We're Just Sayin

Here Come Da Judge...

2012-01-31T10:30:00.004-05:00

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

2012-01-22T23:47:00.003-05:00

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!

2012-01-21T19:05:00.003-05:00

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

2012-01-20T21:11:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-19T15:54:00.009-05:00

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

2012-01-13T20:12:00.003-05:00

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

2012-01-07T20:48:00.001-05:00

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

2012-01-03T23:29:00.001-05:00

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

2012-01-01T20:00:00.002-05:00

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

2011-12-28T15:03:00.000-05:00

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"

2011-12-25T09:24:00.003-05:00

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....

2011-12-24T04:08:00.012-05:00

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?

2011-12-18T17:56:00.001-05:00

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

2011-12-11T09:56:00.002-05:00

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

2011-12-06T21:35:00.002-05:00

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

2011-12-04T21:54:00.002-05:00

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)

2011-12-02T03:18:00.002-05:00

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

2011-11-25T19:04:00.001-05:00

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

Thankfulnesses

2011-11-23T10:05:00.001-05:00

This is the beginning of my end of the year blobs. They will neither be coherent nor will they be orderly –I am only hoping for an occasional laugh.

Sometimes I just feel like an old fart – which we all know, I am not. Well, at least not old. For example, I spend more time thinking about what happened to being polite? There was a time when good manners and simply being nice, were the standard for how a person behaved when other persons are involved. That civility seems to be absent when dealing with people who feel entitled. Young, old, it doesn’t matter. They would just as soon knock you over as they would share personal space. But, they have no sense of your personal space – all the space in th entire universe is theirs, so you just better move over. (Yes I did have had a number of encounters with the entitled).

But that’s not what I wanted to blob about. Last week we were in Montreal. We met with the Segal Center for the Performing Arts about, GFCtM. (For those of you who don’t pay attention, Gefilte Fish Chronicles, the Musical). They would like to produce it for their Yiddish Theater. Would my bubbe not be kvelling? So their vision is to do it in Yiddish and travel all over the world. We are all ok with this. I asked Paul, the artistic director, if he knows a great many young people who speak Yiddish. He doesn’t but they learn it phonetically and then they use subtitles (as for the Opera) in English and French. Hopefully, they will decide that the material is perfect for their program – but we will see. Fingers crossed everyone!

David is convinced that we are watching the end of the United States unfold in fast motion and right in front of us. He is a journalist and totally apolitical, but he is a concerned citizen and he is convinced that, as someone –anyone from Cicero or Shakespeare – said, when the time comes that the leaders understand how powerful they are and use it for personal gain, it is the end of that civilization. (I didn’t put it in quotes because I believe I paraphrased what was an astute observation). Oye Vey.

Speaking of Oye Vey, or in the In the realm of either “What were you thinking?” or “Are you kidding?”. Marthena ran over herself with her car. She is bruised and sore but she is fine. There was a time when I was going to write a book called “Oye Vey Es Mere Marthena,” because ridiculous things seemed to happen to us. But this one pretty much runs away with the prize. A bus hit her car, or she hit the bus. When she leaped out to see what damage had been done, she forgot to put the car in park and yes, it sneaked up behind her, and before she knew it, it had taken her down. When I say she’s OK I mean, while on the gurney, she made sure to get her purse, shoes, coat, call her husband and probably had a sandwich. Her foray to the hospital, although painful, was, considering the severity of the bruising, fairly brief. Her son was with her to take her home, get her into bed and administer drugs. Get well cards are unnecessary but prayers and good wishes can’t hurt.

It is one day away from Thanksgiving. This is the time of the year we think about the things for which we are thankful. Of course, I have a list. But it’s much too serious, rather predictable, and not the clever I like to be. Things like, wonderful family, incredible friends, good health and Medicare are on the top. But what about the middle and the bottom of the list? There isn’t a middle or a bottom. I am grateful that my grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, (all those genetically connected), gave me the good sense to make the right decisions—although somewhat questionable at times – mostly they turned out to be OK. Almost no regrets, (except I should have been medicated when I was twenty one) Almost no apologies (except to my son and that’s nobody’s business). Life is good. The glass is half full. Maybe even five-eighths. Who really cares about the pilgrims? Happy eating…. We’re just sayin’… Iris

What the ????

2011-11-07T20:53:00.001-05:00

What the……?

There must be something in the air, aside from general air schmutz. If you need an explanation of schmutz, just try taking a deep breath. Here’s what I mean: Conrad Murray, despite the testimony of an 86 year old loving patient was found guilty. The speculation was that because jurors don’t like to convict doctors – I believe the description was “he is quite a presence in the court room, he looks like a doctor.” Now there’s a good reason to set him free. Clearly, there was a need to blame someone for Michael’s death. Clearly, Dr. Murray did not understand the consequences of having Michael die on his watch. They certainly weren’t going to blame the ‘plastic surgeon to the stars’, who may have caused Jackson’s addiction – but has too many important patients. And besides, he said he loved Michael, he only wanted him to be beautiful. And I say, what the….?

At one point, before my mother died, she was 86. There is no way she would have ever testified against her doctor. It wouldn’t have mattered if he gave her pep pills or cyanide, she loved him. We found that love (i.e. catering to an old person’s need have attention) is not enough reason to be confident about the kind of care she was getting. But there was no way she would leave her doctor, so we had to physically remove her from his care. Which is to say, looking like a doctor and presenting testimony from an elderly person, isn’t a reason enough to find someone innocent. At the same time, who is really guilty? Michael was a grown up person, who did not take responsibility for himself. It seems unfair to blame anyone who was really trying to help. Regardless of competence, Michael thought Dr. Murray was that person.

The other day, and I may have mentioned this before, I saw the Kris, walking down 3rd Ave and about 61st street in NY. (Yes, that Kris). It was after the marriage to Kim, and before her decision to divorce him. There was that 10 minutes. One has to assume it was her decision because according to E!: "He's just training and working out again, getting ready for basketball season. He's taking it day by day and surrounding himself with family and friends in Minnesota." Who would go to Minnesota (with the weather being what it is), if it wasn’t to recover? What the…? Why would she have put that lovely guy through all that crap? (I don’t know him personally, but he was awful cute, and tall.) Yes, she’s a media whore. And yes, she’s good at her job (being a media whore.) Encouraged by her mom and family (what did they do to Bruce Jenner’s face?) she made such a fool of that wholesome all American. (I don’t know him personally, but he looked clean cut.) Is she just incredibly mean, or does she not understand the consequences of screwing around with someone’s head. Mom (her’s, mine is dead) was talking about it today. She thought the SNL skit was hilarious. They all did. She has always encouraged her children to have a sense of humor. (Sure, they thought it was funny.) It’s just too bad that they didn’t share the joke with Kris before he bought the ring – or was that another part of the freebie wedding package.

Obama is acting Presidential again. Better late than never. Or is it? What the….? Why did he wait three years before he decided to be the President? From what I’ve heard, there is a difference between running a campaign and running the government. The way messages are delivered is different. Politics is not good training for governing. It is excellent training for eating unhealthy food. It is also excellent training for adjusting to time change, and more than frequent traveling. But it does not prepare anyone for leading a nation or, for that matter, dealing with bureaucracy. It does not prepare anyone for dealing with the consequences of inaction, foolish compromise, or imprudent decisions.

But I’m willing to give the guy a break. Not that he needs it from me, but as a good citizen what are the alternatives? The only thing I would appreciate is if he stopped negotiating and started to kick some ass. We’re just sayin’… Iris

You Never Know.. Do You...

2011-11-05T17:46:00.004-04:00

I m just back a week now from a wonderful week in Adelaide, Australia.. where the Australia Institute of Professional Photography had their annual "Event"... a four day get together, primarily for Portrait and Wedding photogs, but also including Editorial, and a smattering of Advertising shooters. They had a great program, and wrangled me into being the Keynote speaker [not sure why that's any different from just SPEAKING... especially at 815am on a Monday!] but the audiences were attentive and the rooms full. You can't ask for any more than that... I gave to presentations, one a walk through my career, the other having to do more with your own projects, and the kinds of things which you might do even though you're not paid for them. Great hospitality, and a wonderful group. If they ask you to come, don't hesitate. That said, be advised that the US dollar, in it's ongoing Fed-fed tumble from Currency du Jour to not quite so Current.. is about equal to the Aussie Dollar. That makes things really expensive... (it used to be .60US = 1AUS$ ) But it's a great place ... and while it takes time to get there... it's more than worth it. Yesterday I received an email from one of the photographers who attended the sessions, and I was so moved by her note that I reproduce it here. Thanks Pam!

from Pam McClure:

David,

I was fortunate enough to attend both of your sessions at the recent Nikon Event
hosted in Adelaide by the Australian Institute of Professional Photographers.

I think, as human beings, most of us hope we will positively impact the lives of
at least one person during our short stay on this earth. I certainly aspire to
that. Often though, whilst we see the overt signs, we never see how deep that
impact is. Is it actually possible for someone (besides Mother Teresa and the
like) to have such a profound effect that someone might change the course of
their lives?

In my late 40's, I am a late comer to the world of professional photography and
am still working as a paramedic while I build my photography business. Since
returning from Adelaide, I have committed to many of the practical ideas to work
towards a successful business. Your sessions however, didn't so much offer
practical, business tips but have certainly had a huge impact on me.

History is a powerful thing. When I visited Tiananmen Square, I stood and let
myself be consumed by the power of the events in 1989. I crouched down to
touch the cobblestones of the Forbidden city and quietly reflected on the
thousands of years of history that had also touched them. The significance of
the ancient history of the Great Wall and Xi'an and then all of the temples
around Angkor Wat and the modern history of Cambodia were not lost on me. In
each case I was overcome by the experience.

After your session, I approached you and asked to shake your hand. I was still
overcome by the power of your stories. It wasn't just the insight you gave us
into the 'behind the scenes' of historical events - the humour and the tragedy,
but the way you presented all of this as a 'normal' person and showed that you
had been touched by events, that made everything so much more powerful. I thank
you for your generosity in sharing your experiences and the extraordinary images
that document them. You are a living history book.

As inspired as I was, especially travelling your journey of mistakes and lucky
coincidences that made you even more real, I admit that I walked away thinking
that what you did/do was out of my reach. You had gained your reputation over
many years. Your stories were of interest to everyone and you had been in the
thick of world history in the making. I had no hope of such experiences and
wasn't sure I could apply anything.

This week, my first job back on shift, as a paramedic, I met a 90 year old man
who required transport to hospital. He was a frail old thing but chatted away
as I attended to him in the back of the ambulance. Alex talked to me about
some of his experiences in his younger days. In our short, 20min journey, he
told me about one day that turned his life around. He was fighting in Russia
with the Italian army. Conditions were freezing and he had frostbite on all of
his toes and was crawling along the ground because he could no longer walk.
The group that he was with were all in a bad way when they came across an enemy
patrol. As was the expectation, from both sides, it was shoot to kill. In a
matter of a couple of seconds, he watched the other two members of his group
shot and killed by two of the enemy patrol. He realised what was coming and
looked up to see his executioner with gun poised to shoot him. He accepted his
fate and made the sign of the cross. The enemy soldier lowered his weapon and
walked towards Alex. He never said a word but bent down and picked Alex up,
hoisting him over his shoulders. He carried him to a nearby train that was
taking 3000 prisoners to a war camp. He placed Alex onto one of the flat bed
carriages and said "Good Luck" then walked away. Alex said it was the most
powerful experience of his life and that he viewed all men as one after that,
regardless of race, colour or creed.

Needless to say, I was very moved by the stories of this old man and, 4 days
later, he is still very much on my mind.

I have decided, taking my inspiration from you, that everyone has a story and,
while it may not be significant in the global scheme of things, it is of value
to someone. I want to tell some of these stories. They will not win me
recognition or make me money but, of far more value to me, I think they will go
some way toward that hope that I mentioned earlier, of deeply touching someone's
life in a positive way. Something beyond the overt signs I see regularly of the
impact of my job.

So after that long-winded essay, my point is that, by sharing what you did, you
have had a profound effect on my life and the path I have decided to explore.
Thank you. Well, that and the fact that, as a digital photographer who had an
analogue Mamiya 645 sitting in a cupboard that I've never used, you imagery
inspired me, so that the moment I walked in the door from the airport, I
retrieved it. I can't wait to develop my first roll.

Thank you again for your generosity in sharing your knowledge, experience and
expertise.

Kind regards

Pam McLure

You Get What You Pay For

2011-11-02T10:05:00.000-04:00

The question about why I am not writing about politics anymore was easily answered before this election season. It was because I didn’t think I knew anything. Suddenly, it struck me that this was a ridiculous reason because, hardly anyone who comments or talks about politics knows anything more than I know. And I wrote a book about the subject – “So You Think You Can Be President.” It’s a bi-partisan approach to government and politics. We spare no one regardless of party. And whoever can answer the questions should be the President because it means that they read the book, which is in itself, an important education.

While listening to the news over the last few days I paid particular attention to the pundit rhetoric. There is not an original thought. Maybe it’s because they expect to get paid for advice, so they hesitate to say anything real. There was a period of time when I wanted to set up a “Lucy” kind of political advice stand on the corner of K and Connecticut in downtown DC. There would be two signs. One would say, “Political Advice – Free.” The other sign would read “Good Political Advice --$10.” This merely means, and you have heard it before, you get what you pay for.

Because I am no longer involved in politics, I feel fine about giving good and original advice—for FREE. (You still get what you pay for). Here’s what I mean. The banter about the Republican candidates goes something like this. Rick Perry is no longer a front runner…. Well just a minute. Cain took his votes and if Cain goes down in flames, then those votes will likely go back to Perry. And maybe he can be the front runner. Newt is not a serious candidate --wait a minute. He’s the best debater, he’s stayed alive through all the controversy, and in South Carolina last week, 400 people showed up for an event at Chick-fil-a. Maybe we are underestimating the Chick-fil-a factor and he could be a front runner. Mitt Romney waffles on every issue. He cannot get beyond the 20% mark. He will never be the front runner. He cannot win the nomination. Just hold on there. Mitt is the tortoise in a race with lots of rabbits. Maybe he doesn’t waffle, he reads and learns and once he is educated, in a most thoughtful way, he changes his mind. Okay, well maybe Mitt can get to be strongly opinionated and he can be the front runner.

Then this tonight. Hillary is one of the only members of the Obama Administration who defends the President.

If I were updating my book here would be my first question.

A. Isn’t it time to fire everyone in the Administration who doesn’t.
B. If Hillary is going out of politics, what is she thinking.
C. Homeland Security’s policies on immigration are one of the reasons the economy is failing.

And speaking of Homeland Security, my second question:

If you were the President of the United States the first bureaucracy you would break up is
A. Homeland Security because they are so large the left hand doesn’t even know if the right hand exists.
B. Homeland Security -- because visas do not belong in the same place as the Secret Service and FEMA
C. Homeland Security because there is not a person making decisions who knows anything about the subject matter on which they are deciding.
D. Need I go on

Obviously no need. Here’s my point. There is no point. In the past, I would have listened to every show, every talking head, everyone who had anything to offer about anything political. It all sounds the same to me. Even people I know, like, and respect will have nothing substantive to offer, until there are two front runners or one nominee. But I do intend to keep blobbing about the campaigns, and the election and ultimately, the old or new government. Hope you enjoy it, but remember, you get what you pay for. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Yechhhhh, It's Too Early For Winter

2011-10-30T20:11:00.002-04:00

When I lived in Massachusetts, a few too many years ago, I loved the State but I hated the weather. It’s surprising that when you are in college, you hardly ever notice the weather. Probably, because you are too busy having fun to notice anything -- but having fun. In fact, in about 1966 on May 30, we were at Dartmouth for a spring weekend, and it snowed. I hardly blinked. But once you are out of school, you do begin to take notice of things like, how to make a living, what path you want your life to take, and the fact that there is usually 10 months of winter. My first husband used to say that the weather weighed heavy on my personality – any weather, but especially the cold. Blah blah blah—Sure I was in a bad mood when it was snowy, cold, or rainy, but that’s what the majority of days are in New England. It’s one small reason he’s no longer my husband. But that’s another blob which you will never read.

Moving to Washington DC was the best remedy there was for my personality. There was cold and snow and rain, but it was different. Usually the weather was OK. It was hot in the summer, but everything was air-conditioned. It snowed, but by the time it ended it was usually melting –except when Barry was Mayor and in Florida and it snowed 3 feet. In DC there is no snow removal. We call it the “Lord giveth and the Lord take it away”, attitude about snow removal. It's not that it doesn't snow, it's just that they are in permanent denial about what happens in winter. So I learned to live with the inconvenience of snow a few times a year, but it was nothing like New England.

Moving on. Living in Virginia was splendid—in terms of the weather. Except every 17 years when there was a locust infiltration – some call the bugs by other names, but they are locusts. Okay, another inconvenience – but not like having to deal with 2 feet of snow every other week. Then, one day you wake up and you do not belong in Virginia or politics anymore. Where do you go? For me it was NYC. Ah, the Big Apple. The Great White Way. Times Square. Uptown, downtown, all around the town. But a person with as much stuff as David has cannot live in a one bedroom apartment with little storage.

We bought a house in Upstate New York. Newburgh NY. A place where half my family lived and with which I was incredibly familiar. It’s a place I never thought I would live. A. It’s snowy and wintery. B. I never liked it when I liked it. But, A. There is wonderful family there. (And for someone who hasn’t lived with family for many many years), it is quite a joy. B. The house, (which I love), is not one that I ever thought we would buy. It has too much property. It has no garbage disposal. There is septic, instead of sewers. Oh yes, and it is heated by oil.

What is all this leading to? The weather. It snowed on October 29th. Before Halloween. Geez. We had no spring, we had no summer because all it did was rain, and now we will have moved right from the non-summer to not having a fall. Right to winter. We’re going to have 10 months of winter. It’s clearly a flashback to my life in New England. But hold on. I am not miserable, or even in a bad mood. Sure it snowed earlier than ever recorded, and yes, we lost power for a few hours. But I am delighted to call it home and I am thrilled I can weather, the weather.

How Do You Spell H A L L M A R K ?

2011-10-29T21:14:00.000-04:00

There I was riding along, on my way back into the city, and, as usual, thinking about whom I needed to call. Why do we all think we need to be in touch all the time? Further, why, when we are driving somewhere, do we think we need to answer the phone? The obvious answer is that, we ‘need’ to think we are so important that when we can never be out of touch. Someone always needs us want to connect. What horse pucky. But that was not what I wanted to blob about. As I rode along, looking at the beauty of the leaves, and feeling incredibly good about my life, I thought … ‘it’s about time.’

But there are some things from which we cannot escape.. like our mothers. Now I don’t want you to think this is a morose blob about mom, because it isn’t. But today I paid special tribute to the Rose by watching non-stop Hallmark Channel Movies.

Rosie’s three favorite shows were Judge Judy, Dancing with the Stars, and anything on Hallmark, especially the movies. In honor of Halloween the movies were about a “Good Witch.” Yes, there is a “Good Witch” series. It begins with Cassandra’s arrival to somewhere in Massachusetts…maybe. Not clear which state but it’s about witchcraft so I assume it’s Massachusetts. Anyway, much to the chagrin of the Mayor’s wife, Cassandra opens a store called ‘Bell, Book, and Candle” (how Kim Novak can you get?) Yes, there lot’s of drama, but eventually, Cassandra, with whom the police chief is in love, defeats the mayor’s wife and lives happily ever after. It turns out that the ‘Good Witch” movies are a series. How my mother would have loved that and become obsessed. The next movie was about Cassandra almost losing her home and heritage – she doesn’t. And the third revolves around the wedding of Cassie and the Chief of police on Christmas Eve.

Who knows what’s going to happen at 9:00 pm, a new and never before been seen movie about Cassie and her family. I can hardly wait. Mom would have been happy beyond words.

Mom enjoyed getting involved in stories. She hated soap operas, but she loved drama. Whether it was the drama of a game show, or the drama of a court show, she delighted in the outcome.

Now that she’s gone, and we miss all her idiosyncracies, it’s easy to watch the programs she would have loved, and pretend that we like them too. But the truth is, I do like them. They are safe. You don’t have to worry about topic or language. They are a safe place to be. And not only does it make me think about Mom, but it also takes me to a safe and happy time. Miss her, yes? Miss using her as an excuse to watch brainless TV – even more. We re just sayin’… Iris

A Celebration of Lives

2011-10-20T08:08:00.004-04:00

"Happy, happy birthday babies". They would have been 91. It doesn't feel like they're permanently gone. The only time that the loss is unimaginable, is when you need an answer to a question and the 'answerers' are no where to be found. Things like; 'on which holiday do we light a memorial candle?' Or, "do we need to sift the flour before we make the cake?" Or," who is the person in the picture that we don't recognize?" Or, "With eight kids and two bedrooms, who slept where?" Or, "Where did you put that great black sequin dress"?

These were questions that would always lead to some kind of a discussion. While, not quite a conversation, it was also not quite an argument. Except it was usually loud and started with "What are you talking about? That is not true!" Or, "It certainly did not happen that way." Or, "Are you out of your mind". You get the idea. A confrontation of some sort, was how they expressed, not only their opinions, but their love. Yelling was an art form that they developed with years of practice. They were never yelling at you. They were just yelling... probably to be heard because there were always so many voices at once.

If you weren't part of the family, then it was likely you never heard any of these squabbles. They were particularly deft around strangers. We always said, "They were very good with strangers." Strangers thought they walked on water. So sweet, so kind, so generous, so charming.... And they were, but we were often in awe at their ability to become a whole other person from the one we knew. Don't misunderstand, they did not pretend to be anything they weren't. It was just that they had different personalities depending on the people in the room. They were, however, always consistently loving and very funny. They didn't always know they were funny - but it didn't matter. And, whether you were talking about the twins (Rosie and Peppy) or any of the eight, they seemed to have one mind. Yes, they argued all the time, but they also never needed to talk to know what one of the others was thinking.

The sibling's, Betty, Jack, Sarah, Sophie, Fritzie, Helene, Peppy and Rosie, if you take the spaces out between their names, (bettyjacksarahsophiefritziepeppyrosie), they become one character who I have always thought of as Lekish. Not to exclude their spouses, who are certainly a part of the whole picture and a good part of the color. So, today, on the RosiePeppy birthday, I will light birthday candles for all of them (and no it's not just an excuse for cake.) I will sing my heart out,loud as I can, in my terrible voice. I will think about all the joy, laughter, and "schpilkes" they brought us for all of our lives. And I will miss them.... even more than last year and probably less than next year.... We're Just Sayin ....Iris

So Many Questions

2011-10-17T16:57:00.001-04:00

Maybe someone can explain to me how we all went from being optimistic and so hopeful about the 2008 election, to being so disappointed about what has happened over the past few years. OK, you’re right, it is likely that I wouldn’t listen. But that’s not the point.

When I awoke to the news that we were sending 100 troops to Uganda, it was like a bad dream. It’s not 100 troops, it’s a hundred people… probably young people. People we know, maybe even love. And what for? It has to be more than the Pentagon needed somewhere to send those people who were hanging around in the halls. Or maybe not. It’s clear that the Pentagon is making those decisions. The White House never does.

Yesterday at a NFL game the announcer stopped to salute the men and women who are serving in 175 countries around the world. I was appalled. Not because they wanted to salute the military personnel serving around the world. I was on the USO National Board and I love the troops. Why the Pentagon doesn’t take care of those who have served, (as well as their families) is an issue that is indefensible. We all agree that there is a need for much more than a free ticket for a football game, and a salute, but that’s not what upset me.

We are in 175 (now with Uganda 176) countries? What are we doing in all those places? Maybe they count includes Marine guards at Embassies, but where is our common sense? Martin Luther King had a dream. We can give lip service to how important peace in our nation and the world should be. And then we look around the world and we see there is not much peace anywhere. If we discount the police fighting with protestors, and we disassociate poverty and violence as part of a worldwide problem, we might find the dream. It is, however, unlikely.

We have spent billions of dollars on technology, developing weapons, and sending people and resources to people in other countries. Not all of those countries welcome our so called “support,” but we don’t even ask anymore. Well, maybe we ask corrupt leaders, but we certainly don’t ask the people. We eliminated our public diplomacy mechanism to do this. Let’s say we asked all the people in the world to raise their hands if they applauded an American presence. Then we asked all the people in the U.S. if they would rather send aide abroad or concentrate on fixing the problems we have here. Just think about the number of hands that would suggest we take care of our own infra structure, education, jobs, and health concerns. (We know no bankers or Wall Street Titans would lift their arms – but that’s a given.) As well as the number that hope we will just leave them alone and mind our own business.

It is extremely depressing to think about the consequences of our haphazard foreign and domestic policies, but think we must. And maybe even demonstrate our displeasure. And maybe even send a dollar to those brave and frustrated citizens, who have taken over Wall Street to express concerns, not only about wealth and greed, but about injustice and corporations breaking the law. Maybe we should bring all our troops home and send them to Wall Street to bond with other people who care about this country. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Goin' Home Again?

2011-10-17T11:30:00.007-04:00

Thomas Wolf was not altogether wrong when he wrote that “You Can’t Go Home Again.” We often invoke his title in our lives, but when you really ARE trying to go home, it becomes a very different, very personal matter. I was in Salt Lake City ten days ago for the opening at the Utah Museum of Fine Arts of a photographic show of some of my work … “Too Close.” It’s a set of pictures taken from news and newsy kind of events of the last forty years, which stand back from the subjects, giving the more context to the scene, showing, more or less, just what I saw when I took that picture. Over the years when mom still lived in Salt Lake (up until about 4 years ago) we would regularly drop by the Museum on trips home, and mom would berate the poor volunteer at the front desk, beseeching that her talented son (yes, me!) ought to be on display there.
RFK at BYU, 1968
Well, it finally happened this fall. A 53 piece show beginning with Bobby Kennedy’s campaign in 1968, and ending with a picture of the Space Shuttle launch two years ago. In between are a mix of politics, news, some pretty famous, and relatively unknown folks. The most interesting thing about it is the ability to just stand in front of the picture and study all the details. Always a lousy caption writer, and envious of tough minded wire guys who would ask someone’s name, age, and hometown no matter how awful the scene, I have presented a set of pictures which are full of mostly anonymous subjects, aside from the Presidents and Ayatollahs, who we all seem to know by heart. Thirty, forty years on, I really wish I’d written down some of those names. [LangVeiGI] I’d love to know what’s happened to these people.

When you’re young and impetus, as I suspect I was, those kind of details mattered less, and the fact that I worked mainly for weekies (Time, Life …) the names seemed to be less of an issue than it would have been were I shooting for a wire service or a daily paper. Too bad for me.
A patron of the arts...UMFA

Mt. Olympus, seen from "home"
I went to SLC in time to help hang the show, work on the order of presentation, and arranging of the double-hung images (there was only so much wall space) and in the end, I think it looks pretty damn good. We had a crowd which included some cousins and my dear Aunt Esther (who will be 99 this Christmas day, and no doubt sending out dozens of emails when she does… she is addicted to email!), and at least 150 people who weren’t related to me. Yes, actual citizens. That was gratifying. I spoke for about an hour describing my early days in the Olympus High darkroom, and how it led to a career which has seemed to fly by in a hurry. I’m getting tired, in speaking about my work, of using the phrase “… well.. thirty six years ago…” everytime I mention a photograph. But at the same time, I’m happy as a lark that I’m still able to be taking pictures, and some good ones, sometimes even for the same folks I worked for 37 years ago. I realize that life is meant to fly by on its own schedule, not necessarily our own.
a "young" D-Day vet at a lunch sponsored by the French, Omaha Beach -1974 (the 30th anniversary)
In 1974 I went for the first time to Omaha Beach on occasion of the 30th anniversary, and met some of the D-Day veterans, many of whom later became every-5-year reunion acquaintances. Even know I wonder if those vets, as they grew older, would look back upon D-Day with the same wistful wonderment I do over things I did in the 70s and 80s, which seem so close, so recent that the numbers feel like lies. Stories I worked on in 1979 still feel like they might have been last year, or last month, but certainly NOT 32 years ago. It’s really true that what our parents always said… that time only goes faster, is as true as “you can’t go home again.”

the Creek and stone bridge
Well,, I tried to go home again. Or at least near home. Mom and dad sold our original Cottonwood house in about 1990. Dad’s driving had deteriorated, and without much fanfare (which always amazed me) they sold the house in the country, the one with the 300’ driveway, the big field in front where the entire neighborhood played baseball season after season in the 50s, and where my pal Jamie Atwater and I would find a surplus of dirt clods near by when we wanted to play Junior Marines. They bought a house conveniently located adjacent to the 6th fairway at The Country Club, and he was able to just “walk to work,” simply crossing the 6th, and in two minutes was at the Pro Shop, ready to report for his next round of 18 holes. After WW2, with some great degree of clairvoyance, my granddad and his two brothers bought 31 acres in what was then the june-grass covered boonies off 6200 South. It was ten miles from downtown. There was a #16 Holladay bus which would come about once an hour, and take the long, plodding trip to downtown, and which we used to go see a variety of scary 1950s horror movies in the years before my bike or a car would get me there. On that plot of land were a total of four family houses, each separated by enough distance that if you hiked thru the june grass for half an hour, plucking the sharp hay colored schrapnel from your socks as you’d go, you might see a dead deer carcass sooner than a cousin’s driveway.
Grandma Atwater's...
Dad would occasionally go into the back yard with a two-wood and a few old, cut Titlest golf balls, and aim them over the trees towards Aunt Molly’s house. She was the grand dame of the family ( a 5’ 0” version, who when she drove her oversized Cadillac gave the impression of a driver-less car, that impression betrayed only by the sight of two hands reaching up to the wheel to attempt to steer it.) I don’t think dad ever hit a window, but now and then when we’d head over to swim at Molly’s pool, we’d see a few golf balls on the lawn which had been launched from our back yard.

Once mom & dad sold the house, the rest of the cousins thought, why hold on to this when so few of us are there. So they formed a corporation, put all the land into it, and sold it off as a newly fancy soon to be gated community called Roseland. Over the last 15 years, a dozen or so gigantic homes (the 4 or 5 bay garages are as big as our house was…) which have replaced those somewhat reasonable 1940s homes which previously habitated there. On the Friday after my show opened, I drove out to the old family homestead and took a little look around. The ever moving Cottonwood creek which was next to our house was still snappily clear with very drinkable water, the stone bridge where Jamie and other neighbor kids and I would hang out is unchanged. There is a big gate at the entrance of our old driveway, and it felt absolutely extrusive (what is the opposite of intrusive?) I walked the short length of 23rd East where our mailbox (often replaced when vandalized by neighborhood kids) had stood, and peered into the grove of trees across the street where Grandma Atwater (Mary Meigs Atwater, one of the legends of modern Native American weaving ) had lived with her obstinate Doberman, Duchess. I say obstinate but Duchess really only ever bit me once, a lunged-at nibble on the forehead when I’d confronted her in the grove one day. I was too young to be naturally afraid of Dobermans, but I think that since then I have been more than a little suspicious of them. I realized that even for the people who bought ‘our house’ twenty years ago, that it’s starting to feel like a long time ago. We’ve just moved into a house which has whole set of grown ups who grew up there in the 60s and 70s, and while I would happily welcome them into “our place” to have a look around, I suspect they would see it as very nearly alien territory, filled with our tastes, our things, and bear little relationship to what they knew when they were four, watching Sesame Street. Maybe we are meant to float around from place to place, and those of us lucky enough to actually have a choice in the manner can usually turn what might be gut wrenching and frightening into a soft landing. But there is something in the human psyhe that longs for the familiar, and no matter how much we may think of ourselves as a “mobile society,” destined to be on the move, that place we think of as “home” will forever sit warmly in our hearts. We’re just sayin’… David

the Extrusive Gate at our old driveway

the telephone pole on Fardown Ave. where I first clobbered the passenger side of the Plymouth, circa 1963

Our Stevie

2011-10-05T09:22:00.002-04:00

Dear friends. We wish you A happy and a health new year. May your year be sweet, like apples and honey. May god write you into the book of life for one another year. OK God, what are you thinking. what is the idea of "Not so fast Mr. Daley ."

It is unimaginable to think about a political season, yet alone the rest of our lives, without Steve Daley. My Stevie, as I fondly called him to piss him off, died last week. It is unclear exactly when, but the day is not as important as the loss. And it is a gi-normous loss not only for those of us who were friends, but those of us who were readers and students and just fans.

There will be obits in the Chicago newspapers, not because he lived there, but because he worked there. And then he didn't. But I'm not going to waste precious blob space on stupid people who made idiotic decisions. Steve wasn't just a wonderful talented political expert, an incredible sports writer, and an incredible story teller. He was a comforting drinking and eating companion. I could always count on him to share a vodka, some red wine and a glob of caviar or some lobster on any occasion. It is nearly impossible to imagine Stevie, as a "he was"because he will always be an "he is" for us. There are no words of comfort to offer, to make anything better. There is a permanent hole in our hearts. The only thing that makes me smile is thinking about Daley and MacNelly, riding around in heaven, in a big old heavily-finned Desoto, smoking cigars, totally lost, and unwilling to ask directions just to sooth the urge to navigate. . Because if anyone can be lost in a cloud, it would be those two amazing characters. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

EVERY Once in a While....

2011-09-26T23:59:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while, when I watch some random TV show, I find that I am touched in unusual ways. “Biggest Loser” is often inspiring. Any of the “Housewives”, is or are appalling. And, tonight I found Extreme Makeover embarrassing. I was not embarrassed by the show, it was great. It was embarrassing because they built a new place to house homeless women veterans. ABC had to do something for which the Pentagon refuses to take responsibility. They brought to the attention of the public, that there are numbers of women, who at no small emotional or financial cost, served their country.

They paid a visit to the White House, because the First Lady wanted to be involved in the project. Her special project is military families. So there she was, Michelle giving tours and hugs, speeches and even flags. Not that I am cynical about her motives, it was very moving. It would be nice if her involvement continued to bring the much needed public attention to the issue of homeless veterans and assisting families. What happened to the Veteran’s Benefits of yore. As the children of a disabled vet, my brother and I had scholarships to further our education and my parents got a check every month – this continued long after my Pop died. When did the financial support, emotional support, health benefits, and gratitude for those who served, disappear. It seems that rather than find ways to offer ongoing help to the vet, the DOD, is now in the business of finding ways to avoid having to provide support of any kind. Just look at the number of homeless vets, and the vets who are now in the criminal justice system –yes, they are in jail fo any number of reasons – all related to their service.

It was a bit disappointing to see the White House exploited by a commercial TV show. It was uncomfortable to watch Michelle’s appearances as the centerpiece of the program. It was also disconcerting to see the hosts running around on the lawn and insisting they couldn’t build a replica White House without talking to the curator. Many things were a bit over the top. However, the volunteers (local and military) were genuinely committed to helping with the building as well as the mega adjustments these courageous women must make.

Anyway, Whether you disagree with Government policy, it is important to recognize those who served. And even more important to insist that this “entitlement” needs to be protected, nurtured and visible and not with what we have come to know as political “clap trap”. We're just sayin'...Iris

They Don't Listen, Anyway...

2011-09-26T01:22:00.002-04:00

Sarah Reidy, Gov. Huntsman’s Presidential scheduler had this to say after the first GOP debate, (which I felt was not a debate, but rather a blood letting). “For years I have tried to prove that the GOP isn’t the Party of elitist, stereotypical people that lack compassion. When did creativity and growth become secondary to hate? Hearing the debate crowds go crazy over things like executions and the uninsured dying makes me sick and sad for my Party.”

This is what my mother would say to make her feel a little more comfortable; “Sarah dear, what is, is. Your Mr. Huntsman seems a very nice person. Maybe you should both think about changing parties.”

When I get up in the morning and go to the office to work on some theater project, you can often hear me say, “Thank God, I’m not in Washington. Sure I miss my friends and neighbors, but I don’t miss the politics. Who would ever have thought that elected officials, as well as political candidates and campaigns, would have lost not only their civility, but more importantly, their sense of humor. Everyone is angry and ready to do battle – but no longer with injustice. They are ready to kill for ideology.” And when I say kill, I mean that. Ron Paul said that sick people (old, young) without means or health insurance could just die – which of course they unfortunately will. Who ever would have thought of Social Security, as a Ponzie scheme? Or post high school education for all our children, no longer a goal for a nation that is now playing catch up with countries who we consider third world. We do not build anything, including infra structure.

It makes me sad more than angry (although I have my moments). The question about what happens to our children, their children, and generations to follow, is most assuredly, who knows – but it seems like there is no good news.

When we were in elementary school we were afraid or polio and the Communists, mostly in the Soviet Union and Cuba. We were told that they were out to get us. They hated Democracy and Capitalism. When we got to college there were classes that taught us about how the Communist countries were supporting third and fourth world culture nations by sending money and teachers. If a child learned about Communism from the time they went to school, they would grow to be good Communists. Maybe that happened in Cuba, then came the web – the technological information age. People were no longer in the dark about opportunity and other systems of government. Access to information was a key. External influences brought them down, down, up.

This is not the case for the United States of America. The arrogance with which our elected officials act, is shameful, even mind boggling. (And in a moment of supreme Irony, I’m reminded of G W Bush during the 2000 Presidential debates who thought what this country really needed was “a more humble foreign policy.” Right. The desire to run for State or Federal office for the good of the nation or constituency, is a rarity, with some exceptions (who happen to be my friends). It’s all about power and the need to stuff their ideology up an opponent’s tuchas. (The throat is easy, the tuchas is painful).

And it doesn’t seem to matter whether the power grabber is a Republican, Democrat, Independent or Libertarian. They don’t have to worry about means, or their health. They are taken care of forever and ever. In fact, even if a Congress Person chooses not to run or loses an election, they get to keep all the money they have raised. And don’t get me started about the parking passes. (No parking space was always a deal breaker for me).

Although I am saddened by where we are now. I am hopeful that these things will change. That sometime in the near future we will do something we haven’t done for too many years --- vote for a candidate instead of against someone who we think is a dope. We're just sayin'.... Iris

The Social Network: the REAL One

2011-09-22T16:52:00.001-04:00

Last year when Jesse Eisenberg starred in the film depicting the rise of Facebook, anyone over the age of 10 could figure out that no matter how fine tuned the details of the film were, it certainly FELT like it was a fairly true rendition of those events. In a nutshell, a socially awkward geek figures out how to create online connections between people of vaguely similar interests. The film might have had any number of titles: “Poking the Ethers,” “My Face, Your Book,” or even just “Facebook Rising.” But instead, the producers chose to simply call it “The Social Network,” an almost generic name for a very specific project. And when we would mention the movie to each other in polite conversation, invariably “The” would be dropped; you’d simply say “…wasn’t Social Network spot on about ….” It’s a term that aside from sociologists or anthropologists, none of us would have used in the course of a normal week until the last half decade. It implies in a very obvious way, the interaction of humans, and in today’s context, it’s understood that this particular interaction has nothing to do with a breathing, living, drinking, exhaling, farting, grunting human being within … say… arms range. No, more precisely it refers to those people to whom you are ‘attached’ via certain interests, causes, and other similar traits in an online forum. It might be an interest in Libertarian politics, or cooking with shallots, or the neo-ancient art of wet-plate photography. The actual interaction takes place with a keyboard, a screen, and maybe a mouse or track pad, or if you’re newly hip and withit, maybe a forefinger on an iPad. It is merely perceived interaction. I can’t actually think of a case where modern day social networking is practiced without a computer-like device of some kind. Many of us have an aversion to sharing what we see as “private” information, and those folks tend to either not congregate on Facebook, or if they do, they don’t post a lot of thoughts/links/pictures. They are more browsers of other peoples’ pages than providers of their own. And then there are the kind of folks, and yes we all know them, who feel that Facebook is a place where every little scintilla of their lives should be shared. I’m constantly astonished by people who have incredibly slow conversations (you know, one sentence at a time, back and forth the over a day, or sometimes many days) about the most personal of things. One I recall was from someone who engaged in an open “chat” with her son about whether or not a certain doctor had a sympathetic bedside manner. The son had seen the doctor, and found him rather pushy. The mom “had never seen him be anything but nice.” They went on back and forth for a couple of days, till I finally was obliged to defriend her. I like her still, but I cannot keep up with the minutae of her life. Nor do I really want to. Hers is a network I don’t actually feel any obligation to be a part of. We try and choose those elements of networkness which work for us. But the last ten years have thrown a real wrench into how photographers view their work and yes, their own Social Networks.

There was a time (dare I call it the “golden age” of photojournalism?) when we photographers all still worked with that dainty and quaint material known as film. You loaded it into the camera, shot some modest amount of photos (normally 12 or 36) and then you would stuff the films into a big caption envelope, wrap it up in a bigger envelope and do one of three things: hand it off in the back of the union hall to a local messenger; leave it at the front desk of the hotel for a pick up by some anonymous courier, or drop it in a Fedex office, confident that the next morning said envelope would end up on your editor’s desk. Oh, how we long for those days. Having entered what could now be referred to as the “silicon age” of photography our lives have changed in ways we could never have imagined. Even back in the ‘golden age’ there were times when you would, usually a week after you’d shot something, pick up the magazine with your work in it. Sometimes it would turn around more quickly but often it was at least a week. You’d open the pages with great anticipation to see just what “New York” had done with your handiwork, only to discover, 5 times out of 6, that they’d chosen some crummy rendition of what you’d photographed, and completely missed the point. The first reaction would often be something like “geez, I sure wish I’d been able to edit that stuff before they got their mitts on it.” The unlikely idea of having the chance to edit our own material on deadline seemed about as likely as pigs flying. And I don’t mean the pigs that DO fly.

It was one of those pipe dreams, having that extra element of control over our work. Well, as they say, be careful what you ask for, as the ‘silicon age’ of photography started to change virtually everything. Memory cards were the new film. The need for those big caption envelopes disappeared almost over night. By 2003 the new digital reflex cameras started combining the quality, speed, and ease of use which would in a matter of a few years, render most film cameras to antique status. I’m speaking really of photojournalists who by definition are obligated to get their work to the “desk” as soon as they can. If you work for a wire service (like “A.P.”) you have rolling deadlines around the world that never end. As websites began to become popular and ubiquitous more unending deadlines would appear. The constant appetite for pictures created that giant sucking sound which you thought was jobs going to Mexico. No, it was just the world wide demand for photos, pulling them through the air towards a million websites.

What has it all ended up meaning for us poor photographers? Well, it means that at the end of a long day of shooting (14 hours on a Presidential campaign wouldn’t be unusual) instead of dropping the film in an envelope and heading out to grab dinner, you are stuck in your hotel room, transferring that day’s pictures to your laptop, editing them on the spot (oh, lucky us, we get to EDIT our own work!) and sending them on the ‘net to whatever the mother ship was, wire service, newspaper, or magazine. Even if you are quick, it adds another 2 to 4 hours to the day, sometimes more. You might get to bed before midnight, and wow, that tuna salad with the soggy bread the Room Service folks sent up really hit the spot. More often than not you jolt yourself awake, having just collapsed on the laptop keyboard with the bbbbbbbbbbbb key running amok on your screen.

The point is, for all the upside that digital has given us (basically it’s one thing: Speed) there are enormous downsides. For one, I remain isolated from my peers and pals, stuck in my room with MSNBC or Espn in the background while I try and wade through the pictures. What would I prefer? It’s easy: bring back the OLD Social Network. No, not Mark Zuckerberg’s version. The one that started operating just after my film was dropped off in its handy large envelope. The one that got us all together at the end of a long day of shooting politics, and gave us a chance to talk for a couple of hours over something more groovy than soggy tuna salad. The one that let us discuss what we had seen, what it meant, what tomorrow’s changes might be, and what sort of things we need to be on the lookout for. The one that actually let us be a social animal for a change. Talk, listen, talk, listen. That’s what real social networking ought to be about. Not clack-clack-clack-click-click-click. The kind that use a knife and fork instead of a mouse. A beer glass instead of a track pad. I want to be able to talk face to face with the sort of folks who, yes, I might “Friend” on FB. But more importantly I’d prefer spending some of that “upload, edit, and transmit” time with people whose opinions I value, and wisdom I trust.

In the world of the press photographer, those days seem to have just frittered away. You can spend all the time you want looking at your News Feed on Facebook, and updating your profiles on LinkedIn. I’ll try and get around to some of that stuff, but for me, the real Social Network, the one that makes me what I am, and helps me to be something better, is the round table at the pub, with a bunch of tired photoJ’s, their cameras piled in metallic mounds nearby, with a pitcher of Sam Adams being happily shared. We’re just sayin’….David

What is there to do

2011-09-19T20:12:00.002-04:00

When there were no cell phones, did we still love everyone. did the 'love you, bye', just happen or was there a time when goodbye meant the end of the conversation, rather than a plea to confirm ongoing feelings. And just because you say, "bye, I love you"' does it actually mean, the call is over but I still want us to have a relationship.
don't get the wrong idea. It is not a problem for me to hear, "love you", regardless of the circumstances. For sure it is more meaningful than "I'm hanging up now, ugly pig snot". But when I hear it from people who I neither know or care about, I always find myself thinking, "geez, what do they say to people they really love? Or, maybe they don't have anyone to love, and because they say it to everyone, they never have to admit to that. This is getting far to deep, although, let me just say,(how could you stop me and just wait, I'm about to write a piece about the beauty of Colorado and the horror of the White House.) prefer a more committed sign off, like, I love you. or I miss you desperately, or, I cannot breathe without hearing you voice.
Mom, and her sisters, never said goodbye when they hung up the phone. And I can't remember a time when they ever actually told any of their kids that they loved us. Oh, there was always a kiss hello and goodbye, but "love you"' not that I can remember, they simply hung up the phone. It didn't matter if you were in the middle of a sentence or a conversation. However, we were never surprised if they picked up the conversation right where they left off, and expected you to remember what they had been saying.

In my new role as theatrical producer, I traveled to Boulder to see rehearsals for my latest production, " Slow Dance With a Hot Pick Up." It's a delightful show. Fresh, innovative, and musically worth the price of a ticket-- to what I would call, not your grandma's dinner theater. It is simply a wonderful way to spend an evening and support the arts, as well as keeping your budget in check.

Enough good news, let's talk about the White House. Ron Suskind has put down on paper what everyone who knows the players, has been in an Administration, or has friend on the inside, already knows. In 2008, I wrote a blob about the language used to announce employment in the new Obama Administration. "I'm going in" they would say--like they were going to prison. At that time, I felt this was somewhat telling. This new opportunity to serve the President and the public, was not an honor. It was a way to measure power and ego, and presented by those lucky enough to be chosen, as a punishment.

If you worked on "women's issues" (women know that all issues are women"s issues- whether it be war, childcare, or the economy), during the campaign, it became obvious very quickly, to all of the experienced female political operatives, that this group of "smart ass white boys", would create a hostile environment, for all the "girls", except Mrs Obama and Valerie Jarrod.

People in senior positions in the Clinton Administration, were often reluctant to fire anyone -- except the President, who threw any number of friends under the bus. And although we thought that wasn't nice, at least it sent the signal that right or wrong, having been Bill's friend before he got to the White House, was not a guarantee for a Presidential Appointment. So this President needs to stop surrounding himself with people who tell him what he wants to hear, and find a few people who will kick ass and get the government back on track. Firing people (even if you like them) for the good of the nation is as important as asking Congress to support a policy. We're just sayin... Iris

2011-09-19T19:55:00.001-04:00

When there were no cell phones, did we still love everyone. did the love you, bye, just happen or was there a time when goodbye meant the end of the conversation, rather than a plea to confirm ongoing feelings. And just because you say, "bye, I love you"' does it actually mean, the call is over but I still want us to have a relationship.
don't get the wrong idea. It is not a problem for me to hear, "love you", regardless of the circumstances. For sure it is more meaningful than "I'm hanging up now, ugly pig snot". But when I hear it from people who I neither know or care about, I always find myself thinking, "geez, what do they say to people they really love? Or, maybe they don't have anyone to love, and because they say it to everyone, they never have to admit to that. This is getting far to deep, although, let me just say,(how could you stop me and just wait, I'm about to write a piece about the beauty of Colorado and the horror of the White House.)prefer a more committed sign off, like, I love you. or I miss you desperately, or, I cannot breathe without hearing you voice.

Mom, and her sisters, never said goodbye when they hung up the phone. And I can't remember a time when they ever actually told any of their kids that they loved us. Oh, there was always a kiss hello and goodbye, but "love you"' not that I can remember.
they simply hung up the phone. It didn't matter if you were in the middle of a sentence or a conversation. however, we were never surprised if they picked up the conversation right where they left off, and expected you to remember what they had been saying.

In my new role a theatrical producer, I traveled to Boulder to see rehearsals for my latest production, " Slow Dance With a Hot Pick Up." It's a delightful show. Fresh, innovative, and musically worth the price of a ticket-- to what I would call, not your grandma's dinner theater. It is simply a wonderful way to spend an evening and support the arts, as well as keeping your budget in check.

Enough good news, let's talk about the White House. Ron Suskind has put down on paper what everyone who knows the players, has been in an Administration, or has friend on the inside, already knows. In 2008, I wrote a blob about the language used to announce employment in the new Obama Administration. "I'm going in" they would say--like they were going to prison.
At that time, I felt this was somewhat telling. This new opportunity to serve the President and the public, was not an honor. It was a way to measure power and ego, and presented by those lucky enough to be chosen, as a punishment.

If you worked on "women's issues" (women know that all issues are womens issues- whether it be war, childcare, or the economy), during the campaign, it became obvious very quickly, to all of the experienced political operatives, that this group of "smart ass white boys", would create a hostile environment, for all the "girls", except Mrs Obama and Valerie Jarrod.

People in senior positions in the Clinton Administration, were often reluctant to fire anyone -- except the President, who threw any number of friends under the bus. And although we thought that wasn't nice, at least it sent the signal that right or wrong, having been Bill's friend before he got to the White House, was not a guarantee for a Presidential Appointment. one

It's Raining It's Pouring, and That's the Good News

2011-09-07T19:44:00.003-04:00

When I peruse my Facebook page, I am always amazed at the number of people I know who are connected to me, but not with me as the common denominator. Is that too confusing. Oh well, It's a small world, isn't it... la la la la la ?

Not that you asked, but here's what I did today. It was raining - sometimes just a drizzle and occasionally, big fat drops. So I walked for hours, mostly without an umbrella. And I thought about a number of things.

The first was David's birthday. As a gift, I decided to let him go to a photo event unencumbered by his photo ignorant wife. Am I special, or what? Two, was the Republican debate, but that was actually one and a half. Two was President's speech. No matter how eloquent and comprehensive the speech turns out to be, the White House has set the bar so high (by making an inordinate number of stupid decisions), that there is no way to measure it's success or failure. Did anyone in the scheduling office get fired for the dumb ass consequences the President suffered a a result of their incompetence?

That being said, people have written to ask me if I have deserted the Democratic Party. And I have honestly answered, that I don't know if there is a Democratic Party anymore. The party that fought for women's rights, human rights, civil rights, universal health care, respecting the environment and not fighting any foolish war or wars. The party that understood the needs of the poor and did not condemn people for living out the American Dream.. If someone like Pataki ran for President, would I think about voting for a Republican? Well, it's going to be hard for me to vote for a Democratic President who doesn't know what it means to be a Democrat. So the truth is, I don't know.

In 1972, I worked for McGovern in Massachussetts, the only state where he won in the primaries. I am (and proud of it) a McGovern Democrat. With so many friends, we worked tirelessly for issues that made our lives better. We wanted peace, human rights, fairness in taxation, education for everyone who wanted it, jobs, representation for labor, and yes, "choice." No one I know, who had to have an illegal abortion or was involved with someone who did, (yes again, some were my best friends), would ever think about interfering with a woman's right to choose.

Today, I heard that the President was reshaping his image, cleaning house, and ready to fight the Tea Party on his own terms - whatever that means. I am not optimistic that anyone working in the White House, (including Chief of Staff Daley), has any idea how to turn things around. Nor am I convinced that the President's advisors (that seems an oxymoron) really think it's necessary. I will watch the Republican debate because I've always been fascinated by horror shows. And I will listen to the President's plan for putting people back to work because I adore science fiction. But to be honest I would be just as happily entertained by reading Broadway.com, and Variety. We're Just Sayin... Iris

Now, I'm Pissed....

2011-09-02T01:15:00.001-04:00

Now I’m just pissed. The most important thing you can do a political technician is to check the schedule. Like you never schedule anything for a candidate, or the President of the United States, unless you have checked to see what else is going in the entire United States, that might intefere with your plans – such as the Republican debate (which has been scheduled forever) or the opening of football season, which comes to no one as a surprise. It’s like this White House cannot get out of its own way. First of all, if you knew there was going to be a Republican debate, why would you ever schedule the President to precede them, giving all of them an opportunity to comment (and snarkily so) of what you have said.

A joint session of Congress? What a weenie way out. A. You better have something to say. B. You better have something to say. Why not just address the public with whatever your ideas happen to be. Why not just say, “this is what I wanted to propose to the Congress, but they wouldn’t give ma a chance to do it.” Why not just kick a little ass.

Once again, the President looks like a jerk. Who in the world would schedule something at a time when there are other more interesting things going on—like a debate or the opening of football season. You wouldn’t unless your people were so incompetent or so out of touch that they had no idea there were other priorities.

Over the last few months I have found myself thinking, ‘why are we still in Afganistan,’ and ‘why are we bombing Libya, and why are we celebrating no deaths in Iraq this month.’ Why are we allowing people in this country to go without food, lose their homes, find it impossible to get jobs, and deal with a crumbling infrastructure, while we are rebuilding a country that doesn’t even want us to be there. Where are our priorities? Where is our heart?

OK oil companies, drug companies and big corporations can make all the money they want, but how do they see the poverty (poor working people) in this great Nation, and turn their backs. Yep, I am pissed. All the years of public service and political activism and we have come to a place where there is little if no civility among our elected officials, and where we can watch people lose their homes and starve to death.

When I was a young divorced mother, I lived in a car. It was not much fun. And I have always been mindful of the fact that I could wind up there again. As someone who spent a whole career in public service, I can tell you this – shame on us. Just shame on all of us. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

WeatherPorn

2011-08-29T23:33:00.004-04:00

Steve, a friend who is also a poet, philosopher, and wordsmith said it best when he described the media reporting on the hurricane as weatherporn. There is no doubt that people needed to be warned, that another Katrina was to be avoided at all costs, and hurricanes are to be taken seriously. But, thank God, USA and TNT kept their regular scheduled programs, and TCM, felt no need to show old movies about hurricanes and earthquakes – although Clark Gable’s San Francisco is one of the best movies, ever.

Generally speaking, it was a wonderful weekend. My friends Soozie and Jane came up from Virginia to see “War Horse” and “14 flights”, a Fringe show. Both were excellent and totally different except for the level of anxiety which both shows produced in the audience. The news about hurricane Irene started in earnest on Thursday morning. When I say earnest, it means that the media hysteria started to mount on Thursday, reaching epic proportions on Friday and until the hurricane hit on Saturday – at which time the reports continued but the questions changed from, ‘where’s it going to hit?’ To ‘how much devastation did it do?’ How many lives were lost? And what were the “gruesomest” descriptions of the most horrible deaths. On the east coast, everything was cancelled, including my favorite TV shows, like “Sunday Morning.”

We merry band of maidens faere were determined not to participate in the hysteria. This was not easy when you think about the way in which Irene was described. Here are just a few of my favorite adjectives from our friends on cable and the network shows: Heart pounding, ferocious, howling, bracing, monster, vicious, brutal, cruel, vile. Clearly there was no good news. There was much ado about the path the storm would take. And, once it hit every weather forecaster took credit for predicting an accurate course of devastation.

It was when the chatter was so frenzied that we decided that we would watch the Weather Channel, but we would listen to the new recordings of “The Gefilte Fish Chronicles” rather than listen to the talking heads. We also decided not to be in the presence of anyone caught up in the weather porn. We did not rush out to buy supplies (aside from two bath stoppers at the Dollar Tree) nor did we take cover in anticipation of pending disaster. It was not that we didn’t take the storm warnings seriously. But it was impossible to take the media seriously. Talk about overkill.

Anyway, we managed to have a storm-free visit. The girls did not change any plans. They took the train home at noon on Saturday as they had planned. The only change I made was to stop at the airport and pick up my cousin Honey because she had no access to public transportation –there simply wasn’t any for her to take.
On Sunday, the pressure from escaping water, caused this manhole to imitate Old Faithful...regularly
The storm hit us in Newburgh late Saturday night. We lost a few tree limbs but not our power. It makes you wonder who is up in those trees, cutting the boughs and limbs down to a manageable size so that when they fall, they make nice little patterns on the deck. The waterfront and marina were hit pretty hard but recovery was quick and businesses were opened back up by Sunday night or Monday.

views from around the house...
Once the brunt of the storm was over, the rain died down, and the winds were no longer treacherous, people gathered at a local marina bar to share their stories, have a few Bloody Marys, and watch the Food network on TV. Somehow even with water knee deep on the sidewalks and torrents popping off the awnings, watching a Bobby Flay BBQ Throw Down seemed to make excellent sense. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Jobs But Not Forgotten

2011-08-26T00:25:00.003-04:00

He’s not dead yet, though in the minds of most of us, yesterdays’ terse announcment that Steve Jobs had resigned from APPLE as CEO perhaps made us think we’d lost the preeminent industrial designer of our time. Jobs laid it out in a short note, that “when” that time would come, he’d know it, and he would stand back and let the others take over. I never worked at APPLE, and besides a handful of recent promotional pieces I had only ever worked on the company photo book “So Far,” published in 1987, on the tenth anniversary of the founding of the company. For years, in the 80s the payoff for working on a “Day in the Life” photo book was to get a new Mac. Yet, like most folks who followed (and purchased) the growth of APPLE all these years, I felt a small but weirdly sincere connection with the guy whose product design seem to create goodies which, like a flower girl spreading petals in front of a bride, led us into this wacky 21st century world of electronics-running-our-lives and us thinking we run them. In the space of five years we have become a society where instead of accosting strangers on elevators or buses, the old fashioned way of interacting, we simply pull out out an iPhone, and pretend to be getting really important messages that will alter our lives for the better. Of course almost none of those important messages will really make anyones lives better, though we’re perhaps all richer for being able to call from the produce section at SAFEWAY and ask if we need bok choy, or do we have enough. Much of the stuff that APPLE makes falls into the category of ‘created demand.’ We all liked the idea, invented by SONY with the Walkman, of taking our music with us. And when Jobs turned the world of music upside down with iTunes… well that was all she wrote. (Who besides me is still trying to remember the PW on their iTunes account so old gifted songs from other peoples’ collections can be ‘legally’ played? I always just give up when it refuses to recognize my name and PW… so it goes.) But Jobs was one of those guys who was like Kelly Johnson, the legendary Lockeed designer. He came up with the P-51, the P-38 and the SR-71 Blackbird, a full forty years of world-class thinking out of the box. Not many of us are gifted with such talents. We might get to be a part of one big deal in a life time, but it’s rare when you can keep throwing stuff at the world and the world loves it.
the throngs throng to the Apple Store, 5th Ave.
Jobs might not have been THE sole designer of any of the great APPLE goodies, but his influence in terms of the constant surveillance of look, feel, functionality… It all comes down to that tag line they use: if you don’t have an iPhone, you don’t HAVE an iPhone. As a Droid X owner, I marvel at the photo capabilities of the iPhone. You can shoot a picture, and then, amazingly, just keep on shooting. What a concept. The Droid, you’re lucky to get one shot, and doubly lucky if it fires in the 5 second window you want it to. The second frame… well, its like the All-You-Can-Eat Sushi buffet, except you really only get one piece of fish until time passes and it deems you ready for a second. The damn iPhone just keeps taking high rez images when you touch the button. I agree, the button isn’t always in the handiest place, but when you look at what’s been done with iPhones in photography, it makes you want to sell your Nikon and Canon shares tomorrow. At some point, maybe Canon will add a mobile fone to the 5d Mark iii, but I’m not holding my breath.

When I think back to, say, the B-25, the twin engine bomber from WWII, I see more than just a plane which is designed to drop bombs on soldiers and ammo dumps (and, alas, a lot of cow pastures.) I see a really beautiful piece of industrial engineering, aluminum curves and deep-throated engines which are locked into a specific period of time, and which speak to the ability of people to create things which are a quantum leap beyond what went before them.
the B-25 line, circa 1944
The APPLE products are like that. They are (usually, not always) a leap ahead of what went before. They are fun to use simply because they are elegant in use. (Please, don’t beat me up about some silly IIe disc drive thing thing or early Mac which didn’t work, ok?) The point is, we have very few folks in our society who wield the kind of influence that Jobs does, and from whom you can see a long list of really hot products. Do iPhones and iPads really make us all “more productive?” It’s worthy of a long discussion, I guess. But in the end, we need a few people who are able to float really advanced designs, shepard them through the design and manufacturing process without losing the original mojo. Jobs was apparently one of those guys. And of course it remains to be seen if there are others at APPLE who have the same sense of taste, determination, and moxy.

I know the biggest mistake of my adult investing life took place in late 1997. I was in Silicon Valley, doing the TIME Man of the Year story on INTEL C.E.O. Andy Grove. Grove was the opposite of Jobs in many ways. (For example, I don’t think Andy demanded a 30$ Million Gulfstream as part of his package to stay with the company.) But he did understand the world of microprocessors and computers, and managed to lead INTEL from a company which was perilously close to folding, into the chip powerhouse of the 90s. It was during one of those afternoons when as the photographer, you’re just trying to stay up with your subject, follow him wherever he goes. Our deal was simple. He did his thing, and I just hung out and shot a few pictures. At one point Andy picked up a Wall Street Journal and started perusing the stocks page. “Wow,” he said, in a very understated wow voice. “Apple is $13 a share……”

Here is a hint: when you are hanging around with someone who really KNOWs what’s doing in a sector of business, and he says something like “Wow, Apple is $13 a share…,” take my advice. Take every penny you make on that job, and buy the stock in question. Had I done so, my approximately six grand (it was a long story!) fee would today be worth something like two hundred thousand. It’s not as if it’s all about the money, or even all about the stock. It IS about the fact that while the iPhone only has something like 30% of the mobile phone market, among the people I know its more like 75%. But looking ahead into the next decade, who is going to be the college drop-out who figures it out, and leads us all to the next step in stuff. Where is that kid now, in the computer lab? Starbucks, upstairs on his 7th espresso. I hope he’s somewhere. We need ‘em. We’re just sayin’… David

The News For...Laughs

2011-08-23T23:45:00.001-04:00

The news has become almost my favorite form of humorous entertainment. Like tonight, when everyone in Libya was celebrating the end of the Gaddafi rule. There was a great deal of chatter about freedom and democracy and the rebel forces. Maybe you have heard it here before, but who the hell are the rebels? Who has been funding them – not bombing them? Do they like the U.S.? What is their definition of freedom or democracy? How do they transition from horrific human rights abuses, to God Bless whatever? So, I don’t know about you, but it makes me laugh til I can’t breathe.

This morning someone on Morning Joe, (and it’s hard to tell which middle aged white male – because they all talk at once and look and sound pretty much the same), asked who was going to pay the cost of this immaculate reconception. No one had answer. Of course they didn’t. Talking heads have no idea how things actually work—kind of like the President of the United States. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

Is it me? Or is anyone else disturbed by the ignorance about what is actually going on over there. “Over there, Over there, send the word that they heard over there. The Yanks (that’s what we used to be called), are coming. The Yanks are coming…..” We are always coming. Every time I think about the wars and the economy I remember the Roman Empire and the British Empire – a little over extended and full of themselves perhaps. Are we at the “woe is us” stage? Well, the stock market went up 300 points. I’ll give that a big so what. The President is going to present the nation with a jobs plan –after he finishes his golf vacation. And the people are all thoroughly depressed – unless you are rich. Now there’s an answer to all our prayers. Let’s all get rich! But in my head all I can hear is Martin Sheen in the film “Gandhi”, when he’s on the phone reporting about the British massacre of the Indians protesting about the control of salt. In quite a moving conversation describing the brutality he says, “and still it goes on and on….” That how I feel about most unsettled things in the government. As my wise Grandfather would have said on Passover, Dayainu dayainu. Which means, enough! Enough!

That’s not what I wanted to blob about but let’s face it, it is hard to focus on anything when the world as we know it, seems to be coming to an end. We were thinking of moving to Italy but all of Western Europe is in trouble. At least in Italy you could drink enough wine not to notice. Asia, is in trouble, not that I want to fly for 24 hours and wind up in China – but Australia might work. And there is always Venezuela, which thanks to oil, and a wacky leader, is doing “just fine.” Fine is a relative term, but … Hey, so is Texas, and I don’t want to go there either. And speaking of oil, the price has gone down but not at the pumps. We will never again be below $3.50 a gallon…. and that is an optimistic guess.

I’d like to be the old cheery me, but it’s not easy being me. So, with all this in mind, let’s remember the famous words of that famous philosopher, Raffi. And sing along, “Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun….. please shine down on me.” We’re just sayin’… Iris

So Fragile

2011-08-23T23:37:00.001-04:00

The other day, when I was crossing the street (yes, in the middle of the block – as do most New Yorkers), some moron (other than me), came racing around the corner on a motorized bicycle and nearly ran me over. We can debate who’s fault the accident would have been but everyone lived and that’s not what I wanted to blob about. The incident reminded me how fragile life can be, (and what an idiot I was not to look both ways before I crossed the street.)

When you are young, you want to be older and when you are old, you are exhausted. As a child you shoot people with a fake gun, (this is not going to be a blob about gun control), you see people in the movies die, get injured, or get terribly brutalized, and then ‘voila’ they are back in the next movie or show. Children think there is nothing unusual about this. Is it any wonder that a as a young person you believe you are invincible. Nothing bad can happen to you and there will never be life/death consequences for stupid decisions. But there are. Just ask the squirrel who recently became road kill. (We call that P S D, Poor Squirrel Decision -- but it’s also applicable to little, medium and big people.)

My adoring grandfather died when I was thirteen. Even as a teenager I wasn’t sure what that meant. We were all eating Friday night dinner and there was a phone call from some neighbor in Brooklyn who was screaming that Mr. Dubroff had a heart attack. All my aunts , most of my cousins and some of my uncles rushed out the door, leaving me, my dad, my uncle Phil, and my cousin Stevie sitting alone at the table, with not much to say—and they ran out so fast, not much to eat. Uncle Phil suggested we should get some Chinese food and go down to their house – right next door. My dad and Stevie sat and waited at the table and I sat under the piano humming Oyfn pripetshik, a tune my grandfather always sang to me – its about children and learning. If you want to tear your heart out you can listen to it on youTube. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=av4lTJCluos&feature=related

Anyway, he died while I was sitting under the piano. We were not permitted to participate until the funeral, where it only got most chaotic. The highlight of the chaos was when Aunt Sarah wanted to throw herself into the grave, and Aunt Sophie said to let her do it. We actually were not supposed to go to the cemetery, because that was supposed to be too stressful, but in the turmoil they forgot to make arrangements for us to be driven back to the Shiva House (house of mourning), so we just hung out with a bunch of hysterical grown-ups – who were not the least bit entertaining. The thing is, it never occurred to us that WE would die at some point. A.) We didn’t know what ‘die’ meant. B.) Only very, very old people do that.

As time passes, you lose friends and family, young and old, and at some point you start to realize your own mortality. But mostly, you think that nothing will ever happen to you. Jordan has lost several friends over the last few years, one was murdered, one died in a Drunk Driving accident, and one had an epileptic seizure in the middle of the night and never awoke. It is too horrible to deal with these as a natural part of the life-death cycle, but even if it was getting hit by a car, we never think it’s going to happen to us.

Until one day, when we’re crossing a street and a cab going much too fast, almost takes us out. At that point you think about all those times when your life was saved because you arrived at a disaster a few minutes before or after it occurred. It is not until something terrible happens to you that you say, Geez—my life is merely hanging by a thread. It’s time to live it at it’s fullest. We’re just sayin’… Iris

2011-08-14T22:20:00.002-04:00

The Irish Times headline today might be the silliest political assessment of the next Presidential race ever. They said, “Iowa straw poll reshapes Race for a Republican US Presidential candidate” If you know anything about the history of this straw poll, you will agree that it means nothing with regard to what’s actually going to happen over the next year. Just ask Phil Gramm, Pat Robertson and Mitt Romney. Clearly, we will not have Ron Pawlenty to kick around. But given his humiliating defeat, he wouldn’t be much fun anyway. (A friend from Boston sent a note outlining the degree to which Iowa usually misses the eventual winner, and that New Hampshire usually correctly predicts. To which we replied, “and in New Hampshire they can’t even SAY “strawrrrr”… to which he responded “that’s right.. they say Hay.”)

Ms Bachman won the Iowa straw poll. This particular contest is one where the person whose organization buses the most people to the polls, wins. And she provided the most buses. Good for her. She is smart enough to have hired real political organizers, (and judging by the decision not to respond to the ‘Tina Brown’ Newsweek cover), quite astute communication people. When she left the debate to ‘reapply her make-up’ the media folks knew she was actually talking to advisers. The rest of the pack should have done the same… talk about boring. The most interesting confrontation was after Chris Wallace, (who is both transparent and dumb as dirt –which I mean in the nicest possible way), was trying to play the old gotcha game and Newt, (who never removed his folded hands from podium), remained remarkably above the fray, and called him on it. Yes, I know this is a run on sentence – but since we’re just Sayin -- not Payin, for the space…

WHERE WAS I? Oh yes, there are going to be lots of candidates, and lots of ups and downs, name calling, ugly banter, and foolish missteps, before we can be sure about who will emerge as the real front runner. It is hard to believe that the Republicans will chose a candidate who cannot win and no matter how smart her advisers are, neither she nor the husband she depends her for nearly everything, can win an election. Especially if Biden goes to the State Department and Hillary, as Vice President saves the election for BO.

That’s not what I wanted to blob about. I wanted to blob about mistakes. And speaking of mistakes, BO or, …. who disguised as Clark Kent…. No not BO, the Super Committee he insists will make the decisions all the elected officials in the whole Congress could not. It is painful for me to watch the creation of yet another government Committee that will never do anything but spend money. Of course, each Congressional Member will need staff, supplies, a liaison, clearances from other Members, and space in which to operate. What does this have to do with Clark Kent. Nothing really, I guess I could have said Super Glue, or Super-stitious or Super Delegate or Super-erior. But it was easier to make this analogy: Simply, Clark Kent was a disguise –the Super Committee is a disguise as well, just not as handsome, not able to leap tall buildings in a single bound and not ever going to fight for truth, justice, and the American way. Were just sayin’…. Iris

And One, and Two...Sort Of...

2011-08-14T02:03:00.000-04:00

There has been a lot of thrashing around lately about Jane Fonda, whose recent TV shopping network promo of her new book was scotched at the last minute by some folks, mainly Vietnam Vets, who complained mightily about her presence. Since she made the famous trip to Hanoi 40 years ago, and in particular sat at the North Vietnamese anti aircraft gun and urged them on, she has been a pariah of the Veterans groups. According to Snopes, though, many of the long and oft repeated stories about her purposely turning over ‘secret’ pieces of paper given her by American POWs, to the North Vietnamese, are long proven to have NO credibility. Yes, she was somehow helped by some North Vietnamese staff people in their Paris embassy, into doing what they wanted, publicly, and yes, she sat at that AA gun (ahhh… bad idea Jane!) But it brings up some interesting points, when you analyze the vitriol that many vets feel about her. I’m not a huge fan, but I think that the process needs a little more discussion. There have been, lately a couple of new pieces about Henry Kissinger, and his role not only in the Nixon years, but later, when, during the Reagan presidency, he changed many of his views to make them more palatable to the Reaganites who were in power. One researcher recalls: "As his friend and mentor (Hans) Morgenthau identified in 1975, one of his greatest skills was his ability to 'adjust ... intellectual conviction to political exigencies' from time to time.”

Adjusting? Yeah, in spades. Actually, the Kissinger thing is pretty interesting when you think about it. Does anyone think he really gave much of a damn about the American troops in Vietnam ? The famous Nixon 'secret plan' to end the war, which stayed pretty secret from what I remember, must have had Henry's hands all over it. But aside from the effort to pull troops out (by '72 you found -- as John Saar and I did in a LIFE piece-- that a lot of Army units were stuck in the middle of ‘indian country’ only to see their resources sharply cut back, as the "cut backs" were actually put into effect .. (aka Vietnamization).. I don't remember much of a plan. I think General Giap had a plan too, but he didn’t really bother to keep it secret. In the end.. I just wonder if Kissinger didn’t deserve as much disdain from the vets as Jane Fonda did. I didn’t see the VFW boycotting any appearances of his for his new book on China. Obviously he came from a different end of the spectrum, but was he near and dear to the hearts of grunts? I think not. Certainly his attitude about imperial American hegemony (a word i seldom like to use since i barely know what the hell it really means) was not exactly the kind of thing which would lend itself to adoration.

I'm not a huge fan of Jane Fonda.. and she still (Time this week) recites her admissions of apology (even though the apologies themselves are a bit faint-hearted) and says she shall for some time to come for that picture on the AA gun. Kissinger of course has never apologized for anything that I am aware of.... but maybe I missed something. But the bigger issue (and this is what really got me going tonight) is the attitude of the populace now vs. thirty-forty years ago. In the 70s world of 'real' journalism, for all its faults and they were legion, the populace really was better informed about what was going on in the world, and able to make their decisions about what they thought government action ought to be based on those opinions. (Long discussion to ensue.) Today's internet/twitter/blog world has a helluva lot of propwash, and so little which actually has substance to it. You can read all sorts of crap which is aligned to what you already believe, things which bolster your attitudes, already pre-formed. But like propwash in the lake, the bubbles eventually disperse, and there is little left, other than the fact that the boat is somewhere else, and the water is calmed. But can you call it information? Data? I’m just not sure those terms apply.

When I began working in France in 1973, I was bemused by the fact that the French press was already arranged in a very political fashion. France-soir was the Gaullist paper, Liberation the Socialist, Humanite, the Communist. So if you were a Communist auto worker, you probably read Huma'... a banker more likely France-soir or Le Monde. I couldn't believe that you could have a progressive society (which the French always have taken themselves for) which had dismissed the idea of a free and independently aligned press. If you read any of the big US papers (the Times, Chic. Tribune, LA Times...) at least in the eyes of many, there were attempting to be great papers -- to conduct great journalism. And you can assign the rise of FOX news as a reaction to what many conservatives believed was the Lame Stream press at work, altering their view of the world to conform to their liberal leanings.

We have lost whatever we might have once taken as simply good journalism, and replaced it with this engagé form. And the populace, for all the internet, twitter, etc, isn’t necessarily a whole lot better informed. I agree with Mort Rosenblum, a long time AP reporter who bemoans the death of journalism in this world of ephemeral news, and that in losing the bases for what we consider classic journalism, the country suffers greatly. And we're so busy tweeting each other, that no one seems to give a damn. The propwash swirls. At least we don’t have to watch Henry’s Work Out Videos. We’re just sayin’… David

What About Next Time?

2011-08-12T00:56:00.001-04:00

Yesterday we saw “War Horse” at Lincoln Center. It may have been the most exciting theater experience I have ever had. You simply didn’t know how anything would turn out. You merely hoped for the best – which is what we are living with the Congress and the Administration.
Joey....
Is there anyone left in America who thinks BO is doing a great job as President? Is there anyone left who has a nice thing to say about his ability to lead? (Other than the six people he actually talks to). Is there anyone left who is not tired of Axelrod’s apologies and Geithner’s “deer in the headlights” performances. All the first time voters, and young people who thought that BO was their future -- what will they do? What will any of us do? Is the next election going to be one where we vote against, rather than for someone.

It’s not easy to govern a big country. But it’s impossible to govern when you the Administration and most of the political people, who work within its confines, have never transitioned out of the campaign mode. There is an enormous difference between running a campaign and running a government. Presidents usually learn that the first year. But when the President thinks that the way to succeed is to compromise values and the promises made for which he was elected, you have to know something is wrong. Where is all that hope!?

Here’s all you have to know about this Administration. One very senior level appointee told a friend of mine in the media that if he didn’t do what the appointee wanted, “there would be blood.” What kind of professional people (who are over 8 years old) talk that way? The breathtaking arrogance, partnered with an unwillingness to admit that you need help for things to get better, is stupid… just damn stupid.

BO is not to blame for everything. While the eight years of George Bush probably are. However, this President was elected to make jobs, not war, improve the economy, and make “change we can be proud of”. Oops. The war in Iraq may be a Bush war, but Afghanistan is not. Let’s try to put it in the simplest terms. (And I mean no disrespect)., I count some men, as well as Military leaders as good friends. But I think all the big guns said to BO, “We have a really big penis, and we think that if you don’t go along with all our recommendations, the rest of the world will think yours is itty bitty.” Sorry to be a bit crude, and reduce the problem to a body part, but there seems no other explanation except inexperienced people coupled with exceedingly bad advice.

Where is all the goodwill. Hooray! We killed Bin Laden! Hooray, we passed health care reform -- somewhat. Hooray! we raised the debt limit – wasn’t that supposed to save the world as we know it? Hooray! We sold women down the river, but they are, after all, just girls. And Hooray! Gays can serve in the military – it’s about time. Oops, no they can’t. But we are a nation in a fog. The President may know where he’s going but not how to get there. The Congress is clueless -- except they will all have money, healthcare and a Hill parking pass forever. What are we going to do when we we’re so unsure about a next time. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

It Used Be So Easy

2011-08-08T21:48:00.002-04:00

It used to be easy to figure out simple truths. Things like who was a good girl and who was a “Ho” as they’re inappropriately called, a prostitute or less nicely, a whore. But it’s not that easy anymore. Perfectly nice women are happy to look like “women of the night,” if a little less glamorous.

What with ‘Fme’ shoes, tight clothes, boobs hanging out and hair in disarray, you are better off if you check out the location. And there is no longer any clarity in that. For example, when 42nd street was dirt bags, pimps, and porno stores, you were more likely to find someone of questionable character there. But now it’s Disney northeast, and you’re unlikely to find anyone of less moral character than Pinocchio.

And there are other examples of these moral/emotional/physical quandaries. There was a time that you knew who was a Republican and who was a Democrat. The leaders were not as contentious as they appear today (you could almost call them civil and respectful) but there were differing political philosophies. The elected officials were mostly not ideologues, but they had different ideas about the way government and the country should function. I won’t bother to tell you how you differentiated; you can read my book, “So You Think You Can Be President,” if you want to know. Politics are just that, yet there was a recognized difference between campaigning and governing. Once the election was over, the people who were elected, transitioned into governing. Not that they stopped raising money for the next campaign, but they selected experienced operatives to help them make decisions that were related to how to be successful in governing – moving the country along for the good of the society. This was never easy, but there were clues that helped the electorate to determine which way they wanted to go.

Anyway, there was a time when a President was elected to lead the country. There was never a time when an election meant that you had to be political friends with people on the other side of the aisle. That is not to say you couldn’t be personal friends – because that was what created a cordial atmosphere. But, the reason the President gets to have political appointees is because those people are supposed to reflect the policies of the Administration. What do you do, however, if the President refuses to kick ass and make the government what people expected, when they elected him. Here’s a small example of what I mean. When Bill Clinton was elected, the people in the White House were reluctant to clean house. They thought it wasn’t ‘nice’ to fire political people. For a while, the only Agency that cleaned house was the United States Information Agency – my job. I simply asked for resignations from every Republican appointee. It’s what was supposed to happen. People did not elect Bill Clinton so that George Bush’s people would still be making policy decisions.

Eventually, the rest of the Clinton people got it. Nice was allright. Collegial was close to accepted. But compromising positions for which you were elected, was not going to happen. The Clinton White House, as dysfunctional as it was in some areas, never hesitated to put people who knew how to govern, in governing positions. No one is perfect, and you’ll notice I said “no matter how dysfunctional,” hesitated to ask people who knew what they were doing, what to do. Clinton couldn’t get enough information from a million sources—sometimes too many. Sure there were problems, but the President never negotiated away what he he was elected to do. Foreign Service Officers, for example, are of two minds about everything – but never the President.
The campaign is about to begin too soon. Will BO get reelected? Do we want a leader who leads us in the wrong direction, or someone who doesn’t lead at all? It’s not an easy choice. Finger pointing doesn’t work. The Tea Party disrupted the process, but the President never told them he wouldn’t stand for that. He still thinks that it is more important to be liked, than to be in charge. Someone ought to tell him that when the Tea Partiers pledge their next class, he just isn’t going to be invited. “Oye”, as my mother would say, “Smart, smart. Stupid.” We’re just sayin’… Iris

Happy Birthday Pops...

2011-08-07T16:31:00.005-04:00

Today is August 7th. It’s my dad’s 105th birthday. He hasn’t been around for a while to celebrate, but it doesn’t stop me from thinking about him, and that wonderful optimistic sense of self and the world which propelled him in the 20th century. He missed the whole century by just six years on each side (b. 1906, d. 1994) but I can’t think of anyone who better embodied that sense of upbeat hopefulness which drove him every day. It’s a little surprising perhaps, as I assume his childhood had some real bumps. His mother Liza died in 1912 or so… when dad was just a tyke. And he spent much of his growing up years in the company of aunts, uncles and cousins. And the occasional Japanese houseboy. In the early 1900s there were a lot of young Japanese who came to live in the states, many of whom later became citizens, and as it was, they opted for the most available ticket. The 19xx version of “au pair.” I think dad was very close to a number of these young men, many of whom were only a few years older than he was. And I think it was from that period that he latched on to telling really bad jokes in overly accentuated Japanese accents – the kind that in spite of our pleading, he would tell at dinner or family outings. To him, of course it wasn’t so much a question of being a racist – that was one thing he surely was not – but merely recounting to us some of the stories of his youth. It didn’t stop us from cringing, however, when he would start to wind up one of those tales. But in his years in high school and college (Tacoma, Santa Clara, and U/Cal Berkeley) he was an athlete (usually on the 145 pound squad), and quite a man about town. Just a few years ago I discovered for the first time a wonderful album of photos he’d kept during the 20s, and considering I’d never seen him pick up a camera, or show any interest in photography aside from some of my own exploits, this album was an absolute gem. Pictures of his friends, his teams, and generally speaking the most elegant set of pictures I think I have ever seen (most taken by the “school photographer” but some obviously by him.)

The team pictures often inspire me to think that in this day and age.. .all color, all excessive color, and little leaguers stripped into green-screen backdrops of Yankee stadium, if you could manage to make a 2011 Little League team look as good as these pictures from the 20s, you could make a million bucks. It really is such a wonderful look, making you nostalgic for something you never actually knew. Now THAT”s Nostalgia!

I wish my scrapbook looked this cool!
Dad spent much of his working years ‘on the road.’ Driving mainly Chrysler cars (in the 50s we had a new DeSoto every other year…) he would cover an area from Utah to Washington state, with Idaho, Oregon and Montana thrown in, for different watch companies. At first it was Gruen, based in Cincinnati (which gave rise to my older brother’s life long obsession with the Reds) then Omega, Movado and EternaMatic. All great brands. In his role of salesman, he had a unique relationship with the stores who were his customers. He would lay out the trays of beautiful watches, and then instead of the owner/buyer making a selection, they would usually just say “Well, Ted, you tell me what I need, and that’s what we’ll get. “ How do you top that? He knew that he couldn’t take advantage and sell them a lot of stuff they couldn’t use. There was no future in that. But once he’d established his credibility, they had total confidence. He owned the first cars I’d ever seen which had alarms. With thousands of dollars in watch samples in the trunk (to which he always added a heavy metal cage.. the man was ahead of his time!) he needed to be able to sleep soundly when the car was parked out of sight. The first time he showed me that little key slot near the driver’s front wheel on the big white DeSoto, I didn’t’ know what to make of it. He had me open the door to the car, and it set off the biggest wailing sound I’d ever heard. We’re all used to this now… those 3 a.m. city alarms when some drunk pedestrian stumbles into a Lexus and wakes up the whole neighborhood. But in 1956 it was pretty hot stuff. Remember, that was before the Space Age, ‘Vietnam,’ the transitor, and color television. Yeah, color television.

My brother Tom (3 years older than me) and I had the joy of each spending several of our adolescent summers on the road with dad. He would take us on a two week trek to Seattle/Tacoma – where numerous cousins still lived – via Pocatello, Twin Falls, Boise, Lewiston, Orofino (look it up!), Bend, Yakima, Richland, and Walla Walla. Those were great trips. And I think they were the inspiration for my wanting to do a cross country trip with Jordan (which we finally did 16 months ago, when she moved to LA.) With dad, the pace was a little slower. Less time in the car, more time at the minor league park & local golf course. Along with his watch samples, he always had his golf clubs in the trunk as well. Anytime we’d finish at the jewelers by 4 or 5 in the afternoon, we’d find a little local course and go play 9 before dinner. He always claimed that in all his years of meeting up with strangers on the first tee, that he never met a jerk. It may have been more his view of the upbeat side of life than the actual fact that so many wonderful people were going for par that day, but the bottom line is, golf was for him a satisfying and challenging way to meet people, maybe take two or three bucks from them, and spend a day outdoors. He was no sandbagger, usually shooting in the low 80s, now and then the 70s, but he had a tendency to play just well enough to win. The term “golf Money” was for the Burnett kids, a little pot of gold. If he’d had a good day on the course, he’d advise us to take a buck each in golf winnings, and I can’t count just how many model airplanes came into our house on the “golf money” plan, but it was probably enough to outfit a small country’s air force.

Dad’s optimism was sometimes oddly placed, at least in my eyes. But I always tried to remember that he’d lived through the depression, and knew what tough times could be. He once told me of a cross country trip he took in the early thirties, in an old car with a friend. One night, somewhere in the southwest, they stopped to sleep. His friend took a blanket from the car, and tossed dad one, saying “see you in the morning.” His description of how the ground became harder and harder as the night went on has never left me. He was most certainly NOT a camper. But he had an appreciation of what rocky terrain would feel like. In Tacoma once, in the 50’s I remember the sour nose piercing smell of the pulp mills (this was definitely pre- EPA!) and remarked about it’s unpleasantness. Dad’s reply was “that smell means jobs for a lot of guys.” He never met a new building he didn’t like. New construction was akin to something positive, people DOING things, people Making a difference.
Sorry, Dad: Still Ugly
There was a seriously ugly 5 story building being constructed near our house in Salt Lake in the late 70s. Everytime we drove by, dad would say “look at that beautiful building.” I looked, kept looking but it never really got ‘beautiful.’ But to him (see the Citicorp bldg here as an example of “gorgeous!”) there was something in the mere attempt by the hand of man to improve the landscape, even if it didn’t always… you know… DO so.

I miss him every day. He was 40 when I was born, a rather late age for a parent of the post WWII generation. But he never seemed old to me. He never really seemed aged or out of it until much later in life when, like most of us who live into our 80s, he started slowing down. In grade school, the one concession he made to age was at the father & son softball game. Bascially, he refused to run around the bases. So he just hit the livin’ crap out of the softball, sending it over Clark Warren’s head so far, that he could leisurely walk the bases for a home run. My embarrassment of his refusal to run was diminished by the fact that he had so creamed the ball. When he turned 70 I had a t-shirt made for him which read “70 is Par.” And that was the decade when he actually began to occasionally shoot something close to his age. The exact numbers escape me, but I think when he was 72 or 73 he actually did shoot his age. Part of the family lore.

I remember with great fondness that infectious smile of his. There was an “Uncle Teddy” smile which all the cousins knew well and appreciated. And though he was always one to leave the ball game in the 8th inning to beat the traffic, (how many great 9th inning upsets did we miss? Plenty!) he at least made the effort to get us to the game. And maybe that was the finest memory we can keep. The unending upbeat, always hopeful, bright eyed outlook on life. That life is meant to be lived, and celebrated. Sure, there are always going to be a few water hazards, but they are there for a reason. If you plop one in the lake you have two choices. Grab the extendable ball-grabber and fish it out. Or just drop a ball on the far side and take another cut. I still have his golf bag and his clubs (the finest technology that 1988 could provide) but I’ve been remiss in getting them back on a proper course, and swinging them once again. And the next time I’m out on a foursome, I’ll also remember that other key to pops’ life: when someone else is hitting, make damn sure you watch where it’s going, cause for most of us, a little extra friendly guidance on the fairway is not a bad thing. Thanks, Pop. Miss ya. We’re just sayin’… David

At The End of the Day

2011-08-03T20:12:00.002-04:00

At the end of the day, have you ever thought, 'what exactly did I do today?' Or exactly what did I do today? Or Geez, did I waste another day? Or, what exactly did I accomplish today. Sometimes it’s so busy that I can remember what I did, but not what I accomplished. For many years I wrongly assumed they were the same. And then came my work in Presidential politics.

The technology has changed, but the fear factor remains the same. When you work in a Presidential campaign you would do anything to be included. Not only in senior level decision making meetings, but in meetings that involve things like, how much pizza do we need to get through the day. The technology has made it easier to order pizza, to figure out the number of flyers you need for a rally, to decide how many volunteers you need to do Get Out the Vote (GOTV), but there is nothing that eases a mind when you are not there to “weigh in”.

The first Presidential campaign in which I worked (yes I fell off my dinosaur getting to HQ), was when it occurred to me that everyone stayed at HQ longer than I did. True, I had a full time job at Boston University, but there were other people who had jobs, and they eventually quit in order to hang out at the campaign offices. In my mind, once you finished the tasks you were assigned, you could leave and have a life. Actually, that has always been my modus operandi. There is no need just to hang out in case anything happens. But you have to be fairly secure about your job (and who you are as a person), in order to feel that way.

Lately, I am reminded of how important it is not to waste time, but to get something accomplished. You may know that the Congress went on vacation leaving the FAA without a budget. The powers that be have asked all the federal airline employees to be professional and work for nothing. (And the airlines, blessem', ballplayers that they are, are mostly -- save Alaska Air -- refusing to refund the money they collect for taxes, even though they don't seem to be passing it on to the FAA. How do you spell Windfall?)) The Congess isn’t working for nothing. How do these committed public servants pay for groceries, a mortgage, and maybe a movie. Do they tell their bankers and their children that they can’t make a payment or buy a treat because they are committed public servants. If this isn’t an example of government incompetence and arrogance, I don’t know what is. Shame on the entire U.S. Congress. Shame on all of you for your lack of concern and just for wasting all our time. Come back to DC and fulfill your responsibilities to those people and the public. My kid is supposed to be flying next week and I am not real comfortable about that! We’re just sayin’….Iris

Posers....

2011-08-02T18:28:00.002-04:00

The one thing that is fascinating, when it is time to workout, is that there are a large number of young physically fit, and often beautiful, people doing the same thing I do, with only one difference. The ability to pose in front of the mirror and enjoy everything they see. It can be for just a few minutes, or it can be a look now and again, or it can be in lieu of physical exercise. No kidding. They come to the club all dressed for a workout and they manage not to work out and still look terrific (mostly at themselves) at the same time. And I am not just talking about women. The men are far more interested in how they look. They do not need approval from any admirers. They are perfectly content sharing the sight with only their reflection. Even more astounding is when you leave the sanctity of the club with all those perfect bodies, only to walk out on the street and see how large the rest of America has become.

And speaking about posing, have any of you watched Morning Joe lately? If not, don’t bother to turn it on. It is almost unwatchable – with good reason. Mika poses. O.K. And then there is Joe’s inability to listen to anyone else, as well as his overt unending impatience with his lovely co-host. There’s a wonderful Sondheim song called “Lovely,” of which I am reminded every time she appears. It goes like this: “I'm lovely, All I am is lovely, Lovely is the one thing I can do. Winsome, Radiant as in some, Dream come true. Oh, Isn't it a shame? I can neither sew, Nor cook, Nor read or write my name.
But I'm happy Merely being lovely, For it's one thing I can give to you.” (in this case, the audience.)

This is not meant as a criticism. I mean it in the nicest possible way. No longer does she speak in complete sentences. Usually what happens is that she says a word or two, Joe harangues her, she looks at him expressionless and then she poses – usually making some kind of a face which is supposed to substitute for an intelligent comment. It simply doesn’t work. Did it ever? Yes, when the show premiered and I was a guest, she said funny, intelligent things. Did someone at the network vacuum her brain? Did her dad say he was embarrassed by her remarks? Did Joe threaten to take away her nice shoes? Willie, she needs a hero to come to her rescue. Or she needs for someone at the “Lean Forward” Network to slap her until she sits back.

Never let it be said that my picking is directed at a group or one individual. There sure was a great deal of posing in Washington this week. Between BO, the Speaker of the House, (no Tip O’Neill but still very lovely) the Minority whip (who is also lovely), the posing didn’t stop for a minute. None of them had to stand in front of a mirror to see who they wanted to see – or be. Everyone was delighted to pose in front of a camera, and point the finger at anyone who wasn’t them. BO made some nice speeches accusing the Republicans of interfering with the process of government. Duh, that’s what they came to Washington to do. They did not come to be a “ diverse community” that needed to be organized by, for lack of a better description, the Community Organizer In Chief.

It is not like me to be harsh, however, what happened to figuring out how to lead the Government and kick ass? Like, how about you write your own Bill, sign it, pass it wherever you can, and let the Republicans go to the Supreme Court to impeach. By the time anything happens, BO will have finished his second term (he should be so lucky!) and made the real difference in America, that he promised before he got elected. Perhaps I am exaggerating about a solution to any stalemate. But for those of us who have been part of the Government Bureaucracy as political appointees, (political appointees are suppose to advocate for Presidential policies), and didn’t need to make friends as much as make a difference, with the guidance of respectable public servants, we 1. stopped campaigning for office, 2. didn’t circumvent the press with social media tools and 3. figured out ways to get things moving. This Administration needs far fewer posers, in order to defeat all those hosers. Yes, I could have been a poet instead of a blobber. We’re just sayin’... Iris

Addendum: Wednesday morning, 8/3 11am:

This morning at the fitness club there was a delicious young man who was all in white with a black weight belt. His T-shirt had holes in all the right places. Ragged, scruffy, and perfection. He was, of course, handsome and healthy with muscles in just the right places. You know how in a Disney cartoon when the hero smiles, you see a sparkle on his teeth. Yes, there was that as well. You remember how I said that the men at the club do not seem to need approval, they are happy looking at themselves. Well people were lined up to look at this guy(with me among them) and he seemed to like it just fine!. Why not.
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Lessons to Learn: I said LESSONS TO LEARN!

2011-08-02T09:19:00.000-04:00

Every time I take out my iPad to use it, I decide that I am actually going to learn how to use it—beyond developing a workable swipe to move things around. It seemed to me the best place to learn was from the experts, so I scheduled an iPad workshop at 58th and 5th in N.YC. There are a number of Apple stores in NY but this one is supposed to be the premiere store. For sure it’s the most crowded and noisiest. (You can hear a dozen languages from the throngs of tourists swamping the place, at any moment, day or night.)

There are about 12 or 14 people in each workshop. My expectations of it being 4 or 5 beginners was way off the track. There were beginners, all of whom had the iPad 2 (except me—I have the ancient model – all the way to last December), and mostly they were around my age – so that was reassuring.

Before the class began, I had to duke it out with a 10 year old who didn’t speak any English, (I did) but he absolutely spoke computer (I don’t). Anyway, David found a space and a seat for me and I let the kid stand in the space he was occupying. (He wasn’t tall enough to sit at the table and the only seat, other than mine that was available was especially short. So that wouldn’t work for him. But the Asian woman (who spoke a few words of English), had a large hat that covered her face as well as her head, and an even larger bag, was not deterred. She sat, sitting at least a foot below everyone else – and with everything she did have, what she did not have was an iPad. But, she felt free to share mine and comment about everything I did. Luckily, I couldn’t understand a word she said.

The workshop was a comedy of errors. The sophisticated sound system was screwed up and only worked intermittently, and only when it was worn by Jonathan. When Olivia wore it, you could hear nothing. As workshop leaders, they explained that their plan was to impress us with the audio as well as the video technology – which could not be done because the ‘wow’ sound system had no sound. Oh and they couldn’t find the woman who held the key to fixing the sound.

They kept apologizing for the screw-up, and tried to work without a mike. That would have been fine, except the store was beyond noisy. All I kept comparing it to was when the computer doesn’t work on a cash register at the yogurt store, and the kids don’t know how to give change without the register telling them how much. Finally, the lost sound technician who they call a ‘creative’ person, arrived with new head sets. We were on a roll: we could almost hear, and with all the apologies, we were almost forgiving about the many moments of wasted time.

Anyway, the workshop was fine, if not what any of us expected. But someone should tell the 20 year olds who understand how everything works (except microphones), that they have to stop saying, “this is so simple,” because for so many of us, it’s anything but. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

At the Bitter End, or Nearly So.....

2011-07-31T18:21:00.001-04:00

In case it went unnoticed, the two party system ended with the last election. Will it rest in peace? I doubt it. The leadership in the Congress is now irrelevant. For years, people were identified as Republicans, Democrats, and Independents. But the Independent party was a mechanism to run for office if you didn’t like the Party candidates. The rules for Independents were no different. If the Leadership favored you, the committee assignments were plum and if not, even as an elected official, you wallowed on some committee which was powerless to make a difference. Sure, at times it wasn’t fair. The powerful (and those with longevity), got more powerful and favors were granted on often, unprincipled expectations -- retribution for not “falling in line,” was harsh. (Remember “Mr Smith Goes to Washington”?) Yet, with all the controversy about the system, it did seem to work. The leadership asked nicely, for what they wanted. The Congress Person said OK. The President was able to function and things moved—maybe not in a direction to your liking but there was always compromise and move forward, and a hope that after the next election, things might swing back your way.

Ah, but now, the misnamed Tea Party, (whose so-called revolution is not principled, it is just painful), doesn’t care about the system; they hate the government (except to make sure there is less of it), nor do they care about getting reelected. They are a Party with one mission, to make sure that whatever the Democrats, the Administration (BO in particular), and reasonable responsible Republicans think is necessary, does not get done. And they do not care or understand the consequences of their ideological inaction. It’s like passive aggressive government. If you don’t do anything, something will happen, but you will not be able to predict what that will be…. Or not be. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

Anyway, are you following my incredibly astute thought process? I want to get this up before there is any kind of a compromise or conclusion to this hideous demonstration of why inexperience in government is not refreshing. Because I don’t want anyone to think I stole these words from one of the genius talking heads. And I also mean that in the nicest possible way. The idea that there are two days left before we default on our debt is almost laughable—the operational word being almost. The fact that the Congress is playing this dangerously foolish game, so close to the deadline, is what I would call—for lack of a better – playing with boys’ toys. The toys being the deadline, playing needing not more of an explanation. I don’t want anyone of our readers to misunderstand what I am about to say but my explanation of boys’ toys, is all about the size of one’s penis. Most girls don’t have a penis, so they find other ways to compete and other ways to negotiate differences. This is true in many instances. Whether it be giving directions or explaining a policy. Women use rhetoric that creates a story. Men don’t have the time or patience for a story. It’s take the seventh left, war is the answer, and my penis is bigger.

Not everyone is going to agree with me. They will say, Michelle Bachman doesn’t have a penis and look how many people like what she has to say. But, Michelle Bachman is an idiot who lives her life in a very different way than she insists other people live theirs. She is one of those women who thinks she needs to have a penis in order to become a powerful force. She uses the penis props to compensate for the lack of body parts. What do I mean by penis props – arrogance, deception, and believing her own bullshit. It is not only Tea Party women that use these tools, but the Tea Party personalities, as well as the Sarah Palins are just damn good at it.

Will we have a deal, compromise and move forward for a few months, only to have to another important issue decided under intense pressure, at the last minute. No doubt we will. I really liked the other three parties, where everyone played nicely with whatever toys that had. We’re just sayin’.. Iris

What IS: IS

2011-07-25T16:31:00.001-04:00

The horror of the last few days has lead me to ponder the why's and how's of this life. Like why did Amy Winehouse's mother not just send her to a facility in Utah, until she got clean and sober. And why did this obviously damaged Norwegian, need to kill all those children. And why did the mother in Queens kill her disabled child and then try to off herself (without success). What brings people to the brink? And why does each story need a headline like Amy, and "The curse of the 27th year." But I will never answer those questions coherently, so I just turn off my desire to know absolutely everything about everything.

There is no question that I should have been a life coach, having spent so much time coaching people about their lives, with no charge -- always my problem. It's not that I'm so smart, because a great many successful people are totally talent free, no matter what their chosen profession, but in this case, good genes (and common sense) far outweigh the need to actually know anything.

What exactly do I mean? It doesn't take an extraordinarily high IQ to see things as they should be. For example, my mother and her siblings always said, "dead's dead,” and “what is, is." It is those six words (principles) that link the whole (extended Dubroff) family together. We all have different surnames, but it's the Dubroff gene that has allowed us to persevere, gives us the energy to make incredibly good sense, whatever we have chosen to do ... or say. You can interpret those statements in many different ways but among my favorite are; don't dwell on what you can't have, don't try to fight the reality of the situation, and get over your bad self -- or just your foolish self.

Last night, when I awoke at 12:30 am (and stayed awake until 3am) I heard a Dubroff voice telling me that I would have plenty of time to sleep when I was dead -- it could have been any number of people speaking, because about some things they all spoke with the same voice. Of course I answered the voice back with a question. "What the hell are you talking about", I yelled. "I'm exhausted from repeatedly not sleeping through nite." As usual, there was no answer to that question. Instead, another voice said, "There is no secret to life. We are not hiding anything from you. What is, is", so stop complaining, stop wanting things to be better or different and just enjoy what you know you can achieve." Or, better said, "just take a breath."

All these questions and answers took me to another place. Thinking about my kids. JKB said that she was trying to make a life in LA, rather then just live there. And SAJ, said that he loved what he was doing, along with his music and loved especially being a father.
This was most reassuring for me. Because everyone should be satisfied (or make the best of life decisions -- what is, is) and not be spending time on what was, was (another of their favorite expressions -- no need for explanation). That is not to say that life shouldn't be an adventure, rather don't waste time constantly thinking your decisions were wrong or unfortunate. Anyway, as a consequence of my genes, I have both an insight and awareness of how everyone should live their lives. The only problem is, you get what you pay for, and nobody ever writes me a check. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Adieux My Flying Friends

2011-07-21T07:23:00.003-04:00

For thousands of years on Yom Kippur, Jews have gathered together to beseech their lord for forgiveness, and ask to be re-written into the book of life. So it was when I was 11 years old – in 1957 -- that the family attended services and as we usually did, dropped off my Landa cousins on the way home. It was sitting in their driveway on Sunnyside Avenue that night, that we heard the news on the radio. It was October 4th, and earlier that day the Soviets had, to everyone’s surprise, launched the first Sputnik satellite, the first man-made object to orbit the earth every hour and half, and in doing so, implied that, as my barber would later say, “… if they can launch it up there, they can certainly launch them over here.” It was the beginning of the Sputnik era, propelling us with a combination of fear and a bold desire to prove our worthiness. Science and math were all of a sudden returned to a position of importance in schools. Every kid I knew at Olympus Junior High wanted to work on the space program, even though we didn’t have much of one. A few weeks later our first attempt at launching a bird would end in a fiery mess as the Navy’s Vanguard rocket blew up on the pad. I’m sure the Soviets had more than their share of fiery disasters, but they didn’t have AP cameras aimed at them, so we had to just assume they did. Over the next few months a combination of worry and wonder would drive us into rethinking about the American space program. In less than three months, the Army, under Werner Von Braun’s leadership, would take up where the Navy failed, and launch our first Explorer I satellite, just 88 days after being asked to do so. Now THAT was the Can-Do we’d been brought up to believe was the American way. The news of Explorer I came in January ’58, on another Friday where, this time, I was in a car full of 6th graders who were returning from a night of Wrestling at the Fairgrounds. What we didn’t enjoy with Bobo Brazil and Dick the Bruiser, we more than made up for with the soaring news that the US had finally matched the Russians with a success.

Then, just a few weeks later, I remember racing into the kitchen still trying to pull on my t-shirt before school, tearfully announcing to mom what I’d just heard on the early morning news show (even then I was an AM radio addict): that another Vanguard rocket had, finally, been successful in launching its small payload into orbit. Those were heady days, when, despite the fear of Russian ICBMs, we thought the space age would make ‘anything possible.’ Stephen Sondheim writes about that moment in “Merrily We Roll Along,” with “Our Time,” a song which extols the power of optimism, youthful embrace of the unknown, and a self assurance that we could make the world what we wanted it to be. It is well known that I tear up at the opening of a new Trader Joe’s, but listening to that youthful plaint of “Our Time” gets me every time.

Somehow, perhaps with JFK’s brash challenge to go to the moon, we figured out how to do things which no one thought possible. We actually built the Apollo rockets (still nothing has ever flown mightier than the Saturn V) which went to the moon, and safely brought back its crew a half dozen times, and all this before the invention of the personal computer, GOOGLE, or even a ‘mouse.’ Pure slide rule and 1960s mainframe power. And ingenuity. Don’t settle for less than the ingenious. Through it all there was an amazing sense of discovery, and challenge to conquer the unknowns. Going to the moon, sending probes to Mars and Venus and the outer reaches of the solar system were part of what we grew up with. If you were a kid in the 60s, and maybe even the 70s, there was enough inspiration in the Manned space program to get you over the humps in those difficult science course finals. Somehow you thought that you could be a part of it if only you could master the Physics final, a Calculus exam, or a Chemistry lab. There were concrete reasons to succeed. If even for a moment you thought you would be the one responsible for that key piece of the puzzle which would get a rocket into orbit, you took it on as your own personal challenge.
Atlantis returns the last time
Not to mention the physical amazingness of the space program. I first covered a launch in May 1969 when Apollo X was sent for a final blueprinting of what a moon trip would be like. Standing on the sands at the press center, with my dorky tripod and 300mm lens, I felt the slapping rumble of the shockwaves of that Saturn V, a mere three miles away, popping off my chest as if Dick the Bruiser himself was there. I don’t know any one who views a big space launch with the casualness of eating a tuna sandwich. No, they are special. The look, the feel, the sound, it is something you don’t forget.

This morning I awoke in Glasgow (where I’m teaching a photo workshop), and tuned into the NASA tv channel to find out about Atlantis’ landing. I was at the Cape twelve days ago for the launch, one I just didn’t want to miss, as it was to be the last. Thousands of people came to see it, driven by the same kind of desire to share the experience as the million or so who came to the very same spot on the Titusville water front, to see Apollo XI in July 1969. I was there for both. In the pretty much the same spot, 42 years later. Now of course there were differences, the kind of differences which have marked our society. The kind which you wish you didn’t have to compare, but which you are obliged to. In 1969 there was one gas station, with one single Ladies rest room. There was always a line of 40 or 50 women, and never a grumble as they waited their turns. This month, the old Union 76 gas station is gone, replaced by a big Walgreens, with teams of porta-potties in the parking lot, and no small amount of grousing about having to wait five or ten minutes.

In ’69, the populace still looked relatively healthy. Microwave food didn’t exist yet; McDonalds was just beginning to start its big run to lead the fast food wave which we’ve all lived through. This time, the number of obese parents with their obese kids in tow was simply astonishing. It was like a constant stream, big parents and big children, and always big bags of snack foods tagging along for the ride. Scary stuff.

By most standards, the comparison of 1969 vs 2011 doesn’t bode well for us now. The interaction of folks, most now carefully ensconced in their Costco folding chairs (with holders on the arm rest for a Big Gulp) is less engaging. Everyone has a mobile fone, a “smart” fone (“smart” fones, not so smart people?) and is somehow finding solace there instead of dealing face to face with the people next to them. What is it about that next email which so takes people’s energy away from that which really matters. As if that email will change their lives. (Hint: it won’t!) As a reflection of the mental thrashing around of our times, the last Shuttle launch was one of those moments which while it briefly brought many of us together in Titusville, within minutes afterwards we were back to dealing with the ups and downs of the debt crisis, whether of not Fox News execs knew at high levels about the phone tapping, and the otherwise morose spirit which the paralyzed government seems to be caught up in. The President, having shown signs of vulnerability, is piled on by the Republicans. And instead of responding with incredibly illuminating positions which might fire the further imagination of the country and especially of youth, they keep dumbing down the agenda. The Manned space program came to an end this morning when Atlantis rolled to a stop. Watching it soar out of the Florida darkness, and flare its big wing for the last time, you couldn’t help but feel a sadness, not just for the scientists and engineers who put the damn thing together and made it fly, and fly so well, but for all of us who will now be the poorer for our lack of something to inspire us. There is nothing in banking, “financial services,” international trade, internet start-ups, or even “smart phone” technology which matches the pure wonder of seeing a big-ass manned rocket take off for space. Even if space is only a low-earth orbit of 150 miles.

Once Apollo VIII had circled the moon and taken that picture of the moon-rise in 1968, you would have thought that mankind would have understood some greater sense of possibility. That the earth could be seen as smaller than the moon was a humbling moment in the history of our planet and our people. But we’ve kind of let it all just slip away as the pain of dislocation and distress from the economic crisis of the last four years has more or less taken everyone’s breathing apparatus away. Imagination, the one thing you cannot buy at Costco, is that which we are most lacking. To see the end of the Shuttle program, for all its faults, is, to me, a painful and sad acknowledgement that we just can’t cut it anymore. I don’t really know what I’d do if I were the parent of an 11 year kid who might have once thought they wanted to do science, and, when they grow up, work on the Manned Mars mission. Do we just kiss it all off, and say, “another time…” that it will all have to wait until an age when Wall St. bonuses, paid for having trashed the economy, sublimate. That, I suspect is a very, very long wait.

For now, any further American manned space missions will require us paying millions to the Russians to ferry them up and back. It will be at least five years, probably longer, until we have some kind of vehicle of our own to do that job. I could be proven wrong: maybe one of the private groups working on manned space flight will somehow replace what NASA, for all its bureaucratic faults, was able to keep going all these years. I’d like to be proven wrong, but I worry that I won’t be.
Stairway to Heaven
Two weeks ago, when that last Atlantis launch took place in Florida, I was watching from my old perch on US1. Minutes after the Shuttle had disappeared into the clouds, and spectators were starting to stream back to their cars for the slow drive home, I kept my eyes glued to the giant plume of smoke which had been left in the ascent. I felt at that moment the appropriate song to play would have been Stairway to Heaven, as it seemed like you could just climb up that smoky pillar. In the water (the Indian River) below me, a single figure started running waist deep towards the launch pad, some 6 miles away. I could only see the figure in silouette. He would take a few steps, leap into the air, arms out, as if to personally wave on and salute the smoke-laden path ahead of him. The ballet of his motion belied perhaps more alcohol than Ballanchine. Two women walking back to their cars said, as they passed me, “ but what did you expect… he’s been drinking Jaeger Meister all night…” I could only imagine they were talking about one guy, the one in my frame. But perhaps he was the only one of us who really got it, understanding that for years to come, at least, no American would see this kind of smoky tribute to science, math, and a sense of communal adventure. I didn’t snort any Jaeger that morning, but in looking back, it might have been the nicest tribute that we could have paid. We’re just sayin’… David

Listen Up!

2011-07-17T20:13:00.002-04:00

Bear with me for one more day. On Friday, I went to two movies (Harry Potter and Midnight in Paris), and then took myself out to dinner to one of my favorite places Cubano, on third at 61st – where I had a mojito and, based on my delightful conversation with the people at the next table, a glass of sangria. Then I went home, wrote a blog and went to sleep, until about 1:30, when I awoke because the partier's at the club next door were rowdy and out of control – under our bedroom window.

Anyway, I was up, so I finished a self serving blob, and watched all the “Bones” and of “House” episodes that were on the DVR. At 5:30, I thought it might be nice to go to the club. But I opted for a little more sleep and didn’t awake until 8:30. (Is this Ho Hum enough.) When I finally got my ass out of bed, at about 9:00, I went to the club and worked out. If I hadn’t worked out I would be as big as a house. As it happens, I am only the size of an enormous kangaroo. Yes, eating large quantities of food will do that.

But that’s not what I wanted to blob about. It’s been a long time since there was any political commentary on We’re Just Sayin. The reasons are ridiculous, like I’m only reading “Variety” and “Back Stage”, and of course, Ken Davenport’s “Producers Prospective” www.theproducersperspective.com. O.K. None of this is true, although I find reading those publications far less frustrating than reading or listening to any news. Here’s the problem. There is hardly an elected official who has an once of common sense. And I mean that in the nicest possible way. And did I mention that there is hardly a lick of civility left in the Congress. The lack of good sense coupled with a serious absence of the ability to be civil, is a dangerous combination. Not that the White House has a corner on these two extremely important qualities, but at least the President has tried to do that hands across America thing. Or is it hand’s across the aisle. Or is it… Well it doesn’t matter because whatever the President tries to do, the Republicans will prevent it. It’s just what they feel compelled to do. Because somewhere in the back of their little, tiny, brains, they care more about their own political agenda than about the good of the country. Yes, of course there are problems with this Administration. First, they were too arrogant to listen. Then, they were too inexperienced to get anything moving. Then, they made some pretty stupid decisions (like another war, and rebuilding the infrastructures of other countries instead of our own, creating jobs, and maybe educating and feeding our children, instead of kids halfway around the world). Then the President tried to accommodate his Republican allies, but they didn’t care. They smurked (I know it’s spelled wrong but it’s supposed to look like Smurf), and continued to vote down or block every (even sensible) initiative, (especially where women were concerned).

Now we are on the brink of Armageddon and Eric Cantor and his pals are still making statements instead of progress. Posturing instead of progressing (I couldn’t find another synonym that started with a ‘’p’ to make it emphatic). Nevertheless, it truly just pisses me off. We were taught that elected officials are supposed to represent their constituents. Duh! Isn’t that why they were elected? And I refuse to believe that there is a person in the United States of America (who gets what’s going on), that believes this great nation should go into default.

OK so listen up you moron’s. “Get over yourselves. You will lose the next election if you continue on with this nonsense. No one thinks you are doing the right thing. Put on your big boy panties and vote to increase the debt ceiling.” Now, there is an interesting article I need to finish in “Back Stage”. We’re Just Sayin… Iris

Then...

2011-07-16T05:15:00.002-04:00

Yesterday my business partner asked me if I was lonely. He said my voice sounded lonely. It never occurred to me that you could sound lonely, but I’ve learned over the last few years, that there are many things that never occur to me. Like, (and may have said this before but), whoever said, “The more things change, the more they stay the same,” obviously was blurting not thinking. We all know that once things change, they are never the same again.

Tomorrow marks the first anniversary of my mother’s death and, as it happens, my Dad’s Yartzeit. Yartzeit is the anniversary of the day someone dies. Unfortunately, the Jewish calendar and the English calendar are never, or usually never, the same. So, you don't ever know when to light a yartzeit candle. There is an actual web site that tells you how to figure the English day of death and the corresponding Jewish date. And it is possible to figure it out all by yourself. As it happens, Dad died on July 10th, but his Yartzeit is the 16 the same day Mom died. Yartzeit is not supposed to be a sad time. Rather, it is a day of remembering and reflection. But sometimes, when you remember and reflect, there can be moments of, dare I say, loneliness.

This blob is not intended to be another whining, self absorbed, piece of poop. It is rather meant to be thoughtful and reflective. (Oh, gag me with a spoon). When we are children we wish we were grown-up. And when we get older (not everyone actually becomes a grown-up), youth seems most appealing. My incredibly smart grandfather, always told us not to wish our lives away, because life was like a train. When you are young you are on the local, but at some point it becomes the express. There are probably people who can remember exactly when that happened. Not me. I can’t remember what happened yesterday.

First I was five, my dad played with me on the beach, then I was twelve and he couldn’t walk anymore, then I was sixteen, then 35 (the worst birthday ever), and then…

First, I was going steady with Dicky Boughton, then pinned to Les Bauer, (that ended badly), then married with a baby, then married again, with a different baby, then…

First, school was a place where I went to entertain my classmates (and my cousin Stevie), then off to college (Stevie went to the Phillipines), then on to teaching, politics, government, entertainment, then…

First, there were parents and a giant extended family, then poof, it got smaller. Then…

First the children are totally dependent, then they have families of their own, and they see you -- only sometimes. Then…

First your beloved cannot live without you, then Valentines is for buying a card, then…

First you are then the local, then the express. then…

Then, is not a bad thing. It’s just that things are never the same and then…
there can be moments of loneliness in between the moments of joy, then…

Keep Climbing

2011-07-03T08:28:00.006-04:00

Delta (and the TSA) insisted the Italians airport security folks comply with their dumb ass security rules: no electronics through Security system before they are emptied into a large plastic shopping bag (including ear phones and the plastic bag with liquids) but they have no problem refusing to allow Jews on their flights to Saudi Arabia. Hello, Mr. President what's wrong with this picture? Shouldn't one of your crack advisors be advising the appropriate appointee about this? But that is not what I wanted to blob about.

Travel, good and ‘feh’... the bad news.

The Delta saga continues. On our return flight, we were only an hour and twenty minutes delayed because the incoming New York Delta flight arrived late. But that was not the reason. It seems the aircraft changed (from one 767-300 configuration, to another) without the ground staff knowing that, and the Delta Pisa staff sold seats that did not exist. Imagine their surprise when people tried to board and there were no seats. And imagine the confusion it caused for the cabin attendants, one of whom left her mike open and explained to another attendant how all the chaos could have been avoided. The only other bad news was the boardwalk pizza we ate on the boardwalk in Viareggio was predictably awful. We should have known Better... Tourists, the Mediterranean, a boardwalk, duh.

Enough feh. How's about, what not to miss. A castle in Italy for a wedding. What could be better? The place we stayed (La Crochetta), once again came as a wonderful surprise. Picture about an acre of carefully manicured garden. Not so manicured as to be pretentious, just comfortably wild. There is a swimming pool. There are lovely small but starkly elegant, very clean rooms. Although it is called a B&B, breakfast is not their strong-suit, (go to the Bar Centrale in the piazza for that), but do not miss dinner with Andrea. At La Crochetta, a B&B in San Casciano dei Bagni. Andrea and Christina own the place, and while she is an incredible host, he is a quite a chef -- experimental, and honest, and very local oriented. Most of what he cooks with comes from with a 40 minute drive. He loves to cook and does not hesitate to try a new pasta or sauce, a novel way to make meat, or a dessert you cannot resist.

It was about 2:00 by the time we reached Lucca, on our way to the sea. Starving and just hoping for a restaurant sighting, we pulled off the road -- two or three times. At the last pull-off, we passed what looked like a reasonably attractive place in a mini strip mall, Italian version. Ristorante Damiani, on the outskirts of town was much more than we ever expected. We decided that since it was 20 Euros for the special 2 course lunch, and much more for the ala carte, why not go for the big time. Together we had two Risotto dishes, one seafood/radiccio, one with artichokes. Second piatti was grilled calamari for me and a thinly sliced grilled fish for David, both were simple and divine. No surprises but the quality of the food. And yes, if we could find it again we would certainly have another meal.

Twenty minutes later, we were in Viareggio, a coastal town of a hundred thousand sunbrellas, and enough gelato to freeze half of Reno. Land fall at The Palace Hotel, although not the Royal (Best Western) it was a delight. The time to stay there is off season or the beginning of the week, but not in August. Since there were veranda rooms available, they changed us without a request. The room was gorgeous, as was the seaside view from the veranda. It was a little pricey, but not for what you got. The service. the complimentary breakfast, abundant and tasty. Would we go back-- yes to the hotel, but Viareggio is a bit too crowded for us. A beach with with a zillion occupied umbrellas is not my idea of relaxing, but I'm a Jersey girl.

Anyway, on our way home, happy to have had an amazing journey and hoping to retrace our steps sooner than later. Oh, and we listened to the most fantastic book on CD. "The Book Thief" by Markus Zusak, a young Australian writer, don't miss that, either.
sorting out phantom seats
P.S. When we landed they once again parked us, 1970s’ style, in the middle of the tarmac and once again, we had to pile into a bus to get to Arrivals. What do they have against Pisa flights, anyway? However they do want you to know that by 2014, there will be more gates. I can hardly wait. In a take off of the ridiculous new MSNBC marketing campaign, Delta has festooned all the buses (and there are plenty, just never ENOUGH), with “Keep Climbing.” All well and good, but who knew they actually meant the rolling stairs on the tarmac, just to get to the plane. We’re just sayin’…. Iris
Keep climbing!!!

A Fairy Tale Wedding

2011-06-26T18:25:00.006-04:00

Have you never been to a wedding in Italy, in a castle? Not a destination wedding, but one where the couple is Italian and the bride grew up in castle. Sounds Like a fairy tale, right.) If the answer is yes, you were probably at the same wedding we were. If the answer is no, you have missed quite a treat. It was not quite a Fellini movie but it is the closest we will ever come. With that in mind, the drama unfolds. Certainly well worth a blob and pictures from the unofficial photographer, (there was an official photographer, but he was not as cute.) The wedding was called for 5:30. The couple wanted everyone in the church so the ceremony would begin promptly at 6. David started to shoot intimate family photos at 5:00 and the getting ready was progressing as planned. Some of us, who were feeling a bit in the way, went to the church to reserve seats. Did I mention that the Priest is in the throws of full blown dementia? We'll get back to that.

There were about 200 guests in the church, which was tastefully decorated with a ruby red carpet and delicate bouquets of white lilies on every other pew. The church is in the middle of the small village of San Casciano dei Bagni, where everyone knows who belongs there. So even if you didn't get an invitation you were welcome to come to the ceremony, or be part of the crowd that, much like a Felini movie, acts as participating observers. The Catholic ceremony was much longer than it should have been because the Priest lost his place any number of times. The lapses seemed to be expected.

They provided adequate time for people to chat and catch up on the latest news. A not unimportant exercise in Italy. In fact by the time the ceremony ended, everyone under 30 was gone -- including the bride’s mother. She didn't leave entirely, but she did go outside to organize the throwing of the rose petals. And much to everyone's surprise, the ceremony ended, the rose petals were thrown, and the happy couple led a parade through the village, (kissing local friends along the way), into the garden of the castle where there were 50 tables elaborately set on the tennis court, right next to the swimming pool. My favorite thing about the wedding was the overwhelming generosity with which the hosts treated the guests. For example, instead of asking for a glass of wine, the guest just took a bottle with the number of glasses they needed. There was an appetizer course (sausage, cheeses, tomatoes, wood oven baked pizza bread, rice, and fruit frito misto), after the first selection of treats, which was passed on trays, there were two pastas and a number of other vegetables served. It was about 11 before Feda announced the steak break, and 1 in the morning before the wedding cake (3 giant layers of napoleon), was cut. There was dancing til dawn. A DJ/karaoke Entertainer who amazingly sang for four hours without a break. And with whom the guests could sing. And much love and goodwill. We made our way home at 1:30, happy exhausted and very well fed. More drama unfolding tomorrow.

Other Than Newburgh...

2011-06-24T12:40:00.004-04:00

Other than Newburgh, NY…… San Casciano de Bagni might be my favorite place in the whole world. Yes I love Pienza with a passion that cannot be explained, but that can be attributed to the Romeo and Juliet thing. In San Cash, as we refer to it, we have amazing friends, two of whom own the most delightful B&B in Tuscany, or Umbria. And the others live in a castle (not a pretentious castle), have their own swimming pool with healing mineral waters, and are the sweetest people imaginable. But I'll get back to that. First I want to finish the trip saga --which you already know, has a happy ending. But can you believe that Delta Airlines will no longer fly Jewish passengers (or anyone with an Israeli stamp in their passport or anyone who has a religious symbol that is not moslem related -- I assume that's a cross), to Saudi Arabia. Not that we know anyone who would want to go there, but it should be fascinating to see how our government responds to the outrageous agreement by Delta to comply. But that's not what I wanted to blob about.

It was neglectful of me not to mention the people on the plane who were seated near us. You know how when you are sitting in the waiting area, before you board the plane, you see a family where the adults have no control over the children and you think, Geez, I hope they are not sitting near us. It would be torture to have to deal with that for seven and a half hours. Well, did we get lucky. The children and their Nanny sat near us. The parents, grandparents, and friends sat in First Class. The children were incredibly well behaved unless a member of their family came to make sure things were OK. Not that they would have given up their seat for the Nanny (who was a grown-up), but just to pose for people on the plane. And pose they did. In fact, the father unfortunately posed too long when we were about to land, and the other child, she must have been at least four, cried, screamed and carried on so, that he was forced (he did it with such reluctance), to sit with her on his lap while we landed. The Flight attendants were not too happy about this but it was the better of the choices they needed to make. It never occurred to him to just switch places and send the Nanny to First. I guess she must have had cooties.

Anyway, AS LONG AS WE'RE TALKING ABOUT LANDING (oops I forgot I didn't have to yell). The pilot, as this pilot often did, announced our progress and asked people to take their seats. It was late and Pisa is a small airport so he wanted to be certain we had a gate. The majority of people respected his request. But their are always that few, who think the rules are for everyone else. In desperation, one of the Flight Attendants had to slap a guy on the hand who was still fooling with his suitcase and she pointed and shouted at someone else who refused to sit down and shut up. We landed.

We went through customs and went to find our bags. David went to get the rental car and I said I would collect the luggage we had checked. We were among the first people to clear customs so when I got to baggage there were very few passengers waiting with me. But soon enough there were hundreds, among whom were the grandparents of the children who sat near us. The grandmother had the 4 year old, in a carriage, turned so it and she blocked a good portion of the conveyor belt. When we saw our bags passing by for the third time, and the carriage and kid and grandma prevented access, we suggested she move the baby back a bit. Her face was such that I expected a, "Do you know who I am?" And at almost the same time, one of their other traveling companions, came running over to tell Grandma that they had all been searching for her and were very upset that she had disappeared without announcing her intentions to take the baby and block everyone who was trying to retrieve their bags. Which the poser/father had already done.
DB and the "Crocetta cats"
I managed to identify David's black roller bag, which looked exactly like every other black roller bag on the belt, except everyone else had some way to identify, their bag-- a ribbon, a stamp- and David didn't. So I simply looked for the one without any special marking. As it turned out, we had to take another shuttle to the rent-a-car building, but we didn't have to wait 45 minutes.
at the pool...
We arrived in San Cash yesterday, to many joyful reunions. But today we were reminded of all our friends and family with whom we have shared this always memorable experience. A big hug to -- in chronological order, Jordan Kai, Joyce K, Doug W, David F, Melanie O, Joe and Marthena C, Birra Billy and Cathy, Patrick and Timothy and Pablo B, Joe O, and certainly not to be forgotten Soozy M. We're Just Sayin’…. Iris
a breakfast worth waking for

45 Minute Increments...

2011-06-22T00:58:00.004-04:00

We arrived at the airport – JFK - Terminal 2 Delta airlines, at 7pm. The plane was on the board for 9:15. There was a lovely receiving line of employees and very few passengers. We had followed instructions to Terminal 2 as was marked on our boarding passes, but quickly discovered we were actually leaving from Terminal 4 -- which we were told was quite a distance and we would have to take a shuttle bus from gate 19. It was early and we were so amused by the short lines at check-in and security that we went to the Delta Club -- in Terminal 2. The club in terminal 4 is outside security and that was logistically impossible.

The club was crowded and without any character. We decided the boarding area had
to be better. We were wrong. As soon as we sat down and got comfortable they announced that the shuttle was leaving and we should get ready to board. Which was also not true. It was 45 minutes before we boarded, and after we reached the plane, which was on the Tarmac and not at a gate, we waited another 45 minutes to get off the bus, and climb the stairs. Yes steep stairs in the middle of the Tarmac. But this was only the
beginning.

We waited another 45 minutes until we left the middle of the Tarmac to get in
line to take off. Intermittently, the pilot apologized because it was so hot on
the plane. Duh... A sign that more problems were on the way perhaps. It was at
least another 45 with the plane just idling in line when the pilot came back
on to say, the problem with the air-conditioning was related to the air
circulation, and we would proceed back to the gate. 45 minutes later the pilot
announced that we would need to change planes. I threw up. I have never done
that on a plane but I just let it rip. The bad news was that there was no vomit
bag. The good news was that we were changing planes.

We were told to proceed to gate number 6. We had arrived at gate 4. 300 of us
proceeded to gate 4 waited about, you guessed it, 45 minutes and were told that
there was yet another gate change and now we needed to go to gate 5, which was
closer to the aircraft. I have no idea what that meant. Anyway, lucky us, we
were offered a $6 voucher for complimentary food service, but only grunion
donuts was opened. For $6 you could almost get coffee and a donut (it is the
airport, after all).

Once again, Intermittent announcements told us first that the new plane was at
the gate, that the new plane was clean, that all the bags and the catering would
have to be transferred, and that the flight was delayed, about another 45 minutes.

Not to be deterred, I ate a donut, had some coffee and perhaps, said a prayer.
Is Italy worth all this trouble. I think it is but i'll let you know in 45 minutes.

We’re just sayin’…Iris

Feet Together, Knees Apart -- Wide

2011-06-14T16:37:00.002-04:00

On Memorial day weekend. Sarah Palin stormed into DC on the back of a Harley, with Rolling Thunder -- the motorcycle tribute for troops who were killed in a war. Just FYI, she could still be heard above the roar of the cycles, but no one cared what she said. It was a Sarah, get over yourself, moment. But that’s not what I wanted to blob about.

This is a question that needs to be pondered, so don’t answer right away. When we got on the plane for Sacramento, (we’re on our way to a wedding in Sonoma), I took the window seat. My legs are short, so I am less likely to feel squished, regardless of leg room. My legs were crossed at the ankle, in order to maximize space, and I tried to get comfortable.

It was at this point (as my mother would have said, I was trying to find a place for myself), when I looked over and noticed that David was sitting with his legs apart and pretty stretched out. So I asked him, “why is it that men always have to sit with their legs like that?” He feigned ignorance, but I continued. “With their legs taking up not only their seat, but mine and the one next to them on the other side.”

He looked down, and sure enough, he saw – maybe for the first time in his entire life, that he was as spread-eagle as a person could be and still be in a sitting position. “I don’t know, maybe it’s to prevent genital compression.” He said it like ‘gential compression’ was an actual disease or syndrome.

I couldn’t stop. “This male positioning, is especially irritating, when you get on a crowded subway and there is tuchas room for three but because some guy refuses to have his knees touching, unless you leap over him, there is only leg room for two. “There’s noe much we can do about it”, he said wanting to be asleep.
“I’m not sure that’s true” I responded. “When women sit on the subway they sit with their legs crossed at the ankles or the knee. For the most part and regardless of size, they take up only the space they require. I counted today and if there are only men on one side, there is room for six. But if there are women, you can fit eight.”
“Women don’t like to be touched by strangers. They sit small because they don’t want to be touched”.
“No, they sit small because the guy next to them has his legs spread, the same distance as Pittsburgh to Chicago.”

There are many other things that men do that women find irritating, but with the invention of the GPS, not asking for directions when they are lost has gone the way of the electric typewriter. Oh, except now you have to listen to some annoying voice give you instructions that will take you the shortest route, but not necessarily the fastest. So yes, you can wind up on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere hoping that someone will notice you are missing before you starve to death.

And why does that voice have to be female. Oh, you can choose the accent, but there is no choice bout gender. It is always a woman determining which way you should go, and talking to you like you are an idiot when you decide, that “she” has no idea what’s going on. “She” is, after all, merely a voice spewing directions that some guy programmed into the system without asking directions.
But probably the most outrageous manipulation is what I call the “is there any…?” beginning of a sentence, they use repeatedly. Here’s an example. A male and female are sitting at the table having lunch. The male will turn to the females and say, “Hon, is there any salt or it could be pepper, water, bread, milk, shaving cream?” Nine out of Ten times the female immediately jumps up to check. If you are a woman, you know what is wrong with this picture. If you are male, you are thinking, “Of course I’m going to ask if I don’t know?” Getting up to see for himself, is never an option.

Women are not perfect, but given the choice, if you needed something. Who would you ask that you knew you could depend on… We’re Just Sayin” Iris

Tony, Oh Tony!

2011-06-13T18:20:00.008-04:00

So what do you want first, the good news or the bad news? Nevermind, I like to end on a happy note.

A tree fell on our house. There was a storm. A big storm. The hail was big as golf balls (and I don’t even golf.) The sky was so black it was impossible to see 2 feet in front of the car. You couldn’t pull over because you couldn’t see what you might be pulling on to. It was terrifying. Certain the car would be lifted and twirled until I was not in Kansas anymore, I shouted all my goodbyes. And then I was at Joannie’s house, and I lived. However, although we did not lose electricity, a giant branch fell in the back. It must have hit with such force that it knocked over a large photo of Jordan and broke the glass on the frame. It’s looks like the damage was minimal and the house is still adorable. That’s part of the bad news.

When the invitation came for the Tony awards and after party, the first thing I said was, “I have to call Aunt Peppy.” But she is longer able to answer the phone. And so now life begins for all of us, as orphans. My guess is that there are a whole lotta 60+ year olds who have become recently orphaned. With the death of Aunt Peppy, for me and my cousins, her passing was also the end of a generation. Now we are the senior generation – from our eldest first cousin, who is in his early 80’s, to the youngest first cousin – late 50’s, none of us will ever think of ourselves as “the kids”, anymore. On a lighter note -- (what does that mean? What can be lighter about a note?) That’s the end of the bad news and it is not what I wanted to blob about.

Imagine the sheer joy of a struggling producer, receiving an invite to the Tonys, and the After Party and an actual ticket for the ‘gift bag.’ (It’s always about the gift bag – with dreams of expensive make-up, new tech toys, trips to foreign lands, free tickets for shows). I’ll get back to the gift bag.
Big Fish Big Pond, in attendance
We arrived at the red carpet fashionably late. The doors closed at 7:20 and we arrived at 7:15. Not because we were so fashionable, but because we were having drinks and a schmooze with other insiders around the corner. My dress, (my mother’s dress), was quite smashing. Not only did other Tony guests stop me to remark about it, every server at the after party had a comment (and you know they all have a sense of style). The show was entertaining and even watchable for the first time in many years. We had good seats and were able to see everything that we were supposed to see and more. Loved that the “Book of Mormon” took so many awards but, along with Norbert Leo Butz, it would have been terrific if Donna Murphy had taken the Tony for Best Actress in a Musical.
the After Party
We commandeered the second bus to the party, which was at the Plaza. There were at least two floors of tables and chairs. Twenty open bars, 25 food stations, including sushi, a raw bar, a sliders bar, grilled fish bar, grilled vegetable bar, cheese and cracker area, desserts galore and of course, like any good Bar Mitzvah, a pasta station. The selection and quality were excellent. It was a colorful scene, with Stephen Sondheim holding court in one room, Tony winners accepting congratulations in another, and theater gawkers trying to take photos with celebrities like Stephen Colbert. Everyone who is anyone in the theater, as well as a great many rich corporate executives were there – I like to think--with me.
the SouthPark Bauble Head
At the end of the evening we walked to the 5th Ave entrance, turned in our prize tkts and got the GIFT BAG. It was the only moment of disappointment during the whole event. The contents were not expensive and or elegant toys… The was a bauble head, a bar of candy, a cell phone holder and some cheap cologne. It certainly wasn’t an Emmy or an Oscar gift bag. So who cares! My first year in NY and I got invited to the Tonys. This year was just practice for the future, when we sit with the winners and accept our awards.
“Gefilte Fish the Musical” or bust! We’re just sayin’.... Iris

Finally, a Reunion

2011-06-04T14:27:00.000-04:00

The Reunion

Peppy: It's nice to see you too Rosie, although to tell you the truth, the 11 months was a nice break. I did miss the arguments and even the yelling, but mostly the love and laughter. Now we have an eternity to catch up. Where is everyone else?

Rosie: Moishe is waiting for you and he'll be here right after the services. Fritzie and Eddie and Sarah, Jack and Helen by the pool. You should see the pool, as big as the ocean. Milty is taking ballroom dance lessons. I think Lou and Joe are at the races - you know here they go on as long as you want. And you always win. Betty, is delegating tasks to everyone she meets. Sophie is baking. Helene is cutting coupons and Phil is painting. Mama and Papa, are just kvelling to have everyone back. You want to play cards?

Peppy: I never liked playing cards. I only did it to make you happy.

Rosie: Then you don't have to do it anymore. Here you can do anything you want. Just make a wish and poof, like that, you can do it. How was the funeral?

Peppy: Wonderful. The Rabbi was a little trouble, but the girls gave him a what for so it went without a hitch. Everyone was there. The whole family. They were all together-just like we wanted them to be. It was quite a spectacle.

Rosie: Of course. Did you think you would come here without a big send off.

Peppy: There were even six police cars and two motorcycle led the way with sirens blasting. I thought that was a nice touch. Did you have motorcycles?

Rosie: I thought the dust would aggravate my allergies. Do you think we did OK Pep. In our lives.

Peppy: I think we did the best we could. And weren't we lucky to have all those brothers and sisters, friends, nieces and nephews, children and grandchildren. There's going to be a musical. And you know what? We're all famous. By the way, did you see what your kids put on your headstone.

Rosie: Sure, it was perfect. Did you decide that you wanted on yours?

Peppy: I told Iris to put Rosie instead of Rose -that's what on your birth certificate.

Rosie: You looked at my birth certificate.

Peppy: What do you think? I wanted to know who was really older. Also I told Iris what I wanted and I hope my kids listen.

Rosie: So? It's a secret?

Peppy: No, everyone knew I was a beloved sister, wife, daughter, aunt, great aunt, grandma, great grandma and friend. I just want to make sure they know... I had a wonderful life.

I'll play some gin while we're waiting for everyone.... if you want.

They're Just sayin... Iris

A Rose by any other name is a Pearl

2011-06-01T01:25:00.001-04:00

Peshie, Peppy, Phyliss, and rose by any name is a pearl. It is with great sadness that I tell you that Aunt Peppy (the boss),passed away this morning. She wasthe last of the Dubroff siblings. It is with great joy that I tell you she died exactly the way she wanted to… at home, surrounded by her children, and without any pain. It is with incredible selfishness that I tell you how much I wanted her to be in the front row of the opening of Gefilte Fish Chronicles, the Musical.

It was a project that meant so much to her. She loved the music and the story, not only because it was inspired by the Documentary, but because it continues to send a message she felt was so important. It has to be someone or many someone’s responsibility to keep the family traditions, celebrations, recipes and stories a part of how we live our lives – because it is what will keep all our beloved family members alive in our hearts and our memories.

And so Peshie, Peppy, Phyliss and Pearl, I promise I will do whatever I can to keep us all connected and to keep all of you always as a part of our conversation. I only wish you had waited to taste the new Jack Daniels with honey – you would really have enjoyed it on the rocks. We’re just sayin… Iris

Whatz It Really About?

2011-05-25T15:06:00.002-04:00

David didn't do the kind of excellent edit he usually does on my blobs. For the most part he keeps me out of trouble and prevents me from publishing something that only I think is funny. But his edit with this blob, was such that even I didn't know what I was talking about. And with that...

Politics: Who cares? And who is out of touch? If you can answer those questions, you can probably determine who might be the next President of the United States. In the realm if blah blah blah, Take for example, this non starter of an issue with which the media is anxious to hang Newt. (voting for someone who has a name that sounds a lizard, would be more of a reason to consider where your vote should go). Here's the bottom line, (or the middle line), as well as the difference between Newt and John E and John K. Unlike those two Presidential aspirants, who were totally out of touch with the American population, Newt did not spend $500 on a haircut, nor was he unable to answer a question about the number of homes he owns. No, quite the contrary. He wanted his wife to have nice jewelry, so he bought it on time. It's how Americans who cannot afford to buy luxury items all at once, shop for items they would like. so they buy on time, or on credit. Especially now, with this economy. And, especially since the desire for luxury items seems not to disappear as easily as everyone's money.

When Ronald Reagan ran for office I wrongly thought that he and Nancy were much too extravagant for a people who had elected Jimmy Carter. Was I wrong! (Maybe for the first time in my long, storied, and tortured political career.) They were elegant, glamorous, and threw lavish parties. They were movie stars. They lived the way we all wanted to live, and more importantly, they made (a large percentage of) the American people proud of their most treasured elected official.

At first we thought that Jimmy Carter was just like us. Which he my have been, on the surface. However, it turns out we don’t want “US” as leaders. It's something Al Gore never understood. Especially when he talked about the middle class and how "underprivileged" citizens aspired to be middle class. No they don't. That may be their inevitable reality. But everyone wants to be rich. To have buying power. To own things: their own home, a nice car, and yes, expensive jewelry. Oh, and maybe some food on the table and health insurance.

Are there people who think that Newt is out of touch? Sure there are. But these could be the same people who think that the problems of the Middle East would be solved if Israel would go back to the 1967 borders. Don't misunderstand, I only agree with Newt when he says something nice about my work, but we shouldn't underestimate his potential. So, who cares? And who is out of touch? Maybe we should all give that some thought.

We're just sayin'... Iris

It Sprang, Springed, Sprung

2011-05-20T00:58:00.008-04:00

spring drama, 3rd avenue
Did you ever wonder what happened to all those big guys, the ones you knew in high school, maybe even college, who played on the interior line. They were probably quick enough in school to make the first team, they may have even played a couple of seasons at the college level before ruining a knee, or giving it up for Physics or Phys Ed. Those big guys, the ones who a decade later seem for the most part to have just kept growing, but not exactly in the Charles Atlas way they may have been then.. Well, I think I know where a fair number of them ended up. Second Avenue. Yep, thats the one. The one right between First and Third Avenues, in New York. (It almost doesn’t bear repeating, but you have to remember the NYC, while technically owning a Fourth Avenue, only lets it exist a paltry couple of blocks below Union Square. It has to be one of the most exclusive addresses in the city. But for now, our concentration is on Second Avenue, and to a certain extent, Third. Those are the blocks I live between, in the ‘east fifties’ and I can tell you that as of tonight the place is rockin’ and all those footballers from the Clinton years have found employment as bouncers and gatekeepers at bars and clubs in the ‘hood. I would never have thought a run-on-the-mill Irish pub would need a gigantic ex-defensive tackle to man the rope line outside, but that seems to be what we have come to.

I went for a stroll tonight around the block, basically looking for an excuse to smoke a cigar. I was amazed to turn the corner onto 2nd and see a field of red tail lights stretching all the way to the tunnel (at 38th st.) The traffic was at a crawl, more befitting a rush hour than a 10pm Thursday night. But this isn’t just any ole Thursday night. This is the semi-official ( you know, like “al Ahram,” the ‘semi official’ Egyptian news agency) start of summer. It’s rained a la Noah the past week or so, everything is as green as Glockamoora, and this afternoon, after days of anticipation, the sun briefly showed itself, creating what became the most gentle and welcoming Thursday night since October. It just forgot to get nasty and cold tonight, and like any kind of insect knows, when the weather is good, it’s time to make an appearance. The clubs and bars, legions of them, many I’d never really noticed before, were doing an ear-deafening business. For me it all started at 54th street, and I walked down to 49th before heading back west, amazed to see not only the activity inside the bars, but on the sidewalks. While waiting to cross at 49th street, with a couple of people who were, like me, obviously from the neighborhood, I saw three guys, in their early 30s, doing that sped up “boy am I hungry” walk, headed to MEE Noodle shop across the street. As he got within a block, the point man said “and there it IS.... MEE Noodles...” obviously pleased that in his attempt to impress his pals, he’d actually gotten them delivered. They had that self-satisfied look of someone who has accomplished a minor task, and awaits further instruction. I turned to one of guys standing next to me and said “they clearly have not banned drinking in Manhattan tonight..” to which he readily agreed, and we laughed as we headed off to the Walk sign instructions. The most obvious sign of springbecomesummer was that large numbers of young adult women were wearing either shorts, tights, or other summeresque clothing, without fear of being under dressed.

It was a real manifestation of a seasonal change. I expect that were it a cloudless morning in Salisbury tomorrow, some incredible line up of sunlight and stone would occur at Stone Henge. It was THAT kind of event. As I walked back up 2nd Ave. and then turned on 53rd street towards 3rd, I couldn’t believe how many new restaurants and cafes had opened over the winter. I usually walk that block often enough to know what’s going on, but this was a shocker. There must be at least a half dozen new joints, most brimming with activity, in the single block. I suppose we will suffer some kind of relapse if the forecast storms come through again next week, but even if they do, tonight was a clear sign that it IS possible to have warm weather. I know that we always go from “I hate the cold” to “I hate this muggy heat” in a manner of days, and I’m guessing the turnover is merely weeks away.

But in the end, the cool thing was to see a lot of young people, hand in hand, or moreso, strolling in that “Manhattan” style in duos or small groups.

Now and then an over-indulged couple of guys would stagger into a taxi and head off into the night, leaving a view of a kissing couple just behind them.

sassy on 3rd Avenue
the club down the block
a limo driver awaiting his fare
Spring is morphing into summer, and dammit, it’s just about time. We’re just sayin’... David
Citicorp tower keeping watch
whatever else happens, the Halal Kabob guy is readying for the big crowds...

Another Mother's Day

2011-05-16T22:52:00.002-04:00

It has taken me a few days to recover from Mother’s Day. It is one of those holidays that I opposed, even when my mother was alive. It is what I think of as a “greeting card” holiday. One created by Hallmark and other related businesses, in order to increase card sales, flower sales, candy orders etc., on an assortment of specific designated days.

This year, it was a reminder of what my mother said every year – “Everyday is Mother’s day. I don’t need a holiday to celebrate who I am.” Of course this was only partially true. If we forgot to acknowledge how special she was, it would distress her. And when we did say thanks, with flowers or gifts, she told us it was totally unnecessary – but she preferred the acknowledgement.

Anyway, this year, my kids all called with good wishes and special gifts. Zak left me his first telephone message, and Jordan created a national holiday. That was wonderful. But David was away so I was prepared to be alone – but this did not happen. Traditionally my cousin Joanie goes to the cemetery and puts multicolored rose petals on the graves of the all the female relatives buried in the Newburgh cemetery. Having just been to mom’s grave, I was not sure what to expect. But with rose petals in hand and selections from “Gefilte Fish Chronicles, the musical” on a CD, we made our way from grave to grave.

Surprisingly, or maybe not, there was a clear absence of sadness. We walked around deciding on colors and amounts, but with a sense of joy and peacefulness. (My favorite part was when we went to an unopened part of the cemetery and heaved petals over the fence). Why a cemetery is locked, especially on a holiday that celebrates life, makes no sense at all… but what does lately.

Anyway, it was a lovely morning, followed by a headache and an afternoon in bed. This was not a bad thing. I needed the time in bed, and the headache was easy enough to lose.
And I took a good, deep, cleansing breath.

We have finally moved enough stuff into the new house to be able to sleep there. Although the first night we tried the IKEA bed we had purchased and paid someone to put together collapsed. “David”, I said, when I looked over at about 2am and didn’t see him, had just rolled on to the floor. Rather than deal with this most uncomfortable predicament, we moved the mattress on to the floor and went back to sleep. If I counted the number of trips we made to IKEA last week, to both purchase and return, I couldn’t do it on fingers and toes. But we are in, the bed is now fine, the rooms are an adorable mix of antique and IKEA, and other than the unfortunate fact that the glass on my Seeburg 100 jukebox was in pieces, everything looks fine.

Yesterday, I did my favorite kind of a mitzvah. As were were crossing 60th and 3rd we saw a woman slowly pushing a wheeled catering cart carrying two pieces of an elaborate delicate and fragile cake. We asked if we could help her and although she was too stressed to answer, first we helped her negotiate the sidewalk and then (this is the good part), I stepped out in the street and blocked all the turning traffic, so she could make her way slowly across the street. It was like my favorite scene from “Midnight Cowboy,” when Dustin Hoffman (the inimitable Ratso Rizzo) walks into the middle of the street, bangs on a car and yells, “Hey, I’m walkin’ here!”

The cake was gorgeous. The name of Elizabeth’s business is Todaro's Exquisite Cakes. (TodaroCakes.webs.com ) They ARE exquisite. It’s in Brooklyn, and well worth a try if you have a wedding or any cake-worthy occasion.

Mother’s Day is over and Father’s Day fast approaches. Yet another Hallmark holiday. But I guess it does give all of us a chance to say a special thanks to our Dad’s wherever they may be. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

A Mitzvah a Day

2011-05-09T18:51:00.002-04:00

When I started to write, as often happens, I was torn between blob subjects. First, I thought the subject would be “used to”. What and Why you are thinking. Because a few days ago, when we went out to celebrate Cinco de Mayo, we went to Block Heads -- which has the best and cheapest Margarita in NYC. They also have the best and cheapest guacamole… but you cannot order food outside. You can, however, go inside to take-out and order these specialties and them outside where the margaritas can be consumed and the guacamole devoured at the same time.

This has no direct connection with the subject of “used to” but it triggered a memory of when I was living at the Taj Hotel in New Delhi and (here it comes), I “used to” order my porridge from room service and have it delivered to the dining room – which was more fun for eating, than my bedroom/office.

This made me think about a magazine, which had a story about the Ambassador’s residence in Paris, where I “used to” have a fabulous room overlooking quite an extraordinary garden. This took me to that place where, when watching news or talking head programs, I think, those people “used to” come to my house for dinner. As you can imagine, this was quite depressing, so I decided to change the subject.

The tiny lady was struggling with two large shopping bags, It was quite a sight. She was probably about 86, and had lavender hair. But that is not the total picture. In addition to the hair and shopping bags she was wearing 4 inch red patent leather heels. The wind was blowing. She was having a difficult time balancing because the wind was very strong. She reminded me of an autumn leaf just drifting back and forth across the sidewalk. She was not a street person. The woman was adorable, smart feisty and incredibly stylish. But she was adrift.

"The bus driver let me off here and said I could get a 102 to 63rd Street, but there is no bus stop”. She said it like she knew there must be a bus stop close by, but it was not where the NYC, not so helpful, public servant, said it would be. We were on 59th and 3rd. The bus stop was at 61st and 3rd.

“Let me help you”, I said, thinking that if my mom were struggling it would have been nice for someone to give her a hand.

We fake argued about whether or not she needed assistance, (duh), but by then we were at 61st. “Maybe I should walk you home”, I said, thinking it would have been as easy to walk the two blocks as it would be getting on and off the bus. She said, “no I don't think so, I can hardly stand up the wind.’ So, I put her bags on the bus, we said our goodbyes, and she couldn’t stop thanking me.

" I thank you I said. It’s my mitvah of the day. A mitvah a day keeps the guilt fairy away.” And I was thinking, it’s nice to help someone without expectations of getting something back. Then I thought, (as you may have noticed, I have been doing a great deal of thinking lately), there need to be a lot more mitzvahs… and probably a lot more thinking.

Eat Your Heart Out

2011-05-01T23:05:00.000-04:00

Eat your heart out…
Some of us, actually, went to the wedding. Yes, of course David did, but that’s not news. The rather amazing fact is that when I awoke this morning I was sure I had been there as well. And this was not like my mother’s dream where she saw her long gone sisters in paper hats. This was like Star Wars, where I was transported from 54th Street to London, England.

Here’s what happened. I went to sleep at about 11, with the TV set to start recording at 4:30 am. It was not my intention to watch at 4:30, it was just set to tape the festivities so I could watch it later. And it’s a good thing I did that because by 4:30 my trip had already begun.

It would be foolish for you to think that I was inside the church during the ceremony. That was a seated event and even with my best Paris hat, someone might have guessed that I was not an invited guest. Instead of stopping at Westminster, I went directly to the Palace. There were millions of people blocking my way, but somehow I managed to get through the crowd and into the reception. I saved a place for David on a VIP balcony, but when he arrived he said we didn’t need to be with the VIP’s… how foolish. Maybe he didn’t need to be there but I was perfectly comfortable.

It was quite a glorious event, what with finger sandwiches and spiked lemonade. (Not in amounts that Jews would have served, but never mind.) It was tasteful and good for the waistline. There were four, maybe five, old Texas friends standing nearby and we had a lovely reunion. It’s hard to remember just when I had met them, but it was so early in the morning, and I had traveled so far, my memory was a bit foggy. All I know is that they were not only my friends, but they were also Elton John’s partner’s cousins. To be perfectly candid, they were a bit conservative for my taste, but who am I to judge – they were, after all, special enough to be in the VIP section with me. I had hoped to meet Elton, but their babysitter was stricken with some horrible malady, and they had to rush off. It was obvious that my travels had taken me far from the shores of NYC, because who in the City would ever say, “Stricken by some malady.”

At some point I left the VIP area, to see what other interesting things might be happening. Believe it or not, I ran directly into Prince William, who had changed out of his wedding costume, and was running around, I think chasing a nephew, wearing a pirate like bandana and flared pants. Catherine was no where to be seen, but I did get someone to take a picture of me with William, but now I can’t find it.

Better look for David, I thought. He was no where to be found, but I did run into a group of British folks who were hungry, and suggested we find a place to eat. It was not easy to get out of the Palace, what with all the security, so we wandered through the gardens and finally made our way to the street. People were shouting, “look right, look right” and I tried to remember to do that. It’s a confusing place to wonder about, because the cars are all going in the wrong direction, but not without challenge and a great deal of laughter.

When we finally made it on to the street, I realized that I had to be back in NY for a meeting, so I excused myself and walked directly to the airport. It seemed like only seconds before I was home and in bed. The TV was still on and they were replaying parts of the Wedding and the Kiss. David had left a note saying that he hoped I had a good visit and he would see me over the weekend. He was not disturbed by my disappearance, so I decided not even to mention the wedding. We would talk about it when he got home.

This will, of course, make some of you jealous. But get beyond that. Not everyone (except me, obviously), can be in two places at once. Anyway, I did have a wonderful visit, and enjoyed my casual encounter with the Prince and the whole event was remarkable. I hope when Harry settles down he will put me on the guest list, but there is no telling what will happen. I’m simply glad I went. We’re just sayin... Iris

Of Big Events and Such

2011-04-30T23:46:00.008-04:00

Since the summer of 1967 – Lyndon Johnson was President, there was a war in Vietnam, Civil Rights was a kind of day--to--day thing with no yet obvious outcome, Barack Obama was then 6 and headed to live with his mom in Indonesia for several years – I have been a photographer interested in covering the big deal stories of our times. After graduating from college I spent a couple of years floating around Washington DC and Miami, doing assignments for TIME, and hoping that bigger things would come my way. I wasn’t yet either good enough, or smart enough to know how to operate, and ended up on the periphery of some big events, doing them in my own “style.” I was ripped off by some Republican bullshitter who was SUPPOSEDLY involved with planning the Nixon Inaugural Parade in January of 1969. I don’t even remember how I met the guy, but he wanted me to shoot pictures of the floats which I dutifully did, though I suspect the pictures weren’t so great either. He had a big suite in the Watergate (who didn’t?!) but when I went to get paid, he couldn’t actually write me a check. He had the air of one of those Republican operatives, always in elegant jacket and tie, who lived with, and spent much ill-begotten cash. It was in the days before paying with plastic became so prevalent, and I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, though I was, when he just took a check written to him for $125 (would have paid my month’s rent on my small Georgetown studio) endorsed it to me, and dismissed me now that I’d been paid. Cash certainly flowed freely in those days. No real reporting standards. Just a lot of money meant to be leveraged for votes in as many places as possible. Later that summer, having moved to Miami, I convinced the TIME photo editor to let me cover the masses of people attending the Apollo XI launch: the first men to land on the moon. In a time of grave doubts about the reason and will of government (the Vietnam war was leading the news nearly every night) this one expression of human endeavor drew millions to watch the rocket’s liftoff – providing a rare inspirational moment for parents to share with their kids. It was a scene to be sure, and I was on my first color assignment for a magazine. I found an old envelope with those pictures just two years ago, and have been immensely happy with the place they have come to occupy in my body of work. Contrasting as it does with the imminent end of not only the Space Shuttle but the US Manned Space Program, it was a moment of hope, and filled with a sense of possibility. crowds at Titusville watching Apollo XI blast skywards - July 1969

In the early 70s I spent two years trying to cover the war in Vietnam, returned to a country whose political system was warped by the Watergate break-ins and subsequent investigations, and ultimately, the resignation of a President. I spent years following Presidential candidates on the stump, at their conventions, and ultimately campaigning for votes. I covered the Summer Olympic Games from 1984 onwards. L.A. Seoul. Barcelona. Atlanta. Sydney. Athens. Beijing. And at each one I was able to make a picture or two which came to have some significance for a magazine audience. For all those decades, the 70s, 80s, 90s, and into the 00s, there was still a presence that printed magazines had something which gave their mere existence a certain gravitas, even if you were only to glance through an issue four months out of date at your dentist’s, you would undoubtedly find something of value and worth your time.

In the last decade, magazines have struggled, and in some kind of blind rush to the internet, companies now feel obliged to spend their marketing resources there, though no one really even knows what that means. They spend and spend and spend, and in doing so, DON’T spend on the magazines that for years were the main showcases of printed marketability and advertising. Very few are actually finding success online, still a ‘work in progress’ as they say. Meanwhile, the tenor of still photography has changed as well. No longer do I have non-stop phone calls from news magazine editors, competing for my time to send me hither or yon, or sometimes both. The calls come but it’s a very different world. We are too many photographers, already living in too many places, facing a combination of oversaturation-of-market, and a lack of value for what we do when compared to the way the products of photojournalism were regarded even a decade ago. Giant earthmoving/tree-cutting companies like Getty Images have redefined downwards the value of our work, selling cheaply in order to be able to be everywhere and gain (are you ready for that great word?) “marketshare.” They are an example of a photo-related enterprise which ultimately does what it perceives (and I’m not even sure that their perceptions are correct) is good for the company, while at the same time negatively effecting individual photographers. Sadly, news photographs have come to regarded as a commodity in the same way that apples and potatoes are. Pretty much something that has a per pound or per picture price structure, no matter what the subject, quality, or exclusivity.

I was reminded over the past couple of days that we are living in a new era. I have just returned from an assignment in London to cover the Royal Wedding. I felt some kind of obligation to history, I suppose, having been present as part of a big team of photographers covering the Diana-Charles thirty years ago...
wedding at St. Paul’s. So many things have changed. At the time, Contact Press Images, then a small New York based agency, did a deal through our London agent (Colorific) with, among others, the London Sunday Times Magazine, to add our team of a half dozen foreign based photogs to the LSTM 40 page coverage. We flew from New York, stayed in reasonably priced hotels (though I did have to change from bunking with my friend, the late Gerry Davis, after one night of hearing his championship buzz saw cut lumber for 7 hours), were taken in by the Magazine as partners in the process, and, additionally had a number of commitments from Germany, France and Italy, as well as the U.S. for our material. It remained a time when a group of photographers of a certain reputation could still demand top dollar for something which everyone regarded as a ‘big deal’ story.

It was also the era of that quaint process known as film. Yes, each time you loaded your camera, there were only 36 shots available, no matter how many times you loaded it. (By contrast, my Canon 7 D with a 16 gig card shoots about 400 high quality RAW and jpg files. ) As in most things of the more modern age, modest simplicity has been replaced by cart loads of hubris and self-annointment. We take it for granted that we can shoot hundreds of pictures, virtually unlimited, without worrying about running out of film. There is little urgency to save your button pressing for a key moment, one you hope won’t be frame # 36. Part of that process has given today’s photographers a feeling that they can simply keep their fingers on the trigger, produce hundreds of images most of which might be worthless, but hey, it doesn’t cost anything and eventually there might be a good one. It’s a very different form of notetaking than when you pared off each frame of a roll of 36 with some care, knowing that fate could always strike when you weren’t prepared. (Case in point: March 26, 1979 – the White House. President Jimmy Carter meets with Israeli Prime Minister Begin and Egyptian President Sadat to sign the “Camp David Peace Accords,” effectively an agreement which opened up the two countries to each other for the first time in a generation. I was the agency “pool” photographer on the center stand, and had been given several extra cameras from other photographers, in addition to my own three Canons, so that when the ceremony started I had five cameras to shoot this historic moment. The idea was “shoot a lot of originals” make dupe frames of each situation in the camera so I didn’t need to go through the laborious process of shooting duplicates on a copy machine later at the lab. (Dupes were never as sharp as an original…) The three luminaries entered, they sat down – I shot with each camera -- they started to sign the documents – I shot a LOT with each camera – and when a minute later they stood up and grabbed each others hands in celebration, I tried to shoot again, but I was already out of film in all five bodies. I could hear the sharp reports of Nikons and Canons in all directions, as I struggled to rewind one body and reload before the moment was passed. But I was too late. By the time I had recharged my F1, they’d sat down, and the magic was gone, captured on other rolls by other photographers, but totally escaping me. I was not happy. But it was a lesson learned: never find yourself empty in all cameras as you just don’t know when fate will present you with that Cartier-Bressonesque “decisive moment.” On the upside, it was the day (still celebrated as our true anniversary) when Iris and I met on a blind date, our first encounter, though she remembers me that evening as being sullen and singularly uninteresting as I was no doubt sulking from my days’ reportage failure. I’m sure I was sulking. No one likes to miss “the photo.” Shooting over my shoulder that day was a last minute arrival (he’d just come from Begin’s motorcade) -- TIME photographer David Rubinger who I helped up to the stand. He installed himself standing on his 300mm case just behind my left shoulder, and I shall always remember the twangy whine of his camera in my ear, capturing in perfection the three heads of state with the outstretched flags behind them, as I, in a moment of abject failure, was haplessly twirling a rewind knob in that vain attempt to reload.)

Fast forward thirty years (which becomes increasingly disconcerting when you have been shooting for 45 years, and everything in your past seems like it was three weeks ago, or, perhaps a month ago. ) The current excitement about the first real Royal wedding in a generation had lit up not only the English but people everywhere. And it was so interesting to see how we, the reporting world, have changed in those thirty years. First, and perhaps most important to remember: at Charles and Diana’s wedding, CNN and Cable news had not yet been invented. “The News” on tv still meant being reported in a nightly 30 minute network broadcast. Magazines were still plentiful and thick with pages and advertising. Newspapers and mags remained the primary source of presenting photographs of that which was happening in our world. For the most part (my opinion) cable TV has taken all the weak elements of broadcasting and multiplied them, with virtually no emphasis on the positive. (to wit: instead of getting wonderful, deeply layered many minute pieces on a steady basis, we get headline after headline and a lot of reporters with microphones feeling obliged to stand outside in a rainstorm and be pelted in the face with hail just to report a weather story. It’s been sad to see how funding for great magazine reportages was siphoned off to support, first, television, then the web. Along the way there are plenty of excuses why clients don’t feel they can pay you for your pictures (“…the web isn’t profitable yet…”) while, at the same time, they absorb much of the resources which formerly were allocated to magazine production.
This past year, since the announcement of the Wedding, I admit I was attracted to it once again. Maybe it was that I saw Diana walk up the steps of St. Paul’s in her last moments as an unmarried woman, and years later walked through Hyde Park crowds who’d gathered for her funeral. As you age, things in your past take on greater meaning. Maybe it was just a desire to see how a big wedding might take place in this electronic era. I was lucky enough to convince a magazine client that I wanted to come, and they obliged. It has been at least ten years since I was in England, and of course the things that don’t change (the stately buildings, the red buses, Lord Nelson’s statue) are always there to anchor your memories. The food is a little better, the beer still without peer, and the prices would probably make sense if they were dollars, instead of pounds. It was another of those confounding “how do people afford to live?” trips. But perhaps if you are thirty and don’t know what it was like ‘before’ you just carry on as if this is the way life is supposed to unfold.

A large photo platform was set up across from Westminster Abbey. Three rows of slightly elevated positions, for once each position wide enough that you didn’t have to breath down each other’s necks. It may not have been the best position but it wasn’t terrible, and the one thing that you learn is that the place you think might be the best could turn into a disaster, and the most unobvious location can sometimes produce the best picture of all. Thankfully there is still a little of the unknown left in our work, in our business. Things can be so predictable that the possibility of gambling or taking a chance on your instincts becomes a rarity. As my pal Wally McNamee once explained with great simplicity, our work is essentially about “anticipating.” What might happen, what might not happen. But you always have to be ready. This kind of thing was of course taken to the limits in all discussions of “the kiss.” In 1981, as the Royal family assembled on the balcony at Buckingham Palace, dozens of photographers at the QVM (Queen Victoria Memorial but please, ONLY refer to it as the KewveeEmm) were waiting for that shot of the family “en famille,” and if there might be a “kiss.” At one point Charles and Diana made a fleeting move to each other, their lips touched, and it was a moment which marked whether you were to pass or fail class. Douglas Kirkland, the great L.A. based photographer, shooting with our team absolutely nailed it with his long lens. Surprisingly , a number of well known photographers missed it altogether. Though I did hear a story yesterday that a guy whose job was in jeopardy saved himself by getting that kiss picture. This time around, it wasn’t so much anticipation, as of just knowing it WOULD happen, and not missing it. Most of the British papers led with some version of the “Kiss” today, but I’m sure there were, even in the “I have 11 rolls of film in my camera….” era, a few people who just somehow missed the moment. My heart goes out to them as I know they’re having a really lousy weekend.

caught by a Reuters photographer in front of Westminster Abbey, yours truly marching to a different drummer
At the Abbey entrance, I was lucky enough to have next to me a sharp English woman shooter, probably about thirty, working for a small British agency who knew well her subjects. She was sporting a 600 on an ancient tripod (one of colleagues poked fun, asking it was the tripod she’d had in school.) But each time a limo would approach I’d take a guess at who it might be, and I suppose I was about a C+ guesser (I got David Cameron right, but didn’t know Eugenie.) She was always obliging in correcting me as to who the real occupants were. The funniest moment was the arrival of a lone Bentley saloon with two guys in it … “who’s that?” I asked. It was all she could do to stop laughing: “Oh, Will and Harry?” Hey, you can’t winnem all. There was a magic moment when Kate stepped from her car, in that amazingly wrapped white gown, the veil seeming to be like a light cloud over her face. All the hype about the gown, I have to say, was justified. She was a true vision of beauty as she walked in with her father. The one fault of Westminster Abbey is that it’s all built on ground level. No stairs leading to the gate, so you didn’t have that beautiful oblique chain of white. As one of the photogs started grousing about being blocked by trees with his 800mm of seeing the side guest entrance, the young woman at my side responded with wisdom far beyond her years. “You can only shoot what’s in front of you --- don’t worry about what you can’t see.” So right. Concentrate on that which you CAN control, that which you CAN see. The half hour chorus of bells peeling at the beginning of the arrivals was like a call to mission. Had there been no crushingly loud musicality to accompany us, it might have been a mere moment of transition. But you felt those bells were pushing you to look in every direction, find every snap within range. Once all the principals were inside, the bells stopped and it was like an order to stand down and take a breath.

This morning on BBC in one of the dozens of interviews they have done, a newspaper editor mentioned they had looked at some 25000 pictures since yesterday morning. How do you not feel you are swamped by the weight of it? How does one keep a clear head in the onslaught of so many pictures competing for that ever evaporating attention of a viewer. I’m not sure I know the answer. It remains a difficult task for the good pictures to be able to rise to the top. Every now and then there will be “the picture” though in a quick perusal of Yahoo & AOL News sites I don’t think I’ve seen it yet. I’d like to think I might have seen one yesterday on my Macbook, but again, I’m just not sure. Going forward, there will continue to be a few big events like this, but they will no doubt morph more and more into becoming television productions. When the tv producers are the ones who make the calls about how things should go, it might be time for us photographers to just pack our bags and go do something a little more real.

Like all my colleagues, I have been devastated by the recent deaths of two great photographers, Chris Hondros and Tim Hetherington, in Libya. The war in Libya is certainly the yin to the wedding’s yang. One couldn’t be further from the other. No amount of producer’s planning can account for the randomness of acts of war. A single mortar or RPG can lay low the most accomplished, most combat wise of us. These two guys were smart, capable, and gifted with the ability to bring to their work more than just a photographic record of some event they’d witnessed. They made you part of it. They let you feel the emotion of the moment. Their work connected with you in ways that made you understand what they must have been feeling at the time. Photography remains a powerful tool and in the hands of a talent, can tell those stories we need to share amongst ourselves. Hell, I only wish I could have spent some time on the photo stand with Tim and Chris this week, making stupid jokes about the lameness of trying to create photo magic of an event that competes with hundreds of TV cameras, not to mention dozens of photographers. Wherever we are, there is a certain sense of fraternity in our business. Ed Murrow, in a captivating seventeen minute 1943 radio piece about a night bombing raid over Berlin where he’d ridden along with the RAF, speaks about how “there is something of a tradition among reporters, that those who are somehow prevented by circumstances from filing their stories will be covered by their colleagues.” Two correspondents on that mission were on planes that didn’t come back. Murrow closes with “I have no doubt that Bennett and Stockton would have given you a better report on last night’s activity.” I know that both Chris and Tim would have probably thought that covering a wedding would seem frivolous and misguided when there was such a compelling story going on in North Africa. But I also know that if they had been present, had brought their singular vision and poignant eye to the task, that we’d be seeing their images today and saying “ah, so THAT’s what was really going on.” We’re just sayin’….. David

How Do You Pronounce "Cholent"

2011-04-16T21:02:00.004-04:00

For those friends and fans who have been e-mailing us (you KNOW who you are!) about our "Cholent" , the recipe and the cooking time and temperature, I am going to share our magic recipe - straight from the "Gefilte Fish Chronicles Companion Cookbook.” But first, here's one comment I thought I would share for reasons that will become obvious, as well as cover a multitude of other questions:

“I'd never heard of this specific dish, being Gentile and all, before Dave's (Facebook) Post, but am likely to try it. Some questions, Iris, since your husband likes mush, but at what stages are the potato root vegetables, greens, beans, onions added to the pot of long simmering meat?"

And now friends, direct from the GFCCC:

CHOLENT IS NOT FOR AMATEURS
Dubroff Cholent (There are other kinds but we are purists - meat, potato, onions, matzo meal stuffing).
Take 45 pounds of good beef chuck, carefully examined at the butcher or the supermarket. Bring it home, cut it into chunks, and layer it in a pot the size of Miami with quartered potatoes and a big ball of stuffing made of matzo meal, eggs and schmaltz (chicken fat). If you use 5lbs of meat the pot can be smaller but use the same seasoning and technique. The meat should be seasoned for taste with sliced onions, potatoes, salt, pepper, steak seasoning, and paprika - which has no taste but adds color. The stuffing recipe will follow.

Layer the meat, potatoes, onions. I can't tell you how many layers, it depends on if you use 5 lbs or 45 lbs of meat. But keep layering till you’re out of things to put in the pot. Cook the meat and potato in a 200 degree oven for at least 17 hours.
If you need two pots the size of Miami and you don't own a catering business, one of the pots can be placed on the stove top and after 12 hours, and 30 or more discussions, can be switched with the help of two weight lifters and a supervisor.

Cholent Stuffing
Melt four sticks of margarine or an equal amount of chicken fat, throw in 2 nice chopped onions. When they glaze add matzo meal and maybe a little cake meal. Pour into a bowl and make sure it has taste - not easy with that much 'meal' Measure 2 cups at a time stirring constantly – and before it gets too thick mix in an egg. It's a lot of work to get that much chicken fat unless you buy it at a kosher grocery where they sell lots of fat chickens. Salt and pepper to taste. Mix in as much matzo meal as it takes to form a baseball-sized ball. Then freeze it until you are ready to layer the meat, onions, potato, (see above) meat, onions, potato. No matter the number of layers, the stuffing is the top and last layer.
If you want to drop by, you are too late for the gefilte fish, the horse radish, the chicken soup, chickens, and matzo balls, but we will be layering tomorrow night. Or, just order a cookbook from our website www.gefiltefishchronicles.com.
the hockers for Gefilte Fish
Passover is a very special time for all of us. Most of us no longer have the Dubroff surname, but without exception, every member of the Minya/Avrum clan, has a Dubroff heart. And what that means for me is, that I am never happier then when I am surrounded by cousins, cooking, and chaos. We laugh and cry and do silly things -- like yesterday while hocking fish, and cooking for nearly 8 hours, the only conversation we were allowed to have had to be based on dialogue - verbatim - from the Chronicles Documentary. (the family is required to know every line in the show.)
the makings of a monumental chicken soup
Friends are always welcome and strangers are never as strange as the family is. This year, Rosie (my mom) died. We sold our house and, after 30 years, have transitioned back to New York. I changed careers and am producing musical theater - like "Gefilte Fish Chronicles the Musical." We have our apartment in NYC, and purchased a house in Newburgh N.Y, where half my mother's siblings lived for all of our growing up years. (the other half in Boonton N.J.). In a way, our move has brought the Dubroff family full circle - the twain between Boonton and Newburgh, has finally met - with us. Aunt Peppy is still giving advice, and as she says in the "GFC," we may all be in different physical geographic locations, but in our Dubroff hearts, we will all be together, having Passover as usual. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Now I'm Mad... My mother would have said “only dogs get mad”, but I’m as mad as a rabid dog. Which yahoo in Congress doesn’t get that

2011-04-11T22:00:00.001-04:00

Now I’m mad. My mother would have said “only dogs get mad”, but I’m as mad as a rabid dog. Which yahoo in Congress doesn’t get that unless we stop having wars, we will never balance the budget. What in the world are all our “elected” officials thinking?

Yes, let’s cut programs for the elderly, the sick, the children, the poor. the helpless, and the homeless. But lets worry about those poor civilians on whom we have made, intentional or unintentional war. The Republicans say Obama is not a leader. The Democrats say he is leading us in the wrong direction –all of this is a case for electing someone who can make a reasonable and thoughtful decision about the kind of President we want. It’s unfortunately a case for Donald Trump. Maybe it’s the worse case scenario, but someone forgot to tell the President that Democrats are diplomacy people – we don’t like war. Never did, never will – especially one where we have no idea what exactly we are fighting for, and why we are doing it. But that’s not what I wanted to blob about.

There seems to be a sale on funerals for mothers. My mom dies in July, and since then I have at least ten friends who have lost their moms. It’s true they were all in their late 80’s or 90’s but everyone at once. There has to be something in the air. And those friends whose mom’s are still here, are likely to lose them in the next few months. I have been to more memorial services and ‘shiva’s’ than I care to discuss—but I will.

As I said, most of the mothers were in their late 80’s or 90’s. Some were ill, some were lucid, some were disoriented, some were well—but tired, some just felt it was time to go and some just went to sleep. However they went, they are sadly, gone.

They pretty much had wonderful lives, at least this is true for the people I know. Again, they lived out their lives in different ways, some with family, some in assisted/independent living/ some on their own. A few of the moms had determined never to leave their homes. Kind of like when you hear a hurricane is coming and decide that there’s no where else they wanted to be. My mom had an apartment in a retirement home right near my brother. Steve’s mom was still living alone. And I could give you examples of way too many moms who made decisions about how they wanted to live, and more importantly, how they wanted to die. And now, the baby boomers have become, among so many other firsts, a generation of orphans. I guess this doesn’t make me as mad as makes me sad, but there are those things about which I needn’t be first.

Maybe you feel like these two things, the war and losing our moms are separate and unrelated issues. I disagree. We are equally saddened by the young people who are dying without having lived, in unexplained wars, and the old people who have lived mostly wonderful lives, through a number of wars, both have monumental impact on our lives. Loss, no matter when, is still loss. The difference is that young people dying is unexpected and old people dying seems something that is part of life. But when these people, no matter the age, are permanently removed from our lives it still leaves us empty, and sometimes even, yes, angry. We’re just sayin’.... Iris

Some Sad and Good News.. all 3/26

2011-03-27T00:13:00.004-04:00

Today we have good news and sad news. One of the most wonderful opportunities in my long and jaded political career was to work with Gerry Ferraro, first on her Vice Presidential campaign and then on the delegation for the Women's conference in Beijing. As you can imagine, neither was relaxing. In between these two monumental events, we got to be friends. She was always available for questions. Always gave good guidance. Always laughed at my jokes. Stressful situations often bring out the worst in people. This was not the case with Gerry. She was spectacular under pressure and always stayed true to what she believed, regardless of controversy, or criticism. It took great courage for her to do all the things she did, including dealing with this rare cancer. Whether you agreed with her or not, it was impossible not to admire, respect and for so many of us, love her. I will treasure all the memories I have of the time we spent together and the laughter and tears we shared. Rest in peace my friend.

Today David and I will celebrate 32 years together. (We met the night of the signing of the Camp David Peace Accords at the White House: Carter, Begin & Sadat at their best. For us, it was a blind date. )
A picture from the Camp David signing...3/26/79...at the time, we didn't have a clue who the other was...
It probably will surprise you to know that we have spent half our lives connected in some way, most of it married. So when we awakened this morning he said, what are we going to do to celebrate? Since we are in N.C with dear friends, I thought we should do something different. "Here's what I think we should do. We've spent so many good years together, it seems to me we should just get separated. Divorce is out of the question, but I love you so much, I don't want to watch you get old.” (Our getting old has not been pretty.)

“Wow,” he said, “what a novel idea. The leave them laughing approach to life.”

"No one else we know has done it,” I said. "And you know how we like to be the trendsetters amongst the people we know."

So on this, our 32nd anniversary, I would like to share this decision. In true Burnett fashion, we were incapable of making it a decision. I guess that means it at least another 32 years before we have the discussion again. Were just sayin …. Iris

A Child by Any Other Name

2011-03-21T23:20:00.002-04:00

As I have done in the past, maybe even yesterday, I will write in order of very good to shame on you!
We welcomed Jake Raymond Gatsik, to the world at 11:20am on Sunday – amidst many Purim carnivals and the excitement of many members of their family. Parents, Jonathan and Beth, are doing fine. Baby is terrific. About 7 pounds and 21 inches, I am told he is skinny but has big feet. Need I say, he is adorable, I think not – the child has an exceptional gene line. Only wish his Great Grandma Elaine had been alive to kvell (something every Jewish parent, grandparent and great grandparent does). Well, we will all have to make sure that we do her proud with our kvelling.

After our trip to the armory for the photo show, we discovered a new restaurant in the neighborhood, Cabana Nueva. We sat at a table for two. On one side was a table of six young women just having a great time. On the other side was an empty table, and on the other side of that table, there was a father in his late twenties (maybe early thirties), with his four year old son. I knew he was four because he acted just like my little Z (also four). They came in just after we did. The father (not actually an adult), was texting when he came in. He told his son to sit down, but without looking up from his iPhone. He used that tone – the one that suggests the child sit down and shut up and not bother him. The child, we’ll call him Kenny, sat right down. The father continued to text. Kenny played with the silverware, fork, knife, and with the napkin. Dad continued to text, and Kenny moved over to the table next to us and proceeded to play with the lit candle on the table. The father didn’t notice. “Honey”, I said, “It’s not a good idea to play with fire.” Kenny looked at me like, “why are you speaking to me, no one else does.”

David was getting upset about the lack of communication between father and son, “I want to say something,” he told me. “Don’t bother,” I said, “this is a guy who snapped his finger at the waiter and hasn’t done anything but order his kid two virgin (I hope) pina coladas – nothing to eat and nothing with which to entertain himself. So Kenny found amusement in lying full out on the table bench, where he kicked some ladies purse and finally fell off, hitting his shoulder and his head.

He cried and dad momentarily got off the phone. “I told you not to do that”, he said. Put him back down, and got back on the phone. It took Kenny about five minutes before he was moving around again. Then, he was momentarily distracted by the arrival of some dinner. It was really momentarily because the dinner was something that dad wanted, but there wasn’t any conversation with his dad about what he might like, so he lost interest in, as I said, five minutes. Dad was still texting when Kenny moved over to the table next to us once again.

“Hi, what’s your name? And how old are you?” I said, holding up three, five, and then four fingers. He chose the four. “What?” he said. And I responded exactly as I do with Z “What,” I repeated in exactly the same tone. We did that back and forth for a while. “What’s your name?” I asked. He told me and asked who David was. “Poppie” I said. “NO” he shouted, and I realized that he must also have a Poppie. “Not your Poppie,” I said, his Poppie, and we showed him a picture of Z. He was delighted to have people paying some attention to him. He got so excited that he knocked my water over.
Dad finally put the phone down. “I told you not to do play”, he shouted. “Whenever you don’t listen to me, something like this happens.”

“I did it,” I said to dad. “Oh, Okay,” he said picking up the phone again.

Kenny went back to his own table, we covered our table with some napkins, and soon after they left – dad still on the phone. “Goodbye, Poppie,” Kenny said, looking at us like he was losing his only water in the desert.

Shame on you, we said, but not loud enough that dad would hear and the punish Kenny. There was a article in the Times this weekend about parents with whom their children are estranged. One woman, whose Dad after years of not being in touch, wanted to be her Facebook friend. She refused Dad, and like Kenny, just wanted a bit of attention, before it was too late. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Not Funny

2011-03-17T10:33:00.001-04:00

This hasn’t been the easiest week. In chronological order:
David went to Paris (oh poor David), Egypt and Tunisia with the Sectary of State. David going away is not unusual, but we are in the middle of trying to buy a house, reregister our cars, get new driver’s licenses, and I am trying to put together a reading (this is an equity event where a show is performed with dialogue and music … but no scenery or costumes. In fact, the performers have to keep their scripts in hand for whatever the duration of the play. Am I theater conversant or what?). It is not too complicated, but it is time consuming. It’s easier to deal with the professional part of life when there are two people dealing with the personal stuff. (No, I m not finished whining – that was only #1).

It has been cold and bleak. Bad weather is never good for my personality –just ask my old friends from Grafton Ma. When it snowed, was cold, or rained, my insides mirrored whatever was going on outside. I was, for the most part, in a bad mood about ten months out of the year. This is no longer the case but it was a rough winter and it just needs to be over. A real spring day would be lovely. We are supposed to have one tomorrow, so maybe next week will be easier.

Yesterday, I was on my way to a reading (most are on Monday because the theater is dark and often people who are involved in a reading are also doing another show – for which they actually get paid what they are worth. Doing a reading is not a way to make a living). Anyway, somewhere between 44th and 49th, on 8th Avenue, a thief, pick pocket, hoodlum, desperate stupid soul, lifted my purse out of my satchel, and fled with all my credit cards, ATM’s, drivers license, supermarket and pharmacy discount cards, Triple A and AARP identification, library card, money, the Tasti Delite buy 10 get one free card and worst of all, my Dairy Queen gift card, which still had about $80 on it. That made me really mad.

Needless to say, it was incredibly inconvenient. My day was spent calling and canceling everything that had any value attached to it. It was challenging, but I did not get hysterical (how I would normally behaved). Nope, I was calm and organized, card by card, number by number, trying to think about all the items I had thrown in the bag thinking, foolishly, they would remain in my possession. But the Dairy Queen card was one bridge to far – one step over the line. It meant a great deal to me. True there are very few Dairy Queen’s in the area, but that’s not the point. I often travel to places where there are more than one –even a few. Whoever took the purse, whatever degenerate lifted my bag, could never have the same respect or appreciation for the Dairy Queen. They couldn’t possibly feel the same way about a hot fudge sundae with pecans, or a vanilla malt, as I do. For me, a trip to the Dairy Queen is like a religious experience. It is sacred, spiritual, and all consuming. The card is gone. Sure I can buy another one, but it’s not the same. There was so much money left on that card. And I was so looking forward to eating my way through it.

Did I already say “woe is me”, well I am saying it again. The cruise we were supposed to take on the Silver Seas (David as a lecturer) was going to Tokyo and north. Oops, pretty bad timing.

OK, now I’ll stop whining and move on. The kids are all great. I look forward to every day. The sun will shine. Gefilte Fish Chronicles is on about 60 PBS stations (check you local pbs for date and time -- probably around the first two weeks in April), and the musical is (GFC the Musical) is nearly complete. I found a green shirt to wear for St. Pat’s Day, and David will be home tomorrow. I guess things, if not funny, are all good. We're Just Sayin. Iris

In Other Words....

2011-03-10T14:12:00.004-05:00

Sometimes your own words don't tell the story. You think about a story, a place, someone special, and you sit down and try and put it all into words. On some days it just flows. Others, you feel like a plane speeding down the runway, overloaded with bananas and oil drilling equipment, destined never to get its wheels off the ground. And there is a third possibility: that someone else, quite apart from you, will put it all into those words you couldn't find. Back in January, we spent New Year's with Kerry in Stone Ridge, NY, a rural community between Kingston and Newburgh. Each time we drove to Kerry's house, at the last real Stop sign, I'd see this beautiful barn. Red, worn, regal, needing a little TLC, but quite stunning. We'd always be driving to or from somewhere, with intent, and I never bothered to bother my driving mates to stop the car and properly shoot a picture of the barn. On one trip back from the market, we stopped, and I determined that the likelhood of ice cream melting due to an additional 45 second layover was nil. I grabbed my CX5 off my belt pouch, fired a half dozen frames, and drove on. That day, in some sort of New Year's style artsiness I'd set the camera to a square format (i.e worlds tiniest Rolleiflex.. or, if you will... worlds tiniest Yashica-MAT.) I posted the picture on my Facebook page, and a few days later had a note from an acquaintance, saying she loved the picture, could she buy one. I wrote her back that I'd be happy to make a print for her ( a nice 11x14 as it happened) and sent it on. As usual, this took a month or so, and she just finally got the print about a week ago. Two days ago she wrote me a note which summed up her feelings about that picture, and in many ways of her own life. It's quite beautiful, and I share it with you, as her words are so elegantly more captiving than my own. Thanks T.

David,

I wonder when you stopped to take the picture if you were thinking of me. I am sure you weren’t. How could you have known that all my life I have been looking for this barn? This rustic red barn sitting solitarily in a field--- not connected to anything, but standing for everything.

I never lived in a barn. I only imagined what it would be like to have one. I lived in a house with 3 brothers and 3 sisters and I shared a bed with the youngest. It wasn’t an interesting house, it was just four walls and a roof with perfunctory windows, as little as zoning allowed. It was a mess all the time, stuff strewn everywhere and noise filled corners and crevices when actual stuff did not. It was like that every day, crowded, noisy, smelling of fried baloney--an economical meal for a family of 9.

Maybe I saw a barn on tv and fell in love then. I don’t know. Maybe I drove by one in my life. All I know is that I loved the idea of a red barn. The richness of the red such a contrast to our boring white suburban house, the wood that fits together on the outside, each piece unique. Inside our house we were all the same. Mom used to call us by the same name most of the time, searching to remember the real one she assigned to us at birth.

When I saw your picture, the picture that you stopped to take for some reason, wherever you were, I recognized it. I knew it was the one where I dreamed I would have my first kiss in a hay loft, where my horse would be waiting for me when I entered with a carrot in my hand. I knew it was the one where my sisters and brothers would play hide and seek, where we would decorate at Halloween and all the neighbors would come to admire our work.

You found my barn. My deep red passion. You found it and you knew someone would recognize it. You saw its beauty. You knew it meant something to somebody. To me, it means so much.

Thank you for knowing that this picture might be the only way I ever really get my own red barn.

A Different Auntie Mame

2011-03-09T00:51:00.004-05:00

Peppy, Pesha, Pearl, Pepafonic, Pepalicious, Pep, all endearing names, which at one time or another, someone somewhere has called my mother's twin sister, and other half. Last week we got a call from her daughter to say she was in the hospital. Needless to say, all the cousins were concerned because, she is quite a phenomenon and she is also the last of the Dubroff siblings. There were eight of them. Seven female and one male. Rosie and Peppy were fraternal twins and the youngest of all the children. She is the family memory. The last Indian standing. But stand she does - I'll get back to that.

As with most twins, they had a special connection. When my mother had a pain in her leg, I knew aunt Peppy probably bumped her leg. When Aunt Peppy had a headache, my mother also felt the unexplained pain. When my parents had an argument my cousin Eden (eldest of Peppy's kids) would call and say her mother was in a bad mood and picking a fight with her father. There reactions to situations which involved food was usually identical, (both thinking they were great chefs and experts on all things Jewish), but we secretly called my mother Delores Defrost, because she would cook in the morning, freeze whatever, and defrost it for dinner. Aunt Peppy actually had fresh vegetables and even salad, but many things were so heavy, more than a taste would kill you. They did, as do we all, make identical tuna salad.

That's where the twin thing ended. Aunt Peppy is a balabusta (real Jewish homemaker). She cooked and cleaned and scrubbed and prayed, kept kosher, honored the Sabbath, and ran every organization of which she was a member. Rosie did not do any of these things. When she cooked, it was always a mess. Usually my Aunt Helene, or Aunt Sophie would trail after her with a wet rag trying to keep the muddle under control. Shopping and returning were her favorite exercise - oh and buying crappy jewelry. She belonged to the Boonton Jewish Center for the social life, and always wore something that sparkled.
They were as different as they were alike, a nice combination of a total person.

On Saturday, when Peppy returned from the hospital, I took a little three hour ride to visit with her. Her ankles are a bit swollen but she said that she was fine before she went to the hospital - which made her sick, and she was fine when she got home. She is supposed to use oxygen, but like her twin, refuses to wear it if there are other people around. (Did I mention that having their hair and nails done, was always of primary importance.) When I got to her apartment I couldn't figure out the confusing directions about how to enter. Finally, a four year old, who saw me wandering aimlessly, said she thought I probably wanted the apartment with the "thing" on the door, (the mezuzah).

We spent a few emotional and wonderful hours talking about my mother's headstone, (I wanted her to check the Hebrew on the engraving), and she told me that she wanted "She had a wonderful life" on her tombstone. I told her that since it was not the wild west, she would probably have a headstone as well .... But not yet. Peppy has always believed that God has a plan for every person. That everyone has a certain amount of time to live. No doctors, tests, or predictions make any difference. It was what all the sisters believed, and they had such strength of character, that you never felt frightened about what lie ahead. That's not the end of my story. On Sunday my cousins Stevie and Billy went to visit her. They also had a difficult time getting in and also had no idea about the apartment number. After fifteen minutes of frustrating encounter with the door and location, they called the apartment. "We're here but we're lost", they told her aide. "Ok
Be right down, stand near the elevator". They followed instruction and when the door opened there was 90 year old Aunt Peppy, with her walker, all dressed up for company."
the twins in action
"There's nothing wrong with me", she told them. "Why wouldn't I greet my company."
And she was right. We were all concerned and incapable of following simple instructions, but she certainly is allright. We’re just sayin’….Iris

There It Is

2011-03-02T10:05:00.004-05:00

You just have to listen to the news for five minutes to realize that the world we now live in bears increasingly less resemblance to the 60s and 70s. Curiously, about the only continuity I can think of is that Ghadaffi is still in power (he came along in a coup in 1969.) Not sure for how much longer. But, voila, there he is. And aside from Castro, you have to give Ghadaffi credit on one point. The Queen of England has been in power for nearly sixty years, and nobody besides Lyndon Larouche seems to be complaining about her tenure. Well there are those anti-monarchists in Scotland, but I don’t unfortunately break haggis with those folks often enough to get a personal rant from that p.o.v. But more importantly, there are those little tags in our daily lives, the ones of literature, film, and television which to be the links to those eras just passed.

Language has its funny way of telling you more than you think. Little phrases take on meaning far beyond the letters of their words. They become secret acess panels which, once opened, let you walk into a place of comfort and communication, enabling you to trade in the currency of a certain time, with a number of like minded people. Sometimes the phrases become little codes: their acknowledgement opens a place for you that you might have not otherwise been welcomed to. The one incalculable here is time. Things come and go, and amazingly, we seldom ever know the sources from which they come. I mean at some point you can say ‘Right On!’ was a product of the turbulent sixties, with marches in the street, young (mostly) marchers with clenched fists in the air, speaking to what they perceived as their own cause for justice. But who was the first person that actually put “right” and “on” together, and created that bellwether? (Iris says she remembers it originally as “Right on, brother,” from a poetic African American…) I don’t think we will ever know. And how did it spread so quickly? Obviously some copy cat who heard it thought it resonated, and just grabbed it and made it their own. Within weeks , it became one of the great rallying cries of the anti-war movement. And within months, it crossed social boundaries much like a fast spreading virulent virus, and became an almost everyday platitude, thereby losing its effectiveness as shock value. I was never more amazed than sometime in the early 70s, when a coat-and-tie Deputy Chief of Correspondents for TIME Magazine, a smart and lovely guy who well understood the politics of the world, was used to picking up the fone to move correspondents around from hot spot to hot spot like pieces on a chess board, but who seemed more at home over a three martini lunch than a tightly rolled joint, looked me in the eye one day, and said “right on.” He kind of said it in the same tone he’d have used while ordering a second martini. The displacement between the meaning of the words, and the man uttering them was so out of place, that it probably made far more of an impression than if he’d put a fist in the air and yelled it at me.

I did once ask my mom about her memories of “Oh, you kid!” a phrase popular in the 30s, and one which, like “Right on!” probably meant something very different at the time than we think it does now. I don’t’ even know which word gets the emphasis… “oh” or “kid.” And what the hell does it mean? I still don’t know. But it sounds cool, especially if you’re Dick Powell in a white linen suit.

What made me think about all this today was the single most popular line used by the millions of young Americans who served in Vietnam. It was something which existed virtually only in the firebases and basecamps with young GIs. And as near as I could ever tell, once those young guys boarded a freedom bird to leave the ‘Nam and head back to the ‘world’ the phrase seemed to just disappear. “There it is.”

“There it is….” There is what? you ask. And just where IS ‘there?’ Well no sense in trying to read too much into it. “There it is…” said with a flat tone, mildly strong emphasis building up to “is” was the one lingua franca which all GIs shared. Well, officers, not so much. But if you were under the age of 25, had been drafted, and didn’t particularly want to BE in Vietnam, “there it is” was your key to sanity. The three words which let you express your profound emotional mélange of disgust, annoyance, fear, despair, surprise, acceptance, satisfaction, and occasionally contentment. Once I arrived in Saigon in October, 1970 and began a two year interaction with the world the American GI, it was a phrase which meant so little, yet so much. You could almost say that it meant whatever you wanted it to mean, and be interpreted almost any way. It often just served as a coda in conversation. It was the comment which had the force of finality in a discussion where soldiers were otherwise unable to explain something. “There it is…” was a way of just saying, ‘yeah, that’s how it is here, and this is how we have to deal with it.’ What has always surprised me is that once back home, the phrase seemed to disappear. The context for its usage was gone. Without the very personal, very weird, perplexing, illogical elements of the war lived first hand, it seemed to no longer have a proper context.

Along with a few other everyday Vietnam-related phrases like “shit burning” (yes folks, when you lived on a remote firebase, every few days someone would be assigned the task of pouring some flammable substance on the receptacle barrels on the two-holer, and set it alight. And yes, shit burns) once you returned home it just fell out of disuse. I suppose you could do a drop by at a Legion hall in Wichita or Missoula and ask someone drinking a long-neck at the bar when he last heard the phrase “there it is” and you could have a whole evening’s discussion. I'd love to know what today's GIs in Afghanistan have created as their version of "there it is." But I wouldn't be surprized if it gets left at Bagram Air Base, along with the other contraband stuff you're not allowed to bring home. But living in this madcap world of today, there are moments when it seems quite apropos.

Charlie Sheen is off drugs and booze and has a medical report to prove it. There it is!

The people in the streets of Cairo really rocked the world or politics. There it is!

Gas prices are clearly a product of oil companies ripping us off. There it is!

The Wisconsin’s Governor is just trying to use the budget crisis to bust the unions. There it is!

You wanna taste the best thing that ever crossed your lips.. a Zero candy bar. There it is!

We’re just sayin….. David There it is!