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.

DELL GANG MAD AT EM

In April, I got information about a great Dell computer for JC. Fussed around, wasn't ready to buy, because I didn't have time to do the installations -- his twenty-two software programs could take me three days.

Hurray! I bought it in July. Got Mike, a top notch technician to do all the installing. It took Mike eight hours at $110 an hour. (I'm not complaining -- it's worth every penny. I was able to do my work, and JC went from being a slowpoke on an old computer to being a speed king.)

Feeling a tad jealous because JC's "Inspiron" is so fast, and my Dell is five years old -- what the hell -- I called and ordered another one.

My salesman said it was no longer available. The alternate machine sounded okay, though it had three compressor things that made me uneasy. Nevertheless, I gave him my credit card number.

Well ... I found myself fretting. Realizing the compressor stuff was haunting me, an hour later I called back and canceled the deal.

My salesman was at a meeting. His assistant said, "You can't cancel."

I said, "Of course I can." He explained why it was too late. We argued. Finally I said, "I'm calling my credit card company and stopping payment." I wasn't sweet -- wasn't bitchy, but I was definite, and strong. When the guy kept arguing, I hung up.

A short time later, my salesman called. The order was canceled.

The following Monday, I called Dell's "rebuilt" department, and said I wanted an "Inspiron 530." The friendly cheerful saleslady assured me that an Inspiron was available. I gave her the order ID that was used when I purchased JC's computer.

Shortly later, the friendly saleslady said, "I'm sorry, we don't have that computer." I asked about alternate models. She said, not cheerfully, "Nothing's available." I asked if she'd keep her eye out for an Inspiron. I got." I'm sorry." I asked about an alternate computer. She said coldly, "No, we don't have it."

Ho ho... I'll bet my name is on the Dell list with A SKULL AND CROSS BONES

Wait a minute --whoa -- JC's Inspiron got a "blue screen" warning. It's taken three arduous phone calls to tech support, three techies, about ten hours for them to figured out it's a "driver." The updated driver is not "digitally signed," but it's working. (It costs a software company around $30,000 to get their drivers digitally signed, approved by Microsoft.)

Oh dear ... Logic and experience tell me we're in for a more blue screens.

I bought what the last tech guy sold me -- a terabyte backup device that holds 1000 gigs. It'll backup our three computers; bought a yearly "software" policy (unlimited incidents ). The two packages are a 400 dollar raincoat for Em the Computer fixer, just in case we're in for more bad weather.

Have you noticed? Boy, I have! Anytime you buy a new electronic gadget, or appliance -- brace yourself -- each doowicket's is going to need a lot of T.L.C before it's part of your family.

GHOSTS OF PAST TENANTS

Bandler played his drums in the morning. He played them anytime he felt like it during the day. His favorite time for playing was late at night. Ordinary neighborly complaints affected him NOT AT ALL.

This guy is in my gallery of people who inspire me to devastate them with words, shoot darts at them, forever beware of. (I've mentioned him before, in my 3/21 post, the "Go Spirit.") Before we bought this building, Bandler occupied this floor where we have our offices and our studio theater.

I'd phoned. I put a "please don't play after 11 p.m." note on his door. I complained to the landlord, who liked us and wanted to help us. He called Bandler. The noise continued.

Bandler usually practiced on his drums for about 45 minutes. He'd take a break, then play for another 45 minutes. Then, there was no noise for an unpredictable while -- a midday break for an hour, a few hours -- then the drums started again.

I tried vacuuming. We had a noisy Electrolux, the type with a tube on sliders. I vacuumed my wooden studio floor that was above his living room -- vacuumed back and forth dragging the tube like a recalcitrant puppy, so that it created a noise on Bandler's ceiling. Then I stood the tube up on the end from which the machine's noise emanated most strongly, and let the machine run.

It didn't seem to bother Bandler. I pounded on the floor. I did it with a shoe. Then I pounded with a heavy duty hammer. Day after day, I vacuumed, dragged the puppy, left the machine on, pounded, stamped my foot, kneeled on the floor and yelled STOP THE NOISE, and wept.

One day, returning home from class around noon, I saw Bandler at the window. He had a shotgun. He was pointing it downwards toward the street below, aiming it at people walking on the street, same as I was. Was it a game? His lips were moving ... was he saying "bang bang?"'

I saw him at the window the next day -- lunchtime seemed to be his time for playing whatever horrible game he was playing.

He never knew that I was the one who called the police. The police came. Two days later, Bandler moved.

A major noise problem developed when Stafford Recording studio rented a loft space on the 3rd floor of the building next to ours.

Oh no! Oh yes -- Stafford worked odd hours; walls of his insulated sound studio rested against my wall with the wooden barre I hold onto when I exercise. Oh sure -- there was brick in between, but oh my -- his clients -- vocal artists, bass players, horn players, and of course drummers. Lots of rhythmic noise invaded my studio.

I hired a contractor who insulated my wall with a layer of pink insulation material, and plaster-board, then another layer -- two layers were what were recommended. I had three layers installed. And still ...

I did a dreadful, revengeful, ridiculous, ineffective, nonsensical, truly foolish thing.

I put four loudspeakers on the ledge outside my rear window that focused on Stafford's studio wall. Using my theater amplifiers, (sound equipment that could fill a large theater) I played Mahler's "Fifth Symphony" at top volume.

While it was playing, JC, more than a block away on Fifth Avenue, heard the Mahler's Fifth resonating.

No comment,, or response from Stafford, just a response JC who said, "Don't do that again, Em. We have to solve this another way."

We hired a lawyer. Our lawyer, Stafford's lawyer and the three of us met. No solution evolved. When he worked, I couldn't work. and I had no ability to control his schedule.

John suggested we hire Stafford record the sound effects for my play, "People in Show Biz Make Long Goodbyes." Stafford did a good job. And that kept me at the Orpheum theater, out of my studio for nine weeks.

Stafford sold his studio. The buyer turned it into a party room and if he gave parties, we never heard a sound. (Three layers of insulation took care of it.)

Even now, when a car drives by with its radio playing, the rhythm bothers me. I'm not able to think, work, dance, or do domestic chores while someone's invading my space. Once they drive on, I'm okay.

Yes, I'm damaged goods. If someone parks on our street and listens to their radio ... I pop in my Flents foam ear plus -- I've got sixteen boxes -- 25 pairs per box -- sitting on my shelf.

SNAP CRACKLE POP

I sputter into the phone like it's a bowl of Rice Krispies, "Customer service, please."

A pleasant lady voice says, "Customer service, this is Mary, how may I help you?"

"Mary, my order confirmation number is 4839485." My next sentence is a rat-tat-machine-gun mowing her down. "You sent my package of vitamins to the billing address, not my home address!"

Even as I'm roaring, I'm thinking -- it's not her fault -- it's no one's fault -- it's the online computer that'll only accept a standard address four-line address.

Damn, double-damn, I'm hissing at myself -- it's your own fault -- you should have put your name and the floor number on the first line -- you've had this problem before.

... "checking-out the cart" is always a drag, but buying a six-month supply of vitamins online is easier, better, faster, less expensive than trudging a few blocks to Duane Reade, hunting for brands they've discontinued, standing in line at the cashier, then heading for Walgreens, sometimes a third, even a fourth store ...

Nevertheless ... Snap Crackle Pop, I blare, "I checked and double-checked! You had the my home address as the shipping address."

My tone is nasty. Her tone is politely apologetic. She asks for my invoice number.

"I don't have an invoice. This is ridiculous! You charged me, I don't know how much -- you charged me a fee for ground delivery ten days ago, and I still don't have the vitamins."

The clock next to my phone tells me you are wasting time as the phone lady repeats her apology.

Addressing Mary in my usual calm, understanding, communicative, friendly tone, I explain that it's two-hundred-and-fifty dollars worth of vitamins. A large package. I can't go and pick up. The secretary at my billing address will have to re-address the package, give it to the postman who will take it to the post office, and it will be delivered to my home address maybe in a few days (depending on how many more postmen have been laid off).

"Mary," I say, in my best down-to-earth, practical tone, "I am paying twice to have the package delivered. I'm a good customer. Your company should refund the shipping cost!'

My friend Mary agrees. She suggests that when the package arrives, inside there will be an invoice that will indicate the shipping charge. If I fax the invoice, along with a copy of what the re-delivery postage will cost ...

I interrupt. I'm boiling over. "A copy of what the postage cost?"

... The secretary at my billing address has a postage meter -- she'll put the cost on our monthly charge for "office expenses." Mile-a-minute I'm calculating, the secretary's time, my own time -- picturing myself typing up a cover page, faxing the invoice, faxing a postage receipt for something around five bucks ...

"Okay. I'll do it, Mary." I thank her tonelessly, somewhat tiredly, and end the conversation.

Hanging up the phone I'm already in the limbo land of imaginary conversations with a supervisor, with my credit card company telling them do not pay the bill ... incapable of doing anything except heaving a sigh, telling myself I'll think about tomorrow, ala Scarlett O'Hara looking at the ruins of Tara at the end of the film.

TO HELL WITH TARA!

I phone my guy. And ask JC to pick up the box on his way home from rehearsal.

LANDLORDITIS

The cup in the picture says: World's Greatest Landlord and that's me!

Aren't we lucky to own a building in the heart of Manhattan! If my mother hadn't lent us the money, I don't know how we would have managed. But with her help, we bought it, paid off a first and second mortgage, and have ourselves a home.

It's old. Five floors. Built in 1905. Some of the original gas fixtures are still in the ceiling. The building is hard to heat. Our home on the top two floors is quite cold iu the winter. But it's nice to have a home in the center of the city.

Its a commercial area. When Con Edison is digging in the street -- noise, traffic jams -- that's a problem for all the businesses surrounding us.

When the furnace stops working, I say--"I need help!" And my do-it-all guy, JC, grabs some tools and heads for the basement.

When there are water problems -- the main on the corner breaks down -- water floods into the basement. Heavy rainstorms -- gutters on the roof get clogged -- the ceiling leaks. Got to race up to the roof, clear the gutters while it's raining.

Rust on the metal front steps -- serious symptom -- time to repaint them and the fire escape -- a lot of money involved in rust proofing, checking the bolts on a five storey fire escape, repainting it and the front stairs.

Still, we feel lucky. We have learned how to handle most of the emergencies. We've got tools. And over the years have gotten a list of people who fix these problems.

Our courtyard in the rear is a trouble spot. Five 12 storey buildings surround it. Their tenants toss trash into our yard -- bottles, cans, garbage, pet cages, dead dogs, cats, and quite a few rats. Since it's our yard, keeping it clean is our responsibility. Things we can't handle, Phil, super for us and our neighbors, takes care the nasty stuff, (if we pay him extra).

It's annoying but the yard's outside. The inside where we live is like a 14 room country mansion. Colorful. Spacious. I designed the curved wall that separates the kitchen and green living room with its white wicker furniture. The doorway's shaped like a keyhole. All our walls are cloth covered -- blue room, red room, dark brown kitchen with matching enameled metal ceilings. (It's been described and photographed by magazines. I promise -- one of these days I'll post some pictures.)

Landlady-ing isn't a overwhelming chore. Our money managers collect the rents. One tenant didn't pay for almost six months; and owes us $20,000. It's something to deal with that I'm not dealing with -- lawsuit eats time, and will cost about 75% of what we might get back.

The new tenant, an angry girl -- called the police, Dept. of Bldgs. and WABC-TV, complaining that her place was too cold. (Her customers, opening her front door, let freezing air in, affecting the 68 degrees that our furnace provides. She's got a side door, won't use it -- claim's it's "ugly." ) TV commentator, cameras, and crew rang our buzzer. When I answered, they filmed me as a cruel unfair neglectful landlord.

It was a nightmare, till she bought (goody goody!) some portable electric radiators.

Still, we're lucky. Lawyers, leases, answering service, and caller ID protect us.

But, this is New York. Old violations can't be fixed in a building born in 1905. The money-hungry Environment Protection Agency will cite us if any debris is found in the front gutter; sidewalk, or on our front steps, where neighborhood employees love to eat their lunches.

If you protest a citation, you must prove with photos and affidavits, that your building is swept 3 times a day. We paid $100 for the first violation, $200 for the second, if we get a third it'll be $300 ... Well, we're hoping to get by for a while longer.

It's our home. Bought it for $70,000 and it's worth.... Put a row of zeros, each year it's worth more.

Yep, there are disadvantages . But golly, it's a lovely place -- bright pink and orange hall ways, red carpeted stairs, bright yellow ceilings -- just entering lifts my spirits. We're pleased, proud, tickled that its ours ! Okay, it's unusual, there are small disasters that require unexpected, remarkable rising to the occasion, but our home in the heart of the city -- it's truly a home sweet home.

DAY OFF

Today is, was ... definitely not a Day Off. It was an OFF day.

Nothing went wrong but nothing went quite right. JD and Shareen are taking over the loft on the 2nd floor, one flight below our studio and office on 3. (Our home is the 4th floor loft.) All day underneath me I can hear and feel things being hammered, plaster being chipped, as the place is readied to become her NYC store.

It'll be unusual, funky, jammed with customers like "Shareen Vintage" in LA and Venice. Women and girls love what she finds, re-designs, and with startling intuition, helps them chose for themselves. How lucky we are, that our son married a girl who's like a daughter, sister, pal, best friend, to me.

The noises fit my thoughts. My sense of order is itchy irritated, jangled. Writing a novel is different from writing a letter, which is, I've discovered in the past couple of weeks, similar to creating a post for your blog. Letter writing just flows. But a letter that's going to get POSTED?

You gotta polish it! Gotta make it make sense!

Read a first draft to JC? He loves me, enjoys my writing, but Cormack McCarthy, the writer, I am not. It's better for me to flounder. Take a break, do something else, turn off my computer, and try again later.

I started out early early this morning, backing up my computer. Reorganizing a lot of files. Did it carefully, thoughtfully, logically, creatively! Did it so excellently that I have to make a guide for myself, to find out where, oh where did I put things?

OUT OF ORDER PHONE

Shh, we have 17 phone extensions. I counted them. The history of how each extension got to be where it is, is mine as well. A friend had a friend who used to work for the phone company -- the company that seemed like a permanent corporation to deal with forever -- was it AT&T? Before or after it was sold to NY BELL, or NYNEX? (Names names go away, come back and haunt me another day)

When, two months ago, JD (our son) finally convinced me that I had to get DSL and stop using a dial-up modem, I picked Earthlink. Wham, I was suddenly into wires, wall boxes, wireless, old phone, new phone, filters? What's a router? Oh? There might be problems, oh dear!

The original phone that feeds all the phone connections in this building that's been my home since I was 17, was installed with a $25 deposit and wired from the rear of this building, a courtyard 5 storeys, 75 feet below. (Our home was a loft building with a lamp manufacturer, a wood shop, a trucking company as tenants). Into our top floor rear window, came one wire.

One now very old wire that has been fixed, secured, taped, split, re split, umpteen times, from which JC and I, with screw drivers, made an extension, another and another, till our friend's friend for $100 made us professional phone extensions -- about 8 of them were necessary since the top floor is 2,000 square feet...about 25 x 85. Numbers numbers -- I'm singing the names names song, ("rain, rain go away") again. The extensions were made when we were renting just the top floor loft. When we bought the building with a down payment my mom lent us, and finally took over the floor below as well, 9 other extensions got created by our fingers, and the fingers of the crew who were renovating for us, with money JC was making doing SHENANDOAH, a musical he was starring in on Broadway. The extensions, most of them, are now hard-wired into the new walls, new partitions. Just like my life and JC's life and JD's life are hard-wired into this building.

So, last Thursday I was working on my Website, merrily answering calls when I became aware that the phone seemed to be disconnecting whenever I answered an incoming call.

When you have trouble, nowadays, you call services with recorded instructions, do this, do that, and wait wait, select another button and hear more music you don't want to hear, and then a person who often doesn't speak clearly, wants to hear who you are all over again, and gives you a new number to call.

It was heavy duty trouble. 4 hours Thursday, 1 more hour that night. It was hours again on Friday, running around ducking under tables, flashlight in hand, trying to plug, unplug, replug, trying to explain to a mumbling technician how this building was wired. Obeying him; looking for where he needed me to install a filter, then another filter -- oh dear, there was no time to take my barre (I do a barre everyday -- barre is what dancers do to keep in shape and I've been doing it since age 12, lotta barres!) No time for anything because life doesn't tick-tick right, if you can't communicate with the other people who are building your website, cleaning your house, delivering a package, needing JC or me for something we promised to do.

Scary it was. It is. It's finally fixed, but MY LIFE, OUR LIFE was paused, stopped. Yes, we had a cell phone. Yes, we even held onto an unnecessary extra land-line that belongs to Verizon, the latest, newest, current phone company in NYC. Yes, it's fixed -- it's been good, fine, normal okay for almost 5 days, b u t ... our life, our tree is shaking, quivering in the wind though the wind isn't blowing.