Aren’t there those occasions when you want to stand up and yell SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP! I can’t imagine it’s only me. For example, you get on a plane which is boarding from the rear. Now they have zones, which make no sense because those board from the front and people are tripping over each other. It doesn’t matter. Back to the point. People are finding the way to their seats and there is always one person who refuses to step out of the aisle and let other people pass. Oh no, they have to look through their suitcase to find that one item they can’t live without until they get to their destination. Additionally, this one person has a friend with whom they are making conversation and not paying attention to the inconvenience they are causing. So finally they finish the treasure and they decide they have to go to the bathroom before take-off.. They will have to make their way forward or back which is virtually impossible while other travelers are making their way on to the plane. Still they are totally oblivious to the chaos they have caused. You have to admit you just want to scream SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!
I can give you many examples of the ‘sit down and shut up’ scenario in restaurants, the movies, on several modes of transportation and I’m sure you blobbees can do the same for me. (I still can’t figure out if I am the blobber or the blobbee – so today I’ll be the blobber and you will be the blobbee). But lately I have wanted to yell it everytime I read the paper or listen to the news. My main targets are George Bush and Bill Frist but there are others. As we say in the PR business, I can’t wrap my arms around it -- whatever it is. Gas prices are at $3-4 a gallon. People can’t go to work, won’t be able to take vacations, can’t get their children to school or camp, can’t earn a living if it requires driving, can’t buy oil based products or any product that has to be trucked. The deficit is so large we don’t even have a number for it — what does come after trillion? Forget our grandchildren getting saddled with it, our great great great grandchildren won’t be able to purchase an ice cream cone. The health care system is an obscenity — unless you happen to be in the pharmaceutical business or are in the insurance business. Older people can’t afford to buy medication or figure out how to pay for their health care. The war in Iraq rages on. Young men and women who have never had the chance to live are dying for absolutely no reason. Social Security.. don't get me started. And I don’t believe for one minute it is for democracy — it is for companies that are in the business of war. They are the friends of Bush and Frist and Cheney and Rumsfeld. And they will find a way to get richer by doing the same thing in Iran and not giving a good god damn what it does to your life. I try not to be political but I am pissed.
Education is in the toilet, the arts remain virtually unsupported and global warming is threatening every element of the very planet on which we live. So I don’t get why we are not pointing our fingers and laughing at these idiots who are concerned about Same Sex Marriage. Do they really care that boys are shtupping boys and girls are shtupping girls and they want to make it legal. (Shtupping is a Jewish word that probably needs no explanation if you've ever had a significant other). I don’t mean to minimalize the seriousness of people who want to make legal commitments and be protected. But isn’t it all about right wing Christians not wanting to have to think about the sex. I believe, for example, if we had ridiculed Hitler instead of taking him seriously there would have been six million Jews procreating instead of being martyred. I heard a lecture this weekend about the fact that Hitler wanted to be in art school, and when he was rejected he overreacted. So what was George Bush’s problem.
Oh my God, I am beside myself about this foolishness and here’s what I want to happen. Whenever Bush stands up in the Rose Garden or Frist stands wherever it is that someone won’t hit him with a pie, and makes a speech, I want one of those White House or political journalist woo haa’s to get to their feet and yell “SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!!!” We’re just saying...
Iris
Monday, June 05, 2006
A Pair of 6's, or Three of a Kind?
Tomorrow is one of those days which is going to cause a lot of almost reasonable people to hold their collective breaths - and then some - for a while. Now I well understand a certain affinity people may have for 6 June. For more than three decades I have followed the reunions of the D-Day Normandy landings, visited there many times on that date, and become friends with a number of US and British D Day veterans. (Iris has told me more than once, " You're going to think you were actually THERE on June 6th!!") So, for me, June 6th has a certain ring to it; I can still get misty eyed just listening to Dwight Eisenhower's radio broadcast to the Europeans to announce the landings. Contrary to anything that would be done today, it was a study in pure minimalist broadcasting, representing the greatest movement of men and machinery ever done, with just a couple of paragraphs of understated instruction. ( http://www.bbc.co.uk/schoolradio/history/worldwar2audioclipslibrary_clip33.shtml) Tomorrow, however, is a different kind of June 6th. Reminiscent of the <666> Cigarettes which used to be sold in Asia, the cult of 666 has raised it's head again: You remember 123456? (1:23 am April 5, 2006), well tomorrow is 666's all the way, and if the AntiChrist is lurking, and waiting around with his Subway ticket, ready to take the big ride, then we'll just have to see what happens. I don't really imagine that its such a big deal. I mean, in 1806 or 1906 were hundreds of people ready to leap off cliffs at the thought of the impending arrival of Satan? Well, I guess if they did jump, then it must have been more about them than it was Satan. And here is the point: Sometimes we have too much data. I can't really call it Information, that would be too flattering. Let's just call it data. Everywhere you look (in this Blob, too I might add) is a lot of data. We'd like to think it was information, but that would require actual INFORMING to be present. No, it's not really INFORMation, it's more like DataCOLLECTION. Information has an implication of imparting things of import (OK.. four "IM.." words in one sentence, I guess that retires the Cup, right?) The thing I don't really get in this self indulged world is how all the doom sayers think that the whole of the Human Endeavor -- you know, since we started walking on just TWO legs -- has come down to THEIR own personal apocalypse: yes, hundreds and hundreds of generations of Humanity, and THIS generation is the one worthy of being smote by the forces of Good and Evil? Give yourselves a break, people! Many more interesting and deserving martyrs have been living throughout history, and were much more meriting the chance to go up in a cataclysmic puff of smoke. Honest to God, (no pun intended), if the people awaiting their rhapsody - yeah, the ones in the Ford Van in front of you at the traffic light - think that the pinnacle of Human History rests upon their being ready to ascend, then, we really have deluded ourselves. I give satan credit: there is no question that a lot of the terrible things in this world, and now that they are so well reported, we know about many of them which probably remained unknown for centuries before, are the result of some kind of cloud of Evil which lurks in the human soul, and which needs very little prodding to emerge. But to assume that We are THE generation to which the final Wipe Out will be given as some kind of weird gift to show our piety, misses the point. Rather than spending all that time figuring out how we can be in the Front row at the end of humanity, lets spend another ten minutes trying to figure out just what we can do to make things better today. The odds are (talk to your Vegas bookie.. I'm sure they have the numbers) that on June 7th, we ll all be sitting around twiddling our thumbs, and thinking, as that second Raspberry Frappacino starts to melt crystal by crystal, well, THAT was an exciting June 6th. We're just sayin.
David
David
Thursday, June 01, 2006
health is not a club
Every time I go the health club I ask them the same two questions. First, why aren’t there toilet seat covers in the women’s room? I suggested that if they didn’t want to put them in every stall they could just put one dispenser on an outside wall and while they would have to carry them all the way to the their stall of choice, at least they would have them available. Other question. Why aren’t there anti-bacterial gel dispensers anywhere in the equipment areas? I explained that when I worked out at the YMCA there were not only dispensers but alcohol wipes so people could clean the machine before and after use.
“Well, that’s the Y. They don’t have people to clean up for the guests.”
I couldn’t let that go. “You mean the people that walk around with vacuums on their backs, who are always washing the floor in exactly the same place you are trying to stand, or mopping around the machines when you’re trying to relax. The people who look like they’re tidying up but have no sense of when and where they should do it. I’d rather have an alcohol wipe and some gel and do it myself.”
“In a club of this stature we don’t ask our guests to do anything themselves.”
“Okay,” I say giving in a bit. “That answers the question about gels and wipes around the equipment but surely they don’t wipe the toilets after each use. How would they know who used them. While they are under foot, they cannot be everywhere at the same time.”
“I’ll tell management” always provides an end to the conversation.
Don’t misunderstand. I like my health club. There are nice facilities and the people who work there are never dismissive or too busy to help. Yes, sometimes they get in the way but they are well intentioned. The people who are members are a whole other story. It is clear to me that the members do not want to wipe their machines, the toilets or probably their behinds. They think it is beneath them. (pun intended). With a few exceptions—like the very very large woman who was fully dressed – sneakers and all when I discovered her in the steam room. I guess she was waiting for someone to take off her clothes because she didn’t want to do it herself. But those sneakers sure did smell. Or the woman who took 15 towels into the shower with her—I guess she wanted to be really dry. But too many of the “guests“ seem a little self consumed and maybe a bit arrogant.
I have noticed that many are dressed for a party not a workout. Their outfits match their shoes — that’s always a giveaway. They spend a great deal of time looking at themselves when they work out, as well as when they are in the dressing room. It’s like they expect something to change while they're focused on the mirror. (Mirror mirror on the wall bring me a prince or make the pounds fall.) The older women do give you an occasional smile. The younger women have no time for hello or any pleasantries — it's as if they are on a mission. Maybe if we sent these people to Iraq there would be a victory to declare. They are in a constant state of “take no prisoners”. For example, if you happen to be on a machine they want to use they will pace and make faces (like a four year old) until you are finished. If you are using the hair dryer they want to use they do the same. And it’s not like the hair dryers are in short supply. Maybe this is all a consequence of the "I’m entitled" mind set. But I’m not sure. It seems more likely that it’s about wanting something someone else has. And sometimes I think it’s just about being incapable of seeing beyond a totally limited self. Or maybe they never took a class in good manners. Whatever it is, when I can’t avoid going at peak hours, I just sit back (after I’ve intimidated someone off the machine I want to use) and look at the human circus. And then I think, just give me some gel and a wipe. Don’t these people understand that health should be more than a club. We're just sayin...
Iris
“Well, that’s the Y. They don’t have people to clean up for the guests.”
I couldn’t let that go. “You mean the people that walk around with vacuums on their backs, who are always washing the floor in exactly the same place you are trying to stand, or mopping around the machines when you’re trying to relax. The people who look like they’re tidying up but have no sense of when and where they should do it. I’d rather have an alcohol wipe and some gel and do it myself.”
“In a club of this stature we don’t ask our guests to do anything themselves.”
“Okay,” I say giving in a bit. “That answers the question about gels and wipes around the equipment but surely they don’t wipe the toilets after each use. How would they know who used them. While they are under foot, they cannot be everywhere at the same time.”
“I’ll tell management” always provides an end to the conversation.
Don’t misunderstand. I like my health club. There are nice facilities and the people who work there are never dismissive or too busy to help. Yes, sometimes they get in the way but they are well intentioned. The people who are members are a whole other story. It is clear to me that the members do not want to wipe their machines, the toilets or probably their behinds. They think it is beneath them. (pun intended). With a few exceptions—like the very very large woman who was fully dressed – sneakers and all when I discovered her in the steam room. I guess she was waiting for someone to take off her clothes because she didn’t want to do it herself. But those sneakers sure did smell. Or the woman who took 15 towels into the shower with her—I guess she wanted to be really dry. But too many of the “guests“ seem a little self consumed and maybe a bit arrogant.
I have noticed that many are dressed for a party not a workout. Their outfits match their shoes — that’s always a giveaway. They spend a great deal of time looking at themselves when they work out, as well as when they are in the dressing room. It’s like they expect something to change while they're focused on the mirror. (Mirror mirror on the wall bring me a prince or make the pounds fall.) The older women do give you an occasional smile. The younger women have no time for hello or any pleasantries — it's as if they are on a mission. Maybe if we sent these people to Iraq there would be a victory to declare. They are in a constant state of “take no prisoners”. For example, if you happen to be on a machine they want to use they will pace and make faces (like a four year old) until you are finished. If you are using the hair dryer they want to use they do the same. And it’s not like the hair dryers are in short supply. Maybe this is all a consequence of the "I’m entitled" mind set. But I’m not sure. It seems more likely that it’s about wanting something someone else has. And sometimes I think it’s just about being incapable of seeing beyond a totally limited self. Or maybe they never took a class in good manners. Whatever it is, when I can’t avoid going at peak hours, I just sit back (after I’ve intimidated someone off the machine I want to use) and look at the human circus. And then I think, just give me some gel and a wipe. Don’t these people understand that health should be more than a club. We're just sayin...
Iris
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
They're all in Florida (or Maybe Montana)
They are all in Florida (or maybe Montana)
It’s unclear what made me think about this, maybe it's the amount of long distance driving I've been doing lately--in the gold Cadillac. But in our family we never like to admit that anyone has died. No, we pretend that they are living in a place we probably will never go, like Florida or Montana (Aunt Helene hated Florida). How is it that grown up people find unusual ways to deal with the reality of the end of life? Who knows. With my family I think it is all tied up with pre funeral activities. That is when the real drama takes place. Whether it is preparing the body for burial, sitting with the body until it is buried or saying goodbye to the loved one, these are all things done before the trip to the cemetery. In my family, once the body is interred, the spirit goes to Florida (or Montana) and we never have to say a permanent goodbye.
How well I remember my first funeral. It was my grandfather’s. After the service was over we were taken to the funeral motorcade. No one knew where to go or which car to get into. I knew – it was the moment I understood what I would do professionally. Without a moment's hesitation I started to give instructions -" you get in that car, you get in this car," on and on until everyone was comfortably seated. I was thirteen years old and had taken charge of the logistics. Even better, everyone had let me do it and then listened to what I had to say. It was a Dubroff phenomenon since no one ever listened to anything anyone said. I got into some car with available space and we proceeded to the cemetery. But first we drove to my grandparents house, circled it three times, drove to the Beth Rivka School for Girls, circled it three times, drove to the synagogue, circled it three times, We drove to another synagogue, and another, and another, circled them three times and then drove on to Long Island. The funeral procession was endless and we tied up traffic in Brooklyn for days.
We finally reached the Beth David Cemetery and just when I thought the worst was over I realized that it had just begun. Everyone gathered around the grave site. It was very crowded, and there was a man running around yelling "family in front, family in front!" I didn't want to be in front but the cry for "kinder!, kinder!" (children) was overwhelming. I was standing next to my mother, who at first was crying softly then all of a sudden she started to scream, "Papa, Papa, don't leave me, don't leave me, goodbye my soul, my friend, my life." Needless to say this display set them - all of my seven aunts - in motion. They were all screaming and crying, and screaming and crying, and then as if that weren't awful enough my Aunt Sara decided to jump into the grave.
She was pulling forward with my Aunt Sophie pulling her back, with Aunt Fritzie hanging on to Aunt Sophie, with Aunt Helene hanging on to Aunt Fritzie, with Aunt Peppy hanging on to Aunt Helene, with Aunt Betty yelling "If she wants to go, let her go," with Uncle Jack shouting "calm down, calm down." And my mother shrieking "don't leave me." By the time the Rabbi began the service it was dusk, and by the time it was over it was dark, so the grandchildren were sent back to New Jersey and my grandfather went to Rockaway Beach (in Brooklyn - he loved it there).
Minnie Dubroff, with son Jack, and her daughters:
front: Fritzie, Minnie, Betty, Sophie
rear: Rose, Helene, Jack, Sarah, Peppy
How different Aunt Sophies death was from my grandfathers. So much less hysterical, so much more understandable, so much more manageable, and maybe a little bit less dramatic — but that’s what she would have wanted. Aunt Sophie was a jewel and one of the great generous, funny people. For example, at one funeral when we were all saying our goodbyes (something we do en masse gathered around the casket.) The conversation went like this:
Aunt # 1 head on casket: "What am I going to do without you? Who will I call when I’m not feeling well in the morning? Who’s going to drive me to the supermarket? Who’s going to take me to the bank? Who’s going to get me to the hairdresser on Saturday? What were you thinking when you died?”
Aunt Sophie: “She was probably thinking she wanted to save herself a fortune in telephone and gasoline bills.”
When Aunt Sophie died she didn’t take her giant gold Cadillac to Florida with her. I have it. Believe it or not, it gets about 27-28 miles to the gallon on the highway (it gets a mile to the gallon in the city). Anyway, we all decided that in order to keep her spirit with us for as long as possible, I would park it outside the house of anyone who requested it. That way, they would walk outside and think about all of the people we missed so much and also we would know Aunt Sophie was visiting. Probably from Florida (or maybe Montana).
We’re just sayin…
Iris
It’s unclear what made me think about this, maybe it's the amount of long distance driving I've been doing lately--in the gold Cadillac. But in our family we never like to admit that anyone has died. No, we pretend that they are living in a place we probably will never go, like Florida or Montana (Aunt Helene hated Florida). How is it that grown up people find unusual ways to deal with the reality of the end of life? Who knows. With my family I think it is all tied up with pre funeral activities. That is when the real drama takes place. Whether it is preparing the body for burial, sitting with the body until it is buried or saying goodbye to the loved one, these are all things done before the trip to the cemetery. In my family, once the body is interred, the spirit goes to Florida (or Montana) and we never have to say a permanent goodbye.
How well I remember my first funeral. It was my grandfather’s. After the service was over we were taken to the funeral motorcade. No one knew where to go or which car to get into. I knew – it was the moment I understood what I would do professionally. Without a moment's hesitation I started to give instructions -" you get in that car, you get in this car," on and on until everyone was comfortably seated. I was thirteen years old and had taken charge of the logistics. Even better, everyone had let me do it and then listened to what I had to say. It was a Dubroff phenomenon since no one ever listened to anything anyone said. I got into some car with available space and we proceeded to the cemetery. But first we drove to my grandparents house, circled it three times, drove to the Beth Rivka School for Girls, circled it three times, drove to the synagogue, circled it three times, We drove to another synagogue, and another, and another, circled them three times and then drove on to Long Island. The funeral procession was endless and we tied up traffic in Brooklyn for days.
We finally reached the Beth David Cemetery and just when I thought the worst was over I realized that it had just begun. Everyone gathered around the grave site. It was very crowded, and there was a man running around yelling "family in front, family in front!" I didn't want to be in front but the cry for "kinder!, kinder!" (children) was overwhelming. I was standing next to my mother, who at first was crying softly then all of a sudden she started to scream, "Papa, Papa, don't leave me, don't leave me, goodbye my soul, my friend, my life." Needless to say this display set them - all of my seven aunts - in motion. They were all screaming and crying, and screaming and crying, and then as if that weren't awful enough my Aunt Sara decided to jump into the grave.
She was pulling forward with my Aunt Sophie pulling her back, with Aunt Fritzie hanging on to Aunt Sophie, with Aunt Helene hanging on to Aunt Fritzie, with Aunt Peppy hanging on to Aunt Helene, with Aunt Betty yelling "If she wants to go, let her go," with Uncle Jack shouting "calm down, calm down." And my mother shrieking "don't leave me." By the time the Rabbi began the service it was dusk, and by the time it was over it was dark, so the grandchildren were sent back to New Jersey and my grandfather went to Rockaway Beach (in Brooklyn - he loved it there).
Minnie Dubroff, with son Jack, and her daughters:
front: Fritzie, Minnie, Betty, Sophie
rear: Rose, Helene, Jack, Sarah, Peppy
How different Aunt Sophies death was from my grandfathers. So much less hysterical, so much more understandable, so much more manageable, and maybe a little bit less dramatic — but that’s what she would have wanted. Aunt Sophie was a jewel and one of the great generous, funny people. For example, at one funeral when we were all saying our goodbyes (something we do en masse gathered around the casket.) The conversation went like this:
Aunt # 1 head on casket: "What am I going to do without you? Who will I call when I’m not feeling well in the morning? Who’s going to drive me to the supermarket? Who’s going to take me to the bank? Who’s going to get me to the hairdresser on Saturday? What were you thinking when you died?”
Aunt Sophie: “She was probably thinking she wanted to save herself a fortune in telephone and gasoline bills.”
When Aunt Sophie died she didn’t take her giant gold Cadillac to Florida with her. I have it. Believe it or not, it gets about 27-28 miles to the gallon on the highway (it gets a mile to the gallon in the city). Anyway, we all decided that in order to keep her spirit with us for as long as possible, I would park it outside the house of anyone who requested it. That way, they would walk outside and think about all of the people we missed so much and also we would know Aunt Sophie was visiting. Probably from Florida (or maybe Montana).
We’re just sayin…
Iris
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
A Nice Homeless Person
I wasn’t sure whether I should call this blob “An au pair for the au pair” or “A nice homeless person” so I opted for the latter. But I’ll tell you why without whining. I can do that because I we’ve have moved from the tragic to the hilarious. In the summer Jordan and I pack enormous amounts of clothing, make-up, books, music and medication and we schlep it to New York. David visits when he’s not shooting. We’re probably nuts but we like being in the city in the summer—maybe it’s because we are the only ones here maybe it’s because we can scream at the tourists, or maybe it’s because when I want to take a break from writing I don’t have to get in my car and drive somewhere. I merely open the door and walk outside to find excitement. Last week, while I was attempting to pack for our trip, I got a call from Connie, (the latest mommie au pair). Connie has some issues which include the fact that; she talks non-stop and doesn’t listen. (Since mom’s hearing is limited, this is not necessarily a bad thing –for mom not me.) Her 24 year old son lives with her and has his girlfriend stay (while the mouse is away…), and he doesn’t feed the dog or the cat. In addition, she immigrated to this country10 years ago and hasn’t passed her citizenship test—she didn’t know the answers. That is usually the reason one doesn’t pass the test. But that threw her for a loop. Then she opened all the windows in my mother’s house and my mother hasn’t been exposed to that much air for two decades—but she didn’t find it unpleasant. However, when mom asked Connie to make sure all the windows were closed at night, Connie was insulted that my mother would think her irresponsible. That’s not the end. Connie said that when my mother tried to eat, her teeth fell out. Needless to say, I was extremely concerned because my mother is rightfully attached to her teeth. We moved on from her teeth to her hearing and then to the fact that this was a very hard job and also she didn’t like having to drive my mother to all those doctors appointments. Is this too much information? Too bad. I simply must go on.
I explained to Connie that a job is a job. It isn’t always fun and that’s why they call it work. I also assured her that I would have a conversation with mom about her ears, teeth, and whatever other physical problems she might have. I reminded Connie that she knew all this when she came to work and in fact, driving, being companion, and making sure mom was safe was all that we had talked about during the interview. I never tried to put one over on her. I did not say, for example, mom is in great condition and yearns to go to Atlantic City twice a week (which Connie would really like to do)… I did say mom likes to play gin rummy and Connie did opine that she prefers blackjack. (Was that a sign?) Anyway, as I said, I was trying to get our move in order for the summer and I just wanted her off the phone. I said goodbye three or four times and David, realizing that I wanted to get off the phone started to shout for me. I hung-up and he asked me if there was a problem. “No”, I said. “It’s just that the au pair needs an au pair.”
We spent the weekend in New Jersey with my mother. You remember my mother from the au pair blob? While she is losing strength and seems to have no energy, her teeth are fine. We took her to the diner and her teeth remained firmly attached to her gums-- in her mouth. She has started to wear one hearing aide because two drive her crazy and this way she can almost hear. Although she thinks Connie is a nice person she also thinks she has some issues—and mom doesn’t want to be a therapist. So I began thinking, so many of us have these problems with our aging parents wouldn’t it be the socially responsible thing to do to find a nice homeless person to care for the folks. Talk about solving two major social problems. We could house and feed the homeless and at the same time avoid storing our parents in one of those terrible institutions. Yep, a nice homeless person is exactly what I need. We’re just sayin….
I explained to Connie that a job is a job. It isn’t always fun and that’s why they call it work. I also assured her that I would have a conversation with mom about her ears, teeth, and whatever other physical problems she might have. I reminded Connie that she knew all this when she came to work and in fact, driving, being companion, and making sure mom was safe was all that we had talked about during the interview. I never tried to put one over on her. I did not say, for example, mom is in great condition and yearns to go to Atlantic City twice a week (which Connie would really like to do)… I did say mom likes to play gin rummy and Connie did opine that she prefers blackjack. (Was that a sign?) Anyway, as I said, I was trying to get our move in order for the summer and I just wanted her off the phone. I said goodbye three or four times and David, realizing that I wanted to get off the phone started to shout for me. I hung-up and he asked me if there was a problem. “No”, I said. “It’s just that the au pair needs an au pair.”
We spent the weekend in New Jersey with my mother. You remember my mother from the au pair blob? While she is losing strength and seems to have no energy, her teeth are fine. We took her to the diner and her teeth remained firmly attached to her gums-- in her mouth. She has started to wear one hearing aide because two drive her crazy and this way she can almost hear. Although she thinks Connie is a nice person she also thinks she has some issues—and mom doesn’t want to be a therapist. So I began thinking, so many of us have these problems with our aging parents wouldn’t it be the socially responsible thing to do to find a nice homeless person to care for the folks. Talk about solving two major social problems. We could house and feed the homeless and at the same time avoid storing our parents in one of those terrible institutions. Yep, a nice homeless person is exactly what I need. We’re just sayin….
Monday, May 29, 2006
Is that a Group shot, or is that a GROUP shot?
One of the hardest things about being a photographer is the determination of how you relate with your subjects (I suppose besides .. what the hell lens do I use, its THE issue, isn't it!?) I have tended to like being anonymous, or at the very least, operate on the "fly on the wall" principal; it seems to sort of go along with the basic concept of the "story" being more important than the "photographer/reporter/writer." You might think that an obvious statment, yet if you watch TV, you ll realize its ALL about the reporters, and often very little to do with the event. (Does the concept of ".. and now, lets go live to the Tidal Basin where our reporter Joe Schlabotnik is watching the Cherry Blossoms blossom.... take it away Joe, since, after all you are LIVE and we're actually LIVE on the air at 6 am. Live that is.." seem like something you see and hear far too often?) I know I do. Arthur Grace whose new book "State Fair" is being published this month, [ http://www.utexas.edu/utpress/books/grasta.html] and takes a very droll, classical view of America having fun, summed up the problem with journalism a decade ago, just before he left Washington DC for LA. 
His theory was, and it's still valid I believe, that no Journalist should make over $100000. That, lets face it, if you want to be a talking head, and do a lot of guest tv appearances, and get your self lined up to sell your economics book as a best seller, then go ahead and do that: but dont call yourself a journalist. Journalists should report what they see. They don't have to be come big money mavens of information it order to push the profession forward. Real Journalists would make a nice living, but their egos would somehow remain in check along the way: for example.. Geraldo, Nancy Grace, Anderson Cooper.. well they really wouldnt be "Journalists": their work is 95% about them, and 5 % about the story. You get my point.
Anyway, what it comes down to is how to relate to groups you want to photograph, and in doing so, try and make it a statement about the subjects, and not JUST an ego satisfying "groovy" picture which would - you get the point now? - be all about YOU. When it comes down to doing big set up groups of people there are a few people who really revel in it. Annie Leibovitz is pretty terrific in making those tableaus of, for example, the Sopranos, look like a wild moment that she just happened on to (and which of course she totally created and set up, so beautifully.) But I have a new hero, a guy who I'll never get to meet, and yet who really has taught me something about group shots, and how you , the artist, relates to your subjects. Michael Evans did a picture of the Reagan Cabinet in the early days of 1981, and when you know how tiny the Oval Office is, its a pretty amazing picture.
All of the principals - 20 of them - look like they are paying attention, as if they know that all America and all the World (it was still Old Europe then!) wants to see what the hell they look like. Yet, I would have to say my favorite all time candidate for a big group shot, the Cabinet picture which I would love to take, is based on the wonderful Flemish painting by Bartolomeo Vander Hilst, a gigantesque tableau that lives in the Amsterdam Rijksmuseum, usually on a wall opposite from Rembrant's Nightwatch.
It is a masterwork in posing, lighting, composition, and add to that the fact that it's enormous. Next time the President forms a new cabinet, and the Prez is a pal of mine.. that's how I want to photograph the cabinet. You can tell who should be the President, the other senior positions, too are pretty apparent. Not only that, he really knew how to light a big room. In fact, I want to take Monsieur Van Der Hilst on my next big shoot. He can be the Key Grip! We're just sayin.
David
Arthur Grace's book, State Fair, available online
Michael Evans' picture of the Reagan Cabinet, courtesy Reagan Library
Van Der Hilst painting: the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
His theory was, and it's still valid I believe, that no Journalist should make over $100000. That, lets face it, if you want to be a talking head, and do a lot of guest tv appearances, and get your self lined up to sell your economics book as a best seller, then go ahead and do that: but dont call yourself a journalist. Journalists should report what they see. They don't have to be come big money mavens of information it order to push the profession forward. Real Journalists would make a nice living, but their egos would somehow remain in check along the way: for example.. Geraldo, Nancy Grace, Anderson Cooper.. well they really wouldnt be "Journalists": their work is 95% about them, and 5 % about the story. You get my point. Anyway, what it comes down to is how to relate to groups you want to photograph, and in doing so, try and make it a statement about the subjects, and not JUST an ego satisfying "groovy" picture which would - you get the point now? - be all about YOU. When it comes down to doing big set up groups of people there are a few people who really revel in it. Annie Leibovitz is pretty terrific in making those tableaus of, for example, the Sopranos, look like a wild moment that she just happened on to (and which of course she totally created and set up, so beautifully.) But I have a new hero, a guy who I'll never get to meet, and yet who really has taught me something about group shots, and how you , the artist, relates to your subjects. Michael Evans did a picture of the Reagan Cabinet in the early days of 1981, and when you know how tiny the Oval Office is, its a pretty amazing picture.
All of the principals - 20 of them - look like they are paying attention, as if they know that all America and all the World (it was still Old Europe then!) wants to see what the hell they look like. Yet, I would have to say my favorite all time candidate for a big group shot, the Cabinet picture which I would love to take, is based on the wonderful Flemish painting by Bartolomeo Vander Hilst, a gigantesque tableau that lives in the Amsterdam Rijksmuseum, usually on a wall opposite from Rembrant's Nightwatch.
It is a masterwork in posing, lighting, composition, and add to that the fact that it's enormous. Next time the President forms a new cabinet, and the Prez is a pal of mine.. that's how I want to photograph the cabinet. You can tell who should be the President, the other senior positions, too are pretty apparent. Not only that, he really knew how to light a big room. In fact, I want to take Monsieur Van Der Hilst on my next big shoot. He can be the Key Grip! We're just sayin.David
Arthur Grace's book, State Fair, available online
Michael Evans' picture of the Reagan Cabinet, courtesy Reagan Library
Van Der Hilst painting: the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
Friday, May 26, 2006
The Man Behind the Curtain
It is always beautiful in Key West. Maybe it’s the place, (laid back); maybe it’s the people, (not the ones Clay refers to as dirt bags – he’s doing a calendar so you’ll know who they are). Maybe the fact that the weather is perfect (except for during a hurricane but even I bet it was beautiful, just treacherous). Anyway, it is beautiful, especially around sunset. That’s when the place to be in Louie’s Backyard. Tourists go to the Hyatt or other similar locations on the ‘other side of the island’-- that’s the honky-tonk side, where the cruise ships come in, you drink at an overpriced Sloppy Joe’s, and if you’re lucky you will find Clay holding court at the “Last Flight Out” Just the Clay experience is worth whatever the trip costs.
People who live in Key West meet up at Louie’s just before the sun sets and yes some of us have seen the green flash – but usually after a few mojitos. Or right after sunset when the sky is still only a little pink and gold but it’s already night according to the clouds. And that’s when most of the tourists are rushing to have dinner somewhere else—although Louie’s does dinner but it is a little pricey.
Dink, Soozie and I were finishing up another round of some wonderful liquid when Jimmy walked in. One important element in this story is Dink. Born and raised in Key West, his parents were closely connected to Ernest Hemingway and were the keepers of a great deal of his history – photo’s, writing, chachka’s, etc. (It isn’t sacrilegious to refer to Ernest Hemingway crap as Chachka’s is it?) Anyway, Dink is a Key West character in the nicest sense. He is generous with his time, his home and the people he knows, and he knows everyone.
It was a little dark when Jimmy arrived and no one seemed to notice his arrival. He was unencumbered by an entourage or any security. He just walked in, saw Dink, said hello, and sat down. It happened to be next to me. We talked for about two or three minutes and then Dink did introductions. “Iris, I’m sure you must know Jimmy Buffett.” He said casually. “Sure”, I replied. Who doesn’t know Jimmy Buffett, I thought. We talked for about half an hour and two more rounds. He didn’t drink a margarita. Soozie, who was on the other side of the table, kept mouthing “Who is that?” But now the only lights were from the bar and I was afraid he would see me mouth the information back – I couldn’t be subtle in the dark, and that would have been too embarrassing—we were supposed to know who he was. We sat there for another half hour and had a fairly substantive conversation about New Orleans. I suggested he be the voice for all the people who were still struggling and he suggested he was doing all he could. The conversation went from “here’s a good idea” to “who do you know in politics?” It turned out that he knew Bill Dixon, one of the smartest, most savvy, great political people (politics in the largest sense) and fortunately my friend. We talked about Dixon and some other wild people we had in common and he told me he had been searching for Dixon for years. “I love Dixon, he’s so great, I can’t wait to talk to him”, he said excitedly. “Don’t have google huh? I said.
We were getting hungry and since we try not to do pricey every night we left for Salute. A fabulous restaurant on the beach. We got up and Soozie said, “I’m sorry I must have missed your name.” “Jimmy Buffett,” he answered. “Sorry not to have had more of a chance to talk to you.” “Me too,” she said. And we left. Then it hit her. “Holy Shit!!, she said. “That was Jimmy Buffett!!” I gave another “duh” but this time it was a bit more animated.
I sent Dixon Jimmy’s e-mail and did the same with Jimmy. Yes, I do have his e-mail and no before anyone asks. Then I called Dixon to find out if he had ever been in touch. He hadn’t. I was surprised since Jimmy seemed so excited about it, but what I have generally found it that celebrities don’t want to work at anything—they are so used to someone else doing it. Jimmy was on NBC Today, today. Here’s a guy who is unquestionably a marketing genius. I mean let’s be honest, he’s done the same 10 cute songs for a million years and has made a billion dollars on products – parrot hats t-shirts, margaritaville, whatever. And I guess I wonder why you wouldn’t get in touch with someone like Dixon, who have crafted real change in the country, to help you do the same for the people you consider your own, who still are hurting from the hurricane last year and about to face more. Don’t get me wrong, I loved talking to him, he’s a very nice person and I’m sure he’s done a few concerts for hurricane victims, but I expected more from the man behind the curtain. We’re just sayin…
People who live in Key West meet up at Louie’s just before the sun sets and yes some of us have seen the green flash – but usually after a few mojitos. Or right after sunset when the sky is still only a little pink and gold but it’s already night according to the clouds. And that’s when most of the tourists are rushing to have dinner somewhere else—although Louie’s does dinner but it is a little pricey.
Dink, Soozie and I were finishing up another round of some wonderful liquid when Jimmy walked in. One important element in this story is Dink. Born and raised in Key West, his parents were closely connected to Ernest Hemingway and were the keepers of a great deal of his history – photo’s, writing, chachka’s, etc. (It isn’t sacrilegious to refer to Ernest Hemingway crap as Chachka’s is it?) Anyway, Dink is a Key West character in the nicest sense. He is generous with his time, his home and the people he knows, and he knows everyone.
It was a little dark when Jimmy arrived and no one seemed to notice his arrival. He was unencumbered by an entourage or any security. He just walked in, saw Dink, said hello, and sat down. It happened to be next to me. We talked for about two or three minutes and then Dink did introductions. “Iris, I’m sure you must know Jimmy Buffett.” He said casually. “Sure”, I replied. Who doesn’t know Jimmy Buffett, I thought. We talked for about half an hour and two more rounds. He didn’t drink a margarita. Soozie, who was on the other side of the table, kept mouthing “Who is that?” But now the only lights were from the bar and I was afraid he would see me mouth the information back – I couldn’t be subtle in the dark, and that would have been too embarrassing—we were supposed to know who he was. We sat there for another half hour and had a fairly substantive conversation about New Orleans. I suggested he be the voice for all the people who were still struggling and he suggested he was doing all he could. The conversation went from “here’s a good idea” to “who do you know in politics?” It turned out that he knew Bill Dixon, one of the smartest, most savvy, great political people (politics in the largest sense) and fortunately my friend. We talked about Dixon and some other wild people we had in common and he told me he had been searching for Dixon for years. “I love Dixon, he’s so great, I can’t wait to talk to him”, he said excitedly. “Don’t have google huh? I said.
We were getting hungry and since we try not to do pricey every night we left for Salute. A fabulous restaurant on the beach. We got up and Soozie said, “I’m sorry I must have missed your name.” “Jimmy Buffett,” he answered. “Sorry not to have had more of a chance to talk to you.” “Me too,” she said. And we left. Then it hit her. “Holy Shit!!, she said. “That was Jimmy Buffett!!” I gave another “duh” but this time it was a bit more animated.
I sent Dixon Jimmy’s e-mail and did the same with Jimmy. Yes, I do have his e-mail and no before anyone asks. Then I called Dixon to find out if he had ever been in touch. He hadn’t. I was surprised since Jimmy seemed so excited about it, but what I have generally found it that celebrities don’t want to work at anything—they are so used to someone else doing it. Jimmy was on NBC Today, today. Here’s a guy who is unquestionably a marketing genius. I mean let’s be honest, he’s done the same 10 cute songs for a million years and has made a billion dollars on products – parrot hats t-shirts, margaritaville, whatever. And I guess I wonder why you wouldn’t get in touch with someone like Dixon, who have crafted real change in the country, to help you do the same for the people you consider your own, who still are hurting from the hurricane last year and about to face more. Don’t get me wrong, I loved talking to him, he’s a very nice person and I’m sure he’s done a few concerts for hurricane victims, but I expected more from the man behind the curtain. We’re just sayin…
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
And Now for a Really Big Shew
Well it's either hard to believe it's over, or, and this is a pretty widely held view - when does thing ever END? Well I have to admit that Idol Mania is good fun. In an age when we take ourselves so seriously, the mere act of singing rather mainline Pop tunes has taken on a whole new aura. Tonight, as we watched the final with a big home done barbecue, it wasn't so much the tension of who would ultimately win -- most in our group thought Taylor had to win -- but all the good stuff that led up to the final two minutes.
In a stroke of brilliance, the big number of the night centered around the songs of Burt Bachrach, the man who carved out more melodies you can walk out of the theatre with than anyone else of our time. The kids sang in small groups, in big groups - all the Bachrach biggies were included, but the best moment was the regal return of the Queen of the Bachrach song: Dionne Warwick. She looked pretty damn good. I was a fairly early fan of hers owing to the tastes of a young woman in Salt Lake who I dated briefly in 1967. (What does briefly mean, you ask? Well, lets just say that after we had gone out 5 times, I called her on a Tuesday, hoping to see her that weekend, as I was having major back surgery the following Monday: She couldn't go out, she told me: She was getting Married that Friday. Yeah, well, it was Salt Lake, but still. Not even one quick date before you get married? I don't get it.) I had several Warwick albums .. Walk on By, Anyone Who Had a Heart: they were magic. She had a range in that voice which was unmatched. And in the summer of 1967, when I was an intern in Washington DC, I took pictures of her at a concert at Carter Barron, the big Amphitheater in Rock Creek Park.
So Dionne and I have a history, sort of. And it was great to see her with all the kids on stage, and BB pounding on the ivories. It was at that moment I realized the importance of American Idol: In an age of "Two and a Half Men", and dozens of horribly written, badly performed shows on TV, Idol gives us the Ed Sullivan show again. Two or three generations sitting around the television, no profanity, generally speaking - good music, and save for the lack of a small Italian Mouse hand puppet, it could almost be 1962 again. Not a bad thing in this world. And while TV knows no limits of bad taste, it might actually prove to the producers that be that it can be not only entertaining, but highly profitable. We're just sayin.
David
Walk Around Money -- Oh Yes!
About a million years ago (I tucked the dinosaurs comfortably into their beds) and then I did my political thing -- At that time it was to go out to precincts and deliver 'walk around money' to the people who were doing get out the vote. Yes, we walked around and passed out money for 'Get Out The Vote'. Did we actually pay people to go and vote? The truthful answer is yes. We paid people who then paid people to vote. And we hope it was only once. Years passed and the federal government got concerned about the way money was being spent in elections. A wonderful well intentioned genius decided to craft and unfortunately institute the campaign finance campaign laws. I worked for that genius, Cong Morris K Udall a congressman from Arizona and in 1976 a candidate for President. Why was it unfortunate? For many of us it took the excitement out of campaigning. For example, as advance people, not only did we have to travel in advance of the candidate, decide on the event, set up the event and make sure everything went smoothly. We also had to pass the hat at the end of the event. Yes, much like in church or any other charitable venue, we collected money to pay for food, a little salary and transportation to the next event. The next event was never in the same city and usually not the same state, so whatever we raised kept us on the go.
Prior to 1976 campaigns could be financed by individuals, groups, corporations, businesses, the mafia, anyone who could write a check or had enough cash. Once we had to adhere to the new Federal Election Committee rules we had to keep track of what we spent. Where we ate, where we slept and what we spent on miscellaneous. In addition, we had to keep track of who gave it to us, how they gave it to us, who gave it to them to give to us and on and on and on. You see what I mean by ‘took the fun out’? Keeping track is tedious and it eliminates spontaneity. It is impossible to be spontaneous anymore because there is too much paper work. The days of challenge and flexibility have passed. Oh sure, some people are still creative about their spending but for the most part, nothing is free. There was a time when we scavenged for platforms, microphones, backdrops, chairs, and two-sided signs to hold up during the event. Now you must pay for all these items and the consequences are big egos, too many experts giving advice and obscene spending for little return. Everything you see on television has been produced by someone who got paid to do it. Boo hoo I say, boo hoo, I loved walking around with unaccounted for money.
But then yesterday, on the news we saw that walk around money is back—but in the form of a lottery. Yes, some states have decided that if a person votes in a primary they will be entered into a million dollar lottery. If they vote in the election they are entered again and get two chances to win. Some would say this is un-American. It cheapens each vote. I say anyway you can get people to the polls to decide their own destiny is a good thing. But their motives are to make money instead of create a civil society, you say. Well if enough people vote, and they see their vote can make a difference, maybe they will be more concerned about how they use their vote in the next election. It’s better than having only 30% of the population (usually with a questionable agenda) making decisions for 100% of the people. And will political people have to work harder to get the lottery participant to vote for their candidate? You bet they will. And just maybe they will use their walk around money to walk around and make a real difference. We’re just sayin…
Prior to 1976 campaigns could be financed by individuals, groups, corporations, businesses, the mafia, anyone who could write a check or had enough cash. Once we had to adhere to the new Federal Election Committee rules we had to keep track of what we spent. Where we ate, where we slept and what we spent on miscellaneous. In addition, we had to keep track of who gave it to us, how they gave it to us, who gave it to them to give to us and on and on and on. You see what I mean by ‘took the fun out’? Keeping track is tedious and it eliminates spontaneity. It is impossible to be spontaneous anymore because there is too much paper work. The days of challenge and flexibility have passed. Oh sure, some people are still creative about their spending but for the most part, nothing is free. There was a time when we scavenged for platforms, microphones, backdrops, chairs, and two-sided signs to hold up during the event. Now you must pay for all these items and the consequences are big egos, too many experts giving advice and obscene spending for little return. Everything you see on television has been produced by someone who got paid to do it. Boo hoo I say, boo hoo, I loved walking around with unaccounted for money.
But then yesterday, on the news we saw that walk around money is back—but in the form of a lottery. Yes, some states have decided that if a person votes in a primary they will be entered into a million dollar lottery. If they vote in the election they are entered again and get two chances to win. Some would say this is un-American. It cheapens each vote. I say anyway you can get people to the polls to decide their own destiny is a good thing. But their motives are to make money instead of create a civil society, you say. Well if enough people vote, and they see their vote can make a difference, maybe they will be more concerned about how they use their vote in the next election. It’s better than having only 30% of the population (usually with a questionable agenda) making decisions for 100% of the people. And will political people have to work harder to get the lottery participant to vote for their candidate? You bet they will. And just maybe they will use their walk around money to walk around and make a real difference. We’re just sayin…
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Is There Any Crimson Out There?
There are, despite the ongoing conventional wisdom, some cool things about getting older. Not OLD, just older. I mean, I can't really imagine that I have been taking photographs for nearly forty years, and that I have been paid for it (not always well, but at least Paid) for most of that time. The fall out of those kind of numbers is that some of the stuff I took pictures of early on has actually become a lot more interesting. A picture I did of JFK in Salt Lake City when I was a senior in High School, actually looks like.. well, JFK. Not a great picture, but it was the first of what would be come a long line of pictures made while chasing American Presidents. (Accent on Chase). The pictures I did in Vietnam - some of them - are way more telling and interesting now than they were when I shot them. Last year, while going through my file cabinets at Contact Press Images (aka Contact - my photo agency), I ran across four rolls of film badly captioned (yea, that is a real Burnett trait) black and white film, labelled 7601 Harvard (January, 1976 - Cambridge - Boston) Clearly these films were done while on some kind of a break from the New Hampshire Primary (who else covered Penn. Governor Milton Shapp?? Anyone?). I visited both the Business School and the Law School. And because of my lousy captioning it's impossible to tell which is which.
So, the modern, slightly better captioning Me tried to get in touch with the folks at the Harvard Biz School and the Law school, thinking that with the 30th anniversary of the Class of '76, some of these pictures might be of interest.
I have to announce to you that even though I sent a cogent note, and some copies of the contact sheets, no fulsome response was forthcoming from either school. Too bad, as I cannot imagine that the subjects in some of these pictures wouldn't love to know they exist. It's one of the things we 50-somethings do so well: Dwell on our Youth.Class room shoots, a few pictures of professors,
and a nifty series on the whole class posing for the Class picture in front of a hallowed edifice, followed by the whole class running in random madness towards the photographer (me, in this case). What I wonder is: who are these folks NOW? Do the math. They would all be in their early 50s, and if you went to the Harvard Grad schools, chances are you're running much of the world as we know it. I thought when John Roberts was nominated to the court he might be in this group, but he was 1978, a whole two years later. Well, if you know anyone who went to Harvard Biz or Law school in '76, have them get in touch. You never know when a Supreme Court Justice or Captain/Lieutenant/Sergeant-Major of Industry just might have crimson in their background. We're just sayin.David
The Unquiet Car of Life
I know it has been a week since I blobbed last, and perhaps I need to explain my self. Not that hundreds of people are sitting on the edges of their Blackberrys waiting to see what the hell I may choose to write. But one interesting thing that happens if you aren't completely used to writing every day, is that it does take a certain commitment just to sit down and start writing. We have made it, perhaps, easier in the age of keyboards rather than a large Diary, or even a yellow pad and pencil. So what do we do with all these tools? Well, sometimes you just wish you could transport yourself to the Quiet Car of life.
Last Wednesday I had to return to DC from New York, and I walked from the Contact office on 38th and 9th, to Penn Station, a few blocks away. Frankly, nothing is more in the style of Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart than the act of walking out of the office at 11:15, walking 5 blocks along 8th avenue, into the Station at 11:25, whip out your Visa card, slide it thru the ticket machine at 11:28, and still have 4 minutes to grab a sandwich (a supposed Panini) and walk without hurrying to the train on track 13East with two minutes to spare. Try doing that on an airplane. You need that extra hour or hour and a half just to get to the airport, thru the ticket line, thru security and past all the stares from the other uptight fliers. The walk-on aspect of the train retains that singular innocence from the 40s and 50s when the threats to man and country were still in Asia and Europe, and not in all of our gigantesque train stations. So, ok, you get ON the train, and then, the 50s innocence dies in a matter of minutes.
You can't choose your parents, but in theory you can choose where you sit on the train. I thought I was safe: An empty row in the next to front coach car, surrounded by the usual assortment of business folks, students, weirdos and artistes. Over the next three hours, as I tried reading (both a book and e-reading courtesty of my Verizon wireless card) I was pummelled with voice Aggression from the row behind. I guess if I were smart, I'd think of it as a mini business school course: Maria S, who is planning on "building out" a new voice/internet company called "something"Voice, who was meeting on Thursday with some VC folks so she couldn't make the meeting till Friday; but then Friday she had to make a clear decision about whether or not the financing would work. Oh my God! Does it ever stop? Do people ever shut up? She never got off that damn cell fone. And worse, she ran into a guy who was apparently an old famly friend, and who, everytime she talked in her booming loud voice about the new company, ended with "guess who is sitting next to me?" She'd then put HIM on the phone, and wait for the "can you guess who this is?" as if it were really a mystery only MONK could solve. These are people who are, I suspect, tedious under normal circumstances, and when sitting together on a train. feel absolutely compelled to share their tedium with not only all of us on the train, but everyone within cell distance. The gift of communication seems to have morphed from being something we use as a tool of ideas and thought, to a self agrandising instrument of ego jolts: the louder you can talk on your fone, the more people will think you're cool
For years, Iris and I wanted to carry a small notice taped to the inside of our jackets: It would read " We dont Think Your Conversation is NEARLY as Interesting as YOU Do." It was to be flashed en passant to verbal violators, the non-Secret Sharers of the new technology. Not that people with those yappy tendencies would even understand the point. But somehow as we push ahead, using technology like a battering ram at the same time we use it as a shield, there ought to be a law. Well, I hate laws for those sort of things, at least the laws that government makes. But a law which comes from being smart; being aware, being in touch with who else is out there. That would be my kind of law. Is the Congress of Good Behaviour still in session? We're just sayin.
David
Last Wednesday I had to return to DC from New York, and I walked from the Contact office on 38th and 9th, to Penn Station, a few blocks away. Frankly, nothing is more in the style of Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart than the act of walking out of the office at 11:15, walking 5 blocks along 8th avenue, into the Station at 11:25, whip out your Visa card, slide it thru the ticket machine at 11:28, and still have 4 minutes to grab a sandwich (a supposed Panini) and walk without hurrying to the train on track 13East with two minutes to spare. Try doing that on an airplane. You need that extra hour or hour and a half just to get to the airport, thru the ticket line, thru security and past all the stares from the other uptight fliers. The walk-on aspect of the train retains that singular innocence from the 40s and 50s when the threats to man and country were still in Asia and Europe, and not in all of our gigantesque train stations. So, ok, you get ON the train, and then, the 50s innocence dies in a matter of minutes.
You can't choose your parents, but in theory you can choose where you sit on the train. I thought I was safe: An empty row in the next to front coach car, surrounded by the usual assortment of business folks, students, weirdos and artistes. Over the next three hours, as I tried reading (both a book and e-reading courtesty of my Verizon wireless card) I was pummelled with voice Aggression from the row behind. I guess if I were smart, I'd think of it as a mini business school course: Maria S, who is planning on "building out" a new voice/internet company called "something"Voice, who was meeting on Thursday with some VC folks so she couldn't make the meeting till Friday; but then Friday she had to make a clear decision about whether or not the financing would work. Oh my God! Does it ever stop? Do people ever shut up? She never got off that damn cell fone. And worse, she ran into a guy who was apparently an old famly friend, and who, everytime she talked in her booming loud voice about the new company, ended with "guess who is sitting next to me?" She'd then put HIM on the phone, and wait for the "can you guess who this is?" as if it were really a mystery only MONK could solve. These are people who are, I suspect, tedious under normal circumstances, and when sitting together on a train. feel absolutely compelled to share their tedium with not only all of us on the train, but everyone within cell distance. The gift of communication seems to have morphed from being something we use as a tool of ideas and thought, to a self agrandising instrument of ego jolts: the louder you can talk on your fone, the more people will think you're cool
For years, Iris and I wanted to carry a small notice taped to the inside of our jackets: It would read " We dont Think Your Conversation is NEARLY as Interesting as YOU Do." It was to be flashed en passant to verbal violators, the non-Secret Sharers of the new technology. Not that people with those yappy tendencies would even understand the point. But somehow as we push ahead, using technology like a battering ram at the same time we use it as a shield, there ought to be a law. Well, I hate laws for those sort of things, at least the laws that government makes. But a law which comes from being smart; being aware, being in touch with who else is out there. That would be my kind of law. Is the Congress of Good Behaviour still in session? We're just sayin.
David
The One Who Feeds Him
Who doesn’t love a good horoscope or a fortune cookie? Here’s my horoscope for today, (we didn’t eat Chinese last night).
“It’s a fine day to fight for a cause, even a hopeless one. There’s something noble about sacrificing your time and energy for a seemingly futile purpose. Later, you’ll see how meaningful your actions really are.” Holiday Mathis from the Washington Post.
Here’s my guess, Holiday is a perfectly nice person. I do prefer the NY Post horoscope because it has more of an edge, and horoscopes are nothing if not edgy. I have never had a favorite horoscope but it’s a toss up between my two favorite fortunes. My favorite so far, in my whole life, was one that said “ You are a perfect person.” And my next favorite said, “What if the hokey pokey really is what it’s all about.” It’s not clear who writes the fortunes in the cookies, but creating a 12 horoscopes everyday has to be fairly tedious. Holiday is probably exhausted creative and well intentioned and since I use the advice merely as a guide, (the fortune cookies are much better at predictions and wit) that’s enough. However, I also think holiday is probably under thirty and has never worked for a hopeless cause (which one of them isn’t) and additionally has never had any course about the meaning of words. What for example, is a fine day? Is she talking about the weather? Does she mean I will finish all my work on time? Does she know I now can’t get that damn song out of my head? And how do you talk about futility and noble in the same horoscope? Is feeling noble the only motivation for helping to do ‘good’? We Scorpio’s understand and, in fact, revel in both concepts -- but it sounds like Holiday wants more from us than we can give. Do you think I’m overreacting?
Most of my career has been spent in public service. Well maybe some people wouldn’t consider protesting everything from war to civil liberties, to civil rights to women’s equality, service but I can’t find a better category. Teaching, working for the government, trying to change the world, creating 501c3’s. (Those are organizations which are designated as non-profits – and I can guarantee you I have never made a profit,) working for peace and equality—those are for the public good if not public service. But it’s a little complicated even when you think you’re doing a good thing, to make grand statements, about single issues. At least I have some trouble with it. Like immigration—remember we blobbed about that last week. I suggested that the immigrants were going about making change without much thought about the consequences of their protests. Some blobee’s (people who read blobs) commented that they were surprised at the harsh tone of the blobber. So I tried to find something that I thought would best express what average Americans were feeling in reaction to the protests. And I found that Teddy Roosevelt said something in 1907.
"In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith, becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet an American, and nothing but an American... There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn't an American at all. We have room for but one flag, the American flag... We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language... and we have room for but one sole loyalty and that is a loyalty to the American people."
It is important to keep your tradition and culture alive and ongoing. Can and how does that reconcile with what Teddy says? Every person has to find their own way but I don’t believe any parent wants their children to do it by remaining on the fringe or as a second class citizen. So we need to find a better way—Hey, there’s a futile but noble cause! Let me stop blobbing with this story I heard from my Pal Karen:
An old Cherokee is telling his grandson about the fight that goes on inside all of us. He said it is between wolves.
One is evil: Anger, envy, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt,
resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride....
The other is good: Joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness,
benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith...
The grandson thought about it for a minute, and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf wins?"
The old Cherokee simply replied,
"The one you feed."
We’re Just Sayin…
“It’s a fine day to fight for a cause, even a hopeless one. There’s something noble about sacrificing your time and energy for a seemingly futile purpose. Later, you’ll see how meaningful your actions really are.” Holiday Mathis from the Washington Post.
Here’s my guess, Holiday is a perfectly nice person. I do prefer the NY Post horoscope because it has more of an edge, and horoscopes are nothing if not edgy. I have never had a favorite horoscope but it’s a toss up between my two favorite fortunes. My favorite so far, in my whole life, was one that said “ You are a perfect person.” And my next favorite said, “What if the hokey pokey really is what it’s all about.” It’s not clear who writes the fortunes in the cookies, but creating a 12 horoscopes everyday has to be fairly tedious. Holiday is probably exhausted creative and well intentioned and since I use the advice merely as a guide, (the fortune cookies are much better at predictions and wit) that’s enough. However, I also think holiday is probably under thirty and has never worked for a hopeless cause (which one of them isn’t) and additionally has never had any course about the meaning of words. What for example, is a fine day? Is she talking about the weather? Does she mean I will finish all my work on time? Does she know I now can’t get that damn song out of my head? And how do you talk about futility and noble in the same horoscope? Is feeling noble the only motivation for helping to do ‘good’? We Scorpio’s understand and, in fact, revel in both concepts -- but it sounds like Holiday wants more from us than we can give. Do you think I’m overreacting?
Most of my career has been spent in public service. Well maybe some people wouldn’t consider protesting everything from war to civil liberties, to civil rights to women’s equality, service but I can’t find a better category. Teaching, working for the government, trying to change the world, creating 501c3’s. (Those are organizations which are designated as non-profits – and I can guarantee you I have never made a profit,) working for peace and equality—those are for the public good if not public service. But it’s a little complicated even when you think you’re doing a good thing, to make grand statements, about single issues. At least I have some trouble with it. Like immigration—remember we blobbed about that last week. I suggested that the immigrants were going about making change without much thought about the consequences of their protests. Some blobee’s (people who read blobs) commented that they were surprised at the harsh tone of the blobber. So I tried to find something that I thought would best express what average Americans were feeling in reaction to the protests. And I found that Teddy Roosevelt said something in 1907.
"In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith, becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet an American, and nothing but an American... There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn't an American at all. We have room for but one flag, the American flag... We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language... and we have room for but one sole loyalty and that is a loyalty to the American people."
It is important to keep your tradition and culture alive and ongoing. Can and how does that reconcile with what Teddy says? Every person has to find their own way but I don’t believe any parent wants their children to do it by remaining on the fringe or as a second class citizen. So we need to find a better way—Hey, there’s a futile but noble cause! Let me stop blobbing with this story I heard from my Pal Karen:
An old Cherokee is telling his grandson about the fight that goes on inside all of us. He said it is between wolves.
One is evil: Anger, envy, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt,
resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride....
The other is good: Joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness,
benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith...
The grandson thought about it for a minute, and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf wins?"
The old Cherokee simply replied,
"The one you feed."
We’re Just Sayin…
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Connections or Maybe Six degrees of Perspiration
It was quite a ‘show biz’ day. First we went to a matinee to see Liz Callaway in a Burt Bachrach retrospective. Then we waited after the show so Jordan could thank her for the wonderful performance, (It is something that Jordan does after we see any performance. She feels that the artists, bad or good, work hard and should know they are appreciated). And she hoped to have a few wise words from the Diva. For people who don’t know the name Liz Callaway, she is one of the great Broadway musical performing artists. Her first show was a Sondheim flop, but she was cast as Grizabella in “Cats”. Personally, I think the show is boring but she did sing “Memories” which is one of Broadway’s great tunes. If you are a parent or Disney fan , she was also the voice of Anastasia in the cartoon movie. In addition, she often performs in concert and spends time encouraging young people to go after their dreams. There were very few people at the stage door so Jordan had a chance to talk with her. Jordan was about 15 and questioning whether she actually needed to go to college or would she be better off taking a few years to ‘make the rounds’—that’s show talk for going to auditions. Liz told Jordan that college was a must and that although she did not regret her career choices, she always regretted not having a college experience.
We left Liz to meet with Louise Sorel. Louise is a great actor who knows everyone in the theater, including Liz but we didn’t have that information at the time. (Louise needs her own blob, which will happen soon.) We headed over to Joe Allen’s, a before/after theater restaurant to meet Louise for a drink. We love Joe Allen’s and Joe, who we have spent many wonderful evenings with in San Casciano dei Bagni, a small village on the Umbria-Tuscany border. Are you starting to see a kind of six degrees of perspiration here. When we arrived at the restaurant Louise was the only person in the bar. We had a nice reunion and then other friends arrived and joined us. They were FOL’s. (Friends of Louise). It was thrilling for Jordan, who Louise explained to all her theater friends, was an aspiring musical theater performing artist. They couldn’t have been more gracious. Among the crowd that eventually surrounded Louise and Jordan (by this time David and I had been moved several times in order for Jordan to meet all the people who ever performed on or off the Broadway stage and we were sitting almost out the door) was an actor I recognized from LA Law, which had been off the air for a few years. John Spencer had just been cast in a new TV show called “West Wing”. Everyone was thrilled because John was a fabulous actor who had been through some hard times, including a serious bout with alcohol.
Louise shouted something to him about the fact that we were from Washington and I had been in the White House. (People from Hollywood and New York love to hear about Washington and the White House). John worked his way over and we chatted about some friends who were now advisors to the about to air show. We exchanged info and agreed that at some point we would have a ‘Washington’ dinner for him. About 7:00 people gathered themselves together and packed to leave for their Saturday commitments, but not without making suggestions or an incredible fuss over Jordan.
A few months later David was given an assignment to shoot the cast of the new drama. (David is a photographer not a hit man but the shoot/shooter stuff sometimes makes people uncomfortable—especially the people he shoots). He had a wonderful couple of days, reconnected with John and more promises were exchanged about getting together and a dinner. A few months after that John was invited to host the White House Photographers Annual Dinner and we took that opportunity to invite him to a less prestigious but much more rollicking evening at our house. He said he was thrilled to have the invitation and of course he would come. We quickly invited a few of our friends, who some might say represent ‘real’ Washington -- but most people know what they represent is ‘real’ fun. It was a delightful evening. John asked lots of questions about how everyone felt about “West Wing” and with the exception of two friends from Utah who happened to be in town, everyone was able to give him a run-down on the reality versus the fiction of the town and the show. We all agreed the world would be a better place if the people on the “West Wing” were in charge.
John was a formidable star, a generous soul and an important character element -- a Jersey boy. The character he created, although much like the person he was, made an enduring impression on everyone who knew him and an entire nation who so much wanted the “West Wing” to be what White House should be. The last few episodes without John were for us, although interesting, sad and dreadfully lonely. But the final episode was excruciatingly painful because we knew John wasn’t going to be leaving the White House and the sound stage to go on to do other things in television or his real love, on Broadway. We, as most of America and all of his friends, will miss being connected to such a fine human being. We’re Just Sayin…
We left Liz to meet with Louise Sorel. Louise is a great actor who knows everyone in the theater, including Liz but we didn’t have that information at the time. (Louise needs her own blob, which will happen soon.) We headed over to Joe Allen’s, a before/after theater restaurant to meet Louise for a drink. We love Joe Allen’s and Joe, who we have spent many wonderful evenings with in San Casciano dei Bagni, a small village on the Umbria-Tuscany border. Are you starting to see a kind of six degrees of perspiration here. When we arrived at the restaurant Louise was the only person in the bar. We had a nice reunion and then other friends arrived and joined us. They were FOL’s. (Friends of Louise). It was thrilling for Jordan, who Louise explained to all her theater friends, was an aspiring musical theater performing artist. They couldn’t have been more gracious. Among the crowd that eventually surrounded Louise and Jordan (by this time David and I had been moved several times in order for Jordan to meet all the people who ever performed on or off the Broadway stage and we were sitting almost out the door) was an actor I recognized from LA Law, which had been off the air for a few years. John Spencer had just been cast in a new TV show called “West Wing”. Everyone was thrilled because John was a fabulous actor who had been through some hard times, including a serious bout with alcohol.
Louise shouted something to him about the fact that we were from Washington and I had been in the White House. (People from Hollywood and New York love to hear about Washington and the White House). John worked his way over and we chatted about some friends who were now advisors to the about to air show. We exchanged info and agreed that at some point we would have a ‘Washington’ dinner for him. About 7:00 people gathered themselves together and packed to leave for their Saturday commitments, but not without making suggestions or an incredible fuss over Jordan.
A few months later David was given an assignment to shoot the cast of the new drama. (David is a photographer not a hit man but the shoot/shooter stuff sometimes makes people uncomfortable—especially the people he shoots). He had a wonderful couple of days, reconnected with John and more promises were exchanged about getting together and a dinner. A few months after that John was invited to host the White House Photographers Annual Dinner and we took that opportunity to invite him to a less prestigious but much more rollicking evening at our house. He said he was thrilled to have the invitation and of course he would come. We quickly invited a few of our friends, who some might say represent ‘real’ Washington -- but most people know what they represent is ‘real’ fun. It was a delightful evening. John asked lots of questions about how everyone felt about “West Wing” and with the exception of two friends from Utah who happened to be in town, everyone was able to give him a run-down on the reality versus the fiction of the town and the show. We all agreed the world would be a better place if the people on the “West Wing” were in charge.
John was a formidable star, a generous soul and an important character element -- a Jersey boy. The character he created, although much like the person he was, made an enduring impression on everyone who knew him and an entire nation who so much wanted the “West Wing” to be what White House should be. The last few episodes without John were for us, although interesting, sad and dreadfully lonely. But the final episode was excruciatingly painful because we knew John wasn’t going to be leaving the White House and the sound stage to go on to do other things in television or his real love, on Broadway. We, as most of America and all of his friends, will miss being connected to such a fine human being. We’re Just Sayin…
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
A Way To Make a Living
A Way to Make A Living
What do Advance people do after a campaign? Am I jumping ahead? OK. What are Advance people? They are the people who travel in advance of a candidate or as we used to say, ‘The Principal,’ and make everything happen. There was a time when an Advance man (yes there was also a time when they were only men), did everything - decide the type of event, the location of the event, which routes were the best to take to get to the event, which direction to walk in at the event, how to get large or small crowds to the event, how to get the media to cover the event at no cost to the campaign, what would be served at a coffee, lunch, or dinner, who would introduce the candidate, who would stand on the platform, how many flyers, buttons, credentials needed to be produced, how would they be distributed, what to do in case of rain, where to put the media for the event or an overnight, check to make sure all the toilets flushed in every room occupied with anyone associated with the campaign, make sure all the luggage was picked up and delivered to press and staff without losing a bag, plan the arrivals and departures and of course, brief the candidate on everything that was supposed to happen. Over the years the job has become specialized and one Advance person doesn’t do all those things. Now there are people who only do press, who only do sites, who only do overnights, who only do credentials, who take care of the staff, crowd building, and VIP and event coordination. They never determine any of the politics and hardly ever do the candidate briefing. Advance people today don’t know what it means to pass the hat to get to the next event, or charge a meal to an unsuspecting reporter, but I don’t want to blob about how things were when I was alive.
What is it that these multi-talented able-to-multi-task people do after the campaign is over? Some go to public relations firms, some, having made very good connections over the course of the campaign, become lobbyists, some write books, go to law school, become political consultants, some even become candidates and some start their own businesses and become trouble makers for clients.
The Da Vinci Code will open in movie theaters across the country on Friday. It was a supposedly controversial book and has been promoted as a most controversial movie. It is a novel. That means it is fiction. The movie is just that, a movie, but people need something to talk about and there-in lies the basis for promotional activity. Who and how is this done? Now I’m not saying that I know this for a positive, actual fact but you may recall “The Last Temptation of Christ” which opened to massive protests at movie theaters around the country. You may be too young to remember this film but take my word for it, there were protests all over the place. Do you think that crowds appear spontaneously and miraculously? (And there’s a tooth fairy and people are basically good). Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but those protests were carefully coordinated and choreographed by me and a number of other former Advance people. Best I can remember, a few of us (former Advance people who they knew from some campaign), were approached by a publicist from Universal Pictures. They wanted to create some buzz for the launching of the film and what did we think about helping them to build crowds of protesters in a variety of places—not only big cities because that would look too planned. They would pay us good money and we would have substantial amounts of cash to throw around. It was an Advance dream.
David and I had been married for 4 years and Jordan was only 2 but I was going to coordinate rather than travel so it was perfect. I had to talk to the publicists, and identify religious leaders and people who could shape opinion in places Universal wanted to be. Carol Innaone, a professor at NYU wrote “The film was condemned by virtually every Christian denomination, both here and abroad, was protested, picketed, subject to boycotts and bomb threats…” I don’t remember bomb threats but if there were any we probably called them in or paid someone to do it. It was a great gig. David, over hearing one of my conversations asked if the reverends, priests, etc. knew they were being manipulated. And here is the difference between an artist (David) and an activist (moi). We never manipulate, we simply see the potential in a situation, we look for common ground in ideas and beliefs, we identify the possibilities for a getting people to see a problem, merely help them to organize or give voice to an event that is potentially going to happen anyway.
So when I hear all the news noise about “The Da Vinci Code” I do not think the Catholic Church has banded together to stop the heresy, to prevent the sacrilege or to demonstrate dissent. I think, “I am really happy that a few more Advance guys have found a way to make a living." We’re Just Sayin…
Iris
What do Advance people do after a campaign? Am I jumping ahead? OK. What are Advance people? They are the people who travel in advance of a candidate or as we used to say, ‘The Principal,’ and make everything happen. There was a time when an Advance man (yes there was also a time when they were only men), did everything - decide the type of event, the location of the event, which routes were the best to take to get to the event, which direction to walk in at the event, how to get large or small crowds to the event, how to get the media to cover the event at no cost to the campaign, what would be served at a coffee, lunch, or dinner, who would introduce the candidate, who would stand on the platform, how many flyers, buttons, credentials needed to be produced, how would they be distributed, what to do in case of rain, where to put the media for the event or an overnight, check to make sure all the toilets flushed in every room occupied with anyone associated with the campaign, make sure all the luggage was picked up and delivered to press and staff without losing a bag, plan the arrivals and departures and of course, brief the candidate on everything that was supposed to happen. Over the years the job has become specialized and one Advance person doesn’t do all those things. Now there are people who only do press, who only do sites, who only do overnights, who only do credentials, who take care of the staff, crowd building, and VIP and event coordination. They never determine any of the politics and hardly ever do the candidate briefing. Advance people today don’t know what it means to pass the hat to get to the next event, or charge a meal to an unsuspecting reporter, but I don’t want to blob about how things were when I was alive.
What is it that these multi-talented able-to-multi-task people do after the campaign is over? Some go to public relations firms, some, having made very good connections over the course of the campaign, become lobbyists, some write books, go to law school, become political consultants, some even become candidates and some start their own businesses and become trouble makers for clients.
The Da Vinci Code will open in movie theaters across the country on Friday. It was a supposedly controversial book and has been promoted as a most controversial movie. It is a novel. That means it is fiction. The movie is just that, a movie, but people need something to talk about and there-in lies the basis for promotional activity. Who and how is this done? Now I’m not saying that I know this for a positive, actual fact but you may recall “The Last Temptation of Christ” which opened to massive protests at movie theaters around the country. You may be too young to remember this film but take my word for it, there were protests all over the place. Do you think that crowds appear spontaneously and miraculously? (And there’s a tooth fairy and people are basically good). Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but those protests were carefully coordinated and choreographed by me and a number of other former Advance people. Best I can remember, a few of us (former Advance people who they knew from some campaign), were approached by a publicist from Universal Pictures. They wanted to create some buzz for the launching of the film and what did we think about helping them to build crowds of protesters in a variety of places—not only big cities because that would look too planned. They would pay us good money and we would have substantial amounts of cash to throw around. It was an Advance dream.
David and I had been married for 4 years and Jordan was only 2 but I was going to coordinate rather than travel so it was perfect. I had to talk to the publicists, and identify religious leaders and people who could shape opinion in places Universal wanted to be. Carol Innaone, a professor at NYU wrote “The film was condemned by virtually every Christian denomination, both here and abroad, was protested, picketed, subject to boycotts and bomb threats…” I don’t remember bomb threats but if there were any we probably called them in or paid someone to do it. It was a great gig. David, over hearing one of my conversations asked if the reverends, priests, etc. knew they were being manipulated. And here is the difference between an artist (David) and an activist (moi). We never manipulate, we simply see the potential in a situation, we look for common ground in ideas and beliefs, we identify the possibilities for a getting people to see a problem, merely help them to organize or give voice to an event that is potentially going to happen anyway.
So when I hear all the news noise about “The Da Vinci Code” I do not think the Catholic Church has banded together to stop the heresy, to prevent the sacrilege or to demonstrate dissent. I think, “I am really happy that a few more Advance guys have found a way to make a living." We’re Just Sayin…
Iris
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Your Life as a Square
Your Life As a Square
A few years ago, in my first attempt to downsize (it was a total failure), I started to go through all our t-shirts. We have been collecting T-shirts for at least 100 years. I think I found one from the Eisenhower-Stevenson race but it was a little too worn to tell. We have T-shirts from campaigns, T-shirts from political movements, T-shirts from places we traveled, T-shirts from events – like birthdays, anniversaries, and movie openings. If I tell you I had at least 5 cartons filled to capacity, I am not exaggerating.
There I sat on the floor of our unfinished basement looking through the T-shirts I had gathered from David’s suitcases, Jordan’s floor and my drawers. Needless to say, mine were neatly folded and cleaned, theirs were otherwise. But that’s not what I wanted to blob about. It is impossible to part with old T-shirts. They represent different aspects of your life. They hold your memories, your joys, your activities, your successes and sometimes your tears. I wanted to toss them but every time I tried they miraculously reappeared right next to me in the save pile. And I’m not a saver so you can only imagine what David (who cannot part with a used battery) and Jordan (who has her father’s genes) were able to do. I gave up, put all the T-shirts back and hoped there would be a time when I could be less attached.
About six months after my attempt at ridding myself of the rags, I went to visit Pam Hance. We have known each other for nearly 55 years. Not only were we in nursery school together but I was Groman and she was Hance so we always sit next to one another in homerooms and classes. Further, I would go to church and celebrate Christmas with her, she would come to temple and celebrate Hannukah with me. When we buried the gold fish we'd conducted unsuccessful experiments on, we did it with a cross and a Jewish star. We were inseparable for many years – even though we attended different colleges. Although there was one summer when I went to Glassboro State Teachers College (Kosygin and Johnson in the 'Spirit of Hollybush'and we didn't get a T-shirt) so we could study and live together. But that’s a whole other blob. Then she moved to California and became a Sufi and I lived on the road and tried to elect a President. Hers was the wiser of the two life choices. We never lost touch and, in fact, when I was going through my divorce and was a total wreck, Seth and I went to stay with her, do Sufi dancing, sing "Rock My Soul" and just mellow out. Sometime in the 90’s Pam moved back to NJ and we reconnected in a wonderful way. Our kids were grown, our lives had changed, and although we had always had different opinions about political issues, we were still able to find common ground in our expectations about the future. In other words, we always found something to talk about.
Pam is one of my heroes. She teaches English in an urban high school in Paterson NJ. She is smart and talented and probably the most creative person alive — no joke. I was bitching about trying to clean the clutter and toss the T-shirts and Pam said, “Don’t throw them away, send them to me. Mom and I will find something to do with them.” To tell you the truth, I didn’t care. I could be rid of them, and if she used them for something, that was great; otherwise we could give them to those less fortunate — people who hadn’t been to Democratic or Republican conventions, on a Pope’s trip, the opening of a movie, a campaign to change the world for the better or a restaurant in Southern Utah.
A few weeks later she called to say the project was finished and the next time I was in Boonton (the town where they shoot some Soprano’s episodes), I could see it. And here is what I saw.
A T-shirt quilt.
We have three of them (Papa Bear, Mama Bear and one for Baby Bear). There is nothing better then wrapping yourself in your history. And you know how soft T-shirts get after 1000 washings. This is not an ad but if you have about 25-50 T-Shirts, here’s what you can do. E-mail Brillig1@gmail.com And you can have your life as a square. We're Just Sayin...
A few years ago, in my first attempt to downsize (it was a total failure), I started to go through all our t-shirts. We have been collecting T-shirts for at least 100 years. I think I found one from the Eisenhower-Stevenson race but it was a little too worn to tell. We have T-shirts from campaigns, T-shirts from political movements, T-shirts from places we traveled, T-shirts from events – like birthdays, anniversaries, and movie openings. If I tell you I had at least 5 cartons filled to capacity, I am not exaggerating.
There I sat on the floor of our unfinished basement looking through the T-shirts I had gathered from David’s suitcases, Jordan’s floor and my drawers. Needless to say, mine were neatly folded and cleaned, theirs were otherwise. But that’s not what I wanted to blob about. It is impossible to part with old T-shirts. They represent different aspects of your life. They hold your memories, your joys, your activities, your successes and sometimes your tears. I wanted to toss them but every time I tried they miraculously reappeared right next to me in the save pile. And I’m not a saver so you can only imagine what David (who cannot part with a used battery) and Jordan (who has her father’s genes) were able to do. I gave up, put all the T-shirts back and hoped there would be a time when I could be less attached.
About six months after my attempt at ridding myself of the rags, I went to visit Pam Hance. We have known each other for nearly 55 years. Not only were we in nursery school together but I was Groman and she was Hance so we always sit next to one another in homerooms and classes. Further, I would go to church and celebrate Christmas with her, she would come to temple and celebrate Hannukah with me. When we buried the gold fish we'd conducted unsuccessful experiments on, we did it with a cross and a Jewish star. We were inseparable for many years – even though we attended different colleges. Although there was one summer when I went to Glassboro State Teachers College (Kosygin and Johnson in the 'Spirit of Hollybush'and we didn't get a T-shirt) so we could study and live together. But that’s a whole other blob. Then she moved to California and became a Sufi and I lived on the road and tried to elect a President. Hers was the wiser of the two life choices. We never lost touch and, in fact, when I was going through my divorce and was a total wreck, Seth and I went to stay with her, do Sufi dancing, sing "Rock My Soul" and just mellow out. Sometime in the 90’s Pam moved back to NJ and we reconnected in a wonderful way. Our kids were grown, our lives had changed, and although we had always had different opinions about political issues, we were still able to find common ground in our expectations about the future. In other words, we always found something to talk about.
Pam is one of my heroes. She teaches English in an urban high school in Paterson NJ. She is smart and talented and probably the most creative person alive — no joke. I was bitching about trying to clean the clutter and toss the T-shirts and Pam said, “Don’t throw them away, send them to me. Mom and I will find something to do with them.” To tell you the truth, I didn’t care. I could be rid of them, and if she used them for something, that was great; otherwise we could give them to those less fortunate — people who hadn’t been to Democratic or Republican conventions, on a Pope’s trip, the opening of a movie, a campaign to change the world for the better or a restaurant in Southern Utah.
A few weeks later she called to say the project was finished and the next time I was in Boonton (the town where they shoot some Soprano’s episodes), I could see it. And here is what I saw.
A T-shirt quilt. We have three of them (Papa Bear, Mama Bear and one for Baby Bear). There is nothing better then wrapping yourself in your history. And you know how soft T-shirts get after 1000 washings. This is not an ad but if you have about 25-50 T-Shirts, here’s what you can do. E-mail Brillig1@gmail.com And you can have your life as a square. We're Just Sayin...
Monday, May 15, 2006
So How Was Your Mother's Day
How Was Your Mother's Day?
Generally speaking I am opposed to mothers day, fathers day, pets who wear coats day and any day that's not Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday -- you get the picture. It is not that I don't like celebrations but let's get real -- snail mail cards are very expensive, e-mail cards are too easy, and celebration should be about getting liquored up and behaving inappropriately, not a fancy brunch. I have asked my kids not to do or buy anything for me because I'm trying to downsize my crap and they are busy with more important things. That is not the case with my mother, who often says, every day is mothers day but doesn't mean it.
We decided to go to New Jersey for a relaxing weekend to celebrate and also see how she was doing with her new companion—we’ve now had two in two weeks. (If anyone knows a nice lady who drives and want to be my mother’s au pair please call.) And instead of going out to eat we bought tickets for "The Wedding Singer". The show, not the movie. I know what you are thinking. But, in fact, it was really fun and you should all see it...but try to do half price at TKTS because otherwise you will have to mortgage your house. We took my mother and my Aunt Irene. When I was a kid my aunt introduced me to Broadway with shows like Pajama Game, Fiorello, Milk and Honey, Bye Bye Birdie, Bells are Ringing and many more. But aside from paying her back for that important introduction, she is great company and an excellent theater critic.
But I’m jumping ahead of where I think I intended to be. Friday night we had dinner with friends and a little too much to drink. I had one of those, “Why did I do that to my body” nights, and hardly slept. At about 7:00am, I was awakened by a my mother softly but repeatedly calling my name. At first I though I was dreaming. But then I realized it was my mother and it was very early and I knew there was a problem. I leapt out of bed, and raced across the hall (it’s only about three steps) and imagine my surprise when I found my mother flat on her back on the floor. She was wearing a heavy terry cloth robe but it was opened and she was naked. I knew I couldn’t pick her up so I covered her and shouted for David. He came running (also three steps).
You know how there are times when you think, this is not the way I wanted to start the day, and more times when you know laughter is inappropriate but almost impossible to avoid. Like the time my Aunt Sophie was crossing the street, fell into a hole and disappeared, but we didn’t realize it until she didn’t answer a question we had asked. Or the time my Aunt Peppie tripped carrying a large tray full of chaluptcha’s (it’s not Mexican it’s Jewish rolled cabbage) but rather than lose even one, as she went down she maneuvered the tray so she lost none. You’re thinking we are a bunch of klutzes and it may be so but that’s not the point. People falling down is pretty funny. Food coming out of your nose while you’re laughing is even funnier. And while it is true that I didn’t actually see my mother fall, it is also true that the consequences can be equally amusing. Well, it is certainly not what I had envisioned for a relaxing mothers day but remember, I am philosophically opposed to mothers day, so what did I expect.
OK, I didn’t look at David and we didn’t laugh until we knew she was alright, and more importantly was well enough to go to the theater – remember, we had sold our first born for the tickets. We managed to get her up and found a walker for her to use for balance. It was not an altogether happy mothers day but it was not without it’s moments… like trying to get her up off a very low toilet seat at the restaurant or having to stop at David's brothers apartment (halfway to the GW Bridge) because she didn't tell us, before we left the theater, that she needed to go to the bathroom. Never mind, that’s too much information for a blob. But the good news was that our seats for the show were remarkable, my kids called but didn’t buy or do anything for me. And David forgot the cards to which I am so avidly opposed. So how was your mother’s day? We’re just sayin...
Iris
Generally speaking I am opposed to mothers day, fathers day, pets who wear coats day and any day that's not Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday -- you get the picture. It is not that I don't like celebrations but let's get real -- snail mail cards are very expensive, e-mail cards are too easy, and celebration should be about getting liquored up and behaving inappropriately, not a fancy brunch. I have asked my kids not to do or buy anything for me because I'm trying to downsize my crap and they are busy with more important things. That is not the case with my mother, who often says, every day is mothers day but doesn't mean it.
We decided to go to New Jersey for a relaxing weekend to celebrate and also see how she was doing with her new companion—we’ve now had two in two weeks. (If anyone knows a nice lady who drives and want to be my mother’s au pair please call.) And instead of going out to eat we bought tickets for "The Wedding Singer". The show, not the movie. I know what you are thinking. But, in fact, it was really fun and you should all see it...but try to do half price at TKTS because otherwise you will have to mortgage your house. We took my mother and my Aunt Irene. When I was a kid my aunt introduced me to Broadway with shows like Pajama Game, Fiorello, Milk and Honey, Bye Bye Birdie, Bells are Ringing and many more. But aside from paying her back for that important introduction, she is great company and an excellent theater critic.
But I’m jumping ahead of where I think I intended to be. Friday night we had dinner with friends and a little too much to drink. I had one of those, “Why did I do that to my body” nights, and hardly slept. At about 7:00am, I was awakened by a my mother softly but repeatedly calling my name. At first I though I was dreaming. But then I realized it was my mother and it was very early and I knew there was a problem. I leapt out of bed, and raced across the hall (it’s only about three steps) and imagine my surprise when I found my mother flat on her back on the floor. She was wearing a heavy terry cloth robe but it was opened and she was naked. I knew I couldn’t pick her up so I covered her and shouted for David. He came running (also three steps).
You know how there are times when you think, this is not the way I wanted to start the day, and more times when you know laughter is inappropriate but almost impossible to avoid. Like the time my Aunt Sophie was crossing the street, fell into a hole and disappeared, but we didn’t realize it until she didn’t answer a question we had asked. Or the time my Aunt Peppie tripped carrying a large tray full of chaluptcha’s (it’s not Mexican it’s Jewish rolled cabbage) but rather than lose even one, as she went down she maneuvered the tray so she lost none. You’re thinking we are a bunch of klutzes and it may be so but that’s not the point. People falling down is pretty funny. Food coming out of your nose while you’re laughing is even funnier. And while it is true that I didn’t actually see my mother fall, it is also true that the consequences can be equally amusing. Well, it is certainly not what I had envisioned for a relaxing mothers day but remember, I am philosophically opposed to mothers day, so what did I expect.
OK, I didn’t look at David and we didn’t laugh until we knew she was alright, and more importantly was well enough to go to the theater – remember, we had sold our first born for the tickets. We managed to get her up and found a walker for her to use for balance. It was not an altogether happy mothers day but it was not without it’s moments… like trying to get her up off a very low toilet seat at the restaurant or having to stop at David's brothers apartment (halfway to the GW Bridge) because she didn't tell us, before we left the theater, that she needed to go to the bathroom. Never mind, that’s too much information for a blob. But the good news was that our seats for the show were remarkable, my kids called but didn’t buy or do anything for me. And David forgot the cards to which I am so avidly opposed. So how was your mother’s day? We’re just sayin...
Iris
Profiles in an Aisle Seat (we ran outta courage)
I have several days of pent up demand, but I'll let most of it remain pent up: Just this -- on a flight to and back from Florida last week I had aisle seats (online checking is in fact much better than a nerdy fone operator saying that they can do NOTHING to get you out of the middle seat...).. and I ended up taking, without thinking much about it, profiles of my seat mates who were in the window seats. Nice light, not famous. Just, well.. sometimes the light is nicer than the face, but I suppose the same could be said about my hair. So.. two pictures from a week on airplanes. It's a start. It's not a half eaten Kosher hot dog, but it is a start, and there will be more and better to follow.. We re just sayin!
David
WE, they noted, Are BACK!!!
We're back on line.. sorry for the absence: a failed attempt to get a picture of iris and david onto the Profile... (how do the Dumb people do it, if we can't???) left us with improperly coded Blogspot crap. Well, that is fixed and like it or not, the BLOB is back. In fact we were ready to dispatch the National Guard to BLOB headquarters, but they were already on their way to Nuevo Laredo, to check the border. Welcome back all.. and lets start to see some participation, because, after all, We re just Sayin!
David
David
Saturday, May 13, 2006
oops
we haven't been able to publish because there has been a glitch
but, Saints Preserve us! Blogspot has fixed the glitch..
Free at least to Blob again!
but, Saints Preserve us! Blogspot has fixed the glitch..
Free at least to Blob again!
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Simple Pleasures
One of the toughest things to try and teach kids in this modern overly-affectated (that IS a word, right?), sensory-overloaded, materially indulged world is the concept of the simple pleasure. Bare feet on grass during summer (though not when you get stung by a bee for it), a perfectly creamy café latte in either the best American coffee house for about four bucks, or any bar in any town or gas station in Italy for a buck and a half kind of give you an idea of what I mean. Yesterday, following a long day of shooting pictures at a high school in Florida, -- which had its own moments of watching that pleasing glint in a smart kids eye as they attacked a question from a teacher and wrestled it to the ground (the question, not the teacher) – I found myself on one of the giant 6 or 8 lane roads peopled by the signs of modern America – fast food, 7-11, three dollar gasoline, and of course Payless shoes that paragon of modern marketing, and in which I should by now own a large chunk of equity, given the money the Burnetts have transferred to their coffers in search of “just one more..” pair of shoes. The place which caught my eye, and not by accident, was Costco. Yes, our absolutely favorite big box – the yuppies best friend. Ostensibly I needed a 2 gigabyte memory card for my digital camera (you know you can always find an excuse when you need one!), so I parked, walked in, flashed my membership card and headed to the digital corner at the front of the store. As a Member (hm.. when is that Membership Organization committee meeting going to be held?), I beheld the 40 inch plasma screens and all the other goodies which emanate from somewhere else, that somewhere usually being Taiwan, Japan, or China. Yes, so much of what is in that store, and virtually all of what is sold in Walmart, comes from somewhere else. China, in the main, India perhaps a close second, but remarkably little from Idaho Falls, Harrisburg, or Amarillo. Well, they didn’t have the memory card I needed (they only had the 1 gig cards, I needed two), so at that moment, the “simple pleasure” light went on in my personal dashboard. I passed thru the uncrowded cashiers (you always feel guilty in passing up a No-Line cashier at Costco, given how much jostling we do when there IS a crowd) to the snack bar. And there, for a buck and a half, I scored the best deal in modern American cuisine. Yes, the Costco ‘dog. Drink (I do wish they would upgrade the iced tea) included, and the aluminum foil wrapped steamy bread and dog with relish and mustard: how can you go wrong. And here is the thing: not only does it taste, especially the first three bites, better than anything at Mortons or Ruth’s Chris, but it just fills you with good feelings, the kind they ascribe to Meat loaf. Talk about comfort. Ah, yes. The best. And to those who bellyache (literally) about the lousy quality of hot dogs in this day and age, and I’ll admit that some of the New York hot dog guys leave the dogs laying in that water a little too long. I mean, I was in the bio lab at the high school and they could have had a field day with some of the New York Hot Dog Water. But think about it this way: the Bun… American grown flour. The dog: Beef Kosher. Now whatever else happens with the Jack Abramoff White House Visitor logs, I will still continue to believe that Kosher means Kosher, and that for a Hot dog, that is saying something. Yes, it’s all grown here in the U.S. Perhaps one of the few items in the store that didn’t add to the Balance of Payments deficit. And oh, was it good. Mindful, though of my ongoing effort to lose a little weight by the simple concept of (no Thirds or Fourths) portion control, I ate 2/3 of it then reluctantly dropped the balance into the trash. And there you have it: simple pleasure of the day #1: good taste, more than one bite, but less than the Whole Damn Thing (giving up something you know you should is also a simple pleasure but it ranks behind eating a hot dog). Now, how do I pass that sense of feeling sated on to the next generation? Or did I just do it? We re just sayin.
David
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