. But it never happens. And I miss them. In fact, I see my DC friends more than the NY friend... And I don't see them either. I miss them too. Sounds like a lonely life. But I have family and am just collecting new people in upstate NY – not the same but OK.

Then there's the people who move or die at the same time you do. Shopping at Loehmanns is just not the same without my mom and my daughter. We all used to go and (especially my mother), try on absurd things and simply enjoy the entertainment of us. When mom was with one of my aunts, or alone, she never tried anything on. I don't think she saw the inside of a dressing room for years. She called it her exercise. "that's a good one"' I told her the first time she shared that information with me. "It is my exercise. I go to the mall or a store. I walk around and buy something I like. Usually clothes on sale. Then I take it home. By the time I get home, I don't want it anymore. So the next day, I go back, walk around, and return it Now you know why most stores have a policy about one person returning too many items. Yes, you have my mother and my aunt Sophie to thank for that policy.

Back to the things we loved that don't even exist anymore. Dial phones, albums, vhs, and now, much to my surprise, car keys. In the realm of fuddy-duddy, here is my latest embarrassment, Yesterday I took the mini in for service, Turns out, this particular mini, because of the color and year, has potential to be a classic. Sure it does. Anyway, it needed some work that would take more than a few hours, so they gave me the new "big mini" --it's an oxymoron but too true. The car is terrific and the idea of taking it for a few days was most appealing. The deep green, four door, all wheel drive "big mini" was waiting out front. Not to waste a minute, I got in, found the lights, fixed the mirrors, located the wipers, figured out where the radio and the heat controls were and looked at the key. First I thought there was a button to release the key. It was not the case. After a frustrating 10 minutes, I walked back into the dealership and asked the service people to show me how to start the car. Can you imagine not knowing how to start a car?

This is all to say, I love the past. I adore what was. At the same time I love what’s coming,. It’s just that I’m uncomfortable being left out of any new information especially technology (my grandson at four knows more than I do) but I can’t seem to keep up. Oh well, as my mother would have said, “that should be your biggest problem.”
we're just sayin.... Iris

Just Pull it Apart

Yesterday, I found Aunt Sophie's recipe for coffee cake. It's not really cake because you shape all the dough separately and eventually they become a mass of cinnamon, sugar, raisons and chocolate that you can pull apart. But when she started baking, there was no such thing as a pull-apart, so she called it coffee cake. You make it with a yeast dough, and it has to rise several times before you shape and bake. Not that how many times you get to punch it down matters, (recipe to follow with punching included) but what matters is, that one recipe was enough to feed all the flight attendants who pass through the Milwaukee Airport in a day. But if they each had a small bite, they would never be able to fly, because the cake is so heavy a 757 couldn't get off the ground.

In order to deal with the emotion, as well as frustration I felt, (having found this priceless but incomplete list of instructions), I called my cousin Ro. (Aunt Sophie's daughter, who also a great baker.) The fact that there were no directions for the temperature in the oven,(everything was 375), was far less important than how to shape the dough in order to pull it apart, and how to cut the ingredients by at least half. Turns out that when she got married all the recipes she got from her mother were for at least 10 people. They were only two. In desperation her husband finally said, can you just buy 2 lbs of meat instead of 10. I am tired of eating leftovers for a week.

Our mother's never knew how to cook for two, or four. They prepared for at least six in case someone (family or stranger) appeared at the door in time for whatever meal was being prepared. As children, sometimes we ate at home and sometimes we ate at one of the Aunt's. This was never a decision made in the morning. We waited to see who was making what and then we would decide where to eat. That meant that our mother's would have as few as two to feed, or as many as many as ten.

What's all this mean? (When I write it is senseless to look for a meaning.). Life was like a restaurant. We had a plethora of choices about what to eat and where to eat it. There was always enough and the choices were only limited by weather and geography. (Aunt Helene's was much too far if it was raining or you were tired-- the longest distance from house to house was three blocks).

(you want to talk circuitous, watch this). Last night I watched yet one more Presidential debate. And like aunt Sophie's coffee cake, it wasn't really a cake. It was a pull apart. It tasted different than was expected. And yes, it was a little heavy. It was the same as all the other debates, but this time the target was Newt, instead of Rick or Mitt. (I've seen them so often, a first name basis seemed appropriate). Newt, however, who had nowhere to go but up, refuses to be a target. Having spent all those years learning how to play the game, he plays it very well. Maybe it does take an insider to play a game where there is permanent stalemate. And just like Aunt Sophie's coffee cake, the recipe doesn't change, the outcome is unpredictable, you can pull it apart, but it's never going to get any lighter.

The recipe, as written and interpreted for this blob: Melt 1/2 stick of margarine in 1 cup of milk, 2/3 cups water. do not overheat, the margarine doesn't need to melt. When cool (not warm, not cold), add 2 eggs, 3/4 cups sugar 1 1/2 tsp salt, 2pkgs quick rising yeast. I find that if you mix all of that and then slowly add 5 or 6 cups of flour, (it depends on the size of eggs, temperature, how quickly you add it -- I start with an electric mixer and finish with wooden spoon and then knead for about 10 minutes). The dough should be elastic, not sticky. Put a little veg oil in a bowl. Make a ball of the dough, roll it in the oil (just so it doesn't stick), cover bowl with a clean kitchen towel, let it rise til it doubles. Really punch it (it's very stress relieving), let it rise again, punch it silly again. With your hands make a jelly roll, fill with (your choice), raisins, cinnamon mixed with sugar, nuts chocolate chips. Then cut into muffin size balls. Make sure to seal the ends of each muffin. Sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar. Let it rise again. Pre heat oven to 375. Bake for about 40 minutes (til they are golden brown). Let them cool. How much sugar and cinnamon do you mix together? Start with 1/2 cup sugar and add cinnamon until you like the way it tastes. Oh, and FYI, no matter how much mixing the Presidential candidates do, you may never develop a taste for any of them. We're Just Sayin.... Iris

Besheert is not for Sissies

Are you out there in readerland (not as good as Neverland, but more today.) familiar with the concept of besheert. It's a Yiddish word that basically means, made for each other. The word usually refers to a love affair. But you can be besheert with someone who is a friend, family, or even a colleague. Just FYI, I have been besheert with a few colleagues, but I'm too whacky, so it's rare, (You besheert colleagues who you are).

As it turns out, my beloved David is besheert with my incredible cousin Debbie. Although they didn't know each other until recently, they bonded immediately. They are, as say in the old country, (That would be Boonton, N.J.),simpatico. From the time they met for real, they have enjoyed one an others company. She always thinks he's funny. He always finds her entertaining and delightful. She marvels at the work he does. He gets a kick out of all her communication--whether it be in person or on line.

When he told her he was going to Bangladesh (she knew before the rest of us), she actually said she wished she could go with him. "To Bangladesh?" I said. "Yes, he is doing such remarkable things." It took my breath away. Having been married to him for a very long time, I know he is remarkable, but traveling with a photographer who is on assignment, or doing something photo related (tech talk, I call it), is unbelievably boring. Like on our pretend honeymoon he was on assignment to do a country story (Jamaica) for National Geographic. While I do enjoy the tropics and sightseeing, stopping to take a picture every two minutes, is not my idea of the way I want to have a kissy/huggy encounter. No I am not a bitch, (maybe I am), but I thought a honeymoon was when you spent time together, which we hardly did --except when we checked into our first hotel, which was a whorehouse, so it took hours to find an alternative.

Generally speaking, (and I know it's not fair),when he talks about his plans my eyes glaze over. He is not allowed to talk to me without a calendar in his hands, because my feeble little mind cannot keep track of everywhere he intends to go.

That being said. we are also besheert. The amazing part is that despite the fact that we grew up so differently (he's from Utah, I'm from New Jersey. I still like listening to the Barry Sisters. He would just as soon listen to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.) Yes, a Jew from Salt Lake, it's almost like a joke that needs a punchline. Nevertheless, we have the same values, think a sense of humor is the most important character trait anyone can have, like to experiment with food (although some of the places he goes are frightening). We want the same thing for all our children and despite and bickering, we really like one another. (He's in Bangladesh, so he won't get to edit this or argue with me. I know how talented he is. I know he sees differently than normal people, and I am never surprised by his excellence. He is generous, worldly, funny, overly forgiving to people who take advantage of him, a great friend, relative, dad, Stepdad, Poppie, and companion. So it should come as no surprise that people marvel at him as a person as well as his professional ability.

We have been together for a long time and, when you seemingly have been together forever, you forget to say, WOW, as often as you should. But because of this new relationship (besheert) with Debbie, I have been able to see him with different eyes.

A thank you to Debbie is in order. However, when she asked me if I wanted to see the latest picture he sent her, (him on the flight to Bangladesh, I declined. "No" I told her "He promised you an exclusive, and I certainly don't want us to break that promise".... Let's be honest. He's so lucky to have Debbie. We're just sayin...Iris

About the Rah Rah

Can you believe it’s December of 2011. That within a few short weeks we will be dating our checks 2012. As I may have mentioned, (this is really for new readers), around the end of the year I like to share thoughts. For example, on my list of favorite things to do, is watching college football. Unlike professional football, college games have generally been without corporate bullshit and steroids. (Have you ever noticed that during the transition from college football star to professional player – they all get enormous.) You could feel the team spirit, the excitement of the contest, the flashback to the years of rah, rah, rah. Even when there were playoffs or simply televised games, it always seemed to me that they just played football. Or so I thought, until recently. Maybe I just wasn’t paying attention.

On Saturday we watched the Michigan State – Wisconsin game. David says it’s just one more sign of the degeneration of the American spirit - being sold to the highest bidder. Michigan State’s uniforms, shirts, even do rags, were covered with Nike swooshes. Wisconsin was advertising Adidas. It’s hard to believe I never noticed this before. Maybe I didn’t notice it because I was so involved in the game. And this game was The Game -- simply exceptional. It was the best football game I have seen, maybe ever, (except the 1972 Dolphins playoff.) But because the chatter of the guys doing the play by play & “color” was so inane, I was distracted from actually watching the game. Too much Rah Rah? Can’t we just have a great game, and let the crowd & viewers provide our own Rah Rah? Who knows?

Ok that’s one share. Here’s another. When you are a person who collects people your whole life (starting in pre-school), by the time you get older, it’s hard to fit everyone into the time you have available. When we were in Washington two weeks ago, there were so many friends I wanted to see, but there just wasn’t time. Same thing when we went to LA. We only have so much time to do the things we want to do and see the people we love. The problem is, when I don’t see the people who are important to me, I feel bad. Incomplete.

What is most interesting to me, is that when I mention that I am going to see a friend from elementary school, high school, college or any of my past eclectic professional careers, (like the amazing people who became part of my life in politics, (40 years ago) government (30 years ago) or USA Networks (15 years ago)) -- people cannot believe that I still actually keep in touch with anyone who I didn’t meet yesterday. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how many people you want to collect, social media and the internet have made it possible not only to reconnect with additional people you liked, but – and this is the IFFY part -- people who you never wanted to see again, now have a way to find you. Icky Poo.

My life has been sensational. Interestingly enough, if I was 25 today, and because of all the technology available and ways to communicate, would it make my life ordinary? You know the old joke about young PR professionals deciding to be in the profession because they are good with 'people.' Well, I really am. (If only “life coach” had been a profession when I was 30.) The reason my life was amazing wasn’t simply because I was able to travel all over the world (Skype probably would have made that unnecessary). But I developed deep, lasting, personal relationships & friendships, and knowledge with and about people, that would only have been superficial and inconsequential if E-mail, texting, and Face Book had existed. The truth is that I am excellent at talking face to face, lengthy telephone communication, and experiencing all kinds of life first hand. If these old, special, necessary skills hadn’t been important, you would probably be visiting me at the Independent Living facility for public speaking teachers. We’re just sayin… Iris

JKB at the Barre (LA)

Think about a massage parlor you might see in the movies. Especially if they were filmed in the orient (is that, as opposed to oriental, politically correct?). Anyway, my incredibly talented daughter said we should get massages. There were no appointments available at her fitness club, where we did a mother-daughter workout, “It doesn't matter mom, I know another place where they do foot massage for 25 an hour.” I love a foot massage, and inexpensive always appeals to me. "But you can't laugh when we go in. The foot massage is in the front room, the full body is in the rear."

We entered from the front which looked harmless enough. The massage therapists, however, did not look harmless. Their costumes were reminiscent of one of those movies, where the Asian professionals, aren't much interested in your feet. "It's OK, mom. They are very nice.”

In the front room you do not get undressed. They start the massage on your back and work their way down. Then you lie down on a comfy sofa/lounge, and they do head, arms and finally feet. The feet part is the best because while I love to have my feet rubbed, I think my feet are kind of disgusting (trust me, it's true.)

But back to the point of my blob, which is neither feet, or massage, it is about my daughter who happens to be incredibly talented.

On Monday evening Jordan Kai Burnett performed at the Barre, a lovely night spot and restaurant, in LA, which is also a venue for Caberet, Standup, and musical theater talent. (the grilled cheese is to die for.) Jordan did a one woman comedy show, which , along with her comedy, also introduced her ability to sing, play the ukulele, and her skills as a puppeteer. I can hear all of you now, "sure, sure,we are going to believe whatever her mother thinks." But it's true, and if you want testimony, I’ll provide you with the names of total strangers. Well, not total, but not blood.

I have seen Jordan perform at least a thousand times. But this hour was unlike anything I had ever seen. She was as good as any standup comedian you have seen, her voice was as good as any American Idol contestant, and she could be a Muppet. No joke. Just the combination of all her talents is good, but her ability to be improvisational and hilarious is astounding. With that said, we are winging our way back to NY, but I have included a sample of the experience for you to share with friends family and any talent agent you might know personally. We're just sayin...Iris.

Tis' the Season

David Burnett often makes me laugh. Not often enough lately, but today he had me in stitches. If you reuse this line you must credit him. We were talking about the number of strangely self-important people and unimportant things are on Facebook and he said: “It’s so random – hell, that I have FARTS on Facebook.” Now that is bathroom boy humor, but it made me belly laugh for ten minutes. Maybe I had too much to drink yesterday.

Tis it the season to be jolly? When we were kids, me, my cousin Stevie, Andy Hurwitz, David Levine, and Steven Fraum had to stand in the back of the room when the class sang Christmas Carols. Instead of the act being considerate of the fact they we were Jewish, it made us feel like we had the plague. My cousin Stevie would have none of it, and he ran around the classroom singing loud and intentionally off key. Finally, as was often the case, one of the teachers would grab him by the shirt collar and hang him from a coat hook in the front of the class. This is not a whine about my being discriminated against during the happiest season of the year. Quite the contrary. While we did not celebrate Christmas in my house, I always spent Christmas Eve and part of the next morning at my friend Pam’s. We decorated the tree, sang songs (often a Hannukah ditty), ate a great meal and opened gifts. So, despite bad judgment on the Boonton school system, it was easy to get in the spirit and love the holiday.

As if good feelings weren’t enough, the Economy proudly presents Black Friday. When did this start? I don’t remember it when we were kids, young adults or even grown-ups (which clearly hasn’t happened yet.) As far as I can tell someone on Wikepedia said “The term Black Friday itself was originally used to describe something else entirely — the Sept. 24, 1864, stock-market panic set off by plunging gold prices.” Newspapers in Philadelphia reappropriated the phrase in the late 1960s, using it to describe the rush of crowds at stores. The justification came later, tied to accounting balance sheets where black ink would represent a profit. Many see Black Friday as the day retailers go into the black or show a profit for the first time in a given year. The term stuck and spread, and by the 1990s Black Friday became an unofficial retail holiday nationwide. Since 2002, Black Friday has been the season's biggest shopping day each year except 2004…. when Bush was President—now there’s a happy memory.

Anyway, people now line up days in advance at retail outlets for special discounts. I do my research (I am a genetically perfect professional shopper – all my aunts were as well.) The truth is that, if there are big discounts, there are usually only 3 of whatever product the store is using to bring you in. If you happen to be fifth on line you are just out of luck. This has made people angry in the past. But rather then staying home, they now go out prepared to do battle. This morning, a woman at an LA Wal*Mart (accompanied by two children), was armed with pepper spray, which she used liberally on the crowd in front and in back of her as she grabbed an Xbox. (Note: apparently according to Fox News, she was just spraying a ‘vegetable.’) Rather than calling this a hostile act, most of the media called it ‘aggressive shopping.’ No it wasn’t shopping at all. It was some lunatic, that wanted one of the three Xboxes on sale, so without any regard for the spirit of the season, or true purpose of the holiday, she opted for terror instead of love, kindness and giving.

What does that say about who we are as a nation. We know what it says about the economy – people are so desperate to get a break they will resort to all manner of behavior to get it. But what kind of people have we become? We’re surely not nice, or civil, or well mannered anymore. We are reduced to feeling entitled to take what we want by any means. David says, it was just one incident. But I’ll bet if you asked people who went shopping today, they will tell you that it was neither a pleasant or jolly experience. The gift of giving be damned – let’s take what we can for the least amount of money and tell our kids that the gifts we acquired were purchased with love in our hearts – and pepper spray in our back pocket. We’re just sayin….Iris