Keep on Truckin

If I were still writing my Bulletin's Over Broadway Blob,here's what I would have written.  Passover plus, which I am writing tomorrow will be our 999th blob. Almost 1000.

Sometimes the unexpected happens, unexpectedly.  For example, the “Wild Party” was a musical with a book by George C Wolfe and music and lyrics by Michael John LaChiusa. It was based on the 1928 Joseph Moncure March narrative poem of the same name. Oh wait.  “The Wild Party,”was a musical with book, lyrics, and music by Andrew Lippa. It too was based on Joseph Moncure March's 1928 narrative poem of the same name. They both debuted during the same theatre season (1999–2000). While one was well funded and peopled with popular stars and a well-known creative team, the other emerged as the “Wild Party” of hip choice.

Two years ago, “Slow Dance with a Hot Pick-up” (having been work-shopped previously at Indiana University’s Premiere Musicals Lab, selected for development at the New Harmony Project by Tony Award Winner, Anna D. Shapiro, further developed at the Florida Studio Theatre and the legendary Barnstormers Theatre in New Hampshire where it won the New Hampshire Theatre Award for Best New Musical and then selected to be presented in Montreal at the 2009 Next Wave Festival of New Musicals), had its World Premiere in Boulder, Colorado at the famous Boulder Dinner Theatre.  A few months later “Hands on a Hard Body,” (based on the documentary of the same name), with the exact theme and similar story, was work-shopped in California, prior to its Broadway debut this month.

“Hot Pick-up” which was inspired by these same Hands On contests that came about during the 1980’s was researched and written by John Pielmeier (Agnes of God,  Pillars of the Earth , and many screenplays). Music and lyrics for “Hot Pickup” were penned by Emmy awarded winning composer Matty Selman (“Goddess Wheel”, and “Uncle Philip’s Coat”).  John and Matty’s story, about a grueling marathon contest, where the prize (a pick-up) was awarded to the last person still able to hold  on to the truck, was not based on the documentary.

“Hands on a Hardbody”, has a book by Pulitzer Prize winning Doug Wright (I am My Own Wife)  with music and lyrics by singer song writer, Amanda Green (Bring it On) and Trey Anastasio (Phish).  Both these shows, have notable creative teams and a “real American” tale to tell.  Both revolve around dignity, dreams, and frustrated aspirations to succeed in lives where they have had only disappointed expectations. Both are musicals.  Both are passionate and musically appealing.  But only one was able to be a Broadway show. Because only one had the financial backing to stay alive long enough to find out if the public is interested in watching what they have produced. It appears they aren’t.

Like “The Wild Party,” there seemed to be room for both productions. And like the Wild Party, one went to Broadway, while the other remained Off Broadway.  Broadway loves new visions for an old story (revivals) and themes that are universal, (love, hate, struggle).  But Broadway has room for only one production of the same story and that production has to be, if nothing else, well funded.

There is a kind of sadness in this theater reality. It doesn’t matter who was first or which show has the most merit. It’s not about talent since both of these productions are notable.  But it is incredibly expensive to produce a Broadway show, so the only thing that is for sure is, that if you have access to the money,  (are Phish, have parents who are legends, or have won a Pulitzer Prize), you will have the funding necessary to support an artistic effort.  And, if you fail, it will be considered a successful failure, because you raised millions of dollars, and you will not have to worry about being able to buy your own lunch.  It will be interesting to see what happens to both productions in the next few years.  Once a show is produced, whether it’s on Broadway, off, or off off off, it has a life of it’s own.  It can tour, or be licensed by almost anyone. If the show has a compelling story, memorable music, and interesting characters, it can play somewhere forever, as long as it costs a lot less than a million dollars. We're Just Sayin...... Iris

Painful doesn't beGIN to describe...

 

An old writer friend opened a show off off-Broadway recently.  It was a painful but productive experience for him.  Speaking as a novice musical theater writer I cannot imagine why he didn’t have a nervous breakdown.  But I am told this kind of thing happens more often than any of us can imagine.

He didn’t care that there was no red carpet, he didn’t expect one and having never had one before, didn’t miss it.  All he wanted was for the actors to know their lines and for the musicians to be somewhat practiced.  Not so fast—apparently, it was too much to ask.

I could go on and on but it wouldn’t make any difference. We all (aspiring producers) invest a great deal of time on stuff that has nothing to do with what we envisioned. So moving on, I am always amazed at the depth of the correspondence on Facebook.  I love Facebook because it allows me enter into the lives of people who I have known for a long time, or are people with whom I would like a continuing relationship.

Let’s get back to my pal for just a brief moment.  Should he have known better than to trust strangers with his baby?  Should he have choreographed the piece so no one could make mincemeat of it.  Should he have been skeptical enough to know that the people with whom he entrusted his vision didn’t have a clue? Probably. But none of that happened, so what next?

Artists are a curious lot.  Unlike most normal people, artists think they are special.  They have to think they are special because they put their work out in public, where anyone can make judgments about what they have done.  If artists doesn’t believe in their work themselves, then why should anyone else think it’s special?  When an artist produces a work of art, be it a play, a song, a book, whatever, it’s like giving birth to a baby.  For some period of time, the artist wants to nurture what they have produced.  They don’t trust a stranger to protect its integrity, or give the baby the same attention they will give it.  As the baby grows the artist will give relinquish control but not until they know that they have left their baby in competent hands.

And on a totally different subject, (which I could connect but it would be too painful for our readers) has Mayor Bloomberg driven uptown, crosstown, or downtown in NYC?  Probably not,  because the construction and the condition of the roads are abhorrent.  Yesterday when he announced his concern over displays of cigarettes, and last month with his push forbidding 32 ounce drinks, I said (to anyone who would listen) “this guy is totally out of touch with the important issues.  He’s so busy monitoring our personal behavior that he has totally lost his focus on problems that effect those of us who try to live in NY.”  I want to yell, WAKE UP BOZO!, but it’s not respectful, much like someone decimating a lovely musical show because they have lost their ability to distinguish between what is worthwhile and what gives someone immediate gratification. We must protect ourselves from the people who only see superficial, and be on the lookout for those who value expediency over thoughtful decision making.  We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Lost..... and Found? No, Just Lost

English language words can be fascinating or bewildering.  So many of the words we use either mean more than one thing, or they are not pronounced the way they are spelled.  Such things as silent ough’s or a ph that is pronounced as an f, don’t make it an easy language to learn. It’s always been an amazing to me that a little child can speak and pronounce confusing words correctly. 

The other day, as a direct consequence of my exhaustion, I lost a day.  It is unclear whether it was Monday or Tuesday, but it got lost.  When I got out of bed on Wednesday, despite the fact that the trash cans in our neighborhood were all awaiting a Wednesday pick-up.  And, although I had watched NCIS on the previous evening.  When I went over to my cousin Debbie’s just to say hello, she asked if I was meeting my aunt for lunch the next day. “Yes,” I said. “I told her I couldn’t meet on Thursday so I was going to meet her tomorrow, on Wednesday.”

“But” she said, “today is Wednesday”.  I argued for a while, but she was right.  It was 9:30 and I had to pick  Auntie up at 11:30.  The trip would take an hour and fifteen minutes.  “Guess  better move my touchas or Auntie is going to be standing in the cold for way longer than she expected.”

There are a number of definitions for this four letter word.  It can mean no longer possessed or retained: lost friends.  No longer to be found: lost articles. Or having gone astray or missed the way; bewildered as to place, direction, etc.: lost children. It can also mean one has missed an opportunity to win some kind of a race.  The first “lost” I discussed does not really fit any of these. The closest it comes is to be bewildered. I was not bewildered or befuddled.  I was as sure of the day, as I was of my own name. And I was wrong.  I spent the day (after lunch) trying to figure out if I lost Monday or Tuesday, when I realized it didn’t make any difference.  The weird thing is that I knew exactly what I did on Monday and Tuesday,  and still, I insisted it was Wednesday.  Lost? Maybe.  Definitely.  Lost.  We’re just sayin’.. Iris

Measuring Silly

How do we measure our lives?  T.S Eliot, said that J. Alfred Prufrock did it in coffee spoons. Sports teams do it in number of victories.  Doctors may measure in the number of lives they have saved. Business people will likely measure in money and material success. Those of us whose lives have been more eclectic, find alternatives to the win/lose or money earned/spent evaluation of our lives.

Yesterday, when we needed to make some changes in our EZ-pass, David got on the phone and pretended to be me. When David was pretending to be me, he mentioned, in passing, that the EZ-pass had been passed on to the next generation because Rose was dead.  They insisted however, on speaking to her (“sir… only the account holder can change the account….)  So I got on the phone, and passed myself off as my too colorful mother.  After about five minutes of question answering, the EZ-pass representative hesitated and said, “just a minute, I thought someone said that Rose was dead.”  I laughed and said, “how can I be dead, I’m talking on the phone.” It felt great.  When mom was alive and we would have to do business on the phone for her, banking, bill paying, insurance issues, David would initiate the call.  Whoever he was calling was insistent on speaking to my mother. I would then get on the phone and drive the person we called so nuts, that they would insist I put “the nice young man” back on the phone.

One of the ways we measure our success is by how we deal with people who call during dinner to sell us something we will never buy.  Usually David takes these calls because he was never a bad boy.  I have never been a good girl—in the most innocent ways. In college when the pay phone in the hallway rang – we didn’t have our own phones, and cells were a thing to be discovered thirty years later, we would all rush to the phone because a call on the pay phone was assuredly a pervert call. Perverts were the only people who had the phone number.  (No one in the dorm knew any of the pay phone numbers.)

As children we would play this game where we would compete to gross out the pervert.  It was a timing thing.  The idea was that whoever grossed out the pervert the quickest, would win the game.   It was an incredibly challenging competition, where the language and energy knew no bounds. Let me say, (I don’t think you’ll be surprised), I was usually the champ.  It was such fun that when David and I started to get these dinner interrupting phone calls, I didn’t want to deny him the opportunity to have some fun.  His responses  took a number of forms.  This is not a complete list but, sometimes he would pretend to be hard of hearing, sometimes he would be pretend to be screaming at his uncooperative wife, and sometimes he would pretend not to speak any English.  There was even a conversation which included the phrase (yelled to a theoretical off camera young child,) " I swear if you drop that watermelon I'll crown you with a Sand Wedge!"   Whoever the character, it was always hilarious.

You remember that there was a ‘no call’ list.  If you signed up, you were not supposed to get any of those tiresome solicitations or pesky non-stop political sales (yes they think they are selling a product).  Despite our attempt not to get calls, we continued to be bombarded by optimistic, hopeful, soon to be discouraged, sales personnel who, at their expense provided us with a way to measure our creativity. Anyway, one of our measurements for success and personal growth, was the ability to delight in getting rid of unwanted dinner interruptions, as well as ability to entertain one another. Humor is an excellent measure of personal growth,  as well as  proving that no matter how old someone gets, you’re never be too old to be silly.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

Michael Kelly

 

Michael Kelly made the best Irish Soda Bread ever. Ever.  Knowing that I loved Irish soda bread, people were constantly suggesting places to buy it. And since we no longer live in a geographically preferred location, I went store to store trying every one I could find. But never did I taste any one which could compare.  Michael was one of a kind.

He loved being in the kitchen, and beyond bread, was a fabulous chef.  He never let anyone venture into this sacred space.  It was a challenge for me to get him to trust me and permit entry.  Eventually he did, but it was about my challah recipe rather than my ability to cook as well as he did.  He just made me laugh, about anything.

This morning we received this note from Halle, a mutual friend:

We lost Michael Kelly this morning.  He developed an infection on Thursday and it proved to be too much for his body to handle.  Ultimately, he died of liver cancer and the complications of a life well lived.

A life well lived.  That’s how everyone breathing would like to be described.  And we were so lucky to be a part of that for Michael.  When you were with him you learned immediately that he was smart, and funny, and understood how to live.  He split his time between Washington and a Beach house in Delaware. Whenever he went he was in charge – even with me, and that’s not easy.  It didn’t matter how silly the request, he was generous with this time, his advice and his laughter. 

Michael and his partner Jim, (who I met first), were two of the finest human beings we ever encountered – and we have encountered a lot of beings, human is always a question.  They made you feel comfortable and welcome in their lives, and in their world.  Losing Michael is not going to be easy Jim, or for any of us,  We feel an absence of him already. Even though he was undergoing treatments which left him weak and tired, no one expected him to lose his battle – not so soon and not so quickly.

Our thoughts and love are with Jim.  Michael will always be a part of our lives, never just a memory.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

Love Notes, 2013 Variety

This year there was a half page of love notes in the “Washington Post”. You probably don’t know how important a “love note” was and is, because people only express their feelings electronically or using someone else’s words in a card. But starting in the 80’s, on Valentines Day, people would write love notes to their beloveds and post them on a special page in the Wash Post. Over the years, the number of notes posted on Valentine’s Day grew, until there was an entire section (4 or 5 pages),of the paper dedicated to them. But, and I think unfortunately, as a consequence of the popularity of electronic communication, yesterday, it had dwindled to half a page.

There was a time when I loved that holiday, and then, things happened and it was no longer on my top ten, until sometimes in the 70’s when we started to have a girlfriend lunch with Michael Berman.  When it started there were about five of us.  Just a small  group of political friends wanting to celebrate a holiday that commemorates Love and Relationships. 

The luncheon continued to grow.  None of us remember how fast, or how it happened but first we were five and then we were 120. You might think that the number of people make the celebration less important, but not true.  It is a great leveler. The most important women in Washington, media, politics, PR, lobbying, are all there. (Even Hillary stopped by.)   It is the one time a year that women friends have a chance to get together socially and don’t worry about business. Or it is an opportunity to do business with friends.  Or it is just a time to catch up.  Since I am not part of that conversation anymore, it is just a great way to bond with people who I have known for years and years, and never get to see anymore.

What a great many people do not understand is that Michael is more than a lobbyist and strategic communication expert, as well the person who hosts the best party in Washington.  Many of my closest female friends, who have not ever been there, think it is the most important ticket in the city.  He is a very generous, incredibly smart guy,  who mentors, not only young women, but Senior government people looking to take the next step in their lives. We have been good friends for more than thirty years.  I am no longer an important Washington character, but I get my invite every year.  The women who go to the luncheon all think they have a special place in his life, and they do, because he has made such a difference for them in their careers. Of course, his wife says, “All of you can stand in line, I married him.” And she is a truly wonderful addition to his life and, of course, the luncheon.

It’s a special day for me.  It is a lovely expression of love in a town where connections, not love, is the key to success.  Last year I was traveling and couldn’t make it and I was upset beyond words.  I love to go because it is a reminder of who I was, and what I have become. Both of which are just fine. Michael has always been a friend, a mentor and a gift. He liked the “love note”  David posted in the paper, never get too old to be important or meaningful.  They are both a wonderful expression of love.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

Last Five Years.... redux

“Till there's no one left  Who has ever known us apart”

What a wonderful sentiment on which to reflect a few days before Valentine’s Day. That’s my most favorite romantic line in my most favorite show, “Last Five Years”, by Jason Robert Brown.  The other night I went to a “works in progress” at the Guggenheim, where Jason Robert Brown, the two actors in the new Second Stage production, and a host, discussed process and sang songs from the new production as well as the development of some music. 

OK, I do love this show.  In fact, I love all of his work.  To hear him talk was a joy. But the best part of the evening, from a novice producer’s perspective, was his discussion of the orchestrations and the decision to use just string instruments and a piano. There are no drums because he felt percussion was too heavy for the songs and the story.  The other most interesting thing he said had to do with feedback.  He explained that as the author of a work, you have to believe you are awesome, as is the work.  He told a story about Stephen Sondheim giving him tickets to a new work he was producing.  Brown didn’t like it much and intended to tell Sondheim the truth.  When the time came for Brown to tell Sondheim how he felt,  he said nothing, which was a awful as saying something negative. 

When they finally, much later,  had a conversation, Sondheim told him that he didn’t want to hear anything but that it was great. ‘If someone you know gives you tickets to a work they have created, they do not really want to hear anything negative.’  It takes a great deal of courage for an author to make their work public.  They need support from the people closest to them. All they want to hear is, “It was great.”  If it’s awful, they will find out when the critics review it and the audience stops buying tickets.  There is enough time for that.

This show is special to me for many reasons.  First of all it’s brilliant.  Second, despite the oft present humor in the music, it’s the saddest musical ever created.  You know from the beginning that the two characters are doomed.  They will never get it together to have a relationship.  It is a two character show that opens with Jamie, (the male), telling the tale from the beginning of their relationship, and Kathy (the female) telling the story backwards, from the end of the relationship.  So, before it begins you know it’s over.  The only time they are in sync is in the middle when they get married, (and are in a boat in Central Park) and then they drift past one another to the inevitable sorrowful end. 

 Paul and Jordan,  L5Y: 2004, Arlington

When Jordan was a senior in high school she produced and starred in this show with her friend Paul, who took a metro from Maryland every day, traversing the whole of D.C. in order to rehearse.  They did an amazing job, especially when you know they were seventeen and had no life experience at all.  Even without caveats, they were sensational.  And the show earned a permanent place in my heart. 

I sat with two people who had directed the show, on and off Broadway.  Watching them react to the music and the conversation was priceless.  They were clearly still in love.  How can you not be?  The show has never known any notable success.  It does have an enormous cult following and whenever it is produced, the tickets are sold out. 

Jason Robert Brown has shared himself (although he denied that it was autobiographical), with the theater going public in the same way that we want to share “Gefilte Fish Chronicles the Musical” with the rest of the world. Although in GFC it’s mostly good news, it, like “Last Five Years” is a living, loving tribute to relationships, the power of family, food, music and tradition.  Both are well worth seeing.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

Nemo, Stage Two

The STORM OF THE CENTURY is over.  There must be at least ten inches of snow, no wind, and the sun is shining. This morning, when I chatted with the children of the Century, they were playing blocks and were building the tower of the Century, which was taller than both of them and almost as high as the snow outside their window.  They did have more of a snowfall and blizzard conditions than did we, but they seemed to have survived.  They wanted to play outside and build a snowman.  When Seth was awake they plan to have him open the door – which they could not do without his brute strength.

We’ve heard from just about everyone, except Tracey and Jack – so give a shout if you have phone service.

As I said before, I am relieved that the storm of the Century is over.  I expected the TV networks to find some other crisis to cover today.  But alas, they love beating the dead horse of the Century, so now they are 24/7 about the after-effects of the storm.  I could write their scripts.  In fact if I did write their scripts, they would be funnier and shorter.  It would go something like this….

“Well folks (that always makes people feel like they are your friend, and you are about to have a chat).  It snowed yesterday.  In some places like New England, they got a lot of snow.  Not quite the hurricane of ’38, but a lot.  Today, it is not snowing.  It’s a little windy, but far as we know, there’s not much to tell -- no one has been killed by flying anything, so we can’t talk about that.  Most of the roads are open, so we can’t talk about serious delays, and it’s Saturday so no one is in a rush to get to work.  Maybe something terrible will happen in the world today, and we’ll have something to talk about. But for right now, be happy and safe, and watch a cable network that has a movie. (That’s another way to seem friendly without intruding).”

Oscar and the mighty snow-blower

David shoveled the front steps of the century.   He wanted to get some exercise this century.    Our friend Oscar is here snow-blowing our driveway of the Century.  He’s already plowed out his house, his tenants house and he’s on his way to his mother’s.  He’s a wonderful friend and we are grateful that someone has been able to rescue us from one another’s company.  We have not heard about any emergencies.  As far as I know, no one has asked Oscar to deliver provisions, show up with a cognac-laden St Bernard, or leap tall snow banks in a single bound.  People know they will be able to get out of their houses and there will be food available.  Last night there was meant to be a 10 city link up for Colorado College (David’s alma mater) alums, in bars all over the country to watch the vaunted CC-Denver University hockey game.  For decades this clash of Rocky Mountain powerhouses has been noteworthy and noticed.  About 6pm, David got an email advising that “because of the Nemo storm, the get-togethers in New York and Boston would be cancelled.”   David’s reaction was spot on: “How is that POSSIBLE? We’re talking Ice Hockey, not Canasta!!”

the  poor little Miata, under the Mini cover, chilled to the bone

You are probably wondering why I would blob about a horrible storm that was just some snow.  (Need I remind you that in our parent’s generation, they just called it “Winter.”) Was the storm like a drug and I needed to find a easy way to withdraw from the storm addiction?  No, I was just looking for a way to express my frustration about what passes for the news these days.  If you want some real news, here goes… Once you’ve tasted the grapes of wrath, you’ll never be satisfied with bananas.  Yes, I’ve said it before but not 24/7.  It’s a gorgeous day, we’re going for a walk. We're just sayin'... Iris

David, with the balaclava of the Century

Storm of the Century? Which Century?

 

There is no shortage of hype about  “THE STORM OF THE CENTURY.”  It probably doesn’t matter but, last month we had another storm of the century.  And sometime last summer we had a hurricane,  that was also described as the storm of the Century. It’s a great many storms of the Century for only thirteen years of a century.  Let’s not nit pick.  Today is truly going to be the storm of the Century. 

 9 hours into the Storm, and this is what we have

Two days ago was Jordan’s birthday of the century.  There was no other birthday that had such an impact.  Except maybe Zak’s birthday, which was also the birthday of the Century.  Wait a minute, there was Rosie’s birthday, it’s a close call – that could very well have been the birthday of the Century. 

 and still the snow arrives

What does someone do when there is a storm of the Century?  In Virginia, whenever two flakes fell, everyone rushed  to the supermarket and cleaned out the eggs, milk and bread.  Sometimes they bought all the water – and in Virginia, because you can buy wine in the market, there was also a shortage of drinkable alcohol. The most stunning thing about snow in the Mid Atlantic, is that it’s not unusual for it to snow.  But every year the government seemed totally surprised.  Actually, in the DC metropolitan area, weather of any kind, (two cold, too hot, too rainy), sent people into a tizzy.  There were one or two storms of the last Century, and since they aren’t prepared to plow, people couldn’t get out.  Sometimes for days or sometimes the temperature would reach 50 degrees. Immediately after the storm, so the snows of that century just disappear.. 

When you have a home in moderately northern New York, bad or snowy weather is not unexpected. People do stock up on food, and water and they fill their gas-tanks, but generally there is no hysteria.  Having been through a number of storms of the Century, people behave in a more composed and adult manner – and the snow removal people, do know how to remove the snow.  Almost no one thinks they will never ever get out of their houses.

Moving on (almost), in order to avoid being bored, I  made a bread of the Century and a soup of the Century.  I did not declare a state of emergency and close my kitchen.  There is enough food for a month.  I’m just hopeful that my cousins of the Century will be able to come over and pick up the surplus.  Not because they have to trudge through the storm of the Century, but because it’s wet and cold. 

please note: this IS the Challah of the Century

To be honest, I am hopeful that the cold of the Century, will kill all of the pesky bugs and spiders that didn’t die last year, when there was a dearth of storms of the Century. David is presently going through his pictures of the Century and paying our bills of the Century.  There are reports of heavy traffic in the NY tunnels of the  Century and on the highways of the Century.  But it’s Friday at rush hour, and there is always a weekly backup of the Century.

the soup of the Century

While it’s true that I get tired of repeated bad news – like the murder of the Century, or the dumbest congress of the Century – weather is weather and no one needs to hear about it on the news 24/7.  But since there’s no news anymore, just entertainment. When there is any change in anything, all the networks cancel their regular programming and just hope that the winds of the Century will blow hard enough to cause the blackout of the Century, and that there will be a disaster of the Century, which will give them something to talk about tomorrow, when the storm of the Century ends.   We’re just sayin’…. Iris

the Birthday Girl

At 10:24 p.m.  on February 6, 1986, Jordan Kai Burnett made her entrance into our lives. And she was gorgeous.  People always say that about their kids, but this was true. She was born a true diva.  She never had to struggle through a birth canal.  She never had to waste an once of energy on actually getting born.  No, she popped out relaxed and lovely.  Like the announcement of a long awaited musical opening, she established her place on  earth, with the proper amount of fanfare and tremendous expectations.

When we went to the hospital it was raining. The weather in February in Washington was always unpredictable, we were happy that it wasn’t snowing, Since the newborn was the second child, we thought it would be an easy couple-of-hour birth process.  We played Yatzee for a few hours, and nothing was happening.   “Well, we should maybe try to speed this up a bit,” Dr David suggested.  “Sure,” we agreed, “but  I think I need to have a booster of that stuff that numbs you, so you feel nothing but bliss.”  Dr David said he would arrange for that.

Perhaps, you who are thinking,  “What a wuss.”   You should know that when I delivered Seth, my first child, it was an unmedicated natural birth.  Now they call a natural birth anything that isn’t an operation, but this was not the case.  My first labor, which was a back labor, (so no breathing exercises made any difference in controlling the pain), felt like I was being run over with a Mac Truck every thirty seconds.  The doctor asked if I wanted medication and I said, “No,” I simply wanted him to kill me. It was not an experience I wanted to repeat.

Anyway, he gave me a booster of the pain medication and within a couple of minutes I felt the life rushing from my body. Yes, I had some kind of unpredictable reaction.  Luckily, Dr David, who had stayed in the hospital with me the whole day, saw on the monitors that I was in trouble.  He raced into the room, turned me upside down on all fours, and informed me that it was time for the baby to be born.  We agreed, but I asked him to wait for David to get into the operating room before he did the caesarean.

And he made it so. David got into his scrubs and readied himself for the big event. The people who have recounted tales of their births, have said that their deliveries took forever.  Not mine. It was as fast as, “OK we’re going to start… here she comes.” And there she was.  Not smushed, not exhausted, not stressed.  Nope, the diva appeared, rather than was delivered.  By the time she was born (10:24PM), all I wanted was a hot fudge Sundae.  OK, now I know you are not supposed to eat if you have stomach surgery, but all I wanted was a hot fudge sundae.  David will have to tell you the rest of the tale but, he didn’t have enough money to take the car out of the parking lot and all the ice cream joints were closed.  But somehow, he managed to get me a hot fudge Sundae, and even got it comped.

With Jordan in my arms, I devoured that Sundae.  Neither of us could believe that she was so beautiful, but we were not up to looking “a gift horse in the mouth.’  She was a gift from, who knows where, and it was never any different. Now, only 27 years later, we say Happy Birthday to our  amazing baby – you have always been a joy and a wonderful gift,   We’re just sayin’…. Iris

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