There are several things you expect, tolerate and/or delight in when it comes to living in a downtown loft.
A large bat swooping nervously throughout your space is not one of them. I was wearing a nightgown, feet tucked under me on the couch in what I thought was the wind-down of a long day when Charlie (the master of understament) pointed toward the alcove and said "there's a bird in the apartment."
The wide-winged rodent chose that moment to soar into the living room and prove Charlie spectacularly wrong. It dove and climbed like a fighter-pilot engaged. One cat and I went for cover, Lily and Charlie sat stunned and bemused, but Little Bit, the polydactyl skinny black cat, sprung into action.
If we had a flying rat cast as the Red Baron, Bit was clearly ready to put species issues aside and play Snoopy.
It hardly seemed like the time to remind him he was declawed.
Charlie ran downstairs to tell the doorman about our uninvited aerialist, while I watched the battle from under an afghan. I put Lilly in the crate where she looked at me gratefully as if to say " Bird dog, yes. Bat dog, no."
Bit was literally running sideways off the walls as he tracked and stalked his increasingly agitated quarry. The thought of rabies crossed through my mind, but realistically how could a scrawny cat without claws catch an aerodynamically spectacular bat in flight?
Bit demonstrated by leaping a clear four feet into the air and catching a wing on descent, bringing the bat to the floor. As it scrambled to get back in the air, I decided it was time for Bit and the other domesticated beasts to join me in the laundry room.
By now Charlie had returned with Jim-the-doorman, a personablle retiree used to dealing with pests like teenage girls who wanted to know which apartment the Bills quarterback lived in - Jim was not ready for the Red Baron.
He called maintenance on his cell, ducking and hollering as the bat continued its eratic circles. No one he called knew what to do, as Bit paced the laundry room and threw himself against the door as if to say "let me at him. I have thumbs. I can do this."
When Jim finally went back downstairs for further executive consultation, Charlie took matters in his own hands. With Lily and the cats with me in the laundry room ,he opened our apartment door to the hallway and shooed the swooping beast into the common area.
Charlie then went back downstairs to let Jim know the bat was no longer our problem. It was his problem.
But, being a guy, when we heard the elevator chime signalling Jim's return to the floor Charlie went out in the hall to help. Bit was now in full pout.
After five minutes of shouts and erratic bangs against the wall , Charlie came back to announce they had locked it in 308 - a vacant apartment down the hall where the door had been left open for maintenance. The bat now had about 2,200 sqaure feet and one of the better views in the city all to itself.
We were more than an hour into this adventure and I was quite ready for it to be over... but guys just aren't like that.
Jim returned with a specially dispensed maintenance worker - they had buckets, rakes and brooms and they were going in. The yelling and erratic wall pounding continued into the evening until a flushed, but happy, Jim the doorman knocked on our door. "We got it," he said breathlessly, pointing to a covered bucket.
The hall was littered with the tools of the pursuit. Bit stayed at the other end of the apartment with a look of pure disdain -- the amateurs were clearly unworthy of his opponent.
Charlie, Jim and the Maintenance Guy were worn out from their ragged pursuit, but Bit sat serenely on the window ledge scanning the night sky. Until we meet again.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Sunday, June 25, 2006
A "good" family
There are folks who ask immediately "who" you are - and actually mean ask what your grandparents have accomplished of public note and whether you grew up at the right address and attended the appropriate private school.
By that pedigree, I am a certified mutt. My parents and grandparents pushed open the door for me to go to college with strong, broad shoulders.
When I was in high school, I wouldn't have known how to get to the "right schools" by bus line. Almost 30 years after high school graduation, I am still amazed to discover that the location of that singularly unspectacular event still matters to some people.
My father shares the first and last name of a noted hematologist of no relation. At civic and social affairs, those with the need to enquire as to my maiden name immediately assume that's my bloodline. After all, I AM talking to THEM in THEIR space. I MUST be one of them.
Nope, I say. My Dad was a State Trooper, then served as a town judge in Pembroke for more than 30 years.
"So he was a lawyer," they smile. "No, a cop. Town Judges are elected and don't need to be degreed."
The conversation frequently ends there. Often abruptly.
This type of exchange infrequently occured in the rarified air of Sea Island where blueblood and blue blazers were the order of the day. Over the years of working in Five Star/ Five Diamond luxury, I learned that the more legitimate the pedigree, the less my lack of the same mattered.
Although they had lineage with a capital L and the assets of several countries combined, the family that owned the resort defined class as an attitude - a way of respecting yourself and treating others - not simply a lucky sperm club.
Thus running into this wall in Buffalo - the city of no illusions - is sometimes startling. I didn't come back home for that "society" -- but my brothers, my cousins and their children.
I surveyed much of our motley mob at a family graduation party last week. Gorgeous children squealing and splashing in the pool, fluid clusters of loud conversation, my father - now the patriarch - slowly moving from table to table chatting up the "kids" - many who now have their own grandchildren.
Our generation, and our children, are now of the professional class. We could "pass" in most any circumstance. But we enjoy each other completely and laugh heartily.
We bring too much food and put as much as we can in "the envelope" because our grandparents taught us to care for our own.
When Charlie started working on our cottage porch, relatives with tools and equipment appeared without an email or ask. Boats, barbeques and other plans could wait until the structure was framed.
The families of the "workers" gathered lawn chairs and coolers in an impromptu party around the raised wood frame tableau of power tools and sweat. There was a rough poetry in watching them improve on the sturdy bulding my grandfather built before I was born.
Grandma would have been proud to see "the kids" together in that way and would have said it. Grandpa wouldn't have said a thing, but would take silent note of the solid, careful construction. That was their legacy.
For too many years, Bernie, Craig and I - stairstep cousins each nine months apart - lived in three different states. In last decade, each of us faced a serious health threat. And each of us has done our best to be there for the other despite the geography.
Bernie and Craig are guys' guys - prone to embarassing humor and absurdly manly pursuits.
But every time we say goodbye to each other we hug and "I love yous" are always exchanged.
I know very few folks who can imagine being that rich.
Am I from a "good family?"
Absolutely, the best.
By that pedigree, I am a certified mutt. My parents and grandparents pushed open the door for me to go to college with strong, broad shoulders.
When I was in high school, I wouldn't have known how to get to the "right schools" by bus line. Almost 30 years after high school graduation, I am still amazed to discover that the location of that singularly unspectacular event still matters to some people.
My father shares the first and last name of a noted hematologist of no relation. At civic and social affairs, those with the need to enquire as to my maiden name immediately assume that's my bloodline. After all, I AM talking to THEM in THEIR space. I MUST be one of them.
Nope, I say. My Dad was a State Trooper, then served as a town judge in Pembroke for more than 30 years.
"So he was a lawyer," they smile. "No, a cop. Town Judges are elected and don't need to be degreed."
The conversation frequently ends there. Often abruptly.
This type of exchange infrequently occured in the rarified air of Sea Island where blueblood and blue blazers were the order of the day. Over the years of working in Five Star/ Five Diamond luxury, I learned that the more legitimate the pedigree, the less my lack of the same mattered.
Although they had lineage with a capital L and the assets of several countries combined, the family that owned the resort defined class as an attitude - a way of respecting yourself and treating others - not simply a lucky sperm club.
Thus running into this wall in Buffalo - the city of no illusions - is sometimes startling. I didn't come back home for that "society" -- but my brothers, my cousins and their children.
I surveyed much of our motley mob at a family graduation party last week. Gorgeous children squealing and splashing in the pool, fluid clusters of loud conversation, my father - now the patriarch - slowly moving from table to table chatting up the "kids" - many who now have their own grandchildren.
Our generation, and our children, are now of the professional class. We could "pass" in most any circumstance. But we enjoy each other completely and laugh heartily.
We bring too much food and put as much as we can in "the envelope" because our grandparents taught us to care for our own.
When Charlie started working on our cottage porch, relatives with tools and equipment appeared without an email or ask. Boats, barbeques and other plans could wait until the structure was framed.
The families of the "workers" gathered lawn chairs and coolers in an impromptu party around the raised wood frame tableau of power tools and sweat. There was a rough poetry in watching them improve on the sturdy bulding my grandfather built before I was born.
Grandma would have been proud to see "the kids" together in that way and would have said it. Grandpa wouldn't have said a thing, but would take silent note of the solid, careful construction. That was their legacy.
For too many years, Bernie, Craig and I - stairstep cousins each nine months apart - lived in three different states. In last decade, each of us faced a serious health threat. And each of us has done our best to be there for the other despite the geography.
Bernie and Craig are guys' guys - prone to embarassing humor and absurdly manly pursuits.
But every time we say goodbye to each other we hug and "I love yous" are always exchanged.
I know very few folks who can imagine being that rich.
Am I from a "good family?"
Absolutely, the best.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Peach alert
Major financial institutions in New York, Washington and New Jersey are under orange alert today. The rest of the country is still yellow. This weekend in Georgia is was kinda peachy.
We rendevoused with an armed roadside peach dealer just outside of Atlanta. She had a pocket knife and wasn't afraid to use it to her advantage, slicing a sweet, succulent triangle of fruit and holding it in front of us as we browsed.
The minute it hit my tongue the deal was done. Skip the pints and pecks, we got us a box. A big box. We agreed to split it with the Goodsteins and divided off their share when we got back to the island.
With half a box gone we were reduced to having... a lot of peaches. They had apparently multiplied in the back of the car. When we got up the next morning it appeared they had infiltrated most of the kitchen counters.
Locals will tell you that peaches do not asexually reproduce in eight hour cycles, but there is no way I could have possibly bought that many peaches.
On the third day, they started softening. By Saturday they tettered on the precipice between fragrant and turning. It was time to take back the kitchen. I bought the additional ingredients and started with a large peach cobbler and a batch of peach jam.
After another grocery run for raspberries and more pectin it went to peach-raspberry jam. Pits, peels and juice covered every available surface, but fresh fruit remained. Another pectin and raspberry run and the problem was literally contained.
So maybe we had to throw away some food to make room in the freezer. We triumphed. The peaches didn't win this time.
Beware of roadside strangers bearing knives.
We rendevoused with an armed roadside peach dealer just outside of Atlanta. She had a pocket knife and wasn't afraid to use it to her advantage, slicing a sweet, succulent triangle of fruit and holding it in front of us as we browsed.
The minute it hit my tongue the deal was done. Skip the pints and pecks, we got us a box. A big box. We agreed to split it with the Goodsteins and divided off their share when we got back to the island.
With half a box gone we were reduced to having... a lot of peaches. They had apparently multiplied in the back of the car. When we got up the next morning it appeared they had infiltrated most of the kitchen counters.
Locals will tell you that peaches do not asexually reproduce in eight hour cycles, but there is no way I could have possibly bought that many peaches.
On the third day, they started softening. By Saturday they tettered on the precipice between fragrant and turning. It was time to take back the kitchen. I bought the additional ingredients and started with a large peach cobbler and a batch of peach jam.
After another grocery run for raspberries and more pectin it went to peach-raspberry jam. Pits, peels and juice covered every available surface, but fresh fruit remained. Another pectin and raspberry run and the problem was literally contained.
So maybe we had to throw away some food to make room in the freezer. We triumphed. The peaches didn't win this time.
Beware of roadside strangers bearing knives.
Saturday, July 31, 2004
Saying it with flowers
My mother's mother, who insisted on being called Nana rathering than the aging "g" word, had the most incredible rock garden. Her street may have smelled like meat packing and exhaust, but once you passed the long narrow cavern between her two-story home and the one next door, there was color and beauty crammed into every cooperative inch.
In our Catholic-Italian-German-Polish neighborhood the only other place to see that kind of display was the funeral home. With an extended family in a close-knit community, it seemed there was always an aging, unrelated, "Uncle" being laid to rest.
The flowers were as large and showy as the widow's grief. Giant carnation horseshoes with large ribbon messages were a frequent tribute. Never a fan of open caskets, I spent many a wake "studying" the flowers while my parents paid their respects.
Red roses and carnations still smell like funeral homes to me today. At that time, flowers were an inground thing. Either they were planted or someone else was about to be stuck in the ground.
When we moved to the country, I learned quickly that picking bouquets of daisies could make my mother very happy. I pronounced them my favorite flower.
Thus it was a large bouquet of daisies that appeared on my desk when I was an intern in the New York State Legislature. Our office was small. My boss an all-business, straight-arrow who truly cared about his constituents. He spent the majority of his time in the district and none in the Albany night life.
My fiance had come to town the night before, attended several legislative receptions with my friends and became ridiculously, dangerously drunk. Details are not necessary, but I will forever be grateful to the downstate assemblymen who carried Prince Charming out of the hotel bathroom and to the car before the manager could make good on his threat of arrest.
The next morning I was torn between being furious with the idea that he likely didn't even remember me returning his ring and the fear that my boss would have heard of the spectacle. Assemblyman Proud came back from a meeting, handed me a stack of papers to go through and started heading into his office.
Just as I released the breath I'd been holding, he said over his shoulder "From what I hear it's going to take a lot more than daisies to get him out of this one."
It may be a surprise that we married anyway, but not that we divorced eight years later.
My daughter loved it when "we" got flowers during my single parent days. I felt no need to inform her the blooms were either a nudge to move things forward or a penance for misdeeds. The real message rarely came on the florist card.
I was remarried when I finally learned to enjoy the simple beauty of a bouquet. I worked at a luxury resort where the head of the landscaping division became my favorite colleague. His deep love for his work was reflected in every random bouquet he pulled together for his wife, his daughters, various secretaries around the company... and me.
Rog has the same passion for various creatures he harvests from the ocean, but they don't smell or look as good in a vase.
On the day of my 40th birthday party, he showed up on the front porch in big rubber boots, shorts and a tank top, carrying two 10-gallon white plastic buckets overflowing with blooms and greenery. "This is to help you decorate for tonight," he said and darted back down the stairs to finish the day's tasks and get ready for the party. We brought Nana's garden indoors that night. There were flowers in every room. The house was transformed.
Our professional roles have changed in the last five years, but our friendship remains the gift it was that day. We had our usual weekly lunch yesterday afternoon. He's leaving on a mission trip to India on Monday, I leave for Western New York on Friday. I'll be sharing my birthday celebration there with my niece Lauren.
I was taking a day-after-the-concert nap later that day, when I heard Charlie answer the door. He came back with a simple vase overflowing with peach, purple, cinnamon and every shade of green.
"If a late birthday wish is belated, is an early one elated?" Rog's note asked.
Elated sums it up nicely.
In our Catholic-Italian-German-Polish neighborhood the only other place to see that kind of display was the funeral home. With an extended family in a close-knit community, it seemed there was always an aging, unrelated, "Uncle" being laid to rest.
The flowers were as large and showy as the widow's grief. Giant carnation horseshoes with large ribbon messages were a frequent tribute. Never a fan of open caskets, I spent many a wake "studying" the flowers while my parents paid their respects.
Red roses and carnations still smell like funeral homes to me today. At that time, flowers were an inground thing. Either they were planted or someone else was about to be stuck in the ground.
When we moved to the country, I learned quickly that picking bouquets of daisies could make my mother very happy. I pronounced them my favorite flower.
Thus it was a large bouquet of daisies that appeared on my desk when I was an intern in the New York State Legislature. Our office was small. My boss an all-business, straight-arrow who truly cared about his constituents. He spent the majority of his time in the district and none in the Albany night life.
My fiance had come to town the night before, attended several legislative receptions with my friends and became ridiculously, dangerously drunk. Details are not necessary, but I will forever be grateful to the downstate assemblymen who carried Prince Charming out of the hotel bathroom and to the car before the manager could make good on his threat of arrest.
The next morning I was torn between being furious with the idea that he likely didn't even remember me returning his ring and the fear that my boss would have heard of the spectacle. Assemblyman Proud came back from a meeting, handed me a stack of papers to go through and started heading into his office.
Just as I released the breath I'd been holding, he said over his shoulder "From what I hear it's going to take a lot more than daisies to get him out of this one."
It may be a surprise that we married anyway, but not that we divorced eight years later.
My daughter loved it when "we" got flowers during my single parent days. I felt no need to inform her the blooms were either a nudge to move things forward or a penance for misdeeds. The real message rarely came on the florist card.
I was remarried when I finally learned to enjoy the simple beauty of a bouquet. I worked at a luxury resort where the head of the landscaping division became my favorite colleague. His deep love for his work was reflected in every random bouquet he pulled together for his wife, his daughters, various secretaries around the company... and me.
Rog has the same passion for various creatures he harvests from the ocean, but they don't smell or look as good in a vase.
On the day of my 40th birthday party, he showed up on the front porch in big rubber boots, shorts and a tank top, carrying two 10-gallon white plastic buckets overflowing with blooms and greenery. "This is to help you decorate for tonight," he said and darted back down the stairs to finish the day's tasks and get ready for the party. We brought Nana's garden indoors that night. There were flowers in every room. The house was transformed.
Our professional roles have changed in the last five years, but our friendship remains the gift it was that day. We had our usual weekly lunch yesterday afternoon. He's leaving on a mission trip to India on Monday, I leave for Western New York on Friday. I'll be sharing my birthday celebration there with my niece Lauren.
I was taking a day-after-the-concert nap later that day, when I heard Charlie answer the door. He came back with a simple vase overflowing with peach, purple, cinnamon and every shade of green.
"If a late birthday wish is belated, is an early one elated?" Rog's note asked.
Elated sums it up nicely.
Friday, July 30, 2004
It's the Audience, Stupid.
Major tours have been cancelled this summer. Music critics are up in arms. Where have all the concert goers gone?
After attending the Dave Matthews Band show at the HiFiBuys Amphitheater in Atlanta Tuesday night, I think I have some answers.
Reserved seats sold out immediately online, although hundreds were available at ridiculously inflated prices from ticket brokers right up until the day of the show.
So we paid $43.50 each for "Lawn Seats" -- except the web site made it clear you could not bring seats, you would sit on the lawn. The tickets said "All weather show" but the website said no umbrellas. I'd been to outdoor shows with both chairs and umbrellas, but I could see the safety rationale. We packed our blankets, rain ponchoes and binoculars and headed up to Atlanta.
"Parking" was a haphazard field with acres upon acres of cars and no signage directing to the gate and no view of an amphitheater anywhere around. We followed the crowd.
Piles of blanklets and ponchoes were already stacked up at the entrance. "Dave Matthews Band Security says no blankets or raingear are allowed," we were told. "Couldn't you have put this on the web site?" I asked. "It's their rule," the guy repeated as he patted down our party. Apparently he thought that was an answer.
The only apparent danger blankets present is preventing them from stacking people like cordwood in the lawn area, but we were forced to surrender.
Always clever and efficient, Anne had a Northern Face raincoat that folded into one of it's own zippered mesh pockets creating a bundle in her purse not much bigger than my fist. No, the guard said, no raingear. We had to lose the binoculars too.
So my husband made a trip back to the car while we foraged for dinner and drinks in the food court. A six inch plastic "carafe" of margaritas - $18. A bar-b-que sandwich with nearly invisible meat on a cheap hamburger bun $6.50. In an Atkins / South Beach world there was not an entree to be found without bread. Our "meals" were a three-way disapointment tie: price, selection and taste.
My daughter Jennine stood in line for a half an hour for the privilege of spending $27 each on two t-shirts.
We came for the billed opening act, Robert Earl Keen and thought seeing Dave Matthews for the first time would be a bonus.
Some artists use their opening acts to showcase other good bands for their fans and warm up the crowd. Others seem to see them as time wasters meant to make the headliners look better. Guess which DMB was?
Although Robert Earl Keen was likely touring when Mr. Matthews was in diapers and sells out more than 100 shows a year in smaller venues, he got one set of direct lights and no projection screeen. The guy way down there on the stage sounded a lot like Robert Earl, but without binoculars , and particularly as the sun set, it was impossible to tell. Only the "star" gets lights or screens.
Sitting was no longer an option once the headliner came out (with a full light show and projection screens) in that you would be trampled by drunks. Standing for two hours on a hillside had even perfectly fit, yoga-trained Anne sore and stretching.
Between each song the stage went completely dark for anywhere from several seconds to a few minutes, maybe it was meant to be dramatic. What it was -- simply annoying. Just in case the music was starting to take you to a more comfortable place in your head, the process simply had to be halted.
The good news, the skies held back. The only thing the promoters couldn't control was the only thing that went right.
We started edging toward the exit, careful to step over the underage binge drinkers passed out cold, no easy feat without any lighting on the hill. I'm sure the band eventually played "Crash" but we opted to get to the car and get out before the traffic snarled into an undirected knot in the open field.
Last night we saw Lyle Lovett play to a sold-out house last night at the Florida Theater. We didn't need binoculars,there, but could have used them if we choose. A good quality, hooded sweatshirt was only $40 at his merchandise table and there were plenty of people working there... and at the reasonably priced bar. He started on time and played continuiously for the next two hours plus. He put on a great show and the promoter allowed us the opportunity to enjoy it.
It may be a shock to some bands to discover it's not about them or every last cent they can wring out of you. It's about the audience. That simple realization fills the seats and keeps them coming back.
It takes a special kind of person to pay money to be punished. I'm not one of them. Unless some of these bands turn their marketing efforts directly to masochists, there are going to continue to wonder where have all the audiences gone?
After attending the Dave Matthews Band show at the HiFiBuys Amphitheater in Atlanta Tuesday night, I think I have some answers.
Reserved seats sold out immediately online, although hundreds were available at ridiculously inflated prices from ticket brokers right up until the day of the show.
So we paid $43.50 each for "Lawn Seats" -- except the web site made it clear you could not bring seats, you would sit on the lawn. The tickets said "All weather show" but the website said no umbrellas. I'd been to outdoor shows with both chairs and umbrellas, but I could see the safety rationale. We packed our blankets, rain ponchoes and binoculars and headed up to Atlanta.
"Parking" was a haphazard field with acres upon acres of cars and no signage directing to the gate and no view of an amphitheater anywhere around. We followed the crowd.
Piles of blanklets and ponchoes were already stacked up at the entrance. "Dave Matthews Band Security says no blankets or raingear are allowed," we were told. "Couldn't you have put this on the web site?" I asked. "It's their rule," the guy repeated as he patted down our party. Apparently he thought that was an answer.
The only apparent danger blankets present is preventing them from stacking people like cordwood in the lawn area, but we were forced to surrender.
Always clever and efficient, Anne had a Northern Face raincoat that folded into one of it's own zippered mesh pockets creating a bundle in her purse not much bigger than my fist. No, the guard said, no raingear. We had to lose the binoculars too.
So my husband made a trip back to the car while we foraged for dinner and drinks in the food court. A six inch plastic "carafe" of margaritas - $18. A bar-b-que sandwich with nearly invisible meat on a cheap hamburger bun $6.50. In an Atkins / South Beach world there was not an entree to be found without bread. Our "meals" were a three-way disapointment tie: price, selection and taste.
My daughter Jennine stood in line for a half an hour for the privilege of spending $27 each on two t-shirts.
We came for the billed opening act, Robert Earl Keen and thought seeing Dave Matthews for the first time would be a bonus.
Some artists use their opening acts to showcase other good bands for their fans and warm up the crowd. Others seem to see them as time wasters meant to make the headliners look better. Guess which DMB was?
Although Robert Earl Keen was likely touring when Mr. Matthews was in diapers and sells out more than 100 shows a year in smaller venues, he got one set of direct lights and no projection screeen. The guy way down there on the stage sounded a lot like Robert Earl, but without binoculars , and particularly as the sun set, it was impossible to tell. Only the "star" gets lights or screens.
Sitting was no longer an option once the headliner came out (with a full light show and projection screens) in that you would be trampled by drunks. Standing for two hours on a hillside had even perfectly fit, yoga-trained Anne sore and stretching.
Between each song the stage went completely dark for anywhere from several seconds to a few minutes, maybe it was meant to be dramatic. What it was -- simply annoying. Just in case the music was starting to take you to a more comfortable place in your head, the process simply had to be halted.
The good news, the skies held back. The only thing the promoters couldn't control was the only thing that went right.
We started edging toward the exit, careful to step over the underage binge drinkers passed out cold, no easy feat without any lighting on the hill. I'm sure the band eventually played "Crash" but we opted to get to the car and get out before the traffic snarled into an undirected knot in the open field.
Last night we saw Lyle Lovett play to a sold-out house last night at the Florida Theater. We didn't need binoculars,there, but could have used them if we choose. A good quality, hooded sweatshirt was only $40 at his merchandise table and there were plenty of people working there... and at the reasonably priced bar. He started on time and played continuiously for the next two hours plus. He put on a great show and the promoter allowed us the opportunity to enjoy it.
It may be a shock to some bands to discover it's not about them or every last cent they can wring out of you. It's about the audience. That simple realization fills the seats and keeps them coming back.
It takes a special kind of person to pay money to be punished. I'm not one of them. Unless some of these bands turn their marketing efforts directly to masochists, there are going to continue to wonder where have all the audiences gone?
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Barbie and Me
A catalogue of Hallmark special products for Barbie's 45th birthday arrived in the mail this afternoon reminding me once again that we are the same age.
Frankly, it's hard not to hate the bitch.
She still has the twist-and-turn wasp waist. Mine is a waste.
She's been a doctor, lawyer, princess, animal trainer, surfer, veterinarian, teacher, debutante and scientist without ever having to take out a student loan.
She has at least ten gowns for every one of my t-shirts and can still wear spike heels and smile.
Unlike the significant percentages of most Hollywood types, she is all plastic and has been from the start. The closest I've come is braces on my teeth.
She was issued from her first box with a set of personal flotation devices that could have saved the entire Titanic crew, while I'm still waiting for my ship to come in.
She's had a Dream Car and Dream House. I once had a Dreamsicle.
Then again, she only recently got the guts to ditch Ken after more than 40 years with a good looking guy with absolutely no genitalia.
Poor girl.
Frankly, it's hard not to hate the bitch.
She still has the twist-and-turn wasp waist. Mine is a waste.
She's been a doctor, lawyer, princess, animal trainer, surfer, veterinarian, teacher, debutante and scientist without ever having to take out a student loan.
She has at least ten gowns for every one of my t-shirts and can still wear spike heels and smile.
Unlike the significant percentages of most Hollywood types, she is all plastic and has been from the start. The closest I've come is braces on my teeth.
She was issued from her first box with a set of personal flotation devices that could have saved the entire Titanic crew, while I'm still waiting for my ship to come in.
She's had a Dream Car and Dream House. I once had a Dreamsicle.
Then again, she only recently got the guts to ditch Ken after more than 40 years with a good looking guy with absolutely no genitalia.
Poor girl.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Pocket fan
I bought a couple of pocket fans, those little battery operated blasters common among the menopausal, for the amusement of Graham and Saskia. I added a third one to the cart in case they had a friend over. That's all.
But it was only the two of them that night and the third fan sat on my desk. I thought of it, only occasionally, when circumstances trapped me in the wall of hot water we call weather in South Georgia.
Forget what they say, it's the heat AND the humidity. But pocket fans are for small children and old women. I've still got weeks before I'm 45.
It might have come in handy walking the dog yesterday, but there are no more than three grey hairs on my head, thank you very much.
I was cleaning off my desk this morning and realized I didn't really have a place to keep it. I took it out of the package, just to see if it worked. Pages ruffled as I bathed my face with cool, smooth , non-edible air. I put it in my purse.
There's more room there than my desk.
And I might run into an old woman or small child who needs it.
But it was only the two of them that night and the third fan sat on my desk. I thought of it, only occasionally, when circumstances trapped me in the wall of hot water we call weather in South Georgia.
Forget what they say, it's the heat AND the humidity. But pocket fans are for small children and old women. I've still got weeks before I'm 45.
It might have come in handy walking the dog yesterday, but there are no more than three grey hairs on my head, thank you very much.
I was cleaning off my desk this morning and realized I didn't really have a place to keep it. I took it out of the package, just to see if it worked. Pages ruffled as I bathed my face with cool, smooth , non-edible air. I put it in my purse.
There's more room there than my desk.
And I might run into an old woman or small child who needs it.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Ma Bell, Pouilly Fuisse, what's next?
Welcome to the age of revocable truth.
Within a few pages of today's New York Times, I learned that AT&T, Ma Bell herself, is getting out of the home telephone business and French winemakers are deeply concerned about drastic decline in wine consumption among their countrymen.
French vinterns want the fruit of the vine/ nectar of the gods declared "nutritive" so that it can be advertised like other food products and avoid those pesky warning labels.
So far, the government is only willing to go as far as "condiment."
Makes you want to call a friend and invite them over for a liquid lunch. These times they ARE a-changing. Next thing you know they'll be telling us there was no tie between Saddam Hussein and Al Qaeda.
Within a few pages of today's New York Times, I learned that AT&T, Ma Bell herself, is getting out of the home telephone business and French winemakers are deeply concerned about drastic decline in wine consumption among their countrymen.
French vinterns want the fruit of the vine/ nectar of the gods declared "nutritive" so that it can be advertised like other food products and avoid those pesky warning labels.
So far, the government is only willing to go as far as "condiment."
Makes you want to call a friend and invite them over for a liquid lunch. These times they ARE a-changing. Next thing you know they'll be telling us there was no tie between Saddam Hussein and Al Qaeda.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Tastin Texas
I lived in Texas for 12 years and never owned a cowboy hat, can't two-step and still think chicken soup is a better hangover cure than Menudo.
But there are some things about the place that get under your skin (besides the chiggers).
Unfortunately, I spent twice as much of my time in Houston as I did San Antonio, but the Alamo City can make anyone a believer in the Texas myth. Austin and any old Hill country town have the same effect. Houston and Dallas are the anti-venom.
San Antonio gave me a thrift shop pair of butter soft Tony Lama boots that were easier to wear than sneakers. Breakfast tacos were under a dollar. Everything about the city said possibility.
I'll never forget the newsroom smirks when I started as a New York-trained business reporter and asked the room in general if anyone had the home number for the CEO of a local Fortune 500 company so I could get a comment on an announcement made after the market closed. "Why don't you try the white pages?" a colleague drawled. And there the listing was, along with the mayor and the first five other major business figures I could think of off the top of my head.
In New Braunfels they made apple streudel not like any bakery or grocery store, but exactly like my Grandma Mohn. There is no better way to spend a Saturday afternoon than tubing on the icy spring waters in of the Guadalupe with the redundancy of a floating cooler.
Alamo Cafe, New Braunfels Smokehouse, LaFogata... just typing the names makes me drool like an old porch dog. Sure they get a lot of postcard mileage out of it, but there truly is nothing like the spring magic of the bluebonnet blanket.
In the advantage of years away, you let go of the Ken Lays, GW, Houston traffic, road rage and nasty rednecks in favor of the times and tastes that warm your heart.
Next week we're driving five hours to Atlanta to see Bandera, Texas' own Robert Earl Keen open for some guys called the Dave Matthews Band. Two nights later, we have great seats in Jacksonville for Klein, Texas' favorite son, Lyle Lovett.
Lyle and Robert Earl were roommates at Texas A&M about the time when I trying to scrape up the time and money to join the ski club at St. Bonaventure University. Their personal and musical styles are quite different, but they both paint word pictures of the Texas I loved. I'm looking forward to these boys comin' to town. Georgia and Florida could use a little of their Texas.
We all could.
But there are some things about the place that get under your skin (besides the chiggers).
Unfortunately, I spent twice as much of my time in Houston as I did San Antonio, but the Alamo City can make anyone a believer in the Texas myth. Austin and any old Hill country town have the same effect. Houston and Dallas are the anti-venom.
San Antonio gave me a thrift shop pair of butter soft Tony Lama boots that were easier to wear than sneakers. Breakfast tacos were under a dollar. Everything about the city said possibility.
I'll never forget the newsroom smirks when I started as a New York-trained business reporter and asked the room in general if anyone had the home number for the CEO of a local Fortune 500 company so I could get a comment on an announcement made after the market closed. "Why don't you try the white pages?" a colleague drawled. And there the listing was, along with the mayor and the first five other major business figures I could think of off the top of my head.
In New Braunfels they made apple streudel not like any bakery or grocery store, but exactly like my Grandma Mohn. There is no better way to spend a Saturday afternoon than tubing on the icy spring waters in of the Guadalupe with the redundancy of a floating cooler.
Alamo Cafe, New Braunfels Smokehouse, LaFogata... just typing the names makes me drool like an old porch dog. Sure they get a lot of postcard mileage out of it, but there truly is nothing like the spring magic of the bluebonnet blanket.
In the advantage of years away, you let go of the Ken Lays, GW, Houston traffic, road rage and nasty rednecks in favor of the times and tastes that warm your heart.
Next week we're driving five hours to Atlanta to see Bandera, Texas' own Robert Earl Keen open for some guys called the Dave Matthews Band. Two nights later, we have great seats in Jacksonville for Klein, Texas' favorite son, Lyle Lovett.
Lyle and Robert Earl were roommates at Texas A&M about the time when I trying to scrape up the time and money to join the ski club at St. Bonaventure University. Their personal and musical styles are quite different, but they both paint word pictures of the Texas I loved. I'm looking forward to these boys comin' to town. Georgia and Florida could use a little of their Texas.
We all could.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Sitting... still
Last month Anne and I viewed three separate Rodin exhibits in our travels up the East Coast. Each one raised a thousand questions about what moved this man to change the face (and torso, arms and legs) of sculpture at the dawn of the 20th century.
This week I've watched a process more fascinating than any exhibit.
Tomorrow my daughter Jen starts her fourth day of sitting for a sculpture under Christophe's hands in the soft light of our kitchen.
The rhythm of silent still work for Jen and small movements for Christophe, followed by brief breaks for pacing and cigarettes (his), checking email (hers) and following Christophe out to the porch each time (Smokie the Lab) has fallen on the house.
Each break is announced by the sound of the microwave oven fan running as the machine is used to soften clay. Rodin probably had students to do it for him, but the GE Spacemaker seems to be working quite well.
Each day is a marvel as a specific jawline or lip pout seems perfectly captured only to return in an entirely different, yet stronger, interpretation.
Jennine has always been a quiet, observant person. Being observed is not easy for her, especially as she learns how very hard it is to be still. Yet she remains unmoved as her left (clay) ear is severed and repositioned.
The bust has its own mimicking life. It requires constant mental and physical action from Christophe and the lack of either from Jen.
I can already see the eventual patina on the bronze after it's cast and the small, soft fingers of Jennine's grandchildren caressing the surface.
I don't think she'll tell them about how sore her tailbone felt or the number of times they played through a stack of U-2 CDs during the sittings.
But she can show them the value of stillness.
This week I've watched a process more fascinating than any exhibit.
Tomorrow my daughter Jen starts her fourth day of sitting for a sculpture under Christophe's hands in the soft light of our kitchen.
The rhythm of silent still work for Jen and small movements for Christophe, followed by brief breaks for pacing and cigarettes (his), checking email (hers) and following Christophe out to the porch each time (Smokie the Lab) has fallen on the house.
Each break is announced by the sound of the microwave oven fan running as the machine is used to soften clay. Rodin probably had students to do it for him, but the GE Spacemaker seems to be working quite well.
Each day is a marvel as a specific jawline or lip pout seems perfectly captured only to return in an entirely different, yet stronger, interpretation.
Jennine has always been a quiet, observant person. Being observed is not easy for her, especially as she learns how very hard it is to be still. Yet she remains unmoved as her left (clay) ear is severed and repositioned.
The bust has its own mimicking life. It requires constant mental and physical action from Christophe and the lack of either from Jen.
I can already see the eventual patina on the bronze after it's cast and the small, soft fingers of Jennine's grandchildren caressing the surface.
I don't think she'll tell them about how sore her tailbone felt or the number of times they played through a stack of U-2 CDs during the sittings.
But she can show them the value of stillness.
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Buffalo Wings
There are two kinds of Buffalo Wings. There's the basic Buffalo bar food done to varying degrees of success all over the country. And then there are the non-fat variety those of us who grew up in Buffalo tend to sprout right after college and a hard look at the local economy.
They take us to places that require far few layers in the winter, charge us less in taxes and offer the chance to make a living wage.
They work in constant battle with Buffalo Roots (which can not be found on any restaurant menu). Roots keep your body clock tuned to football season and the county fair where ever you may roam. Buffalo Roots celebrate family, tradition and ice cream stands open only in the summer.
They dig in deep when others criticize or underestimate your hometown. This little island on the coast of Georgia is the farthest north I've lived since college more than two decades ago, but my Roots are deeply tangled. In the years the Wings insisted never, the Roots knew they'd pull me back.
Without that internal tug-of-war, it may seem bizarre to live on a resort island and vacation in Buffalo.
The force is as natural and evitable as Niagara Falls. When the day is right, I'll be winging it home for good.
They take us to places that require far few layers in the winter, charge us less in taxes and offer the chance to make a living wage.
They work in constant battle with Buffalo Roots (which can not be found on any restaurant menu). Roots keep your body clock tuned to football season and the county fair where ever you may roam. Buffalo Roots celebrate family, tradition and ice cream stands open only in the summer.
They dig in deep when others criticize or underestimate your hometown. This little island on the coast of Georgia is the farthest north I've lived since college more than two decades ago, but my Roots are deeply tangled. In the years the Wings insisted never, the Roots knew they'd pull me back.
Without that internal tug-of-war, it may seem bizarre to live on a resort island and vacation in Buffalo.
The force is as natural and evitable as Niagara Falls. When the day is right, I'll be winging it home for good.
Friday, July 16, 2004
Knowing Beauty
It's a basic irony that at the time we are the most physically perfect we are the most emotionally insecure.
Others see the fire and newness of youth during the time our mirrors magnify only the perception of imperfection.
Photographs have a way of showing us what we remember, but little of what others see.
I remember trying to teach myself to write left-handed in grade school so that my right hand could lay naturally on my right knee... where I was convinced a brown freckle was a hideous beacon. Had they not passed the world-shaking rule allowing girls to wear slacks (not pants, not jeans) to school, I was destined for convent school.
Only time allows the gradual correction on your view of photographs and eventually allows a glimpse at the possibilities of previous beauty.
My younger daughter, Jen, is stunning -- a stop them dead on the street enchantress. I have no genetic contribution to her magnificent creation, but still enjoy parental pride when others comment on her beauty.
As she has hit her 20s she's found an inner self that matches the external.
Her small daily gestures make the gradual difference between a perfect rosebud and an extravagant bloom. But she sees neither in the mirror, just another flower in a large field.
At dinner tonight our friend Christophe, an amazing artist, (www.cgoodstein.com WOW!) mentioned he would like to start on a sculpture of Jen on Sunday -- it was hard to keep my heart from leaping across the room. He sees and will translate who she is now.
While a certain grace and beauty come with time for all of us, there is no other way I can imagine to better grab and hold on to the exquisite truth of who and what she is right now. It's like capturing a firefly on a summer's night and having it glow forever.
I'm excited right now.
She'll be thrilled when she sits where I am now.
Others see the fire and newness of youth during the time our mirrors magnify only the perception of imperfection.
Photographs have a way of showing us what we remember, but little of what others see.
I remember trying to teach myself to write left-handed in grade school so that my right hand could lay naturally on my right knee... where I was convinced a brown freckle was a hideous beacon. Had they not passed the world-shaking rule allowing girls to wear slacks (not pants, not jeans) to school, I was destined for convent school.
Only time allows the gradual correction on your view of photographs and eventually allows a glimpse at the possibilities of previous beauty.
My younger daughter, Jen, is stunning -- a stop them dead on the street enchantress. I have no genetic contribution to her magnificent creation, but still enjoy parental pride when others comment on her beauty.
As she has hit her 20s she's found an inner self that matches the external.
Her small daily gestures make the gradual difference between a perfect rosebud and an extravagant bloom. But she sees neither in the mirror, just another flower in a large field.
At dinner tonight our friend Christophe, an amazing artist, (www.cgoodstein.com WOW!) mentioned he would like to start on a sculpture of Jen on Sunday -- it was hard to keep my heart from leaping across the room. He sees and will translate who she is now.
While a certain grace and beauty come with time for all of us, there is no other way I can imagine to better grab and hold on to the exquisite truth of who and what she is right now. It's like capturing a firefly on a summer's night and having it glow forever.
I'm excited right now.
She'll be thrilled when she sits where I am now.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
This is No Yolk - Call the President
Shame on Bush for ignoring the key questions of his administration by retreating to the "high ground" of the gay marriage "issue."
So what if it is a moral, not executive, query? So what if mechanisms exist that make this squarely a states' rights question? If it will turn out the rabid in November, it's his baby.
If it provides a little ground cover for those pesky WMD and basic honesty issues, all the better. But while the Bush legions fret about When Harry Met Hairy, our nation is struggling with real challenges.
Just this week, a bipartisan coalition was formed in in Fitzgerald, Georgia to bring together warring factions in the great wild chicken debate. Poultry-with-attitude roam their streets in squawking, screeeching packs, tearing up gardens, eating bugs and otherwise doing as they please.
Hardly the banal bantam, these currently protected mobs are a hybrid of red junglefowl (brought from Southeast Asia in the 60s as possible local game birds) and the indigenous cock-a-doodle doo population.
For those unfamiliar with South Georgia, killing quail is huge business here. Elite hunting lodges and private leases have provided bird-blasting amusement for generations of Southern gentry.
They have inadvertantly created bad-ass birds impervious to the need for human support to survive, in fact, thrive. According to an Associated Press account, this is not an isolated incident. Key West had to hire a Chicken Ranger to take back their streets. Don't let it come to that in your town.
Contact your president today and urge him to address the pullet packs. He's given us three years of chickenshit expertise. Let's put it to work.
So what if it is a moral, not executive, query? So what if mechanisms exist that make this squarely a states' rights question? If it will turn out the rabid in November, it's his baby.
If it provides a little ground cover for those pesky WMD and basic honesty issues, all the better. But while the Bush legions fret about When Harry Met Hairy, our nation is struggling with real challenges.
Just this week, a bipartisan coalition was formed in in Fitzgerald, Georgia to bring together warring factions in the great wild chicken debate. Poultry-with-attitude roam their streets in squawking, screeeching packs, tearing up gardens, eating bugs and otherwise doing as they please.
Hardly the banal bantam, these currently protected mobs are a hybrid of red junglefowl (brought from Southeast Asia in the 60s as possible local game birds) and the indigenous cock-a-doodle doo population.
For those unfamiliar with South Georgia, killing quail is huge business here. Elite hunting lodges and private leases have provided bird-blasting amusement for generations of Southern gentry.
They have inadvertantly created bad-ass birds impervious to the need for human support to survive, in fact, thrive. According to an Associated Press account, this is not an isolated incident. Key West had to hire a Chicken Ranger to take back their streets. Don't let it come to that in your town.
Contact your president today and urge him to address the pullet packs. He's given us three years of chickenshit expertise. Let's put it to work.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
A 72-Chiclet Day
Let's agree up front to skip any Freudian interpretations on this one.
I grew up at the very end of the penny candy/ corner store era. With one penny you could buy a Bazooka, with a nickel a pack of Juicy Fruit. Thus, it seemed to me, if one piece of gum was good, many pieces were great.
The height (or low depending on your perspective) came in the early 70s when Big Buddy gum came in foot long sticks. I could chew two simultaneously (frequently peeling busted bubbles from my eyebrows).
This little passion was carried largely unabated into adulthood, although never in polite company.
Braces in my fourth decade meant going cold turkey for three years. I did it without a patch or hypnosis, although I did check the Yellow Pages for support groups.
Several months ago my dentist gave me the green light to chew whatever I please. Aware of the value of my newfound sobriety, I resumed gum chewing at reasonable levels.
While cruising the Dollar Store in Brunswick I spotted my absolute favorite -- Adams Fruit Flavored Chiclets -- at a dollar for each package of six boxes.
There were eight packages on the rack at that moment, eight in my car five minutes later. I secreted them in the top drawer of my writing desk, a hidden pick-me-up for rough passages. Weeks went by with the quiet comfort of their unopened presence.
But early this morning I cracked one pack, and the 12 pieces carried me through missing a deadline. It took another 12 when the computer repair man discovered my daughter had inadvertantly ripped the Wi-Fi antennae off her brand new computer and he could not complete the job for which we hired him.
Twelve more for the unplanned trip to the Mainland to replace the whole card and another 12 for my fourth day without T-Mobile delivering the replacement phone promised three days ago. I slowed to half a pack when the cat left a hairball on my notes, but scooped up the remaining pack and a half through today's chapter of a medical billing fiasco that has been stretching on for months.
So there it is, eight hours, 72 Chiclets. But the other seven six packs are still in my drawer.
I am an adult now.
I grew up at the very end of the penny candy/ corner store era. With one penny you could buy a Bazooka, with a nickel a pack of Juicy Fruit. Thus, it seemed to me, if one piece of gum was good, many pieces were great.
The height (or low depending on your perspective) came in the early 70s when Big Buddy gum came in foot long sticks. I could chew two simultaneously (frequently peeling busted bubbles from my eyebrows).
This little passion was carried largely unabated into adulthood, although never in polite company.
Braces in my fourth decade meant going cold turkey for three years. I did it without a patch or hypnosis, although I did check the Yellow Pages for support groups.
Several months ago my dentist gave me the green light to chew whatever I please. Aware of the value of my newfound sobriety, I resumed gum chewing at reasonable levels.
While cruising the Dollar Store in Brunswick I spotted my absolute favorite -- Adams Fruit Flavored Chiclets -- at a dollar for each package of six boxes.
There were eight packages on the rack at that moment, eight in my car five minutes later. I secreted them in the top drawer of my writing desk, a hidden pick-me-up for rough passages. Weeks went by with the quiet comfort of their unopened presence.
But early this morning I cracked one pack, and the 12 pieces carried me through missing a deadline. It took another 12 when the computer repair man discovered my daughter had inadvertantly ripped the Wi-Fi antennae off her brand new computer and he could not complete the job for which we hired him.
Twelve more for the unplanned trip to the Mainland to replace the whole card and another 12 for my fourth day without T-Mobile delivering the replacement phone promised three days ago. I slowed to half a pack when the cat left a hairball on my notes, but scooped up the remaining pack and a half through today's chapter of a medical billing fiasco that has been stretching on for months.
So there it is, eight hours, 72 Chiclets. But the other seven six packs are still in my drawer.
I am an adult now.
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