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.
Monday, August 02, 2004
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.
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Going to the Dogs... in Style
I know a couple who waited until later in life to have dogs. They wanted to make sure they were in a good place and fully prepared to meet the myriad and complex needs of a cannine. Once they had tested the waters for a year or so and found themselves to up to the challenge they took on another dog.
Although the dogs are brothers, each has a unique personality and set of needs. I was quite surprised to hear they hired only one over-priced dog sitter to watch their dogs at a recent party.
She must have been very, very good. Today comes the news that the couple is buying a third car, an SUV, for the dogs.
Since I know they would have told me if one of their amazing cannine sons had taken up soccer or joined a Gymboree group, I have to assume this is for simple transport.
At this writing, they've narrowed the choice to three luxury models. The final decision will likely come down to which has the best water bowl holders... or perhaps heated seats.
I've always been around dogs. In my single years , I dated them almost exclusively.
My uncomplicated mind finds the four-legged versions quite uncomplicated. If I provide water, food, exercise and affection, they hang out and do dog things. We ask very little of each other and it works out well.
Our Lab frankly doesn't seem all that upset that she is forced to ride in my car and does not have her own. There's an extra Corolla in the driveway, but she's never gone for the keys (she IS a retriever).
Truth be told, Smokie prefers to drink out of the toilet bowl and her idea of a perfect evening is to sit on the front porch watching the world go by while savoring second hand smoke from Charlie's cigar.
Throw in a couple chewy day old bagels and let her chomp a couple of flies out of the air and she reaches the the highest state of Smokieness.
We are very bad parents. I'm a sure a cannine psychotherapist would find her to be conflicted tangle of issues. That's why we don't hire one.
If ignorance is bliss, we have one happy dog.
Poor girl doesn't realize that more privileged pups have masseuses and styling rides. It's a dog's life. But pat her butt, scratch her ear and she doesn't mind it one little bit.
Although the dogs are brothers, each has a unique personality and set of needs. I was quite surprised to hear they hired only one over-priced dog sitter to watch their dogs at a recent party.
She must have been very, very good. Today comes the news that the couple is buying a third car, an SUV, for the dogs.
Since I know they would have told me if one of their amazing cannine sons had taken up soccer or joined a Gymboree group, I have to assume this is for simple transport.
At this writing, they've narrowed the choice to three luxury models. The final decision will likely come down to which has the best water bowl holders... or perhaps heated seats.
I've always been around dogs. In my single years , I dated them almost exclusively.
My uncomplicated mind finds the four-legged versions quite uncomplicated. If I provide water, food, exercise and affection, they hang out and do dog things. We ask very little of each other and it works out well.
Our Lab frankly doesn't seem all that upset that she is forced to ride in my car and does not have her own. There's an extra Corolla in the driveway, but she's never gone for the keys (she IS a retriever).
Truth be told, Smokie prefers to drink out of the toilet bowl and her idea of a perfect evening is to sit on the front porch watching the world go by while savoring second hand smoke from Charlie's cigar.
Throw in a couple chewy day old bagels and let her chomp a couple of flies out of the air and she reaches the the highest state of Smokieness.
We are very bad parents. I'm a sure a cannine psychotherapist would find her to be conflicted tangle of issues. That's why we don't hire one.
If ignorance is bliss, we have one happy dog.
Poor girl doesn't realize that more privileged pups have masseuses and styling rides. It's a dog's life. But pat her butt, scratch her ear and she doesn't mind it one little bit.
Saturday, July 03, 2004
The Convertible Question
My husband has stretched his middle-aged male rite of passage over three convertibles and twelve years. I've never known him to have a hardtop.
I should be used to it. We frequently find men gathered around his car in parking lots, in small worshipful clusters -- The Impromptu First Church of the Midnight Blue Audi TT Roadster.
They see a ruby-lipped blonde with hair whipping wildly in the wind in "their" passenger seat, themselves in wrap-around shades and waving to the cops as they pass at 120 m.p.h. The cops, of course, smile and return the wave in full admiration.
It is a religion, like many, built on wish fullfillment and fantasy. The mythic blonde, travels only with a toothbrush, bikini and spare thong. Her strength is not conversation, so she relishes the wind tunnel effect. Her Malibu Barbie tan remains luminescent all year around. She and I have nothing in common.
Yet, when he asked the tenative "Which car are we taking?" for a recent Florida run, what he was really saying was "I would look so great driving my car down 95 with all the other guys wishing they were me. Your car is soccer mom boring and has a Buffalo Bills tire cover in the back. Please don't make me be so uncool."
The last time we took his car to Florida I nearly abandoned him to live or die among the alligators in the swamps off the turnpike. I was windburned, sunburned and five hundred miles slow-burned when I finally started shouting. It wasn't pretty.
Although he couldn't hear me, he eventually noticed there was a problem. We had to pull in to a rest stop to argue.
The fact that I eventually returned to the car was a testament to either our marriage or my fear of gators. Still, this was a shorter trip and this time would be different. We had to take only an overnight bag. There would be plenty of room in the trunk. He grandly agreed we could stop at the bookstore on the way out of town and pick up some books I had ordered. We had enough room for ALL THREE.
I brought the satellite radio unit from my car thinking I could survive the hours with Court TV, CNN Headline and the comedy channels blasting through his Bose system. We hit construction delays before Jacksonville.
The good news, you can talk while sitting still. The bad news, conversation makes little sense in the heady mixture of sizzling, direct sun and carbon monoxide.
After another 200 miles I stumbled into a Dairy Queen rest room. When I moved the shoulder of my shirt I saw a perfect Betsy Ross white/red stripe. I didn't even have to ask. He put the top up for the rest of the way.
Later that night, we took the top down again as we waited for my brother and his family to come out of their hotel and follow us to our hotel in their car.
My nieces, 12 and 7, audibly gasped when they saw their very cool Uncle Charlie behind the wheel. My brother humbly apologized for their rental sedan.
And the question of which car we'd take next time was settled.
I should be used to it. We frequently find men gathered around his car in parking lots, in small worshipful clusters -- The Impromptu First Church of the Midnight Blue Audi TT Roadster.
They see a ruby-lipped blonde with hair whipping wildly in the wind in "their" passenger seat, themselves in wrap-around shades and waving to the cops as they pass at 120 m.p.h. The cops, of course, smile and return the wave in full admiration.
It is a religion, like many, built on wish fullfillment and fantasy. The mythic blonde, travels only with a toothbrush, bikini and spare thong. Her strength is not conversation, so she relishes the wind tunnel effect. Her Malibu Barbie tan remains luminescent all year around. She and I have nothing in common.
Yet, when he asked the tenative "Which car are we taking?" for a recent Florida run, what he was really saying was "I would look so great driving my car down 95 with all the other guys wishing they were me. Your car is soccer mom boring and has a Buffalo Bills tire cover in the back. Please don't make me be so uncool."
The last time we took his car to Florida I nearly abandoned him to live or die among the alligators in the swamps off the turnpike. I was windburned, sunburned and five hundred miles slow-burned when I finally started shouting. It wasn't pretty.
Although he couldn't hear me, he eventually noticed there was a problem. We had to pull in to a rest stop to argue.
The fact that I eventually returned to the car was a testament to either our marriage or my fear of gators. Still, this was a shorter trip and this time would be different. We had to take only an overnight bag. There would be plenty of room in the trunk. He grandly agreed we could stop at the bookstore on the way out of town and pick up some books I had ordered. We had enough room for ALL THREE.
I brought the satellite radio unit from my car thinking I could survive the hours with Court TV, CNN Headline and the comedy channels blasting through his Bose system. We hit construction delays before Jacksonville.
The good news, you can talk while sitting still. The bad news, conversation makes little sense in the heady mixture of sizzling, direct sun and carbon monoxide.
After another 200 miles I stumbled into a Dairy Queen rest room. When I moved the shoulder of my shirt I saw a perfect Betsy Ross white/red stripe. I didn't even have to ask. He put the top up for the rest of the way.
Later that night, we took the top down again as we waited for my brother and his family to come out of their hotel and follow us to our hotel in their car.
My nieces, 12 and 7, audibly gasped when they saw their very cool Uncle Charlie behind the wheel. My brother humbly apologized for their rental sedan.
And the question of which car we'd take next time was settled.
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
America's Bad Online Date
Those of us old enough to remember the wonder of the original black screen with orange characters of Prodigy may have also been clobbered by the first wave of online dating.
I know I was.
Believe it or not youngsters, there was a day before match.com, chat rooms and IM where response times were just slightly better than the USPS and you paid (gasp) per message.
Yet somehow the safety of anonymity and the excitement of ideas found pairings in discussion lists with ponderdous threads.
Mine hit when I was a single parent with my own business spending all day working on my computer, taking a few hours to be an afterschool parent and then playing on the computer all night anonymously arguing politics one message unit at a time.
One of my fellow travelers had apparently spent some time in the city where I grew up. In fact, after a handful of emails landed over several days, we discovered we worked for competing media outlets there simultaneously. We knew each other by reputation and a vague 10-year old mental image. We had never met.
We lived 1200 miles and a time zone apart, but had so much in common. Within weeks he was my only correspondent, primarily because he was simply perfect.
He understood everything about me and my life. He was smart, funny, passionate and clearly heads and shoulders above anyone I could possibly meet locally if I were so inclined. I was not.
Soon he was staying late at his office as we burned up the WATTS line talking for hours on the phone each night after my daughter was asleep. Did I mention he was perfect?
After a few months of this, our future plans became embarassingly grandiose. I had a picture of him in my wallet, on my desk and on my nightstand. I greeted every day amazed and grateful that technology could deliver a soulmate.
Our first meeting was to be a prelude to months of plans we gleefully committed. The only issue left to settle was which state we would choose to share happily ever after.
My daughter was away for the weekend and I don't want to tell you how long I took to dress the day I went to pick him up at the airport. It would be a little too humiliating to mention the hotel reservation I made between the airport and my house just in case we couldn't possibly make it that far.
The moment he stepped through the airport gate and hugged me was... horrendous.
There was absolutely no physical chemistry. We could write it and talk it like no tomorrow, but the meat and potatoes stuff just wasn't there. The things you learn day-in, day-out when you get to see more than the Greatest Hits Collection were instantly wrong.
He did not misrepresent himself in any way. He was/is an incredibly good man who was hurt badly by my rejection. But we both made the mistake of believeing what we wanted to believe because we wanted to believe it. We were intelligent, lonely people who created a two-dimensional ideal that could not be real.
I thought of him again this week after seeing Dean's Iowa Scream and didn't feel as guilty about my old almost love.
Much of the media, much of the electorate, wanted to believe. We put his pictures on the cover of news magazines long before anyone had the exposure to annoint in that way. We so deparately needed someone to be all that. It's no coincidence that his campaign was built online. As I well know, things can be what we project them to be in this space.
It's the day-to-day real time reactions that make or break the deal. I never made it to the hotel on the way from that early 1990s airport run. I don't think Dean will make it to the White House on this run.
Monitors and computer graphics are so much faster and better now, but they can still only reflect what we want to see.
Those of us old enough to remember the wonder of the original black screen with orange characters of Prodigy may have also been clobbered by the first wave of online dating.
I know I was.
Believe it or not youngsters, there was a day before match.com, chat rooms and IM where response times were just slightly better than the USPS and you paid (gasp) per message.
Yet somehow the safety of anonymity and the excitement of ideas found pairings in discussion lists with ponderdous threads.
Mine hit when I was a single parent with my own business spending all day working on my computer, taking a few hours to be an afterschool parent and then playing on the computer all night anonymously arguing politics one message unit at a time.
One of my fellow travelers had apparently spent some time in the city where I grew up. In fact, after a handful of emails landed over several days, we discovered we worked for competing media outlets there simultaneously. We knew each other by reputation and a vague 10-year old mental image. We had never met.
We lived 1200 miles and a time zone apart, but had so much in common. Within weeks he was my only correspondent, primarily because he was simply perfect.
He understood everything about me and my life. He was smart, funny, passionate and clearly heads and shoulders above anyone I could possibly meet locally if I were so inclined. I was not.
Soon he was staying late at his office as we burned up the WATTS line talking for hours on the phone each night after my daughter was asleep. Did I mention he was perfect?
After a few months of this, our future plans became embarassingly grandiose. I had a picture of him in my wallet, on my desk and on my nightstand. I greeted every day amazed and grateful that technology could deliver a soulmate.
Our first meeting was to be a prelude to months of plans we gleefully committed. The only issue left to settle was which state we would choose to share happily ever after.
My daughter was away for the weekend and I don't want to tell you how long I took to dress the day I went to pick him up at the airport. It would be a little too humiliating to mention the hotel reservation I made between the airport and my house just in case we couldn't possibly make it that far.
The moment he stepped through the airport gate and hugged me was... horrendous.
There was absolutely no physical chemistry. We could write it and talk it like no tomorrow, but the meat and potatoes stuff just wasn't there. The things you learn day-in, day-out when you get to see more than the Greatest Hits Collection were instantly wrong.
He did not misrepresent himself in any way. He was/is an incredibly good man who was hurt badly by my rejection. But we both made the mistake of believeing what we wanted to believe because we wanted to believe it. We were intelligent, lonely people who created a two-dimensional ideal that could not be real.
I thought of him again this week after seeing Dean's Iowa Scream and didn't feel as guilty about my old almost love.
Much of the media, much of the electorate, wanted to believe. We put his pictures on the cover of news magazines long before anyone had the exposure to annoint in that way. We so deparately needed someone to be all that. It's no coincidence that his campaign was built online. As I well know, things can be what we project them to be in this space.
It's the day-to-day real time reactions that make or break the deal. I never made it to the hotel on the way from that early 1990s airport run. I don't think Dean will make it to the White House on this run.
Monitors and computer graphics are so much faster and better now, but they can still only reflect what we want to see.
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