The Man, the Ghost, the Legend

For people who were in love during the 70’s, there was no more important composer/entertainer, than Barry Manilow.  The songs were easy to sing. And every song he sang reminded you about a time or person in your life who made an indelible impact.  Among the songs that was most memorable for me was “Mandy.”  Because it was a song I shared with my 2 year old son. He would find his little portable record player and put it on.  I would listen and weep.  He curled up in my lap and sang along with me and cried.  Neither of us had any idea why we were crying, but he played it over and over until we were both cried out. 

 "the man, the ghost, the legend..."

That being said, last night my lifelong dear friend and I went to a Barry Manilow concert, on Broadway.  It’s at the St. James Theater, a smaller venue.  The producers were so smart. There was never an announcement about recording or taking pictures, because the lighting was such that it was impossible to take a picture where you could actually see the great Mr Manilow.  Along with the picture taking and recording, people know the  words to every song and they sing , while he sings, but louder.  He did invite the audience to join him on a few songs but the woman behind us didn’t need an invitation.  The tickets were expensive. But  you pay the price if you want to hear him sing –which he still does quite well despite the fact that he has had so much surgery  he cannot open his mouth.  I was about to ask this rude woman, with a horrible voice, why she would pay to hear herself sing.  It would have been cheaper (and certainly more pleasant for us) to  buy an album and sing anywhere she wanted – other than at the St. James.  Believe or not, I did not do that.  She was drunk and wanted to have a fight. I had no desire to make her happy.

Most of the audience was well behaved.  Hard to imagine that people wouldn’t behave – it wasn’t a rock concert. They had “we love you” signs, and teary responses to some of what he sang and said. 

Who goes to a Barry Manilow concert?  Not who I expected.  Mostly couples out for a romantic evening, middle aged women, gay guys, and lots and lots of young women who must have sat on their mother’s lap while she cried her memories to sleep.

Every once in a while, this kind of evening serves as a reminder for how important it is to have friends with whom you share memories.  And how full your younger life was,  and your older life continues to be.  We’re just sayin’…. Iris

It's All Relative

Everything is relative.  Does that mean that everyone in the world/universe is related by some means. Or does it mean, conditional, connected, in regard to, or proportionate?  Hold on to your brain matter, we are about to take an esoteric trip into some kind of phenomenon.  Frightened, aren’t you.  I have required very little thinking on your part for over three years. I have filled in all the blanks and opened you up to some amazing perspectives on life, love, literature, and cooking.   But now I have expectations.

In Salt Lake City, gas is at about $2.65 per gallon.  On the east coast (NE), it ranges between $3 and $4.  The west coast, (north and south), is pretty much the same.  The cost is relative to where you are located, and how difficult it is to get the oil to you.  So in Dallas it’s in the low $3’s, and Tucson it’s high, not quite $3.  Listing gas prices could take hours and hours. And it’s pretty boring,  but that’s not relative to this blob.  The point is, that even low gas prices are a whole lot higher now than before President Obama took office.  Which is also not the point of this blob. 

When gas prices started to rise, everyone was outraged.  It took a few months and then they started to fluctuate.  Up and down and down and up, but never below high to mid 2’s. The gas companies did this for a reason.  With gas reaching above $4, during some months, when a person had to pay $3.50, then $3.09, the conversation went from “holy cow $4”, to “$3.25, gas is really cheap.”  My point is that people can and will get used to anything. Eventually, we become desensitized, and are willing to accept things that should still be considered outrageous.

Yesterday, I was looking at a list of Broadway shows opening over the next few months.  The price of tickets, just like the price of gas, continues to rise until, what we think is ridiculous, eventually becomes the normal. Seats at “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” “Matilda,” and the new Tom Hanks show, all start at $175 or more.  That’s per ticket without any refreshments.  Last year, when the tickets jumped to $125 and $140 per seat we couldn’t believe it, And as with gasoline, when we are offered tickets at the half price window for $90, we cannot believe how lucky we are.  It’s all relative.

Not everyone pays that much.  There are group sales and discounts and companies that specialize in offering cheap seats, but alas, the pricing eliminates anyone who is not an insider, does not work for Wall street or a big corporation, or lives on Park Avenue or the upper east side.  This pricing, combined with an absence of original or spectacular,  could kill Broadway – wah, wah, wah. 

The President was inaugurated today.  There was a time when a $50 donation would get you at least standing room.  Now a $45,000 contribution might get you a seat.  Even $10,000 seems ordinary.  My first Inaugural was Carter in 1977. My last was in 2009. I was staff, so my costs were physical rather than financial.  Do I miss the excitement?  Well, I miss the parade –always one of my favorite events.  What I don’t miss are the crowds, the self important bullshit, and the disingenuous political grandstanding.  When you are on the inside, the celebration feels pretty heady.  When you are an outsider, (or from the opposing party), it can be tedious and disappointing.  Peacefull tansition of power (whether it is to a different President or the same Party) is unique and  quite stunning.  It makes you proud to be an American.  But whether or not it makes you happy, is all relative.  We're just sayin'.....Iris

 There is a reason that the TD Bank has become the bank of choice for many people -- including yours truly.  It’s not that it’s open on days when other banks have locked their doors (open on Sunday) .  It’s not that they are pet friendly, which they are, (go have a dog biscuit, or take one home for your pup).  It’s not that you can bring all your random coins and for free, yes for free (no additional fees), they will turn your coins into paper.  And it’s not that the staff is lovely and patient with those of us who have weird requests.  No, those things are all attractive, but not the reason for their popularity.  So what’s the reason?

It’s all about the TD pens.  You cannot walk into any store, hotel, or organization, without seeing that everyone is using a TD pen.  It took me a few weeks to notice the plethora of TD bank pens, but  when I finally did I was pleased and impressed.  What a marketing tool. People don’t even realize that they are using the pens, but when they do, or are looking for a bank, it’s the first place they think about.

My brain is in pause.  I can’t answer simple questions or remember simple facts.  I have been ensured that everyone I know is going through the same thing.  This does not make me feel better.  Sure, when other people I’m with,  forget or actually can’t remember the same kind of things I forget, I can feel a part of a large group of elderly citizens, but let’s face it Yechhhhhh!

I am told that as long as I know I can’t remember anything, I am just fine.   But the people who are in charge of the telling are all our age and trying to comfort themselves with the knowledge that they are not alone. 

Last week, when we were in Rancho Mirage (I wrote about it, so listen up), our Aunt celebrated her 100th birthday.  It was a joyful occasion.  Can you imagine living a century.  But there is never any good news without a little bad.  A year ago, her daughter Carol died of complications from Breast cancer. And last Saturday, our cousin and friend, Howard, finally lost his long battle with diabetes.  When he was 15 he was diagnosed.  He pretty much ignored the rules and lived exactly as he wanted to. He was warned, he was lectured, he was whatever... but it wasn’t until a few years ago that it took it’s toll.  He lost his feet, then his legs, then his life.  When we saw him at the birthday celebration he looked a little frail, but still feisty.  He went to the dentist last weekend and , although his wife was a bit concerned about the blood thinners and his teeth, he came through it like a champ.  In fact, he was much better than he had been.  And they were talking and laughing, getting ready to watch a movie,  when he turned his head --- and was gone.

 

We loved Howard.  He and David grew up like brothers, they just had so much fun talking about all the times they bonded (over the Maltese Falcon) and not necessarily just Salt Lake Stories.  We will miss him sooooo much.  Even though he mumbled, we could always figure out what he was saying. ( “God Damnit Howad” no R,) the family would say.  “What will we do without having you to share some serious laughs.?  What we will do is miss him a lot, and simply pretend he is in Scottsdale.  If you live East you go to Florida.  West you go to Scottsdale, and trust me, It’s so much more desirable than thinking you will never see them again.  (There are 80 golf courses in Scottsdale, and it will no doubt take him at least six months to play them all.) 

 the cousins (ca. 1977): Howard, Nate, Bob, David
My brain is still in pause, but I am saddened by all the dearest people we have lost.  I always wondered which would be worse, having a sound body and no memory,  or having all your memory but a body that just wouldn’t work.  It’s times like this that I only want to remember the good;  and the loss -- can just go jump off a bridge.  Were just sayin’… Iris

Pals Forever

However you want to give it lip service, life is much too fragile. Whether you hear, “life is short don't waste any time.”   Or you can't predict the future, “live for today.” Or, “once you've tasted the grapes of wrath, you'll never be satisfied with bananas,” (where did that come from)? At some point we all start to face our own mortality. (This kind of blob often makes me uncomfortable, but go with it for a while.)

We are Winging our way back  on American't airlines. The plane is smaller, newer and empty. We are in an exit row where the seats recline.  Looks hopeful, but we will have to wait and see. This past week we were in northern Ca. To see David’s mom, in Berkeley for a reunion with college friends, and in Palm Springs to celebrate our aunt’s 100th birthday.  Although she remains multitalented, and contemporary, (uses her computer daily to get the news, send messages and find out the scores of almost any basketball game-- professional or college), the  most amazing thing about the birthday girl was when I asked her how it felt to have lived a century. She said it was great but she was a bit pissed off because she won't have time to get the answers to all the questions she still wants to ask.  One needn't know what the questions are in order to understand her frustration.  But as long as we can still ask questions, we have an interest in gathering all the information, there is a good reason to remain on this earth.  (Auntie at her 100th)

Traveling backward, we went to Stanford to see David's mom.  She's only ninety five. Still mobile, feisty, funny, stubborn, and determined to have her own way, we were pleased to see that she still wanted ice cream on her apple pie. At every meal. And why not?

Still working in reverse, we were also in Berkeley for a much needed and long awaited reunion with exceptional college friends.  The word "exceptional", used here was chosen carefully.  College for most of us was a time to have fun. If we learned something, for the most part, it went unnoticed. I probably should change names to protect the innocent, but none of us were or have ever been innocent.

Angie, Margie, Iris

Angie was the most sophisticated woman I had ever seen. Remember, I grew up in Boonton, NJ, but it wasn't that far from NYC.  Anyway, on the first day of school Angie was dressed in a chic black fall coat, and long black leather gloves. It was breathtaking.  Margie, wore a skirt and sweater, and confessed that she grew up in Manhattan, but went to a sleep-away private girls school.  I had a hickey on my neck and had to wear a turtle neck for two weeks.

It took a whole five minutes before we got past sophisticated and Margie taught me a rhyme of curse words which she liked to use when something made her really mad. Angie got into baby doll pajamas, which as I recall, was her choice of costume, for the remainder of the year.  In fact, she wore pajamas to class and wherever else we wandered. In those days, in Back Bay Boston, women were not permitted to be seen in on the street in pants.  So, rather than roll her jeans, or actually get dressed, her attire was always baby doll pajamas.  It usually didn't matter until our history professor insisted she take off her coat while she was in his classroom.  "I don't think you want me to do that," she said.  He insisted and she removed her coat.  It took him .02 seconds before he changed his mind.

Both Margie and Angie are beautiful women.  Margie was the prom queen, (yes, we made fun of her), and Angie was Vice President of our class. It was a classic campaign, in which she promised to do nothing.  "What could I possibly do?" she said during campaign speeches, "I promise to leave you alone."  (If only that we're the case with the Federal government). I was her campaign manager. We tasted sweet victory. She was only in school for one year, but we never lost touch.  Margie graduated and left Boston and eventually moved to Ca.  I graduated, got married, stayed in Boston, and we didn't see each other for a long time. But we never lost touch.

It's not easy to maintain those friendships, no matter how important they are, or how much you want to. There are people who try to stay friends, but after a half hour of exciting reunion, there is nothing left to say.  This is not the case with these friends because when you happen upon extraordinary people, it makes sense to work at keeping them in your life.  Remember, life is too short. You never last long enough to get all the answers to the questions you ask, and most importantly, always insist on ice cream with your apple pie.  We’re just sayin’.... Iris

 

After a too-long respite away from the keys....
 

The beginning of the year is always one of those times when you reflect on things that were, might have been, and could still be.  We woke up in Berkeley, having flown the morning of Dec. 31^st to SF, one of those six + hours of westbound flying in Coach (I’d actually like to SEE the coach this was named for) and which, when you finally step off the plane next to the Pacific Ocean, make you think, “geez, if only I’d done the Wrong Way Corrigan trick, and headed the other direction, I’d be eating Portuguese grilled chicken tonight.”   We have certainly shrunk the world in terms of our ability to travel upon it.  Not always in style or grace, but compared to what it must have been like trucking across oceans in choppy wooden boats in those post Renaissance years, we have it made in the shade. We have come to take it so for granted that trans-continental travel is so easy that I think we lose sight of what a trip like that used to be.   As a life long aviation buff, I still pine for the days of DC-6b’s and Lockeed Constellations, as they represent that amazing advanced, post-war technology that existed in my youth.  And there remains something magical about the roar of those piston engines.  Frankly, when you think about it, a 28 cylinder  engine like the Pratt /Whitney  Wasp Major, a behemoth with four rows of seven heads, required thousands of individual explosions every minute, and in a plane like the C-97 Stratofreighter, did that for hundreds of minutes at a time.  All that stuff worked.  It probably seemed crude by today’s standards, but if you had been born at the time most of the engineers were who worked on that plane, you can imagine that the Wright Brothers first flight took place when you were a baby.  A helluva lot of progress was crammed into the first few decades of the 20^th century.   As a kid in grade school (Oakwood Elementary, class of 1958) in the 50s, we lived in a combination of what we felt was incredibly advanced (jet engines!) and yet with WWII only a decade earlier, a number of direct connections with things which seemed technologically distant. 

Recess, a concept which I’m not even sure has survived into the new millennium, was a time best described as a forum for breathing exercises, most of them involving yelling of some sort.  We played marbles (two-ticks take was standard – you actually had to hit the other guy’s marble twice before you could keep it) which had a dizzying set of rules, the particulars of each match decided on ahead of time.  There was even a marble tournament every spring, where a large nail-on-a-string would be scribed into the broom-smooth dirt to create a yard wide circle where the play would take place.  Do the words  “knucks down” and “mig” mean anything to you?  If not, you probably missed those amazing tourneys, for which you were actually allowed to leave class to play, though in my case, most of the time I went out in the first round.   There was a hop scotch tourney for the girls, and in what must have been seen as a giant leap forward, I even entered that contest my 6^th grade year.   Throwing your hoppy-taw accurately isn’t as easy as it looks, and in my case, making the turn around on “8” was the death knell. But  I was happy to have tried it, even if I didn’t get very far.   The standard sports at recess included dodge ball (yes it did hurt when you got hit in the head,)  tetherball, and snowballs.  In what was probably a precursor of the Hunger Games, the school would put a sign out about 80 yards from the building, behind which was the area known as the “snow-ball zone” and in which you could make and throw as many snowballs as you wanted at anyone you wanted to.  And probably take a few in the face, while you were at it. 

In the fall and spring, I remember the “horse girls” with fondness.  Susan Decker, Linda Wideberg, names attached to girls I haven’t seen in decades, and a few other equus-o-philes most of whom actually owned horses at home, would spend their recess racing around, whinnying, leaping as if to rise up on their back legs, Blackbeauty style,  and toss their hair back like long well kept manes.   We knew it was their thing, they whinnied as much as they wanted, and when the bell rang ending recess, we’d all go back into school ready to take on math, science,  and a host of other subjects.  The point was, we made do with not very much save our imaginations. 

We boys, mostly aviation buffs of one sort or the other, would often run around, arms spread out like the wings of a B-17, dipping in and out of the clouds as we escaped ack-ack from near by Highland Drive.  Our doodling was more likely than not to be a scene of P-47s darting amongst the bombers high over Germany.  I remember once being admonished by a 3^rd grader friend’s mom, as I pretended to make a bombing run “… bombs away over Tokyo…” I said.  She reminded me in a firm but gentle voice… “that was years ago.  We don’t bomb Tokyo anymore.”   It kind of made sense, and certainly made an impression (50+ years later, I still remember it) and I think helped me to understand that the movies we watched about the WWII aviators, while full of aerial “excitement” were something which for many of us needed context.   My mom, a college graduate in 1938 – Stanford in Journalism, missed her  one chance at an interview with an old Salt Lake friend at the Washington Post as it had been scheduled for September 1, 1939.  She waited around for hours, but because the Wehrmacht had that afternoon invaded Poland, her interview never happened, and what I see as the sometimes fanciful notion of mom having ended up being a WaPo reporter, and me, growing up in DC remains just a what-if.   

Our world has changed so much in the last (insert any integer from 5 to 40 here) years.  Watching a friends grand-kids, aged 4 and 6, play with an iPad and laptop last night made me wonder how we ever will be able to try and keep some kind of chain together, linking the past and present.  As kids, we babyboomers at least understood much of what our parents had gone through, and we felt connected to it.  My dad, who was born in 1906 and lived a full 88 years, was in diapers before the US Army took delivery of it’s first airplane (1909.)  Yet, dad always was accepting of, and even excited by the ‘new:’  almost any building going up in almost any place was, for him, a sign of progress.  More than once some hideously designed suburban office edifice would, merely because it had come to be, get the “Look at that beautiful new building...” treatment.  For him, there were no limits on what one could adapt to.  The mere idea of airplanes flying, cars going from early Model Ts to dad’s favorite, a 1959 Desoto, whose fins were on loan from the Air Force, meant of level of 

 dad would have loved watching this building go up

acceptance of the unknown that I have always found striking.  Yet now I worry that his positive way of looking at the world, believing that the things men and women conjure up can be made to be for the betterment of society, seems to have gone the way of the billion dollar IPO, and how to game a system which has devolved into wanting to be gamed. I hope that somewhere, 5^th grade girls still run around at recess, without their cell phones or iPads, and kick, whinney, and toss their manes around like crazy.  It would be nice if there could be a snow-ball area which didn’t require ten adults with clipboards monitoring who threw what snowball at whom, and regulating the kinds of childlike behaviour which shouldn’t require outside regulation.  So much of what we knew as kids, and what we were forced to deal with on our own – with each other – has turned into some kind of horribly misled attempt by parents to make sure  that nothing bad ever happens, no one is ever disappointed, that every kid always wins.  It’s a terrible plan for adulthood.  Learning to deal with your failures is probably the single biggest thing in success.  If everything is regulated, arranged, and done in a way that makes sure no kid fails, how will they ever deal with real life?  In life there are ups and downs, and no one is immune from those elements.   I’d like to go on and on here, but I hear the engines on the Super Connie starting to crank, and I need to go hop in the shower so I can watch that plane take off for the Azores, or Madigascar, or Samoa.  It’ll only take three days, you know.  And hey, they still offer free chewing gum on those flights so you can chew your way through the ear-popping.  Awesome.  Great time to be alive.   We’re just sayin’… David

On American't

 

We are about to fall over the fiscal cliff. Not to worry, unless you're old, poor, single, or married with children, breathing any air, or eating on a regular basis. But back to that in a minute.

A few years ago my pal Soozie and I flew First Class to France. We left from Kennedy airport. The flight was delayed for five hours. David also flew over, but on a different airline and a few days before. We were going to meet him at the train station in Paris and then take the TGV ‘fast’ train to Bordeaux, where we would see old friends, and drive to Provence, then on to Italy to Cinque Terra. From there our favorite place on the border of Tuscany and Umbria, where we would eat, stay at La Crochetta (a wonderful B&B)  visit with more friends, and finally to Rome to sightsee, drink mush wine and overload on carbs. It was a fabulous trip, no thanks to our airline, American' t. The plane out of JFK was in disrepair. So we did not take off when we were supposed to. We were overnight someplace on the outskirts (really out), of the city. We had to find our bags and duty free in different places and then we had to board a bus to get wherever they took us -- we still don't where that was. The next day we were up at 6am, boarded buses again, checked in and then sat on the tarmac for another few hours. Before I recount my New Years Eve  flight today, there are two things I want to share. Yes, we are fortunate to have many friends, and no I did not misspell the name of the airline.

We are once again flying American't. We are supposedly flying Priority, which permits us to board in enough time to find a place to put our bags, maybe. We both mistakenly thought (they were marked this way), that we would have a bit more leg room. Which you do if you fly Priority on most other airlines. That wasn't quite the case. In all fairness we were able to stow our bags in the overhead. (we carried everything on in order to avoid not having our bags arrive with us.) We sat in a twosome, there was no extra leg room. In fact we sat across from the galley, where a cart blocked our ability to get out if we had to go to the bathroom, which was but a step away from these seats -- and the galley.  Dont even go there. So you know how people line up to use the toilet ? Between the cart and the people, the cabin lights stuck in the on position (on a 6 hour “I wanna sleep” flight)  and the staff chatting in the kitchen, throughout it was not only impossible to nap, it was impossible to have anything but a miserable flight.

I asked my beloved why they called these seats Priority.  He confessed that he wasn't sure, but we should be thankful that we weren't in the fold up seats saved for the Cabin

attendants, nor were we actually IN the toilet. He’s always so glass half full.

Anyway, we will hopefully arrive nearly on time and there will be a rental car to drive to

our destination...hopefully not never never land. 

Back to the fiscal cliff. What kind of idiots did we elect and reelect for important decisions to me made merely moments away from this perilous deadline. I can answer that question like any four year old would, "a idiot doody Ball without a brain anywhere,

not even in their tuchas" (a Jewish four year old). Having worked in the Government

for longer than anyone should, I will share this secret.... If the president wants to get

something done, he can do it. He is the President and he can find a way to circumvent

the brainless doody balls who think like the airline... American't.

Take That, Randi Z!

Randi Zuckerberg, sister of Facebook founder Mark, says we should never post pictures of our friends on FB without asking their permission.  “It’s a matter of human decency,” she said.  Is she kidding?  There is nothing about FB that has anything to do with humanity or decency.  When we join FB, we are asked, (in pages and pages of confusing text) to sign away all our rights to the things we post.  Most of us use the site to keep in touch with our friends, find out what mischief our kids are planning, or because it is a convenient way to communicate.    Same with Twitter, although, to be honest, when my kids explain it to me it sounds good –aside from the hash tags.  But when I try to use it, I get confused about what I am supposed to say about what I’m doing or why I should care.  

 Just because I post a picture of myself, doesn't mean you're allowed to SEE it!!Jeez...

Anyway, let’s get back to human decency.  Don’t you wish you could ask the Zuckerbergs to define decency?  Is it the ability to screw your friends, but in a way that makes you feel like it was not only right, it was essential.  Mark could never have achieved the level of success he achieved without help from someone.   Unfortunately, the definition of what was “needed” in order to move or to progress is to get rid of people who are no longer “useful.”  It is not my idea of having a good time.  When people take a chance either financially or time wise -- because they believe in you or something you are doing--  why would you want to screw them.  Facebook does enable us to catch up, have fun, and to keep abreast, but it is only successful because people felt a need to connect.  What a sad commentary when people who have no idea about decency, feel it necessary to lecture anyone about right or wrong.

But that’s not what I wanted to blob about.  Funniest idea of almost all time comes from my beloved.  Last night we went to see “The Miserables.”  It’s a show everyone in our family loves.  Before the movie begins, David says to me, “I should stand up and welcome the overflowing movie crowd to a special presentation of the “Sing-along Les Mis.”  I laughed till I died, and they buried me and it tickled and I laughed till I died…..

Sorry, I digressed.  Can you imagine how the customers, looking forward to being entertained by Russell Crowe (who can not sing at all), would have reacted?   We might have to go back to the theater and actually try it.

For years, going to the movies on Thanksgiving or Christmas day was something we did.  It started when, as a family activity, we all went bowling.  But after a few rolls down the alley, my mother (who attended, but refused to participate) got bored.  So we switched to a movie.  We have seen “Guilt Trip,”  which could have been my life, “Hyde Park,” which we thought was going to be about FDR, the war, and the King of England – but it was about a number of love affairs he had and how willing all the women were to compromise themselves for him.  And “Les Mis,” which I prefer on a stage because I like the grandeur (the bigness) of the set and scenery, the way the show envelopes the audience,  and I like to choose my own persepctive of the characters.  Here, each scene was a close-up ending with a full view of the character and surrounding scenery.  Just one opinion.  But it is worth seeing because the focus of this production is the acting and the story, (the music is secondary – there is something to be said for dubbing), so for the “Les Mis” beginner, it’s easier to follow.  (You can actually understand what the hell they are saying.) 

Anyway, we are all happy to begin another year.  We wish it wouldn’t come as quickly as it did, but as my Grandfather said – Life is like a train.  When you are young it seems you are on the local.  And when you get older, it becomes an express.  Happy and a Healthy New Year to all our Blobby, We’re Just Sayin’  friends.  We’re Just Sayin’…. Iris

Those Friends, You Know the Ones

 

The prettiest windows in New York, are those at Lord and Taylor.  They are the same window every year but they are lovely and traditional.  Intricate scenes of the holidays, all with moving parts and friendly faces.  No flash or superficially trendy.  Maybe they are not the same every year but they look the same, so they seem the same, they feel the same, which is a good thing.  There has to be some kind of consistency, something you can count on, and for me, it’s the Lord and Taylor windows.

Two days ago I walked all around New York. It started out to be a short walk, but, after walking about four miles (I was trying to avoid heavily populated tourist areas), I got tired.  It was too bad because didn’t want the journey to end.  Something happens to me this time of year.  It’s kind of like a “Cold Case” phenomenon.  At the end of each of those shows there is incredible music, and the detectives see the dead people whose cases they have been investigating and finally solving.  For me, there is no music,  but I do see friends, who are now merely wonderful memories.

It’s hard to explain any of this in a rational way, but you know how programs like CBS “Sunday Morning”  wrap up their year with a list of notable people who died in 2012?  My wrap up is not quite the same.  I see people who have also been gone for decades.  The sighting is often triggered by a sound, a smell, or a taste. I might be eating at some restaurant  and I’ll have a bite of something.  The next thing that happens is that I see the person who I might have been with when I tasted a similar food.  But here’s what so strange.  The dead person I see (in a living being), always smiles at me like they know the secret.

Although the person I see does not always look exactly like the person who passed away, there is always something so familiar, that I know it’s them.  There is no reason why it happens more at this time of year, than other times.  It just does.  It is always comforting and rather than frightening, to meet my old pals under these spiritual circumstances. However,  I am glad to know they are still around. When I see my friend it triggers all kinds of memories. There is a sadness whenever this happens, because I know it’s only going to be momentary, but better fleeting than not happening. It’s also a little frustrating because I always remember something I want to ask or say to them.  Although I know it’s not going to happen right there and then, I feel like, at some point it will.

This all must sound a bit “Looney Tuney”, but just because it isn’t an every day occurrence for most of humanity, doesn’t mean it’s a fantasy. Quite the contrary. (As we say when we can’t think of a closing.)  It makes sense that people who have a positive impact on our lives,  always remain with us, no matter what the form they take.  And these little personal round-ups at year’s end seem to be the perfect time to take a breath, and know that somehow we’re still connected.  (Cue the music, rotate frame rate to Ultra slowMotion, ....    enter the Friends.)    We’re just sayin’.... Iris 

The Kids.....

 

It has taken me days to find a way to deal with the murder of those 20 children.    Awake or asleep, I can’t helping thinking about how I would feel if it were my children or grandchildren. Then I think, those babies were everyone’s children and grandchildren. They are supposed to be safe in school. On 9/11, it was determined that the kids in Arlington Va. would be safest if they remained in school.  School, where when we were kids we went to the gym to practice what we would do if there was a bomb scare.  But the bombs were coming from Russia, not from the kid who lived around the corner. 

We should not need another law or magnetometers  at the doors of every elementary school in order for this shooting horror never to happen again.  It’s a societal and logistical nightmare.  How do we take semi automatic weapons away from people who purchased them legally?  The ‘legally,’ makes me physically sick.  I get wanting to own a gun.  But who would purchase an assault weapon for hunting or even personal protection. There is something wrong with our society.  There is something wrong with glorifying violence in the things we find entertaining.  Sex has a R rating.  Violence, like chopping off someone’s head, or massacring hundreds of people with a machine gun, does not.   This horrible event has become fodder for a few days of gruesome news coverage and then we’ll move on to the next story.  

Years ago, Sara Brady asked me for help with gun control legislation after her husband was shot.  During the Reagan Administration Jim Brady was the Press Secretary when the attempt was made on President Reagan’s life.  Jim was shot and seriously injured. This psychopath  who shot him is looking to get out of the mental institution where he has been for years.  OK parole him, but make him responsible for Jim Brady’s daily care. 

Anyway, you can laugh if you want to, but the only way to affect change within the NRA, is to take them over.  All the people who are horrified by the random gun violence and have given lip service to changing the laws,  the strong NRA lobby,  and wrong thinking NRA leadership, should join the NRA, and take them over from the inside. The fact is that wanting to have guns is pretty much 50/50.  Women want to be able to protect themselves, and men want to be macho, or hunt, or just shoot for fun.  

But here’s what I know. Significant change will not happen unless we stop thinking about the second amendment as a tool for crazy people to acquire machine guns – legal or not. 

The mother and son went out for target practice.  They knew there was something wrong with him so they watched him carefully.   Well I guess not.  If he hadn’t had access to those guns, he might have shot his mother and then realized it was pointless to kill anyone else because it would take too long with a target practice weapon.

That event in Ct. was a clear, “There, but for God, go I.”  Anyone who has a child, or knows a child, or has heard about the gift of children, suffered a loss in that shooting. We

Need to do something to make sure it wasn’t our humanity.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

Lekish?

 

On Sunday and Monday of last week, we produced, with CETM,  an international collaboration of Gefilte Fish Chronicles, the Musical.  It happened in Montreal.  Everything, (which was very different than New York), went well.  The performers, the rules, the venue, the production team, were all different but it was received with kudos, from an audience of American diplomats, French Canadian cultural affairs specialists, theatre people and invited guests.

The impact of this production far exceeded our expectations.  I guess we expected a presentation that would be similar, but a little less sophisticated than New York.   Although the New York reading was superb, we needed to see if the show would work beyond the tri-state area. The show, which is a celebration of Family, is charming and heartwarming. It, like any other production with merit, requires professionalism from the people involved, but not sophistication, in the Victorian Manners, sense. The audience needs to feel that they are invested in the characters on stage because the stage ‘family,’ is – one hopes – familiar, and just like their own families.  

Whenever I see GFC performed, I see things which, despite our attempts for distance, are hauntingly familiar.  Whether it’s a tone, some jewelry, a line, or a mannerism that somehow without even being aware of it, one of the actors duplicates – it makes me miss “The Lekish” more.  OK, I’ll explain Lekish. Our aunts and uncles were many but when we thought of them, we thought of them as one unit/group a large simmering, constantly moving and very alive entity – otherwise known to us as “Lekish.”  When we had a complaint or a request, the reply often heard was  “Go tell Lekish.”  
And so, watching a performance, whether on stage or screen, I long to see them, hear them, or be reprimanded by them.  I miss them all. But I am grateful to have had them in my life and now (most of the time), am happy to have them in my head.  

And speaking of the past, (OK we weren’t—so move right along),  we watched the televised telethon for the victims of Sandy (121212). The entertainers were generous with their time.  Whether sitting on a phone or performing on the stage, they all were committed to helping the people still suffering the consequences of that vile Sandy.  But geez, how’d they all get so old?  A bunch of alta cockers (old people)  took to the stage to make a difference. If you were or are from any of the devastated areas, your memories of what was, are forever changed by what is.  The places we used to go to, (two years ago), simply do not exist anymore. Whether in New York, or New Jersey, that which was always familiar is gone.  The boardwalks, the beaches, the rides, or the food, are never going to be the same. But what is?

Iris & Tara (Goldie)

There is a sadness in moving on.  In losing places as well as people we loved. OK,  you’ve heard it before, nothing stays the same – and sometimes that sucks.  Sometimes the absence of that which was so much a part of who you makes you feel lonely beyond explanation.  I guess I’m not good at dealing with a clean slate.  Luckily, I no longer have to be.  I just told Lekish.  We’re just sayin’...  Iris

Oh So Blue

And as a final stupid mistake, as of January 7, 2013, Jet Blue will discontinue the always full, 7am flight from Burbank to JFK.  This  blob might appear cranky, until you think about the loss of personal freedom, and the loss of a  sense of humor when you have go somewhere, especially by air.  On the way to the airport  (a few hours too early,) we were reminiscing about travel in the " old"  days.  It was nicer. If you went first class, you were treated like a first class passenger. The food was intriguing, the drinks flowing, the cabin attendants good humored.  It was a time when, if you wanted to change a ticket, or even the name on a ticket, it was possible, without being charged a  fee or being tagged a terrorist.

In times of yore, there were many options for airline choice.  Often one, two or three, airlines  flew to the same place. They competed for business. They tried to make their clients happy, because than they could count on return business. It was lovely to be treated like a welcome customer, as opposed to an inconvenient interruption.  Those were years when you looked forward to travel, rather than dreading the next adventure.

When I look in the mirror, it's hard for me to recognize the "cowboy" that once was me. There were times when I traveled to and from an airport, 2 or more times a week. On a number of occasions, (especially during campaigns or when I worked in government), there was as little as five minutes between flights. Either you would have to race for the plane or sometimes, the airline would hold the second plane until you got to the gate.  Flying  was a civilized way to go from one place to the other.  

Let's go back to the cowboy thing. When I needed to travel, either for work or pleasure, I made my travel arrangements, (I was one of those people who did it myself because so many travel consultants never accounted for time changes, or the quickest rather than cheapest way to go.)  I arranged for cabs and interim transit options. I carried one bag in which I rolled ( yes rolled) mostly black pants, skirts, sweater, clothes appropriate to the weather and a jacket. On occasion, I worked in a splash of color with a shirt or jewelry. I never thought about how long the trip would be and how the schedule would be defined. I just went wherever I wanted or needed to be.  

That doesn't happen anymore.  It can't.  The world and commerce have changed. Everyone knows this but let's vent together. There are so many rules and regulations that a person can't just get up and go. You have to pack liquids in small bottles separate from medication, sharp utensils, and electronic equipment. Security is so intrusive that arriving at an airport with less than an hour to gate to your gate, means you may not make the flight. Food and drink, even pillows and blankets need to be purchased.  The last thing you would want to do in these days of bed bugs and disease, is to use something a stranger (god knows what they touched), has already used.  We despise germs, inconvenience, people who never travel, and  the escalated costs of everything.  Especially when they are ridiculous. When my mother died on the west coast, and we were burying her on the east coast, the airlines charged us for her body as cargo, and they also charged her for a seat. This would be funny if you were making up a story, but not when it's true.

Anyway, I wanted to see if there was even an essence of cowboy left. So I flew across the country to work for two and a half days. It was not without incident but I vowed I would not overreact to foolish events, and I would not suffer a time change -- I never changed by watch. Of course, the time did change and I was not going to miss evening meetings by going to sleep on eastern time. Here's what I learned:  Jet Blue is still the only reasonable domestic airline, (cost, service, and attitude). It is comforting to find out that I can still be a cowboy.  I function far better on California time than I do on NY time.  
And most importantly, travel, thanks to homeland security and expensive airlines,  is no longer something I want to do.  We’re just sayin’... Iris

New York & Weirdness

 

New York is an especially weird place during the Christmas holidays.  You noticed I said, especially.  There was a protest in Times Square today.  It wasn’t the usual run of the mill protest,  with chanting and marching.  Oh no,  this time hundreds of Albanians gathered on the red stairs in Greeley Square. Those steps are at the heart of Broadway, Aside from all the “On Broadway” theaters, right underneath the steps are the TKTS booths.  That’s where they sell half price tickets for shows on and off Broadway.  My hope is that this is not the start of a new way to corral media attention.   It’s not that I don’t love a good protest, or a good march, (although I do not like being in the middle of a crowd), it’s fun to stand on the sidelines and just watch.  But protests should send a message – and a big part of the message is the place where the protest takes place.  A human rights demonstration at the Lincoln Memorial, an Arab protest outside an Israeli Embassy, Earth Day in a park.  Now these make sense.  And I could be wrong, but I don’t remember Albanians being denied tickets to “Wicked” or even “Annie”.  So what is that about.  Maybe they chose the steps for their color.  The Albanian flag is mostly red, with a little black.  It’s just part of the “weird” in the city. 

It’s a time when tourists, most of whom don’t speak more than a few words of English, and who are negotiating the largest subway system in the world –which is not easy, even if you speak perfect English, can be found at Rockefeller Center waiting for the annual Christmas tree lighting.  They begin to line up at about 2:00pm.  The lighting ceremony begins at 7pm.  From about 4pm the police start to shut down the streets.  It is unlikely that there would be any terrorist attacks at the Christmas tree lighting, because it is so crowded that you cannot move your hands away from your body.  In addition, if you line up within “range,” you would have to be on site by 1pm.  By the time there was a crowd, any terrorist, male, female, big or small, would have to go to the bathroom. And if you leave you can’t get back in.  From my perspective, being confined like a rat in a trap, would be the last way I would want to spend a pleasant evening – especially if it was going to be my last evening on earth. (catch up, I’m making a joke about suicide, which under the best of circumstances isn’t easy.)

After I hurried out of the Albanian protest, and out of the mess in Rockefeller Center, I proceeded cross town. I thought the East side would be less chaotic than the West side – but we have Bloomingdales and the newest attraction, “Sprinkles”, a trendy cupcake bakery.  Cupcakes have become the rage in NY and LA and probably a great many big cities.  It happens that my favorite bakery is “Crumbs.”  Not only are their cupcakes delicious and unusual, their pastries (oye, the almond croissant) are worth the calories—which have to be listed by law in NY. Talk about, in your face.  Anyway my most reliable food source, (my cousin Debbie), told me I needed to go to “Sprinkles.”  The cupcakes are also delicious.  However, remember the weirdness I mentioned earlier.  In most bakeries you wait in line and the server takes your order, packs your order, and turns you over to the cashier.  And on to the next customer.  Not at “Sprinkles”.  One person takes your order, one person packs your order and another person takes your money.  You might think this would move things along. It doesn’t. If you want to change your order, add to it or subtract, and the person who took your order is waiting on the next customer, the staff get confused. And it’s New York, so of course you want to change your order half way through the process.. Or, if you are cashing out, but you ask a question about the itty bitty cupcakes for your dog, the cashier gets confused about what to do, answer or make change.  Anyway, there is inevitably going to be a longer line than necessary.  But here was the weirdest part, the salted caramel cupcakes, that Debbie suggested, were divine.  In fact, almost every other  customer bought one.  The woman behind me, who was originally in front of me, but she had questions, asked if any of the cupcakes were being discontinued.  “Yes”, said the server also acting or not acting like the trouble shooter, answered.  “The salted caramel are being discontinued.”  The customer was shocked.  “Isn’t that your biggest seller?”, she said.  “Oh yes, but we said we were going to discontinue them before the holidays and we kept extending their little lives.  So now we have no choice but to stop making them.”

 Recently added to the Endangered Species list, this SPRINKLES Salted Carmel Cupcake

 

Maybe it’s me, but if my customers loved something, I’d probably rethink getting rid of it.  And that’s what I mean.  Protests on the red steps, people waiting in the cold to see a tree lighting they could certainly be more comfortable watching on TV, (all the entertainment is prerecorded), and taking the life of a cupcake when it has proven it’s value to the business.  It’s just weird.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

Lincoln, and the Business of Washington

 

Today we went to see a 1:00pm “Lincoln,” which we thought would be empty.  People go to church and out for brunch on  Sunday.  Who goes to a movie at 1pm?  Turns out, enough people that there was not an empty seat in the theater.  It was a terrific film and surprisingly time specific.  Not about Lincoln’s whole life, no tales of him saving a muddy pig on the way to the State house, but about the period of time when, through complicated political strategy and negotiations, he tried to end the Civil War and pass the 13th Amendment to the Constitution. We are introduced to Machiavellian operatives and the President’s willingness to reach out to those who disagree with his policies, in order to rid the nation of slavery.  It was an enlightening three hours. President Obama should see this movie and learn a lesson. 

There is a reason that when people plan an event in Washington DC, it begins as early as 5 and it ends around 9—never much later.  It is because all the business of Washington gets done at a reception, a dinner, or any number of social occasions.  If you are an event planner who doesn’t know this, chances are your event will be a dud.  Truth be told, there is hardly ever a “social” event when the Congress, the White House, or lobbyists are involved.

There was a reason Eisenhower played a great deal of golf.  Eisenhower used the golf course to do business with especially selected invited guests.  If he wanted to get something done, he knew the best way to do business with reluctant adversaries, was in a pleasant social environment. There was a reason VP Gore hosted a Halloween press party every year. It wasn’t because he loved the media.  On the contrary, he wanted the media to like him.  Or at least give him the benefit of a doubt if there were some contentious highly visible issue for which the White House needed public support.  The guest list was, of course, not all the press, just those who were influential enough to make a difference. 

Parties and golf outings are only two of many ways to reach out in order to make policy.  There are a million Washington ways to achieve political goals. There are invitations to eat, sleep, or dance, at the White House – be it a State Dinner, or lunch in the White House Mess.  The President can invite people over to the residence for a drink, to watch the fireworks on July 4^th, or celebrate the Christmas tree lighting.  If you use your imagination you could design any number of perks to help move a political agenda forward.  Lincoln knew this. Eisenhower understood. Every smart, savvy, successful President used all the powers and perks of the Presidency to get a deal done.  Obama did not do this in his first term.  He played golf with his inner circle, and did not extend social invitations to Republicans, or Democrats for that matter.  He likes to “have time with the kids” is his excuse.  But one does not have to negate the other.

The country is about to fall off some kind of steep cliff.  My guess is that even Republicans and members of the ridiculous Tea Party have kids who would like to have Sunday brunch with the President and his family.  There is always a way to get something done in DC.  If after four years the President still doesn’t get it, then we all need to be putting on those parachutes.

Memory Lane, Northwest

 

It was years before my son finally confessed that he did love our house and the life he had when we lived at Dupont Circle in Washington, D.C.  Yesterday, when he found out we were staying in the old neighborhood, he asked me to take a walk down his memory lane by taking pictures of some of his favorite spots.

the view of 17th street, with some autumnal touches still present

Of course, my memories were mixed with his, but with a mother’s eye, instead of a child’s.  His favorite response to most of our adventures --like the first time he saw a bank ATM cash machine, and when it was raining so hard I hit a guy running across the street – was “holy shit ma!”  The exclamation, when the cash came out of the machine, was finished with “We’re rich Ma!”  And when I ran over the pedestrian, it was, “I think you killed that guy Ma, let’s run for it.”  We didn’t run for it and he wasn’t dead.  In fact the only thing about which he was upset, was that the clothes he was wearing to work, were beyond wet.

front steps at 1715, where many a refreshing beverage and accompanying conversation were served

We are staying on N Street, right around the corner from the infamous 1979-85  “1715 Q Street Salon.”  Almost every weekend included at least one or two events – and they weren’t necessarily planned.  One weekend Doug Coulter had a party but for some reason, no one ate any of the fabulous food he had prepared.  So we called out the troops, picked up the food, and had another Coulter party, but it was moved to 1715 Q.  Or, for some worthy cause,  we would auction off the place and our incredible advance and serving expertise to host some gala event. 

if we'd only known how much those parking  spots would fetch, we'd have kept them

When Seth came to stay, holidays and summers, it was especially wonderful because there were so few friends with children, his presence was always welcomed and special.  He spent lots of time at the White house. Whether it was for the Easter Egg Roll, July 4^th fireworks, or the Christmas tree lighting and parties, the Carter’s were always generous with those of us who had families. This generosity expanded to entertainment at the Kennedy Center, tours at other government buildings,  and special events where organizations wanted a White House presence. 

now its all fancy imported wines, but in the 80s it there was a LOT of Thunderbird

But for Seth, the most fun was walking out the back door and down the alley to the McDonalds.  He always wanted to go by himself, so I would watch at the door, and the guys who hung out at the liquor store would walk him back and forth across the street.  I was always concerned about him walking anywhere because I was never sure if he knew enough to look both ways when he crossed the street.  But the one time I was late at the camp bus stop, he walked all the way home by himself.  He was so proud. I was totally traumatized and stupidly, instead of praising him I screamed about how he disobeyed my instructions.  Luckily, David intervened and eventually I realized how stupid I was, but first children always bear the brunt of their parents’ paranoia. 

even then, we were "Lovin It"

The Carter days were way different than what the tone of the Congress and White House are today.  We were all friends, not only with people in the Administration, but with the Press, the Security people and yes, even Republican elected officials.  Loyalty was expected, not a nice surprise.  Public Service was a respected profession. And we had fun, whether it was at work or play –frequently they overlapped.

There are too many stories to tell and too much life to remember, but we loved that house and those years.  It has taken me 25 years and a request from Seth to revisit those memorable places.  But it was well worth it.  As I passed the little Safeway grocery where we shopped, I can so remember when the cashier would inform me that my husband was home.  “How do you know?” I would say.  And with a big smile she would say, “He’s the only man in the neighborhood who comes here in a purple skirt.” Those were the days when he wore a sarong and the neighborhood was remarkably straight.  It remains a place I’d love to live again, and 27 years after leaving, it’s a very welcome feeling to come back again for a few days.   We’re just sayin’…  Iris Burnett