Seven-fifteen a.m. on Friday, Christmas Eve Day, we poured the coffee. We were sleepy -- we'd been shooting one of my blogs for our A.I.R videocasting project till two a.m. (We're planning to podcast the videos once a week, as of mid January.)
Before retiring, we noticed that the refrigerator wasn't cold enough. Uh-oh! We turned up the dials.
Sipping coffee, that a disaster might be looming over the holiday weekend was still on our minds. We avoided the topic, didn't check the fridge, and exchanged a few words about last night's shoot -- should we, or shouldn't we do another "take?"
As I put the toast on a plate, I said, "John, aren't they're voting this morning?"
He turned on the television set.
There they were -- the smiling-weary Senators congratulating each other, the smiling-weary commentators up-dating us -- sixty Democrats, thirty-nine Republicans. SIXTY WINS!
If you haven't seen it too many times, have a look.
After the house bill and the senate bill are reconciled, we'll be done whether we should we have Health Care reform? We'll have it.
"Yay!" I hooted. We watched for a while, and heard comments from faces and names that have become familiar.
What does it mean?
It will be many days, lots of comments, attacks on Obama and the Democrats, from the Democrats who want more, who want concessions, improvements, who want to be re-elected.
And comments and attacks -- the kind we've been hearing from Republicans who have negated everything that Obama's done, and has tried to do throughout the year.
Is this wrangling, attacking, blaming, dissecting a healthy thing -- a good thing that's part of what Democracy is today -- the news conveying all the opposition messages, ads -- some expressing real issues -- others using Swift-Boating Truth tactics to prove that Health Care is harmful, dangerously wrong?
I don't know. But I don't like it.
I'm closing my eyes , still celebrating, because progress was made on December 24th, but I'm tightening my belt, bracing myself to rah-rah, cheer on the team.
We're not done yet -- hold that line, guys -- fight team fight.
Hey Hey - you get out of our way.
Today is the day --
We put you away!
You might be good at basketball,
You might be good at track
But when it comes to health care --
You might as well step back.
Might as well step back!
Say what?
Thirty-Niners might as well step back!
Can't hear us?
Might as well step back!
Go SIXTY go!
(P.S. We gave the refrigerator 24 hours to adjust and it seems to be holding its own.)
Showing posts with label advice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label advice. Show all posts
Monday, December 28, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
BEST OF THE BEST GIFTS
It's music.
Not a Teddy Bear, or Barbie, Beanie Baby, Raggedy Ann, Cabbage Patch Doll, or Furby – definitely not a Hula Hoop, Mood Ring, Ouija Board, Pet Rock or a Duncan Butterfly Yo-Yo, though they're fun -- like Play-doh, Silly Putty, and Slinky are fun but they get tiresome, like Smurfs, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and a Zhu Zhu, hamster.
Classical music -- Bach, Beethoven, Bartok -- and a player that works with or without earphones that a two-year-old can learn to handle -- that's a gift that will grow as the child grows, never get boring, stay with the child year after year, along with other music the child wants to hear again and again.
Can a two year handle a CD player? Sure -- it'll take a little teaching, plus patience, but oh my, it's worth it -- its fun -- it's a gift that lasts longer than any toy.
Crayons are a great gift, but some children just don't have an aptitude, a hand that works naturally with a pencil, or similar tool that has to be gripped. Finger painting? It's fun, but messy, and needs supervision. The same thing is true of chalk and charcoal -- you have to work at it.
You don't have to work at listening to music.
The wonders of FAO Schwartz toys, inexpensive ones as well as expensive ones fade -- you can fall in love with a toy, but a cherished possession that you learn to use, that expands into a hobby -- a part-time or full- time way to be by yourself -- that's a gift supreme.
Once, when I was in my studio rehearsing my choreography to Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings," my son (a toddler), peered in -- he wanted something. I put a "shh" finger to my lips, and tuned the volume up a little --.the music was crescendoing, coming to a climax where ... well, it takes my breath away whenever I hear it. I sat down on the floor next to him, and listened, tears in my eyes.
Here's the recording, by Albioni, the one I was using. It has pictures illustrating nature's wonders. You can enjoy them, but if you squint them away, you'll hear what my son and I were hearing -- Barbar's "Adagio for Strings."
I put my son's hand on my cheek, and when the music ended, I played that climax section again. It thrills me and it thrilled him,.and though we've never discussed it, after that adventure, he often peered into the studio while I was choreographing, and listened to whatever music I happened to be working on.
Later, he started doodling on the piano -- just doodling, he's not a Mozart. Later on, he decided he wanted to play an electronic piano, and got involved (very early on) with jazz, pop. rock. He even built a synthesizer , and wrote music for a while.
Then he fell in love with guitar music -- saved his allowance and bought a guitar, took lessons, and played an electronic guitar, and a classic guitar. He plays them both beautifully. He has a music habit, an addiction that's still growing, expanding.
At the moment my son's installing sound equipment in his home, so his wife can share with him what he loves.
He's a working actor, like his dad, and a talented, interesting writer, but ... well, I can't help feeling that his love of music is something he inherited from me. and shh ... when he talks about music, it delights me.
Whenever we listen to music it delights me. We've had delightful chats about various conductors, and sometimes when I'm writing, I'll ask him who's IN, what's the latest in popular music. He advises me. It delights me.
My best gift to him turned out to be ... wow ... a grand gift for myself.
Not a Teddy Bear, or Barbie, Beanie Baby, Raggedy Ann, Cabbage Patch Doll, or Furby – definitely not a Hula Hoop, Mood Ring, Ouija Board, Pet Rock or a Duncan Butterfly Yo-Yo, though they're fun -- like Play-doh, Silly Putty, and Slinky are fun but they get tiresome, like Smurfs, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and a Zhu Zhu, hamster.
Classical music -- Bach, Beethoven, Bartok -- and a player that works with or without earphones that a two-year-old can learn to handle -- that's a gift that will grow as the child grows, never get boring, stay with the child year after year, along with other music the child wants to hear again and again.
Can a two year handle a CD player? Sure -- it'll take a little teaching, plus patience, but oh my, it's worth it -- its fun -- it's a gift that lasts longer than any toy.
Crayons are a great gift, but some children just don't have an aptitude, a hand that works naturally with a pencil, or similar tool that has to be gripped. Finger painting? It's fun, but messy, and needs supervision. The same thing is true of chalk and charcoal -- you have to work at it.
You don't have to work at listening to music.
The wonders of FAO Schwartz toys, inexpensive ones as well as expensive ones fade -- you can fall in love with a toy, but a cherished possession that you learn to use, that expands into a hobby -- a part-time or full- time way to be by yourself -- that's a gift supreme.
Once, when I was in my studio rehearsing my choreography to Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings," my son (a toddler), peered in -- he wanted something. I put a "shh" finger to my lips, and tuned the volume up a little --.the music was crescendoing, coming to a climax where ... well, it takes my breath away whenever I hear it. I sat down on the floor next to him, and listened, tears in my eyes.
Here's the recording, by Albioni, the one I was using. It has pictures illustrating nature's wonders. You can enjoy them, but if you squint them away, you'll hear what my son and I were hearing -- Barbar's "Adagio for Strings."
I put my son's hand on my cheek, and when the music ended, I played that climax section again. It thrills me and it thrilled him,.and though we've never discussed it, after that adventure, he often peered into the studio while I was choreographing, and listened to whatever music I happened to be working on.
Later, he started doodling on the piano -- just doodling, he's not a Mozart. Later on, he decided he wanted to play an electronic piano, and got involved (very early on) with jazz, pop. rock. He even built a synthesizer , and wrote music for a while.
Then he fell in love with guitar music -- saved his allowance and bought a guitar, took lessons, and played an electronic guitar, and a classic guitar. He plays them both beautifully. He has a music habit, an addiction that's still growing, expanding.
At the moment my son's installing sound equipment in his home, so his wife can share with him what he loves.
He's a working actor, like his dad, and a talented, interesting writer, but ... well, I can't help feeling that his love of music is something he inherited from me. and shh ... when he talks about music, it delights me.
Whenever we listen to music it delights me. We've had delightful chats about various conductors, and sometimes when I'm writing, I'll ask him who's IN, what's the latest in popular music. He advises me. It delights me.
My best gift to him turned out to be ... wow ... a grand gift for myself.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
HUMANURE TRUTH TALK
My favorite actor, who moonlights as our plumber, electrician, carpenter, and general handyman (between rehearsals and performances), has slaved over our vintage toilets. We've got three that he's been fixing and re-fixing.
A leak, in my green bathroom, became major. JC turned off the water main, took apart the toilet till he saw that a large washer was cracked and leaking. The guy who owns our neighborhood hardware store looked at it, groaned, and said --"Hey man, where'd you get this toilet? In India?"
We laughed politely. We'd been reading "White Tiger," a darkly comic novel about a boy growing up in rural India, where electricity and indoor toilets don't exist --just holes as depicted in the "Slumdog Millionaire" movie.
It was serious -- any one of our toilets could spring a leak and become unfixable. And our three vintage toilets use about seven gallons per flush. Aside from our sky-high water bills, we were wasting water. Warnings about water shortages in New York City are dire.
Anyhow, with the help of our hardware store and our super, a new, modern, ultra- low flow toilet was installed. Whosh! It was marvelous. We immediately replaced the other two.
Great! Progress! But then I happened upon "Guardian.Co.UK," the Guardian Environment Network, and read about composting human manure -- read an eco-blogger who felt as if a light bulb went off in his head when he learned about "hmanure," and proceeded to replace his porcelain toilet with a bucket.
Here's one of the pictures
I found.
I saw a book review on Amazon for the "Humanure Handbook," by Joseph Jenkins. In his book, Jenkins says, proves, and is touting that we stop wasting water, and replace toilets with buckets, and using sawdust to eliminate odor.
Is it something one can do in the heart of New York City?
Practical Em immediately wondered what would we do with the bucket? Use it for our garden, if we had a garden? We don't, though some New York buildings (in the best, high-rent neighborhoods where upper-upper class people live), have wonderful gardens on their roofs.
Meanwhile, I read about other places that have been experimenting.
In Austin, Texas, a nonprofit group, called the Rhizome Collective, succeeded this year in getting the city to approve what may be the first legal composting toilet in the U.S.
An ecologist in Chicago got her neighbors to stop using their toilets and start saving their poop. More than half of them — 22 of the 35 households — accepted her proposal and have been using buckets for the past three months.
In three months the ecologist picked up 1,500 gallons (5,700 pounds) of excrement, which she'll give back to participants this spring to use in their gardens, after she and Mother Nature have transformed it into a rich bag of fertilizer.
In Marin county, a Portable Odorless Outhouse Project, a/k/a MCPOOP, has convinced the county to put humanure toilets in county parks and town squares.
What about toilet paper? Do you drop the toilet paper into the bucket -- does paper with compost affect the viability compost?
Whoa ... One click, and I was reading about re-usable toilet paper, a/k/a "wipes."
Here's the sales pitch: "They're comfy and definitely green, environmentally friendly. You can use them wet, and they won't fall apart. It's a lot more comfortable and soft on your most delicate body parts. It's also more economical, uses less paper and we deliver -- saves you carrying bulky packages home from the store."
Without judging this product, but wondering why it's "more comfortable," I read the instructions on how to use, and re-use "green" wipes?
The manufacturer says:
(1) "Shake, scrape, swish, or squirt off anything you don't want in your laundry, and then toss the wipe into the pail or container."
(2) "Store used wipes in a wet bag or a diaper pail. " (Manufacturer includes a paragraph about hanging, storing in various out of the way places.)
(3) "Wash wipes separately from other laundry, in hot water, with bleach, and any fabric softener you prefer. Dry in the dryer."
Hmm ...
Is this a subject to be discussing on my blog?
Well ... it's in the news, so other people are wondering about it ...
Okay! I'm glad we have the three new toilets, but ... graduating to the bucket, sawdust, and green wipes?
If and when the time comes, I'll vote for it -- I'll join in, but I have to utter a very quiet "ick" and confess -- I'm glad we're not there yet.
A leak, in my green bathroom, became major. JC turned off the water main, took apart the toilet till he saw that a large washer was cracked and leaking. The guy who owns our neighborhood hardware store looked at it, groaned, and said --"Hey man, where'd you get this toilet? In India?"
We laughed politely. We'd been reading "White Tiger," a darkly comic novel about a boy growing up in rural India, where electricity and indoor toilets don't exist --just holes as depicted in the "Slumdog Millionaire" movie.
It was serious -- any one of our toilets could spring a leak and become unfixable. And our three vintage toilets use about seven gallons per flush. Aside from our sky-high water bills, we were wasting water. Warnings about water shortages in New York City are dire.
Anyhow, with the help of our hardware store and our super, a new, modern, ultra- low flow toilet was installed. Whosh! It was marvelous. We immediately replaced the other two.
Great! Progress! But then I happened upon "Guardian.Co.UK," the Guardian Environment Network, and read about composting human manure -- read an eco-blogger who felt as if a light bulb went off in his head when he learned about "hmanure," and proceeded to replace his porcelain toilet with a bucket.
Here's one of the pictures
I found.I saw a book review on Amazon for the "Humanure Handbook," by Joseph Jenkins. In his book, Jenkins says, proves, and is touting that we stop wasting water, and replace toilets with buckets, and using sawdust to eliminate odor.
Is it something one can do in the heart of New York City?
Practical Em immediately wondered what would we do with the bucket? Use it for our garden, if we had a garden? We don't, though some New York buildings (in the best, high-rent neighborhoods where upper-upper class people live), have wonderful gardens on their roofs.
Meanwhile, I read about other places that have been experimenting.
In Austin, Texas, a nonprofit group, called the Rhizome Collective, succeeded this year in getting the city to approve what may be the first legal composting toilet in the U.S.
An ecologist in Chicago got her neighbors to stop using their toilets and start saving their poop. More than half of them — 22 of the 35 households — accepted her proposal and have been using buckets for the past three months.
In three months the ecologist picked up 1,500 gallons (5,700 pounds) of excrement, which she'll give back to participants this spring to use in their gardens, after she and Mother Nature have transformed it into a rich bag of fertilizer.
In Marin county, a Portable Odorless Outhouse Project, a/k/a MCPOOP, has convinced the county to put humanure toilets in county parks and town squares.
What about toilet paper? Do you drop the toilet paper into the bucket -- does paper with compost affect the viability compost?
Whoa ... One click, and I was reading about re-usable toilet paper, a/k/a "wipes."
Here's the sales pitch: "They're comfy and definitely green, environmentally friendly. You can use them wet, and they won't fall apart. It's a lot more comfortable and soft on your most delicate body parts. It's also more economical, uses less paper and we deliver -- saves you carrying bulky packages home from the store."
Without judging this product, but wondering why it's "more comfortable," I read the instructions on how to use, and re-use "green" wipes?
The manufacturer says:
(1) "Shake, scrape, swish, or squirt off anything you don't want in your laundry, and then toss the wipe into the pail or container."
(2) "Store used wipes in a wet bag or a diaper pail. " (Manufacturer includes a paragraph about hanging, storing in various out of the way places.)
(3) "Wash wipes separately from other laundry, in hot water, with bleach, and any fabric softener you prefer. Dry in the dryer."
Hmm ...
Is this a subject to be discussing on my blog?
Well ... it's in the news, so other people are wondering about it ...
Okay! I'm glad we have the three new toilets, but ... graduating to the bucket, sawdust, and green wipes?
If and when the time comes, I'll vote for it -- I'll join in, but I have to utter a very quiet "ick" and confess -- I'm glad we're not there yet.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
DUBAI
Here, in the southeast of the Arabian Peninsula in Southwest Asia, is Dubai.
Would you want to live there, or vacation there?
If I were starting out and dreaming of being a dancer, where would I go to make it and build a dance company -- New York, L.A., or London, Paris, Tel Aviv? What about Dubai?
How much money would you need to visit Dubai for a week? I checked -- about $1500 minimum -- the lower price hotels are $150 to $200 a day (the highest price is $20,000). Could you find a room, a tourist home in the area where Dubai's workers live?
Whenever I mention New York City to a techie (an Indian, a Filipino, who's helping me with my computer), they say, "Oh I'd love to visit." I always say, "Don't come unless you have a lot of money -- it'll cost more than $100 a day -- you can't live comfortably in Manhattan, unless you're earning about $100,000 a year."
(Maybe that's too high a figure, but I don't encourage anyone to come NYC for a vacation or to live.)
When I was in my teens, before I came to New York, everyone said, "Don't do it -- it's expensive -- you can't find a decent, inexpensive place to live -- you'll have to get a full time job -- you can't study dancing if you've got a full-time job."
But I found a part-time job in a settlement house that paid me two-dollars-an-hour, and a cold-water "railroad" flat on 15th street, six rooms, no heat, no hot water, five flight walk up --$30 a month. I rented out four rooms (painted the front room blue, and slept on a futon on my robin's egg blue floor).
My roommates each paid $15 a month. The biggest problem was our bath schedule -- the tub was in kitchen (a double-sink covered by the board we used for a dining table). The next biggest problem was getting roommates to pay -- like me, they had part time jobs and were short of money.
Today, the money numbers are different, but the situation in Manhattan is the same. The highly-skilled sound designer/engineer for our podcast (A.I.R. Broadcasting --it's coming soon), lives with four roommates, and pays $500 per month for a room that's smaller than the smallest room in my old cold-water flat. He's currently handling three part-time jobs, so he can pay his bills.
So what about Dubai? With its lavish restaurants, bars, theaters, hotels, and gigantic mall -- all places where music is undoubtedly played -- surely there's high level employment for a young, skilled, sound engineer. It sounds like a heaven for techies.
Dubai, once a pearl-fishing village, has been transformed into a paradise -- a tax free, free-trade oasis, with Internet, media, finance, maritime projects, and state-owned development companies that need beautiful buildings with massive space, and spectacularly fancy decor. The government is already advertizing space in the fabulously unique, sail-shaped Burj al-Arab, claiming it's the most expensive hotel in the world.
There's also an unfinished 160 story Burj Dubai (it'll be our planet's tallest building). It overlooks a coastline of man-made islands that are currently under construction -- each island, shaped like the leaf of the datepalm (it's the center of the archipelago) -- each frond named after an important place on the map of the world.
And Dubailand, the mall that's, scheduled to be completed in 2014, will cover 107 square miles, with 45 "mega projects" and 200 sub projects -- sports, entertainment, fashion, the largest collection of theme parks in the world.
The list of world-famous corporations involved -- well, I have to say it reminds me of the names on Bernie Madoff's list of investors.
Right now each "name" seems like a brick in a foundation put together -- brick by brick -- without cement, just the gel of evocative, cleverly worded enticements, which give you the feeling that you're going to be surrounded with glamor, breathtaking luxuries, endless joys.
So is Dubai a Mecca for the educated, skilled, ambitious, creative new generation of entrepreneurs -- the super-brainy, innovative techies?
Should I tell our sound designer/engineer to head there?
The fact is, Dubai's in a slump right now. According to various, reliable news reports, its business ventures have been hit with the economic troubles that have hit the U.S. -- real estate prices dropping 50%; new construction all but stopped. Though the major backers downplay the rising debt, despite their $15 billion investment bailout, unpaid bills are mounting.
But, I know from my own experience -- you can get a foot-hold, and create a brilliant future for yourself, if you're starting from scratch and things look bleak. Why? Because there's less competition.
Fabulous, grandiose Dubai ... Is it a new world? Or is it the old world, high-gloss painted, polished, silver and gold-plated, set with gems. Is it an Emerald City in Oz?
Gee, if you're feeling feisty, and you can scrounge up the money, why not go and have a look!
Would you want to live there, or vacation there?
If I were starting out and dreaming of being a dancer, where would I go to make it and build a dance company -- New York, L.A., or London, Paris, Tel Aviv? What about Dubai?
How much money would you need to visit Dubai for a week? I checked -- about $1500 minimum -- the lower price hotels are $150 to $200 a day (the highest price is $20,000). Could you find a room, a tourist home in the area where Dubai's workers live?
Whenever I mention New York City to a techie (an Indian, a Filipino, who's helping me with my computer), they say, "Oh I'd love to visit." I always say, "Don't come unless you have a lot of money -- it'll cost more than $100 a day -- you can't live comfortably in Manhattan, unless you're earning about $100,000 a year."
(Maybe that's too high a figure, but I don't encourage anyone to come NYC for a vacation or to live.)
When I was in my teens, before I came to New York, everyone said, "Don't do it -- it's expensive -- you can't find a decent, inexpensive place to live -- you'll have to get a full time job -- you can't study dancing if you've got a full-time job."
But I found a part-time job in a settlement house that paid me two-dollars-an-hour, and a cold-water "railroad" flat on 15th street, six rooms, no heat, no hot water, five flight walk up --$30 a month. I rented out four rooms (painted the front room blue, and slept on a futon on my robin's egg blue floor).
My roommates each paid $15 a month. The biggest problem was our bath schedule -- the tub was in kitchen (a double-sink covered by the board we used for a dining table). The next biggest problem was getting roommates to pay -- like me, they had part time jobs and were short of money.
Today, the money numbers are different, but the situation in Manhattan is the same. The highly-skilled sound designer/engineer for our podcast (A.I.R. Broadcasting --it's coming soon), lives with four roommates, and pays $500 per month for a room that's smaller than the smallest room in my old cold-water flat. He's currently handling three part-time jobs, so he can pay his bills.
So what about Dubai? With its lavish restaurants, bars, theaters, hotels, and gigantic mall -- all places where music is undoubtedly played -- surely there's high level employment for a young, skilled, sound engineer. It sounds like a heaven for techies.
Dubai, once a pearl-fishing village, has been transformed into a paradise -- a tax free, free-trade oasis, with Internet, media, finance, maritime projects, and state-owned development companies that need beautiful buildings with massive space, and spectacularly fancy decor. The government is already advertizing space in the fabulously unique, sail-shaped Burj al-Arab, claiming it's the most expensive hotel in the world.
There's also an unfinished 160 story Burj Dubai (it'll be our planet's tallest building). It overlooks a coastline of man-made islands that are currently under construction -- each island, shaped like the leaf of the datepalm (it's the center of the archipelago) -- each frond named after an important place on the map of the world.
And Dubailand, the mall that's, scheduled to be completed in 2014, will cover 107 square miles, with 45 "mega projects" and 200 sub projects -- sports, entertainment, fashion, the largest collection of theme parks in the world.
The list of world-famous corporations involved -- well, I have to say it reminds me of the names on Bernie Madoff's list of investors.
Right now each "name" seems like a brick in a foundation put together -- brick by brick -- without cement, just the gel of evocative, cleverly worded enticements, which give you the feeling that you're going to be surrounded with glamor, breathtaking luxuries, endless joys.
So is Dubai a Mecca for the educated, skilled, ambitious, creative new generation of entrepreneurs -- the super-brainy, innovative techies?
Should I tell our sound designer/engineer to head there?
The fact is, Dubai's in a slump right now. According to various, reliable news reports, its business ventures have been hit with the economic troubles that have hit the U.S. -- real estate prices dropping 50%; new construction all but stopped. Though the major backers downplay the rising debt, despite their $15 billion investment bailout, unpaid bills are mounting.
But, I know from my own experience -- you can get a foot-hold, and create a brilliant future for yourself, if you're starting from scratch and things look bleak. Why? Because there's less competition.
Fabulous, grandiose Dubai ... Is it a new world? Or is it the old world, high-gloss painted, polished, silver and gold-plated, set with gems. Is it an Emerald City in Oz?
Gee, if you're feeling feisty, and you can scrounge up the money, why not go and have a look!
Monday, December 14, 2009
MCCAIN LOOKS YOUNGER
McCain looked rested, and quite relaxed, the other night on Meet the Press, responding to David Gregory's questions.
What a relief it was -- McCain's words, his tone of voice -- to see and hear him supporting and respecting Obama's decisions about the war in Afghanistan. Okay -- McCain worries about the date for withdrawal and ending the war being stated, but he didn't denigrate Obama -- he respectfully stated his concern, and explained why.
Ever since election eve last November, when McCain conceded the election, stood on stage at the Arizona Biltmore Resort, with his wife and Sarah Palin, and thanked his loyal supporters in the audience, I've been uneasy about McCain.
That night, he smiled, and seemed relieved that the long campaign was over. He stopped his audience from booing, whenever he mentioned Obama's name. He made no reference to the two women on stage with him -- his wife in her expensive gold suit, standing stiffly on one side, Palin on the other side, looking unsure, a bit bewildered.
During this past year, McCain, the surviving war hero, has been letting us know, again and again, that he knows how the president should deal with war, economy, unemployment, failing banks, and the failing automobile industry. Whenever John McCain has expressed his opinion on Obama's doings, I've usually groaned, turned away, or changed the channel.
Why? His unforgettable, disturbing behavior during the debates -- McCain didn't shake hands or look directly at Obama, To me, it seemed as if McCain couldn't acknowledge Obama as an equal.
The other night, with David Gregory, it was great – to see a fresher-faced, younger-looking McCain -- no stiff, gold wife like a statue watching over him -- just the guy himself.
I can't help it -- tick tick goes my mind -- why did he marry Cindy Lou Hensley? Did he pick Cindy because she has personal wealth, business acumen, and unshakable, consistent behavior? Maybe McCain, the lover, needed to know exactly, precisely what he was committing himself to -- "till death do us part?"
(She seems so "un-juicy" --always nice, nifty, neat -- reliably elegant -- but golly -- she's so ... well, I can't imagine the two of them "cuddling.")
Anyhow, I'm chirping and cheerful, glad to have the support from John McCain, Republican standard bearer (one of the very few Republicans who hasn't sold his soul to the party, and embraced its current policy of rejecting, negating, hating every idea that emerges from our black president's White House. )
Will we ever learn more about Cindy McCain, the school teacher, daughter of a wealthy beer manufacturer?
And get to know their first child Meghan, who's rumored to be "mad at the media." Will we learn how the second and third kids (two years apart), are doing -- John Sidney McCain IV (known as Jack), and son James (Jimmy)? And what about the McCain's adopted Bangladeshi orphan, Bridget (sixteen now, black and, very un-assimilated-looking)?
My curiosity isn't gossip-mongering -- the children tell a lot about the parents real selves.
Okay -- I have a sense that Obama's decisions about the war, his lack of "let's get in it and win it" rah-rah -- his de-emphasizing, downsizing the war on terrorism, is good.
It's a new direction that engenders a small hope -- that religion -- where, who, and what you believe in will become less, and less important.
For me, that's the intolerable terror of our war on terrorism -- that we have to kill people who believe killing us is right -- beautiful -- sublime martyrdom.
Am I naive to hope, wish, pray that the war, this one, and the others that are looming, can be avoided, if we focus on live, let others live?
I need to say it again, another way that fits me -- believe in what you believe in, but respect, and allow others do that too.
What a relief it was -- McCain's words, his tone of voice -- to see and hear him supporting and respecting Obama's decisions about the war in Afghanistan. Okay -- McCain worries about the date for withdrawal and ending the war being stated, but he didn't denigrate Obama -- he respectfully stated his concern, and explained why.
Ever since election eve last November, when McCain conceded the election, stood on stage at the Arizona Biltmore Resort, with his wife and Sarah Palin, and thanked his loyal supporters in the audience, I've been uneasy about McCain.
That night, he smiled, and seemed relieved that the long campaign was over. He stopped his audience from booing, whenever he mentioned Obama's name. He made no reference to the two women on stage with him -- his wife in her expensive gold suit, standing stiffly on one side, Palin on the other side, looking unsure, a bit bewildered.
During this past year, McCain, the surviving war hero, has been letting us know, again and again, that he knows how the president should deal with war, economy, unemployment, failing banks, and the failing automobile industry. Whenever John McCain has expressed his opinion on Obama's doings, I've usually groaned, turned away, or changed the channel.
Why? His unforgettable, disturbing behavior during the debates -- McCain didn't shake hands or look directly at Obama, To me, it seemed as if McCain couldn't acknowledge Obama as an equal.
The other night, with David Gregory, it was great – to see a fresher-faced, younger-looking McCain -- no stiff, gold wife like a statue watching over him -- just the guy himself.
I can't help it -- tick tick goes my mind -- why did he marry Cindy Lou Hensley? Did he pick Cindy because she has personal wealth, business acumen, and unshakable, consistent behavior? Maybe McCain, the lover, needed to know exactly, precisely what he was committing himself to -- "till death do us part?"
(She seems so "un-juicy" --always nice, nifty, neat -- reliably elegant -- but golly -- she's so ... well, I can't imagine the two of them "cuddling.")
Anyhow, I'm chirping and cheerful, glad to have the support from John McCain, Republican standard bearer (one of the very few Republicans who hasn't sold his soul to the party, and embraced its current policy of rejecting, negating, hating every idea that emerges from our black president's White House. )
Will we ever learn more about Cindy McCain, the school teacher, daughter of a wealthy beer manufacturer?
And get to know their first child Meghan, who's rumored to be "mad at the media." Will we learn how the second and third kids (two years apart), are doing -- John Sidney McCain IV (known as Jack), and son James (Jimmy)? And what about the McCain's adopted Bangladeshi orphan, Bridget (sixteen now, black and, very un-assimilated-looking)?
My curiosity isn't gossip-mongering -- the children tell a lot about the parents real selves.
Okay -- I have a sense that Obama's decisions about the war, his lack of "let's get in it and win it" rah-rah -- his de-emphasizing, downsizing the war on terrorism, is good.
It's a new direction that engenders a small hope -- that religion -- where, who, and what you believe in will become less, and less important.
For me, that's the intolerable terror of our war on terrorism -- that we have to kill people who believe killing us is right -- beautiful -- sublime martyrdom.
Am I naive to hope, wish, pray that the war, this one, and the others that are looming, can be avoided, if we focus on live, let others live?
I need to say it again, another way that fits me -- believe in what you believe in, but respect, and allow others do that too.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
STILL SMOKING?
Did you ever see "Now Voyager?" Bette Davis getting her cigarette lit by Paul Henreid ... wow!
(If you haven't seen that movie, see it now with a box of tissues handy.
I'll bet smokers who see the film, feel affirmed. It made me want to learn to smoke. But the first time I took a puff, my eyes teared -- I coughed and gagged -- I hated the taste -- first time was the last time.
✪ Fact: (in last week's Time Magazine.)
In the U.S. and other developed countries, big tobacco is on the run. Fewer than 20% of Americans now smoke — the lowest percentage since reliable records started being kept.
No doubt about it -- it's brave to smoke these days -- to be one of those people -- secretary, clerk, receptionist, who sneaks outside, no matter how inclement the weather, no coat, hat, or gloves -- taking a cigarette break, clustering with friends, inhaling, exhaling.
I glance at the women huddled in front of an AT&T store. They all look young.
I feel them thinking "To Hell with passersby, who stare, and avoid us, move around as if we're lepers."
I sense they're proud of being part of a non-conforming, courageously independent, little group.
✪ Fact: This year, Washington boosted federal cigarette taxes from 32 cents a pack to $1 and gave the FDA the power to regulate cigarettes like any other food or drug.
"To Hell with the cost -- it's worth it!" -- that's got to be what those smokers think,
They're aware, as I am -- many stars smoke -- hardly any movies are made without someone handsome and cool, someone adorable, and gorgeous, taking out a cigarette, lighting up in his/her special way.
For instance Ben Affleck, Brad Pitt. Britney Spears, Jennifer Aniston, Johnny Depp, Lindsay Lohan, Nicole Richie, Paris Hilton, Scarlett Johansson, and Demi Moore -- Access Hollywood said the fearless, iconoclastic Demi smokes even though her much younger husband, Ashton Kutcher disapproves.
Anyhow, though our country has fewer smokers, smoking is exploding everywhere else in the world.
✪ According to Time, this year, tobacco companies will produce more than 5 trillion cigarettes — or about 830 for every person on the planet.
Scary figure. I know quite a few people who still smoke -- friends, relatives, teachers, doctors, lawyers -- even our President, who gave it up, admits he misses smoking.
✪ Fact: In China, 350 million people are hooked on tobacco, which means the country has more smokers than the U.S. has people. Smoking rates in Indonesia have quintupled since 1970. Africa still enjoys the lowest smoking rates in the world, largely because most people there can't afford cigarettes.
Those women, in front of AT&T -- that thin column of smoke coming out of the brunette's nose -- it's a line -- that non-smokers like me can't cross -- a invisible divide between me and them.
✪ Fact: The tobacco industry is working hard to get more customers -- despite the World Health Organization's treaty, their plan to attack global smoking, with bans and tax hikes. So far, 167 countries have signed the treaty -- determined to stop smoking for good.
Don't those women worry about cancer? Aren't they sick and tired of seeing the ads, like that guy with the voice-box? Do they joke about the statistics, the probabilities -- the life and death aspects?
Or is it like crack, heroin, XTC (ecstasy), all the latest uppers and downers? It's your own business, not anyone else's.
Maybe it's the adolescent thing, a penchant for doing what's forbidden -- testing it, trying it, fearlessly enjoying whatever it is -- rock-climbing, bungee-jumping, jet-skiing? Doing what most people are afraid to do?
They say that danger is terrifically exhilarating -- the aftermath is an overpowering sense of being alive.
Hmm.
I'll take Bette and Paul Henreid smoking, and be moved, touched, thrilled, quite overpowered by their romance. But playing with life and death -- no --nope -- no thanks. I'll play with life things.
(If you haven't seen that movie, see it now with a box of tissues handy.
I'll bet smokers who see the film, feel affirmed. It made me want to learn to smoke. But the first time I took a puff, my eyes teared -- I coughed and gagged -- I hated the taste -- first time was the last time.
✪ Fact: (in last week's Time Magazine.)
In the U.S. and other developed countries, big tobacco is on the run. Fewer than 20% of Americans now smoke — the lowest percentage since reliable records started being kept.
No doubt about it -- it's brave to smoke these days -- to be one of those people -- secretary, clerk, receptionist, who sneaks outside, no matter how inclement the weather, no coat, hat, or gloves -- taking a cigarette break, clustering with friends, inhaling, exhaling.
I glance at the women huddled in front of an AT&T store. They all look young.I feel them thinking "To Hell with passersby, who stare, and avoid us, move around as if we're lepers."
I sense they're proud of being part of a non-conforming, courageously independent, little group.
✪ Fact: This year, Washington boosted federal cigarette taxes from 32 cents a pack to $1 and gave the FDA the power to regulate cigarettes like any other food or drug.
"To Hell with the cost -- it's worth it!" -- that's got to be what those smokers think,
They're aware, as I am -- many stars smoke -- hardly any movies are made without someone handsome and cool, someone adorable, and gorgeous, taking out a cigarette, lighting up in his/her special way.
For instance Ben Affleck, Brad Pitt. Britney Spears, Jennifer Aniston, Johnny Depp, Lindsay Lohan, Nicole Richie, Paris Hilton, Scarlett Johansson, and Demi Moore -- Access Hollywood said the fearless, iconoclastic Demi smokes even though her much younger husband, Ashton Kutcher disapproves.
Anyhow, though our country has fewer smokers, smoking is exploding everywhere else in the world.
✪ According to Time, this year, tobacco companies will produce more than 5 trillion cigarettes — or about 830 for every person on the planet.
Scary figure. I know quite a few people who still smoke -- friends, relatives, teachers, doctors, lawyers -- even our President, who gave it up, admits he misses smoking.
✪ Fact: In China, 350 million people are hooked on tobacco, which means the country has more smokers than the U.S. has people. Smoking rates in Indonesia have quintupled since 1970. Africa still enjoys the lowest smoking rates in the world, largely because most people there can't afford cigarettes.
Those women, in front of AT&T -- that thin column of smoke coming out of the brunette's nose -- it's a line -- that non-smokers like me can't cross -- a invisible divide between me and them.
✪ Fact: The tobacco industry is working hard to get more customers -- despite the World Health Organization's treaty, their plan to attack global smoking, with bans and tax hikes. So far, 167 countries have signed the treaty -- determined to stop smoking for good.
Don't those women worry about cancer? Aren't they sick and tired of seeing the ads, like that guy with the voice-box? Do they joke about the statistics, the probabilities -- the life and death aspects?
Or is it like crack, heroin, XTC (ecstasy), all the latest uppers and downers? It's your own business, not anyone else's.
Maybe it's the adolescent thing, a penchant for doing what's forbidden -- testing it, trying it, fearlessly enjoying whatever it is -- rock-climbing, bungee-jumping, jet-skiing? Doing what most people are afraid to do?
They say that danger is terrifically exhilarating -- the aftermath is an overpowering sense of being alive.
Hmm.
I'll take Bette and Paul Henreid smoking, and be moved, touched, thrilled, quite overpowered by their romance. But playing with life and death -- no --nope -- no thanks. I'll play with life things.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
TIGER WOODS
People are saying --
● "He'll lose his endorsements -- it will cost him $300 million if she divorces him -- it'll hurt his popularity with women."
● "His image is shattered, sort of like the back window of his SUV."
● "What's amazing, to some extent, is that it's taken this long for him to slip."
● "He won't be speaking at any more presidential inaugurations."
● "His failure to win a major this year didn't damage his place in our corporate-cultural pantheon. But the past week's events have knocked him off his pedestal."
● "You know what happens next: an appearance on Oprah with his wife Elin. He'll get even bigger ratings at his next tournament. Unless, of course, Mrs. Woods throws the bum out."
EM is singing "Little Bo Peep / she lost her sheep / leave him alone / he'll come home / wagging his tail behind him ..."
I'm groaning. I'm hearing comments, gossip, nasty revelations that Tiger's no hero -- he's just another cheating, lying, womanizing, scoundrel and so on, and so forth.
It's a Tower of Babel crammed, jammed with voices, opinions, giggles, snickers, predictions, sexy scenarios -- images of Tiger and his innocent-looking, blond wife in her bikini modeling days -- and that hostess -- and that other girl who could have, didn't have an affair with him, or maybe she did?
It's the Leaning Tower of Pisa -- over-full of um-yum delicious possibilities for tearing down the image of a disciplined, hard-working, non-stop striving, successful winner, still in his prime, being devoured -- chewed on, swallowed by the hungry hounds, the starving wolves, the indiscriminate American public, who love, love, l-o-v-e to destroy what we admire.
I think Tiger Woods is great -- a supremely great athlete -- amazing -- to have had major knee surgery, and returned to the golf course, ready and capable -- absolutely determined to win.
I admire what he's accomplished -- his poise, grace, and passion on the golf course (am in awe of the way he and his father honed his talents), and I love the fact that he married a very pretty, very blond white girl -- because I love anything that breaks down our racial barriers.
"Win this one Tiger," is what I'm chanting. "Win this one, Elin."
The mountain of words about what's right and wrong in a marriage, words about "Fidelity" and "Infidelity" are deadly, dangerous, confusing.
I'm ESP-telling her -- if he played around, he needed to play around, and now with his personal, private life exposed, he's off-balance.
Telling him -- if she, with the babies and changes that were happening in her life, couldn't feel and see what was happening to them as a couple, and now, suddenly feels and sees it -- she's wounded, shocked, off-balance.
Telling them both -- make no decisions, until separately and together you feel out what you feel -- do nothing, till you figure it out for yourselves.
Friday, December 4, 2009
BLACK FRIDAYS
Black Tuesday, October 29, 1929, was the day the stock market crashed, and the beginning of the great depression.
"Black" -- stands for gloomy, bad, sorrowful, dirty, filthy, foul, grubby, impure, squalid, unclean, and gloomy implies bleak, depressing, dismal, dispiriting, dreary, funereal, oppressive, somber.
Also it means atramentous (new word for me, synonym for pitch-black).
For me -- that "Black" Friday has been named, touted, and sold to us as a tradition is one of the reasons why I would never, never shop on that day.
Subway "rush hour" -- well, it's a black time, not atramentous, but definitely not a good time. However, if you have to travel during rush hour, you'll adjust -- tolerate the dismal feeling, the wrong feeling, the discomfort of being pressed, crushed against people you don't know.
Those strangers -- all of them avoiding your eyes, trying to depersonalize the situation, as you pretend to read the ads, You look between the shoulders, necks, heads, torsos at ads and the dark windows that show nothing, and get a sense of traveling, moving, time passing, getting you somewhere.
And then the subway slows. You're relieved -- even as people squirm and wriggle around each other, trying not to touch, as they wend their way from a pole they were holding onto, to the door, outside of which stands a crowd waiting to rush, push, cram themselves in -- and finally you're able to take a deep breath, push through them and get out.
Relieved, freed, almost smiling, you go about your business -- picking up something, meeting someone ... whatever ... The ordeal served a purpose -- it got you there.
Standing in a spiraling long line to get to the ticket window in a crowded theater on an opening night -- that's black time. You're sweating. You have to get into the theater, and you know that, people surrounding you feel the same way.
There's nothing you can do, except want to get to that window. And then, after you've gotten there, gotten your ticket, wended your way to your seat, removed and draped your coat, avoiding the elbows, shoulders of the stranger who's sitting next to you, you re-find yourself. You have a space, a place you own, and you are back to being you.
Traveling in a subway rush is a means to an end. Standing in a ticket line is a means to an end. That you, yourself committed yourself to the discomfort, said "yes" -- well, you accomplished something -- you did what you wanted to do.
But shopping? You don't have to be there. You don't have to compete with strangers, fight to get in, bump, be bumped, push and be pushed, hate and be hated by others -- a tribe of blind-faced, bargain-hunters, who've closed down the humanness in themselves in order to get ... what?
To see what bargains, price-tagged victories can be seized before someone else seizes them?
C'mon, that's not a competition, or a game with a winner or loser, or a war with a cause, a reason, an objective. What's the end result? A piece of clothing? An object, some equipment that you need, though it isn't absolutely essential -- but you want it, if the cost has been reduced by ... five dollars, $25 -- $50 -- 10 percent, 20 percent?
Hey, it's a sale, and a sale is a sale -- by definition a melee -- strangers jammed together, pushing, shoving, grabbing, fighting to outdo one another. The event puts restrictions, creates complications on what you buy for less, and more than likely, what you end up with, is not what you sort of thought you wanted.
Em Advice:
Don't shop, never shop, keep away from stores on black Fridays. Shop two days after the Christmas holiday is over. Or wait till after New Year's -- and go -- not when the doors open, but later, when it's personally convenient for you to look, see, feel what you want, and be able to calculate if it's something you really want, need, and is the cost worth it?
Em Principle:
Don't buy any over-advertised anything ... a product, an idea, a "sale." Don't get seduced by someone telling you it's a must see, must do. In the crowd that is doing the same thing as you, you take on the "crowd" mentality and lose what you are, what you feel -- you don't even know what you want.
"Black" -- stands for gloomy, bad, sorrowful, dirty, filthy, foul, grubby, impure, squalid, unclean, and gloomy implies bleak, depressing, dismal, dispiriting, dreary, funereal, oppressive, somber.
Also it means atramentous (new word for me, synonym for pitch-black).
For me -- that "Black" Friday has been named, touted, and sold to us as a tradition is one of the reasons why I would never, never shop on that day.
Subway "rush hour" -- well, it's a black time, not atramentous, but definitely not a good time. However, if you have to travel during rush hour, you'll adjust -- tolerate the dismal feeling, the wrong feeling, the discomfort of being pressed, crushed against people you don't know.
Those strangers -- all of them avoiding your eyes, trying to depersonalize the situation, as you pretend to read the ads, You look between the shoulders, necks, heads, torsos at ads and the dark windows that show nothing, and get a sense of traveling, moving, time passing, getting you somewhere.
And then the subway slows. You're relieved -- even as people squirm and wriggle around each other, trying not to touch, as they wend their way from a pole they were holding onto, to the door, outside of which stands a crowd waiting to rush, push, cram themselves in -- and finally you're able to take a deep breath, push through them and get out.
Relieved, freed, almost smiling, you go about your business -- picking up something, meeting someone ... whatever ... The ordeal served a purpose -- it got you there.
Standing in a spiraling long line to get to the ticket window in a crowded theater on an opening night -- that's black time. You're sweating. You have to get into the theater, and you know that, people surrounding you feel the same way.
There's nothing you can do, except want to get to that window. And then, after you've gotten there, gotten your ticket, wended your way to your seat, removed and draped your coat, avoiding the elbows, shoulders of the stranger who's sitting next to you, you re-find yourself. You have a space, a place you own, and you are back to being you.
Traveling in a subway rush is a means to an end. Standing in a ticket line is a means to an end. That you, yourself committed yourself to the discomfort, said "yes" -- well, you accomplished something -- you did what you wanted to do.
But shopping? You don't have to be there. You don't have to compete with strangers, fight to get in, bump, be bumped, push and be pushed, hate and be hated by others -- a tribe of blind-faced, bargain-hunters, who've closed down the humanness in themselves in order to get ... what?To see what bargains, price-tagged victories can be seized before someone else seizes them?
C'mon, that's not a competition, or a game with a winner or loser, or a war with a cause, a reason, an objective. What's the end result? A piece of clothing? An object, some equipment that you need, though it isn't absolutely essential -- but you want it, if the cost has been reduced by ... five dollars, $25 -- $50 -- 10 percent, 20 percent?
Hey, it's a sale, and a sale is a sale -- by definition a melee -- strangers jammed together, pushing, shoving, grabbing, fighting to outdo one another. The event puts restrictions, creates complications on what you buy for less, and more than likely, what you end up with, is not what you sort of thought you wanted.
Em Advice:
Don't shop, never shop, keep away from stores on black Fridays. Shop two days after the Christmas holiday is over. Or wait till after New Year's -- and go -- not when the doors open, but later, when it's personally convenient for you to look, see, feel what you want, and be able to calculate if it's something you really want, need, and is the cost worth it?
Em Principle:
Don't buy any over-advertised anything ... a product, an idea, a "sale." Don't get seduced by someone telling you it's a must see, must do. In the crowd that is doing the same thing as you, you take on the "crowd" mentality and lose what you are, what you feel -- you don't even know what you want.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
BILL CLINTON
How do you write about a famous person, major in shaping your life, shaping world history, as well as affecting what's happening to you and your world right now?
William Jefferson Clinton.
I voted for him when we were living in Redmond, Washington (during JC's few years in the television series, "Northern Exposure"). The look of Clinton, the sound of him -- he projected strength -- he was -- is -- articulate, knowledgeable, educated, not anti, but pro the social/political things that are important to me.
Education -- woman's right to choose -- racial equality -- compensating for the wrongs we've done in the past -- he was/is fighting to fix those things. Also gun control, religious freedom -- I can 't support someone who is preaching Jesus or their own belief in God.
I react to a politician the way I react to someone I happen to meet -- personally, instinctively -- liking them, trusting them, and sensing if they have power. I pull away -- if I sense anything odd, strange, too much, dangerous, wrongly seductive in that power.
Clinton is powerful, and like a good teacher with his ordered presentation of ideas, he's seductive, powerful. What Clinton says interests me, makes sense to me, doesn't require that I rush to join, or send money -- or do anything except listen and evaluate on my own.
Okay ... Clearly I like him, I like the look of him, and trust him. He has the ability to communicate with anybody, everybody. I love his spur of the moment sense of humor, his honesty, his ability to react to wherever he is, and whatever happens when he's speaking.
... "like" ... "love" ... all my superlatives... I'm aware that this is a paean, aware that all the admiring things I'm saying, I could be saying about Barack Obama.
Writing this, I shut out what's happened over the past year, in politics. We have a new form of political communication that utilizes high drama -- lies, shouting, invective, slanted reporting, distortion of actual events, deliberate misinformation.
Clinton hasn't bought into it. He handles it expertly.
His personal history -- womanizing, infidelities, the gory details that still echo from all the women who've come-out and told their stories -- Gennifer something, whats-her-name who sued him for making a pass in a hotel room, the specifics about his sexual doings with Monica Lewinsky – the 21 women Ken Starr, independent counsel, investigated – the "hundreds of women" a Washington Post reporter discussed in his book, "The Breach."
Nancy Gibbs' essay in a recent Time Magazine, about the "Other Bill Clinton who is leading the free world," helps me say what I want to say.
We need him. He's uniquely gifted, able to help us and people all over the world, to reach out, and help one another.
"Don't tread on me," is the motto on the Gadsden flag. During the American revolution it symbolized men fighting for freedom and independence.
Here's the seal on a $20 bill in 1778.
In 1775, an "American Guesser" (which historians think was Ben Franklin himself), wrote the Pennsylvania Journal, and said "The rattlesnake also has sharp eyes, and "may therefore be esteemed an emblem of vigilance." Furthermore, "... She never begins an attack, nor, when once engaged, ever surrenders. She is therefore an emblem of magnanimity and true courage ... she never wounds 'till she has generously given notice, even to her enemy, and cautioned him against the danger of treading on her."
Don't tread on William Jefferson Clinton.
William Jefferson Clinton.I voted for him when we were living in Redmond, Washington (during JC's few years in the television series, "Northern Exposure"). The look of Clinton, the sound of him -- he projected strength -- he was -- is -- articulate, knowledgeable, educated, not anti, but pro the social/political things that are important to me.
Education -- woman's right to choose -- racial equality -- compensating for the wrongs we've done in the past -- he was/is fighting to fix those things. Also gun control, religious freedom -- I can 't support someone who is preaching Jesus or their own belief in God.
I react to a politician the way I react to someone I happen to meet -- personally, instinctively -- liking them, trusting them, and sensing if they have power. I pull away -- if I sense anything odd, strange, too much, dangerous, wrongly seductive in that power.
Clinton is powerful, and like a good teacher with his ordered presentation of ideas, he's seductive, powerful. What Clinton says interests me, makes sense to me, doesn't require that I rush to join, or send money -- or do anything except listen and evaluate on my own.
Okay ... Clearly I like him, I like the look of him, and trust him. He has the ability to communicate with anybody, everybody. I love his spur of the moment sense of humor, his honesty, his ability to react to wherever he is, and whatever happens when he's speaking.
... "like" ... "love" ... all my superlatives... I'm aware that this is a paean, aware that all the admiring things I'm saying, I could be saying about Barack Obama.
Writing this, I shut out what's happened over the past year, in politics. We have a new form of political communication that utilizes high drama -- lies, shouting, invective, slanted reporting, distortion of actual events, deliberate misinformation.
Clinton hasn't bought into it. He handles it expertly.
His personal history -- womanizing, infidelities, the gory details that still echo from all the women who've come-out and told their stories -- Gennifer something, whats-her-name who sued him for making a pass in a hotel room, the specifics about his sexual doings with Monica Lewinsky – the 21 women Ken Starr, independent counsel, investigated – the "hundreds of women" a Washington Post reporter discussed in his book, "The Breach."
Nancy Gibbs' essay in a recent Time Magazine, about the "Other Bill Clinton who is leading the free world," helps me say what I want to say.
We need him. He's uniquely gifted, able to help us and people all over the world, to reach out, and help one another.
"Don't tread on me," is the motto on the Gadsden flag. During the American revolution it symbolized men fighting for freedom and independence.
Here's the seal on a $20 bill in 1778.
In 1775, an "American Guesser" (which historians think was Ben Franklin himself), wrote the Pennsylvania Journal, and said "The rattlesnake also has sharp eyes, and "may therefore be esteemed an emblem of vigilance." Furthermore, "... She never begins an attack, nor, when once engaged, ever surrenders. She is therefore an emblem of magnanimity and true courage ... she never wounds 'till she has generously given notice, even to her enemy, and cautioned him against the danger of treading on her."
Don't tread on William Jefferson Clinton.
Monday, November 23, 2009
MAMMOGRAM MESS
We have been cajoled, pressured, brain-washed -- educated, thoroughly, carefully taught, warned, reminded -- YOU'VE GOT TO HAVE A YEARLY MAMMOGRAM!
Associated Press Featured News quotes the latest, recommendations from the "US Preventative Services Task Force, (USPSTF):
●Women in their 40's do not need yearly mammograms. Dr. Diana Petitti, vice-chairman of the Task Force panel, says benefits are less, the harms are greater if you start in the 40's.
(Huh? So later is better? Um ... what are the "harms?" Are Diana's conclusions based on numbers, like medical costs?)
●Susan Pisano, spokeswoman for America's Insurance Plans, an industry group, says the insurance coverage isn't likely to change because of the new guidelines.
(Um... who is in the industry group? Insurance companies?)
● The Task Force panel says that women 50 to 74 should get a mammogram every other year until they turn 75, after which the risks and benefits are unknown.
(I thought the old guidelines had no "age" limit, and suggested "every year or two. What made them modify this? )
● Value of breast exams by doctors is unknown. And breast self-exams are of no value.
(Does that mean my doctor can't feel a lump? That I can't feel a lump? What about those cards in women's shower-rooms that depict the circular motion we should use to feel for lumps? )
●The latest Issue of Annals of Internal Medicine supports the new recommendations.
●The World Health Organization agrees; It says screening should start at age 50; and be done every two years. Great Britain doctors say every three years.
BUT –
● The American Cancer Society says they're wrong.
Their Chief medical officer, Dr. Otis Brawley, responding to the new guidelines, said, "This is one screening test I recommend unequivocally, and would recommend to any woman 40 and over." And Dr. Len Lichtenfeld, Brawley's Deputy Chief Medical Officer, says "Our concern is that as a result of that confusion, women may elect not to get screened at all. And that, to me, would be a serious problem."
And the AP report on the American Cancer Society and the USPSTF goes on and on:
There are 192,000 new cases and 40,000 deaths from breast cancer expected in the U.S. this year. There are numbers about risk factors -- probabilities of dying of breast cancer in your forties are 3% – ages fifty to seventy, the risk drops to 16% -- five lives will saved per thousand, versus only one death more, if you start screening at forty, but with early screening there will be approximately 470 false alarms -- a huge cost in terms of unneeded biopsies, medical expense, and worry ...
(Expense for whom? Worry? Each year every woman worries as her mammogram looms. Not testing will NOT take away the worry that's been drilled into us for more than thirty years.)
It's a blizzard of information, and I want to know how this new, shocking, turnaround got to be front and center, major, seriously significant, urgent, BIG DEAL NEWS -- bumping Health-care, Obama bowing to an Emperor, Guantanamo, and the Fort Hood Murderer out of the spotlight?
I think it was a couple of facts -- tidbits, life and death statistics with more than a modicum of shock value -- landing -- kerplunk -- on some producer's desk, waking him, jolting him into a "hey, WOW -- this is soap! deodorant! Jenny Craig, Nurtisystem! Olay! Pantene, Revlon, Loreal look-your-best Bowflex, bottom-line bonanza!" And kazoom -- the producer's got this mammogram ball rolling down the money hill!
Whoa ... says Dr. Em, backing out of the way. doing what she's been doing with medical rules in order to survive.
1. I never got yearly mammograms.
2. I don't mention that anyone had breast cancer in my family.
3. I make medical decisions for myself, based on what I've learned.
4. If I'd followed medical advice, I'd be leading a sedentary life, NOT able to dance, eating a limited diet -- no pears, celery, string beans, popcorn, grapes, plums, cherries, apples -- green apples, one of my favorite foods!
5. I checked the USPSTF index on Osteoporosis, Arthritis, and back pain -- subjects I know a lot about -- its conclusions are not directives , they are qualified IFS.
Go with what you feel you ought to do. We're being sold an idea on top of the idea that we already bought. You can't return the old one to the store and get a refund. Your daughter can't get a refund on it, so she'll buy when she's old enough to pick out what she prefers.
Be your own doctor. And have a little laugh ...
Associated Press Featured News quotes the latest, recommendations from the "US Preventative Services Task Force, (USPSTF):
●Women in their 40's do not need yearly mammograms. Dr. Diana Petitti, vice-chairman of the Task Force panel, says benefits are less, the harms are greater if you start in the 40's.
(Huh? So later is better? Um ... what are the "harms?" Are Diana's conclusions based on numbers, like medical costs?)
●Susan Pisano, spokeswoman for America's Insurance Plans, an industry group, says the insurance coverage isn't likely to change because of the new guidelines.
(Um... who is in the industry group? Insurance companies?)
● The Task Force panel says that women 50 to 74 should get a mammogram every other year until they turn 75, after which the risks and benefits are unknown.
(I thought the old guidelines had no "age" limit, and suggested "every year or two. What made them modify this? )
● Value of breast exams by doctors is unknown. And breast self-exams are of no value.
(Does that mean my doctor can't feel a lump? That I can't feel a lump? What about those cards in women's shower-rooms that depict the circular motion we should use to feel for lumps? )
●The latest Issue of Annals of Internal Medicine supports the new recommendations.
●The World Health Organization agrees; It says screening should start at age 50; and be done every two years. Great Britain doctors say every three years.
BUT –
● The American Cancer Society says they're wrong.
Their Chief medical officer, Dr. Otis Brawley, responding to the new guidelines, said, "This is one screening test I recommend unequivocally, and would recommend to any woman 40 and over." And Dr. Len Lichtenfeld, Brawley's Deputy Chief Medical Officer, says "Our concern is that as a result of that confusion, women may elect not to get screened at all. And that, to me, would be a serious problem."
And the AP report on the American Cancer Society and the USPSTF goes on and on:
There are 192,000 new cases and 40,000 deaths from breast cancer expected in the U.S. this year. There are numbers about risk factors -- probabilities of dying of breast cancer in your forties are 3% – ages fifty to seventy, the risk drops to 16% -- five lives will saved per thousand, versus only one death more, if you start screening at forty, but with early screening there will be approximately 470 false alarms -- a huge cost in terms of unneeded biopsies, medical expense, and worry ...
(Expense for whom? Worry? Each year every woman worries as her mammogram looms. Not testing will NOT take away the worry that's been drilled into us for more than thirty years.)
It's a blizzard of information, and I want to know how this new, shocking, turnaround got to be front and center, major, seriously significant, urgent, BIG DEAL NEWS -- bumping Health-care, Obama bowing to an Emperor, Guantanamo, and the Fort Hood Murderer out of the spotlight?
I think it was a couple of facts -- tidbits, life and death statistics with more than a modicum of shock value -- landing -- kerplunk -- on some producer's desk, waking him, jolting him into a "hey, WOW -- this is soap! deodorant! Jenny Craig, Nurtisystem! Olay! Pantene, Revlon, Loreal look-your-best Bowflex, bottom-line bonanza!" And kazoom -- the producer's got this mammogram ball rolling down the money hill!
Whoa ... says Dr. Em, backing out of the way. doing what she's been doing with medical rules in order to survive.
1. I never got yearly mammograms.
2. I don't mention that anyone had breast cancer in my family.
3. I make medical decisions for myself, based on what I've learned.
4. If I'd followed medical advice, I'd be leading a sedentary life, NOT able to dance, eating a limited diet -- no pears, celery, string beans, popcorn, grapes, plums, cherries, apples -- green apples, one of my favorite foods!
5. I checked the USPSTF index on Osteoporosis, Arthritis, and back pain -- subjects I know a lot about -- its conclusions are not directives , they are qualified IFS.
Go with what you feel you ought to do. We're being sold an idea on top of the idea that we already bought. You can't return the old one to the store and get a refund. Your daughter can't get a refund on it, so she'll buy when she's old enough to pick out what she prefers.
Be your own doctor. And have a little laugh ...
Friday, November 20, 2009
GET IT DONE !
Do you have a list of things you want to do, but keep postponing?
I want to write my sister, JB, and find out why she hasn't written or called -- is it because she's not feeling well -- she doesn't want me to worry -- what do I say?
I want to write Anthony Shaw, the doctor who saved our son's life. (See my post "Circumcision" 11/14) -- writing my post I looked him up, and found a "death notice" in the New York Times -- his wife died last month -- it says send a donation to her foundation -- no flowers -- what can I say or do to comfort him personally?
... all this personal stuff on my mind, obscuring, diverting me from what's worrying me about all the stuff that's happening, not happening, in Congress ...
I want to send my energy, my impatience, over the Internet and into the air, into the ears of the guys who are currently advising the President, and tell them "Do it!" Say "Get it done!" Bellow "Go for it now!"
Do I email? I've typed the names -- I've read this list more than once -- I've said the names out loud --the names are familiar but who's doing what isn't ...
Attorney General: Eric H. Holder Jr.
Agriculture - Tom Vilsack
Commerce - Gary Locke
Defense - Robert M. Gates
Education - Arne Duncan
Energy - Steven Chu
Health and Human Services - Kathleen Sebelius
Homeland Security - Janet Napolitano
Housing and Urban Development - Shaun Donovan
Labor - Hilda L. Solis
Secretary of State - Hillary Rodham Clinton
Interior - Ken Salazar
Transportation - Ray LaHood
Treasury - Timothy F. Geithner
Veterans Affairs - Eric K. Shinseki
Central Intelligence Agency Director -- Leon E. Panetta
Chief of Staff -- Rahm Emanuel
National Economic Council -- Lawrence H. Summers
National Intelligence -- Dennis C. Blair
Environmental Protection Agency -- Lisa P. Jackson
National Security Adviser -- James L. Jones
Office of Management and Budget -- Peter R. Orszag
United Nations Ambassador -- Susan E. Rice
United States Trade Representative -- Ron Kirk
White House Coordinator of Energy and Climate -- Carol M. Browner
White House Press Secretary -- Robert Gibbs
Here's a cabinet meeting with these guys.
26 people feed their knowledge and research into the President's mind.
Which cabinet members do I fasten upon, and pray for, send a message to, email or phone in my imagination and say yes, go ahead -- investigate -- but don't create obstacles with your questions -- seize upon the answers, the ifs, and maybes -- and consolidate the sum total into affirmative action!
Consolidate which of Obama's ideas -- ALL -- all that fit your area of expertise! I'm not an activist, or expert in one, single area -- just a doer, one single person who's seeing what's not happening, and you and I know -- the man who does nothing makes no mistakes -- actions speak louder than words.
He's got war, health, jobs on the front burners, and environment, banks, Wall Street, real estate, mortgage loans, credit, on the back and side burners and what else -- Guantanamo, race, religion, and his life, his family -- little things gigantic things, too many for me to spell out ...
GET IT DONE! THAT'S WHAT YOU'D TELL ME!
Okay! I'll write JB, I'll write Tony -- I'm telling myself "Do it!" "Get it done!" Bellowing "Go for it now!" and launching this into the air, onto the Internet.
I want to write my sister, JB, and find out why she hasn't written or called -- is it because she's not feeling well -- she doesn't want me to worry -- what do I say?
I want to write Anthony Shaw, the doctor who saved our son's life. (See my post "Circumcision" 11/14) -- writing my post I looked him up, and found a "death notice" in the New York Times -- his wife died last month -- it says send a donation to her foundation -- no flowers -- what can I say or do to comfort him personally?
... all this personal stuff on my mind, obscuring, diverting me from what's worrying me about all the stuff that's happening, not happening, in Congress ...
I want to send my energy, my impatience, over the Internet and into the air, into the ears of the guys who are currently advising the President, and tell them "Do it!" Say "Get it done!" Bellow "Go for it now!"
Do I email? I've typed the names -- I've read this list more than once -- I've said the names out loud --the names are familiar but who's doing what isn't ...
Attorney General: Eric H. Holder Jr.
Agriculture - Tom Vilsack
Commerce - Gary Locke
Defense - Robert M. Gates
Education - Arne Duncan
Energy - Steven Chu
Health and Human Services - Kathleen Sebelius
Homeland Security - Janet Napolitano
Housing and Urban Development - Shaun Donovan
Labor - Hilda L. Solis
Secretary of State - Hillary Rodham Clinton
Interior - Ken Salazar
Transportation - Ray LaHood
Treasury - Timothy F. Geithner
Veterans Affairs - Eric K. Shinseki
Central Intelligence Agency Director -- Leon E. Panetta
Chief of Staff -- Rahm Emanuel
National Economic Council -- Lawrence H. Summers
National Intelligence -- Dennis C. Blair
Environmental Protection Agency -- Lisa P. Jackson
National Security Adviser -- James L. Jones
Office of Management and Budget -- Peter R. Orszag
United Nations Ambassador -- Susan E. Rice
United States Trade Representative -- Ron Kirk
White House Coordinator of Energy and Climate -- Carol M. Browner
White House Press Secretary -- Robert Gibbs
Here's a cabinet meeting with these guys.
26 people feed their knowledge and research into the President's mind.
Which cabinet members do I fasten upon, and pray for, send a message to, email or phone in my imagination and say yes, go ahead -- investigate -- but don't create obstacles with your questions -- seize upon the answers, the ifs, and maybes -- and consolidate the sum total into affirmative action!
Consolidate which of Obama's ideas -- ALL -- all that fit your area of expertise! I'm not an activist, or expert in one, single area -- just a doer, one single person who's seeing what's not happening, and you and I know -- the man who does nothing makes no mistakes -- actions speak louder than words.
He's got war, health, jobs on the front burners, and environment, banks, Wall Street, real estate, mortgage loans, credit, on the back and side burners and what else -- Guantanamo, race, religion, and his life, his family -- little things gigantic things, too many for me to spell out ...
GET IT DONE! THAT'S WHAT YOU'D TELL ME!
Okay! I'll write JB, I'll write Tony -- I'm telling myself "Do it!" "Get it done!" Bellowing "Go for it now!" and launching this into the air, onto the Internet.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
CIRCUMCISION ?
Here's what was said on MSNBC TV about circumcision.
You wonder and worry about giving your baby pain. Baby's pain is your pain, times a hundred, a thousand!
My baby had a huggy, blue and white polka-dot puppet. I'd make "Floppo" wriggle and jump, wave his floppy hands, kick his floppy long polka dot legs when I talked with my son, while he was under the sunlamp that we used to help heal his diaper rash.
What did I know about circumcision?
When my baby was born, he spent the first week of his life in St Vincent's Hospital in New York City, where Sister Margaretta was my life-line that connected me (at another hospital), to a name, a person I didn't know, called Tony Shaw. I knew he was the surgeon who saved my baby's life -- Sister Margaretta told me Tony breathed for him, sat next to his crib/bed, for twelve hours after the operation Tony had performed, when our newborn son's lungs collapsed.
I was at Columbus Hospital on 20th street. Our baby -- I saw him for a moment when he was born -- he was beautiful; he had a classic profile, I thought "he looks like John Gielgud," and then things blurred. I woke in a dark place -- nobody was there -- then someone said "Your baby's sick. He's at St. Vincent's Hospital on 12th street. Your husband said he'd see you after his show."
Five weeks later, when our son was living in our home, Tony asked us -- do you want your son circumcised? We shook our heads, not "yes," not "no." Unsure, I mumbled something about "no more pain."
Tony said something about babies recovering quickly, not feeling pain -- not the way adults do. Tony suggested that medically it wasn't necessary to subject the baby to any more surgery -- the pros and cons about circumcision were equal.
I grabbed onto that. I grabbed onto the idea that babies recover quickly, "not feeling pain."
By then, I had been told that our son was going to need more surgery after he weighed twenty pounds -- which he'd probably weigh when he was nine-months-old.
I learned what I had to learn, and surrounded that knowledge with iron walls.
That morning, with Floppo in my hands, I was just outside the doors of the room where they'd taken my nine-month-old baby, to do that surgery. I could hear our son's cries. It was unendurable.
The sliding doors to the operating room opened. A uniformed person (in a surgical cap and surgical slippers) said, "Doctor wants you inside. We need the baby to be still."
Inside on a table, hands and feet held by two uniformed nurses, he was yodeling, screaming, wriggling. The moment Mommy talked and Floppo danced, he was soothed, calm enough for the procedure to proceed -- and whatever needed to be fixed, after about fifteen minutes, was fixed.
Do babies feel pain?. Based on what I know, what I saw, what I experienced -- sure they do, but they can be distracted.
(Yes, and much later on, after I was injured and in pain, I learned how to distract myself as well.)
So, what do I think about circumcision? Not "yes," not "no "-- you learn what you can from sources that you trust -- you keep your eyes open, listening and learning.
Then, you go with your instinct. You have to go with your instinct.
You wonder and worry about giving your baby pain. Baby's pain is your pain, times a hundred, a thousand!
My baby had a huggy, blue and white polka-dot puppet. I'd make "Floppo" wriggle and jump, wave his floppy hands, kick his floppy long polka dot legs when I talked with my son, while he was under the sunlamp that we used to help heal his diaper rash.
What did I know about circumcision?
When my baby was born, he spent the first week of his life in St Vincent's Hospital in New York City, where Sister Margaretta was my life-line that connected me (at another hospital), to a name, a person I didn't know, called Tony Shaw. I knew he was the surgeon who saved my baby's life -- Sister Margaretta told me Tony breathed for him, sat next to his crib/bed, for twelve hours after the operation Tony had performed, when our newborn son's lungs collapsed.
I was at Columbus Hospital on 20th street. Our baby -- I saw him for a moment when he was born -- he was beautiful; he had a classic profile, I thought "he looks like John Gielgud," and then things blurred. I woke in a dark place -- nobody was there -- then someone said "Your baby's sick. He's at St. Vincent's Hospital on 12th street. Your husband said he'd see you after his show."
Five weeks later, when our son was living in our home, Tony asked us -- do you want your son circumcised? We shook our heads, not "yes," not "no." Unsure, I mumbled something about "no more pain."
Tony said something about babies recovering quickly, not feeling pain -- not the way adults do. Tony suggested that medically it wasn't necessary to subject the baby to any more surgery -- the pros and cons about circumcision were equal.
I grabbed onto that. I grabbed onto the idea that babies recover quickly, "not feeling pain."
By then, I had been told that our son was going to need more surgery after he weighed twenty pounds -- which he'd probably weigh when he was nine-months-old.
I learned what I had to learn, and surrounded that knowledge with iron walls.
That morning, with Floppo in my hands, I was just outside the doors of the room where they'd taken my nine-month-old baby, to do that surgery. I could hear our son's cries. It was unendurable.
The sliding doors to the operating room opened. A uniformed person (in a surgical cap and surgical slippers) said, "Doctor wants you inside. We need the baby to be still."
Inside on a table, hands and feet held by two uniformed nurses, he was yodeling, screaming, wriggling. The moment Mommy talked and Floppo danced, he was soothed, calm enough for the procedure to proceed -- and whatever needed to be fixed, after about fifteen minutes, was fixed.
Do babies feel pain?. Based on what I know, what I saw, what I experienced -- sure they do, but they can be distracted.
(Yes, and much later on, after I was injured and in pain, I learned how to distract myself as well.)
So, what do I think about circumcision? Not "yes," not "no "-- you learn what you can from sources that you trust -- you keep your eyes open, listening and learning.
Then, you go with your instinct. You have to go with your instinct.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
STRIPTEASE
It's a burlesque act in which a performer removes her/his clothes, piece by piece.
Andre Agassi, a tennis hero whom I've admired for years (for the way he plays, the way he looks, his wildness, marriages, and things he's blurted out) -- takes off his clothes in his autobiography, "Open," and reveals sad, unpleasant things about himself and what he achieved.
He tells us he can't live with his lies, untruths, the misconceptions about himself as a hero -- implies that the only way he can enjoy his life and what he's achieved -- is by stripping away the lies.
At first, I thought, "He's doing it to sell books, gain notoriety, and attention for himself and his projects. Then, I found myself wondering if he's trying to grow up all over again (play it again), and win -- be a hero without his daddy's dreams, his daddy's energy turning him into a winning tennis machine.
Hmm ... This guy is a grownup, and wise -- he knows what it means to be in the center court, with thousands of eyes watching his every move, judging everything he says and does. Andre Agassi was the number-one best tennis player in the world.
Well, he shopped the book in 2007, so it's been brewing for a long time -- this desire to tell the truth and put an end to the lies.
But gee ... lies have roots -- roots don't get destroyed -- even if they're dug up, they generally just spread. A naked Agassi is out there, revealed.
Hey -- what about his family -- his kids, Jared Gil (lovingly named after Agassi''s trainer, best friend, Gil Reyes), and daughter Jaz El -- how's the truthful version of Andre's life going to affect them, and his wife, Stephanie Graf?
(It's a little like the unfaithful husband, who tells his wife about some passionate love affair, after it's over. His conscience is eased -- it's over and done with for him, but not for her. Will she ever be able to trust him again? How can she forget how well he deceived, put on a act, and brilliantly lied, about that other woman?) Oh sure, time will pass, and we'll hear more about the great things Agassi's doing with his projects for young people, his foundations and schools, but the hero -- the great things we remember are ... well ... kind of messed up, out of focus now.
I
t brings to mind Elizabeth Edwards' book, "Resilience" -- our view of John and Elizabeth during the campaigns. He's out there, naked -- selfish, cruelly disloyal, sex life exposed, side-by-side with the altruistic, interesting, charitable ideas he sold us on.
Well, Elizabeth needed to express what she expressed, but they're both out there now ...
Hmm ... They may put on a devoted couple act again, but we won't believe it -- the "Loving Couple" was a lie.
What about Jenny Sanford , the wife of Governor Sanford, who droned on and on and ON about his love affair with an Argentinean lady? Jenny doesn't sound as if she's going to write a book, but publishers are seductive. With the help of a ghost writer, lots of money, and lots of sexual specifics , lots of money can be made.
Can Governor Sanford be more naked than he already is?
Hmm ... Maybe he'll resign and the Lt. Governor (whom sanctimonious Sanford loudly claims is gay) will run things, sanctimoniously affirming his masculinity. .
Madoff's mistress, Sheryl Weinstein, took off her clothes and Madoff's clothes, and her book is selling its way into bestseller-dom.
Hey, that could mean a movie ... though ... gee, would Redford want to play the part of a small man, with a small penis, who had a tepid affair with 16 years ago? Maybe Dustin Hoffman?
Hmm ... I don't think there's going to be a movie sale of "Bernie Madoff's Other Secret, Money, Bernie and Me."
Maybe Ruth Madoff will do her strip routine, and tell her story -- lawsuits are pending -- she wants to keep her two-storey penthouse -- she's lonely, alone. Everyone's dying to hear more ugly stuff about Bernie, and more-more about him suffering -- maybe another prisoner, a burly brute will beat him up! And prison sex?
I can't see Madoff being the honey-bun of some other guy ... but ... who knows?
Maybe the sons, Andrew or Mark, or niece Shana, or brother Peter, or former accountant Friehling will strip away their inhibitions? Or one of the six lawyers? Or the widow of Madoff's dearest business pal, who died in his Palm beach swimming pool -- maybe she'll take his clothes off?
I hope not.
I am sorry Agassi had to write his book.
I wish Elizabeth Edwards hadn't done hers.
It' ain't good, all this strip teasing ...
I've done it. In my dancing days, I wore naked-looking body suits, even one with yarn strategically placed that suggested private hair. NO, I wasn't really naked, but wearing those body suits ... it wasn't fun -- I covered myself with a robe whenever I was off stage.
Of course I know that these days, dancers, singers, painters, writers, plain ordinary people are showing, telling exposing themselves more and more -- you have to, I guess – the world's more crowded, more people are competing for that 15 minutes of fame.
Okay -- maybe you'll read those books, but I won't. As I get older, I'm getting more prudish. And prudent -- selective about how I spend time. Stripteasers, doing their thing, are mostly, about ninety-percent ho-hum, BORING.
Andre Agassi, a tennis hero whom I've admired for years (for the way he plays, the way he looks, his wildness, marriages, and things he's blurted out) -- takes off his clothes in his autobiography, "Open," and reveals sad, unpleasant things about himself and what he achieved.
He tells us he can't live with his lies, untruths, the misconceptions about himself as a hero -- implies that the only way he can enjoy his life and what he's achieved -- is by stripping away the lies.
At first, I thought, "He's doing it to sell books, gain notoriety, and attention for himself and his projects. Then, I found myself wondering if he's trying to grow up all over again (play it again), and win -- be a hero without his daddy's dreams, his daddy's energy turning him into a winning tennis machine.
Hmm ... This guy is a grownup, and wise -- he knows what it means to be in the center court, with thousands of eyes watching his every move, judging everything he says and does. Andre Agassi was the number-one best tennis player in the world.
Well, he shopped the book in 2007, so it's been brewing for a long time -- this desire to tell the truth and put an end to the lies.
But gee ... lies have roots -- roots don't get destroyed -- even if they're dug up, they generally just spread. A naked Agassi is out there, revealed.
Hey -- what about his family -- his kids, Jared Gil (lovingly named after Agassi''s trainer, best friend, Gil Reyes), and daughter Jaz El -- how's the truthful version of Andre's life going to affect them, and his wife, Stephanie Graf?
(It's a little like the unfaithful husband, who tells his wife about some passionate love affair, after it's over. His conscience is eased -- it's over and done with for him, but not for her. Will she ever be able to trust him again? How can she forget how well he deceived, put on a act, and brilliantly lied, about that other woman?) Oh sure, time will pass, and we'll hear more about the great things Agassi's doing with his projects for young people, his foundations and schools, but the hero -- the great things we remember are ... well ... kind of messed up, out of focus now.
I
t brings to mind Elizabeth Edwards' book, "Resilience" -- our view of John and Elizabeth during the campaigns. He's out there, naked -- selfish, cruelly disloyal, sex life exposed, side-by-side with the altruistic, interesting, charitable ideas he sold us on.Well, Elizabeth needed to express what she expressed, but they're both out there now ...
Hmm ... They may put on a devoted couple act again, but we won't believe it -- the "Loving Couple" was a lie.
What about Jenny Sanford , the wife of Governor Sanford, who droned on and on and ON about his love affair with an Argentinean lady? Jenny doesn't sound as if she's going to write a book, but publishers are seductive. With the help of a ghost writer, lots of money, and lots of sexual specifics , lots of money can be made.
Can Governor Sanford be more naked than he already is?
Hmm ... Maybe he'll resign and the Lt. Governor (whom sanctimonious Sanford loudly claims is gay) will run things, sanctimoniously affirming his masculinity. .
Madoff's mistress, Sheryl Weinstein, took off her clothes and Madoff's clothes, and her book is selling its way into bestseller-dom.
Hey, that could mean a movie ... though ... gee, would Redford want to play the part of a small man, with a small penis, who had a tepid affair with 16 years ago? Maybe Dustin Hoffman?
Hmm ... I don't think there's going to be a movie sale of "Bernie Madoff's Other Secret, Money, Bernie and Me."
Maybe Ruth Madoff will do her strip routine, and tell her story -- lawsuits are pending -- she wants to keep her two-storey penthouse -- she's lonely, alone. Everyone's dying to hear more ugly stuff about Bernie, and more-more about him suffering -- maybe another prisoner, a burly brute will beat him up! And prison sex?
I can't see Madoff being the honey-bun of some other guy ... but ... who knows?
Maybe the sons, Andrew or Mark, or niece Shana, or brother Peter, or former accountant Friehling will strip away their inhibitions? Or one of the six lawyers? Or the widow of Madoff's dearest business pal, who died in his Palm beach swimming pool -- maybe she'll take his clothes off?
I hope not.
I am sorry Agassi had to write his book.
I wish Elizabeth Edwards hadn't done hers.
It' ain't good, all this strip teasing ...
I've done it. In my dancing days, I wore naked-looking body suits, even one with yarn strategically placed that suggested private hair. NO, I wasn't really naked, but wearing those body suits ... it wasn't fun -- I covered myself with a robe whenever I was off stage.
Of course I know that these days, dancers, singers, painters, writers, plain ordinary people are showing, telling exposing themselves more and more -- you have to, I guess – the world's more crowded, more people are competing for that 15 minutes of fame.
Okay -- maybe you'll read those books, but I won't. As I get older, I'm getting more prudish. And prudent -- selective about how I spend time. Stripteasers, doing their thing, are mostly, about ninety-percent ho-hum, BORING.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
SANITARY HELLO'S
Time Magazine reports that sports doctors are questioning the palm-to-palm tradition. They feel any shaking of hands is increasing the risk of getting the swine flu.
I'm not a sports fan. JC is. So I watch sometimes to gain "wife points"-- conversing about things that interest him, celebrating with him when his team wins.
Players in professional leagues, as well as high schools have contracted the virus. Medical advisors are suggesting fist-bumping, or just nodding at your opponent, saying "nice game."
Nice idea but I'm not sure verbal utterances will work -- in their dugouts, their locker rooms, they, sweat, cough, and on the field they do a lot of nose to nose, inhaling, exhaling -- serious heavy breathing. And spitting -- spitting and chewing -- a bulging cheek seems to be a baseball tradition.
The Time article notes that NBA players are washing their hands more often and sharing fewer towels. Maybe because wives and girlfriends are nagging -- and maybe, just maybe, a new tradition has been born.)
Summer of 2008, in St. Paul, Minnesota, before Obama went on to accept the nomination,
Michelle Obama daintily knocked knuckles with her husband.
Eye-brows were raised. It's a hand gesture that's associated with beer commercials, and the seventies "Superhero" cartoon (I didn't read comics back then, so I looked it up) -- the "Superfriends" touched knuckles and cried, "Wonder Twin Powers, activate!" before they morphed into animals or ice sculptures.
I also learned that in 1970, NBA players on the Baltimore Bullets occasionally bumped fists. And Michael Jordan fist-bumped sometimes in the 90's. But it wasn't really noted till the television show, Deal or No Deal, started in 2005. The host, Howie Mandel (a "germophobic," he admitted during a show), adopted the gesture as a friendly way to avoid his contestants' germs.
Anyway, MILLIONS of people saw the Obamas bumping knuckles. The Washington Post called it "the fist bump heard 'round the world."
The words used to describe fist-bumping are varied -- the New York Times described it as a "closed-fisted high-five." Others called it "the fist bump of hope." the power five," "fist pound," "knuckle bump," "Quarter Pounder" and "dap."
So is it IN? (I can't picture myself first-bumping anyone.)
I never high-fived anyone, even back in the fifties when low and high-fives were used by athletes for celebrating teamwork and triumph. (See my 9/11 post, "Hi Fives.")
I do remember in the nineties, when we were seeing headlines about Magic Johnson and AIDS -- how ultra cautious everyone got about injuries, and their gay friends. No one shook hands; show biz folks did air kisses -- no mouth kisses, no hugging.
Well, nowadays, among Generation X parents and their kids, there's a cellphone salute -- you can high-five on your cell phone (slap the speakers), or you and the caller can simultaneously type "5."
Hmm ...
Maybe we need to invent a code to symbolize the bump -- @@@'s? Or maybe a click of the tongue? Some sort of boop-boop-be-doop sound might do it.
I like what Obama said about the fist bump -- "It captures what I love about my wife," he explained to NBC's Brian Williams. "That for all the hoopla, I'm her husband, and sometimes we'll do silly things."
Ah ha -- "Silly thing" plan formulating: Since our National High-Five Day is the third Thursday in April every year, maybe we should make Thanksgiving the day on the calendar for making the fist bump, official.
I'm not a sports fan. JC is. So I watch sometimes to gain "wife points"-- conversing about things that interest him, celebrating with him when his team wins.
Players in professional leagues, as well as high schools have contracted the virus. Medical advisors are suggesting fist-bumping, or just nodding at your opponent, saying "nice game."
Nice idea but I'm not sure verbal utterances will work -- in their dugouts, their locker rooms, they, sweat, cough, and on the field they do a lot of nose to nose, inhaling, exhaling -- serious heavy breathing. And spitting -- spitting and chewing -- a bulging cheek seems to be a baseball tradition.
The Time article notes that NBA players are washing their hands more often and sharing fewer towels. Maybe because wives and girlfriends are nagging -- and maybe, just maybe, a new tradition has been born.)
Summer of 2008, in St. Paul, Minnesota, before Obama went on to accept the nomination,
Michelle Obama daintily knocked knuckles with her husband.Eye-brows were raised. It's a hand gesture that's associated with beer commercials, and the seventies "Superhero" cartoon (I didn't read comics back then, so I looked it up) -- the "Superfriends" touched knuckles and cried, "Wonder Twin Powers, activate!" before they morphed into animals or ice sculptures.
I also learned that in 1970, NBA players on the Baltimore Bullets occasionally bumped fists. And Michael Jordan fist-bumped sometimes in the 90's. But it wasn't really noted till the television show, Deal or No Deal, started in 2005. The host, Howie Mandel (a "germophobic," he admitted during a show), adopted the gesture as a friendly way to avoid his contestants' germs.
Anyway, MILLIONS of people saw the Obamas bumping knuckles. The Washington Post called it "the fist bump heard 'round the world."
The words used to describe fist-bumping are varied -- the New York Times described it as a "closed-fisted high-five." Others called it "the fist bump of hope." the power five," "fist pound," "knuckle bump," "Quarter Pounder" and "dap."
So is it IN? (I can't picture myself first-bumping anyone.)
I never high-fived anyone, even back in the fifties when low and high-fives were used by athletes for celebrating teamwork and triumph. (See my 9/11 post, "Hi Fives.")
I do remember in the nineties, when we were seeing headlines about Magic Johnson and AIDS -- how ultra cautious everyone got about injuries, and their gay friends. No one shook hands; show biz folks did air kisses -- no mouth kisses, no hugging.
Well, nowadays, among Generation X parents and their kids, there's a cellphone salute -- you can high-five on your cell phone (slap the speakers), or you and the caller can simultaneously type "5."
Hmm ...
Maybe we need to invent a code to symbolize the bump -- @@@'s? Or maybe a click of the tongue? Some sort of boop-boop-be-doop sound might do it.
I like what Obama said about the fist bump -- "It captures what I love about my wife," he explained to NBC's Brian Williams. "That for all the hoopla, I'm her husband, and sometimes we'll do silly things."
Ah ha -- "Silly thing" plan formulating: Since our National High-Five Day is the third Thursday in April every year, maybe we should make Thanksgiving the day on the calendar for making the fist bump, official.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ....
I wondered about Reggie Jackson, when we were watching the World Series. We saw Reggie briefly during the final game that the Yankees won.
After a fantastic career, he lives in the idyllically beautiful city of Carmel in California -- he's in baseball's Hall of Fame, and continues to be a special advisor to the Yankees. Yep, he's older, but he's still a big name -- Reggie's doing okay. And that made me wonder ...
What about Adam Lambert? He's an astoundingly talented, good-looking 27-year-old singer-dancer, who almost became, probably should have become, the American Idol of 2009.
I'm not a baseball fan, or a pop music fan -- but, having been a performer, married to a well- known actor, (and we have an actor son), it's natural for me to wonder how Adam Lambert's doing these days?
Even when Adam lost, he was gracious. And why not? Because of his performances on Idol, he already had a record contract, and agents, managers waiting to handle him.
Have a look -- I can't help wondering what will happen to the marvelous confidence, the full-out energy of a socko performer like Adam Lambert?
Throughout the Idol shows leading up to the finale, Adam's singing soared, hit the top of the tip-top of the power meter -- there wasn't one, but that's what his bearing, his dancing, his final note at the end of his number, felt like to me. BUT ...
He seemed to go beyond performing, into a personal display of himself sexually. His smile, his half-closed eyes, the feeling he projected was huge -- and too much.
I've listened to him and watched him, and looked at other clips on YouTube. His voice, his vocal rendition of each song, his dance movements were far better than any other performer I've seen on any Idol show. But when Adam is singing and gyrating, he seems to be enjoying himself in a sexual personal trance.
(I couldn't help thinking -- he's like a stripper, a guy selling himself to customers for sex. And the makeup he was wearing -- was it eye liner, eye shadow, plus mascara? And his tight pants, all that jewelry -- is he gay?")
It doesn't matter. He was stunning. He got huge ovations, and generated enormous excitement every time he sang. Maybe the producers, the judges, or the director got confused by the audiences adulation and didn't want to interfere with his performances. But I think Adam Lambert would have won if some had told him "You're working too hard. Less is more."
Shortly after that final show, Lambert confirmed that he was homosexual in a Rolling Stone cover story interview.
Right now Adam Lambert's working -- he's on an Idol tour. He's got an album coming out. He obviously has a manager, promoter, and press agent. Will we hear more, and see more and more of this guy?
Probably yes; maybe for a while. . But I think the event that's launched him will send him in a wrong direction. His openness about his homosexuality, combined with the "too much, too intense " feeling you get as he's singing, will send him ... Where?
Porn? A sexy role in a film? Maybe, but probably not the leading man "love interest." And then, maybe other offers will take him into producing, agenting, or performing in night clubs for a few years? Maybe he'll buy a club, and be the star, performing in his own cabaret?
What would I advise the talented Adam Lambert to do?
A few years ago, when I was rehearsing an up-and-coming dance group, teaching six of their dancers my "Haunted Moments" choreography, I didn't hire "Marge" who was dancing with them.
Her feelings were hurt. She asked me why, so I told her. (Marge was chunky, stocky-looking -- there was nothing exciting or compelling to watch when she was dancing.) I said, "It's your weight. You're not fat -- your weight is natural and right for your body." Knowing that she played the guitar, I added, "You might be successful as a folk singer, but not as a dancer."
Whew -- she hates me -- hated me for years and maybe even now, Marge refers to me as the person who "ruined her life."
Would I tell Adam Lambert to quit?
I'd say "Change your look -- your clothes, your makeup, for a while. And try doing LESS -- go for simplicity. Your voice and handsomeness needs no embellishments. Find a night club -- perform there and build a fan base like Bette Midler did. Don't let yourself be labeled as a gay or straight performer! You're unique -- be what you are!"
In my dancing days -- when I was straining my feet and turnout in an effort to look like a ballerina -- oh my, I wish someone had told me that.
After a fantastic career, he lives in the idyllically beautiful city of Carmel in California -- he's in baseball's Hall of Fame, and continues to be a special advisor to the Yankees. Yep, he's older, but he's still a big name -- Reggie's doing okay. And that made me wonder ...
What about Adam Lambert? He's an astoundingly talented, good-looking 27-year-old singer-dancer, who almost became, probably should have become, the American Idol of 2009.
I'm not a baseball fan, or a pop music fan -- but, having been a performer, married to a well- known actor, (and we have an actor son), it's natural for me to wonder how Adam Lambert's doing these days?
Even when Adam lost, he was gracious. And why not? Because of his performances on Idol, he already had a record contract, and agents, managers waiting to handle him.
Have a look -- I can't help wondering what will happen to the marvelous confidence, the full-out energy of a socko performer like Adam Lambert?
Throughout the Idol shows leading up to the finale, Adam's singing soared, hit the top of the tip-top of the power meter -- there wasn't one, but that's what his bearing, his dancing, his final note at the end of his number, felt like to me. BUT ...
He seemed to go beyond performing, into a personal display of himself sexually. His smile, his half-closed eyes, the feeling he projected was huge -- and too much.
I've listened to him and watched him, and looked at other clips on YouTube. His voice, his vocal rendition of each song, his dance movements were far better than any other performer I've seen on any Idol show. But when Adam is singing and gyrating, he seems to be enjoying himself in a sexual personal trance.
(I couldn't help thinking -- he's like a stripper, a guy selling himself to customers for sex. And the makeup he was wearing -- was it eye liner, eye shadow, plus mascara? And his tight pants, all that jewelry -- is he gay?")
It doesn't matter. He was stunning. He got huge ovations, and generated enormous excitement every time he sang. Maybe the producers, the judges, or the director got confused by the audiences adulation and didn't want to interfere with his performances. But I think Adam Lambert would have won if some had told him "You're working too hard. Less is more."
Shortly after that final show, Lambert confirmed that he was homosexual in a Rolling Stone cover story interview.
Right now Adam Lambert's working -- he's on an Idol tour. He's got an album coming out. He obviously has a manager, promoter, and press agent. Will we hear more, and see more and more of this guy?
Probably yes; maybe for a while. . But I think the event that's launched him will send him in a wrong direction. His openness about his homosexuality, combined with the "too much, too intense " feeling you get as he's singing, will send him ... Where?
Porn? A sexy role in a film? Maybe, but probably not the leading man "love interest." And then, maybe other offers will take him into producing, agenting, or performing in night clubs for a few years? Maybe he'll buy a club, and be the star, performing in his own cabaret?
What would I advise the talented Adam Lambert to do?
A few years ago, when I was rehearsing an up-and-coming dance group, teaching six of their dancers my "Haunted Moments" choreography, I didn't hire "Marge" who was dancing with them.
Her feelings were hurt. She asked me why, so I told her. (Marge was chunky, stocky-looking -- there was nothing exciting or compelling to watch when she was dancing.) I said, "It's your weight. You're not fat -- your weight is natural and right for your body." Knowing that she played the guitar, I added, "You might be successful as a folk singer, but not as a dancer."
Whew -- she hates me -- hated me for years and maybe even now, Marge refers to me as the person who "ruined her life."
Would I tell Adam Lambert to quit?
I'd say "Change your look -- your clothes, your makeup, for a while. And try doing LESS -- go for simplicity. Your voice and handsomeness needs no embellishments. Find a night club -- perform there and build a fan base like Bette Midler did. Don't let yourself be labeled as a gay or straight performer! You're unique -- be what you are!"
In my dancing days -- when I was straining my feet and turnout in an effort to look like a ballerina -- oh my, I wish someone had told me that.
Friday, October 30, 2009
UNREAL REALITY
CLICK ... I bypass realIty shows, as fast as I can. "Big Brother." It gets the Em award for being the #1 INTOLERABLE SHOW.
The cast are not people with whom I can identify. The young men and woman the producers pick, ( after many auditions, interviews, sessions with psychiatrists, practice group sessions) -- all them seem unpleasantly ignorant, egotistic, unusually self aware.
And the show's host, Julie, a good-looking, smoothly articulate, P.R. person, has a condescending air. She seems amused by the cast members. Her confident, know-it-all manner emphasizes the naivete, the banality of the contestants. Take a listen/look:
The fact is, aside from night vision camera's shots of various couples under-the-sheets and their sometimes private, often public romancing which Julie calls, "sho-mance," I am bored. I'm not rooting for any of them, and I don't care who stays, or goes, or wins. And Julie ... I find her seriously irritating.
CLICK CLICK "Survivor" is Em's # 2 INTOLERABLE show .
Simple, average Americans, 16 to 20 people, get abandoned in some of the most unforgiving places in the world. They're separated into two teams. Each team competes for cash and prizes. At their tribal council meetings, the contestants vote off other tribe members until only one final contestant remains and wins the title of "Sole Survivor."
I can't watch it.
The primitive living conditions -- the tricky, ridiculous, sometimes dangerous contests the participants must win -- the way tribe members meet and vote to eliminate each other -- I can't buy into the suspense that's created. Though the non-actors convey their terror, anger, confusion, exhaustion, I know it isn't really the life and death situation the script and filmed action implies. (There's obviously cameramen, and a TV tech crew lurking in the bushes.)
The cast is a bunch of typical but slightly odd-ball guys and gals, who might get together sexually. But as their eating, sleeping, sanitation, and toilet things are revealed, mostly I'm thinking "Boy, I'm glad I'm not there."
CLICK CLICK CLICK . "Amazing Race" is # 3. I just avoid it. It's four to six couples or families vying for first place in a race that takes them to exotic places and forces them to work together. The press releases call it the ultimate scavenger hunt but gee ... well, maybe people who love to travel love it. I watched a section of a segment and tuned away.
# 1 TOLERABLE "America's Got Talent. "Idol" is okay -- the judges are more interesting than the talent. I can't watch "Dancing with the Stars," and "So You think You Can Dance." Great dancers are used as partners, the choreography is "super wow-wow" (Em phrase for flashy stuff), packed with acrobatic contortions that don't impress me at all so I don't watch. But Randy Jackson's "Dance Crew" is fun -- each crew with its marvelously complicated, unison brings back memories of rehearsal days that are -- thank God -- gone -- never again to be endured.
# 2 TOLERABLE --"The Biggest Loser." It's interesting, but depressing. The trainers and hosts are likeable, down to earth, and real. The grossly overweight bodies, the passionate commitment of the participants -- it's definitely worth seeing once -- but I've never bothered to see it a second time.
Yes, new "RealIty" shows are being cooked up by the guys who concocted the current hits. Untrained actors, unrecognizable faces, folks just being themselves, who are paid (and happy) with what they'd earn if they were on jury duty -- you can't beat it!
I worry about actors. It's sending them to the unemployment lines.
I worry about us.
We're already watching forensics, death, ER disasters, autopsies -- what's next? I can't think of anything dreadful that we haven't seen , but those creative guys -- they'll think of something new, worse, more shocking, double-triple unbearably awful!
Well ... I guess I'll head for my Baker's rack where all the mysteries by Parker, Elmore Leonard, Turrow and DeMille sit, and start re-reading again. Glasses on, holding a paper-back -- that's a reality, chock-full of tricky, complicated suspenseful stuff I'll enjoy.
The cast are not people with whom I can identify. The young men and woman the producers pick, ( after many auditions, interviews, sessions with psychiatrists, practice group sessions) -- all them seem unpleasantly ignorant, egotistic, unusually self aware.
And the show's host, Julie, a good-looking, smoothly articulate, P.R. person, has a condescending air. She seems amused by the cast members. Her confident, know-it-all manner emphasizes the naivete, the banality of the contestants. Take a listen/look:
The fact is, aside from night vision camera's shots of various couples under-the-sheets and their sometimes private, often public romancing which Julie calls, "sho-mance," I am bored. I'm not rooting for any of them, and I don't care who stays, or goes, or wins. And Julie ... I find her seriously irritating.
CLICK CLICK "Survivor" is Em's # 2 INTOLERABLE show .
Simple, average Americans, 16 to 20 people, get abandoned in some of the most unforgiving places in the world. They're separated into two teams. Each team competes for cash and prizes. At their tribal council meetings, the contestants vote off other tribe members until only one final contestant remains and wins the title of "Sole Survivor."
I can't watch it.
The primitive living conditions -- the tricky, ridiculous, sometimes dangerous contests the participants must win -- the way tribe members meet and vote to eliminate each other -- I can't buy into the suspense that's created. Though the non-actors convey their terror, anger, confusion, exhaustion, I know it isn't really the life and death situation the script and filmed action implies. (There's obviously cameramen, and a TV tech crew lurking in the bushes.)
The cast is a bunch of typical but slightly odd-ball guys and gals, who might get together sexually. But as their eating, sleeping, sanitation, and toilet things are revealed, mostly I'm thinking "Boy, I'm glad I'm not there."
CLICK CLICK CLICK . "Amazing Race" is # 3. I just avoid it. It's four to six couples or families vying for first place in a race that takes them to exotic places and forces them to work together. The press releases call it the ultimate scavenger hunt but gee ... well, maybe people who love to travel love it. I watched a section of a segment and tuned away.
# 1 TOLERABLE "America's Got Talent. "Idol" is okay -- the judges are more interesting than the talent. I can't watch "Dancing with the Stars," and "So You think You Can Dance." Great dancers are used as partners, the choreography is "super wow-wow" (Em phrase for flashy stuff), packed with acrobatic contortions that don't impress me at all so I don't watch. But Randy Jackson's "Dance Crew" is fun -- each crew with its marvelously complicated, unison brings back memories of rehearsal days that are -- thank God -- gone -- never again to be endured.
# 2 TOLERABLE --"The Biggest Loser." It's interesting, but depressing. The trainers and hosts are likeable, down to earth, and real. The grossly overweight bodies, the passionate commitment of the participants -- it's definitely worth seeing once -- but I've never bothered to see it a second time.
Yes, new "RealIty" shows are being cooked up by the guys who concocted the current hits. Untrained actors, unrecognizable faces, folks just being themselves, who are paid (and happy) with what they'd earn if they were on jury duty -- you can't beat it!
I worry about actors. It's sending them to the unemployment lines.
I worry about us.
We're already watching forensics, death, ER disasters, autopsies -- what's next? I can't think of anything dreadful that we haven't seen , but those creative guys -- they'll think of something new, worse, more shocking, double-triple unbearably awful!
Well ... I guess I'll head for my Baker's rack where all the mysteries by Parker, Elmore Leonard, Turrow and DeMille sit, and start re-reading again. Glasses on, holding a paper-back -- that's a reality, chock-full of tricky, complicated suspenseful stuff I'll enjoy.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
DIET NUTTINESS
Behold on the left, the proud-headed, skinny Em -- when that picture was taken, I was on tour with Mark Ryder, doing those 88 one-night-stands that are described on the right side of this blog.
I was eating cottage cheese. Cottage cheese with fresh fruit, if I could find fruit in a local supermarket, or cottage cheese with vegetables -- brussel sprouts, cabbage or carrots. Occasionally I'd buy a small size can of fruit, borrow our stage manager's s can opener, and enjoy cottage with canned fruit.
I had a calorie book and a carbohydrate book. I had a ledger and marked down everything I ate as well as my tax deductible expenses for food, hotel, tips, and miscellaneous (paperback novels I read when I wasn't typing notes on the previous night's war with Mark during "Romeo and Juliet.")
I weighed somewhere between 110 and 112. I was 5.4. In high school, when I weighed 116, it didn't occur to me that I would need to lose weight. But as I achieved my goal as a dancer, observing other dancers (competing with them), I knew I needed to slim down.
Modern dancers weren't usually skinny -- they were fairly normal looking. In technique classes, like most of the students, I wore a leotard top, and a half circle, knee-length skirt with slit so that glimpses of my naked legs could be seen, but NOT the entire leg.
Of course I went to the ballet. Balanchine's ballet girls were generally will-o-wisps -- gorgeous nymphs, sylphs with "key-hole crotches" (my term for what it looked like when their thighs were so thin that the sides of the thighs never touched).
Nevertheless, my eyes told me (like they tell fashion designers) that curves, cleavage were for attracting the opposite sex -- that a thin body, childlike slenderness, was perfection.
Why was I, a ballet-trained, modern dancer so concerned? Because John Martin, the New York Times critic told us in a face-to-face discussion, (Mark and I were talking to him about our future and he was giving us father-like advice ) -- "You are young and good-looking -- take off your clothes, show your bodies."
And that's what I did. I began wearing chiffons, not silk jersey like Martha Graham. And shorter, then shorter skirts -- then no skirt, just body suits with gauze, transparent little frills here and there.
I never ate desserts. I didn't eat sandwiches. The first time, and only time I had a McDonald's hamburger was in Phoenix, Arizona. (Everything was closed, and I was starving. I didn't think it was wonderful, and couldn't understand why people loved them.)
When I was bloated, I took a diuretic. I tried fasting, but it made me too weak. I tried diet pills -- if the pill contained caffeine, it helped me eat less. I weighed myself every day at least once, sucking in my stomach whenever I glimpsed myself in a mirror. I had a much better day when my weight was below 110.
A car crash on the Indianapolis highway broke my back, and gave me a new body. I am now 5.3 (lost an inch of spine). My drastically shortened small intestine (you have 36 feet, I have 3 feet), means that I can eat all I want -- 3000 to 4000 calories a day, and still be hungry, still not gain weight. I weigh between 103 and 105.
Early on, my lack of energy was incapacitating. (I was in and out of the bathroom many times a day.) After a year of therapy, when I got back to taking classes, I brought a thermos of Ginseng tea, and needed to take a sip a few times during a 90 minute class. People with a short bowel are often on pep pills, mostly lead sedentary lives.
My energy problem was a problem. I consulted Dr. Robert Atkins (yes, the famous diet doctor). He helped me with vitamins (and got too fascinated with my case and my legs), but the Atkins diet made me weaker. And he himself admitted, that in order for his diet to work, you had to eat no more than 1500 calories a day.
I think I've learned to get energy from my mental processes (plus coffee and a peanut butter cup). I think in many respects my accident was lucky, not a disaster -- imagine being able to eat everything you want. (I've tried apple pies and cakes with ice cream; banana splits, cheeseburgers, French fries -- (I love French fries). I can't absorb fats, so I don't gain weight.
So what's this story about ? How dare I write about dieting?
It's about being brain-washed. It's a confession telling anyone who reads this, that I'm caught, like many of us are caught, with an image of feminine beauty, which defeats strength.
I look at that picture of skinny me, and am aware that my focusing on my weight was an enormously ridiculous, time-wasting, emotionally-defeating focus.
Since I'm happy being skinny, even though it makes me less attractive, I'm letting you weigh me (like the scale) and see what a silly, sad, thing this is. And realize that wise Dr. Em, for all her life experience is ...
Not smart, just plain dumb about this.
P.S. I still eat an awful lot of cottage cheese.
Monday, October 26, 2009
SNOWED IN BY SNOWE
That teacherish, lean, mean look on Snowe's face ... I find myself wondering if she is the good witch or the bad one.
While I'm thinking about OZ, witches who did magical things, other guys are saying she's the Brett Favre of the political world.
Favre's a quarterback who's won -- you name it -- all the most this, the most that football awards, and suddenly retired -- suddenly came back, won more, retired again, and now he's playing again. This man is a winner who knows how to play ball and he's got everyone -- all the coaches, teams and fans -- wondering what he'll do next.
Sen. Olympia Snowe, Republican of Maine, definitely has everyone wondering what she'll say or do next.
Her vote unlocked a deadlock. She did something good, important for Health Care. Her vote, as the one and only Republican who's supported Obama's bill, could open the door for other Republicans who want to support the bill.
She's said that Obama's bill is a good place to start.
(Wait a minute ... "to start?" A lot of work, negotiations, revisions have been done already on the bill.)
And she's let it be known -- that she has reservations. -- that her vote, making her the only Republican to vote with the Democrats, does not forecast what her vote may be tomorrow.
Is Snowe another Palin? The fast-talking, down-to-earth, peppy Sarah tossing off remarks that suggest that what she stands for is the opposite of progress -- she scares me.
Olympia scares me.
Yes, she helped Obama, but she keeps stressing her "if"s, her "maybe nots," especially when it comes to the "private option" that many people seem to want.
There's something righteous, unbending, stiffly closed-minded about the woman.
And Snowe has mentioned "filibuster" more than once.
My first impression, when I meet someone, isn't always right -- their tone of voice, posture, facial expression, focus of their eyes -- I get stuck sometimes, in a wrong sense of friend or foe. But this lady from Maine, orphaned at an early age, widowed, then wife of the governor, the state of Maine's First Lady -- no matter what I read about her many good deeds -- I think Senator Olympia Snowe is NOT the good witch.
Is she going to turn into the Wicked Witch? I hope not.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
FORGETTING
My friend said, "Ooo, I had a senior moment! "
I laughed appropriately, but I didn't feel like laughing. This friend was twenty years younger than I. We were having a mile-a-minute conversation about books, trends, publishers -- name dropping names, and numbers -- how much so-and-so was paid for such-and-such a book.
I wanted to get out of her office, get back to my house, my place, my world where I don't deal with "senior" anything.
When I lose a name, I say -- whatshername -- and just breeze on. When I was talking to another friend (quite some time ago but I remember the conversation), I couldn't remember the name of the tiny machine you carry if you're an accountant -- "calculator."
That was the day I started a file called "Verbee," and began putting down words and names I forgot.
I've had trouble remembered Robin Williams' name, Anthony Hopkins' and actor Len Cariou. "Paparazzi" comes and goes ... Also: "boeuf bourguignon. poinsettia, c'mon, dilemma, George Wallace, Lee Strasberg," etcetera.
I'm not going to type out all the words on the Verbee list -- like "paraplegic" (typing it just now, I had to check the spelling twice).
And spelling -- I lose the ability to choose between lose (loose), choose (chose). My blog coach Fran has to proofread each blog I write, because I often misspell words, even common ordinary ones.
And computer processes. -- two months ago I could open the "Neo Office" program on our Mac computer -- we used it for the sound effects last year, when we did a staged reading of "Shattering Panes." Yesterday ... duh ... I forgot how to open, retrieve and use Neo Office.
Okay -- but on THIS computer, my pal, my friend whom I meet with every day and use as my writing tool -- I certainly haven't forgotten any processes. I can do anything and everything I need to do, and MORE.
So, are my lapses -- spelling, names, words -- memory lapses? Or are they OVERLOAD?
Reality: Our new stove has burners that turn on differently. And our new window frames keep us warmer so I've been re-programming our thermostat daily. Also, the computer situation is s crazy -- two new ones plus the three computers I'm using -- I'm running back-and-forth, doing this-and-that on five different operating systems. Plus I'm writing seven blog stories each week -- each with a different subject, different research.
Golly, all that, plus the barrage of new things surrounding me -- got a bunch of new cleaning supplies, two floors with different sweepers and dust-busters, and let's not forget our cell phone applications, the digital camera pictures I download/upload on the computer, and the very latest news, the nonstop ads -- all the stuff I'm being sold, or told is different, is better, while I'm simultaneously warned that it's dangerous,"beware," "do not use."
Dr. Em says: "Forgetting is not something you ought to be regretting."
I'm thinking that NOT REMEMBERING, is my brain, my body, maintaining its equilibrium.
I laughed appropriately, but I didn't feel like laughing. This friend was twenty years younger than I. We were having a mile-a-minute conversation about books, trends, publishers -- name dropping names, and numbers -- how much so-and-so was paid for such-and-such a book.
I wanted to get out of her office, get back to my house, my place, my world where I don't deal with "senior" anything.
When I lose a name, I say -- whatshername -- and just breeze on. When I was talking to another friend (quite some time ago but I remember the conversation), I couldn't remember the name of the tiny machine you carry if you're an accountant -- "calculator."
That was the day I started a file called "Verbee," and began putting down words and names I forgot.
I've had trouble remembered Robin Williams' name, Anthony Hopkins' and actor Len Cariou. "Paparazzi" comes and goes ... Also: "boeuf bourguignon. poinsettia, c'mon, dilemma, George Wallace, Lee Strasberg," etcetera.I'm not going to type out all the words on the Verbee list -- like "paraplegic" (typing it just now, I had to check the spelling twice).
And spelling -- I lose the ability to choose between lose (loose), choose (chose). My blog coach Fran has to proofread each blog I write, because I often misspell words, even common ordinary ones.
And computer processes. -- two months ago I could open the "Neo Office" program on our Mac computer -- we used it for the sound effects last year, when we did a staged reading of "Shattering Panes." Yesterday ... duh ... I forgot how to open, retrieve and use Neo Office.
Okay -- but on THIS computer, my pal, my friend whom I meet with every day and use as my writing tool -- I certainly haven't forgotten any processes. I can do anything and everything I need to do, and MORE.
So, are my lapses -- spelling, names, words -- memory lapses? Or are they OVERLOAD?
Reality: Our new stove has burners that turn on differently. And our new window frames keep us warmer so I've been re-programming our thermostat daily. Also, the computer situation is s crazy -- two new ones plus the three computers I'm using -- I'm running back-and-forth, doing this-and-that on five different operating systems. Plus I'm writing seven blog stories each week -- each with a different subject, different research.
Golly, all that, plus the barrage of new things surrounding me -- got a bunch of new cleaning supplies, two floors with different sweepers and dust-busters, and let's not forget our cell phone applications, the digital camera pictures I download/upload on the computer, and the very latest news, the nonstop ads -- all the stuff I'm being sold, or told is different, is better, while I'm simultaneously warned that it's dangerous,"beware," "do not use."
Dr. Em says: "Forgetting is not something you ought to be regretting."
I'm thinking that NOT REMEMBERING, is my brain, my body, maintaining its equilibrium.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
PROMENADE
What's new on my schedule?
A walk first thing in the morning -- a stand straight, stand tall, head-high, stroll around my studio.
With JC.
We laugh, take hands and stroll (separately, if he gets up later than I do). But when he comes downstairs to his office, we take our promenade together.
Back in June I wrote "S S S"( a blog on 6/13, about sitting, standing straight). I was taking a good hard look at myself. After eight hours at my computer (sometimes more), I couldn't help noticing that I was slumping. Even after the hour that I devote to my barre/dance/exercise, my posture wasn't great. My chin wasn't high, my neck was tilted forward -- I looked tired.
Awareness of this galvanized me. . When I check (I don't like to check myself in the mirror too often) I do look better.
I WANT MORE.
I want an even taller, straighter, head high posture. I want that posture automatic, something I don't have to think about.
JC loves my quirky routines. Right now, he's in an actor's limbo -- offers on the table, scripts to read, possibilities but nothing definite. It's a little demoralizing -- each day he has to figure out what to focus on. As for "Em," having decided that Em is a columnist (see "Candy Jar," 9/23), not just a blogger among tweeters and bloggers, I'm doing okay as a writer.
Since we don't work to make money (never have) -- he works, I work to grow, learn, taste, experience something new -- we both need to tend to "morale."
The promenade helps. It's not an important exercise. It doesn't stretch our legs, or get even a small sweat going.
The path we travel is easy -- 15 feet down the inside hall to the entrance doors, , 30 feet from the doors to the other end of the studio where the big loudspeaker sits.
Then, holding hands, we square the corner -- it's just 25 feet from speaker to the skinny mirror. As we're approach it, we see the slender couple in the mirror and admire ourselves. We look ... well ... nice, handsome, sprightly, youngish, not at all thickset, mature.
We proceed 30 feet along the mirrored wall to the audience seats. After we square the corner, it's just 18 feet back to the hall.
He goes to his office, I go to mine.
Our promenade sets a mood -- exterior and interior, and somehow, once we get that tall, confident, head high feeling, we're able to sustain it -- almost throughout the day.
If I start to sag, or he does -- he'll call to me, or I'll call to him across the hall, and we do another walk-around.
A walk first thing in the morning -- a stand straight, stand tall, head-high, stroll around my studio.
With JC.
We laugh, take hands and stroll (separately, if he gets up later than I do). But when he comes downstairs to his office, we take our promenade together.
Back in June I wrote "S S S"( a blog on 6/13, about sitting, standing straight). I was taking a good hard look at myself. After eight hours at my computer (sometimes more), I couldn't help noticing that I was slumping. Even after the hour that I devote to my barre/dance/exercise, my posture wasn't great. My chin wasn't high, my neck was tilted forward -- I looked tired.Awareness of this galvanized me. . When I check (I don't like to check myself in the mirror too often) I do look better.
I WANT MORE.
I want an even taller, straighter, head high posture. I want that posture automatic, something I don't have to think about.
JC loves my quirky routines. Right now, he's in an actor's limbo -- offers on the table, scripts to read, possibilities but nothing definite. It's a little demoralizing -- each day he has to figure out what to focus on. As for "Em," having decided that Em is a columnist (see "Candy Jar," 9/23), not just a blogger among tweeters and bloggers, I'm doing okay as a writer.
Since we don't work to make money (never have) -- he works, I work to grow, learn, taste, experience something new -- we both need to tend to "morale."
The promenade helps. It's not an important exercise. It doesn't stretch our legs, or get even a small sweat going.
The path we travel is easy -- 15 feet down the inside hall to the entrance doors, , 30 feet from the doors to the other end of the studio where the big loudspeaker sits.
Then, holding hands, we square the corner -- it's just 25 feet from speaker to the skinny mirror. As we're approach it, we see the slender couple in the mirror and admire ourselves. We look ... well ... nice, handsome, sprightly, youngish, not at all thickset, mature.
We proceed 30 feet along the mirrored wall to the audience seats. After we square the corner, it's just 18 feet back to the hall.
He goes to his office, I go to mine.
Our promenade sets a mood -- exterior and interior, and somehow, once we get that tall, confident, head high feeling, we're able to sustain it -- almost throughout the day.
If I start to sag, or he does -- he'll call to me, or I'll call to him across the hall, and we do another walk-around.
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