A Fun Visit "Home"

When I finally moved to Washington in 1977, (that’s when I moved out of my car and stopped driving between Boston and DC every weekend) we would drive around the monuments and Marthena would always exclaim, “How fortunate we are to live in such a beautiful place.” And she was right. Whatever you may think of the government and all the elected officials, it is a physically beautiful place to live. If you are lucky enough to be part of whatever Administration gets into power, you also find that it is not only gorgeous, it can be a great deal of “heady fun.” (OK, that may have been mostly in the past, but if it wasn’t some fun, no one would live there.) We don’t live there anymore, but there are delightful memories that I keep alive not only by telling, and retelling them, but by having friends in an Administration who are kind enough to celebrate special events with me.

with Tara, Heidi, Kerry, and Nadine Last Tuesday, Tara D. Sonenshine was sworn in as the Under Secretary for Public Affairs and Public Diplomacy at the United States Department of State. And yes, the job is even more important than the size of the title. There have been any number of people who have held this position, mostly when it what was The Director of the United States Information Agency (which was integrated into the State Department and no longer exists as one of 92 independent government agencies.) Public Affairs and Public Diplomacy have nothing to do with Public Relations. Unfortunately, preceeding Tara’s appointment, most of the Undersecretary’s never understood this. Most wanted to sell the United States to the rest of the world as if it were a product – toothpaste or perhaps a brightening detergent. This job oversees all the Exchanges programs, from Nannys to the Fulbright scholars. She is responsible for all the media operations, (libraries and electronic) cultural and educational programs in the embassies throughout the world, as well as the People to People programs operating in the U.S. This may be too much information, but for the first time in years, this Undersecretary knows that the US is not a product. Additionally, it’s as important to listen to what the rest of the world is telling us, as it is to tell our story. The Information, Public Affairs, and Press officers who serve Tara, understand how important this is. And having a leader who respects the importance of what they do because she understands how important Public diplomacy (people to people) – which differs from Political diplomacy (government to government) -- can be, means a great deal, especially during these chaotic years.

Without presenting her resumé, when the Secretary of State administered the Oath of Office — which still moves me to tears — she knew that those programs were in most competent and loving (her family is as important as any job) hands. In or out of government, being invited to that event was still great fun.

Last night was the White House Correspondents dinner (otherwise known as the “prom” of media dinners). It was the public event I loved most of all when we were in DC. The first of these dinners to which I was invited in 1977, my dinner partner was Henry Kissinger. That was only the beginning. For the first four years, I was invited by a news organization (who invite potential “newsmakers” to their tables. At the table there were always celebrities, politicians, and an assortment of reknown characters. After the dinner, there were always parties (also invited) but I was never turned away. When the Administration ended, I no longer got invites from news organizations. (You just don’t if you are one of the great unwashed.) But I still attended because my wonderful friend, Steve Daley (with the Chicago Trib) invited me to go with him. He did not invite me as a source or to make an impression. He invited me because he didn’t have to babysit for me. We worked the room separately – but always enjoyed when we would happen upon one another conversing with some colorful character. I wore the same dress every year (my Mother’s head to toe, white sequin gown.) And he was dressed smartly in a handsome tuxedo. It was always an amazing evening, where you got to see everyone in DC that you knew, and to meet everyone at the dinner who you wanted to know. Steve passed away this year. The loss of my friend was such that going to the “Prom” was simply not as important to me. In fact, if I wasn’t going with Steve, I didn’t want to go. When you live in Washington, there are those events which position you as a player. This was one of them. I just didn’t want to play without my excellent playmate. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Oh, Those Cousins

This is one of those “sometimes you are so random, Iris” blobs. Yesterday, we rented a car so that I could go home, and David could keep shooting and not have to move all his camera crap from one place to another. As oft happens with different GPS systems, , they each give you different directions. We decided the smart thing to so would be for me to follow him .

the alleged GPS guidance vehicle Turns out, it was not so smart, because he does not know how to drive in a motorcade. He lost me at the orange light in North Brunswick – which he sped through as if he didn’t make it he would be punished for male hesitation. We were in rush hour traffic, so I turned on my GPS, which took me to the front of the hotel instead of the garage. It took me an hour to make the turn necessary to get me where I wanted to go. Actually, it took me only an hour because I took two illegal left hand turns. OK, I did give him the finger as I followed an ambulance past him. But that was appropriate behavior. Here’s the point, if he was a volunteer driver in my campaign motorcade, I would have fired him. Yes, I am sorry to share this information, but I think it’s only fair for every blob reader to know that you should never try to follow David Burnett, or any guy who has set the Land Speed record as their lifetime goal. But that’s not what I wanted to blob about.

Who knew? It was not really a surprise, but it was certainly not something I expected – it was always there but never articulated. My cousins are really special. I guess I have always known that. But it took so many years for me to see it as clearly as I do now. Maybe it’s because the first generation is gone and we wanted to make certain that we “carried on” in the way they would have insisted we do. It was without the fighting and the yelling – but we still heard their voices in our heads. (And also we do pretty good imitations of them.) Or maybe it’s because you take for granted those things that you have always had, but they are not be taken for granted—ever. Passover was an eye opener. My cousins all came together to make sure that the legacy continued. Everyone participated in whatever way they could. Even if was just to enjoy. It was all good. We had such an extraordinary time. There were sixty people in attendance. Originally, we thought there would be maybe, 30 –maybe. Then, when we started counting, it was fifty. Ultimately it was sixty. The comments I get are usually, “Geez, sixty people, the service must go on and on.” It doesn’t. We tell the story of the Jews making their infamous getaway. We say and then sing the Four Questions, and Dayenu, we eat, we talk, we drink (grape juice of course), we laugh, we catch up, we celebrate being together. Most importantly, we remember those who gave us this amazing gift of family, and we hope that, as Aunt Peppy says, “it continues long after we’re gone.” There was no drama and no politics. The people who could come, came. The people who weren’t able to attend, sent notes, or regrets, or hopes that they would see us all next year. It was a living, loving tribute to the past, and hopes for the future. It was a partnership. It was at my house, but that was just the place —like it had been at Aunt Sophie’s, Aunt Peppy’s, and Rosalie’s. It was everyone’s Seder and it will come as no surprise to know, it was perfect. We’re Just Sayin’ …. Iris

Twere a Distant Solstice

An adventure, just like in Paris, only it was a little closer. For a change, let's begin at the beginning.

Since neither of us wanted to drive through the Holland tunnel and, over the Bayonne bridge, (horrific even when the conditions are perfect). We (matty's old, my new friend David), decided we would take public transportation to see Matty's new musical, Goddess Wheel, at The Snug Harbor Cultural Center, on Staten Island. (yes, all the details are important). The show was wonderful so, well worth the effort.

We met at the Ferry, he was standing under the second A, in the enormous sign that announces you have arrived at the dock. It's been a long time since I was on that Ferry and it was going to be a pretty exciting adventure. The trip over was easy and simple -- subway to the ferry, ferry to the Staten Island terminal, short bus ride to the cultural center, off the bus, through the gate, short walk to the reception, lovely fruit, over to the theater, enjoyed the show, ready to head back to the Ferry exactly the way we came. Not going to happen.

It was raining, we had to walk around the building we had come through, over to the gate to catch the bus. The gate was locked. All the gates were locked on the bus side of the center. Walked back around the building, hoping to find an exit or maybe a cab. ( In our dreams). We did find the parking lot, there were no cabs, it was raining harder. Here's where it get's like Paris (and yes, here comes the name dropping).

I was helping to plan a Presidential trip to France, and as I always did when I was in Paris, my accommodations were at Ambassador Harriman's official residence. Needless to say, it was glorious. My suite overlooked THE gardens. Do I need to describe how elegant, how amazing, how, how, how.... I think not. Anyway, it was summer solstice. There was an area in Paris where hundreds of musicians gathered and there was a festival on the streets -- many streets. Along with the Ambassador's assistant and another female diplomat, we ventured on the Metro to this outdoor party. We sang and danced and ate and celebrated the beginning of summer with thousands of new Parisian friends. At about 12:30am, we decided to start back to the Embassy. No one told us that the Metro shut down at 1:00. So, there we were, somewhere on some street in Paris, at 1am. It had started to rain and wherever we were, there were no cabs, no people, no nothing. There was no choice but to start walking. And walking and walking and more walking. Now it was 3am. Still raining, still no one. And then, there were lights, an actual vehicle approaching. I ran into the street hoping whomever was driving would not run me over. Although, by that time we were so tired we would have welcomed an ambulance.

The teacher who rescued us was curious about why three American women were walking alone, in that section of Paris, in the middle of the night. He was especially interested in our destination -- the Ambassador's residence. There was really no way to explain the Adventure, especially the hitch-hiking (which was obviously not an acceptable means of transportation for diplomats in France -- ooh what would Pamela have thought, and we promised one another that we would never tell the story. But it was simply too amusing not to share. So what does this have to do with Staten Island? Well, in desperation I once again threw myself into the street and hailed a car to take us to the Ferry.

We waited about a half hour for the boat. We walked to the subway, but the 4 and 5 weren't running. We hopped aboard a West side #1 train. At 42nd St. I tried to change to an E, to continue uptown but east. The E was not running. I wandered back to the crosstown 7, waited for 10 minutes (because now it was raining and late into the night). Prayed that the 6 would still be running, (it was), took it to the 51st Lex stop, and finally arrived home a mere 4 hours after leaving the theater.

All in all, it was a lovely evening. And if nothing else, it gave me a great excuse to finally tell the solstice story. We’re just sayin’.... Iris

It's About Women, Not Gaps

As has often been said during Presidential campaigns, (and it doesn’t matter which political party is having the conversation) there is a GENDER GAP. Both parties argue about which side has the largest gap -- in the past there has been little contest – the Republicans have been the gappiest. And in the past the Democrats figured that women had no place to go but the Democratic party. The 'dialogue' is about how to deal with the gender gap, and it usually takes place between a bunch of men.

What’s wrong with that picture? The Democrats take the women’s vote for granted, and the Republicans have no clue about why women would hesitate to be Republicans. But they can’t get out of their own way in terms of policy decisions that will inevitably have an impact on women.

In order to explain the hows and whys of this, allow me take you for a trip down memory lane. Whatever else you want to say about Bill Clinton (and yes you can make many dirty or snide jokes about it), but during the Clinton Administration, women were in powerful government positions, and the West Wing did do their best to open channels of communication with non-governmental individuals and groups. We had a great time finding ways to make the public and government officials understand the important role that women could play if they had a voice in policy decisions. We created the White House Women’s Office, the Interagency Council for Women, and we selected delegations to world conferences that were truly representative of a cross section of women. We looked like America -- Republicans, Democrats, (conservatives and liberals), different religions, colors, cultures, organizations, sizes, temperaments and on and on. You could take a picture and see that this was an honest attempt to make sure that everyone felt included.

Flash forward to the Bush Administration. They eliminated the White House Women’s Office, the Interagency Council, and any remnant of the progress we had made in the government. They said that those things merely marginalized women and they didn’t want to marginalize us. It’s what men (Dems and Repubs) always say about any mechanism that insures women have some input in decisions which affect them.

What the men, who have always had the power, don’t get is that issues of concern to women go well beyond health, education, social issues and children. Women care deeply about the economy, national security, technology, privacy, government interference in our personal lives, and just about everything from birth to death,

Clearly, there is a gender gap. But the reason for it is because women talk about these things in ways that differ from the way men talk about them. For men, everything is black and white; women see shades of gray. Men make lists of things, women describe the items on a list. Men “cut to the chase”, women tell a story. Regardless of beliefs, women do not want men to usurp their ability to decide about their lives. Here’s an example. A woman may not believe in abortion, but she certainly does not want a man (and especially an elected official), to tell her if she can use birth control, or determine what happens in her bedroom.

Despite the stupidity of the Repubs trying to take women back to the dark ages, the Obama Administration will have to do some serious repair work if they expect women to vote at all. In the last election there were a number of us who were liaisons to the Hillary advocates, because rather than vote for Obama, they were simply not going to vote at all. Most of those important liaison people did not get government positions in order to advocate for an agenda that paid some attention to their issues. As a consequence, people who were not well versed in women’s priorities, (children) had no idea about what was acceptable and unacceptable in terms of a women’s agenda. The Obama White House was not women friendly. Mistakes were made. The men who did -- and do -- surround the President didn’t have a clue. And calling on the First Lady to be visible and involved simply may not be enough to repair the damage. Women may not vote for the Republican nominee. But there is no guarantee that they will vote for the President. The gender gap may be measured by how many women will choose not vote at all. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

apples and oranges -- oil and water?

Some would say it’s apples and oranges – you be the judge.

Gas prices are out of control. Every week we hear that they have peaked and will start to go down. But they just keep going up. If the President would simply suggest that he’s going to okay the pipe line from Canada. Repeal oil subsidies. Go into the oil reserves. Or allow additional drilling in the Gulf, you would see the prices drop - really drop. He actually doesn’t have to do anything. Just the mere suggestion that he’s going to seriously consider an energy policy that deals with the realities of what exists now (solar power, and corn, are not part of that reality), prices would drop immediately.

Santorum dropped out today, so we don’t have to worry about lunatics in the White House. Romney will be the nominee. A failed Governor instead of a failed Senator. Is that the good news? So what better slogan for Obama then, “Geez, look who I’m running against”.

I don’t mean to be snarky, because I believe there is no choice but to support the President. But it is as worrisome as when Gore ran against Bush. What didn’t matter to the general public was that Bush was incompetent to be the President. (and I mean that in the nicest possible way). He had no sense of himself, history or a curiosity about the world. But it didn’t matter. He was a likeable backslapping guy, who if he drank beer, would have been a good choice for a beer partner. This is not the case with Romney. He is neither likeable, nor does he have nay clue about the way real people have to live.

But Obama, and all the VIP elected officials (VP, Speakers, rich people, etc) are also pretty out of touch. They have no idea what it means to chose between gas, food and medicine, because you can’t afford all. They simply have no idea how all the people, who are not elected officials, or the very rich, have to survive.

There I went digressing again, when none of this, (except not having a clue), is not what I want to blob about.

We had a friend that, rather then get up to see if there was any butter, would simply say, “is there any butter”, and expect someone – preferably female—to jump up and check to see. It was not malicious or sexist, it was just the way he was used to asking for something. We dealt with it by answering “I don’t know, is there any…?” Men are good at figuring out how to avoid tedious tasks. Someone told me about her husband who would take a wet cloth and wipe a single window sill, and say, “I just can’t stand to see dirt” When at the same time, he tracks mud into the bathroom, never wipes the tub down after a shower, and rather than actually look for something that appears to be lost, simply says “I can’t find it” Which means, “so you have to look for it”

What does this have to do with gas prices? Well, like the President, who has no idea how painful it is to fill a gas tank. Some men, have no idea what it means to delegate all the crappy tasks to their wives/partners. If they had to clean the house themselves, it would be a whole lot less likely that they would expect the cleaning, laundry, cooking,and looking, to be their beloved’s job. It’s not apples and oranges. It’s just when you don’t have to suffer any pain, you have no idea how painful any of this can be for someone who does. We're Just Sayin.... Iris

Gefilte Fish Central, 2012 Edition

Gefilte Fish Central, here to report that the weekend of Seders, just couldn’t have been more amusing. For whatever the reason, maybe because it’s spring and spring always feels, fresh and clean and like all life is renewed, Passover, not New Years, is how I mark the beginning of the calendar year.


This is the first Passover that we had no one from the first generation to turn to for advice or instruction. And even though The Gefilte Fish Chronicles COOKBOOK serves a purpose, it, like my mother and my aunts, calls for a great deal of guess work. Last year, although Aunt Peppy was infirmed, we still could ask her important questions. Like, do you put the eggs in before or after you “hock” the fish (like chopping, but you do it with more enthusiasm, it takes longer, and the fish seems to fight back.) Or, how long do you need to cook the soup? Because, it seems that no matter how many times you prepare the same meal (over 25 years for me) you can never remember how to put it together. It takes a team to do it right. Our mothers understood that. They didn’t duplicate jobs. Everyone did everything. They all thought they were in charge of something. They shopped, chopped, hocked, seasoned, mixed, tasted, disagreed, talked, yelled, screamed, carried on, and never forgot the love they felt for one another.

This was both a difficult and marvelous year for me. It was difficult health wise, and we moved, and we lived in one bedroom/one bathroom for longer than I care to remember. Having almost recovered from the loss of my Aunt Sophie, and my mother, Aunt Peppy died. Kind of a one, two, three, punch. If you have suffered the loss of a parent, you understand the loneliness one feels when it seems there is no one to listen, or to hear, or who will be there as unconditionally as a parent. And for most of us, we had at least four or five parents, not just the one who birthed us. (Don’t you love the word birthed—its so Southern.)

They are all gone. Not that we don’t still think we can call them when something awful or hysterical happens, it’s just that they no longer pick up the phone.
Stephanie & Gary
Honey & Milan
Billy, Iris & Honey
a roomful of Cousins
The family has become geographically scattered over the years. When we moved to Newburgh, we chose the location because I had family there and we really needed to find a new support system. (Our Washington family was not blood, but they certainly provided a wonderful support system for about 30 years.) It isn’t easy to replace those connections. Anyway, it turned out that it was a very good decision for many reasons – not the least of which was a reconnection with the Newburgh cousins, but in addition this Passover, we (all the cousins – Florida, New York, Massachusetts and on and on) became a Team. Without any of the first generation, the second, third, fourth, and even fifth generations came together to as a Team orchestrate the most beautiful (emotionally) Seder in all my memory. The baton was passed and we took it, ran with it, and surpassed all expectations. The Matzoh balls floated feather-light. The Fish was a perfect excuse to eat Horse Radish. The Chicken was divine. And the Cholent—don’t Ask!

our array of tables
a veritable car lot on Dogwood Hills
Jack reads...
Lovey, Honey & Rosalie
Well, go ahead and ask, but there just isn’t any left to take home. It was truly a family affair and we knew, as we made our way through the service, that the first generation (probably at their own Seder), was proud beyond belief, that everyone who could, came to Newburgh to be together for this beginning of a New Year. A thank you to all my beloved cousins/family for an amazing holiday. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Tracy & Debbi

Gen.4 passes Gen. 5 to Gen.3

the Birthday girls: Milan, Tracy, Brett, Madison

Bones, Gas, and Unattractive

For years, I refilled my Boniva prescription every month, because I knew that if I didn’t, my bones would fall apart. Like some TV skeleton, I would simply disintegrate before your eyes. Well not yours necessarily, but you get the picture. Last time I went to pick up the prescription , they said I had to pay my deductible so it would cost me $135 to fill a $35 prescription—which, if I didn’t have insurance would have cost about $175 without the deduction.

Anyway when I went today, the pharmacist said it would be $75. “Really,” I said. “For the last three years I paid $35. Why did it go up?” He said it was because the drug was now available in generic, so the price went up. “Wait a minute,” I said. “If there’s a generic wouldn’t they lower their prices?” Apparently not. But now the cost of the generic was – you guessed it.. $35. What the…? Otherwise known as “OH PLEEEEEZE!”

Gas is up to over $4 a gallon in most states. So here’s what I think—why didn’t the White House think of this as well. First of all the President hasn’t driven a car or had to pay for gas, since it was $1.89 a gallon. He and most of his policy wonks (who have lots of money, mostly in trust) cannot possibly understand what it means when a person needs to choose between, gas, food, and medication. All serious needs. However, if the President were to suggest that we are going to open areas for oil development or approve the pipeline through Canada—I can almost guarantee the prices of gas would drop. And not just drop—but drop significantly. We have to remember the gas and oil companies have had record profits, while the general public has had to swallow hard every time they make a trip to the pump. It’s amazing, but when the supermarket I shop at gives me (as a reward for loyal buying) 10c, 20c and maybe even 90 cents off a gallon, I think I’m the luckiest person in the universe. And when gas is at $3.50, as opposed to $4.07, I am thrilled by how “inexpensive” the fuel is…. Well what more do you need to know?

Was that enough whining for tonight?

The other night I was out to dinner with my very cool adorable young cousin. I was facing in and my cousins were facing the door. At some point, one of them said, “this is the ugliest crowd I have ever seen in one place.” I didn’t need to be facing the door to know it was true. There was ugly everywhere. It didn’t matter if you faced out or in or upside down. And the thing that was amazing was that the “ugly” was intentional. The people actually dressed themselves to be unattractive.

My son by choice, Alex, and I have spent hours and hours doing fashion commentary about people we see on the street. He is so much better at it than I am, but he’s younger and seemingly not intimidated by everyday niceties. So the other day when were were walking on 3rd Avenue, there was a woman who’s outfit screamed critical evaluation – otherwise known as critical Assessment - or ‘welcome to the real world.’

There she was, big as life, walking right in front of me, in her metallic blue stretch pants. Don’t misunderstand, I adore anything glittery or metallic. But, I also know what I (and other people) should be wearing to compliment their bodies. The blue metal did not work on this young woman. And, if she would have looked in the mirror, (I hope) she would have realized how (I’m going to be kind), unlikely she looked in them. Yes, I meant unlikely because it’s unlikely that she looked in the mirror.

Anyway, my everyday clothing is sweats, a t-shirt and often a schmata (tied in a little bow) in my hair. So I am probably not entitled to evaluate what other people wear. But at least I know when I look good and when I’m not trying. And truthfully, I do clean up very nicely. We’re just sayin’....Iris

Oh, No You Can't Do That!

Try as I might I just can’t help writing about stupid political tricks, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. Newt Gingrich, requested Secret Service protection last week and guess what? He got Secret Service protection this week. “ OH PLEEEEEZE”

You may ask yourself, why? You are not alone. I’m still scratching my head. Here’s the law:
“Major presidential and vice presidential candidates and their spouses within 120 days of a general presidential election. As defined in statute, the term "major presidential and vice presidential candidates" means those individuals identified as such by the Secretary of Homeland Security after consultation with an advisory committee. The Secret Service (SS), has no role in determining who is to be considered a major candidate. The Secretary of the Homeland Security determines who qualifies as a major candidate….”
on the Romney trail, last month
Let me get this straight. Janet Neapolitan decided that Newt Gingrich is a major Presidential Candidate? Well, maybe a month ago, but now? He hasn’t participated in a campaign event in weeks. Not that I blame him for the request. It’s much more fun and convenient to travel with SS than without, especially if you are tired of making your own travel arrangements, driving your own car, and having to be bothered with people you don’t like. It falls in that realm of “it’s nice to be king”.

When I started in politics (yes I rode my dinosaur to work), The Secret Service protected the Candidate, and the candidate’s family when they were together. They never made decisions about the security at any campaign event. It worked like this; the campaign staff would design the event. It usually meant throwing the Candidate into the middle of (we all hoped) a screaming crowd which was driven to tears by the mere thought of getting to see this splendid political force (who they hoped would lead the nation). The Secret Service would consult with the campaign, usually insisting that the Candidate be put in a bullet proof glass box, and never allowed to shake a hand. The final arbiter in the discussion of how the candidate was introduced, was usually the campaign manager or, if the discussion got heated, the Candidate. In other words, the Secret Service would spell out the kind and seriousness of the threat, and offer suggestions about how to avoid a life threatening situation. The staff would insist that the politics of the event be considered, and ultimately, the Secret Service would protect the Candidate whatever was decided about the event. These, brave people, were willing to take a bullet for their protectee—which could not be said by any staff I ever knew – but the politics and the opinions of the professional political operatives , would be taken into consideration.

This is no longer the case. Every campaign aide thinks they are working with/for the Secret Service to protect the Candidate from the media and the public. Everyone who attends a political event, a parade, or anywhere the Candidate appears, is subject to serious scrutiny, and ultimately security will make the decision about who gets to be wherever – even if the intruder is an important political asset. Yesterday, two people who were kissing were removed by Santorum’s security detail. They weren’t lewd or obstreperous – but even if they were, why is that a threat to the candidate’s personal safety. (One of the reasons a Candidate has SS.)

Let’s be real here. The simple fact is that it’s easier for the SS, or police, to simply shut something down than to have to deal with the inconvenience of securing a site. That is not to say that the SS chooses to make it easy rather than complicated, but that should be taken into consideration when no one is permitted to cross a street six miles from where the Candidate will be. Security, like everything else about politics and campaigning, has simply decided on overkill rather than thoughtful planning and administering any political policy.

If you hurry, you can still get somewhat close to the Candidates. But make it quick, because by the time there is a nominee, you thinking you actually saw the Candidate will be a figment of your imagination. We’re just sayin’… Iris

To the Wearin' o' the Green

Oh Danny Boy

Irish music, Irish dancing, Irish Coffee, and in fact the whole country, are some of my favorite things. But David says I’m just an old fart, because I don’t get the attraction of celebrating a holiday that mostly celebrates a good excuse for getting drunk. Is it that my age is showing? Or is it because I am just not any fun anymore? “OH PLEEEEZE”. It’s because where we live in NYC there are lots of Irish bars (Eamon’s, Dubliner) and by early evening there are a great many under- and over- aged people likely to be screaming obscenities, not singing celebratory Irish melodies, but throwing beer bottles and vomiting on our front steps, It’s just not my favorite day in the City.

The President went to an Irish bar on the Hill, and had himself a Guinness with the boys. Of course he did. When you are a politician and it is a political season, you either march in a St Paddy’s Day parade, or you go to an Irish bar a drink a beer –preferably green.

We thought we might have a glimpse of the St. Pat’s Day parade in NYC. What a terrible mistake. There we were walking East to West. We though it might be a good day to get half price theater TKTS – since all the tourists were watching the parade – or being in it. I’m not sure anyone but the marchers were watching the parade. The police had Madison Avenue, and 6th Avenue sealed. There was no way to even gain access to the parade. David even had on his press credentials and they did not care. No one was getting from Mad or 6th across 5th, at least not in the 30’s, 40’s or 50’s. Of course we all know what a terrible threat those drunk Irish teenagers can be, so it made absolutely great sense not to allow anyone in the entire city to see the earnest marchers strut their stuff. “OH PLEEEZE”!
the revellers arrving at Grand Central
Does anyone actually know why this holiday is celebrated? Well, I found out.
Patrick was born in Roman Britain in the fourth century, into a wealthy Romano-British family. His father was a deacon and his grandfather was a priest in the Christian church. At the age of sixteen, he was kidnapped by Irish raiders and taken captive to Ireland as a slave – nothing to celebrate so far. According to his Confession, he was told by God in a dream to flee from captivity to the coast, where he would board a ship and return to Britain. In 432, he again said that he was called back to Ireland, (Pay close attention), to Christianize the Irish from their native polytheism. Irish folklore tells that one of his teaching methods included using the shamrock to explain the Christian doctrine of the Trinity to the Irish people – hence the color green—(at first the Irish color was blue) Today, it is a celebration of bringing Christianity to Ireland. (And the drinking?) It also celebrates the end of lent and the brewing of great lager.

This blob sounds a little to whiny for my taste, so for the short time we have left, let’s change view. What I love about St Paddy’s Day, is that there is one day a year when everyone wants to be Irish – or at least dress in green. People of all colors, shapes and sizes, find something in common to celebrate. And whether it is the act of getting drunk or going to church, everyone really seems to like everyone else. (Except women with baby carriages who use them as a weapon to negotiate their way thru crowds). Everyone finds something attractive and friendly about being one thing. In this case it’s Irish, but wouldn’t it be lovely to find many days for everyone to like the same thing. And, by the way, Danny Boy was just a set of unsuccessful lyrics until finally sung to the tune of Londonderry Air – that most newcomers from Ireland have never heard. Why does one song make so many people cry?

I miss Steve Daley. We’re just sayin’... Iris

Oh Pleeze v. 2

Admittedly, there are things that happen everyday that deserve to be punctuated with an “OH PLEEEZE,” but here are just a few from today.

The television division of General Electric has made a decision to recognize Donnie Deutsch as a man for all seasons. He can is political strategist, marketing guru, relationship counselor, body builder extraordinaire, and all around all-American boy… OH PLEEEEZE!

Rick Santorum could be the Republican nominee for President of the United States….
OH PLEEEEZE!.

In real life, fitness clubs are for people who look great, want to meet a significant other, and are young, fashionable and in excellent health… OH PLEEEEEZE!

Which brings us to the subject of the blob for today…. Is Planet Fitness an earthy endeavor?

Yes, we watch and enjoy The Biggest Loser. We find it inspirational. Not so much because people lose weight but because people change their lives in order to be happier, or at least more satisfied about who they want to be, in this lifetime. Truth is, almost all the people we root for are eliminated before the final four. Almost. There have been seasons when we were happy with the ending – but that is not what usually happens. You see, we are the kind of people who like when the contestants make decisions based on supporting rather than gaming to eliminate their competition. Of course, that means they stop playing the “game” and just figure out as many ways as possible for everyone to be successful, (which usually means the person we like the least – because they are ruthless and self centered) – will emerge as the biggest loser.

So when we saw that Planet Fitness was one of the show sponsors, we figured that it was absolutely not the place we wanted to be. We were wrong. We had belonged to other clubs in NYC (24 Hour Fitness and Equinox) and they were convenient and had the equipment we liked but they were not without issues. Such as, the people who belong spend a great deal of time posing – in front of mirrors, in front of other members, and while they are working out.

At the Planet Fitness in Newburgh NY, (and I assume most of them), there are signs all over that encourage their clients to --- be who they are, do what they can do, not feel pressured by other people, and to be responsible for cleaning the machines they use. This last item seems trivial, but at Equinox there are people whose job it is to keep the club clean. And they make it a point to make you aware of how much cleaning they do. So, they clean right on top of you without any sense that you might want to be exercising. At 24 Hour Fitness, they don’t clean on top of you, but they don’t have wipes readily available if you should want to clean your own machine. Planet Fitness has wipes available about every five feet. And people actually clean their machines before and after use. There is no one who feels entitled to have others clean for them. The Biggest Loser has inspired people young and old, big and small, groups and individuals, to start to move. They may not use the machines as correctly as they should, but there are lots of people available to give direction. And unlike 24 Hour or Equinox, if you aren’t paying for private training, you can still find someone who can answer questions and show you the right way. These people are real people. The conversations (and yes, people do have conversation) are about ordinary things like – work, play, childbirth, marriage, the stresses of life, the cost of gas, new items at Dunkin Donuts, plans for vacations, and how to be happy. There is no pretention about who they are, and no competition about how they are dressed. There are always enough machines and when one is broken (unlke the aforementioned clubs) it never takes more than a day before they are repaired.

OK, we like Planet Fitness and we love the idea that regardless of socio-economic status, everyone cane be fitter, with a little work and some non judgmental encouragment. What is there to say beyond, it’s OK to be comfortable about wanting to be fit without having to feel like you don’t deserve it. We’re just sayin’… Iris

OH PLEEEZE

David decided that if I had a TV show, it would be called, “OH PLEEEEZE!”
The format would be me and one or two guests who would reveal sincere beliefs about contemporary topics. And I would comment on what they say. Here are a few examples:


1. One of the Virginia politicians who decided that a woman must have an internal sonagram before an abortion. And who also decided that a fetus has the same rights as all other citizens. Are the same people who refuse to grant gays and lesbians the right to marriage. So what does this mean?

Oh I know, right after the fetus vehicle (heretofore known as the mother) has an internal sonagram, that fetus can marry another fetus as long as it’s not the same sex. And Here’s when I get to comment. “OH PLEEEEZE!” A few more examples....

2. Lindsay Lohan hosted Saturday Night Live last week. She is doing her best to show that she is rehabilitated and that she is worth someone taking a chance on her. (Lest we remember how many times Robert Downy Jr. Screwed up before he figured it out.) Anyway, she worked in the LA morgue and something must have scared the hell out of her. It doesn’t matter. What she said in every interview I saw was that she realized she couldn’t hang out in bars and with her old friends. So what do the old friends do in retaliation, they, and the Hollywood Press. savage her appearance on SNL. (Which is not an easy show to do). And Instead of being even somewhat admiring of the courage it takes to make a comeback at 26. They smear, what appears to be, her legitimate attempt to be clean and sober. “OH PLEEEEEZE” (You thought I was going to trash her didn’t you.)

3. The Republican candidates were in the south this week. Mitt acquired a southern drawl and said 'youall' any number of times. Then he referred to cheese grits as cheesy grits... which he loves very much. Hope someone tells him that in most places that serve grits, they are simply called cheese grits. They are not a delicacy. They are served instead of potatoes with breakfast, as a starch with shrimp, and as s staple in many many towns and cities across the US. Does he really think the American people don't see this show of food favorites as a political campaign tactic. OH PLEEEEEZE...


4. David took a picture of himself and put it on facebook. Something he does with great frequency. (I have been told by a number of people with good judgment, that his Facebook pic is too severe), Not to change the subject 145 people said they liked it. One Hundred and forty five people got on his page and told him they liked it. OH PLEEEEEZE

5. I will continue to OH PLEEEEEZE when the spirit or situation warrants it. All OH PLEEZES from guest blobbers are welcome. We're just sayin.... Iris

Exceptional Women, Part Trois

There have been tributes upon tributes so there is not much else to add to whatever has been said about the loss of one of our great musicians without what seems like piling on. True, Whitney Houston was a beautiful, thrilling and exceptional talent. Maybe the horror was magnified because her demise was so public and avoidable. Or maybe it was the addiction to drugs, booze, and that horrible husband she could never really leave. Whatever the reason, we all felt especially saddened by another senseless tragedy.

It’s Valentine’s day so I would like to continue my blob from yesterday. It’s kind of a Valentine. Ella Udall, who insisted that people call her Tiger, died in the same tragic way. At the time, her death was considered a suicide, and maybe it was. I have always believed that it was accidental. Ella would never have intentionally killed herself. She enjoyed being alive, and pissing people off. This much we know. She was drunk and told Mo she was going out to the car to kill herself. This was not unusual. She often made this kind of threat. My guess is that she turned the car (and probably the radio) on, with the garage door closed. Mo never expected that she would remain there. He probably thought she would stay for a little while and then come back in the house. Tiger expected Mo to try to stop her – that was what he always did. But they both fell asleep. He, on the couch, she (having been drinking a great deal), in the car. Tragically, by the time he realized she was missing, she was gone. He loved her so much he would never have let her die.

The first time I met the Udalls was the summer of 1975. It was at a chic (not fancy) fundraiser on Martha’s Vineyard. Since it was the Udall campaign, we were always short on staff and the people in charge (there were two I think), asked me to go and ‘advance’ the event. Simply, that meant I had to make all the logistical, press and VIP arrangements for the Candidate, and his animated spouse. Cut to the headline, she liked me, thought I was funny (didn’t care about competence) and asked me to travel with her as personal staff – as her entire staff.

After much campaign discussion, it was decided that Mo would be happier if she were with him, but, because she liked to spend time in the bar, never slept, and the press loved spending time with her (she was charming, smart, entertaining, -- she did wondrous imitations of the staff -- and she knew no parameters) but she could not be left on her own. The job was 24/7. It took me away from my baby and my safe and normal life. But I thought Mo would be a great President and that I wasn’t just babysitting, (I was doing something important for the country --- blah blah blah). It was exciting and fun and Tiger was a hoot. Our day started at 5am,when she would knock on wherever I was sleeping, and yell “What are you, on vacation?”. The day would end at the bar of wherever we were staying. Usually about midnight or 1 a.m. When we were in between, I was educated about working hard, humor, interpersonal relations, and how to deal with criticism. At some point she fired me because I asked her to be kinder to the female staff. I left the road but not the campaign.

Here’s why she made such an impact. She was always authentic. In a business where everything is smoke and mirrors, she did not know how to be false. Loud, Brash, Drunk but Sober, Opinionated, Smart, Loveable, Mean spirited, Devoted, Loyal, Dangerous, Loveable and Hilarious—often all at the same time. If that doesn’t make all who survived her a better, different, stronger person, then nothing could. She wasn’t Betty or Bella, but she had the same passion for “what was right” – not necessarily fair, but right. When you were in her company, she simply took your breath away. Resting in Peace was never something that would make her happy. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

How Fortunate

This morning, I was reminded by an Al Neuharth (USA Today) column how fortunate I was to have Betty Friedan, Bella Abzug and Ella Udall in my life. True, they were flowers of different species, but each exceptional in their own right.

The column, which was really a comment on the “feisty” way NOW (National Organization of Women) operated under Betty’s direction, and the Caspar Milquetoast approach of the people in charge today. He said if the Komen Foundation had done in Betty’s years, what they did last week, women would have been on the streets… marching, not just commenting. And he was right.

The anniversary of her birth and death, (she was born -1921, and died- 2006, on February 4th) were celebrated the same week Brinker allowed her foundation to become a political tool. Seems like awkward timing – if you knew about Betty and the progress NOW helped the women’s movement to make. If you weren’t around in those days, and if you expect to find her name in most history books, then you have been denied a wonderful opportunity to learn about how activists used to make things happen.

My focus of issues that concern women (life, death, and everything that happens in between) started in the 70s when we burned our bras. Since I never needed one, it wasn’t a big sacrifice. But we didn’t measure boobs, just commitment to a cause. We were always vocal and visible. Betty showed real leadership when her brainchild (NOW), was finally an organization with which the political world needed to contend. Bella, as the Congressional Representative from New York, who always made important noise, and wore outrageous hats. And Ella, the wife of a presidential Candidate who refused to behave like the wife of a Presidential Candidate.

But first to Betty. (I may have to blob about Ella and Bella at another time). We didn’t bond over abortion, the economy, or childcare. As the Chief of Staff at an international government agency, I was able to fund “speaker’s trips” for both Betty and Bella all over the world. So, yes, it was the money, not my incredible charisma, that allowed me entree into the lives and works of these special women. Somehow, maybe because they saw me at all kinds of women’s issues meetings, they assumed I should be included in whatever important meetings they had arranged. Here’s what I most loved about those events: we would enter as a group, (different sizes, shapes, and color), but often it made no difference to the people with whom we were meeting. We were all just girls.

As soon as Betty realized that the meeting was primarily to listen rather than be heard, she would just say, “OK, it’s time for us to go.” And no matter how long we had been there, we would all just stand up, say a pleasant goodbye, and we were gone – often leaving the people/person, with whom we were meeting, surprised and in pretty much in the dark. Betty would say, “If they didn’t get why we left, they weren’t worth the time we had already wasted.” There were never any apologies.

Betty was small in height, and enormous in stature. She was very well aware of the importance she had to women who worked with her, and those who admired her and often wanted to be her. Much like trying to explain to today’s young people what life was like without cell phones, the internet, and GPS, in today’s political climate it remains a challenge to describe the powerful impact and heartfelt intensity of someone like Betty Friedan. We’re just sayin’… Iris

One In A Million

Todd and Brittany, who looked like they were in their early 30’s were in the hotel lobby, talking to the concierge about Bed and Breakfast possibilities near or in Albuquerque. She was a wispy blonde with her hair held back with a scarf. Todd, thin, handsome, and smiling, was in a wheelchair.
“We were looking for something small and romantic, maybe with a fireplace in the room,” she said.
“Don’t think I can help you”, the concierge said. “That area is a puzzle I can’t put together.

While I was sitting in the rear of the room, there were four people waiting for someone in the front lobby. Joseph Rivera was one of the four, but not paying much attention until he noticed that half of Todd’s leg was missing,

“Thank you for your service to the country.” He said it with a level of comfort I wish we all had. “I live out there and know that area pretty well. There are a couple of places that are probably exactly what you want.” He went on to describe each place.

Brittany seemed particularly excited about one of them. Rivera added, “It would be an honor for me to cover the cost of the room. The least I can do.”

Brittany, in tears, accepted his generous offer. (Which also included a bottle of wine from his wine cellar.) They continued to talk, I continued to listen. Todd had been in the service for sixteen years. As an infantry Staff Sergeant, he was posted to Fairbanks Alaska, which was where he had hoped they (Brittany and four home schooled children), would retire. Then he was sent to Kandahar.

“There were twenty guys ahead of me, my medic and me, and twenty guys in the rear. I stepped on the mine. No one else was hurt, thank God, and I lost half my leg. God works in strange ways, he must have had some plan for me. At least that’s what I feel in my heart. Now I’m in rehab in San Antonio and my whole family lives in the Fisher House. We are blessed.”

These lovely people were authentic. It was not just empty banter. Being a cynic, and not particularly religious, I was moved by Joe’s generosity, but, where I would have been wary of all the God conversation, I found myself wishing I was as sure of what I believe in as they did. And then they held hands and prayed. Although I had introduced myself, I was not part of the prayer circle, but did continue to listen to each of the five prayers.

Each prayer was personal. In every case, along with family and friends, they prayed for the nation and the wisdom of the President. There was no political judgment in their words. And then the best…. “Dear God, you are way cool.” This was how Brittany began her prayer. It was said with the kind of enthusiasm that I had never heard in a conversation with God. The honesty was truly moving. (And you all know it’s not easy to move me). At the end of the prayer, there were more thanks and lots of hugs – Having sat there quietly for quite some time, they included me in the hug part of the program.

From the time Joe inserted himself in the Bread and Breakfast conversation (Oh and they were also going to have a fireplace in their bedroom) until the hugs and goodbyes, it could not have been more than half an hour. Although this well deserved pause in my cynicism was brief -- I didn’t hold hands but I admit I said a little prayer and found the whole event incredibly spiritual. What I’m left with today is concern about all our wounded warriors, and a hope that Joe Rivera, Bless him, is not just one in a million. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

The War on Tits

It irritates me when women make war on women. It also irritates me that the conservative right calls their anti-abortion sentiments the "right-to-life". Because if you are ‘pro-life’ then everyone else must be against life. Many of us say ‘choice,’ instead of "the right to choose." The right to choose what you will do with your body does not mean that you are against life. In fact, quite the contrary. What it means is that you have the right to live your life the way you want to. And just let me say this: no one, but no one gets pregnant as a joke. It is always intentional or accidental – unless you’re under 18, when you have no idea of the consequences, and then it’s just stupid. The same people that are anti-abortion are also people who don’t particularly care what happens to the kid once they are born. One of the Presidential Candidates even said that even if a woman got raped, she should be made to carry the baby because being pregnant was a blessing from God. I wonder when God shared that information with him.

But that is not what I wanted to blob about. 90% of what Planned Parenthood, does, (aside from being under attack, and now investigation, by the conservative right), is to provide breast exams for women who cannot afford it, and give counsel to people who need to be educated about birth control. Only 3% (and you may feel that is too much) is related to abortion. Shame on the Komen Foundation. Their excuse for the elimination of grant money to PP (now restored), was that Planned Parenthood was under Congressional investigation. I don’t have to tell you by whom. And while they rewrote their Grant requirements to eliminate any organization under investigation, (regardless of reason), they did not re-write their sponsor/donor rules to include corporations under investigation. So it’s OK to take money from corporations that are suspect—like the Bank of America --but not to give it.

The fact that they were surprised by the backlash was amazing. There are people who have mammograms, who don’t believe in abortion. (BTW there are also men who get breast cancer. ) It will never be the same for them. As the largest of the breast cancer organizations, they had a special place, a credibility, and a fine reputation that will never be restored. There were policies established by Komen with which I did not agree—like you shouldn’t just treat the cancer, you should treat the whole person, (I think first things first.) But they were certainly worthy of financial support, not only from corporations, but from people like me, who walked, ran, and attended a variety of events – because everyone knows someone who has had to deal with the epidemic in some way. Whether that person is their wife, mother, child, or friend, no one has gone untouched.

Here’s the good news, Komen is only one of many breast cancer related organizations. We can still give to help eliminate the disease, but we may need to look beyond the largest, and opt for one that is local, or at least beyond National Politics. Women and men all across the country, (regardless of Party) were enraged and insulted by the presumption by Komen, that we all were stupid enough to believe that this was not a political decision. Their refusal to give a grant to Planned Parenthood made it political. Clearly, they need a new policy/political director – that is, if they even manage to survive over the next few years. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Here Come Da Judge...

Flashback -- 1950. Imagine...

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

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



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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hike it to ME!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The First Topic...of Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talent Added: Photojournalism

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

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

David Burnett
Photojournalist
655 Eldron Drive
Miami Springs, FL

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

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