tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72954892571371582302024-02-20T18:11:23.560-08:00Word GeekI've realized recently that my way of navigating the world always comes back to words. Whether it's a political issue, a book, film, or the random meanderings of my head, the spefics of what I'm fixating on, are almost always words. And without exception, it's words I'm using to think my way through some knotty problem or other. Many of the pieces you'll find here have been published previously, either in Our Town Downtown, or The New York Press.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-52692466065709531452007-08-11T16:03:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:23.662-08:00Hilary's Cleavage Problem; Might not be such a problem after all<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlX2-eT9bddEZeBE9pJtZgTwlYLqTz053lE_sTdFmSGjcpM7TZgjUD9iNMybfczC3pcUB8vjdV6DMI4gLTaGJ73MN6e34W8n2J6TXi68h0GgP7457eAMR2CADB-GVX2GF8jcJnr15WU1t/s1600-h/clintongivhan.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlX2-eT9bddEZeBE9pJtZgTwlYLqTz053lE_sTdFmSGjcpM7TZgjUD9iNMybfczC3pcUB8vjdV6DMI4gLTaGJ73MN6e34W8n2J6TXi68h0GgP7457eAMR2CADB-GVX2GF8jcJnr15WU1t/s320/clintongivhan.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097584778274981906" /></a><br />At least one good thing has emerged from all of the brouhaha surrounding Hillary Clinton's barely there cleavage on the Senate floor a couple of weeks ago. It's a new turn of phrase, first spotted in Ruth Marcus's July 25th Washington Post column on the subject, in which she referred to herself as, "a person of cleavage." I'm crazy about that phrase, its perfect combination of descriptive simplicity and awkward absurdity. And I'm not the only one. I've noticed it popping up here and there over the last week or so, mainly in the writing about the writing about Senator Clinton's cleavage, of which there's been an astonishing amount. Judith Warner, of the New York Times, went so far as to call it a "Pulitzer worthy phrase." I think that might go a little far, but all the same, being a person of cleavage myself, I am loving those three words. <br /><br />That's right, I am a person of cleavage. My cleavage is real, and it is substantial. I have the kind of cleavage that makes shopping for clothes much harder than it ought to be. The kind of cleavage that has me constantly tugging at clothes, surreptitiously adjusting straps, and on the lookout for wardrobe malfunctions. They don't happen all that often, but when they do, they are mortifying. And I'm not even running for president. <br /><br />Having the kind of cleavage that I do also means I all too often look up from my book on the subway, only to find some creepy guy busily staring straight down into my cleavage, so intently he doesn't realize I've noticed and am staring straight back at him. Not until I lift my book, placing it directly over my apparently mesmerizing orbs, blocking them entirely from his view, and give him my evil most evil eye, does this kind of creepy guy get a clue and look away. <br /><br />I should probably clarify a couple of things right about here. First, I'm generally not traipsing around town in Pamela Anderson's cast offs. I just happen to have these breasts that started growing when I was about eleven, and took the whole idea of growing very, very seriously. Most of the time, I kind of forget they're there, until some creepy staring guy reminds me. Which brings us to the second thing, the enormous difference between looking and staring. Looking at each other is part of what makes living in this city worth all the trouble, expense, and inconvenience it can sometimes require. We're doing it all the time. Comparing and contrasting, envying, judging, and, flirting, are all so much part of our daily lives we don't even realize we're doing them most of the time, all those glances up and down, however brief or lingering. That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about staring. The kind that makes its object feel like, well, an object, however cliché that might sound, it's true. It's creepy, offensive, and rude, no matter who happens to be doing it. And in case you haven't noticed, it also tends to make me really mad. <br /><br />All this is largely by way of explaining my initial reaction to Washington Post fashionista Robin Givhan's July 20th article, "Hillary Clinton's Tentative Dip into New Neckline Territory." It was, of course, Givhan's piece that began all that the writing about Clinton's cleavage. Describing what Clinton wore during a Senate debate on funding for higher education, Givhan goes on at length about cleavage that I, quite frankly, couldn't even see in the accompanying photograph, despite her assertion that, "The cleavage registered after only a quick glance. No scrunch faced scrutiny was necessary." Givhan went on in this vein for 700-odd words, all, so far as I could tell, without making much off a point beyond something I'd assumed we'd all already known, that Hillary Clinton has breasts. Personally, I'd have found it far more newsworthy if Givhan had somehow discovered that she didn't have any at all. That obviously not being the case, however, her article struck me as the journalistic equivalent of a creepy guy on the subway, desperate for a glimpse of any female flesh at all, however miniscule. And so it made me really angry. <br /><br />It made a lot of women angry, it turns out. I've already mentioned Ruth Marcus of Givhan's own paper, and Judith Warner of the New York Times, both of whom more or less told Givhan that she was out of line. As did the Boston Globe's Ellen Goodman, the Chicago Sun-Times Lynn Sweet, MSNBC's Mika Brzezinski, NBC's Andrea Mitchell, and even America's erstwhile Sweetheart Katie Couric. Lines like, "sometimes a V-neck blouse, is just a V-neck blouse," abounded. Just about the only woman, it seemed, who was interested in defending Givhan was, indeed, Givhan herself. <br /><br />Even the Post's own ombudsman, Deborah Howell, refrained from stating much of a personal opinion when she wrote about Givhan's piece on the 29th, merely commenting that, "Readers deserve substance, but they also want to know who these people are, about their families and their lives," without bothering to tell us whether or not she felt that the question of Clinton's cleavage had anything to do with who she is, her family, or her life. I don't happen to see how it does, and I'm guessing Katie Couric probably doesn't either. <br /><br />What Howell did do, however, was give Givhan an opportunity to tell her side of the story. In Howell's piece, Givhan said that Clinton's cleavage was in fact newsworthy because it was, "so out of her stylistic character." Ultimately asserting that her point had been that the cleavage, "suggested to me someone who has become more comfortable being a sexual person as well as one of authority, intellect, and confidence." At that point I began to wonder if Givhan had troubled to reread her own piece before speaking with Howell, so directly did her words contradict what she had written, just nine days before. <br /><br />In fact, Givhan directly compared Clinton with another woman, Jacqui Smith, the new British Home Secretary, who'd recently appeared before the House of Commons showing, we are told, "far more cleavage than Clinton." Smith, however, apparently did it right, unlike Clinton, or so Ghivan thought on the 20th, telling us that "If Clinton's was a teasing display, then Smith's was a full fledged come-on. But somehow it wasn't as unnerving. Perhaps that's because Smith's cleavage seemed to be presented so forthrightly. Smith's fitted jacket and her dramatic necklace combined to draw the eye directly to her bosom. There they were... all part of a bold, confident style package." In case that's not clear enough, in the preceding paragraph, Givhan had described the sight of Clinton's cleavage as, "more like catching a man with his fly unzipped. Just look away!" Doesn't sound much to me like an effort to describe a woman who's reached a new level of empowerment, sexual or otherwise. <br /><br />And, let's face it, it's not as if Hillary Clinton is a woman in need of empowerment. Her greatest strengths on the campaign trail are the confidence and clear awareness of herself as a person in possession of considerable power, and more than ready to take on some more, that she exudes. She is a woman in control, without a doubt. My most painfully conservative friend recently conceded in an email that "Hillary, for all her faults, is serious, steely even, and generally competent." <br /><br />Rereading Ghivan's article, in a vain attempt to reconcile her statements to Howell with what she had in fact written, I became aware of something even odder than those initial contradictions. I realized just how frequently she'd used words rarely used to describe Senator Clinton. Words like "tentative," "noncommittal," "tortured," and "ambivalent," all in the service of exposing Clinton's hitherto unnoticed lack of confidence. Odd, really, isn't all that? <br /><br />Ghivan's previous pieces about political figures and their sartorial choices have, in fact, drawn a larger point of some kind or other. From the confidence expressed by Condoleezza Rice's boots in 2005, to the disrespect Dick Cheney's Parka and hiking boots showed at an Auschwitz memorial that same year. So it doesn't seem like such a stretch to suppose she'd set out to write about Clinton's tentative cleavage being demonstrative of a greater failing of confidence, somewhere in the Senator's character, but failed to pull off the task she'd set out for herself. At least that credits her with having been trying to make a point at all, which is more than I had gotten from my first reading of her work. <br /><br />There's no way of knowing, in the end, what Robin Ghivan intended when she sat down to write her piece on Hillary Clinton's Cleavage, though I'm pretty sure it wasn't anything like what she told Ruth Howell. I doubt though, that she'd anticipated the response I found myself having, in its specificity, or that she understands exactly why it is so many women are so mad at her about it. <br /><br />Reading her article, that first time, I found myself thinking about Hillary, up there at that podium on the Senate floor, maybe realizing her blouse had shifted a bit, wasn't sitting quite where it had been when she'd left her townhouse that morning, or even when she'd stood up from her seat to speak. But she's standing before the Senate, C-Span2 cameras on her, debating education. She doesn't want to draw attention to the problem, or away from what she's saying, by tugging at her top. So she doesn't. And when no one, seems to have noticed she assumes nobody did, goes on about her busy life, forgetting the entire non-event. Until she reads Robin Givhan's column in the Washington Post three days later and realizes that at least one person did in fact notice after all. <br /><br />I've had that moment. Well, not on the Senate floor, and without the involvement of a major media outlet, but you know what I mean. I've had that moment. Most women have,I guess. And Hillary, it turns out, is a woman like the rest of us, and a person of cleavage,just like me. She knows exactly how it feels, being stared at.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-81583041014814852632007-07-20T11:08:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:24.017-08:00Waiting for Harry; Why isn't Michiko?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitqix-HZXkwdMD9peWfElB9mAUu3V4XbATPbPCGNyzfk3c1q0w2n2unctNl-QdlIofVinoM_v64_mlpZ5fHGD98tG60__jgVNkS-jrMZJzreAP1DqgAChgn2DRFscpCSn6Gje6wvmvuhi/s1600-h/harrypotter.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitqix-HZXkwdMD9peWfElB9mAUu3V4XbATPbPCGNyzfk3c1q0w2n2unctNl-QdlIofVinoM_v64_mlpZ5fHGD98tG60__jgVNkS-jrMZJzreAP1DqgAChgn2DRFscpCSn6Gje6wvmvuhi/s320/harrypotter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089342921259724210" /></a><br />I might as well get this part out of the way first, just go ahead and tell you that I'm a thirty four year old woman who loves Harry Potter, and I'm not ashamed to say so. Nor do I think I should be, because I know I'm not the only one, far from it. I'm writing this the morning of Friday July the 20th, a little more than 12 hours before seventh and final book in J.K. Rowling's series will at long last be released, and it seems like everyone I know has been counting down these last few days. At least one woman's taking off two days from work, so she can read the book straight through, without distractions, and she's a veterinarian, not some sort of freelance slacker. We've been waiting, patiently or otherwise, for this book, "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows," for an awfully long time. <br /><br />At a minimum, we've been waiting since the last book, "Harry and the Half Blood Prince," was published in 2005. So that's two years right there. That's long enough, if you ask me. Especially if you consider the kind of cliffs upon which Rowling like to leave her hero and her readers hanging. If you read the Potter books, you know exactly what I mean. If not, well, how can I explain what it's like to finish a Harry Potter book? It's kind of like the end of a really great second date, when you know without a doubt that you'll be seeing the person again, but haven't a clue as to where or when, or what will really come of it. Something like that. Only usually, you aren't left waiting two years for the third date. <br /><br /><br />Really though, we've been waiting for "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" ever since we happened to pick up that very first book, "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone," whenever that may have been. For some people, I suppose it was when it very first appeared, all the way back in 1998. Waiting that long seems unimaginable, altogether unbearable, for the impatient likes of me. <br /><br />I first started reading the Harry Potter books in the fall of 2001. I was visiting a friend who had children, and had them all over her house. I'd been hearing about them, these children's books that adults were reading, that were so popular they'd taken over the Time's bestseller list. So I started reading the first, and then the second, and couldn't stop until I'd gotten through "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire." And then I had to start the waiting, for the next, and then the next, and now this next and last. So I've been waiting six years, to find out what will happen to Harry, in the end. <br /><br />If you haven't read the books, no doubt you're wondering right now what all this fuss is possibly about, why all these grown ups get themselves so worked up over a bunch of kid's books. The thing is, children's books or not, the Harry Potter books are really, really good. The characters are complicated, people have real regrets, with which they have to learn to live, or not, moral ambiguity abounds, even the right actions can have unwanted, unforeseen and unforeseeable, bad consequences, which cannot be undone. Some things are just unfixable. Bad things happen to good people, and good things sometimes do happen to bad people. The universe in which the Harry Potter books unfold, for all its spectacle, magic, and wonder, bears more relation to the subjective living of a real life, where nothing ever feels so steadfastly real as we'd like it to, and nothing is ever so simple or so neatly resolved as we tend to thing it should be, than the most painstakingly realistic contemporary fiction, no matter on which bookstore or library shelves it happens to be placed. <br /><br />And then there's the way the series has unfolded, or, rather, the way we've all had to wait and wait, and wait some more, for each release. That's meant, for a lot of us, that we've read all of these books about a thousand times. I have, at any rate. Which has given me the sort of relationship with these books that I haven't had with any since I was a child myself, pouring endlessly over other series , Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden, the Narnia books, or Madeleine L'engle's "Wrinkle in Time," series. There's something so different about the way you read a long series of books, the way you get to know the places and the people, they become so much richer and closer over time. And that seems like such an obvious thing, doesn't it? But there's not much in the way of series fiction out there for adults, not that's struck my fancy anyway, so it's the kind of obvious thing that's easily forgotten. I'm awfully grateful to J.K. Rowling and her Harry for reminding me of it. Thanks to her, I've discovered that Madeleine L'engle's books do in fact stand the test of time, for me at least, though others from my childhood might not. And I came upon Phillip Pullman's gorgeous "His Dark Materials" trilogy. That one was mentioned in an article full of suggestions for Harry Potter fans, in need of something to read while we waited for the next installment.<br /><br />Have I mentioned that I don't do well with waiting? Really, I don't, it pains me to no end. The only way I can stand it is simply by pushing it out my mind entirely, which has been increasingly difficult, as the publication date's drawn closer. All those posters in the book stores, the publicity events, and then yesterday, there was that review in the New York Times. Did you happen to see that? Or possibly you've heard about it?<br /><br />I saw it there, in the front section of the Times, and read it eagerly enough, not thinking all that much about it, vaguely assuming Scholastic had sent the Times a review copy, and other than that I was just glad Michiko Kakutani didn't give away any plot points, and had given it was a good review. Then I went back through it a second time, kind of hoping, I'll admit, for a plot point or two I might have missed on the first go round. That's when it hit me, this one little line, "this volume, a copy of which was purchased at a New York City store yesterday." Yesterday. The review was published on Thursday. So "yesterday," meant that someone had been selling the book on Wednesday. Wednesday. <br /><br />I don't normally have much of a problem expressing my emotions, particularly when they're of the rageful sort. Plenty of people can back me up on that. But this, this left me kind of speechless. We mere Harry Potter loving mortals have been waiting years and years for the final installment, and Michiko Kakutani not only somehow or other procures herself a copy, at a New York City store, she has to rub it in all of our faces in her review? Because I'd really like to know what store it was, exactly, and if the book was out on the shelves, for all and sundry, last Wednesday, when Kakutani's copy was purchased, or if her copy, and hers alone, was made available so very far ahead of the official release date? Or perhaps she was one of a select few, special, preferred, customers allowed to buy their books ahead of time? Whatever exactly it is, that was going on, in that New York City Store, I hope they know that what they did was wrong, and that I, for one, am very disappointed in them.<br /><br />There. I feel a little better now. But not so much, because I still don't know what happens to Harry in the end, and Michiko Kakutani does. And that is just not fair.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-86567055474392124912007-07-12T09:00:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:24.212-08:00Scooter's Surprise; Happy Independence Day!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWYklBGN_DTDspp29JQvv_Qd_mv-hTGFsZ5HNapUAo9aoI3mEAdr552zCecf4Tvle01bbv4IdDWJ2AtBuyUTSlX8V-8N0EFrh9ghefC9gn3RRZa09xRylAHf0XGdBdKhgK75aYsZtjdeIn/s1600-h/fireworksempirestate.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWYklBGN_DTDspp29JQvv_Qd_mv-hTGFsZ5HNapUAo9aoI3mEAdr552zCecf4Tvle01bbv4IdDWJ2AtBuyUTSlX8V-8N0EFrh9ghefC9gn3RRZa09xRylAHf0XGdBdKhgK75aYsZtjdeIn/s320/fireworksempirestate.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086341194386353570" /></a><br />Being this contrary sort of person that I am, I have to admit I dread most holidays, or at any rate, the prospect of spending them here in the city. They tend to involve things I simply do not enjoy. Parades, perhaps, or endless rounds of parties I don't really feel like I'm old enough to be at yet. Or worst, so far as I'm concerned, and most predictable of all, the flocks of tourists who descend upon us, thinking of our city as the perfect backdrop for their holiday getaways. So I do my best to make sure I've got a getaway of my own lined up, for most of the major holidays. It's just better for everyone that way.<br /><br />The Fourth of July's a different story though. It's one holiday New York does to perfection. The slow easy day of movie going, maybe, reading or a little patriotic shopping, finding your way onto a rooftop party, as the day starts cooling down, flag-waving kept, of course, to a merciful minimum. Then an explosion into noisy spectacle, not just one, but two sets of fireworks over the East River. Those few short moments in which we lapse from our usual minimalistic good taste, fall into gaudy grace and generosity despite ourselves, ensuring everyone who's interested a halfway decent view of the pinwheels as they spiral and flame out above our heads. And the tourists even seem happy enough staying in their various and sundry hometowns, on the fourth of July.<br /><br />This year though, I couldn't really conjure up much in the way of festive feeling. It might have had to do with the holiday falling on a Wednesday as it did this year, but I don't think so. Contrarian that I am, I like the disruptions a weekday holiday brings, the confusions and rushes, the nothing being as it ought to be. That's where the surprises turn up, isn't it? And what's life without surprises?<br /><br />Some surprises aren't so welcome though, and it was an unwelcome surprise, last Monday, that took the fun out of my fourth this particular July. I probably shouldn't have been surprised, I should know better than that by now, I suppose, but surprised I was, all the same. Last Monday, you see, I was happily playing around online, reading an article about how a Federal Appeals court had declined I. "Scooter" Lewis Libby's request to delay the beginning of his 30 month prison sentence while he appealed his conviction of four felony counts of lying to federal agents, perjury, and obstruction of justice. Scooter, I was learning, had even been assigned his very own Federal Inmate Number by the U.S. Bureau of Prisons, 29301-016. It really did look like Scooter was heading to jail. He'd been tried, convicted, sentenced, and the Bureau of Prisons was readying his room. Convicted felons go to prison in a nation that functions according to the rule of law, right? That's the way things work, when things are working, isn't it? So I was having this moment of actual optimism that things might possibly be working. I haven't had a moment like that in a while. I'd forgotten what it felt like, living in a country where things work the way they're supposed to. I have to tell you, it felt pretty great.<br /><br />But you know where this is going, right? A few minutes later, I got my nasty surprise. A new story popped up on the website I'd been perusing, informing me that President Bush had commuted Scooter's sentence. He hadn't pardoned him, as he'd been rumored to be considering, but he'd commuted his sentence, decided the prison time was excessively harsh, the $250,000 fine, and probation period would be punishment enough for Scooter's crimes. <br /><br />If you haven't been paying attention to Scooter's legal travails, you might be wondering why on earth our president, with approximately half the executive branch under some sort of congressional subpoena or other at the moment, his Attorney General Gonzalez looking more useless by the hour, the daily flow of bad news from his war in Iraq, not to mention the mystery of what exactly it is his Vice President is doing with all those "man sized" safes he's got there in his office, and everything else a president has to deal with on a daily basis, would be bothering with the details of this guy's sentencing. It's probably because Scooter, prior to his indictment, held the triple titles of Assistant to the Vice President for National Security Affairs, Chief of Staff to the Vice President, and last but not least, Assistant to the President. You don't hear too much about that last one, do you? And possibly because, as you've probably heard, his indictment arose from the investigation into the 2003 leak of Valerie Plame Wilson's identity as a CIA covert agent, nasty, and not altogether finished, business that. Still and all though, you'd kind of think the erstwhile leader of the free world might have bigger fish to fry. Wasn't he supposed to be working on some sort of surge? How's that coming along, I wonder?<br /><br />The real question, of course, is why this, of all things, came not just as a surprise, but as such a blow to me? Why Scooter's sentence, and not Cheney's safes, or Karl Rove's hundreds of thousands of vanished emails, or Bush's countless signing statements, or the twisted path that led us into the disaster that is Iraq? The reality is, Scooter's just a stand in, for any and all of those things. He's bit of a last straw, it's true, but mostly, he's a convenient shorthand for each new revelation of this administration's clear and shameless belief in its own omnipotence, its utter disconnection from the laws that created this country, from which it has evolved, and that have defined and sustained it so well for 221 years now. But now these people are in charge who just don't care. That's what I have finally concluded. The problem's not that they are acting from a different set of principles, one I happen not to understand. It's that they're lacking principles entirely, beyond the most basic, will to power. That's about it. As far as anything beyond that goes, or anyone so unfortunate as to be beyond their immediate circle, they simply do not care. I don't think they even understand that the rest of us exist as real, living, breathing people in quite the way they do. And these are the people we're allowing to run things, to act upon the world on our behalf, and in our names. <br /><br />For all the destruction they have wrought, I do have to admit that Bush and his accomplices have given me one great gift, albeit unintentionally. They've made me realize just how much I believed in the America I learned about in my eighth grade civics class, for all that I've never been a fan of flag-waving. Remember that America? The one that actually was a "Beacon of freedom and opportunity"? The one that just didn't do things like torture? The place where freedoms of speech and of the press were simply beyond question? Where it never occurred to anyone to seriously question the validity of our elections? I liked living there, so much, in fact, that I never gave it a second thought. Seven years ago, though, things started to change, and suddenly I'm realizing my tax dollars are being spent on man sized safes to which I'll likely never get a key. Assuming, of course, that Vice President Cheney didn't buy those safes with his own money. In which case he really ought to keep them in his bunker, in that undisclosed location where he feels most at home. Otherwise, it's time he starts to wrap his head around the reality that they do not belong to him, no more than any of his other closely guarded secrets do. Each email, every single piece of paper he is so determined to keep hidden, is nothing more than the product of his work, and so ultimately, it's not his property. It's ours, it's yours and mine. Until Cheney and his President go so far as to declare our Constitution null and void they do still work for us. We're the ones who pay their salaries, after all.<br /><br />Happy belated Independence Day!Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-51766011207491657282007-07-01T14:34:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:24.560-08:00Staunch Women and Their Guilty Pleasures; "Grey Gardens" at IFC<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjci6gBX380E4JNHL4NX0zirft1S8HTzupTJQYRpo9sOD9Zr_LB3OyZ2qGB585cmfCVO91udWeX7iA6hGqOeidQS6tA-nkPq94dsX7jJJ-lsorqyXnYGe4x8IFfpTTWAPKakNod4QZMy0_N/s1600-h/ediewcam.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjci6gBX380E4JNHL4NX0zirft1S8HTzupTJQYRpo9sOD9Zr_LB3OyZ2qGB585cmfCVO91udWeX7iA6hGqOeidQS6tA-nkPq94dsX7jJJ-lsorqyXnYGe4x8IFfpTTWAPKakNod4QZMy0_N/s320/ediewcam.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082346652010563714" /></a><br /> <br /><br />I've never really grasped the concept of the guilty pleasure. I don't watch "American Idol". I believe in the literary merit of the first "Bridget Jones," book, though the second made me want to hurt myself., and I think everyone who appeared in Sascha Baron Cohen's brilliant " Borat" movie was only being him or herself, and all those people who are so busy suing him just now, would be well advised to reconsider their lawsuits, before that truth becomes glaringly apparent to large numbers of people in open court. Generally speaking, the things I like, I also think are good, in one way or another. <br /><br />So, when I tell you that, from the very first time I saw the documentary, "Grey Gardens," it gave me a new understanding of what a guilty pleasure could be, you'll realize I'm not talking about the cinematography. I love that movie. I'm not sure how many times I've seen it, but I'm pretty sure I could have it on an endless loop, and never get tired of it. But I've felt guilty about watching it every single time. Because, you see, in case you don't already know this, it's a documentary about two crazy old ladies, a mother and daughter, with countless cats, at least one raccoon, and a house that's falling down around them, exploiting their insanity for our voyeuristic viewing pleasure . Or so the story goes. Having seen it on the big screen for the first time recently, though, I should tell you I've begun to have some doubts.<br /><br />"Grey Gardens" is one of those movies that's just about impossible to explain to anyone who hasn't seen it, but I'll do my best to give you the basic facts. Albert and David Maysles made it over about five weeks in the summer of 1973, filming Edith Bouvier Beale, and her daughter, Little Edie, at their decrepit mansion in East Hampton. The two had lived there alone together, with their menagerie, ever since Edie had moved out of the Barbizon Hotel in New York in 1952, when she was 35. The two of them sing and dance, argue, mostly about why Edie came home, and why she's still there, and lounge around in the sun. Edie vamps it up fetchingly in what she calls her "revolutionary costumes," all of which cover her head, takes care of the animals, says the most astonishing things, swims, and pines for New York. Then they have a little party for Edith's eightieth birthday party. And they happen to be, respectively, the aunt and cousin of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onnasis. <br /><br />So there's not all that much happening. I know. The thing about "Grey Gardens," is its subjects, mostly Edie, though her mother has her moments too. Most notably when Edie tells her, by way of reproof as she's been reminiscing over her youth, and failed marriage to Edie's father, "You can't have your cake and eat it too," and Mama answers, "I had my cake, loved it, masticated it, chewed it, and had everything I wanted." It's a little disconcerting, to hear an eighty year old woman, whose house is in pieces around her, so pleased with herself. But she's got nothing on Little Edie.<br /><br />Edie on camera is more than disconcerting. She's disturbing to watch, in her turbans and fishnets, declaring that "It's very difficult to keep the line between the past and the present. Do you know what I mean? It's awfully difficult." As though it was the most reasonable of all possible things a person could ever say. It's not so much the things she says, or wears, or even does, though, that make Little Edie so difficult to watch, and impossible to turn away from, all at once. It's more to do with the way she directs her eyes right at the camera, directs the action, seems somehow to be controlling events in a way she's not really supposed to be doing, as the subject of a documentary. She's not supposed to be the one with all that power. Edie's not settling into the space she's supposed to occupy onscreen. She's everywhere at once. It gets awfully difficult, trying to keep track of who's running the show at Grey Gardens. Things become much easier if we stop trying, and just agree that Edie's not so much disturbing as disturbed. We have to deal with the guilt, it's true, of taking pleasure in watching a crazy lady disporting herself for our enjoyment, but we are relieved of the necessity of questioning our most basic assumptions about who's got the power, in this whole filmmaking setup. And frankly, dealing with the guilt requires much less effort on our part. This arrangement almost works, so long as we keep Edie, and her movie, within the confines of a tiny TV. screen.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, though, I went to a midnight showing of "Grey Gardens," at the IFC center. Up there on the big screen, Edie would not be kept to the terms of a deal she'd never entered into in the first place. Watching her, larger than life, rather than miniaturized this time, I realized just what a slap in the face the film's existence was to her famous cousin, who hadn't wanted it made at all. Who had, in fact, been very nearly willing to let Edie and her mother be evicted from their home by the village of East Hampton a few years earlier, when they'd run out of money to keep the place up, and had managed to violate just about every sanitation ordinance the village had on its books, from a lack of running water to an abundance of dead cats. Only the media coverage, full of photographs of Edie in a house piled high with garbage, had finally forced Jacqueline to come to their rescue in the end. She must have been delighted to see Edie in her costumes, feeding raccoons in the attic! <br /><br />A line I'd never noticed more than any other struck me too, this time around. In telling the film crew about an argument with her mother, Edie says, "You see, in dealing with me the relatives didn't know they were dealing with a staunch woman. S-T-A-U-N-C-H. There's nothing worse. I'm telling you. They don't weaken. No matter what." <br /><br />On the big screen, it becomes apparent that Edie does more than merely command all of the attention available at any given moment when she's onscreen. She raises questions. Her costumes require the film crew to ask questions that allow her to deliver the monologue du jour, the photographs she pulls out require questions about her brothers, and why they are nowhere to be found, or about her history, or her mother's. Her very presence raises in the house raises questions The question of why she's there, when she'd endlessly saying she'd rather be in New York. The question of why she left New York in the first place, when she doesn't seem to have wanted to. Neither of these questions ever receives anything like a satisfactory answer, in the film or elsewhere. Talking to Gail Sheehy, in 1971, for instance, Edie says that she had to come home because "Mother got the cats." That's hardly an answer, now is it? It is a funny dodge though, and unanswerable too, I'll give her that.<br /><br />In any tedious sales training, one of the first things you learn is that the person asking the questions is always the one who holds the power. In the case of "Grey Gardens," Edie didn't have to say a word to take control. No one else ever stood a chance.<br /><br />After her mother's death in 1977 Edie had a cabaret act for a little while, at a place on West 13th st. Her singing, apparently, was not so great, no big surprise there, to anyone who's seen the film. But she ended each performance with question and answer sessions which, judging from the snippets to be found, down towards the ends of all the bad reviews, were kind of brilliant. One night, for instance, when asked her opinion of premarital sex, Edie replied, "It's economical." I'm choosing to see a secret life inside that answer. One in which Edie got to have, love masticate, chew and even eat a little cake of her very own. You, of course, should do with it what you will.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-17736079358731630832007-06-21T14:00:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:25.027-08:00Choose Your Own City, and Bridge and More, in Chuck Palahniuk's "Rant"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcxPlLK6z9voCKe6XFA_HCDI8f0segiNoioFB87jgTevomtIQBStANs0Tvsw6-tf_v-kFhi9c4ShvG0Sp4gHbyFx0RIzadTHnQTRk1sxFu-g5hwUjQQhKLZc3QI0ZzKJhvUyFhrFpCbYOP/s1600-h/n209680.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcxPlLK6z9voCKe6XFA_HCDI8f0segiNoioFB87jgTevomtIQBStANs0Tvsw6-tf_v-kFhi9c4ShvG0Sp4gHbyFx0RIzadTHnQTRk1sxFu-g5hwUjQQhKLZc3QI0ZzKJhvUyFhrFpCbYOP/s320/n209680.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5078625625758875602" /></a><br />Did you read any of those "Choose Your Own Adventure "books, when you were a kid? I remember one year, somewhere around fourth or fifth grade, when I plowed through a ton of the things. In case they somehow passed you by, they tended to be mystery or adventure stories, set in exotic, if not terribly realistic, locales, and every few pages, there'd be some sort of cliff hanger, requiring you to make a choice about what the main character ought to do next, and to turn to one page or another, depending on the choice you'd made. The stories themselves weren't always all that interesting, but it was the openness of their narratives, limited as it was, that I loved about those books. Until the day came when I understood the limits they imposed, understood that I could exhaust the choices offered by any "Choose Your Own Adventure" book in a single afternoon, and moved on to better books entirely. Books that made me look a little harder to find the places where they opened up whole worlds of choices, not just into their own narratives, but into my life, if I simply took the trouble to look for them. Books in which the possibilities were limitless. But limited as they were, it was those "Choose Your Own Adventure," books that first taught me that a narrative doesn't have to follow one straight line.<br /><br />I hadn't thought about those books for years and years, until I came across this passage, in Chuck Palahniuk's latest book, "Rant", "picture time travel as nothing more than knocking your half-read book to the floor and losing your place. You pick up the book and open the page to a scene too early or too late, but never exactly where you'd been reading." While those lines didn't prompt me to start tossing my books across the floor in an effort to get back to, maybe, the spring of 2000, so I could try to explain to all of those foolish Nader voters exactly how much of a difference there really was between Gore and Bush, it did, by reminding me of those long ago page turning choices, serve to help me figure out at least a part of just what it was I liked so very much about the reading of "Rant."<br /><br />If there's a working writer more subversive than Palahniuk right now, who's managing to get his or her books published, and on to those sought after Barnes and Noble shelves, I can't think who it is. In the world of "Rant," Palahniuk steadfastly refuses to give us any of the things we take for granted in a novel. Just about the only point of stability is the story's, and it's erstwhile protagonist's, point of origin, the rural town of Middleton, everything else is up for grabs. And by everything, I really do mean everything. All the things that matter most to us, both in our lives and in our reading, from time, place, identity, the nature of reality, possession of truth, to the sources and uses of power, that's a big one, wherever you turn, isn't it?<br /><br />"Rant" carries the subtitle, "An Oral Biography of Buster Casey," so we aren't dealing with a consistent, coherent narrative voice. Instead, we've got a plethora of voices, not a chorus, blending easily together into a harmonious whole, but a disparate bunch of storytellers, each with his or her own version of events, his or her own interests to protect, secrets to reveal or to keep, reputations to construct or to maintain. Buster Casey, also known as Rant, is, of course, the silence at the center of this vocal storm. He may or may not be dead, at this particular point in time. But wherever he is, whatever he's doing, the one thing he's not doing is talking, that much is certain. <br /><br />Everyone else is though. From his childhood years in Middleton, we hear the voices of his mother and father, early friends and enemies. Then his city years bring in the voices of his girlfriend Echo, other friends and acquaintances, plus the government officials, and epidemiologists, thrown in for good measure. Everyone who ever met Rant, and more than a few who didn't, has something to say about him, now that he himself is nowhere to be found.<br /><br />Predictably enough, out of all these voices, emerges not one story of Rant's life, but three, at least, depending on which threads you pull together, where you find coherence, whose truth compels, whose bores, whose leaves you disbelieving. Rant could have been the superspreader of a new strain of rabies, so virulent it's lead to something like martial law, in this dystopian near future, and threatens to wipe out approximately half of the population. Or, Rant could have been a time traveling near super hero, who's discovered just how his destiny's been manipulated, and is determined to do some mysterious sort of something about it. Or, he could just be a dumb, good looking, half crazy, country boy, who came to the city, went all the way crazy once he got there, and committed a spectacular suicide. Or he could be all four at once, or someone else altogether. I love a book that asks me work this hard, leaves so many blanks for me to fill in, so many connections for me to make myself, or not.<br /><br />And that is part of the brilliance of "Rant," the work it requires of the reader. By virtue of it's structural conceit, the oral history form, it is exceedingly light on physical detail. A we know about what Rant looked like, for instance, is that he had green eyes, stained black teeth, and that he was covered up in scars from childhood animal bites. His girlfriend, Echo, we know has an undersized right arm and leg, courtesy of a mysterious childhood car accident, which killed both her parents. People who are more or less average looking, without deformities or disfigurements, go essentially undescribed, leaving us free to imagine them however we see fit, without limits. The descriptions of Rant and Echo, when they come, function most decidedly as reminders of the author's right to impose limitations when he chooses, coming as they do after both characters have been hanging around in our minds for quite awhile. We've been hearing about Rant's green eyed good looks, his popularity with the girls of Middleton, and picturing him thusly, long before we hear a peep about his blackened teeth. Similarly, we've heard Echo described as a sex worker, heard her talking about having all kinds of sex with rant, been influenced by her pretty name, well before learning of her "withered arm," or facial tics. Palahniuk really doesn't want us getting too comfortable inside his story. Not here, not there, not anywhere. The world he's created is a slippery slidey kind of a place, but it's his creation, and we're well advised to remember that fact.<br /><br />In the midst of all this slipperiness, Rant inevitably leaves the relative solidity of Middleton, for "The City." That's all it's ever called. Not Chicago or Los Angeles or Seattle or Miami or New York, just, "The City." Allowing us to fill in that blank with the cities of our choice. So for me, that of course meant he'd headed for the city of New York, as all sensible people leaving small towns in search of something ill defined and other will do. Even though much of the story hinged on cars, for me "The City," was this city, and that was that. Any time a gas station was mentioned, I pictured that BP at the corner of East Houston and Broadway. And as for the pivotal scene when a hipster type drives his car right off a bridge and into some nameless river? Well, that would be the Williamsburg Bridge of course, no problem there.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-38436121959001197432007-06-17T13:51:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:25.190-08:00Paris Hilton Jailed for... Driving? That's what you get for moving to LA!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNx6W079DfF4uXtGbj4WHdj8NRnUU0AhBhDJcIJzrbJgCck4e5_ybvwKSpRxf_UOOL06kVYJdJKOwEgaOa2SCl0Kcd-bXGJgrgqE2hke44e1TkR6D4mwqNMr12qrjTEky2uqG-XZH7JO_E/s1600-h/paris_hilton_at_the_beach.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNx6W079DfF4uXtGbj4WHdj8NRnUU0AhBhDJcIJzrbJgCck4e5_ybvwKSpRxf_UOOL06kVYJdJKOwEgaOa2SCl0Kcd-bXGJgrgqE2hke44e1TkR6D4mwqNMr12qrjTEky2uqG-XZH7JO_E/s320/paris_hilton_at_the_beach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5078623224872157122" /></a><br />Walking around the West Village on any ordinary old day, lingering over coffee in the Grey Dog cafe, when I should be writing, or hanging out with my dogs in Washington Square Park, when I really should be writing, if I notice someone who looks vaguely familiar, she's much more likely to be Drew Barrymore, or Sarah Jessica Parker, perhaps, than anyone I've ever actually met. I've gotten so used to this fact of downtown life, that, I must confess, it takes me completely by surprise when it occasionally happens that whoever I've been stealing those furtive glances at, trying to place, to remember exactly which movie, what HBO series I know her from, comes up and says hello, isn't Chloe Sevigny after all, but is instead that girl I used to work with, the one I'd forgotten all about.<br /><br />Things don't really work that way in most places, you know. For one thing, if you go around furtively glancing at strangers in most cities, people will think you're a little creepy. I know this, because I've been spending more time outside of New York lately, specifically in Alabama, where I grew up. When I'm down there, if someone looks familiar, I've learned it is extraordinarily unlikely to be because she is an Olson twin, or Parker Posey, and very likely indeed to be because she's someone I went to high school with, or elementary school even. But the fact of familiarity never ceases to bring its own brand of disorientation, all the same. <br /><br />I'll probably be down there next weekend, in fact, when the Gay Pride march hits Manhattan. So I'll miss, among other things, all those ersatz celebrities making their way down to Christopher St., those gorgeous drag queens, with their meticulous attention to detail, their impossible perfection, and the different sort of vertigo their presence always induces. And in the midst of all that beauty, those Madonnas, Anna Nicoles, Marilyns, and all the rest, I feel pretty safe in guessing there'll be bound to be a Paris Hilton or two somewhere, having the time of her life, while the real thing is languishing away, in the LA county jail.<br /><br />Paris has become the embodiment of all things LA to such an extent, that it's easy to forget that she did in fact start out right here in Manhattan, was born here, no less. But think back, if you will, to those halcyon, turn of the century days, when Paris and her pals dominated the Post's Page 6, with their underage drinking, table top dancing, club hopping ways. Remember those days? Fun times, all around! Then, of course, she hit it big with "The Simple Life," and headed off to Hollywood, hoping, we were told, to further her imaginary acting career.<br /><br />That hasn't really worked out so well, as far as I can tell. If you've seen so much as a second of Paris's film debut, "The House of Wax," which she once mysteriously described as being the thing of which she was the very most proud of ever having done, you have a pretty good idea as to why. Paris has been wildly successful, though, as we all know, at turning herself into a brand. She's pulled the silliness of "The Simple Life," through into it's impending fifth season, signed seemingly endless licensing deals, and reputedly gets oodles of cash just for showing up at other people's parties. And perhaps most impressively, she's successfully convinced the entire world of her own attractiveness. This one's always stumped me most, as I find her singularly strange looking, and not in any sort of exotic, jolie laide, kind of way. It's more that she's always looked to me as though she'd had way too much work done, before she'd ever turned eighteen, unlikely though that is. But as they say, there's no accounting for tastes, and a good publicist can work wonders for any girl.<br /><br />These days, Paris's looks have taken such an LA turn, it's hard to imagine her anywhere in Manhattan, if you think about it. That blond, blond hair, the glossy lips, all of that mascara, and of course the permatan. Not to mention the colorful wardrobe, and the constant tiny dogs with whom she chooses to accessorize. She'd fit right in with the other tourists in Time Square, I suppose, or possibly on the Upper East Side, but I really can't see her happily partying with the Olson twins downtown, for instance, not without a serious style overhaul, can you? <br /><br />And that's kind of a shame, because watching all of Paris's legal woes unfold this last week or so, one thoughts been running through my mind. I can't help thinking that, if only Paris had stayed here at home, in New York, she'd never have gotten into all of this trouble in the first place. If only for the simple fact that here, nobody drives, not even the celebrities.<br /><br />Paris's problems all began with an LA DUI, last September, after which her license was suspended. For some reason though, she just couldn't bring herself to stop driving, was, predictably, pulled over twice more, and wound up with the jail sentence she's now serving, in the "special needs" section of the LA County jail, whatever that means, exactly. <br /><br />LA's celebrities do seem to have these endless legal problems, don't they? As I write this, Paris, of course, is doing her time, while her off and on best friend, Nicole Richie, awaits sentencing for a DUI arrest last December, and her sometimes rival, Lindsay Lohan, is in rehab, with a DUI charge, at the very least, stemming from a car crash last month, hanging over her expertly styled head. And if we look back, just a little, we have to remember Mel Gibson's DUI arrest, with those bonus PR points he earned for his bizarre anti-Semitic ranting and raving, just last summer. And who could forget Robert Downey Jr.'s epic legal battles, culminating, as they did, with his year long imprisonment? His problems, like Paris's, began when he was pulled over for speeding by the LAPD, and happened to have a surprising smorgasbord of drugs, from heroin to crack, and an unloaded gun, in his car at the time.<br /><br />I'm not suggesting that New York's celebrities never get into any trouble with the law. Of course they do, they're only human, after all. But when they do, it's usually for something more interesting than a mere DUI, which I personally appreciate. Naomi Campbell throwing cell phones, or whatever object happens to be handy, at her assistants, or Russell Crowe having tantrums at the Mercer Hotel,, if nothing else our celebrities are never boring. And then of course, 50 Cent had to go driving around in midtown last fall, almost inevitably leading to his arrest, because really, celebrities just shouldn't get behind the wheel, whichever coast they're on. No good ever seems to come from it.<br /><br />Nor would I want to imply that there's less celebrity intoxication happening in our fair city than in any other. Sadly, I don't get invited to those parties, so I haven't got a clue. I'm just saying that, when celebrities here engage in whatever overindulging they may or may not be prone to, the opportunity does not arise for them to drive, and place themselves in any further legal jeopardy, not to mention danger. <br /><br />So Paris, in the unlikely event that you might be reading this, once you've paid your debt to society, you really might want to consider moving back home. Here, we have these great things called cabs. They can make a starlet's life ever so much easier!Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-5566442257463375262007-06-16T13:57:00.001-07:002008-12-10T16:30:26.301-08:00Small Towns and Big Surprises; Adrienne Shelley's "Waitress"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjveA9DTFc9aOBNcvViul0g1AVdOIMQp52R-PmC57Ay-RtsAxoeTuWMku-KjrDDAr-vc57gg9X2lFlV5-uOnXyC5Kin0hlcD36L6NT6qi81qXy5y9SQVY3BJgMejoFd4FF3R9xVVo_zd9IH/s1600-h/waitressII.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5076769641541255090" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjveA9DTFc9aOBNcvViul0g1AVdOIMQp52R-PmC57Ay-RtsAxoeTuWMku-KjrDDAr-vc57gg9X2lFlV5-uOnXyC5Kin0hlcD36L6NT6qi81qXy5y9SQVY3BJgMejoFd4FF3R9xVVo_zd9IH/s320/waitressII.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Most of the writing about director Adrienne Shelley's latest, and last, film, "Waitress," has been at least as much about her murder last fall in her West Village office shortly after its completion, as about the work itself. Given that Shelley went to all the trouble of writing, directing, and even acting in "Waitress," it's seemed to me pretty grotesquely unfair that her death has not only deprived her, and her audience, of another thirty or forty years of productive life, but is also going a long way towards preventing us from viewing her last film through clear eyes. So I wanted to wait a little while to see "Waitress," to give myself a better chance to see it on its own terms, in the context of Shelley's quirky and distinguished body of work, rather than through the long shadow cast by her death.<br /><br />Shelley began her film career in the early nineties, starring in a pair of indie favorites, written and directed by Hal Hartley, "Trust," and "The Unbelievable Truth." Even in these, his first two films, Hartley was already working with what would become his signature, off kilter style. His tales of people on the edge always feel as though they're occurring within a slightly alternate universe. One very like our own, but just a little chillier, and operating under its own unique rules of logic. Characters in Hal Hartley's movies don't act quite like you or I would, they act like, well, characters in Hal Hartley movies, there's really just no other way of putting it. They talk a lot, and think a lot, and are forever on the brink of something undefined, and are prone to self destructive, sudden decisions, that rarely have quite the consequences they would here, in this reality you and I inhabit. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. When Shelley was onscreen though, Hartley was able to rely on her slight, but commanding presence, the warmth she brought to her performances, and her frizzy haired, otherworldly looks, to pull his pieces together into something tightly bound. As Maria, the pregnant cheerleader at the heart of Trust, for instance, Shelley provided the center of gravity through whom the audience could enter the film's cracked world, and around whom the other characters could all twist and turn. In her absence, Hartley's emphasis on style over substance has often been more glaring, and his tendency towards the cerebral over the soulful more apparent.<br /><br />By the late nineties, Shelley had shifted her focus from acting to writing and directing films of her own. Her first two features, 1997's, "Sudden Manhattan," and 1999's, "I'll Take You There," both have the feeling of a filmmaker in search of her own voice. "Sudden Manhattan" is the story of Donna, who is trying to be a writer in the West Village, and may or may not be losing her mind, but is unquestionably surrounded by a pack of lunatics. It is very funny, and very loopy, and very much one of those movies people either love or just can't stand. As is "I'll Take You There," in which Ally Sheedy's Lucy has most definitely lost at least a bit of her mind, but gets enough of it back by the end to charm her captive love interest into sticking around, even once he figures out that her gun isn't the slightest bit loaded. These films show an confidence uncommon in a beginning writer and director, as well as Hartley's influence, in their willingness to challenge the audience to take them on their own terms, to join them in their unlikely, temporary, worlds.<br /><br />"Waitress" undoubtedly benefited from having a higher budget than either of its predecessors. The sets look better, the editing is smoother, the lighting is prettier, all of that certainly helps. But more than that, it's clearly the work of a more practiced writer, and a director whose gained clarity of vision. Watching either "Sudden Manhattan," and "I'll Take You There," felt like being caught up in a whirlwind of sorts. They picked you up, tossed you around, then dropped you off when they were done with you. Watching "Waitress," is a different kind of experience altogether. Slower, sweeter, and much more of a sense that someone is actually in control of everything that's going on.<br /><br />Unlike Shelley's first two films, no part of "Waitress," takes place anywhere near Manhattan. Instead, it is set in the kind of small town that is nowhere and everywhere all at once. It feels vaguely southern, but really, could be found off just about any exit ramp off any highway. Or rather, it's the kind of small town we'd like to think is waiting for us out there, if we could ever get past all the Wal-Mart's, and the Cost-Cos. It's a fairy tale kind of place, sleepy and pretty, with lots of trees, and a pie diner, where Keri Russell's title character, Jenna works.<br /><br />Jenna is, of course, a waitress. But more than that, she makes pies. Amazing concoctions of pies, with names like, "Earl Kills Me Because I'm Having An Affair," pie, or "I Don't Want Earl's Baby," pie. The scenes of Jenna alone in the diner's grubby kitchen, making her pies, are gorgeous. She's absorbed in the moment, doing what she loves, spooning out the filling for, perhaps, her "Chocolate Mousse Falling in Love Pie." I had no idea Keri Russell, of "Felicity" fame, could be such a good actress.<br /><br />Jenna's husband, Earl, is horrible. In every way imaginable, just horrible. Yet, she finds herself pregnant, and not especially happy about it. As she says she, recognizes "this baby's right to thrive," but isn't feeling any motherly love towards it. On the contrary, as her pregnancy progresses, the baby seems more and more like part of the trap that will keep her stuck in her life, with the horrible Earl, forever.<br /><br />Not that there aren't any bright spots at all in Jenna's life. She's got her two fellow waitresses, played by Cheryl Hines & Adrienne Shelley. Hines and Shelley each gets a good subplot of her own, and the rapport the three women share feels real, in a way that is rarely captured onscreen. They work and play together, bump up against each other's soft spots, and do the best they can for one another, in the end. Friends like that can take a girl a long way, if she's paying attention to what she's got there.<br /><br />And then there's Jenna's doctor. Dr. Pomatter. He's new in town, and married, and somehow or other, becomes Jenna's boyfriend, horrible, jealous husband, notwithstanding. As Jenna says, in a long letter to her unborn, unwanted baby, who she often addresses as, "Damn Baby," their affair is all about the sex in the beginning, but then shifts into something else, when she starts really talking to him, and finds herself "addicted to saying things and having them matter."<br /><br />There's old Joe too, played by Andy Griffith, the cranky owner of the diner where Jenna works. Nobody likes old Joe but Jenna, and, in this fairy tale of a film, he turns out to be a most unlikely fairy godfather of sorts.<br /><br />It won't come as much of a surprise to anyone to hear that, as much as Jenna dislikes her baby throughout her pregnancy, referring to it as an alien, a parasite, and, of course, "Damn Baby," the minute the baby is born, and in her arms, she falls head over heels in love with her. Is, in fact, completely undone by how much she loves the little parasite, once she's looking at her. The biggest surprise to me about Waitress was just how good Keri Russell is in it. I couldn't bear "Felicity," and didn't expect to like her in anything ever. But I have to admit, she's great here. Her Jenna grounds the film's whimsy, serves up suffering and elation in equal measure, and gives Shelley's fairy tale world just the dash of realism it needs to work.<br /><br />Of course, now that I've seen "Waitress," and know just how much I like it, I can't help thinking about the fact that it's the last film we'll have from Adrienne Shelley. She has left me wanting much, much, more, and I'm sure I'm not the only one.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-8565916585398270032007-06-01T13:46:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:27.688-08:00The Waiting Game in Union Square: Al Gore Comes to Town<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUsAirRCTt85R_LKl_ssNNe-xZslKD5QPvTCOsV-WHiSnj8KaH6-u_Yh7X_xvmjuhH8m93rmEeDqq5o0x0Ff9tFXZ5EDYJMK4Vrj-WXAc0muhyz18R3XXZgISkzSV1S4T7fQ1zAtlWR0TE/s1600-h/gore5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5076766587819507618" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUsAirRCTt85R_LKl_ssNNe-xZslKD5QPvTCOsV-WHiSnj8KaH6-u_Yh7X_xvmjuhH8m93rmEeDqq5o0x0Ff9tFXZ5EDYJMK4Vrj-WXAc0muhyz18R3XXZgISkzSV1S4T7fQ1zAtlWR0TE/s320/gore5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />In case you haven't heard, Al Gore came through New York last week. His first stop was on Thursday, at the 92nd st. Y, for and interview with Charlie Rose. Those $50 tickets had sold out before I even knew they'd gone on sale. And, honestly, 92nd st. is just so far uptown it feels to me like another planet altogether. So it's entirely possible that it might never have occurred to me to go to that event, even had there been an infinite supply of tickets. I'm not even sure what train I'd need to take to get all the way up there.<br /><br />The next day though, last Friday, he hit the Barnes and Noble in Union Square, for a short talk about his new book, "The Assault on Reason," and a signing. Much more conveniently located, not to mention free, and altogether impossible to resist, at least for the overpoliticizied likes of me.<br /><br />And apparently for plenty of other people too. The event was held on the fourth floor, and the place was packed. In keeping with the biggest surprise of the day, which was how unprepared the Barnes & Noble staffers seemed to be for the size of crowd, attendance estimates have varied wildly, from 400 all the way to 750 people. Whatever the number was exactly, there were a lot of us, all there to see what the former Vice President had to say, and willing to wait, and wait, and wait some more, in a very orderly fashion, in our lines, that snaked all the way through the fiction, memoir, and, if I'm recalling correctly, even eastern religion sections, as the day went on.<br /><br />Ordinarily, I am terrible at waiting in line. Horrible. Patience is not one of my virtues, not by a long shot. This one though, was not so bad. I'd even go so far as to say that it was kind of fun, in a strange sort of way. Not just because we were all united in our wait, and in our frustration with the confusing, contradictory instructions given by the Barnes & Noble staffers as we waited, and not just because we'd all read, or were all in the process of reading, the same book, though all of that certainly helped. But mostly, because everyone there, at least everyone who I passed by, had one question on their minds, one I've been asking for months and months now, one the media dances around here and there, now and then, but never gets too far with. You know the one, don't you? The is he or isn't he, will he or won't he? Will Al Gore be running for president in 2008, or not?<br /><br />Granted, it's just one question, but, fortunately, given the length of that fourth floor line, it's the kind of question people can go back and forth and back again about for hours. There's the fact of the book itself, of course, and its timing. It does seem to have become almost a requirement, doesn't it? To write a book when launching one's presidential campaign? And Gore's endless iterations within that book of his own personal religious faith. Again, a bizarre requirement for those with aspirations to the oval office, in twenty first century America, but not really the kind of thing people go around blathering about much otherwise. And then, the book tour, offers such a perfect opportunity to test the presidential waters, which, given Gore's reception in Union Square, and the speed with which his book shot up to number one on both Amazon the New York Times bestseller lists, would seem to be looking pretty welcoming indeed. So there's all that.<br /><br />And did I mention how much everyone in line wanted him to run? Very, very much, that's how much. There was definitely something comforting, after all these months of hearing that my choices had boiled down to Hillary or Obama, and I'd better make up my mind, between those two, lickety split, that I was not the only one holding out, waiting to see if Gore might not come through after all. It's not that there's anything wrong with Hillary or Obama. Not at all. In another year, I think I'd be delighted by either one of them. But somehow, this year, the two of them feel like children playing presidential candidates, and Gore feels like the grown up, who knows how to do it properly. That's the best description I can come up with, for the trouble I have with the two of them, and the reason I'm still playing this waiting game with Gore.<br /><br />Because in spite of all the reasons to think he's going to run, there is that one little glitch in the works. He won't say he's running. But then, he also won't say he's definitely, absolutely, positively, not running. This, we all agreed as we waited in our lines, was enough to drive a person mad. He's not running until he's running. Or he's running until he's not running. He's the world's biggest tease, is what it comes down to.<br /><br />This is around about where we were, in line, in our conversation, when Gore showed up, to begin his talk. He was, I must add, surprisingly prompt, and very much the new Gore he's been for the last year or so. Smart and funny, comfortable in his own skin, and most importantly, saying the things no one else on the political scene seems to be saying. He hit the high points of the new book, talking about what exactly it is that's gone wrong in our political discourse, how it has happened that we know more about Paris Hilton's life than we do about what's really going on in Iraq.<br /><br />Then he went on to talk more specifically about the Bush administration. Talking about the feeling he has, which we in the audience shared, that something has gone terribly wrong in America. One of the biggest applause lines was a near direct quote from the book's introduction, about it's being too easy to place the blame for what's gone wrong on one political party or one president, because we are all equally responsible for what happens in this country, and for what is done by this country around the world.<br /><br />As much as I had personally responded to that line when I'd read it, I was surprised to find the rest of the audience reacting in the same way. After all, it's not really what you usually think of as a crowd pleaser, to be asked to take personal responsibility for horrible mistakes. But please the crowd it did.<br /><br />More than that, though, as we applauded his speech, and prepared to move into the next phase of our waiting, to get our books signed, it reminded us of why exactly it was that we were there. Why we were willing to do all this waiting for him, in and out of that line. Because he has become the person who tells us things we might not want to hear, but have in fact been longing for. Because he has stopped playing the endless games of political calculus that keep Hillary and Obama and all the rest of them so careful of each and every utterance. Tell me something clear and true, even if it's hard, and I'll wait around, to hear what else you have to say.<br /><br />I'm still waiting to hear what Gore's planning to do about the 2008 elections, but I did get my two copies of his book signed. At least that's something.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-10386841097894708822007-05-25T15:45:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:27.884-08:00"The Assault on Reason," by Al Gore; Politics of Substance? Seriously?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMxhUqoMXhToMybX_c9HZq8E0v5pBj0G7P9r8UUNncNBqM80BkdF-cXlT7tyg-kS7OVJk9vo7QfHVt3EMaKX7OQNc03V7f6EqfFml16tgIqB4DtkD0ulJzLWUq6H3b2oFIn7j4HYyEgc8l/s1600-h/gore.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068633907487926658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMxhUqoMXhToMybX_c9HZq8E0v5pBj0G7P9r8UUNncNBqM80BkdF-cXlT7tyg-kS7OVJk9vo7QfHVt3EMaKX7OQNc03V7f6EqfFml16tgIqB4DtkD0ulJzLWUq6H3b2oFIn7j4HYyEgc8l/s320/gore.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I'm sure there've been lots of great things going on downtown this week, there always are. There've probably been gallery openings galore, movies here there and everywhere, bands playing up a storm, and I hear the weather hasn't been half bad either. So I hope you've been having a great time with it all. I wouldn't know much about any of that though . I've been holed up inside all week, busy with my favorite new toy, Al Gore's latest book, "The Assault on Reason." Right this second, I'm so in love with our once, and if you ask me, hopefully future, next president, that I'd even consider having his babies, and<br />I'm really not the kind of girl who suffers from baby cravings, generally speaking. But I'm pretty sure the odds of Tipper quietly stepping aside on my behalf are minimal at best, so I'll take what I can get. And what I can get, in this instance, "The Assault on Reason," is a more than adequate consolation prize.<br /><br />I didn't always feel this way about Al Gore. Not even close. Back in 2000, like a lot of other people, I thought he was kind of just fine. Better than that other guy, but not anything to get all excited about. I didn't do anything crazy like voting for Nader, and I wasn't one of those people going around saying things like "Bush, Gore, what's the difference?", the differences were abundantly clear to me, even then, but I just wasn't that into him. That all changed when I heard the speech he delivered on Jan. 16, 2006, Martin Luther King Day, at Constitution Hall.<br /><br />In that speech, Gore became the first national political figure to call into question, loudly, passionately, and cogently, the attacks the Bush administration had been making on our constitution. Finally, in that moment, I heard someone saying out loud, on TV, all the things I'd been thinking and talking about for the past five years, and doing so incredibly well. It was one of the best political speeches I'd ever heard. Since then, I've been ranting about it to anyone who'd listen, and watching Gore's every move, looking for any clues they may offer as to his plans for 2008. And of course, he insists he isn't running, but then again, he's not not running either. He may just be trying to kill me.<br /><br />I'd vaguely known he had a new book coming out this month, but had assumed it was going to be another about global warming. And granted, he's right about that, and it's all very important, but, to be honest, it's a little boring to me at this point. So I was not so much planning to rush out to the bookstore and grab the first copy I could get my hands on, of another book about the melting glaciers and boiling oceans. If I were a better person, I'm sure I'd have an inexhaustible interest in all of that, but I'm just being honest here. Save the planet, I'm all for it, even glad to help out if I can, but I don't really want to read about it anymore right now.<br /><br />I did end up rushing out first thing Tuesday morning for "The Assault on Reason," though, because it's not about global warming after all. It's about, well, as the title suggests, the alarmingly diminished place of reason in our public discourse, and, ultimately, the slow disappearance of our public discourse altogether. Once again, Gore's gone and gotten at the very things I'm ranting and raving about all the time.<br /><br />For a political geek like me, "The Assault on Reason," was a real page turner. Once I picked it up, I really did not want to put it down until I was all done. Gore asks the important question of how we as a nation have allowed our public discourse to arrive at this point, of so little debate, so little reason, and so much fear and secrecy, and offers some compelling answers.<br /><br />There are moments, though, when "The Assault on Reason," feels almost like two books crammed into one. First, there's the more abstract question of American political life and public discourse, it's history and future, which is certainly worthy of a book of it's own. Then, there's the very specific subject of the Bush administration, and the ways in which it's policies and practices have pushed us in certain directions. Again, a topic that could fill shelves full of books on it's own. One thing is very clear, Gore has really just about had it with Bush, and his lawless ways, and the impunity he's enjoyed.<br /><br />There's not much in the way of new information about Bush and company, but given the inexplicable timidity of our media these days, there is something incredibly refreshing about having it all laid out, clearly and cleanly, page after page, with footnotes and everything. Fact after indisputable fact. Here's what was done, here's what was not done. Iraq, Cheney's energy commission, 9/11 warnings, on and on. Fact based writing. Lovely stuff, that.<br /><br />More interesting to me, ultimately, are Gore's thoughts on how America has allowed itself to arrive at this point. As he notes in his introduction, "It is too easy - and too partisan - to simply place the blame on the policies of President George W. Bush. We are all responsible for the decisions our country makes." And somehow, or other, an awful lot of us, at some point along the line, decided that was more responsibility than we wanted to handle, and bowed out, not all that gracefully either.<br /><br />Gore, for the most part, pins the blame on TV's having taken the place of print as the main media outlet for news. In addition to everything we usually hear about television news being entertainment driven, profit driven, biased to the right, left, wherever, and just plain bad, Gore argues that print media, back in the revolutionary day, was more interactive than television. That, I'm not so I'm convinced of. I'd like to believe that any old literate citizen could, once upon a time, walk into a newspaper office with a well reasoned opinion piece, get it printed up and disseminated to his or her peers, but I'm pretty skeptical on that one.<br /><br />The larger point he's making, though, is that our public political discourse has somehow stopped being much of a two way street. Information comes at us, through our televisions, radios, and even through our newspapers, but we don't have much of a chance to talk back in any meaningful way, nor are we really doing much talking to each other. The solution Gore offers is a utopian vision of the internet, with it's low bar for entry, citizen journalists, and the possibility it creates for anyone, anywhere in the world to communicate with anyone else, at least in theory. I'm big fan of the internet too, but I'm not so sure I'm buying it as the big solution to this particular problem either.<br /><br />While Gore's critique of television as a one way medium is certainly valid, as is his suggestion that people will feel less attached to a political process in which they feel they have no means of engaging in dialogue, is spending more time at home alone with our computers really the answer? Gore ignores the extent to which television was, and remains, an isolating influence on American culture. Rather than going out into shared public space, looking for company, conversation, and entertainment, we started spending more and more of our time at home, alone, with our TV screens. Granted, the internet does put us in front of interactive screens, but a screen is not another person, the quality of the interaction will never be the same. It remains a very private sort of discourse, never truly becoming public, subject to the scrutiny of witnesses, and the clear light of day.<br /><br />All that TV we're watching isn't doing anyone any good, it's true. But bringing one more illusory companion into our solitary lives won't help matters much. An return to a culture of actual public discourse, between people, in public, however, might go a long way towards setting things right. All of that said, I give Gore tremendous credit for being the person to begin this much needed conversation, to publicly acknowledge the presence of something very, very wrong here, something deeper and more widespread than the actions of a single White House resident, however intellectually dishonest and morally vacuous that resident may be. Though he states the many cases against Bush, he refuses to fall into the easy trap of blame, and so denies his reader that safety net as well. Gently, Gore reminds us of our own ultimate accountability for what is done in our name, and of our responsibility to reinvigorate our public discourse, one way or another.<br /><br />And on that note, I think I'll take my own advice, and go find out what's happening outside right now myself. There's a book signing in Union Square today that I’ve been thinking I ought to check out!Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-38583558302860982462007-05-11T13:59:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:28.322-08:00Once Upon a Time Downtown; Witches on Wall St. & Rubyfruit in the Village<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SerEfI5049zp_VnJ8vKr0mZQ4VLQ5HhgOgJXnvGctMmjZ0Zjpqmo_oqq_egQmUE9HGnYE7ZW7NtL57HOszJMDXuKi_i81BuqBtopTHe3CCJzG0RRsoSpNcN38DPdKswHxeSs98h9kyEu/s1600-h/katemillettt.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SerEfI5049zp_VnJ8vKr0mZQ4VLQ5HhgOgJXnvGctMmjZ0Zjpqmo_oqq_egQmUE9HGnYE7ZW7NtL57HOszJMDXuKi_i81BuqBtopTHe3CCJzG0RRsoSpNcN38DPdKswHxeSs98h9kyEu/s320/katemillettt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063411270336889186" /></a><br />I watch CSPAN the way normal people watch ESPN, complete with yelling back at my tv and the occasional drinking game. So when someone whose opinon means a lot to me says that,,when I write about politics, while he might agree with my opinions, admire the logic or the thoughts expressed, he can't find the same connection with my words he does when I write about almost any other thing, because he is not a very political person, I have a hard time understanding what it is he means,. It's something he's tells me often enough. But whenever he says it in reference to my writing, I find myself surprised, in defiance of all reason. Partly, I suppose, because being such a ridiculously political person myself, the idea of someone who isn't, is as alien to me as those people who do calculus for fun, or the ones who don't eat sugar. I know they're out there, somewhere, I've even met a few . But I still have trouble believing they exist. So there is that.<br /><br />More than that though, I try to write, most of the time, about the things that matter most to me. Otherwise, really, what's the point? So when I do write about politics, the writing itself doesn't feel any different from writing about any of the other things that make their way onto my pages, from my dogs. and my relationships, to life, death, sex and sanity, and the ways they all roil around together in my head, our downtown neighborhoods, and the whole big world at large. Writing about politics, for me, is part and parcel of all of that. The work of the writing itself feels just the same. Those times it doesn't, no matter what the subject is, when it comes too hard or too easily, or from the wrong place altogether, I know something's just not right. . So, when the writing has gone more or less the way it goes when it goes well, it comes as a surprise to hear from any reader that the reading of the finished piece feels somehow different from the reading of any other, just because of what it happens to be about. Maybe what I'm trying to get at here is simply that, for me, the political doesn't exist within its own cleanly defined category, neatly cut off and held apart from the personal. For me, the political feels very personal, so much so, I can't imagine trying to tease the two apart, to figure out where one begins, the other ends. <br /><br />Flip that around, and you get the old seventies feminist slogan, "the personal is political." Hearing it today, we hear a reminder of the unintended repercussions all of our small everyday can have, on the lives of people we will likely never meet, and the continued existence of our neighborhoods as we know them. Spending the extra dollar on a bag of fair trade coffee, or going a block out of my way to East West books instead of Barnes and Noble, can feel like such inconveniences, in the moment when I have to choose. It's so easy to forget, at least it is for me, that these small things matter, that I am just one person on a planet teeming with its billions, and that whatever might be easiest for me at any given moment, is not necessarily the best thing, for anybody else. Not for the Ethiopian coffee farmer, chances are, or anyone trying to keep an independent bookstore going in the West Village, in spite of all those Barnes and Nobles everywhere All of that is true. It's real and important, and much too easily forgotten. But it's not much to do with what I mean.<br /><br />And even though it's what we think of when we hear that phrase these days, it isn't really what those seventies feminists meant by it in the first place either. Rita Mae Brown, racking up degrees at NYU, and writing her raucous first novel, "Rubyfruit Jungle." A group called WITCH, the Women's International Terrorist Conspiracy from Hell, declaring capitalism the true oppressor, and putting in a surprise appearance on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, dressed in their witchy best, one afternoon in 1969. Kate Millet in her studio on the Bowery, working away in quiet anonymity on art, life, and doctoral dissertation, until that dissertation was published as "Sexual Politics," and became possibly the least likely bestseller in the history of books. Shulabeth Firestone and Ellen Willis meeting with their Redstockings and issuing manifestoes from a lower east side apartment. All of these women, and many more besides, making their homes downtown, talking, thinking, and arguing \, about all the possibilities they saw before them for taking the world as they'd known it apart, examining it carefully and closely, piece by piece, and using everything they'd learned, trusting everything they felt along the way, to help them in the hard work of rebuilding something unimaginable, something altogether new and different from the world in which they lived. When they said, "the personal is political," questions of shopping weren't really foremost in their minds.<br /><br />They were thinking more about their growing recognition that many of the problems women experienced as personal, their bad marriages, financial woes, the impossibility of finding childcare that kept them feeling trapped at home, had causes more political than personal, and so would ultimately require political, not personal, solutions. With that came an understanding of each choice made, each step taken, as in one way or another an act of acquiescence or resistance to the dominant hegemony of the day, that self-sustaining narrative of class, race, gender, and above all power, and the great lengths to which it goes in its efforts to entice us all to choose it over ourselves, and over one another. <br /><br />They were right, of course, the personal is political in all of those ways too. How brave they were, to even begin asking the questions they did. And how optimistic to suppose we'd be up to the challenge. What's more terrifying, after all, than the possibility that the stories into which we fit so neatly, the options with which we've been presented for longer than we can remember, by those who truly love us best, are nothing but a fraction of what's out there in an endless universe, have perhaps been offered less for any benefit they'd bring to us, than for the sake of minimal disruption all around, and leave us not an inch to spare for taking anything apart, deciding what's unnecessary, and putting whatever's left back together in some way the world has never seen before? Terrifying most of all, because once you do start asking those questions, it's just about impossible to stop pestering yourself about them, until you've come up with some kind of answers. And the answers never turn out to be the ones you'd hoped for, never offer you an easy out. . <br /><br />It's heartbreaking, really, thinking about those women, walking down sixth avenue doing their errands, sitting in Washington Square on a sunny day, and having so much faith in us, our willingness to take a step away from what feels like such solid ground beneath our feet, and find our what it's like to walk instead on something that looks thin as air.<br /><br />That gets much closer to what I mean, when I say the political is personal. It has to do with willingness. Willingness to ask the scariest questions, take the riskiest chances, and take responsibility for whatever happens next. It also has to do with my Buddhist practice, undisciplined as it often is. Buddhism teaches the interdependence of all sentient beings, the illusory nature of individual identity. So long as any one of us is suffering, we all are. There are only so many options open to us, in a world so big, if we have aspirations of easing any of that suffering, and don't happen to be Bill Gates. Political engagement offers one way of acknowledging our responsibility to one another, of doing what little we can to make a world we want to live in, rather than allowing it to make us into what it needs. And that all feels very personal to me.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-4128901989625999922007-05-09T11:44:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:28.523-08:00Layer Cake, in Letters: "The Mistress's Daughter," by A.M. Homes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndxtlMwlxK2R6PoPPQ9_GYGLF2kvp7d3AiynRt6TyLBfsM0ttXcbtMsHXNBeabpkd8RFFfzEdu05wSrDU0yatekvqduHLMX5kmoEtvYdQY4SELcvlQEzwBbfSVrQ9OrkKd5e40F43U5sl/s1600-h/homes.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndxtlMwlxK2R6PoPPQ9_GYGLF2kvp7d3AiynRt6TyLBfsM0ttXcbtMsHXNBeabpkd8RFFfzEdu05wSrDU0yatekvqduHLMX5kmoEtvYdQY4SELcvlQEzwBbfSVrQ9OrkKd5e40F43U5sl/s320/homes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062262954995728498" /></a><br /><br />“As a child, I was obsessed by the World Book Encyclopedia, the acetate anatomy pages, where you could build a person, folding in the skeleton, the veins, the muscles, layer upon layer, until it all came together.” This graceful sentence, coming as it does early on in A.M. Homes’ new memoir, “The Mistress’s Daughter,” has delighted me, all by itself, brought me into a text that continually surprised me, and returned me to one of my favorite writers, all in one fell swoop. That’s a lot of work for one sentence to do, and to do so very well. So I feel like I should begin by thanking Homes for having written it. The whole book does some astonishing things, but I keep coming back to that one line. <br /><br />First off, was the shock of recognition. It’s nothing so shocking, really. I’m sure plenty of bored suburban kids across America have put in their time with those World Book pages, folding and unfolding them, this way and that. But for just a moment, I felt the stiffness of those pages, against the others in the volume, heard their crackle as they folded in and out, and nearly yelled out loud, “Me too! Me too!” <br /><br />Then there’s the contribution it makes to the spare structure of Homes narrative. "The Mistress's Daughter" is about a lot of things. Identity, storytelling, family, and language among them. It takes as its point of departure the author's less than storybook reunion with her birth parents when she was in her thirties, living on Charles St., and becoming successful as a novelist. Thanks to this sentence, and others like it, I didn’t need much in the way of direct description of the life she’d led with her adoptive family. I got it. It was somewhat privileged, it was sometimes boring, it was all in all pretty good, though not without it’s problems, some of which she does in fact delve into. But much more than that would have distracted me from the heart of the story being told, much less, and I’d likely have wondered what it was she had to hide.<br /><br /><br />Finding it so early in the book, on page seven, to be exact, was important for me too. I hadn’t quite made up my mind about “The Mistress’s Daughter,” yet. It is so many things about which I am ambivalent. To begin with, it is a memoir. When they are good, well, they can be very, very good. But when they are bad, they’re really quite horrid aren’t they? And, possibly worse yet, it’s an adoption memoir. I remember reading “The Search for Anna Fischer,” when I was little. It was one of the first such books, possibly even the very first, and is often credited with jumpstarting the adoptees rights movement. I remember it’s having been part of a Reader’s Digest condensed anthology that I was carting around one summer. Who knows where that thing came from? I remember reading it at the lake, and in some doctor’s waiting room. Most of what I remember about the story itself, is a lot of some poor woman trying to get people to give her information they had, but weren’t allowed to give her, which I thought was stupid and unfair, but not terribly interesting, and then an anti-climactic meeting with her birth mother. Having finally asked my parents so many times if they are really, truly sure I don’t have any DNA but theirs that even I suppose I must believe them, adoption memoirs hold even less appeal for me. <br /><br />The title, “The Mistress’s Daughter,” was intriguing, obviously, but almost too much so. As though perhaps someone in Viking’s PR department had been charged with coming up with a titillating title to boost sales of a mediocre book. Things like that do happen sometimes, you know. Then there’s Homes herself, a writer about whom I’ve been squarely on the fence for years.<br /><br />Do you remember that nineties literary trend, so trendily referred to as, “transgressive fiction”? The best known work of “transgressive fiction" would probably be Brett Easton Ellis's novel "American Psycho," later adapted into the film starring Christian Bale, in which a questionably reliable narrator by the name of Patrick Bateman enjoys impressing us with his knowledge of eighties era designer labels, sexual prowess, and creativity in dismembering women. Transgressive fiction could have meant all kinds of things, but mostly, it turned out to be a convenient label for books dealing in transgressions upon the usually female body, with literary aspirations thrown in. It was a marketing ploy cleverly disguised as a literary movement, or maybe a literary movement co-opted and creatively transgressed upon by marketing departments until it found itself at the bottom of some river, in a million little pieces. But I digress. A few of those books lived up to their literary aspirations, maybe even managed to commit some more interesting sorts of transgressions. One of those was "The End of Alice," by A.M. Homes. <br /><br />I loved everything about "The End of Alice." It's an impossibly beautiful book about unimaginably ugly things. I loved the language, the structure, and narrative. I loved the ways in which it surprised me, and the simple fact that it did. I loved the unclassifiable follow up, "Appendix A: An Elaboration on the Novel 'The End of Alice'". I loved the sense it gave me that the writing I wanted to do myself was possible, and that someone else was out there thinking about words and stories, and even about bodies, in a similar sort of way. I loved that book. <br /><br />Which, of course, led me to read more of her books. But it just wasn't the same. It's not that there's anything wrong with "In A Country of Mothers," or "Jack," or "Music for Torching," or any of the rest of them. They just haven't done for me whatever exactly it was "The End of Alice," did, haven't given me that same gift. And so, unfairly I'm sure, but that can't be helped, reading each has felt in some way like a betrayal. As if, having shown me that she could write something that spoke to me so clearly, Homes owed it to me to keep it up, and was simply choosing not to deliver the goods. The reading of someone else's words is really such an odd sort of intimacy, isn't is?<br /><br />So, there I am in the bookstore, doing the thing I do, where I read the first few pages of a book, and only buy it if I cannot possibly imagine living happily without completing it. There being, after all, so many books, and so very little time, not to mention money. I'm giving "The Mistress's Daughter," it's chance. And I come to that sentence. "As a child, I was obsessed by the World Book Encyclopedia, the acetate anatomy pages, where you could build a person, folding in the skeleton, the veins, the muscles, layer upon layer, until it all came together." Not only did it tell me this was most definitely the book I wanted that day, it made me wonder if my A.M. Homes, the one I'd loved so much, once upon a time, might not have come back to me. And so she has.<br /><br />There is something I love about the language of the body. The solid sounds of the words we use to describe something so fragile, broken down into its very smallest parts. The ironic abstraction of a skeleton on the page. Perhaps the best thing Homes' sentence does is to provide her reader with a key to "The Mistress's Daughter". I'll give you a hint: You don't always need layer upon layer of acetate anatomy pages to build a person. Sometimes, the way words and pages layer themselves up along the way will do the trick just fine.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-78703539152891725312007-05-09T07:24:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:28.705-08:00Yours, Mine, and Ours... What exactly is the difference anyway?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0H3sX7qAmLvLnFCMen2kBW_yXpZfI6D-cH4yXLTt6yjAvgFibR1SxiCs-fauoL-z3UcmNZZrBDSjkmJJcTaP6UvJmdK8MNSnWgGotL_g-IyJ6L_STfIN3_37gLLRfvfi27V-R2iAClzIF/s1600-h/notinourname2.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0H3sX7qAmLvLnFCMen2kBW_yXpZfI6D-cH4yXLTt6yjAvgFibR1SxiCs-fauoL-z3UcmNZZrBDSjkmJJcTaP6UvJmdK8MNSnWgGotL_g-IyJ6L_STfIN3_37gLLRfvfi27V-R2iAClzIF/s320/notinourname2.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062261619260899426" /></a><br />The West Village probably shouldn't feel like such a cozy nook of a neighborhood, given how many people are always moving in and out. All those NYU students coming and going all over the place, recent grads who'd heard "the village," was the place to be, but realize within 6 months or so that Brooklyn, or maybe the Upper East Side, is the place they can afford, the long time renters getting priced out and moving east or up, or who knows where, and new people coming every single day. The thing about the West Village, though, is that when you live there, you almost never need to leave, unless, of course, a job requires you to do so. Otherwise, where else would you ever want to go? Really? I can't remember the last time I went much above Union Square, below Houston St., or east of the Bowery, unless I was heading out of town entirely. I do like the Natural History Museum, and the Met, I'll go uptown for those two, but I think that's pretty much it.<br /><br />Living here, it's hard enough maintaining any real connection with the rest of the city, let alone with the other inhabitants of that huge place called America. We just don't have much in common with them, do we? They wear pastels, and shop at Wal-Mart. They value things like a good night's sleep, and eating breakfast. They are the ones responsible for both the Simpson and the Duff Sisters' celebrity. They drive SUV's and live in actual houses with backyards. We live in apartments the size of their SUV's, if we're lucky, and think of our fire escapes as private terraces. We walk everywhere, or take the train, and get to feel superior about our independence from the petroleum economy. They come to New York expressly for the purpose of asking me for directions to stores they'd have e no trouble finding back in their hometowns. I could be mistaken, but I'm pretty sure there's a Gap in every mall this country has to offer.<br />More importantly though, we don't seem to think about anything the way those people out there do. CNN tells us we live in a divided nation, shows us a map made up of sharp red lines and hard blue angles, footage of angry protestors at funerals, proud little boys dressed up in soldiers uniforms they cannot possibly be old enough to wear. A woman with pink cheeks and brown curls assuring an interviewer that yes, she absolutely does believe God hates. Their world feels nothing like mine. Down here between west 14th and Houston, give or take a block or two, we're afloat in a soft, warm sea of indigo agreement. If anybody's waiting impatiently for the Rapture, over on Perry St., worrying just a little bit about being left behind when that great day finally dawns, well, he's keeping it to himself for now.<br /><br />Of everyone I know in the West Village, I can think of exactly one self-identified conservative. One. A lawyer, I believe. Even she is the kind of conservative who makes me disconcertingly nostalgic for the Reagan era. It's possible to have a reasonable and interesting conversation with her about things like the Iraq War, or the budget deficit. She's not interested in the radical religious right's agenda. She's an old fashioned conservative, focused on fiscal responsibility and military strength. I disagree with her opinions, but they are not those of an insane ideologue. Conservative though she calls herself, this woman has nothing in common with the people currently occupying 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.<br /><br />Tucked away here in our village, surrounded by like minds, all the happy lesbian undergrads, the shaggy guys with their sunglasses and guitars, the all night lights of the sex toy stores all over Christopher St., it's often almost inconceivable that anything they might be doing in America, or even just down in D.C., could ever touch us here. They might have some problems, out there, it's true. But us? Here? Nothing really changes here, we'll be o.k. These are the things we say to ourselves, and to each other, aren't they? When elections don't go our way, when the housing market starts to crumble, when the economy starts looking dicey. It's nothing to do with us. And who can blame us? Who doesn't want to feel safe? That's what so many of us came here for in the first place, I think. So we could feel safer than we had, one way or another, growing up out there in America. And then there's the sense I have sometimes, and I don't think I'm the only one, though this isn't something we talk much about, this feeling that America didn't really want me, that I was just a little bit too something, too loud, too smart, too crazy, too confused or too confusing, or maybe just too much, I don't know, for America's liking. So I skipped out on America, and I wound up here instead. Here, I finally felt safe.<br /><br />Nothing good lasts forever though, does it? Every so often, something happens to jerk me right back into America, remind me I've never really left. No matter how I feel, who, and where, I am remain the same. I'm an American in America, like all the rest. It's certainly much nicer to feel safe, but the dangers we're dealing with these days are altogether different, and if the safety isn't real, well, what's the point in that? All the differences about which we are so insistent become meaningless when confronted by the fact of citizenship shared. Distance, metaphorical or literal, can't push you beyond the borders you're willing to cross.<br /><br />There's a long, sad list of Americans whose home proved their undoing, but just one who's reminding me of this right now. Jose Padilla, remember him? He was arrested by the FBI in Chicago's O'Hare airport in 2002, getting off a flight from Pakistan. He was then declared an enemy combatant and transferred to military custody, held in solitary confinement for the next three years. An American in America, he faced the prospect of indefinite detention, was denied access to legal counsel, the right to confront his accusers, the right to a speedy trial by a jury of his peers. Why? Because Donald Rumsfeld said so, more or less, that's why. That was all it took. I've known the basic facts of this story for years, you probably have too. Whenever I stop to think about them though, give them just the briefest moment to sink in, I am stunned by it all, all over again. All the power this government has, and our protections against it vanished somehow, while we were busy with other things.<br /><br />By 2005 Padilla's petition for a writ of habeus corpus made its way to the supreme court. At that point, the government transferred him from military to civilian custody, adding him to an existing indictment in Florida's federal court. This conveniently allowed them to avoid a confrontation with the Court and a potential ruling definitively prohibiting such treatment of American citizens in the future. The charges Padilla and his co-defendants face are in no way related to the dirty bomb allegations which prompted his initial arrest. The evidence against them includes allegedly coded wiretapped conversations about going on "picnics," so they can "smell fresh air, and eat cheese." Sounds pretty sinister to me. Then there's something in there about a zucchini. It's all pretty nonsensical, and would be laughable, if the first act hadn't been so bleak.<br /><br />And if it didn't force us to remember that we're still in Kansas after all, still Americans, still in this America we have somehow created for ourselves. Just as we are all equally vulnerable to the power of this state we've made, we are also all equally responsible for the fact of its existing as it does. None of us, in this America, is as safe as we deserve to be, not even on Bleecker st., nor are we innocent. Those other people out there, the ones we'd like to blame, they are our own, like it or not and we are theirs. And nobody is innocent. We can protest as loudly as we like, wear the t-shirts, march with the banners, proclaim, "Not in our names!" but it is. Every bit of it is. It's all in your name, and it's all in mine.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-58134038784457231262007-04-30T13:02:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:28.880-08:00Birthdays, Boys, and Buddhas; An afternoon at the musem<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_9Io2-R0cQ_zTqe-i_KhxbYKgRd5cmMZHr3F4y2Rpo0zHnj4AsjSySa0WwbFdbrskVXpkcKnU0AXfVl1DsgHU72OKm13fWbb-2CZJafdwR5j5HfL7jTvhjhZUjqS9cLJMLgfFLACapBOn/s1600-h/sharmapa.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_9Io2-R0cQ_zTqe-i_KhxbYKgRd5cmMZHr3F4y2Rpo0zHnj4AsjSySa0WwbFdbrskVXpkcKnU0AXfVl1DsgHU72OKm13fWbb-2CZJafdwR5j5HfL7jTvhjhZUjqS9cLJMLgfFLACapBOn/s320/sharmapa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062284614515802290" /></a><br />Gifts can be treacherous things. They can delight or disappoint us, offer sudden revelations or accessorize deceit. Such a lot of power, isn’t there, underneath all that shiny paper? I, for one, am never content to take the object at face value. I’m always looking for something else, for what it can tell me about the way things really are. How much effort was expended, how much thought given to its procurement? You can probably tell, I’m a lot of fun to shop for.<br /><br />It’s not so surprising, I guess, that birthdays don’t bring out the best in me. It’s nothing to do with getting old and dying, I don’t need a special day to worry about those things. For the birthday problem, I blame my mother. That probably sounds awful, but I don’t mean it to be. She’s always been great at birthdays. Growing up, my birthday was my day, simple as that. Perfect cakes and perfect presents and me, me, me. How could I possibly expect anyone else’s efforts to live up to hers? And yet I do, and so am endlessly disappointed, through no one’s fault but mine. Not always, but often enough you’d think I might have learned better by now. <br /><br />At their worst, presents can confirm all of your worst fears. The generic necklace snatched up at the last minute from the boutique next door to his office yells out, loud and clear, “He’s just not that into you.” And somehow you’ve still got to get through dinner. That was a great night.<br /><br />The best gifts, though, can knock you down and take your breath away, with the force of the messages they carry. It can be quite a shock, discovering just how well know, and loved, you really are. Those don’t come along that often, but when they do? Wow.<br /><br />My membership to the Rubin Museum of Art, in Chelsea, was a gift like that, a couple of birthdays ago. Boyfriend had planned a nearly perfect day. There’d already been a sweet, sweet morning, brunch I think, and a massage I’d been desperately needing, complete with aromatherapy and hot, hard stones. I could do with one of those right now, come to think of it. My neck is knottier than an old pine tree. <br /><br />In spite of all those good intentions, all that thought and effort, it was my birthday, and I was in rare form. My mood was mean, and I was in a panic over all the weight I’d gained since we’d moved in together. If anyone had warned me just how bad cohabitation would be for my beauty, I might have reconsidered. Then again, the break up diet does work wonders. My skin’s never quite recovered, though.<br /><br />So, off we went to the Rubin. I’d been wanting to go since I’d first walked by it, months before, but somehow just hadn’t done it. We live here so we can have these things close by, and then end up too busy, or too tired, too overwhelmed, or just plain lazy, to do anything about them, until someone else has the good sense to drag us out. <br /><br />Just getting me to finally go through those doors could have been gift enough. Before we’d even passed the admission desk I knew I’d found something important. And I was right. However lazy I may ever be in my own meditation practice, however distracted and disgruntled I may allow myself to become, an hour in the Rubin, surrounded by the centuries of Himalayan art, all those Buddhas and Bodhisattvas hanging on the walls, reminds me who I am, and what I’m looking for. <br /><br />One of the exhibits up that day was called Eternal Presence, Handprints and Footprints in Buddhist Art. Paintings and drawings by and of celebrated Buddhist teachers and deities, incorporating their traced hand and footprints. Looking at an eighteenth century painting of the Shamar Lama, an important, and often problematic, figure within the Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism, I would swear to you I felt time stop, if such a thing were possible.<br /><br />It was the hands and feet that did me in. They brought an intimacy and immediacy to the painting I’d never imagined possible. The Sharmapa’s hands were there, right there, so were his feet. I’d never experienced anything like that in a museum, or anywhere else, before. I have since, though, right there in the Rubin.<br /><br />Bringing me to that could have been gift enough. I can be awfully lazy. It’s entirely possible that, left to my own devices, I could have walked by those smooth glass doors a million times, without ever opening them once. A membership of my very own though? That was almost more than I could bear. I can’t think of a time when anyone with whom I don’t share DNA has tried so hard to please me, or to know me, to bring me to a place that felt so much like home. <br /><br />But things aren’t always what they feel like, are they? After we broke up, I did lose all that weight, or most of it at least, and lots of other things as well. One of them, for a while, was the museum I’d quickly come to think of as my own, the Rubin. I went out of my way to avoid even the sight of it, that whole block of Seventeenth Street ceased to exist, as far as I was concerned. Out of sight, out of mind, or so they say.<br /><br />I missed my museum, though. I missed it a lot. I had gotten into the habit of popping in a couple of times a week. My office at the time was just a few blocks away, so whenever I felt my mind skitter skattering around itself, I could head down to the Rubin, for that quick hit of equilibrium, and the reminder it offered of the importance of disciplined daily meditation practice. I could only stay away for so long.<br /><br />I’d been thinking myself in, out, and all around the Rubin for months, keeping myself well away from it in the end. One day, when for once I wasn’t thinking, I found myself walking past, and still without thinking, went right in. I couldn’t help thinking, for a minute, when I pulled out my membership card, but I put a stop to that as quickly as I could, and kept on going. Thinking is often highly overrated.<br /><br />This time, it was a painting of a thousand armed Avalokiteshvara, that drew me in. Avalokiteshvara is sometimes referred to as the Compassion Buddha, sometimes as a great Bodhisattva. A Bodhisattva is a being who has achieved perfect enlightenment, and could be released from this cyclic existence and all of its suffering, but chooses to stick around, out of compassion for those of us who are still muddling around, far from perfection of any kind. A Bodhisattva’s entire being is dedicated to helping all sentient beings achieve enlightenment. In the case of Avalokiteshvara, he is sometimes represented with one thousand arms, as his ceaseless compassionate activities require nothing less. <br /><br />Buddhist practice, like any other, demands discipline and diligence. Unlike anything else I’ve ever encountered, though, it rewards the practitioner with an awareness of the world’s boundless compassion. Pay a little attention, and you might even catch the occasional glimpse of your own infinite compassionate capacities. Who do you thank, though, for a gift like that?Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-33232479048729924582007-04-23T14:24:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:29.055-08:00I Love Lila Futuransky!; Sarah Schulman's "Girls, Visions, and Everything"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyTtXru2k9Hnl3lASbntAQ3yDF3tCJh58f9emQbqQFB3t8qRmpa3Ylkta-4HyPpkFYmnt6od93-unthWBb0RXmOURu0YLBS7KmQ9NUm8SvROtnvJolaMuTt7gtlFqrXaAvGX_sKoi-3svs/s1600-h/girlsvisionseverythingbetter.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyTtXru2k9Hnl3lASbntAQ3yDF3tCJh58f9emQbqQFB3t8qRmpa3Ylkta-4HyPpkFYmnt6od93-unthWBb0RXmOURu0YLBS7KmQ9NUm8SvROtnvJolaMuTt7gtlFqrXaAvGX_sKoi-3svs/s320/girlsvisionseverythingbetter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062307927598285058" /></a><br />Around this time of year, the weather starts to make me a little crazy. I want summer, and I want it now. Since I can't have summer yet, I like to at least read about in, in books like Sarah Schulman's second novel, "Girl's Visions and Everything," . Originally published in 1986, it is the story of an East Village summer, in the life of Lila Futuransky, "a general dyke about town, alternately entertaining and antagonizing the people she bumped into, tripped over, walked with, and the women that she slept with." Lila, "always knew she was an outlaw, but she could never figure out which one." I first read this book when I was nineteen or twenty, and after all this time, it is still entirely possible that Lila Futuransky is my hero.<br /><br />Lila is twenty-five. When I was nineteen, that seemed like such a glamorous, grown-up age to be. Now that I am thirty-something, it strikes me as almost impossibly young. But Lila is simultaneously more grounded and much freer than I was at that age. While her friends are skipping town for the summer, she has decided to stay put. She roams the East Village, making art, having adventures, thinking and talking about ideas with her friends, and then writing about it all in her sweaty little apartment, typing as fast as she can. The book feels like it was written with all of that immediacy. I can't think of anything I've read that's given me such a sense of being in the moment, in the place. <br /><br />The book begins the week before Memorial Day, when Lila is on her way to an assignation with an actress, that doesn't work out quite as she'd hoped. Instead, Lila spends the evening walking around and talking with another woman, Emily. In her thirties, Emily is a little older than the rest of Lila's tight knit circle of friends. She's also carrying more baggage, of a darker variety than they seem to be, is more tentative in her ambitions, and less daring in any dreams she allows herself. She is also lovely, smart, and oddly sweet. <br /><br />Lila is bewitched, bothered, and bewildered by Emily from the start.. One night, another spent walking and talking on the East Village streets, because it's too hot to be inside, and neither has any money to do much else, "she just watched the different expressions Emily's face was capable of. Sometimes she seemed like a dress-for-success executive whose bra was held together with staples. Then she became a silly girl sitting over a Tab in a coffee shop. Lila began to wonder, was she courting this woman, or were they just making friends?" Who hasn't had that moment, of wondering if you're at the beginning of something that's going to be something, or just making a nice new friend? I love how well Schulman evokes that feeling in this passage, the close watchfulness of it, the waiting, the anticipation, and the hoping but not quite yet wanting to hope because, of course, you never know for sure, until something or other happens, and then you do.<br /><br />Each time I read, "Girls, Visions, and Everything," and spend its 178 pages with Lila Futuranky, I find myself wondering if I want to be her, leading that life of art and ideas and energy, or if I want to be her best friend, to know she's always available to me on the other end of the phone, to talk about my own ideas with, and borrow some of that energy when I need it, or if maybe I'd like her to be my girlfriend. I do know that one of the things I like so much about her is something that reminds me very much of myself., and would drive me crazy in a girlfriend. Lila and I share a tendency to think way too much about absolutely everything,, and this, I can tell you, doesn't make anything easier for either one of us, or for anyone we're dating. <br /><br />Thinking too much can get in the way of doing things. In Lila's case, it almost keeps her from ever getting together with Emily. After another of their nights of walking the streets and talking, Emily invites Lila to spend the night. Lila's in bed, listening to Emily falling asleep, getting cranky because, well, she's in bed with Emily, listening to her falling asleep, which is not what she had in mind. Then Emily asks her if she's anxious, or maybe changing her mind, and wanting to go home. Lila the overthinker answers, " I... look, I thought you wanted to sleep with me. That's why I came home with you. Look, Emily, tell me the truth. What are you trying to pull here anyway? I mean, I don't always understand all the time what you mean by what you do." Emily answers, " ' Why do I have to initiate everything?' ... with impatience in her voice, as though it was all so obvious." And, after all, she did invite Lila to spend the night, in many circles that is considered about as obvious as a girl can get without wearing a sign around her neck. <br /><br /><br />Once Emily and Lila get going, Schulman does a wonderful job of capturing and passing on to us the specificities of what goes on between them. It is complicated, and confusing, and often wonderful. Moments like this one, after Lila and Emily have spent their first night together, "Lila watched Emily consider whether she should be her lover or not. She watched her have a thought, decide to articulate it and then do so." and this one, "It was knowing that she had sought this woman out, night after night, because she wanted Emily's hands between her legs, because she wanted Emily's fingers inside her, because Lila loved Emily's wrinkles... It was knowing she had sought her out and now Emily was in her." build upon themselves to tell us one story. A story that feels real and true, in part because it doesn't come too easily to either of these characters to allow herself to be known or loved in such a way. <br /><br />But there's another story playing itself out alongside Lila and Emily's love story. It isn't any kind of love triangle, as we might expect, given that Lila tells Emily, long before they become involved, "Listen, I have lots of crushes all over the place. I just sit back and look at them and think, some of this will come to be and the rest won't, so I'll just enjoy imagining it all for now." It isn't any other woman Emily has to worry about, it's Lila herself. Or rather, the ideas and visions Lila had about her life before Emily's appearance. She'd been a solo act, swashbuckling around, making everything up as she went along. But then she met Emily, and everything changed. <br /><br />As many times as I've read this book, I always forget how devastating the ending is. Every time, I'm rolling along with Lila and Emily, watching them put on shows and fall in love, and letting them remind me that, "even when life is sad, people still have a good time." And I am having a great time right along with them, until we get to the last two pages. When Lila climbs out onto the roof of her building, and realizes that continuing her relationship with Emily, who she loves, and by whom she is loved, in ways she'd never imagined possible, will require her to give up the future of limitless possibilities she'd always held onto so tightly for herself. Some people might say that moment of realization is what growing up is all about. But I don't want Lila Futuransky to grow up, not if that's what it means. I want her to have her Emily, and all of her other dreams as well. So, I'm glad I don't know what she chooses in the end, though I hate having to leave her out on her rooftop, "sobbing so hard she was swimming through her tears," not knowing if the tears are for dreams of the future she's letting go, for Emily, or simply because she now knows she lives in a world where people are forced to make those kinds of choices.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com80tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-41332473202157547082007-04-16T11:47:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:29.280-08:00Whose Life, and How Does it Look? "Family Happiness, by Laurie Colwin<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkyubTb8oWoZK1AR773h4JDU8TKan3CMbM4gkzbTSr-9pl38wmAtUacKBBWiRSj63BjCZ4Xowh4Qc4cpWWE7kPXCky4B8NLT1mEmMeTBpSklOptr9RV5KyvBmDp20mvs_1_cmOfvV-K7Su/s1600-h/colwin.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkyubTb8oWoZK1AR773h4JDU8TKan3CMbM4gkzbTSr-9pl38wmAtUacKBBWiRSj63BjCZ4Xowh4Qc4cpWWE7kPXCky4B8NLT1mEmMeTBpSklOptr9RV5KyvBmDp20mvs_1_cmOfvV-K7Su/s320/colwin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062264930680684674" /></a><br />Recently a friend told me Laurie Colwin’s wonderful book, “Family Happiness,” had made him want to be in New York, “living that life.” I thought little of it, at the time. After all, countless books, movies, magazines, probably even a post it note or two, make me think “I want to be in New York, living that life,” and it’s a book I’ve loved for a long time. Rereading it this week though, I found myself wondering, which of these lives had he meant?<br /><br /><br />“Family Happiness,” originally published in 1982, is the story of Polly Solo-Miller Demarest, a happily married young mother of two, from an old, uptown Jewish family, who has astonished herself by falling in love with a downtown painter. Polly and her particular life the novel’s heart and soul, but it’s real richness comes from all the life around her. She comes from a large and at times difficult family, but Colwin resists the trap of allowing any of its members to fall into cliché. However briefly a character enters the story, she grants us a clear sense of who that person is, and what sort of life he or she is leading.<br /><br /><br />Mary Rensberg, for instance, a minor character who plays a major role when Polly’s at her lowest, is described as “small wiry, and blonde. She smoked unfiltered cigarettes, wore men’s shirts, real silk stockings, and diamond earrings. In her conversations she was heavy and slangy; she swore constantly. Every Sunday she went to church in the company of her teen-aged daughters, Dulcie and Daisy.” Mary also owns a little antique shop, which is apparently a great success, despite her inclination to tell callers that “Mrs. Rensberg has gone to Brazil.” Colwin gives us just enough to know who Mary is, and why she’s there. She’s eminently familiar, and wildly exotic all at once. I’d definitely like to hang around with a woman like that. I might even be interested in a life like that. The stockings and the earrings, certainly. The daughters and the churchgoing, maybe not.<br /><br /> It’s Polly’s life we’re most engaged with here though. The middle child, and only girl, in her dynastic family, she married appropriately, and in a timely fashion, and has never thought to stray from the straight and narrow. Polly is, genuinely, cheerful and helpful and kind. She is, and always has been, upright and virtuous and true. This turns out to be a great advantage, when she begins her love affair, because no one ever thinks to question Polly’s coming’s and going’s in the slightest. <br /><br />Polly has the sort of life my mother wishes I would have, or at least aspire to. Polly lives uptown somewhere (Colwin never tells us exactly where, but for Polly, my money’s on the West Side), in a big, beautiful apartment, with doormen and elevator men, and endless rooms. She’s married to Henry Demarest, a successful lawyer from a dynastic family of his own, and has two sweet, funny children. I don’t generally like children ,in books or life but even I like Polly’s two, so they must be pretty good. She works three days a week as a reading specialist for the city department of education. She wears cashmere and tweed, and shops at bakeries and little markets. She likes to cook, and secretly likes it when her children get “slightly out of hand.” She is sweet, smart, and funny. And she is having a love affair. <br /><br />The object of Polly’s illicit affection is Lincoln Bennet, a downtown painter, who lives in something that sounds very like Westbeth, only older, “a row of studios that had been built for artists in the 1920s.” In general, his neighborhood sounds very West Villageish to me, but that’s really just a guess. When I hear the phrase, “downtown painter” I imagine someone grungy and annoying. Someone who talks endlessly about painting, what it means to him, how hard it is, how necessary, yet does remarkably little of it. Someone who lives in squalor, who never has any money, and cannot be relied upon to show up when he’s said he will. All in all, someone who will make for a very bad boyfriend. <br /><br />Lincoln is none of those things. Of all the lives in “Family Happiness,“ it’s his I’d most like to have. He is that mythical beast, a successful painter. He has shows here, there, and everywhere. He paints things, and then he sells them, without a lot of tedious talk about it. Both he and his studio are clean and lovely. He is trustworthy and reliable. His only display of any quirkily artistic temperament is his prodigious love of solitude “only when he was alone did he feel really comfortable and authentically himself.” Before meeting Polly, he’d fallen in love with a girl named Audrey. Lincoln and Audrey had gotten engaged, and even moved in together. Everything should have been perfectly fine, except it wasn’t. “It was a disaster for Lincoln. Domesticity rummed against him like a hair shirt. How he could be so much in love and so miserable at the same time amazed him. It seemed overwhelmingly clear to him that he could not live with another person…” Audrey left him, as well she should have, all things considered, and Lincoln resigned himself to a loveless life. Then he met Polly. Really, a happily married lady couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend. <br /><br />If anything about this book feels dated, it is the idea that a book about adultery doesn’t have to be a melodrama. Because Polly is, in fact, happily married. Her marriage is having a rough patch when she meets Lincoln, but it is nonetheless a pretty good one. It takes awhile for her to get there, but she ultimately concludes that, while the timing may have opened the door to her love for Lincoln, it’s existence doesn’t mean her marriage is dead. Nor does a reinvigoration of her marriage put her love affair neatly to rest. This isn’t a difficult book, but it is a complicated one. Colwin refuses to take any easy outs, and so denies them to her reader as well.<br /><br />This book could have gone in easier directions. We’ve all read those books, haven’t we? There’s the book about the woman who thinks she’s happily married, till she meets some intriguing new man, realizes her marriage is lacking everything she holds most dear, and runs off to someplace hot and exotic with her lover. Or the book about the woman who’s marriage is saved, after pages and pages of therapy, soul searching, and dramatic fights, after her husband finds out about her affair, and ultimately realizes he drove her to her affair with his benign neglect. Or the book about the woman who finds herself through her affair, whatever that exactly means, but chooses to leave both husband and lover, to break free of her family too, and takes up something like pottery, or poetry, and find some new relationship and way of life entirely. All of it very clear, and simple. Things go one way or another. They work out, or they don’t, and either way, here’s what it looks like. But that’s just not how Colwin does things.<br /><br />In “Family Happiness,” as in all her books, Lori Colwin sets out, successfully, to show us that life is neither so difficult, nor so uncomplicated, as we would like for it to be. Things get messy, and sometimes they stay that way. The trick isn’t learning to tidy up all the mess, it’s learning to live with a little chaos. Uncertainty is our constant state of being. As Lincoln tells Polly towards the novel’s end, “It’s pointless to wonder what will happen. We could both get very sick of this. Things could change.” And sooner or later, one way or another, of course, they will. Till then, Laurie Colwin would like us all to drink a little more champagne, and look our best, whatever we think that means.<br /><br /><br /><br />,Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-17474161242578336582007-03-19T13:20:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:29.555-08:00West Village Shooting Spree... Really?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtpQHsmTqppdQ7DQ9u3BNperKjOif7cfZqp97TzQgnXgs05lvZo6RQpKuQOm-d7rzTuCp30H0U2OYvhHrP6Cd2hgKSkZoXUY-L6f5exBbOT90VpyPzwxYuGHV6Bw66hnB0jLH-4P9w2d3B/s1600-h/village3.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtpQHsmTqppdQ7DQ9u3BNperKjOif7cfZqp97TzQgnXgs05lvZo6RQpKuQOm-d7rzTuCp30H0U2OYvhHrP6Cd2hgKSkZoXUY-L6f5exBbOT90VpyPzwxYuGHV6Bw66hnB0jLH-4P9w2d3B/s320/village3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062290648944853186" /></a><br />One morning a few weeks ago, my dogs did something truly astonishing. They let me sleep late. It was very kind of them, really, remarkably generous for the two of them. Sasha usually starts yelling at me around sunrise. If that doesn’t work, she likes to hit me in the face with her stinky dog foot, possibly hoping to pry my eyelids open with her claws. When all else fails Sita, aka, “The Good One,” will get in on the action. They’ve got this whirling dervish routine they enjoy rehearsing all over the bed, preferably with me still in it. It’s an impressive performance in its own right, and just about impossible to sleep through. I try, believe me, I try, but I always fail. Every once in a while, though, they will decide to give me a break. This was one of those days.<br /><br />There’s a problem even with those days, though. By the time I do wake up, they’ve all but leashed themselves up and headed off to the park without me. I keep hoping they’ll learn to do the whole thing by themselves sooner or later, but so far, they still require my assistance. So I have to scramble around for the coat, the shoes, the keys, and out the door. At best, it isn’t a pretty picture. At worst, I forget some crucial item. On this particular morning, for instance, I’d gone out without my gloves. It was really, really cold.<br /><br />I know everyone always says hats are the magical things that let a person stay toasty warm, and endlessly oblivious to the coldest weather, but that magic’s never worked for me. For me, it’s always been all about gloves. And so, of course, I’m constantly losing and forgetting them. <br /><br />Now, at this point, since I’d barely gotten past my building’s door, you might be thinking the sensible thing would have been for me to have turned around, gone back up to my apartment, and found one of the 5000 or so pairs of gloves I already owned. That probably would have been the sensible thing, but I am not a morning person, and I’ve rarely been called sensible, at any time of day or night. So I thought I’d just stop at the table full of fleecey scarves and gloves, and even hats, set up outside the jewelry store next door, and get pair number 5001.<br /><br />Which would have been fine, if it hadn’t been so very, very cold out that a pigeon had decided to hang out underneath the table. Or maybe even if I’d seen it while it was still down there, before Sasha snatched it up, and dropped it, already dead and just slightly bloodied, on the sidewalk by my feet. The family of tourists who’d been chattering beside me were startled into silence. The guy who’d been working the table darted inside. I had no idea what to do, other than apologize repeatedly, and pull my huntresses away before they started trying to play with the poor dead pigeon. I couldn’t walk by that spot for days without apologizing to whoever happened to be manning the table. I was mortified. Mostly because I knew one of them had probably been stuck picking the pigeon up off the sidewalk, and figure out what to do with it next. It wasn’t a good morning for any of us. <br /><br />My dogs love dead things, whether they’ve personally done the killing or not. A nice dead rat is their idea of an excellent toy. Last Thursday, when I started seeing pictures of an actual dead person, in very nearly that same spot, in front of my building and the jewelry store next door, all over the Internet, when I clearly read the address on my awning, and the tree where Sita likes to pee, I couldn't’t help wondering what they would have done if we’d stumbled out the front door and onto him. We very likely would have, if we’d been in town. <br /><br />David Garvin was shot by police around ten on Wednesday night, after having killed three people himself. His body wasn’t moved, as far as I can tell, until something like five the next morning. It’s almost inconceivable that I wouldn’t have taken Sasha and Sita out for a walk somewhere in there. <br /><br />I don’t have so much trouble imagining what I would have done. First, I’d have pulled them back. It really looks like he’d have been right there, as soon as we stepped out the door. And that’s what I always do first, pull them back. Then I’d have asked the police what had happened, and started trying to negotiate some way of walking the dogs without being exiled for the rest of the night. From the pictures I’ve seen, it looks like the whole block was cordoned off for the duration. I doubt I’d have had much luck with that, but I’d probably have given it a try. After all, you never know until you ask. Either way, once I’d gotten us all safely back inside, I’m guessing I’d have started making calls, and gone online to try to find out more about what had happened. That much, at least, would have been the same. Somewhere in there, of course, there would have been some freaking out. Shooting sprees just don’t happen in the West Village. Not usually anyway. <br /><br />You’ll notice I’m assuming we wouldn’t have ventured out while any of the shooting was happening. Partly because it’s hard to imagine even me having such spectacularly bad luck, and partly because it’s a little too easy to imagine what Mr. Garvin’s reaction to us might have been, and he was right outside our door. Lots of people think my sweet Siberian Huskies look like big scary wolves. Fortunately, most of them aren’t running around with guns. .<br /><br />So I keep coming back to this question of what my dogs would have done, if they’d seen a dead person on their sidewalk. My first thought is that they’d have been much more interested in all of the living people crowding around. The sights and sounds of the police officers and paramedics might have kept them occupied. They have seen people sleeping in the park, and walked on by. <br /><br />They might have passed by the body itself. That’s possible. But what about the blood? There must have been blood, and maybe worse things, coming from David Garvin by that point. And this is where I start to freak out, even from so far away. Dogs like dead things, especially their odd bits and pieces. Dogs like blood. They’re predators. That’s just the way it is. <br /><br />Whenever I leave the city for longer than a long weekend, I start getting antsy, wondering what big things are happening back in civilization. Usually, of course, there’s nothing much happening. At least nothing I wouldn’t have missed even if I’d been in town. I tend not to leave my neighborhood, if I can possibly avoid it. <br /><br />By the time I get back, odds are it’ll look like nothing ever happened. The body is already long gone, probably the blood is too. I just hope those nice people from the jewelry store didn’t have to clean it up this time.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-66641654636484049032007-03-12T13:51:00.000-07:002008-12-10T16:30:29.817-08:00Is Substance Necessary? Naptime for Maureen Dowd...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnaTJo3dafW7OeZbwhQdjCa1J_dgXvucO0TUUs4qfD8JaYbKRIhW7QbwUYtmXB91gDwlcuOYmZ9ndZjElkUI4lAXiyoYkhpfVym46iGzwb7Sapft3Dh4OJ5v0Cx2xcQETuXsBYuURfHFoI/s1600-h/dowd.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnaTJo3dafW7OeZbwhQdjCa1J_dgXvucO0TUUs4qfD8JaYbKRIhW7QbwUYtmXB91gDwlcuOYmZ9ndZjElkUI4lAXiyoYkhpfVym46iGzwb7Sapft3Dh4OJ5v0Cx2xcQETuXsBYuURfHFoI/s320/dowd.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062298272511803602" /></a><br />For over a year now people have been asking me what I thought of Maureen Dowd’s book, “Are Men Necessary?” Mostly, I thought I didn’t much want to read it. Certainly not enough to spend thirty bucks on a hard cover copy. I finally broke down and picked it up last week though, when I noticed it was out in paperback, <br /><br />Before I write about a book, I usually read it twice, at least. It seems only fair, to make sure my first impression wasn’t more about my having snagged the cozy corner table at the coffee shop the day I started it, or having finished it on the subway, sandwiched between two huge, stinky guys. It rarely changes much, but still, it’s what I’d want someone to do for me. So, for the sake of full disclosure, I think I should tell you up front that, in this case, I couldn’t put myself through it a second time.<br /><br />People tend to assume I like Maureen Dowd’s writing. Maybe because she’s so successfully marketed herself as both a liberal and a feminist, despite in fact being, so far as I can tell, neither. Maybe just because she’s a woman. While the later is reason enough for me to really want to like her work, sadly, I don’t always get what I want.<br /><br />I’d never given her much thought, until the 2000 presidential campaign season, when she made such a fuss over Al Gore’s having hired Naomi Wolf as a campaign consultant, and having talked to her about what he ought to wear, among other things. After eight years spent in the role of the supportive vice president, he was looking for advice from all quarters on how best to communicate to voters that he was ready to step out of the background and into the oval office. Even at the time, I thought that was one of the stupidest non-stories ever to emerge from a presidential campaign. In retrospect, it seems only more so. Does anyone really believe Giuliani doesn’t have a wardrobe consultant on the payroll, or that Hillary’s picking out all of those black pantsuits herself? I’m finding it incredibly difficult to resist the urge to be equally silly and petty, by wondering if Dowd’s real problem wasn’t that a member of the feminist punditocracy other than herself had made her way onto Gore’s staff.<br /><br />My biggest problem with that story, and with much of Dowd’s writing for her column in New York Ties Op-Ed pages, is just how intellectually lazy it is. She’s got this amazing forum for her writing, and the best she can come up with is Al Gore’s earth tones, or more recently, Barak Obama’s “prettiness”? Seriously? <br /><br />In an uncharacteristic burst of optimism, I had an idea that Dowd’s silliness might not be so annoying in this book as it is in her columns. After all, the title and introduction both led me to believe I was going to be getting her take on the conversation I’ve been having about men with my female friends for, oh, the last decade or so. It begins with someone asking, “What’s WRONG with him?” and quickly, seamlessly, transitions into “What’s wrong with THEM?” At this very moment, women are having this conversation all around you. On their cell phones, walking through Union Square, over lattes in the Starbucks at Astor Place, or via email in their cubicles at work. If you listen closely, you can probably hear it. Sometimes this conversation is boring as can be, sometimes sad, most often, far more interesting than the defective man in question. Certainly more interesting than trying to have it with the man in question. Ask a man, “What’s WRONG with you?” and he’ll answer, “What do you mean?” with an expression so sincerely, yet idiotically, blank, as to be your answer. So we talk amongst ourselves instead. <br /><br />This is a subject that lends itself to silliness, one that doesn’t require the same kind of intellectual rigor as, say, covering a presidential campaign. My optimism wasn’t completely unfounded. Ask a man, “What’s WRONG with you?” and he’ll answer, “What do you mean?” with an expression so sincerely, yet idiotically, blank, as to be your answer. So we talk amongst ourselves instead. <br /><br />She chooses, oddly enough, to begin her book by telling us just how politically lazy she was in seventies. She was all for the principles of feminism, but the aesthetics didn’t work for her. “I hated the dirty, unisex jeans and no-makeup look,” she tells us. And since she “thought the struggle for egalitarianism was a cinch,” she decided she might as well, “leave it to my earnest sisters in black turtlenecks and Birkenstocks. I figured there was plenty of time for me to get serious later.” I should have stopped reading right there, on page seven. Is there anything easier, less interesting, or less in line with feminist principles, than dismissing other women based on their fashion choices? <br /><br />The book continues in a similar vein. There is a chapter about the Y chromosome, which has fallen upon some hard times, and another about the presidential candidates of 2000 and 2004, who were, of course, men. For the most part, though, it’s a disapproving and superficial dissection of modern American womanhood. From Dowd’s perspective, we’re lazy, we get too much plastic surgery, and we take too many anti-depressants. Clearly, that “struggle for egalitarianism” didn’t turn out quite as she’d expected.<br /><br />Along the way Dowd repeatedly reminds us that feminism was supposed to mean or lead to something else entirely. But she doesn’t do much in the way of exploring how we got from there to here. The question the book kept calling to my mind was not, “Are Men Necessary?”, but that of whether feminism failed women, or women failed feminism. I kept expecting Dowd to go there, to allow her rants about paxil, botox, and marriage fantasies to gather some kind of cumulative weight, to go below the surface, and make a point. But she never did. Unless the point was to get to the nastiness with which she writes about Hillary Clinton at the end. I think that’s unlikely, but, unfortunately, I can’t honestly say it’s impossible.<br /><br />After a chapter in which she characterizes both John Kerry and Al Gore as being somehow too feminine, Dowd ends her book with a Paris Hilton style attack on Hillary Clinton. She gossips, telling us that, “As one of her oldest confidantes put it, when asked if Hillary would ever hire back her nemesis Dick Morris to help with a presidential run: ‘Hillary would hire Hitler if she thought it could get her elected,’” to make sure we know Hillary’s too ambitious. But then she was, “strangely silent on poor Terry Schiavo… she meekly allowed Tom DeLay and Bill Frist to push for the shamefull and hypocritical legislation…” so we should know she’s too submissive, because, of course, Hillary could have singlehandedly kept the GOP majority out of Terry Schiavo’s hospital bed. Right. She operates with “a most manly kind of narcissistic survival skill,” yet would never have gotten anywhere without her husband. She’s “jangly,” whatever exactly that means, and of course, she didn’t learn how to dress herself until about 2000. It must be exhausting for Maureen Dowd, carrying such cognitive dissonance around in her head all the time.<br /><br />So maybe the problem’s not that she’s too lazy to offer a substantial critique of Hillary Clinton, or anyone, or anything else. Maybe she’s just too tired. Maybe Maureen just needs a nice long nap.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-78923581737360309532007-03-05T12:38:00.000-08:002008-12-10T16:30:29.993-08:00Rats Gone Wild! The only good rat is... ?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGB2lIM_SEnmrksHyo3qjM3x1cBWB7VgCvzU_Cjm7eiIfunV9LgmUVoW6yEX83LNzabmR8wr1KUOs89H7iIbRsPuxEeIp62u1Bg5zC9PO4hJkLF4hAyzmNpcl9K0rFJj_iHmQzP4nUQ73Y/s1600-h/ratshow.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGB2lIM_SEnmrksHyo3qjM3x1cBWB7VgCvzU_Cjm7eiIfunV9LgmUVoW6yEX83LNzabmR8wr1KUOs89H7iIbRsPuxEeIp62u1Bg5zC9PO4hJkLF4hAyzmNpcl9K0rFJj_iHmQzP4nUQ73Y/s320/ratshow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062282290938495138" /></a><br />I’ve been known to go whole years without once leaving the five boroughs, or particularly wanting to. When I see my neighborhood on a movie screen, I miss it, even if I’m sitting right there in the Angelica. Lately though, I’ve been skipping town at the drop of a hat, and finding myself wondering what it might be like to live in all sorts of unlikely places.<br /><br />One of the things I find myself noticing, when I’m anyplace but home, is all the colors, especially the moving ones. The jewel toned jays and cardinals, the soft pastels robins. <br /><br />Even the rich, earthy browns of the chipmunks to whom I never gave a second thought before, and the occasional red foxes, still on the side of a road somewhere.<br /><br />We don’t get much in the way of songbirds here in the village, east or west. The grungy grey pigeons and mousy sparrows are pretty much it. I’ve never spotted a chipmunk, or heard about a fox, though I wouldn’t be all that surprised if one turned up in Washington or Tompkins Squares one of these days. What we do have though, in spades, are rats. And what fine rats they are!<br /><br />I first moved to New York in 2000. That summer, the lower east side was overrun by the biggest, most fearless, rats I’d ever seen. If you were here then, I bet you remember them. They were everywhere, and they didn’t scamper away at the sounds and sites of approaching human beings. Oh no, not these rats. They’d walk right up to you, as though you were their long lost, dearest friend. Or possibly, a delicious looking lunch, thoughtfully delivered right to them. I never found out which, and didn’t so much want to. <br /><br />Over the next year or so, the rats dwindled back down to their usual numbers, and regained their scampering skills. As far as I know, no one ever really figured out where they had all come from, or how they’d grown to such gargantuan proportions. I do remember some speculation, at the time, about their having been forced out onto the street when the buildings whose nooks and crannies had housed them for untold decades were torn down to create some space for brand new luxury lofts. It seems a little too easy though, isn’t it, to blame the real estate developers for all our problems? Of course, if the shoe fits, then what’s a girl to do?<br /><br />For the last six and a half years, I’ve been trying to tell people who didn’t see them about those lower east side rats. I’ve never gotten anyone to take me seriously though. Maybe because it was my first year in the city, they’ve assumed I was still adjusting to sharing my sidewalks with any rats at all. Or maybe because we’d all so much rather believe rats like those only exist in urban legends, with the ones who eat cats, after having been brought back from Mexico by clueless tourists. And it’s not like I had any evidence any such creatures had ever existed anywhere at all, let alone on Avenue A.<br /><br />That all changed last week, though. Suddenly those rats, or their descendents at any rate, I’ll admit my utter ignorance on the subject of rodent life expectancies, were on TV. Better still, they were all over the internet, like the rock star rats they’d were always meant to be. If you haven’t seen the video yet, of the rat party inside the KFC on 6th avenue, right across the street from the West 4th stop, you should. Really. It’s like something out of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, minus Marlon Perkins, and the exotic locale.<br /><br />The KFC rats could easily pass for some kind of woodland creatures. They are enormous. The voiceover accompaniment estimates their weights as ranging from 11/2-2lbs. That would be around twice the size of your ordinary, everyday rat. But it’s not just their size that sets these rats apart. They practically glow with good health, and happiness. Their coats are thick and glossy, and big as they are, they’re in fantastic shape. Honestly, these rats look better than a lot of the people I know. We’ve got that wintry, pudgy, pasty thing going on. They don’t.<br /><br />And did I mention how happy the rats are. They’re scampering around, using chairs as jungle gyms, turning trays into their see-saws and slides. That must be how they stay in such great shape. Who knows, maybe it’s all an act, but if it is, it’s certainly a good one. Do rats know how to lie? People do, of course, and some of our fellow primates, I think. Dogs I’m convinced are masters of deceit. My cat, on the other hand, is a pretty straightforward kind of guy. I’m not sure where rats would fall on the spectrum of mammalian honesty. <br /><br />They could pass for woodland creatures, except, of course, they’re nowhere near any woods. They’re in a KFC. At least that’s what the news reports said at first. I don’t think I’ve ever had quite such a moment of self-righteous vegetarianism as I did when I saw that. I thought,” not my problem, rats in a KFC, take that, all you carnivores!” Or something like that. Fortunately, I kept it to myself, because I quickly realized this wasn’t just a KFC. It was one of those weird, hybrid, KFC/Taco Bells. And for this vegetarian, there’s nothing quite like a bean burrito from Taco Bell, when I’m on my way home from some kind of foolishness or other, at some ungodly hour, and nothing else is open. Those days are over though. I think it’s over between me and Taco Bell. At the very least, we need to take a break. A long one.<br /><br />Given my tendency to look for signs and omens everywhere, I’m tempted to wonder if it doesn’t mean something, these rats from my first days in the city reappearing, when I’m starting to ask myself if this is still where I want to be. It probably doesn’t work so well though, to go looking to rats for answers to life’s big questions, no matter how happy they look. And odds are, by the time I’m asking a question like that out loud, I already know the answer, even if I’m not quite able to hear it yet.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-76755724893190924732007-02-11T11:56:00.000-08:002008-12-10T16:30:30.134-08:00Moving Out, On, or Up? Whatever you call it, you still have to pack first...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMjSSMDnmQ3FRTLhQ3soWeADohH3EFh_YMBKN4d7HCXwsG6qe3ZI0TeEWI4YaC73b8Ndib52d6-F1U55oDc8G7iYBsDDcV2Ofiz_E439wdvmt8MNgVFZB_HcImjOm2OOZrUbjf94z0CcZx/s1600-h/redsofa.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMjSSMDnmQ3FRTLhQ3soWeADohH3EFh_YMBKN4d7HCXwsG6qe3ZI0TeEWI4YaC73b8Ndib52d6-F1U55oDc8G7iYBsDDcV2Ofiz_E439wdvmt8MNgVFZB_HcImjOm2OOZrUbjf94z0CcZx/s320/redsofa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062275869962387602" /></a><br />For all of the year I’ve lived in this neighborhood, this part of the village between Washington Square Park and Houston St., it’s seemed like everyone but me was moving every single month. I know that isn’t possible, but judging from all the U-Haul’s, moving trucks & dollies, and furniture left out on the street to fend for itself, it’s a mistake anyone could make. All the NYU people really do move in and out a lot. Almost every month, I’ve walked by some piece of furniture I wished I could snag, but just didn’t need, or have room for, or couldn’t possibly get back to my apartment without a team of movers I knew I’d never muster. There was a big red sofa I still think about, sometimes, and a pink velvet chair that was begging me to curl up in it right there on the street. I console myself with thoughts of what might have been lurking deep within those fluffy looking cushions. <br /><br />This week, though, as the February first crops moved in and out, I saw a lovely ladder-back chair, woodwork painted very nearly the same shade of red as the sofa I’ve regretted all this time, in good shape all around, with none of the upholstery that might double as a wildlife habitat. Here, finally, was something I kind of needed, something I could fit into my shoebox, and something I could easily carry around the corner and up my stairs myself! Then, I remembered. In a couple of weeks, I’m moving myself. I’m trying to get rid of as much of my stuff as I can possibly talk myself into doing. The last thing I need is, well, anything.<br /><br />Moving is horrendous, isn’t it? Whether you’re going across the east river, across the country, or just across the street, it’s a nightmare, every time. According the Holmes and Rah Life Stressors Scale, a “change in residence,” gets you 20 points. A “major change in living conditions,” is 25. Combine those two - how can a change in residence not be accompanied by a major change in living conditions? - and moving scores a 45. To give you a little perspective here, the death of a close friend is 36 points, divorce 73, and pregnancy 40. I guess it’s nice to know that when my friends start dying off, it won’t be this bad. I guess that’s something to look forward to. <br /><br />The thing that makes moving so awful for me though, is nothing to do with the changes of living conditions, or the “residences,” themselves. It’s the process of getting out of one and into another. Mostly, it’s the packing. Some people might have to wait until the moment of death is upon them to see their lives flash before their eyes. I get to do it every time I move. <br /><br />I have some hoarding tendencies, I know. I’ll even admit that, left unchecked, they could lead me to a Collier brothers type demise. So, with every move, I try to lessen the load, to disencumber myself of some of all this stuff I somehow have accumulated. That means I’m not just folding sweaters and boxing books. Oh no, nothing so simple as that for me. Instead, I’m carefully considering each item. When did I wear this last? If I haven’t read this book by now, am I really ever going to? That kind of thing. It’s lots of fun. Honestly. Just a blast.<br /><br />The trio of plastic possum figurines I looking at right now, for instance. I’m not sure if plastic is quite the word, actually. Resin maybe? I don’t know. I bought them at some kind of dollar store, in Chinatown, I think. There was something so wrong with the fact of their existence, with someone, somewhere, having thought they were a good ides for long enough to design and manufacture them. I had to have them. And anyway, it was a dollar store. Who bothers with anything like judgment or restraint inside those places? Isn’t that the point?<br /><br />I’d just moved in with Boyfriend at that point. I knew he’d get it, the brilliant mistake my decorative possum were. That was one of the things I loved about him. So I took them home. He did get it, and we put them on our new glass shelves. <br /><br />I don’t know where those shelves are now. Neither of us wanted them when we moved out of that apartment. I didn’t have room. He didn’t really need them. They probably wound up out on the street. The possum, though, have been in a box underneath my bed for the last year. I can barely stand the sight of them at this point. Who wants the souvenirs of a hopeful moment that didn’t pan out? But how can I just throw them out? Which is worse, to continue carting these things around, like some kind of holy relics, or to toss them out, as though they never meant a thing? I really can’t decide, but I’m going to have to, because I’m moving.<br /><br />Then there’s this perfect long ,black, dress. I cannot describe just what a perfect dress this is. It would almost be worth the time of going to design school, if I learned by what magic this dress allows for the riskiest display of cleavage I’ve ever attempted, without looking slutty, in the slightest. My mother even likes this dress, and she generally wishes I would shop more at Laura Ashley, and less at any store with the word “Secret” in its name. I think it’s something to do with the unlikely turn of the straps. I haven’t worn it in five or six years, at least. Even so, it’s still the first thing I think of when one of those occasional black tie invitations shows up in my mailbox. I love this dress. But I haven’t worn it in years. I bought it in a passing, and long past, moment in which I was, just possibly, too thin. Thinner, at any rate, than I’m willing to do the work of maintaining anymore. It hasn’t looked quite right for a good long while. By any reasonable measure, It’s time to let it go. Somewhere out there, is a dress just as good, one that would even fit correctly, right? I wore this one too one of my oldest friends’ weddings though. To that stupid Christmas party in Massachusetts. And how do I know I won’t get lucky, and get a tapeworm or something, find it fitting perfectly again one day? People do get them, you know. It happens.<br /><br />Normal people might find themselves taking this detour down memory lane packing up the picture albums, or sorting through boxes of letters and old journals. Not me though. I know exactly what’s inside of those, just where their dangers lie. Those I just box up, taking care not to look directly at them, and leave the culling for another time. It’s these surprises, in garment bags in my closet, or stored neatly underneath my bed, that throw me for such a loop. Emotions are often highly overrated, if you ask me. Like fondly remembered college friends, we had reasons for falling out of touch with some of them. At least old roommates offer the common courtesy of keeping to themselves, unless we go Googling them. I don’t recommend that, by the way. It never works out the way you’d hoped.<br /><br />Maybe I should go see if that chair’s still out there after all. Something to remember this block by.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-49837468355831032882007-02-01T14:06:00.000-08:002008-12-10T16:30:30.788-08:00Hillary & Me. Can this relationship be saved?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoRQ-9vDKgqh1v-US71ljmeHLZUVEF9IIlY1Wekeu2FzqlTQ95xBE3Sdik6P-ny1Y10X84PsMAnalPqbA2g0yaIJJmruaMo2rM53ONoZb52LPmxaGwL2A2wWbSrD1Rd_krTI7mwtd_BY4V/s1600-h/favpic.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoRQ-9vDKgqh1v-US71ljmeHLZUVEF9IIlY1Wekeu2FzqlTQ95xBE3Sdik6P-ny1Y10X84PsMAnalPqbA2g0yaIJJmruaMo2rM53ONoZb52LPmxaGwL2A2wWbSrD1Rd_krTI7mwtd_BY4V/s320/favpic.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062303490897068258" /></a><br />I really want to be excited about Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign. Six years ago, when she was first running for her senate seat, I was positively giddy over the prospect of a second Clinton presidency. Something’s happened though, in the interim. I couldn’t tell you exactly what, or precisely when, but things just aren’t the same between us these days.<br /><br />There’ve been moments, these last few weeks, when those old feelings returned. The first time I heard her say, “I’m in it, and I’m in to win,” almost made me cry. After all, this is the first time we’ve had a woman taken seriously as a presidential contender, and for an unreconstructed feminist like myself, that is a big, big, deal. It’s not impossible she’ll get my primary vote on that basis alone. Her quip about being well prepared for dealing with “bad, evil, men,” in Iowa a couple of weeks ago, I thought was a brilliant way of beginning to defuse the three hundred pound gorilla of a husband who’ll be following her to every campaign stop. And, it was just funny. Did you know Hillary had it in her to be that funny? I watch these things like a hawk, and I hadn’t had a clue. She gave a great speech to the DNC’s winter meeting last weekend, the sight of which, again, got me all weepy. As has, for the last week, the music she chose for that appearance, the Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet.” I’ve never really given that song a moment’s thought, till now, so some subliminal pull or other must be pulling me along. <br /><br />You might well be thinking, at this point, that I’ve just listed an awful lot of moments for someone who’s telling you she’s ambivalent about Clinton’s campaign. Fair enough. The thing is, though, that those moments which have moved me so, all have one thing in common. They are all about the ridiculous amount of simple political talent that seems to attach itself to anyone carrying the Clinton family name. Hillary isn’t quite up to her husband’s level in that department, at least not yet, but hardly anyone is. And she is catching up quickly, getting better and better with each day of her national campaign. Like an armchair quarterback awestruck by anyone’s beautifully thrown pass, I am a sucker for a brilliant politician. I am not so easily impressed in this department, I don’t think, but when I am, it’s serious. <br /><br />A moment as simple as the joke Clinton made in Iowa, “Question was: What in my background equips me to deal with evil and bad men?" followed by a pause, and a full thirty one seconds of laughter from the audience, can take my breath away. Think about everything that was happening in that one moment. First, as I mentioned earlier, Hillary was inviting her potentially problematic past into the room, and treating it like an old familiar friend. Brilliant. And she did it in a funny, unscripted seeming, kind of way. Better yet. How much have we read, and heard, about her lack of spontaneity on the campaign trail? What better way to begin to quell that criticism could anyone have come up with? Then there’s the “likability factor” we keep hearing about where she’s concerned. Who’s more likable than a wronged wife, who’s been strong enough to keep her marriage together despite her husband’s infamously bad behavior, and sassy enough to joke about it? In one fell swoop, she’s winning our sympathy, reminding us she doesn’t actually need it, and letting us off the hook for having thought she might. Suddenly, she’s passing that clichéd test of coming across as someone who’d probably be a lot of fun to go for drinks with. This moment makes me fall back in love with Hillary, more than a little bit. <br /><br />As Hillary’s political talents blossom on the national stage, they do inevitably call to mind her husband’s. Simply the sound of Bill Clinton’s voice on a PSA about disaster preparedness can make me ache with nostalgia for the days when America was a country that had the common courtesy to leave things like torture in the hands of highly trained professionals, who kept it to a highly classified minimum. I was hardly the biggest fan of his presidency, but it was always hard to keep that in mind when he got up to give a speech. The big question about him in my mind has always been, what does he really believe in? And now the same question keeps coming up about Hillary. I’ve never doubted that they both had real principles, but it can be hard to see what those are, behind all the charm, and political pragmatism. Trying to sort that out, where Hillary’s concerned seems to lead me, inevitably, downtown. All the way down to the World Trade Center site, to be exact. <br /><br />For all the personal and political criticism Hillary Clinton attracts, I’ve yet to find anyone who finds fault with her performance as New York’s junior senator in these last six years. Down in DC, as a member of the minority party, she’s been impressive in her ability to reach across the aisle, and actually get her priorities included in legislation as it passed through the Senate. Here in her adopted home state, Clinton’s garnered wide praise for her commitment to constituent services. Nowhere do these two lines of thought and work intersect so clearly as at Ground Zero.<br /><br />Senator Clinton has been consistent and effective in her advocacy for the people and businesses still suffering from the effects of 9/11. Most recently, she’s brought attention, both public and presidential, to the devastating respiratory health problems being faced by 9/11’s first responders. At first glance, this might not seem like such a big deal. Who doesn’t want to be publicly associated with America’s heroes, after all? The difference I see here, though, is that Clinton’s achieved tangible benefits for people who have been generally left out of the public discourse around 9/11 and its aftermath, and she’s done so without a lot of political grandstanding. She’s not going around to firehouses doing exciting photo-ops, rather, she’s putting her own high profile to good use, on issues like lower Manhattan’s air quality post 9/11, that nobody else is mentioning much on the national stage anymore.<br /><br />So I keep wondering, what does Hillary have to gain politically by trying to keep these subjects part of our national conversation? Honestly, I don’t see much. Once she’d won her first senate race, there was little danger she’d lose the second. If there had been, it certainly wouldn’t have been coming from Manhattan. As far as her presidential campaign goes, New York’s been a pretty sure state for her, in both the primary and general elections, from day one. Granted, she’s hardly taking a risky stand on this, but time spent on first responders’ health problems is diverted from other issues that might carry more political capital. <br /><br />Assuming I’m correct in my political calculus, what do I at least think all this tells me about Hillary Clinton’s principles? It’s reminding me I’ve always been convinced of both the Clinton’s devotion to an ideal of public service. Remember Americorps, for instance? Bill’s pet project, in which two years of public service were rewarded with college tuition assistance? It still exists, by the way. <br /><br />The right wing has been very successful in portraying the Clintons as a matched set of power hungry self-promoters. Constant repetition of any talking point can be a shockingly effective political tool. However, endless repetition, hardly makes something true. There are more effective ways of satiating an appetite for power than personally engaging in electoral politics. Just ask Bill Gates, George Soros, or Rupert Murdoch. If power had been the only item on the agenda, they could far more easily have set out to make themselves huge piles of money, and enjoyed the power that brings one in postmodern America. Instead they chose the expensive and risky path of politics. Even elephants, you know, have moments of inspired altruism.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-10815400532885114102007-01-15T18:05:00.000-08:002008-12-10T16:30:31.186-08:00President Giuiliani: Grand Illusion or National Nightmare?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgth7MdO-1vOqDrHLECKbyC_VfmRUiIPpydZ6WVQ06g9Pw-YP1QRPLu57gzStWCz42TLQz4ahhj_wsM6FsAIhcMUQFLF5JpHB80rn-TI6pQ1aqliEx-ca2-jQW1t13Bvfba9zdKwz4l8trX/s1600-h/grandillusion.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgth7MdO-1vOqDrHLECKbyC_VfmRUiIPpydZ6WVQ06g9Pw-YP1QRPLu57gzStWCz42TLQz4ahhj_wsM6FsAIhcMUQFLF5JpHB80rn-TI6pQ1aqliEx-ca2-jQW1t13Bvfba9zdKwz4l8trX/s320/grandillusion.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062363294021697858" /></a><br />If I were a nicer person, a more evolved, more compassionate, more empathetic kind of a girl, I might feel sorry for the Republican Party right now. Whether they realize it yet or not, they have a vacuum where their viable 2008 presidential contenders ought to be. Alas, I am a work in progress, on my best day. I've tried and tried to feel their pain, but all I can really feel is glee. They've got nothing! Nothing! Nothing at all!<br /><br />George "Maccaca" Allen and Rick "Man on Dog" Santorum were supposed to be in the race. Then they crashed and burned in last years mid term elections, losing both their congressional races and their chances for the White House. Cat killer and former Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist left the senate to prepare for a presidential run, but has since had a change of heart. Jeb Bush might have had a shot, if his brother's presidency had gone well. That hasn't really worked out though, not for any of us, and certainly not for Jeb.<br /><br />So who's still standing over there? John McCain and Rudolph Giuliani are, for the moment, topping the polls. McCain's busy self-destructing though. As one of three or four vocal supporters of Bush's plan to escalate his war in Iraq, McCain has turned his, "Straight Talk Express," into a sad train to nowhere. His once appealing maverick image disintegrates a little more with ever awkward effort to appeal to Bush's radical religious right base. Unfortunately for McCain, he's not quite crazy enough, not quite misogynistic or homophobic enough, to satisfy their needs. Apparently no one told him his best bet would be running to the center, playing to the moderate swing voters who might have been drawn to his much vaunted independence. Or maybe someone did, but he realized that independent, maverick image wouldn't hold up to even a casual glance at his party line congressional voting record.<br /><br />That leaves them with Giuliani. If anyone's benefited politically from 9/11 more than President Bush himself, it would have to be Rudolph Giuliani. As we all know, on September 10, 2001, Giuliani was an unpopular, lame duck mayor. Between the police abuses left unchecked on his watch, the absurd spectacle of his very public divorce proceedings, and the endless petty power plays with other state and city officials, his approval ratings were on a downward spiral, and his political future looking nonexistent. That abortive Senate run probably hadn't helped matters much either. Then the Twin Towers fell, taking his emergency command center at 7 World Trade Center with them. As Giuliani wandered the streets of lower Manhattan, foraging for a functional workspace, a star was born.<br /><br />I remember that day, of course. Even safely ensconced in Brooklyn as I was, it was terrifying, confusing, and horrible in previously unimaginable ways. But then, I guess that was the point. Chaos reigned even on CNN, for a few hours that morning. How many planes had been hijacked? How many had been accounted for? Where had they come from, where had they been headed? Where might they be going instead? No one seemed to have a clue. A successful terror attack indeed.<br /><br />Then the mayor and the cameras found each other. Marching uptown through the swirling debris from the towers, all those bits of paper and ash, Giuliani projected confidence and control. He struck every note with a new found perfect pitch. Even I, erstwhile Pirate Queen of the progressives that I am, felt safer knowing Giuliani was in charge that day.<br /><br />Once the immediate crisis had passed, Giuliani set about constructing a new reputation for himself as a prescient expert on counterterrorism and domestic security, founded on a few days' stellar tv performance. He's done a good job of it too, even persuading the rest of the world to take his reportedly long standing presidential aspirations seriously. He's transcended all the usual steps required between a stint as mayor of any city, even this one, and the presidency. Some time in the Senate perhaps, or maybe the governor's mansion? Not necessary, not for this mayor. He's like the kid in the mailroom whose great good luck takes him directly to the boardroom, without any tedious stops in middle management.<br /><br />Sounds a little absurd, doesn't it? I thought so too. In their recent book on Giuliani, before and after 9/11, Grand Illusion, Wayne Barrett and Dan Collins show us just how absurd it really is. Juxtaposing Giuliani's extravagant claims on his own behalf with the realities of his record, they bring the gaps between the two into sharp focus, in prose as clear and engaging as Giuliani himself was on 9/11.<br /><br />It's not so much that they're telling us anything we didn't already know. The problems with the Fire Department's radios, the long running feud between Giuliani and the Port Authority, and the lack of unified communication and command between the police and fire departments that increased the inevitable chaos of 9/11 have all been common knowledge for years. The ignored recommendations for security enhancements after the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, and inexplicable choice of 7 WTC for the mayor's emergency command center are, similarly, old news. Maddening, certainly, but hardly revelatory. Barrett and Collins do the work for us, though, of bringing these disparate facts together in the compelling narrative they've created.<br /><br />A flair for self-aggrandizement, and a flexible relationship to reality are, admittedly, par for the course in presidential politics these days. Reading "Grand Illusion," though, I found myself wondering if Giuliani hadn't brought both to new heights. An accident of his own bad decision making left him walking the streets, readily available to television crews, without a command center when he needed it most. President Bush's peculiar choices to continue learning about pet goats after he knew both towers had been hit, then to spend the rest of the day jetting around the country on Air Force One, left a void on our tv screens and in our minds. Who, many of us found ourselves wondering, was running things?<br /><br />Giuliani filled that void the second he showed up on our screens. By simply being present, calm and courageous for the cameras, he won himself a new, and nearly presidential, stature, to which he's held on tightly ever since. Trouble is, that unearned stature was just a trick of the light, and the timing. That impressive figure was only brought into existence by virtue of other absences.<br /><br />I've learned better than to presume to speak for anybody else, but my personal surge of post 9/11 affection for Giuliani dissipated as soon as he started trying to use the attacks to justify an unprecedented extension of his last term. Reverting to type, he was looking for ways to turn unspeakable destruction into political gain, while fires still burned in the ruined towers. Remember the smell of all that smoke, drifting around the city for weeks? I do.<br /><br />I also remember Abner Louima, Amidou Diallou, Patrick Dorismond and the other casualties of the policing tactics Giuliani repeatedly defended and endorsed. The endless tension and jockeying for position with Governor Pataki, that benefitted no one. The silly anti-jaywalking campaign, and all the rest of it. "America's Mayor," wasn't always such a god mayor for this city, in case anyone's forgotten.<br /><br />That's almost beside the point though, in considering Giuliani in his latest role of presidential hopeful. The best of all possible mayors would still be woefully underqualified for the White House. Running a city is quite different from running a country, to put it mildly. It doesn't confer any foreign policy experience, or military expertise, for starters. Giuliani's loud insistence of having both doesn't change that truth.<br /><br />Nor does he have the temperament to make it through a national campaign. The commanding demeanor we all found so comforting on 9/11 isn't necessarily what Americans are looking for, when we cast our presidential votes. We like presidents who can at least pretend to be just like us. Regular guys we think we'd like to hang around with. Guys who we think would like us back. Giuliani doesn't really seem to like anybody much. And don't let's forget his difficult pre-9/11 relationship with the media. Difficult questions asked of Mayor Giuliani tended to receive snappish nonanswers. A lot of difficult questions are put to presidential candidates. Temper tantrums don't go over so well on the campaign trail.<br /><br />I may well have gotten my progressive political DNA from my mother. Talking to her about all of this the other day, I noticed she was oddly silent. Half jokingly, I said, "You like Giuliani kind of, don't you?" She answered, "No, but I don't hate him like you seem to." I don't hate Rudolph Giuliani, I promise you, I don't. Rather, I find his rush to power, on the backs of the unburied dead still being found at Ground Zero, offensive, in a personal way I barely know how to explain. I took it personally when my city was attacked, and so terribly wounded. Who here didn't? And I've taken it personally each time that event's been exploited to further a political agenda. Giuliani's doing so feels the worst though. After all, on 9/11, he was my city's mayor.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-24154077247137477762007-01-01T18:44:00.000-08:002008-12-10T16:30:31.672-08:00Rat Assassin! Doing Darwin's Work in Washington Square.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1c7QiyENRuZEFwRSn5ycUJW-IfJQkGC8l5oC6tXQXZQC-CW5UDAk9ImILNkccQfXsJwC1swrp_cC3RxRica_fmknmmU1V5efIgAJQdUuqXgjmd9PfIy_opK2br8ho7OCEF21fchacnf0E/s1600-h/huskypark+059.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1c7QiyENRuZEFwRSn5ycUJW-IfJQkGC8l5oC6tXQXZQC-CW5UDAk9ImILNkccQfXsJwC1swrp_cC3RxRica_fmknmmU1V5efIgAJQdUuqXgjmd9PfIy_opK2br8ho7OCEF21fchacnf0E/s320/huskypark+059.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062372343517790546" /></a><br />The New Year's off to a fantastic start for Sita, one of my two Siberian Huskies. She's the one I usually call, "the good one," or, "the sweet one," or, "the freakishly smart one who can sometimes find my keys when I can't." Before nine o'clock this January 1st, though, my little monkey girl had gotten herself another name for the day. She started the year off as "Killer."<br /><br />She's obsessed by the rats in Washington Square Park. They spend a lot of time darting around on the other side of the dog run fence, and she spends a lot of time staring at them, longingly. They tease and torment her, skitter skattering hither and yon, in their ratty way. When one of them makes the foolish choice to squeeze in under the fence, she's right there, ready and waiting to snatch it up.<br /><br />Huskies like to kill small, squiggly things. There's nothing they love more. Especially when those things make high pitched, squeaky sounds. Then they like to toss them around, because, apparently, dead rats are the best toys ever. It's just part of the package. They are smart and independent, they shed a lot, they've got those pretty blue eyes, and they are expert killers.<br /><br /><br />Sita and Sasha, also known as"the bossy one," have taken out their fair share of squirrels, rats, and pigeons, in the past. I'm past the point of being too squeamish about their prizes. So long as I don't have to touch the soft, small corpse, so long as they'll drop it, and there's something around to scoop it up with, without making direct contact, we're ok. Maybe I am a little squeamish still, but believe me when I tell you this represents great progress on my part. A dead rat on such a grim, grey, New Year's Day, though, feels like some kind of omen, doesn't it? And not necessarily a good one.<br /><br />You could say it was my fault. I could have been watching them more closely. I was feeling inordinately pleased with myself though, in a, "What a good dog owner I am! At the park, in this downpour, at 8 am on New Year's Day. How lucky my dogs are to live with me!" kind of way. Chatting with the only other person in the dog run with her puppy, about more or less just that. The three dogs were playing, and everything seemed just fine. I didn't even see the thing until Sita had it in her mouth. At that point, it was all over for that rat. Sita doesn't mess around. One quick shake, maybe two, breaks the neck, and that's that. At least it's quick and painless, right? She is a stealthy and efficient rat assassin. Maybe she should look into a career with the CIA, as a Secret Agent Siberian, and then I could live vicariously through her death defying exploits!<br /><br />Washington Square Park is rat central, in case you've never noticed. They are everywhere. I think it may have something to do with its having been a graveyard, and a public hanging ground, before it became a park, but that's not really something I like to think about, walking through it every day, whose bones I might be strolling over, who might have swung from that nice old tree I'm passing under.<br /><br />You could also say that rat was asking for it. What kind of a defective rat, with an entire park to play in, comes inside the dog run? That's what I never understand. They have sense enough to dart away when my dogs and I cross their paths on the sidewalk. Are the dogs somehow less scary when I take their leashes off? Even on a slow day, the dog run's no place for a rat. The rats of Washington Square Park should really hold an emergency Community Board meeting, to reconsider the wisdom of that approach. It's not working out for them so well.<br /><br />Maybe this particular rat was suicidal. Maybe the holiday season is stressful for the rat world too. I don't know just how functional rat families are, so I can see how that might be the case. Maybe no one had told this one today was the end of that. Whatever its problem was, developmental disability or mood disorder, the rat gene pool is clearly better off without this one's DNA. Sita is simply doing Darwin's work.<br /><br />According to the Chinese calendar, I was born in the Year of the Rat. The Water Rat, to be precise. According to Chinese astrology, this means I "have a knack for influencing people," "strong intellectual powers," and am, "obliging, generous, and compassionate." There are some other, less flattering attributes, but I'm keeping those to myself today, to maintain my air of mystery. You know how to Google, if you're curious enough to learn the worst about me. 2007, in case you're wondering, is the Year of the Boar. 2006 was the Year of the Dog.<br /><br />Sita kills a soaking wet rat, on New Year's day. The lazy oracle might suggest she's going to kill me, most likely before this year is through. Listening to the lazy oracle is generally ill advised, though and Sita is, usually, "the sweet one," so I can't really get myself too worried about that. And I have a true talent for envisioning those unlikely worst case scenarios, but that? Not even I can imagine that one..<br /><br />Sita's the messenger here, but not the message. I'm taking her out of the equation, and singling out that dead, wet rat. Have I mentioned, by the way, how much I enjoyed disposing of that rat? Fortunately, the dog run's well stocked with scoops and shovels, but still. Just what I'd hoped to be doing at the crack of dawn on New Year's Day.<br /><br />The Death card in the Tarot deck always sounds, and looks, so ominous. In my deck, Death is represented by the simplest of grim reapers, scythe in hand. It's really not a bad card to get though. It doesn't so much foretell your doom, as let you know there's change in the air. Some kind of risky transition you'll have to navigate well and wisely. Something that may look scary, at first glance, but will offer you a chance at reinvention, recreation, rebirth, if you like. But you have to be paying attention, to see the opportunities at hand, and brave enough to take them, no matter how they terrify.<br /><br />I'd already gotten some big changes lined up for 2007. Not just to finally lose those last ten pounds, or to be nicer to the tourists, things I'm actually going to do, things that matter. It's past time to shake myself up a little. So I'm taking this as an auspicious omen, and a reminder that the path of least resistance rarely leads to anyplace I'd want to be. That the best things only happen when we give them the room they need to take us by surprise.<br /><br />In the meantime though, I'm still trying to get the last of the rat blood stains off of my pupcake's pretty white face. I've heard a little peroxide might do the trick. It might be easier if she didn't think it was time to cuddle whenever I come at her with the washcloth. Why would I expect anything else though? After all, she is the sweet one.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-73006269166820194872006-12-22T15:07:00.000-08:002008-12-10T16:30:31.833-08:00What Lies Beneath; Our Skeletal Streets<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjruuiddYLYxNZEZzMxpWflZ37U3vsQgS3kNFOZr2q6Katp8Pvyz5x1pqoxPLroO3a7mrBNcb8z3R_nqIbHAdcJDNfvLPkiv7MiFpggE-QnYWcnyeT3i7dUJt_D7S4Dpi4jUa-CwS1wSsaZ/s1600-h/skeleton.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjruuiddYLYxNZEZzMxpWflZ37U3vsQgS3kNFOZr2q6Katp8Pvyz5x1pqoxPLroO3a7mrBNcb8z3R_nqIbHAdcJDNfvLPkiv7MiFpggE-QnYWcnyeT3i7dUJt_D7S4Dpi4jUa-CwS1wSsaZ/s320/skeleton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062318690786328866" /></a><br />I once heard horror defined as what you feel when things that are supposed to be safely hidden away inside a living body suddenly become visible on the wrong side of its skin. When some poor girl gets sliced open by a Texas chainsaw, for instance, and her insides come spilling out all over the big screen. Even though that's what you came to see, you can't help but cringe and turn away, for just a second, until you turn right back to get an eyefull. That gush of blood, those oozing organs, they're just like yours, after all, it's only natural to be curious about them, isn't it? But then again, curiosity did kill the cat, and they are just like yours. You do want yours to stay safe inside where they belong, but how can you not look at hers, so big and shiny up there in front of you? She's looking at them too, so slow to die. That moment there, that's horror.<br /><br />I've been thinking about this lately, trying to figure out why I'm so horrified, which is indeed the word for it, by the ongoing construction of the Trump Soho condo-hotel down on Spring Street. It's not just that Trump's heading downtown, bringing his gleaming modern towers with him, where they are not necessarily wanted. I thought that was bad enough, but no. In mid-December human remains were found at the construction site. The Department of buildings issued a Work Stop order, but that only lasted one week, then the work started up again, churning up more bones and bits and pieces. <br /><br />I didn't think I could be shocked anymore, by anything to do with Manhattan real estate. Tell me you're planning to pave over the East River, fill that up with luxury lofts, I'll smile and nod politely, maybe wonder what the prices will be like. Or perhaps you're thinking you'd like to do a condo conversion, in the Statue of Liberty's torch? Someone's probably working on that one already, but good luck. This indifference to the dead though, has really thrown me for a loop. Something about continuing construction, right over all those dead bodies, is just horrible. <br /><br />The bones are most likely remnants of the Spring Street Presbyterian Church's graveyard. The church stood on Trump's site from 1811 until 1968, though it was nearly burned down by an angry mob in 1834 because of its abolitionist activism. There's been recent speculation that it might have been a stop on the Underground Railroad. As far as I'm concerned though, it doesn't matter much whose they are, when you start digging up bones, you stop building. Someone else beat you to the space. It happens all the time. <br /><br />Even before the remains were found, the building had already been controversial in the neighborhood. People are skeptical about the concept, suspicious that it's nothing but a way to get around the zoning laws, which allow a "transient hotel," but not a residential building. People can buy their hotel rooms, or suites, or whatever. They are allowed to stay there, but not to use them as permanent residences. When they aren't around, their rooms generate income, for them and for the hotel, by being rented out to guests, like any other. To me, this plan has no appeal whatsoever, buying something I'd never really quite own. The simple fact of not being able to leave my things in the closets, or in the dresser drawers, defeats the purpose of the pied a terre, if you ask me. <br /><br />The Greenwich Village Society for Historic Preservation doesn't think it's such a great idea either. Director Andrew Berman has said, "Mark my words, you will see a boom in condo-hotels in manufacturing zones as soon as the city allows this." That sounds about right to me. The developers insist it's meant to offer a "a place to stay while you're in the city; a glamorous address - you can rent it and make money." Not a permanent year round residence for anyone, they promise. I'm wondering though, for all this talk of transience, once the building's built, the condos sold, who's going to enforce those rules, and how? Once the precedent is set, the model tested and successful, Berman's boom will begin. He has suggested that "If we're going to open up manufacturing zones to luxury residences, there should be aboveboard hearings and reviews." Do we really want a neighborhood taken over altogether by residential towers, and with the people who think it's a good idea to buy condo-hotels? People who will be getting the good tables at our brunch spots, snagging all the cabs, and clogging up the sidewalks. How much investment, or even interest, will these part time residents have in our communities? I'm thinking those are not really the neighbors I'd most like to have. But of course, it isn't up to me.<br /><br />If this project didn't have such neighborhood destroying potential, I might not feel so strongly about those bones. I do spend half my life in Washington Square Park, without worrying over its history as a potter's field and public hanging ground. I've walked through City Hall Park without giving a thought to the city prison that once stood there, with its attendant graves and gallows. I know perfectly well that I'm walking over bodies, or what's left of them, all the time. Those bodies though, and all their parts, are still decently covered up underground. <br /><br />At the Spring St. construction site, they're bringing the bones out into the light. An archaeologist is participating in the excavation now, which, I guess, is meant to offer some assurance that they won't be destroying anything of significance. The archaeologist they've hired would never allow that,would he? The developers further assure us that the area in which the remains turned up is going to be used as an open plaza space, no part of the building will be built over it. <br /><br />Archaeologists and open plaza spaces sound lovely, don't they? But they are still pulling out all those bones, and no one's talking about putting them back, or putting them somewhere, anywhere. I can't help thinking they're going to end up in dumpsters, on dusty office shelves, maybe a few in a museum. A soft, familiar, muddy grave sounds so much more appealing than those options. <br /><br />It's easy enough, necessary even, to ignore what's all around us, most of the time. Not just the bodies underfoot, but those still above, sleeping on our sidewalks, asking for our change. The guy on the subway, ranting to himself, or perhaps to an imaginary audience, about who nature is a whore, and the end of days is nigh. The old friends too, who serve as such good reminders of out old selves, and our old aspirations, who's calls we almost never answer or return. Everyone's got one or two of those. Old loves and longings, opportunities dismissed, chances wrongly taken or not, so many things not to think about. We don't have time for all of that. We have too much to do. It takes a lot of work to keep our city running smoothly as it does.<br /><br />Buddhism teaches us that attachment to our physical selves, to the very idea of a self at all, is nothing but a distraction. A delusion to be shattered, if we hope to come to any understanding of reality's true nature, to liberate ourselves from the endless karmic cycle of rebirth, and the suffering it entails. Letting go of that attachment creates a space in which the world's endless possibilities can begin to open up, to give you a glimpse of the unimaginable. <br /><br />Legend has it that, once upon a time, Tibetan practitioners could sometimes be found meditating in charnel grounds. Surrounded by the rotting flesh and dusty bones, they sought to realize their own impermanence, the inevitability of death and decay, the uselessness of the self, in the face of death. Death isn't going anywhere, no matter how many towers we build over it.<br /><br />Maybe it doesn't matter what happens to those unearthed bones on Spring St. What use are they now, without the flesh, that fat and muscle they upheld, the hearts and lungs they enclosed, the eyes staring out of their sockets? Not much , if you think of it that way.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-63695477157759653612006-12-21T15:31:00.000-08:002008-12-10T16:30:31.849-08:00Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Is Flying really Necessary?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgid3cb5PN3AzFrsge21Na5NK963o7KUM_VFOrLjwycD9_Uv7uYxZ83FZY9ZiHQNggUkbWDzBHns6P6SCYHsE4g73iSg38-eIAvVsoGVJ-n_g1t7Y5aKYaI7n2qWYJMbpkUcQGuUklVDZ5m/s1600-h/flying.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgid3cb5PN3AzFrsge21Na5NK963o7KUM_VFOrLjwycD9_Uv7uYxZ83FZY9ZiHQNggUkbWDzBHns6P6SCYHsE4g73iSg38-eIAvVsoGVJ-n_g1t7Y5aKYaI7n2qWYJMbpkUcQGuUklVDZ5m/s320/flying.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062323784617541938" /></a><br />After five years of bickering, stalling, making themselves look ridiculous, and frustrating the rest of us, the powers that be have finally started doing something about rebuilding at Ground Zero. There's been another ground breaking, but this one looks like it's going to take. Columns going up, Bloomberg and Pataki making speeches, things are happening. I am sincerely happy for the families who have been waiting all this time to memorialize those they loved and lost. All of us downtown, and those families espescially, for whom bringing life back to that site will offer some sense of resolution, a reminder of inevitable renewal,in the face of unimaginable destruction. I hope those who were able to inscribe the various columns that will become the new building's strong skeleton felt they had honored themselves, the lost, and the endlsess unknown future in so doing. I look forward to walking by that site and seeing activity, forward motion, anything but the bleak, empty space I go out of my way to avoid whenever I find myself in that part of town. I think it's important, in ways both real and symbolic, that this happen, and cannot fathom why it's taken so long to get it started. Part of me can't help wishing though, that having waited this long, they could have given it just another week or two. Part of me can't help wishing, that this wasn't all happening in the few days before I have to get on an airplane.<br /><br />I'm told some people enjoy airplanes. That, once upon a time, air travel was an exciting and even glamorous thing. One friend explained to me how she loved dressing up and going to the airport, hearing the high heels she almost never wore clicking their way across the tiles.I thought that was sweet. I thought it was adorable, in some Grace Kelly kind of way. But I wasn't sold. I've never liked the whole thing much. Even before 9/11, I just didn't trust the plane to hold together. At any moment, it seemed to me, it could just dissolve into thin air, spin apart into its separate pieces, and leave me to drift down to a destiny uncertain, at best. I could do it though. I knew I wasn't being reasonable. I could get past that, get myself onto the airplane, and go wherever it was I had to go. But I didn't like it. Not one bit. <br /><br />That, among many other things, all changed on 9/11. A new, much clearer vision replaced my vague worries about airplane dissolution.I couldn’t then, and still cannot, imagine anything worse than being on one of those planes. Those moments of knowing what's about to happen, not just to you, but to everyone you can see, and to lots of people you can't, never have and never will, but you know they're there. Watching the city's beautiful skyline get closer and closer, and entirely too close. Seeing that wall of glass you're about to glide into, and realizing a fast disintegration's become your.best bet. Moments of knowing, of waiting, of powerlessness. So much terror in those moments. Terror for yourself, terror for the people behind that sleek and opaque glass, who have no idea what's coming their way. The terror of your impossible, and simultaneous desires to warn them, and to be one of them in their terribly lucky ignorance. To pound a warning to them on the glass and steel that's just about to pull you under. To smash through from your side onto theirs. To shatter it all before it shatters you.<br /><br />I didn't fly at all for four years. I took trains. I discovered I love long train rides. They're very peaceful, a kind of time outside of time. Pretty things pass by your windows, people quiet down after the first few hours, and you get to experience the distance you are travelling in a whole new way. You have no obligations, no real control over any of it. Your only responsibility is to stay put on your train, and to let it pull you on through.<br /><br />There's weird food, that you'd never normally eat. But while you're on the train it becomes a kind of guilty pleasure. Microwaved pizzas with that soft, sweet kind of crust, shiny bagels with packets of cream cheese or butter on the side, crumbly and enormous cookies. The walks up and down the train to get another soda, check out the people in the other cars, be glad you aren't in the one with all those babies, or the other with the pack of 15 year old girls on their way to cheerleading camp. Or maybe it's Jesus camp, who can say?<br /><br />There's something amazing about spending the time it takes to get from point a to point b, in this world so completely transient and temporary it barely exists. It allows me to appreciate both sides of my trip for their own solid specificity, and to summon more of the fluidity I need in navigating each. <br /><br />The thing I love about trains, though, the requirement of all that lovely empty time, is, of course, the problem with them as well. You can't go much of anywhere for a long weekend on a train. Unless you maybe stay on the train the entire time, which might not be so bad, all things considered. But realistically, sooner or later, something will make you get back on an airplane.<br /><br />My first post 9/11 plane trip was to a wedding in Chicago, with my boyfriend at the time. It was a weekend trip. Both of our schedules made flying the only option. And so I did. That one wasn't so bad. His presence kept my panic level down, and gave me some incentive to at least pretend I wasn't about to die. It was kind of ok.<br /><br />The second was a disaster. The flight to Florida was fine. Plans had been made in too much of a hurry, for reasons too important, to give me much opportunity to terrorize myself. Packing to do, arrangements to make, all in about a day. No time to visualize my doom. On my way back to Manhattan, however, I was a mess. I'd already stayed one day longer than I'd planned, largely to avoid the flight. Between the time I got to the airport, and onto the plane, my anxiety spiralled beyond the reach of the ativan I nonetheless kept taking. I somehow missed one plane, despite being in the airport well before it's departure time. There was one nearly incoherent conversation with a client, an unnecessarily nasty email to a colleague I barely remembered having written, until I saw it in her admirably restrained response. When I got home, I was sick for two days, maybe from all that ativan, maybe all that fear had just done me in. Suffice to say, a really bad time was had by all.<br /><br />Now, the holidays are here . I haven't been to see my parents in two years, haven't seen my grandparents in longer still. I really have no choice, but to fly down there. Since the last time, I've been therapized, medidated, switched the ativan for klonopin, and felt almost ok about doing it again. As ok as is possible for me. Telling myself it would be efficient and easy, travelling on a sleek, modern airplane. Progress is good, regression is bad. Then, these last few days before I have to leave, they've broken ground, again, at Ground Zero. So it's been all over the news, the papers, the radio, and my mind. That worst of worst case scenarios. But it's too late now. The plans are made, the tickets bought and nonrefundable. Too many parents and grandparents to be disappointed by my anxious self indulgence if I cancel. My fate is sealed.<br /><br />Walking through Washington Square yesterday, I ran into an eminently reasonable friend. As I was telling her about my trip, and my certain doom, she said, as reasonable people will, "There've been how many thousands of flights since 9/11? And they've all been fine. Why would yours, out of all of those, be the one to have a problem?" Without thinking I answered, "Because I am just that special." We both laughed, and went on about our days. But I'm not sure I was entirely kidding, in that thoughtless slip. Narcissists Anonymous, anyone?Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295489257137158230.post-23928582670974963032006-12-18T14:49:00.000-08:002008-12-10T16:30:31.968-08:00Automated Regret Machines and Miracles of Modern Medicine; There might be worse things than a successful friend or two...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyj5f4A4J6VLQKrC1_Xl_D2Ozensd3I10FvKNrCPRr03cIKwMxLz3xIxbUt72JDjH-lNYshmU5jH_OgiIV8dwUE-XA-D7sbrltMrcs6NdyiD1Je7U2ZsHaAbmt6FhiiwJCtmwOAvtfmXD3/s1600-h/pajamaist.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyj5f4A4J6VLQKrC1_Xl_D2Ozensd3I10FvKNrCPRr03cIKwMxLz3xIxbUt72JDjH-lNYshmU5jH_OgiIV8dwUE-XA-D7sbrltMrcs6NdyiD1Je7U2ZsHaAbmt6FhiiwJCtmwOAvtfmXD3/s320/pajamaist.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062311939097739538" /></a><br />By any standard, Matthew Zapruder is that rare creature, an MFA success story. For all the promising young things flooding graduate English departments from California to Alabama, every fall, visions of book deals and New Yorker publications dancing through their heads, there are only so many book deals, only so many pages of the New Yorker to go around. Only so much success, in other words, to be divvied up. While it doesn’t always go to those who most deserve it, in this case, happily, it has. Mathew’s first collection of poems, “American Linden,” was published to critical acclaim in 2002. His second, “The Pajamaist,” appeared this fall. In between, he’s been busy teaching at the New School, publishing in everything from the Alaska Quarterly Review, to the New Yorker, and co-curating the KGB Monday night poetry reading series with Deborah Landau. And, best of all, his poetry has only gotten better in the time I’ve known him.<br /><br />I was once a promising young thing. Really, I was. The kind of girl about, and to, whom lots of phrases using the word, “potential,” are used. Always with the clear implication being that, well, potential’s not a guarantee of anything, now is it? For a little while, though, when I started working on my own MFA, even I thought things just might be looking up. I remember obsessing over words, single words, stretching them out as far as their endlessness allowed, before they’d collapse back in upon themselves, and their own inevitable limitations. I remember keeping my sentences tucked away for safekeeping in the darker recesses of my mind. Relishing each one as it enfolded what had come before and blazed the trail for whatever was on its way. The feeling of pen in hand, or keyboard underneath, the sound of my own creations, the sensation of reading them, then reading them aloud. I fell in love with all of it, all over, every day. <br /><br />I remember that ecstatic energy, the staying up, night after night, reveling in my own words. I remember feeling so full of language, of talent, of all that much vaunted potential finally coming to some kind of fruition, it seemed I might just be getting something right, and I might never get enough. I thought everyone around me must be feeling more or less that way. Until I said some such thing to a friend at the time, and her blank look told me otherwise. I was a promising young thing then though, so all I could see was how much more that left for me. And that was just exactly what I wanted. More, of everything, already and always. More. <br /><br />But more is never quite enough, and yet somehow, it always turns into to much. All that energy lost its ecstasy and turned itself against me. I can’t say when, or how it happened. There wasn’t one particular moment, but then again, it didn’t take so very long. I became insatiable, irascible, and endlessly inconsolable. Overwhelmed and overwhelming, especially to myself. This went on for years, during which I produced nothing but destruction, for myself, and anyone unlucky enough to get caught up in my wake. Whatever romantic clichés there may be about artists or writers needing to be a little on the crazy side, to get anything done, I can tell you they’re all wrong. Being crazy, even just a little, relatively speaking, is a full time job. It requires hours of dealing with doctors and drugs, experimenting with different, newer, bigger, better versions of each. And of course, the prodigious energy required to pretend you’re fit to be out amongst the normal people. All this leaves you with none of what you need to write so much as one single word. Nothing even close to what you’d need to make a whole life for yourself.<br /><br />If I’d ever been a “glass half full,” kind of girl, I’d probably see the extent to which the miracles of modern medicine have settled my internal storms the last few months as nothing short of miraculous. I’d be full of visions for the future to come, the work to do, the life to lead. And it’s true, I do have some of that going on. More often though, I think of all that wasted time. All the harm I did to myself and others, all those others, and then that one in particular. Nonetheless, things are, once again, looking up, it seems.<br /><br />As I walked over to Mathew’s reading at KGB Bar last Monday night, I couldn’t get that Morrissey song, “we hate it when our friends become successful,” out of my head. Wondering if I’d be happy for him, jealous, or a bit of both. We’d never been the best of friends in grad school, but were in the same circles, and shared a lot of that kind of silly, boozy fun that involves things like empty bottles of blackberry brandy. You may not know this, but as a rule, writers like to drink. We’d even read together once. My very first reading, I think.<br /><br />Unsurprisingly, I was late, and I’ve always found it hard to really get a handle on poetry read aloud anyway. I was assured by those who know more than I about such things that the reading was, “fabulous,” “life changing,” and, indeed, “so life changing, it changed everyone’s lives once, then changed them back to what they’d been before.” I hadn’t been to KGB in ages, and had forgotten how much I liked it. All that red, those steep stairs and nooks and crannies. The last time I’d been there, though, I’m not sure any of the people I was with were entirely capable of reading, let alone writing anything.<br /><br />If I were generally a nicer person, I might not have been so surprised to find myself only genuinely pleased for Matthew, and that all is so well with him. Even after reading some of his new poems myself – they are, indeed, fabulous – the jealousy doesn’t seem to be popping up. They’re very different from what I remember of Mathew’s poetry. Less formal, differently, though still tightly structured, and maybe less afraid of leaving meaning unresolved. I seem to just be glad these poems are out there in the world now, even if it hadn’t realized how much it missed them, before.<br /><br />And really, who could resist titles like, “Automated Regret Machine,”? Or its final lines, <br /><br />“One could say I am cruel. Once late at night after getting a drink of water I waited behind a door to jump out at whoever came first, my brother or sister. Until now I had chosen to think they were too thirstily waiting in bed to fear any longer, but fear was what pushed them to rise and clear the room they knew I did not know my stories had filled with actual vampires or ghosts.” <br /><br />I couldn’t have put it any better myself.Gaijehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05241606475831560305noreply@blogger.com3