Courting Destiny

Sam's summer: Summer of '77

2005-02-05T18:04:00.000-08:00

“Who are you? He asked me in a perplexed but flirtatious voice.
“Who are you?” I asked the older man who had been waiting outside my apartment door when I came home from night classes at The New School.

My long brown hair was up in a ponytail; I wore a thin cotton summer dress, not too revealing which wasn’t usual for me, and brown platform sandals. That summer of Sam, no girl wanted to stand out or look anything like a potential victim. It was hot; it had been hot for weeks and my apartment lacked air conditioning. But I was young and didn’t feel heat like most people did. No matter how fast I walked and I walked like I was dodging bullets because maybe I was, I never sweated.

The man’s suit jacket was off as was his tie. His thin white shirt glistened from sweat. “Let me in,” he said.

I looked at him, confused. “Why?”

“You’re one of Reba’s girls. I can tell. You have that sweet school girl look.”
“Oh, her. She retired down to Florida last year. Sorry, don’t know anything about her. I live here now.”

I wasn’t sure if I should say that last part but didn’t know what else to say. Nobody had schooled me in the art of telling men that I wasn’t what they thought I was, in this particular situation or others.

“Sure you are. I can always tell who Reba’s girls are.”

I was getting angry. I wanted to go in; it had been a long day. I worked in a store in Queens, prime Sam country and the temperature had hit 90 long before noon. My nose was stuffed; I needed a shower.

He put on his glasses and examined me from head to toe.
“Even if you’re not one of Reba’s girls; you must have sublet the apartment from her. She’d never give it up. Reba’s too smart to give up a rent controlled Fifth Avenue apartment.”

“Look, sir,” I said, emphasizing the sir—a title I would never use in real life. “This isn’t quite Fifth Avenue, just off it, and the apartment’s no longer rent controlled. It’s stabilized and my husband and I live here now.”

I was wearing a wedding ring though I wasn’t married anymore. Anything to make me look unavailable; anything to ward off the evil that ran through New York that hotter than hell summer. I waved the ring in his face.

“My husband should be home any minute and he’s the jealous type.” Lying didn’t come naturally to me, but lying about men was something that did come easily that summer. I had put on my street face; the one that could turn men into stone, and he looked at me with a little less arrogance.

Nobody lived in the apartment right next to mine then, and a crazy psychiatrist with hair that stuck out all over his body and a look that could frighten Sam and frightened me lived in the other apartment on the first floor. The man who lived above me walked into the building.

“Oh honey, you’re home,” I screamed to my perplexed, older WASP neighbor. He had recently been listed as one of Manhattan’s ten most eligible bachelors. Frankly I thought he was gay because he was always smiling when he saw me and was usually with another man that I thought was his lover and the reason for the smile. Boys and men and anything in between had been smiling at me since I was sixteen. There was something about his smile that almost engaged me. It was more real; more something, than most male’s. But I did think that he was gay, and I wasn’t the short haired male with Docksider shoes on, type.

My neighbor, Roger, began to understand, stopped heading for the stairs, and came over. He kissed me, a wet passionate icky one that I forced myself to endure.
“Honey, this man thinks that I’m one of Reba’s girls. You know the madam that lived here before us.”

Roger was a bit tipsy. He put his arm around me, and said in his lazy WASPY voice so different than my fast somewhere in the North East one; “honey, I keep telling you we should put a sign on the door, ‘Reba doesn’t live here anymore.’”

“Oh Roger, I keep telling you that’s so classless. People will learn eventually.”

I unlocked my door; Roger followed me in. As I closed the door, the man said;
“I don’t believe you. Reba would never give up this apartment. You two don’t look like you belong together. Is he your appointment?”

I almost lost it. “I’m not one of Reba’s girls. We’ve been living here for a year and seven months almost to the day. And Roger and I are very happy. Aren’t we sweetie?”

I knew that was overkill but couldn’t stop myself.

The man handed me his card.
“If you ever change your mind.”
He was a vice president of an oil company. Years later he would become world famous in some now forgotten scandal.

“Okay Roger,” I said, “you deserve a drink for saving me. God, just thank god it was you and not, the shrink, or Al or that useless cab driver.” Al smoked cigars and looked almost old enough to be Roger’s father.

The cab driver had been born in the building; well, in a hospital I assumed, but close enough. He lived in an apartment two floors over Roger’s, and was famous for bringing in garbage to the building. Stacks and stacks of garbage: Newspapers; magazines; empty boxes; half-filled ones; anything metal. Once I passed his apartment when the door was open, and went into shock. I’m not the neatest person in America but his apartment defined the word Colliyer Brothers. I had lived in tenements in The East Village with my boyfriend, and had never seen one that sickening. They had all been very clean. Unless I lived in them; I wasn’t exactly a natural housekeeper. Though I aspired to be.

I passed the cab driver’s apartment while on my way to sleep with a local TV talk show host who lived in the larger apartment next door. He would talk about me to his shrink on the show. My ex-husband, who wasn’t working would call and tell me all about the show. It was kind of flattering as he never said anything bad about me. Quite the opposite actually.

Megan lived above Roger. Periodically she would turn the gas on and try to end her life. She always managed to try just before a delivery was scheduled, and just after the piano player she liked to think was her boyfriend dumped her. She was really in love with Roger, and whenever there was a break-in, in the building or a New York Times was missing from an apartment door, she would tell the super that I had done it.

He would laugh as he knew I had separation ideation problems over The New York Times. I was clueless when it came to housekeeping but I liked having company over so it would always look good.

Roger accepted the drink. When I had moved in my father, the almost tea toler, took me to a liquor store and insisted that he buy me a full bar worth of liquor. It was the proper thing to do in 1976 when most people drank hard liquor and smoked. My family, except for me was perfect. Fun, sociable and never smoked nor drank.

I poured Roger a glass of Stoli from a bottle in my ancient almost ice box freezer. It was gross and had to be defrosted every three months with tons of boiling water. After that summer, I bought a new refrigerator. That would have been sad had it not been so necessary, because I had to take out the wooden Pullman doors. When you walked into my apartment, you walked straight into the kitchen and saw the refrigerator, sink, and ancient stove with an oven that seemed not to have been cleaned since Reba had first moved in. I bought a new convection oven, and never used the real one.

Roger asked where I got the Hunter Ceiling Fans as he had never seen them in the city before.
“The Bowery, near where I got the butcher block table and chairs. Hey, do you mind if I…”

I walked through the kitchen, past the huge archway into the giant studio, and went to a silver case on the coffee table filled with joints. Years before, while seeing Jane Fonda in Klute, coming home from work, (yes like Reba’s girls), going to sit at the kitchen table with her legs up, and smoking a joint, I thought a woman who could offer people joints and who seemed so satisfied with her own life was the height of feminist sex appeal.

Though Roger was in his late 40’s, he’d occasionally buy drugs from the super, who was the building dealer. It was much cleaner that way, and you never felt like you were doing anything illegal. The Rockefeller laws had gone into effect the year before but it didn’t affect people like us. The Rockefeller’s lived across the street, but I never saw them. I must have passed famous people each day but I could have bumped into Woody Allen in a phone booth and not noticed.

They were my streets and the only place I could get lost in thought was while walking, so I walked everywhere, in all seasons. That summer I had promised my parents I wouldn’t walk much by myself at night, and would take cabs everywhere.

All my girlfriends had long brunette hair, and we all felt vulnerable. While we sat at my kitchen table, Roger asked me what if felt like to be a young, brunette girl in the city.
“I’m not going to stop going out. I have to wear my hair up; it’s too hot not to. No girl’s been killed in Manhattan and I work in one of my parents stores in Queens, and they won’t let me work past six. It’s just a summer job. I’m going to visit my college roommate in Geneva for six weeks in late summer, and fall….”

Roger and I talked through the night and then didn’t socialize again for twelve more years. Just before I left for Europe there was a black out with much looting. My sister lived on West 72nd, and it was very rowdy. People threw beer cans at the apartments all night, and I spent the night on the phone talking to her.

The next day my best friend Shelby and I hit the Second Avenue Upper East Side bars about noon. They were afraid of food going bad, and both food and drink were on the house. It felt like a snow day in the summer; we didn’t think about the neighborhoods that had been looted; we didn’t think about much but ourselves and the boys we were dating. We forgot to feel scared about Sam that day. Like most people we staggered home somewhere around midnight Al’s next door neighbor, Mrs. Herrick, passed out in the tiny elevator. She did that often.

While I was in Bern, Sam was captured, and Elvis died. I couldn’t really care about that old fat man, but Son of Sam. My god, he looked familiar. He wasn’t; just had a look.

My super, my building, my mom and me

2005-02-03T06:19:00.000-08:00

As all three of my regular readers know I live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, a place I fell out of love with awhile ago.

My apartment’s pretty, in a quasi-luxury apartment building, but it doesn’t have a real kitchen. Sacrificed that so I can be insulted by my doormen. Most of the old doorman were “encouraged” to retire, and they made this young street kid, head doorman over Fernando who has been here 20 years and has just had his seventh child.

My personal feelings on that subject are beside the point. I like Fernando. Once we were talking:
“In my country…”
“Uh, Fernando, you were born in the Bronx.”
Fernando thinks for a second.
“Oh yes, I was. In the country of my parents….”
Didn’t say, “And you graduated from a city high school.” It probably reflects more on the school system then him.

The thing is that doormen are essential to the life of a New Yorker. They help make life a bit easier. Fernando might not be the brightest bulb on the planet, but he’s a good doorman. He cares.

Most of the doorman think that we work for them. When I couldn’t leave my apartment I arranged with FedEx to pick up a package from my apartment. The doorman wanted me to bring it downstairs. The Super hand picked him; he picks all the new doorman, and made this idiot who snubs everybody head doorman. The Super made new rules: the doormen aren’t allowed to be friendly to the residents. This is the only building I know where the residents are supposed to take the burden off the doormen. I’m all for helping people but opening doors and helping residents is their job.

Hello, this is New York. Some people only have doormen for friends. I’m not about to name names, but I know that because I see them talking earnestly to the doormen. Okay Fernando tells me about the lonely residents; my neighbor and I are starting something to change that.

I live in the only building where the Super rules the Board of Directors and thinks he can just run into my apartment when he feels like it. When I tell him New York State law on that subject he just spits, in my apartment. Very sanitary. Makes me take out the bleach and bleach everything possible.

He doesn’t spit phlegm; he just makes a face like he’s about to, and does the pursed lip almost spit thing which is even worse.
After 9/11, my mom died suddenly, and my apartment was besieged by floods. I couldn’t be vigilant about checking for floods as the memos stated because I didn’t cause them.

I’m the only person I know to have a major flood that was caused by the apartment below mine. That’s right below mine. My building is one of the many Upper West Side buildings that had a non-eviction plan when it went coop. Personally I would have begged borrowed or stole to buy a six room apartment for under $40,000 in 1989, but they didn’t and live most of the year in their country home. My apartment is their kitchen, maid’s room and dining room. They have two huge bathrooms, one small one, a 30 foot entryway, a large living room and two large bedrooms.

I have a ten foot entryway with kitchenette, a small living room, huge bath off the living room, tiny bedroom with a very tiny entrance hall and a miniscule half bath in the bedroom.

Apparently they weren’t being vigilant about possible floods because I kept on smelling something that smelled a lot like mold, but I could never find the source. That’s because it was emanating from their apartment—the pipes had been corroding for years, and one fine Sunday they just burst. Somehow exploded up into my pipes and somehow I came home to a perfect circle of sand in my bedroom. Not thinking, I took the phone and went into the living room where I spoke to a friend for about an hour until I realized that there was sand in my bedroom.

I could take all the activity for the first week but they kept on finding more and more things to do—and the Super would have his hand out all the time—which meant not $20 tips but $100 ones. My super thinks big.

I would say it wasn’t the money that bothered me but I would be lying. More than that I just needed my apartment. All two rooms—the board insists it’s a three room apartment but I’ve never found the third room.

“Look,” I finally said to Super, “my mom just died. I need my apartment. If you could give me a schedule of when people will be here, I’ll take my work and go to Starbucks.”
“My nephew died in The Trade Center.”

I was truly sorry but it was one more instance of me finally saying something about my mom’s death, and being put in my place. Can’t mourn an old lady who fell; got to get with the program.

So many people came right out and said it; “How can you mourn your mother knowing that so many younger people died?”
“Because she’s my mother?”
“But she lived a long life.”

Yes and those last fifteen minutes when she was conscious and crying to some stranger on her Companion Button that she had fallen into her bathtub and couldn’t get up, I’m just supposed to forget that?

Maybe I’ve lived a sheltered life. That was the saddest thing that ever happened to me. I had never really mourned my dad’s death. Was working at Social Security, and drowned myself in work so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the reality. Had to keep him alive for my mom who had worshipped him.

I worshipped them both. The day of my mom’s funeral, The New York Times had an article about people who had loved ones die after the attack and how isolated they felt.

I’m a licensed social worker; then I was certified. I approached agencies to see if I could begin a support group for people like me. Nobody was interested. Had to help the families of 9/11 victims. I could always join that ever present support group “Losing a parent is hard at any age.”

Would you join something that sounds like it’s for pre-K.? I could just see Marlo Thomas singing the refrain, “hard at any age, yes any age.”

I’m the first to admit that I have unresolved anger that usually doesn’t hurt but sometimes when the super comes up, unannounced with one hand out and makes that spitting noise, I want to kill him.

What happened to The Trade Center and the almost 3,000 people in it was beyond my comprehension, but I’ve grown tired of being politically correct.

I’m beginning a revolution in this building because I’m sick of a super who runs it like a small fascist country. And I’m never going to apologize for missing my mom again. Never.

Christmas 1983, The Turnberry Club, Miami

2005-02-01T16:22:00.000-08:00

I' ve been under an enormous amount of stress lately, and seem to have lost the best part of me; my sense of humor which has helped me throughout life.

It really didn't occur to me that a four hour dental implant surgery carried inherent big risks, plus we're talking teeth. I'm the girl who stayed at The Turnberry Club in Miami--Christmas, 1983, at my best girlfriend's, from my first college, condo.

There seemed to be an abundance of available dentists, who had their Silver Shadows driven down from New York.

I'm not impressed with fancy condo/hotels or Rolls Royces; I was more the Saab (let's get real broken down Bugs) and tenement in the East Village type.

The dentists named me The Ice Princess; it wasn't the first time I had been called that.

I might have given that impression because I didn't want them to look closely at my newly bonded front teeth. I'm very near sighted, and can see any imperfection, imagined or not, as if I'm using a magnifying mirror when I look closely in the mirror.

I cheated myself out of many good experiences because I tortured myself over imagined fault lines.

Shelby's boyfriend had just begun serving three years in a Federal Pen for running an oil lease boiler room, and I had just gotten rid of the bum, for good, after too many years of watching every move I made to see if he was stalking me.

I will always be indebted to Dominic Dunne who tragically lost his daughter, Dominique, to the hands of her boyfriend. Before Dominique Dunne's death very little was known about abused women who lived in the best zip codes. The police wouldn't even let me fill out a restraining order.

Shelby's jewelry had been stolen the year before and she asked me to come to Miami because the burglar who had left her with a slightly damaged brain had been apprehended, confessed, and told the general vicinity where the jewelry was supposed to be hidden. As her very best friend, and probably only friend, I felt obligated to help her search a wooded area in Northern Miami. One thing you can always find in Miami is metal detectors and it was fun renting them from a store that was filled with customers who all qualified for the senior citizen discount special. We heard all the buzz on what beaches you could find the best lost jewelry.

Shelby had probably been one of the two most beautiful girls in school; the other being my other best girl friend, Corinna. While everyone loved Corrinna, nobody but me and her boyfriend ever liked Shelby. She was the only other girl as sarcastic as me. I would have felt badly about her mild brain damage but she hadn't used her brain in years.

She had gone through most of her inheritance, and didn't take money from any of the rich guys she lived with. I wouldn't have taken money--but I wouldn't have gone through my only inheritance. When it came to Shelby I wasn't the compassionate kind person most people mistook me for. I almost liked watching her get hit over by life.

I knew that I wasn't the ugly girl some girls pick to be their bestfriends to make them look better. Shelby made almost all women feel diminished when she walked into a room. I hated her at times. Once, in college, we threw books at each other and ended up in a cat fight. I refused to speak to her for the next year.

We were like lovers in our frenzies. Like doomed lovers we always found our way back to each other for awhile until we couldn't stand one another again.

Shelby was jealous of me. I was the one who got the serious marriage proposals; not one man had ever proposed to Shelby.

I couldn't understand it. I was the worst house cleaner in the world; Shelby was one of the best. She actually cooked; I did omlettes on occassion. If a man she was involved with asked her to do something she did it. I usually refused on general principle.

Shelby seemed confident; she wasn't. I was even less confident, but few people knew that. We understood that about each other. Shelby was only as confident as the man she was with let her be; I was only confident when I liked my teeth.

Yet I heard the same two sentences from four different men. "I can't live with you. I have to marry you." I was always tempted to ask if he was pregnant but always managed to refrain as they were serious.

My life revolved around my obsessions and marriage played no part in them. I was obsessed with being perfect. My boss called me Princess Perfect. I never considered that a compliment. I wouldn't settle for anything less than perfect work sent to clients; if I had to I would do the work over myself. I was obsessed with many things but it was my teeth that drove me crazy. The thing about my teeth is that they weren't bad. I thought that they were too small.

I was always smiling with my mouth closed. After they were bonded I thought that they looked a little too perfect.

I hadn't meant to write this story. It somehow came out. Shelby and I had a big fight. Her mother, who technically owned the condo came over, and asked me for money for staying there.
I was so shocked I gave her a check and then stopped it.

I never saw Shelby again and haven't spoken to her since 1989. My life still revolves around my teeth.

One of our own

2005-02-01T09:23:00.000-08:00

See Courting Destiny.com

See the thing about being adopted or adopting kids is that open records doesn't solve everything or even most things. How are open records going to help a person who was adopted from an orphanage or some other place in a country that's not the USA? How are open records going to help a family where a child was kidnapped (as was common in Mexico and South America?)

Open records is an ideal; open records should happen. But it's not relevant in many stories and doesn't need to be pushed all the time.

I do feel defensive writing this. Yesterday when I read this article in the Sunday New York Times Style section, I thought a lot about why I've been feeling so adoption sensitive lately.
Is it because I had to carry out my own search without a lot of help except from my dad, who accidentally found my birth mother while reading something about her nephew?

There were adoption support groups available but I found the lack of respect for adoptive parents to be reprehensible. But I welcome the change. I've included links to two adoption dictionaries and an article by members of the adoption triad talking about their experiences. I always try to remember that we all bring our own experiences, world-view, and much more into the picture.

I don't always succeed. I do get angry when adult adoptees talk about always being a child under the law. If you can legally vote and drink you're no longer a child. Calling yourself one because of sealed records only serves to diminish you. I know that's not a popular view.

But is there a person on this earth who was born and grew up problem free? Isn't constantly talking about how you're not considered to be an adult only adding to the problem?

I'm not the model adult adoptee, nor would I want to be. I believe in open records because it's every person's right to know their background. I don't buy the "can't have open records because some people were products of rape" argument. Married men have been known to rape their wives and children were produced out of that. Marriage might give the child a cloak of respectability but in truth might those children have more problems than a child of rape who is adopted by a loving family?

And what defines a "loving family?" Don't all families have problems? This isn't a perfect world, and isn't it time that adult adoptees begin thinking that we are adults, and that we do have certain pains associated with not knowing our roots but that as functioning adults we have certain responsibilities and duties?

Right now I'm much more concerned with The First Amendment being tampered with, as that will in the end also affect my right as an adoptee to find my birth father--should I decide to look for him.

But I never really "fit" in the adoption movement because I was always asking questions people deemed to be superfluous or even stupid. Why should my questions be considered irrelevant just because they didn't fit the program?

Because that shows the problems I have and refuse to conciously accept or come to grip with.

Sorry, don't think so. I think it shows that I had been thinking about adoption and had talked about it often as a child (a real one) with my parents and sister.

Maybe that makes me more representative of the generations that are coming up now where adoption is often openly talked about in the family. Children ask questions; parents answer them to the best of their ability and the child's understanding. You never feel like a "child adult adoptee" because you've always been treated with respect by the people who count the most when you're a kid--your parents.

It's not just people in the adoption movement who bother me. The article that got me thinking about this is about a married couple where the woman is a carrier for a genetic disorder that doesn't diminish brain functioning but the child is born with no sweat glands, teeth buds and sparse hair. It's the inablity to sweat that's really dangerous.

I thought that this was a brave article, and I thought that the author was brave when she said that she couldn't have an abortion after testing at twelve weeks of pregnancy. What got to me was the reasons she didn't want to adopt:

"Why don't we just adopt? This is an unsettling question because it points to what must be our selfishness. But the idea of creating a life from our two bodies seems to us a consummation of sorts. Maybe this means we need to work on our relationship - that we already, dangerously, see having children as a way of fulfilling something missing between us. But then, something is missing: our echo through time.When Dan and I visited the gravesite of his great-great-grandparents, I remember thinking with awe, These are the ancestors of my future children. History is the only purchase I have on my life - knowing the stories that meld to make my story - and it seems like a fulfillment of some kind, a continuation of narrative, for a child to know real biological melding of Dan and me."

While I find the author brave, I also find her selfish. As a child I spent much time thinking about ancestors. My grandmothers were my grandmothers because I knew them; my grandfathers' were my grandfathers because they had been my parents' fathers and my grandmothers' husbands. I could even rationalize my great-grandparents because they had been known to my grandparents. At what point does my parents family stop being mine?

Then I realized something. My mother knew almost nothing about her family outside the immediate relatives; my father who could talk for days without stopping, couldn't talk about his family past his grandparents. Not many Russian/Polish Jews could.

When I really began listening to other peoples stories I realized that the only people I knew who could recite their linage with any precison were WASPS, and somehow their familes all came off the Mayflower, were heroes in the Revolution, fought on the right side of the Civil War (depending on the part of the country they were from.) Somehow the perfect lineage stories ended with the beginning of the twentith century when their families suddenly became impoverished or the stories ended because their great grandfathers were the black sheep of the family, or their family lost contact with the rest of the family, or....

I began to realize that many people were reciting both true and made up stories that had been passed down through the generations until the generation became too close and their ancestors couldn't make up anymore stories, because of better record keeping, or the family had become too poor, and how could they say that their great grandfather was a hero of this or that when the family was just regular middle class?

I began to listen to the gaps in the stories. Yes it's nice to be able to go to a cemetry and see your great grandparents and maybe even Alexander Hamilton was a relative or Thomas Jefferson--but do we really want to get into Thomas Jefferson's lineage?

In the end what matters is the family we love; and the family that we remember either first hand or through stories by people who knew them. My neice will never meet my father but she will always know him and so will her children if she choses to have any. Maybe I'm rationalizing but I truly believe that since we're all the products of evolution, and since my birth mother was also of Russian/Polish Jewish descent somewhere along the line we had the same relatives. Maybe even in the nineteenth century.

But I have no desire to trace her family lineage and my family lineage to prove this. I'm not a big believer in visiting cemeteries. I carry my parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents in my heart where they belong.

I began to understand this as a teenager; I truly understood it when my father died. It would be nice to know more history about my family, but is it necessary for my ego or was it necessary for my parents' ego? Thankfully, no.

Our family had a firm foundation and that foundation was based on love not genes. I am truly blessed.

See Courtingdestiny.com

Courting Destiny Blog : Home

2005-01-10T10:23:00.000-08:00

Courting Destiny Blog : Homecourtingdestiny

Last post for real on Blogger--personal responsibility

2005-01-10T10:19:00.000-08:00

We have a president who talks about accepting personal responsibility. But he doesn't have to as he answers to a higher father who apparently does the accepting for him.

My last post talked about my cousin and how because he was an adult, and could be "normal" maybe if he took his meds, the responsibility for his life was shifted back to him. Many family members tried and failed to help him.

They accept, perhaps too much, personal responsibility for his problems, life and death. We were all taught throughout our lives to give back to our country because it gave us much.

I can send like Al Franken doing his "we can own land; we can vote...."schtick. I don't want to sounnd like him, and am the first to laugh because it sounds so dumb but is so true--and funny.

Many if not most people of all races and religions were taught to give back. Though maybe not as dramatically as Al Franken (or I) sounds.

My problem is, and will always be with the people who confess their "sins" and/or problems publicly, and feel that is enough. They don't have to rectify the problem because they stated it.

I'm not trying to be disrespectful: I'm trying to understand.

Why is publicly coming forth at Churches or other forums enough?

Why is answering to a Higher Father enough?

It doesn't help, say, a case worker who has a case load that should be divided among four people, after he makes an honest mistake and is the one to shoulder the blame.

It doesn't help the one family out of a hundred, he screwed up because he's under a time constraint, and couldn't observe closely enough.

It doesn't help the case worker's immediate superior who also has too many case workers, and not enough time.

It doesn't help that person's superior.

Yet they will get the shaft because they failed to take enough personal responsibility.

Or they might put it back onto the people lower than them because they don't have to take personal responsibility for a case that was much lower on the chain then them.

I'm using mental health as an example because it's on my mind now. It could be anything else.

I try so hard to understand how personal responsibility becomes the fault of the victim and I can't.

If anybody can explain this to me; I would love to understand.

I will be putting my post titles on Blogger with a redirect to WWW.Courtingdestiny.com

Feel free to answer at either site for now.

Cranky Liberal Speaks--my first guest columnist

2005-01-07T07:53:00.000-08:00

Beyond what the Founders may have thought about church and state entanglements - which is what they were trying to avoid - the courts have consistantly ruled that the first amendment bars government action that leads to the endorsement, repression or entanglement with any religion. Government is defined as any agency of the state including schools, city hall, the court room or the DMV.

It is a misnomer to say that God cannot be mentioned in the school system. The courts have ruled that religion can be discussed as it relates to holidays or histroy, if it is germane to the overall discussion. That is why you CAN mention that Christmas is the story of the baby Jesus and his brith, and that Chanuka celebrates the oil lasting 8 days etc. They have also ruled that as long as religious holiday songs are part of a broader, SECULAR holiday celebration then it is ok. Same with the menorah or creche' at Christmas. In and of themselves they are not illegal as long as they are part of a Secular display.

Notice in every case the state is not endorsing RELIGION (note the government is NOT allowed to endorse the concept of religion over non-belief), rather including religious beliefs with other beliefs. Even teaching ID, if carefuly done probably will fit the bill on legal issues - though an scientific issues its kind of like showing cavemen with dinosaurs.

I really wish those on the fringe left would understand what the courts have decided and quit baiting those on the other side who just want to be happy with their faith. More so I wish the blow hards like James Dobson, Pat Robertson and the like would understand that in this country they get to choose for themselves and NOT for me. When both sides respect the other and play within the rules then maybe we can move off of this issue and onto the very real problems facing the nation.

National Religion

2005-01-06T19:53:00.000-08:00

I don't believe that there will ever be a national religion in this country.

I also know the history of the First Amendment and how James Madison's original proposal for a bill of rights provision concerning religion read: ''The civil rights of none shall be abridged on account of religious belief or worship, nor shall any national religion be established, nor shall the full and equal rights of conscience be in any manner, or on any pretence, infringed.''

I understand the debate that followed, but I think that Madison, and Thomas Jefferson who influenced him made their intent crystal clear.

For all of you who think that I don't check my facts, and that you can call me on things, oh but I do.

The first version of The First Amendment clearly stated that no national religion should be established.

The end.

On a roll

2005-01-06T16:50:00.000-08:00

My computer's been drinking not me. Sorry Tom Waits I just love corrupting "my piano's been drinking not me." Been corrupting that song title for 25 years now, and most people never get it.

I could probably write a whole post just using song titles and phrases by Tom Waits, and Warren Zevon. It would read beautifully, and nobody would get it, including me.

Sorry had a pity-party type of day, and I need to entertain myself. I enjoy my own company, and am not in the mood for TV, movies, reading, company or anything fun but writing in my blog(s).

As I have already said somewhere, I'm a perfectionist who can't do anything perfectly. I'm a true obsessive/compulsive, but I hate being obsessed about things so I indulge my compulsive side by letting myself write until the cows come home, which is pretty difficult in the Upper West Side, of Manhattan.

Also I have never found a medication for obsessive/compulsives that doesn't have side affects such as depression and massive weight gain. I hate being depressed, and I was always kind of known for my looks, so I enjoy being hyper now. It lets me be productive and lose weight at the same time.

What does this have to do with my computer, the recovering alcoholic? It began crashing often months ago. Then it became corrupted with spam that I kept on finding everywhere. It was like sweeping shattered glass; I kept on finding more things for weeks. I installed a heavy duty virus program; it became much worse. I had always kept up with maintenance, it had all the latest Microsoft patches.

Bad moves. You can never really uninstall all of the programs, and they can play havoc. It took me awhile to understand that my computer, like me, is no longer 30, in computer years.

My computer is a thing of beauty with its 20 gauge steel chassis, okay LCD screen, mouse with charger, and streamlined cordless keyboard that does many things. When people see it for the first time they're amazed by its beauty, and how it blends into my surroundings.

I had the earliest version of XP; after a disc reinstall I now have the newest version. It's like having a new computer. One that actually works, and has new icons and features that I've never seen before.

But there's the me factor. I'm the person who can write great training manuals, but can't follow directions. That was the reason I was so good at writing manuals; when I first began training people I had one of the few eureka moments in my life.

I realized that other people thought sequentially and in steps. This had eluded me for 27 years. I only began doing well in school in my last two years of university when I took interdisciplinary classes in Urban Studies. It was then that I discovered the magic that writing a good paper brings.

But the knowledge that other people thought in sequential steps was probably the biggest thing I ever learned. I learned to put directions into their most simple form. I began to write like Hemingway if he had lost the machismo, and didn't tell stories.

I was a project supervisor in a project that had begun with 240 employees, was reduced to a 120, in a giant lay-off, none of us will ever forget as we partied for days. I still feel the hangover.

the project was expanded to over 1200 employees. There were 80 groups with a supervisor and fifteen employees. I was close with everybody in management. The human resources manager swore that they interviewed one person and another person showed up. We had some rather unique employees. God it was fun at first.

One day I asked the human resource manager aka Elena, one of the original Blenderbusters, if the project manager watched the new employees and picked out the ones who were (truly, sadly) brain damaged, and the behavioral problem employees, and saved them for me. Elena, who has a wicked sense of humor, just laughed.

It couldn't have been more obvious, because as soon as somebody learned the job, they were transferred out of my group. I have to say that I was one of the five highest paid supervisors--we were paid $8.39 hour. I did a lot of overtime so I made a half decent salary. I was the lower, hourly rung of management.

In 1979, apartments were affordable and I could actually live on the money but I was supporting the bum aka "the union organizer coder with the supervisor girlfriend," as The Village Voice called us.

He only came to work when he had to. Because he was my boyfriend, he was given special privileges and allowed to do what he wanted to do. That usually entailed staying home, drinking Dixie Beer, and smoking joints. Sometimes he would come to work and spend the day organizing for the union. Could I, granddaughter of garment center cutters, Socialists, and Communists; daughter of a couple who had attended ever session of Alger Hiss's trial (and told me about it in detail forever; though my father's recollections were going to change incredibly) object to the bum's behavior at work?

Yes I could and I did. None of you have ever had about 200 coders, and all of upper management, come up to you one day and say the same thing:
"Where I come from, they say 'don't piss on my leg and call it rain.'"

Nobody would explain it to me until Elena was finished giving the company's side about the union. Once again she couldn't stop laughing:
"He said 'where I come from...'"

The bum didn't have many friends in New York, but he loved mine who loved him in return. I felt left out of this giant lovefest as I had begun to hate him.

I haven't really gotten off track. This is the long explanation, and my being humble, about how much both my company and our client wanted me to be happy. Because Pia could do her manager's job and train the other supervisors in her division in new methods and procedures.

My manager called me Princess Perfect because I would do things over 20 times. There were many things that I couldn't do like keeping a good inventory, but I knew how to pick the one person in the group who could do it perfectly. I'm not untalented.

Through the years I've constantly challenged my brain by learning new careers, going back to school, and doing everything I can to stave those working neurons from short circuiting. I went to grad school in part to learn how to live a more successful older age. I'm not near there yet, but I believe in being prepared for everything.

My dad would have understood. When I was in my 20's he tried to get me to take a class on death and dying with Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, herself. on the grounds that I had absolutely no interest in death or dying, and wouldn't be caught dead taking a course with my father, as it could have impeded my socializing, I refused.

Okay, now that I've established I was intelligent, still am intelligent, and since I began taking Strattera, I'm even more focused on my work, why can't I learn how to link to blogs?

It's driving me friggin crazy. I got rid of all the kinks in my computer; I know how to do it from Blogger; I just can't do it. The spell check's working; it had stopped working after the glass sharded. I know each step yet it never works. Lucia learned it in five seconds today and is going to teach me this weekend. I will learn it.

Blog Roll told me that I had reached the maximum number of free hyperlinks before I even inserted one; today when I tried paying the $19.95 it kept on rejecting my form without giving me a reason. I found that a bit insulting as i checked and re-checked the information, and on no line did that familiar red mark show up telling me what I had left out, or it didn't like.

I will have my links and my new-site to my liking by next Monday. It's almost there and filled many with categories so I can indulge in all my contradictory interests, some do go together. My compulsions won't let me write my more escapist fun things until the site's good. So it will be done this weekend.

First Amendment again and again

2005-01-06T16:00:00.000-08:00

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Many people interpret this as meaning that people are free to practice any religion that they wish to. I totally agree. The second part of the, first part, of the sentence specifically states that.

What I disagree with is the inference that, therefore, separation of church and state isn't specifically spelled out.

IT IS IN JAMES MADISON'S ORIGINAL DRAFT. HE WAS INFLUENCED BY THOMAS JEFFERSON {Read National Religion)

I believe that the first part of the sentence means that the government plays no part in establishing a religion. If that doesn't separate church from state,what does?

Is the new argument going to be: my religion is already established; the government had nothing to do with establishing it, therefore the government should subsidize it, and declare it to be the national religion?

Or: all religions have already been created outside of the government and therefore each religion should be subsidized prorata to the amount of their members? I really can't see anybody arguing that and yet it could be a valid argument. Think about the amount of national holidays we could get. Don't forget all the displays outside the courthouse.

Okay that's really sick, but...So I decided to take the phrase apart.

What does the word "respecting" mean in that phrase?
I went to the oldest dictionary I could find Merriam's 1913 edition\Re*spect"ing\, prep.
With regard or relation to; regarding; concerning; as,
respecting his conduct there is but one opinion.

Choose a definition. Usually we would use the first two, and they both fit. I personally like the third:

We are of one, and only one opinion that Congress shall not pass a law establishing a religion.

We've already established that the second part says that people are free to practice any religion that they choose to.

You're right, all of you who have corrected me, it doesn't specifically separate church and state, yet the intent couldn't be plainer.

I don't often think that I'm right but I sure do in this case. One of the first things that I learned in school was that the United States was founded upon the principle of separation of church and state. All those teachers in Queens NY and Nassau County, Long Island, couldn't have been wrong could they have been?

You mean all my teachers lied to me? Omigod, I have to give back all my degrees and return to kindergarten!

Who's your mommy?

2005-01-05T15:51:00.000-08:00

I read a comment this afternoon on www.cantkeepquiet.com post, on Who's Your Daddy on that sickened me. THE COMMENT SICKENED ME, NOT THE POST, that I loved.

Sorry have the hyperlink on Blogger problem, and can't get back into cantkeepquiet at all. Also probably have the Time Warner Cable-it's-icy-so-we-can't-function-problem, as I haven't been able to get into many sites, and my computer was just fine-tuned and has been acting like new. Now back to the subject....

Wish that I could get into the comment and paste it as I can't do it justice. Basically it said that Mulligan of Cantkeepquiet.com had prejudged as classless, a Fox show where a woman would pick her birth father out of eight possibilities.

The commenter, Matt T, (remember the name,I hope; won't give him the satisfaction of a complete namea and a Google entry) said that it was a very classy show where the woman not only met her birth father but three half-siblings (think there were more people) but had chosen to, and Mulligan should concentrate on more pressing matters like the Tsaunmi, the state of the world, world peace--you know all the important things.

A little lesson for Mr. T: Life, is made up of everyday happenings, and in times of tragedy, life goes on for the rest of us. We can feel the pain, we can give until it hurts, we can risk arrest for protesting the current administration, but we still live.

We still work, eat, sleep, get married, get divorced, have kids, lose people to natural death during disasters. In New York we learned that all the hard way.

Currently we are wondering why we even care about answering a comment by somebody who finds anything on Fox classy--except maybe The OC.

Because as an adoptee, I find it adoption "reunion" shows to be pandering, disturbing, unrealistic,insulting and the ultimate in classless behavior.

Occasionally I would tape an Oprah reunion show. They made me sick--especially when Oprah would smile at the camera and say, at the end, "not all reunions end like these."

Nor should any sane adoptee, who had "decent" parents want them to. They're feeding into a fantasy that should have ended somewhere in adolescence. I'm not a Cabbage Patch Doll.

Maybe I was lucky; my parents told me that I was adopted along with my name. They shared the story as they had been told it with my younger sister and me. They did leave out the illegimate part until I was twelve and would have figured it out soon.

I was going to turn this into a homage to my mother, but that will be in her own post. My mother was my best friend; we could communicate without speaking. She had an uncanny ability to know what I was feeling before I even realized it. I left home at eighteen, but our friendship continued to blossom, and became one of equals. It's been over three years, since she died, and I still go to call her when something, or nothing, happens.

My parents encouraged me to search for my birth mother so I always felt empowered, in many ways. They were my parents in every sense of the word.

I have nothing against meeting birth parents. I think it's normal to be curious and it's good to find out as much as I can about my DNA.

I've only had one set of real parents, and to meet a birth parent on TV, and "feel a sense of completion I've never felt before," would be a lie. How could I meet people I feel no connection to on TV?

To make these meetings glamorous is cruel to all the people who were adopted from foreign countries and never can meet their bith parents.

It's cruel to everyone who wants to meet their birth parents but won't be able to for some reason or another.

It's cruel to their families.

More than that it's one of the most private of encounters.

Would you want to meet your parents on TV?

People talk about Extreme Makeover being cruel as the people have only two months to make a physical transformation.

Meeting a birth parent entails a psychic transformation.

It can be awkward, scary, and leave a person emptier than before she found her birth parent.

I know. Meeting my birth mother was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. My birth mother is a good woman, but she's my mother in DNA and birth only.

I always thought of my birth father as the sperm donor since she had told the agency very little about him, and what she told them turned out to be made up.

My birth mother can never take the place of my mother, and when we met she began to understand that I wasn't looking for the original. If that sounds harsh it's the truth. i have room for many friends but only one mother and one father.

I'm aware that many people don't like their adoptive parents and/or have had horrible ones. Let me be harsh about this. How many "natural" children don't like their parents and/or have horrid ones?

We don't always get the parents we want or deserve. Nobody is more aware of that than an adoptee.

Adoptees are always aware that it's the luck of the draw. We're, all of us, randomly made. A random sperm meets a random egg--except in modern technology.

I was proud to be my parents daughter; but I knew adoptees who had parents I would want to ditch in a cabbage field.

I knew more adoptees who loved their parents. I went to a progressive sleep-away camp where there were more adoptees than usual. Or more kids who had been told that they were adopted.

I can't imagine what it's like to learn that you're adopted from a cousin or a neighbor. It's difficult for me to imagine parents being so insecure or suffering from other problems that keep them from telling their child. I consider it a form of child neglect.

But is any good served by meeting your parent(s) on TV? You become a public figure. What happens when the relationship goes south and the local newspaper decides to do a follow-up?

Do you refuse to do the interview, tell the truth or perpetuate another lie? I told my friends that I was adopted after we moved to a garden apartment development when i was four. They told their parents. Their parents called mine and asked if I was a chronic liar as I said that I was adopted but couldn't be as I fit in my family too well.

My parents didn't tell me this until I was an adult, but I sensed the undercurrents. Yet I remember how much their friends and family loved me. I was a welcome addition; not somebody who anybody ever thought of as being adopted.

Reunion shows deserve to be talked about.

Over 140,000 people died last week.

For the rest of us, life and all its little wonderful, horrible happenings go on.

Would anybody really want it any other way?

Who am I?

2005-01-05T13:55:00.000-08:00

I wrote three posts on me for my new site. The site's up; I'm still feeling my way; this is one of the posts.

I am a study in perpetual motion.
I am hyper. Somebody told me he had found it endearing. I wish I had known that when I was younger.
I’m extremely self-conscious
At the same time I don’t give a damn as to what people think.
I thought that I was fat when I was a perfect size eight
To one person in the world I will always be nineteen and perfect
When I’m bored, tired, anxious, angry, I play with my split-ends. It’s better than yoga.
My mom always told me to be positive. I told her to stop being Miss. Mary Sunshine. Now I understand.
I have turned into, to my great surprise, a very happy person despite the horrible condition of the world.
In eighth grade I had to give a speech. I lost my voice and thought that I would never speak again.
I can be a compulsive talker
I thought that I was the most unpopular person in the history of the world in Junior High.
People made fun of me a lot then. They called me names and much worse.
I got more than revenge in high school, the later years, and college.
I’m physically awkward though it seems to bother only me
People like to make fun of me (in the good sense) because I can act like such a ditz
Then I give it back to them
I’m a perfectionist who can’t do anything perfectly.
I have fooled many people into thinking I’m a paragon of perfection
They confuse compulsion with perfection
I want to get married again when I’m in my 60’s. I have awhile to think about that
My parents were convinced that I was going to become an actress. They neglected to tell me until I was 40
My father was more into finding my birth parents than I was
He was naturally curious about everything
So am I.
Oh yes, I was adopted. I’m glad my family (adoptive) and I found each other.
I strongly believe in a woman’s right to choose. So did my mom.
My mother thought that a perfect mother-daughter activity was shopping at Loehmanns. I begged to differ as I hate shopping for clothes
I have always been known for the beauty of my best girlfriends; I wonder what that makes me?
My parents thought I was the most incredible baby and kid on earth except for my sister.
I peaked at eight
I have multiple learning disabilities that weren’t diagnosed until I was in my 30’s
Disabilities don’t make you a better person; they’re not a different able or any stupid cute expression.
They do make you stronger.
I had three serious marriage proposals by the time I was 21, I had been on about ten real dates in my life.
We didn’t date then, we hung.
I lived with a crazy man—well he was crazier than the others
I like making people laugh, and that’s good as I seem to do it without thought.
Sunday night is TV night; it’s the only time I watch live-not DVR’d TV.
I make exceptions for weddings, Bar and Bat Mitzvah’s and funerals.
I’ve never been to a funeral on a Sunday night
My hobby is collecting sky miles. Somebody already wrote a book about that.
I love to take long walks. When I go on vacation I walk a minimum of ten miles a day.
I should be in great shape.
I’m sort of fit; I guess that’s something

Courting Destiny Blog : Home

2005-01-03T14:56:00.000-08:00

Courting Destiny Blog : Home

Who's your daddy?

2005-01-03T08:30:00.000-08:00

Two hour Fox TV program tonight: an adoptee wins $100,000 if she guesses which man is her "real biological" father.

In my vocabulary "real biological" is a cruel oxymoron when used in conjunction with adoption.

When I was a child adoption issues were swept under the carpet. Except that my parents could never get with the program and made being adopted seem like the greatest thing in the world to me and fave-sis who wasn't.

You know what? Being adopted was great. I lucked out in my family choice.

But I had multiple problems that grew worse with puberty. I went into pre-menstrual hormone rage at age nine two years before I got my first period. I was clumsy; I was the last to be picked for a team; I was shunned by former friends. It was no longer enough that I could make up games and had an imagination.

I won't go into the myriad of therapists I saw or how they all focused on one factor--I was adopted. I'm sure that I have writings about it in my blog somewhere. (I will archive according to subject on my new site.)

The point is that they were wrong and instead of focusing on how I could learn to spell, be organized, not care about being able to sing, not care that I was awkward and much more, they tried to get me to admit that I hated being adopted and resented my parents for having adopted me.

I couldn't admit to what wasn't true. Even as a child I knew that. But so much time was wasted because my family was more honest than other families, and therapists weren't used to a very verbal child who refused to give them what they wanted, but still wanted them to like and respect me.

Then the adoption movement began: Some facts I learned. I had never bonded with my parents that was impossible--I imprinted with them. I didn't have true learning disabilities or ADHD--I chose to have these problems as a way of resolving my inner anger.

Would any bright kid who had always been happy have chosen to be the kid the teacher picked out as the most disorganized, the sloppiest, the this, the that? I don't think even subconsciously I picked these problems.

I learned that meeting my birth mother would immediately solve all these problems. Then I learned that of course I needed time to heal and spend with her.

You know what I really learned? That many people are incredibly unhappy and want to push their unhappiness on others. They develop "schools of knowledge,' to back their absurd hypotheses. At one point "The official dictionary of Adoption" defined "adoptive parent's' as slave owners. I rest my case.

It took me many years to understand that i had real problems that I hadn't chosen subconsciously and therefore didn't have to feel guilty about them. "Guilt" is something else that adoptive parents are supposed to make their child feel. Doesn't every parent in someway or another?

I stopped feeling guilty after I bought my first computer and realized that the playing field was more level. With a computer I can spell, organize my thoughts (somewhat), keep files and my life in order.

I have horrible hand-to-eye coordination. Another problem that was supposed to have been caused by my being adopted. Amazing the problems you can get from the mere act of being adopted.

Computers have improved my hand-to-eye coordination immensely. I refuse to play the if only computers had been around in their present form when I was younger. I know that there was no limits to how high I could have flown.

Guess what? I'm still relatively young. I can still soar. I'm just learning how high I can fly. It's fun and I love almost every moment of my life. Sue me if I'm happy in a horrible time. It's fun to feel in charge of my life. I could never feel that way before I never felt organized enough. Though I seemed to be at work and other places.

But when something Like Who's your daddy comes on TV I regress. This isn't choosing a potential mate you could break up with. This is trying to idealize your biological father.

It's sick.

My daddy thought that I was brilliant.
My daddy shared child raising chores with my mom.
He changed his share of diapers.
He would take me into the city to show me his world.
He thought that I had unlimited potential, if I only knew it, and if I could be a little more organized, this and that.
My daddy wasn't perfect.
My daddy loved his family fiercely.
My daddy sought out challenges and adventures. He taught us to do the same.
My daddy mixed metaphors and made up his own:
"There are four burners on a stove for a reason. Live a four burner life."
My daddy never talked down to me.
He didn't believe in some of my beliefs, but he never tried to impose his views on me.
"If you weren't rebelling against me, you would be rebelling against the world."
He wanted me to see the world and made sure that I saw much of it.
He grew to talk to me as an equal.
I grew up enough to listen.
We were constantly giving each other advice.
He wanted me to stand up for what I believed in, and was proud of me for doing just that.
He thought that I was brilliant and that I was making too much of my problems.
I was.
He didn't believe that most guys in my generation were worth anything and taught us to be self-sufficient.
All he really wanted was for his daughters to be happy.
I am.
He was a "compassionate conseratitve" who believed in free speech, a woman's right to choose; and that I had every right to find my birth parents.
*************************************************************************************
I don't owe my parents anything.
They chose to help me become an individual worth knowing.
They were just doing what they believed was their job as parents.
They would have been gravely insulted had I acted like I owed them for the privilege of having adopted me.
Somehow they thought they were the privileged ones.
Thank you mommy and daddy.
I know who my parents are.
I will never go on TV to pick out my "real biological parents."
I might not share my parents DNA, but I share their thought processes.
They were my only real parents and I thank them for that privilege.
They would have said the second part of the above wasn't right.
Thank you my parents for thinking that.

Conservative no; Christian yes

2005-01-01T14:46:00.000-08:00

I tried linking an article from The New York Times "Evangelical leader threatens to use his political muscle against some democrats," and the hyperlink didn't take. Still have a few related-to-my-computer-problems to work out.

James Dobson, founder of Focus on the Family, says that there will be "a battle of enormous proportions from 'sea to shining sea,' if President Bush fails to appoint 'strict constructionist" jurists or if Democrats filibuster to block Conserative nominations.'"

Understand something. I don't hate Christians or people of any religion. What I hate are people who try to put their views onto me.

Nowhere in the Constitution does it say that this is a Christian country. I keep on saying that because many people seem to think that it does say that. I will keep on saying that until the day I die, or people understand, or I'm silenced by people who don't believe in the concepts the United States of America was founded upon.

Our country was founded upon the principles of freedom. Religion is one very big freedom. Let's take the old creche in front of the courthouse argument. Personally I couldn't care less, let people display their religious symbols. But then Jews would have to be allowed to put up Menorah's or Stars of David's, and Muslims would have to be allowed and so on, even if no non-Christian asks because:

Separation of church and state is specifically spelled out in the The First Amendment to The Bill of Rights. The Second Amendment guarantees the right to bear arms. I hate guns, but it's a Constitutional right and therefore....Though I can understand people will argue that the Constitution can be amended.

The problem with that argument, that even I who has absolutely no understanding of logic--in the LSAT way, is that the Constitution is amended to further freedoms not to take them away.

What has always separated us from other countries is our Constitution. Yes it's based on the British Magna Carta but it goes much further. We are the country of last resort. We're the country people have traditionally wanted to come to in order to seek freedom and riches.

We're the country that guarantees the pursuit of happiness.

What other country has ever said in the document declaring us to be independent: "the pursuit of happiness?" That's an amazing phrase. It's telling us to seek enjoyment of life. What other country has ever included that in its Declaration of Independence. What other country has ever had a Declaration of Independence?

Don't you get it? We were the first country in the history of the modern world to guarantee a person rights. "Certain unalienable rights...Among these are life, Liberty and the pursuit of happiness." "Among these," I assume and know, means these rights are just the beginning.

Yet the far right (and I include ultra Orthodox Jews in that) basically wants to amend the Constitution to make it suit their agenda. Shouldn't "strict constructionists" want to keep separation of church and state if they're talking about the Constitution? If they're talking about The New Testament please let me know because I don't live in a country where that is the official Bible.

I've testified in court about five times, several times as an expert witness. Only once was I given a New Testament and asked to swear to it. (Usually there was a Bible with both the Old and New Testaments, that I didn't have to touch.) I felt strange; I also felt a little giddy.

Because as a Jew I'm not supposed to swear to anything, and The New Testament was after our time. I thought about how if I was religious and wanted to change the outcome of my testimony-and maybe the case I could have lied because my swearing would have meant nothing in the eyes of G-d. We're not supposed to write out the word.

I could have asked for an Old Testament and had the word "promise" substitute for "swear," but I knew what I was going to say, was testifying on behalf of a Catholic institution, and it wasn't important to me. I don't mean that the Catholic institution was unimportant to me--it was very important to my life as it employed me. I mean that the actual case I was testifying on was a proforma case that I won't go into here.

Maybe it was more important to me than I had thought as I felt a little sick for days afterward. It felt as if I had done something illegal and/or dirty. Enough about my one personal experience swearing to a Bible not mine.

What really scares me is how people don't want good old fashioned arguments. They just want what they know to be right--whether on the left, the right, the middle, whatever. When did arguing go out of style in this country?

When did everything become so malicious?

Think about this: the words "under God" were not added to the Pledge of allegiance until 1955, I think, the end of The McCarthy era and the middle of The Cold War. My parents talked about Joseph McCarthy a lot. I've read many books and have seen many movies on the era. I don't want to go back to a time where people were encouraged to spy on their neighbors or report suspicious activities.

And for my clever remark of the year, oh yes, we're back there again. This time, though, more of us aren't afraid to speak our minds--on every side. That's good.

We don't have a Father Coughlin to listen to on the radio every Sunday night. (He was a noted 30's anti-Semite).

But more of us are sprouting malicious sick comments every day. We have so much talent in this country; so much diversity; so many different countries converging into one. I believe that's the true beauty of America.

Why can't debate be somewhat civil?

More about me, me, me

2005-01-01T14:14:00.000-08:00

I began this blog as an easy way to keep my writing organized and to practice. Then it grew and took on a life of its own,

Since Blogger can only archive but not organize each post into categories, and I didn't want to go the different blogs for different posts especially since half the time I have no idea what's going to come out, I began to get my own site together. It's up but not in really great shape yet. Still tweaking it. WWW.Courtingdestiny.com--hopefully it will be tweaked and ready this coming week.

One of the things that is taking so long is my compulsion to do things correctly, once and then let things just happen. I want to archive my old work that's on Blogger in categories, and that's taking awhile. Plus I'm having a hard time thinking up categories. I will stay on Blogger and BE under the current URL so that people can find me, because I haven't said Courtingdestiny.com 30,000 times and believe that nobody will find me.

My computer was drinking a lot, has been hung over, and is now in recovery. It had many problems most caused not by viruses, but by virus protectors, general old age (three years old--I thought it was young/middle aged) and some by a person who installed a browser she liked that I don't use that left its footmarks even after the uninstall.

Why do kids always listen to me and adults never do? That's generalizing and maybe rhetorical, than again maybe not.

Anyway the whole point of this post is to ask a couple of questions:
1) Is compulsion a bad thing?
2) Do other people go this compulsive when setting up a new site or even on Blogger
3) Is this a productive way to spend time or am I hiding from sending out query letters with published works?
4) Does anybody really care that the three films on my semi-permanent DVR collection are School of Rock, Love Stinks and Secretary?
5) Is blogging the almost ultimate narcissistism?
6) Is it a major revolution in the way people communicate?

I'm truly curious.

Last Night Central Park Was Grand.

2005-01-01T13:27:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year. It's a beautiful day. I hope that bodes well for the coming year. Were my mom on this earth she would tell me to get out and take a walk. But I was in Central Park until one Am last night, so she might have excused me on those grounds.

We walked passed Tavern on The Green. Last year there had been ice sculptures and everybody was allowed into the grounds. This year it was balmy and Benny E King was singing outside in the courtyard of the restaurant. Remember him from early childhood "There is a rose in Spanish Harlem." and other great '50's song.

At the bandshell there was a DJ who basically played techno music when he wasn't playing Frank's version of "New York, New York." There was hot chocolate, tea, coffee, a mini-marathon, and the night reminded me of everything that's good about New York. The crowds were further downtown. We had our own fireworks in the park.

I'm the dodo who asked Lucia and Little Luce what time the fireworks would be. Glad I could be of some amusement value.

I had a bottle of Moet left over from the election. It was the bottle of champagne we were going to celebrate with. (Not the double L's; it was a school night and Lucia usually stays home when Little Luce has to go to school the next day.)

When I was growing up my parents would go out every New Years to a fancy dress party or costume party. My parents went out every Saturday and I assumed that I would when I grew up.

Well I got married without ever having been on a real date and we had known each other for four years so I don't know why I thought I would live a sophisticated life.

Okay, we had gone out on about five real dates, but even back in the late '60's early '70's we traveled in packs. Our idea of a big evening was sitting around looking at each other; our idea of a really big evening was sneaking into the Fillmore East before the main act. (I know that we girls passed for groupies; but I'm not sure what the boys passed for, probably roadies--I mean rock stars, of course.) Or going with a minimum of 20 people to Hong Fat in Chinatown at two AM and running into 40 more people we knew.

I'm thinking about this because the first time I remember meeting INYTBA (an affectionate acronym) was at the Bandshell though we lived on Long Island; and had met there many times. I think the Jefferson Airplane was playing.

The spring before, when I was still in high school, I had seen Country Joe & The Fish "One two three four what are we fighting for," there. I thought about those lyrics a lot last night. All these years later and I'm wondering again, and the country is polarized once more. I thought about the Bandshell, Central Park, the Be-in's, the many concerts I have seen there and all the other ways Central Park has been important to me.

I did end up living a somewhat sophisticated life for a number of years. When I lived across from the park in the East 60's I would have a small New Years Eve party every year for six to ten of my best friends. Then I would have a
First Saturday After New Years Party or Lucia's Annual Surprise Birthday Party for anywhere from 75 to 200 people. The parties would end somewhere about dawn. I don't pine for them or the times but sometimes think that somebody else was living my life. I couldn't have known all those people. Me? But I did.

My friend Patrick would have fancy dress dinners with five courses, and many forks. As my father had been a waiter summers during high school and college, I could set a perfect table by the age of eight.

But Patrick would get so crazed that Lucia or I would use the wrong fork, I would use a wrong fork on purpose just to see his reaction. Patrick and his lover would buy huge tins of Beluga caviar something I proudly hate, and I would feed Patrick my portion by slipping him my portion, by putting my spoon into his hand under the table, so I was never uncouth. It was fun watching Patrick being scared that we would embarrass him in front of his friends from Sutton Place.

I thought about Patrick last night and all the free operas and symphony's we had attended in The Park.

My Central Park history goes back so long I don't remember ever not knowing it. My dad would take fave sis and I to climb on rocks--just like the ones he had climbed on when he was growing up in East Harlem, and Central Park was his backyard. Only we wouldn't go to the northern part of the park then because it wasn't safe. It is now.

It felt great to be in a place that brings back pleasurable memories and to know that Little Luce was storing her memories in her memory bank to be handed down to still another generation.

It felt great to get away from the real world and its problems for a few hours.
Even the anti-war memories were filtered through a hazed over moon.

Sad starting New Year

2004-12-30T21:26:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of the season I was going to take my prior post out. Then I re-read it. I was sad and I was angry. Some of the people I love most are from or are descended from residents of Madras. A close friend has friends who are vacationing in Thailand, and he has Indonesian employees.

This is a disaster that has directly affected, or has affected within one degree of separation almost everyone that I know. The world is much smaller now and the after shocks of disasters are felt throughout the world within hours.

My true colors were my own after shock thoughts of 9/11, and how much larger and how much more devastating this was.

I can't write rationally on this now. I'm sorry that any statement criticizing the government and its lack of immediate action is taken as not loving ones country.

For some reason the news that Jerry Orbach died personally affected me. As I had never liked him when he was on Broadway and only grew to love his character on Law & Order, last year I was mystified by my own response. I shouldn't have been that sad about somebody I didn't know.

In order to depersonalize after the death of friends and/or family I have always mourned people that I didn't know. The Tsnumami felt personal. Every time I see (accidentally) see a picture of dead bodies I feel sick, as I do when Americans are killed in Iraq.

I was and am angry that I almost accept war as being more natural than a natural disaster.

I do and don't care if people misunderstand me. My brand of liberalism condones no violence. I recently read Susan Braudy's biography of Kathy Boudin in an attempt to understand why they were resorting to bombing, in the name of the people, when they blew up a townhouse in Greenwich Village in May 1970.

That same week four young students were killed at Kent State by National Guardsman. The students had done nothing wrong. The killings at Kent State did more to propel the anti-war movement forward than any accidental bombings could cause damage.

Kent State was personal. Our parents took a collective look at the four kids who died, and thought that it could have been my child.

More personally Jeffrey Miller came from Plainview. Plainview was a one cigarette, two 3.5 minute radio songs, car ride on the Long Island Expressway from my parents house. I know this well because my on and off again college boyfriend's parents lived there. The physical resemblance between him and Jeffrey Miller was frightening.

They knew each other. We're still friends, of a sort, and he still only has to invoke Jeffrey Miller's name to make me fall into line

I have never understood why people kill--except in self-defense. I don't like people who break store windows in the name of free trade, or throw paint on fur coats.

I just feel very sad, and even more sad that so many people in this country feel a need to take every comment critical of the government as a call to arms.

Due to technical glitches, getting the quirks out of my new site, and, oh yes, a life, this will be my last post, maybe, until next week.

2004-12-29T14:31:00.000-08:00

Due to technical glitches, getting the quirks out of my new site, and, oh yes, a life, this will be my last post, maybe, until next week.

I would say "Happy New Year," but what's happy about it? But I'll say it anyway because as one of my heroes Louis Armstrong asked him why he sang "What a Wonderful World," when the world was anything but, he said that he was singing about the possibilites. It could be a wonderful world.

In many ways it is: Birds sing; children plays (I sort of have that song memorized) and, not in the song, people die.

People die in a natural disaster that could have been somewhat averted, but why help save that part of The Third World when we can help save oil interests?

Susan Sontag was a big influence on my adolscent angst era. She was intellectual, had the type of dark haired big eyed looks I have always associated with true beauty, and while I knew that I could never aspire to be as thought provoking as her, I could aspire to try to be challenging and knowlegable. Susan Sontag helped make wearing all black fashionable for which I will be forever in her debt.

But it's Jerry Orbach I truly mourn for. Until I got a DVR, I never really enjoyed TV. It can sometimes make me hyper. My DVR lets me control when and what I watch. I only began watching Law & Order two years ago; I watch all three and am sort of addicted.
In the early days of AIDS when little was known and the mainstream media was sitting on their collective asses acting panicked, Sontag was a refreshing real voice that helped me a straight woman with many friends who would die before turning 35, begin to come to terms with something I will never fully be at peace with nor would I want to be. I had forgotten about how she influenced me.

It's Jerry Orbach I truly mourn for. Until I got a DVR, I never really enjoyed TV. It can sometimes make me hyper. My DVR lets me control when and what I watch. I only began watching Law & Order two years ago; I watch all three and am sort of addicted.

I had always thought of Orbach as an old man, even when he was young, so when he began to look sexy to me I thought I was losing it. I realized that he had work done and felt somewhat relieved. Briscoe, his TV persona, seemed to be modeled on him. I loved his asides, his liberalism, and I just assumed that he would be returning on the fourth Law & Order.

He was reasurring; just as the thought that no matter where I move in the USA Law & Order will be in reruns. I could watch my neighborhood on TV at least four times a day. It won't be the same now; it just won't.

morals and values--only read this if you're a dictionary freak

2004-12-28T13:34:00.000-08:00

adj 1: relating to principles of right and wrong; i.e. to morals or
ethics; "moral philosophy"
2: concerned with principles of right and wrong or conforming
to standards of behavior and character based on those
principles; "moral sense"; "a moral scrutiny"; "a moral
lesson"; "a moral quandary"; "moral convictions"; "a moral
life" [ant: immoral, amoral]
3: adhering to ethical and moral principles; "it seems ethical
and right"; "followed the only honorable course of
action"; "had the moral courage to stand alone" [syn: ethical,
honorable, honourable]
4: arising from the sense of right and wrong; "a moral
obligation"
5: psychological rather than physical or tangible in effect; "a
moral victory"; "moral support"
6: based on strong likelihood or firm conviction rather than
actual evidence; "a moral certainty" [syn: moral]
n : the significance of a story or event; "the moral of theMoral \Mor"al\, a. [F., fr. It. moralis, fr. mos, moris, manner,
custom, habit, way of life, conduct.]
1. Relating to duty or obligation; pertaining to those
intentions and actions of which right and wrong, virtue
and vice, are predicated, or to the rules by which such
intentions and actions ought to be directed; relating to
the practice, manners, or conduct of men as social beings
in relation to each other, as respects right and wrong, so
far as they are properly subject to rules.

Keep at the least within the compass of moral
actions, which have in them vice or virtue.
--Hooker.

Mankind is broken loose from moral bands. --Dryden.

She had wandered without rule or guidance in a moral
wilderness. --Hawthorne.

2. Conformed to accepted rules of right; acting in conformity
with such rules; virtuous; just; as, a moral man. Used
sometimes in distinction from religious; as, a moral
rather than a religious life.

The wiser and more moral part of mankind. --Sir M.
Hale.

3. Capable of right and wrong action or of being governed by
a sense of right; subject to the law of duty.

A moral agent is a being capable of those actions
that have a moral quality, and which can properly be
denominated good or evil in a moral sense. --J.
Edwards.

4. Acting upon or through one's moral nature or sense of
right, or suited to act in such a manner; as, a moral
arguments; moral considerations. Sometimes opposed to
material and physical; as, moral pressure or support.

5. Supported by reason or probability; practically
sufficient; -- opposed to legal or demonstrable; as, a
moral evidence; a moral certainty.

6. Serving to teach or convey a moral; as, a moral lesson;
moral tales.

Moral agent, a being who is capable of acting with
reference to right and wrong.

Moral certainty, a very high degree or probability,
although not demonstrable as a certainty; a probability of
so high a degree that it can be confidently acted upon in
the affairs of life; as, there is a moral certainty of his
guilt.

Moral insanity, insanity, so called, of the moral system;
badness alleged to be irresponsible.

Moral philosophy, the science of duty; the science which
treats of the nature and condition of man as a moral
being, of the duties which result from his moral
relations, and the reasons on which they are founded.

Moral play, an allegorical play; a morality. [Obs.]

Moral sense, the power of moral judgment and feeling; the
capacity to perceive what is right or wrong in moral
conduct, and to approve or disapprove, independently of
education or the knowledge of any positive rule or law.

Moral theology, theology applied to morals; practical
theology; casuistry.

story is to love thy neighbor" [syn: lesson]

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10 entries found for value.
val·ue ( P ) Pronunciation Key (vly)
n.
An amount, as of goods, services, or money, considered to be a fair and suitable equivalent for something else; a fair price or return.
Monetary or material worth: the fluctuating value of gold and silver.
Worth in usefulness or importance to the possessor; utility or merit: the value of an education.
A principle, standard, or quality considered worthwhile or desirable: “The speech was a summons back to the patrician values of restraint and responsibility” (Jonathan Alter).
Precise meaning or import, as of a word.
Mathematics. An assigned or calculated numerical quantity.
Music. The relative duration of a tone or rest.
The relative darkness or lightness of a color. See table at color.
Linguistics. The sound quality of a letter or diphthong.
One of a series of specified values: issued a stamp of new value.

tr.v. val·ued, val·u·ing, val·ues
To determine or estimate the worth or value of; appraise.
To regard highly; esteem. See Synonyms at appreciate.
To rate according to relative estimate of worth or desirability; evaluate: valued health above money.
To assign a value to (a unit of currency, for example).

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Get the Most Popular Sites for "value"

10 entries found for value.
val·ue ( P ) Pronunciation Key (vly)
n.
An amount, as of goods, services, or money, considered to be a fair and suitable equivalent for something else; a fair price or return.
Monetary or material worth: the fluctuating value of gold and silver.
Worth in usefulness or importance to the possessor; utility or merit: the value of an education.
A principle, standard, or quality considered worthwhile or desirable: “The speech was a summons back to the patrician values of restraint and responsibility” (Jonathan Alter).
Precise meaning or import, as of a word.
Mathematics. An assigned or calculated numerical quantity.
Music. The relative duration of a tone or rest.
The relative darkness or lightness of a color. See table at color.
Linguistics. The sound quality of a letter or diphthong.
One of a series of specified values: issued a stamp of new value.

tr.v. val·ued, val·u·ing, val·ues
To determine or estimate the worth or value of; appraise.
To regard highly; esteem. See Synonyms at appreciate.
To rate according to relative estimate of worth or desirability; evaluate: valued health above money.
To assign a value to (a unit of currency, for example).

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Middle English, from Old French, from feminine past participle of valoir, to be strong, be worth, from Latin valre. See wal- in Indo-European Roots.]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
valu·er n.

[Download or Buy Now]
Source: The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition
Copyright © 2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company.
Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.

value

see at face value.

Source: The American Heritage® Dictionary of Idioms by Christine Ammer.
Copyright © 1997 by The Christine Ammer 1992 Trust. Published by Houghton Mifflin Company.

val·ue (vly)
n.

A principle, standard, or quality considered worthwhile or desirable.
An assigned or calculated numerical quantity.

Source: The American Heritage® Stedman's Medical Dictionary
Copyright © 2002, 2001, 1995 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Published by Houghton Mifflin Company.

Main Entry: val·ue
Pronunciation: 'val-yü
Function: noun
1 a : a fair return or equivalent in goods, services, or money for something exchanged b : VALUABLE CONSIDERATION at, CONSIDERATION
2 : monetary worth; especially : MARKET VALUE —val·ue·less adjective

Source: Merriam-Webster Dictionary of Law, © 1996 Merriam-Webster, Inc.

Main Entry: value
Function: transitive verb
Inflected Forms: val·ued; valu·ing
: to estimate or determine the monetary value of

Source: Merriam-Webster Dictionary of Law, © 1996 Merriam-Webster, Inc.

value

n 1: a numerical quantity measured or assigned or computed; "the value assigned was 16 milliseconds" 2: the quality (positive or negative) that renders something desirable or valuable; "the Shakespearean Shylock is of dubious value in the modern world" 3: the amount (of money or goods or services) that is considered to be a fair equivalent for something else; "he tried to estimate the value of the produce at normal prices" [syn: economic value] 4: relative darkness or lightness of a color; "I establish the colors and principal values by organizing the painting into three values--dark, medium...and light"-Joe Hing Lowe 5: (music) the relative duration of a musical note [syn: time value, note value] 6: an ideal accepted by some individual or group; "he has old-fashioned values" v 1: fix or determine the value of; assign a value to; "value the jewelry and art work in the estate" 2: hold dear; "I prize these old photographs" [syn: prize, treasure, appreciate] 3: regard highly; think much of; "I respect his judgement"; "We prize his creativity" [syn: respect, esteem, prize, prise] [ant: disrespect] 4: place a value on; judge the worth of something; "I will have the family jewels appraised by a professional" [syn: measure, evaluate, valuate, assess, appraise] 5: estimate the value of; "How would you rate his chances to become President?"; "Gold was rated highly among the Romans" [syn: rate]

Source: WordNet ® 2.0, © 2003 Princeton University

value

brightness

Source: The Free On-line Dictionary of Computing, © 1993-2004 Denis Howe

value

VALUE: in Acronym Finder

Source: Acronym Finder, © 1988-2004 Mountain Data Systems

value

value in InvestorWords

Source: InvestorWords, © 2000 InvestorGuide.com, Inc.

value

value: in CancerWEB's On-line Medical Dictionary

Source: On-line Medical Dictionary, © 1997-98 Academic Medical Publishing & CancerWEB

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Moral values--overused and overrated

2004-12-28T13:06:00.000-08:00

As usual Cranky Liberal has me thinking. (Still can't link; can cut and paste; am eagerly looking forward to my next stupid can-only-happen-to-her-emergency.)

Will have all problems solved by January 3, when I will also figure out the answer to many of the world's problems.

Not that Cranky liberal has me thinking about his rant on the Religious Wrong. Crankyliberal.blogspot.com I always think about that and how much easier life will be when I can link, oh enough about me....

He uses a term that I've been seeing often lately. "Moral values" It has never made sense to me. I understand that values is used as a quantifier, but somehow I don't think the people on the religious wrong--great phrase--not mine but CL's., view it as quantifying or measuring anything except for how many people said "happy holidays' to them instead of "Merry Christmas."

"values" is being used as a "principle, standard, or quality considered worthwhile or desirable," by the Religious Wrong. And to me, and all us liberals.

"Morals" means to everyone, I hope; "principles of right and wrong." We say that a person has good or bad morals, and that simple phrase defines them. We say the same things about values.

So moral values is a stupid redundancy that bothers people like me almost as much as the issue because in a real word-freak sense they cancel each other out.

It makes me crazy everything I see a professed Christian (or anybody else who thinks I have no right to talk about my views use the phrase "moral values." It's not even an oxymoron as there is nothing funny about it, and since I'm an expert at accidental humor I take my oxymoron's seriously.

Think that people on the Religious Wrong take themselves and their views so seriously that they have inadvertently invented a meaningless expression.

But what do I know? I'm just a person who believes that words are the most powerful weapon an individual should own and therefore words should be used with much thought, and new expressions made that are actually meaningful. Such as "Religious Wrong."

Have to say that I take morals and values very seriously. Since I have no idea whether or not there is a God, I have to live my life in accordance with a higher standard; the guilt meter.

My ever running guilt meter charges high prices for just about everything. Since I hate feeling guilty I try to live a good life. It might not meet your idea of moral (sex drugs and rock & roll have all played a part in it) nor might I have your idea of good values. I believe in abortion, gay marriage, sex outside of marriage, and a whole lot of other things, that the Religious Wrong snuffs their pristine noses at.

The more that I write the angrier I'm becoming. What kind of country have we turned into? Why are "God fearing" people any better than people who do good things because they're the right thing to do, and fear no God, but maybe the Guilt God?

Why does the name God have to be invoked everywhere now?

Chase and Me again

2004-12-24T08:11:00.000-08:00

Last night I felt so stupid for having posted my Chase rant. But it's true and while I don't believe in "worthy" or "less worthy" I should be a customer Chase would like to keep.

Apparently good credit and some resources aren't enough. Chase should just stop pretending at all that's it's a bank with individual customers and only allow business accounts or individuals with assets in the mid-millions.

And I'll never get over the super young super snippy VP who thinks he's better than thou and made me beg to do something that he should have volunteered to do.

I hope he's always prosperous and healthy because he wouldn't know what to do in a crisis or emergency. I don't want to hate an indiviual or insititution today, but everybody is human and everybody deserves to be treated with respect.

His answer yesterday when I said he could have done it in one second:
"Yes but it was eventually done."

Not good. Not when I was reduced to begging. I don't do begging well.

I do complaining very well. It's not worth writing to Chase's top people; obviously they don't care. It's worth putting it out here because I want to.

So I'm not angry at me anymore because I posted my Chase rant(s).

RudyG's legacy

2004-12-24T07:52:00.000-08:00

I can't link. I mean I know how to do it. Even learned the HTML, but my almost state of the art computer three years ago is having a few age related problems, including some memory loss, and it's hard to find people to fix them this week and next. Though I know many computer consulants (Mr. Ralph is one) I'd rather not ask for help from very busy friends.

If I could link I would link to the Metro section of The New York Times, Pg B1, 12/24/04 entitled: A legacy of Giulani Years: Civil Rights Suits Against City

A very brief recap: Since Bloomberg became mayor the city has spent close to $2,000,000 to settle law suits brought by both city residents and city workers who said that the Giulani admin had retaliatied against them for excersing free speech and other rights under the Constitution. The figure I quoted will go higher as not every case has been settled.

When the Constitution and the Bill of Rights--my bible--are screwed with in New York City where we all take everything as our right for being born, that's big. And can be easily spread.

It's a holiday and I'm so not in the mood to rant about this, but if you think of Bernie Kerik as Giulani's moral meter you're on the right track.

Last night I felt so stupid for having posted my Chase rant. But it's true and while I don't believe in "worthy" or "less worthy" I should be a cust

2004-12-23T13:58:00.000-08:00

Only read the Chase post if you truly hate banks, or an insommanic and need something truly boring and whiny to fall asleep to. If you think that I'm nice, think again.

I used the bank's real name as everything in this story is true and has been documented. None of my relatives or friends work for any part of Chase.

I used to be able to find peace and clarity just through writing an incident down. Then it had to be published to mean anything to me.

Nobody in their right or even wrong mind would ever publish this. I'm okay with that as I love blogging.

I love it so much that it scares me. I feel like I'm losing my competitive edge; I have to tear myself away from my blog to work on my book. Not a good thing.

But it's the beginning of a holiday weekend and I'm going to forget about everything. When I was complaining to Lucia I told her that I was never going to leave my apartment again. She laughed.

I'm the most social recluse in the world.

I'm already over the bank things, but I oh how good it felt to get the story out and in my blog for my five loyal readers.

Only read the Chase post if you truly hate banks, or an insommanic and need something truly boring and whiny to fall asleep to. If you think that I'm

2004-12-23T13:55:00.000-08:00

Bah, humbug! Not a Christmas Tale.

This might be a long and boring story, however it’s one that I have to get out before I kill my best friend who has been a model of calm and wonderfulness, and doesn’t deserve the grief I gave her when I called her hysterical from just about everywhere today. (I hate everything about Christmas except for some of the music, and Christmas dinner at the Ralph’s.

Okay enough Christmas cheer: First a disclaimer or something: I’m not a crazy person, don’t look or act like one except when I go into a certain Chase branch on Broadway near 72nd Street where I become my worst nightmare. If I ever murder somebody I'm going to use the "Chase drove me to it" defense.

My long convoluted history with Chase began, probably shortly after birth. My personal history began when I moved to East 63rd Street, and there was a Chase branch just down the block on Madison.

They kicked me out soon after as I didn’t have $10,000 to leave in a non-interest bearing checking account, when they became the first Private Banking Division. What 20something had that amount of money? Okay, many probably did, and didn’t care about the interest. What normal person would want to leave $10,000 in an account that doesn’t give interest? This is in late 1970’s or early 1980’s money. $10,000 was a lot of money.

This is totally true. My father, the super CPA didn’t believe me. I brought him to the branch. He apologized. My dad would start bank accounts if they gave him a toaster. Then he would close them. But he always remained a devoted Chase customer for reasons he was at loss to explain. He did scream at them “you give money to every South American country and won’t give my daughter a credit card.” My hero.

Chase began to change my branches so many times I lost count or any knowledge of where my account was supposed to be. Then in the early 1990’s I went to work in The Bronx and changed my branch to one down the street from my office.

Somehow they debited my entire account. I didn’t know this and paid my bills. They not only bounced all my checks but had debited my credit line. How this happened is beyond my comprehension. They also refused to acknowledge this mistake. I worked for Social Security, couldn’t use the phone during working hours, and had 45 minutes for lunch and two fifteen or twenty minute breaks a day.

As Chase kept banker hours it was very difficult for me to have my money re-credited to my account. But I somehow was able to reach the Bronx District Manager for Chase who at first didn’t believe me then professed to be horrified.

But I had to call all ten people or institutions I had made out checks to. I felt humiliated as my credit is important to me, and I dislike bouncing checks especially when it wasn’t my fault to begin with. The Manager agreed that the bank should pay all charges. However, they didn’t pay the money I was charged by my landlord, credit card company, and everybody else. This began my true hatred of them.

I moved from Manhattan to The Bronx and was changing branches to one near my home when my sister and I made identical $25,000 deposits to our savings account. We both made out checks as we had been told to put the money in our savings account and that the checks would be honored.

Got a funny feeling about it and went to my bank to transfer my money to my checking account. My new branch called the old branch who said that they would transfer the money immediately. They didn’t, and all my checks bounced.

My sister’s branch in The West Village of Manhattan, looked at her total account, saw that she had the money and a good record and let the checks go through. I had excellent credit, hadn’t bounced a check (except for the ones stated above) in many, many years. Yet still they bounced my checks and refused to pay the fees.

I know, I know. Anybody else would have changed banks then. But it was complicated. We had several family accounts and it seemed prudent to stay as I had signing privileges—not that the bank took those accounts into account.

Are you bored enough yet?

I moved back to Manhattan seven years ago and was happily not aware of my bank as I could do almost everything through ATM’s, the telephone and the Internet. Then my mom died. I will spend the rest of my life saying “but it was the month after 9/11 and people were crazy.”

That doesn’t excuse the bank from the way I was treated each time I came in to get a Medallion Signature Guarantee or something that I needed. If they told me that I needed five items, I would bring them in, only to be told I needed a sixth. Whatever I did was wrong, They knew who I was yet I had to show ID each time. That’s not a bad thing but…They treated me as if I had just escaped from Bellevue. Actually I was taking some post-grad classes so maybe I had that escaped mental patient aura.

I can usually get along with anybody. I have diffused potentially violent situations at Social Security, was given the claimants nobody could work with. I have managed large legal projects where my employees would do anything that I asked. (The reason why I another post.)

While my mom’s estate wasn’t huge it was complicated. I had to go to the bank many times. I began going out to the Island to my sister’s branch where they treated her like gold. They also treated me as if I were a person worthy of respect and dignity. This was a new experience for me and I seriously thought of moving back to the Island just so I could be treated with some respect.

You have to remember that the city, the country, the world was in collective grief that year. They say that New York was a great city that year. Everybody was nice to other people and got along. That’s probably the biggest urban myth of all time

I hated going to Penn Station as it was filled with National Guard people, there were missing posters, and displays of grief from kids all over the country. The later two things made me choke up when I wanted to break down and cry hysterically. I wasn’t in my right mind; I was almost having a full fledged breakdown.

I understand that bank employees don’t make as much money as they deserve to; I understand that they were living in fear for their jobs as the old-line city banks were all merging, and laying off long time employees. I hated myself for even thinking that I had problems.

You see, I’m apologizing for myself. But my mom had died and I missed her. Her death had been so unexpected that I half didn’t believe it. I can’t describe how I felt because it’s one of those things that was so horrific my mind’s shut it out.

It took a year or so to settle the estate. We finally sold her apartment, and I was free to leave New York for vacation for the first time in a long time.

That second January my wallet was stolen. (I’ve written about that in a prior post.) My identity was stolen and some woman who wasn’t me was allowed complete access into my checking and money market accounts. The bank accused me of fraud, though that was quickly settled.

Several months ago, my fax was broken and I was having money wire transferred to Chase. That’s to Chase, not from it. Somehow I had left my address book home, probably because just the thought of going to that bank. But I didn’t see why I should pay for a fax, when I was having a somewhat substantial sum transferred. The young obnoxious VP first told me to go home; then he told me to use information on my cell. I asked if they had a phone book. Of course not; nor could he use Switchboard. I was incredulous. Finally he called a “buddy,” of his at my brokerage house. I was supposed to kiss his ass for this. Whatever happened to service? Whatever happened to treating people like people?

Today I went into my branch. Unfortunately I had to see a teller as I need hundred dollar bills for my tips. So I was crazed to begin with. I walk into the bank and practically fell on my head as the floor was slippery from the rain. “We’re aware of that problem.” So, put rubber mats on the floor, idiots.

There was a handwritten sign over the door that goes to Select Banking saying that it was closed and to go to lines one or two. I took especial note of this because it looked so unprofessional and the scotch tape was falling off. It looked like something that I would do. It was 11:30 lunch time for many bank employees. I assumed that they wanted to go to a holiday lunch or people were off or something.

The man in front of me was very jovial. His personal banker ran to talk to him. The teller took her time. The man and his banker were still joking when the teller tried to give him his money. Now being in Chase waiting for money that’s going to go for tips for building employees rates much higher on the hate scale, for me, than going to the dentist—or paying the dentist who does great work. I had decided to give the building’s porters as the super as they work much harder for much less money. While I really can’t afford this, I think it’s the only fair thing to do.

Shamelessly, once more, I admit that I don’t like seeing a customer being treated like gold in a bank where I’m treated like a two headed monster.

When I finally got to the teller she told me that I was on the wrong line; I should have been on seven or eight. I told her that she was going to have to serve me, as there was no teller at those lines, and I had been waiting. Grudgingly, she served me.

When I was leaving I noticed that the sign had been replaced by a word processed one, saying that Select customers should go to lines seven or eight, and was held in place by a really nice metal sign holder. I asked about it, and was told it had been there since yesterday. But I know what I saw.

If I were paranoid I’d think that the bank’s trying to drive me crazy, and into that bed at Bellevue. But I’m not paranoid so I think that they’re trying to drive everybody crazy.

An employee at the investment side of the bank at another branch has begged me to tell this story. She said that so many people feel slighted by their vile treatment at Chase that they have a hard time getting clients to invest with the bank.

.

Bernie quits so that Rudy can run, how noble

2004-12-23T13:43:00.000-08:00

If you believe my title, I own a bridge, I can sell you.

Rudy probably forced him to quit. Rudy was a joke in New York; a lame-duck mayor who did incredibly stupid things like announcing, to the press, that he was divorcing his wife before informing her.

Bill's impeached because Lucianne Goldberg and Linda Tripp set him for a fall, while Rudy's idolized because he was mayor during New York's darkest hour which was very golden to Rudy.

Rudy was last great to me during the RICO years long before he was mayor. He solved some crimes against people with ingenouus methods. My law and order persona appreciates it. So does my persona that would make a great white collar criminal. When I worked for Social Security I figured out many ways that I could have scammed them from creating a claimant who would receive the maximum single rate to much more minor crimes. Helped me be very effective at figuring out which claimant was scamming us for what. (Most were very honest.)

What's the saying? A person either becomes a cop or a criminal? Makes perfect sense to me.

Don't fall for the RudyG as saviour act. None of us do. When he wanted to have his term extended we laughed. Many of us voted for Bloomberg not because we particuarly liked him but because he was the right person for the job. We needed a businessman, not a politician who rode to new glory on the tail of 9/11.

He's become a slightly glorified outdoor salesman peddling 9/11 memoribilia, and I hate them. Bernie Kerik is typical of the scum Rudy hangs with. Think about it. Do you want your future president to have partnered with Bernie?

Fairway and me and the world

2004-12-22T13:03:00.000-08:00

Fairway's a dirty, much loved and much hated grocery/produce/take-out store on Broadway in the Upper West Side. It has high quality food for a lower price than we are used to. You never know if you're going to bump into or be bumped by a noted West Side celebrity, or a crazy person spouting verbiage at everybody or at one person in particular (me). Sometimes the noted celebrity will also be the crazy person.

For many years I would avoid it because crowds make me crazy, or I would go late at night when the store's much less crowded, and many of the customers are Broadway and other stars. Since I'm really bad at spotting famous people they would have to be pointed out to me. Sometimes they'd be a little annoyed that I didn't recognize them and introduce themselves to me.

As I said in a prior post, I can gauge my mood by how I react to the daytime crowds. Somehow Fairway can bring out the worst in many people. When somebody would joustle me, I would either apologize for being alive or scream at them. (It's a Fairway game.) Though the person was the one who stepped on my feet, they would usually accept my "I'm sorry," by screaming, cursing or saying something sarcastic.

If I would bump into somebody, and apologize the above would happen also.

In the past year for various reasons I've become a much calmer person. Therefore I usually find the antics that go on in Fairway amusing. Fairway's also less crowded (though only a regular would notice that) because of the competition from Whole Foods, other more physically appealing stores, and especially Freshdirect which delivers food that's ordered over the Internet. There's a competition going on between the owners of Fairway and Freshdirect that I also find amusing.

Sometimes I still get crazed by Fairway during the day, and know then that I should go home, or somewhere peaceful, because the Upper West Side's usually crowded, and I don't want to be among crowds.

Mine is not an atypical reaction, though I'm probably the only person to have analyzed this in such depth. I don't want to know what that says about me, and my thought processes. I only know that I no longer react when somebody bumps into me, or screams that I have bumbped into them. It would take a miracle not to bump into people as there is very little space between aisles, shopping carts, and people. It's most people's nightmare come true.

I usually enjoy watching people argue over space, the last Stonyfeld Caramel Yogurt (oh I'm the one that does that) and such other amazing things as the last purple garlic bulb. I have seen macho men reduced to sniveling and/or tears in Fairway, because somebody snatched something out their hand. Fairway's competition at its meanest and Survivor has nothing over it.

Any 80 year old who can successfully shop at Fairway can win Survivor as it takes skill, careful planning, coordination and a host of other attributes to shop there and leave in one piece.

There's just something about Fairway that brings out the worst in people who are usually logical and calm. Fairway's an almost poetic symbol of the Upper West Side. It's dirty and hostile seeming on the outside, yet when you take the food home, wash it and prepare it, it's excellent. Not that people on the West Side are dirty--that's a dumb metaphor.

The bouncers at the doors, and yes I mean bouncers as in a club, size everybody up before they go in. They only admit people who might go postal, and/or known liberals. They always let the old lefties from parents generation in, because they're the best at the game.

I've never asked what they do with the conseratives, because frankly I don't want to know.

As much as I tend to dislike Fairway I'd miss it if it were gone. It would also be very bad for the Upper West Side and Manhattan in general as people tend to get their hostility out in Fairway, not on the streets or at home.

If you think of Fairway as a sparring gym for the mind, you're almost understanding it.

Linking

2004-12-22T07:30:00.000-08:00

Somehow I can't link to Blogger. I'm not sure if that's a gltch in Blogger or a problem with my computer. Either way I hope to have it fixed soon.

Jack Newfield

2004-12-22T06:46:00.000-08:00

A zillion years ago when I was a teenager, and deep into hating anybody over 30 or almost anybody for that matter, I got my first newspaper subscription to the Village Voice, in 1966 when I was a young teenager.

I hate to sound like "back when the Voice was great," but it was. And much of it was due to Jack Newfield, who more than any other person on the staff, never saw a cause he couldn't write about.

Obviously he had a great influence on my life. The term "muckraker" was practically invented for him. With great affection and admiration I remember his city "ten worse judges," and "ten worse landlords." Yes, those are recurring Voice themes, but it was Newfield who started it.

He was one of the early advocates to end Johnson's presidency. I always had mixed emotions about that as I thought Johnson had inherited a mess that yes he made messier, but he was one of the best president's for domestic issues.

What I really admired and likea about Newfield was his inability to remain unbiased about issues. While a reporter, is by defination, a writer who is supposed to be impartial, Newfield couldn't be. He said what he thought, and what he thought was usually on the money.

He sparked many debates between my dad and me, and I thank him for that as sometimes debating was the only way my dad and I could communicate.

My parents practically locked me in the house during the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago. I wanted to kill them then, but fortunately my parents lived long enough for me to thank them for not letting me go.

I will never forget when he threw a typewriter out of a window from a hotel to protest how police officers were beating demonstrators.

He was a founding member of the Students For a Democratic Society.

In the 1970's he crusaded against nursing homes that harbored fraud and allowed abuse to happen.

In 1986 he worked with lawyers to help overturn the conviction of Bobby McLauglin, who was incacerated for murder, when new evidence showed that he was innocent. This wasn't done with DNA evidence, but evidence that had never come to light somehow. I can only think of a few other people who had their murder convictions overturned then--most notably Hurricane Carter who Bob Dylan wrote a song for.

Newfield happened to be a staunch defender of Bob Dylan's electric guitar playing which was a much bigger issue than anybody who wasn't around then could imagine.

Newfield died this past Monday night of kidney cancer. He was 66, which seems pretty young to me now.

We need more muckrackers and crusaders who aren't afraid to tell the truth as they see it. I thank him for helping me ignite the passion I felt about issues.

He helped me replace my teenage angst with positive action and I'm sure that my whole family would thank him for that.

White house considering product placement

2004-12-21T15:37:00.000-08:00

http://swiftreport.blogs.com/news/2004/12/white_house_con.html
Fave bro-in-law sent me this link.

You can't make this stuff up.

Denny Crane

2004-12-21T10:56:00.000-08:00

My girlfriends aren't the only people with crushes on Denny Crane (William Shatner) as Nameless points out in a comment.

To be totally honest, I think my girlfriends are more infatuted with his suits then him, himself. Except for the white outfit that he wore at the office party, that now reminds me of an Elvis suit, but I don't think was, even I can see how well made his suits are.

I'm not a suit person. I like men in black tees and black jeans. Or any type of tee and jeans, though personally I wear black tees and jeans most of the time. I guess I'm looking for my male Doppelganger, and yes I imagine James Spader dressed the way I want him to be. I won't admit what else I imagine as that's my fantasy, and I'm not into sharing everything.

And for all of you who think that James Spader has become fat and isn't sexy anymore, I took a survey of all my girlfriends--and they're pretty cool. When I mentioned James Spader and fat in the same sentence they thought that I had lost my mind. He's sexier than ever because...just because.

Now they're saying Advil's bad. What's next? Santa Claus?

2004-12-21T08:28:00.000-08:00

Happy Winter!

Enough happiness; I should be writing about all the people who died needlessly in Iraq yesterday, but I'm not going to.

When Pfizer began having its Celebrex problems, I was going to use it as an example of a seemingly flawless stock that people might put into their private Social Security accounts as a stock that would only go up.

But I thought that everybody realized or should realize by now (since everybody but me seemed to be experts on stocks in the 1990's) that pharmaceutical stocks go down drastically whenever a drug that is found out to have some bad or many or tragic effects.

"Oh but I'm in it for the long term" you say confidently, "I'm not planning to touch my account for at least 25 years."

Do you have a strong stomach for loss? Or are you one of the many people who sell everything when one single stock goes bad really quickly? If you are please contact me as I've never understood why people actually do that.

Now you say "look at the newest news stories that say Celebrex is effective." Fine, but it caused the stock market to tumble just when it was starting to go places.

I do understand that companies go bankrupt. More companies than you would expect to, and when they go bankrupt it's never a good thing for stockholders.

Kmart is doing well this year.

But when it went bankrupt several years the common as opposed to preferred stockholders were left with nothing, zilch, zero.

If you didn't sell before the bankruptcy because you thought that it wouldn't go bankrupt, that something magical would happen, because Kmart is a smart idea, with good leadership and the Martha Stewart line, and more idealogically appealing than WalMart, you would have been left with the above.

For the record, not that anybody cares, I think that Martha deserved her sentence plus more, and it had nothing to do with her being a woman. Before becoming Martha Stewart she wasn't just a stockbroker but owned a seat on the exchange. Besides costing much money, an owner is vetted, and has to be highly knowledgeable about the market(s). Let me amend that; an owner should be highly knowledgable.

Martha Stewart's a great example of somebody who had insider knowledge of a stock that was going to fall far because the product (something in pharmaceuticals, how about that?) because trial studies showed it to be ineffective if not dangerous (I really can't remember as I was so caught up in the drama.)

Insider knowledge is something that most of us will never have but the most sophisticated individual investor such as Martha, and many institutions (such as some pension funds) will always be just a couple of degrees of seperation from their stocks. You and I will be at least five degrees away. There is the possibility, distinct as it is, that I will invent the next Google; then....

Okay enough sermonizing. Today I looked at the headlines and saw that Aleve and Advil might cause heart attacks.

I love Advil. After I gave up Excedrin because it so obviously cause ulcers, I found Advil. I would take it if I felt that I might possibly have a headache sometime later that week.

Ever since I decided to adopt a healthy life style I've taken fewer and fewer. But I always keep a bottle at home, because if I don't have one, I will positively develop a headache. Or somebody who is visiting will have one and since I don't want to think that it's my company that's causing the headache I will offer one. I realize that's circular reasoning but that's the way I think

Now it's like learning that there isn't a Santa Claus. I want to scream; isn't it an anti-inflammatory medicine? Doesn't that by defination protect against heart attacks rather than cause them?

Are there any safe medications? Do we know anything about medications, really, or are they all going to be found out to be incredibly dangerous?

Have to go look at my bottle of Tyelnol with Codeine. Just knowing that it's there makes my sinus headaches go away. Really. Sinus headaches are much worse than my other headaches as they make me want to vomit, hate all noise, light and people. I get them from mold, and try to live a mold free life--but I can tell where mold is before I smell it. I'm a true mold meter.

Tylenol with codeine knocks me out and makes my sleeping dreamless. I hate that; it's the perfect medication for me as when I look at it I know that if I take it, I'm going to fall into a semi-coma and I like being awake or dreaming while sleeping too much.

Someday soon somebody is going to do a study and find out that just having a bottle of Tylenol with Codeine is going to give a person brain tumors. I just know that.

Continuing my crush on James Spader

2004-12-20T14:02:00.000-08:00

On a much more important topic than my last two posts, I thought that last night's Boston Legal was amazing.

Tara (I can't think of her real name) said to Alan Shore (James Spader, I know his real name for sure) something like:
"You believe in God?"
"Isn't it mandatory in this country now?"

Thank you David E Kelly for working that in. I knew when the show began to take off you would put in great throw away lines.

Thank you James Spader for once more delivering your line with a brilliance rarely matched in any theatrical medium.

For a brief, highly selective recap:
Denny Crane (the delightful William Shatner)sang at the office Christmas, sorry Holiday, Party. The next day Alan Shore thanked him for a stunning performance. In his precise, understated manner, James Spader managed to put 20 different meanings into the word "stunning," none of them meaning brilliant.

Alan Shore had helped a worker at the law firm retain custody of the kids for Christmas break, and her ex-husband wasn't allowed to take them to Peru.

Ex-hussband held Alan hostage. James Spader was magnificent, playing a man who was used to winning, pleading for his life. About half hour later Denny killed the man while it seemed like he might very easily accidently kill Alan instead.

Tara told Alan that she loved him.

Later Alan and Denny had their after work talk. (They are the best TV buddies since Norton and Kramer on The Honeymooners.) I have to replay it to remember exactly what was said as I was laughing too hard but here's the gist:

Denny explained that he was (I think) a horrible skeetshooter but when somebody you love is being attacked...he also explained that he (a Republican) was superior to Alan (a Democrat, natch) in much detail. I really have to rewatch this as I wasn't only laughing but watching them throw lines at each other. Shatner and James Spader are unmatched in their ability to play off each other. I'm completely mesmerized by their performances. I really have to watch this again because I was trying to memorize their lines but was too distracted.

Alan was shocked that not just one but two people told him that they loved him in one day. People usually say that they hate him. He said that when he faces death he doesn't think of the people that loved him but who he loved. Actually he thought about Liza Minelli.

Liza Minelli. A straight man, any man, any person thinking of Liza Minelli when facing death.

My best friend and I were laughing for too long this morning thinking about it.

Thank you James Spader for saying that line so perfectly. But you never fail me, never.

May we never meet.

I said that the media spins in favor of Bush and Cheney? Me?

2004-12-20T13:11:00.000-08:00

As a person with few positive virtues except for recyclying, and a propensity for overtipping, I tend to overlook nasty comments and behavior.

I mean, I do most of my grocery shopping in a store (Fairway, the original) where many people don't consider it a good day unless they curse at ten people, hit your cart, hit you, blame it on you and then sneak ahead of you on line while cursing you.

I gauge my moods from how I react to Fairway and this past year it's been with much amusement.

One thing gets to me: I've said it before and I will continue to say it--people who comment without really reading the post. My favorite person, anonymous said that I think the media spins in favor of Bush and Cheney.

I don't watch Fox News nor do I read the New York Post on a regular basis. If I did then, yeah, I think I might say that.

My post linked to an article in The New York Times which was talking about how Bush relates to Kerik. I said that I disagreed with something in the article. That wasn't saying that I thought the article in anyway endorsed Bush (and Cheney wasn't even mentioned.) Actually the article had a distinct anti-Bush undertone.

I love the printed word; I love to read and it upsets me when people take a quick look at something and make a decision based on a word, a sentence, a paragraph. Few things upset me as much as that.

legalized extortion week

2004-12-20T09:32:00.000-08:00

I live in a large building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. This means that every year I have to go to the bank and take out money to tip each building employee whether or not they have actually helped me. I tip some throughout the year for going above and beyond.

I always feel that if I tip less than a certain figure (and I have no idea what that should be as I'm one person who lives alone, but does have company, food and other things delivered) my good Kharma for the next year will be destroyed.

I would rather tip the porters more and the super less since he makes at least 80K a year and a two bedroom apartment in a prime building. That he doesn't like the apartment isn't my fault. I don't make as much as he does. I pay less than rent but more than most people would think each month for maintenance.

That I have to tip him each time somebody comes into my apartment to do something is sickening but he somehow rules the board of directors of my coop rather than being their (and my) employee.

I still have to give him at least $100 at Christmas. Then I have to tip each doorman and the porters. This sounds like I live in the lap of luxury. Hah!

I'm writing in my Oakley fleece sweat shirt--with hood on, sweatpants, warm socks and Uggs because there's no heat and it's freezing!

My building intercom receives calls but can't always make them. Somehow like a toothache not hurting when you're at the dentist, it always works when the super's here. He thinks I complain too much over nothing. Yet if he's pressed to answer about my complaints would be forced to admit that I complain much less than most people.

I'm a single woman and he has no respect for single women. Fortunately his attitude hasn't permated to the rest of the staff who like me because I remember small details about their lives, always say hello, am friendly, and am a good resident who doesn't make a habit of complaining.

And I properly recycle my garbage.

This all sounds so stupid, even to me, but a building is like a small village, and everybody knows everything. Not complaining about that; that's life.

But when I go to the bank to take out over a thousand dollars for tips, it hurts! Not just my pocketbook, but everything. That's a vacation. That's money I could spend on gifts for people I love, including me, especially me.

I've always been of the one gift for somebody; one for me school. I read that's newly fashionable. I've been doing it for years. However, due to inflated tip giving I can't be generous to myself and every magazine will tell you that the first person you should care about is yourself.

That's not the real reason I'm angry. I'm angry because I resent having to give as much as a family of four has to. I'm angry because people should be paid a living wage and not have to rely on tips.

I'm angry because the entire month of December is a run on the national bank of Pia.

For the record this has nothing to do with Christmas itself. If December wasn't tip giving month there would be some other month.

It's freezing and I need to meet somebody for lunch and then get groceries. I'm almost scared to come home to my own apartment because I will be empty handed in the tip giving department.

I'm going to see if there's any hot water so that I can bath before going (sneaking, I mean) out.

Kerik and Bush--a match made by devine intervention and the USA"s biggest tragedy

2004-12-19T10:00:00.000-08:00

http://nytimes.com/2004/12/19/politics/19kerik.

I was going to include the link to this article without comment. However as a native New Yorker, I must say that I disagree with the article when it states that Bush's relationship with New York was changed on 9/11.

How? Unless the author and editor meant "for worse," if that was possible. Bush made one speech, and we were supposed to stand behind him because he came to Ground Zero? As the article points out he had never liked New York. Why should we have changed our minds about him?

What did he do for New York that should make us like him? It's my understanding that the New York City Police Department (after Kerik's brief tenure) developed many counter-terrorism techniques on their own and/or with the FBI's help. While the FBI is part of the federal government it doesn't represent Bush.

How many more visits did Bush make to New York to speak to and reassure the people? We might have changed our opinions of him if we saw that actually cared and helped us.

The article states that in Kerik, Bush saw values similiar to his; that they both think in black and white without any shades of gray to color their pre-fab opinions. The article didn't talk about shades of gray, but obviously meant it.

About Kerik's personal life: That his mother was a prostitute who abandoned his family and then was killed when his was two, and that he was a high school dropout usually would make me like him if he rose to the top on sheer ability. But he didn't.

If you've been following the aftermath of Kerik's nomination then you know his amazing values include: patronage jobs, owning or having a role in companies that had city contracts while he was employed by the city and much more.

My three word summary of Bush and Kerik's relationship: slime meets slime.

Defensive Offense

2004-12-19T07:56:00.000-08:00

I live to rant but I hate offending people. Except those who deserve it like Newt Gingrich, Pat Robertson, any Bush, and I can go on, but I won't.

When I was a kid the Santa Claus question never came up as I lived in an almost all Jewish neighborhood in Queens.

In my early adulthood it never came up because everybody I know delayed having children.

Sometimes I think that believing in Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny is a good thing as it gives kids something to cling to.

I think that maybe kids who are taught "facts" become cynical because of what they are taught. I'm specifically talking about Jews here because we're the only group I can talk about with any authority. So I'm really just curious when I ask about Santa Claus beliefs.

But don't ask me any religious questions, as we were brought up "Yiddishkeit" or with "a Jewish head," or "Jewish feeling."

I'm learning about the religious aspect of being a Jew now as a grown-up. Fave niece (FN) goes to Hebrew School and teaches us. (And sometimes I take classes.)

I see FN growing up with both a strong religious identity, and a respect for all people.

All the kids I personally know don't think in terms of color, religion, ethnic identity etc. when making friends. It bodes well for the future.

But they're not a random sample. They're FN, my friends' kids, and kids who live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and go to "top ranked" public schools. Some parents could afford to send their kids to private schools but choose to send them to city schools so they can be part of a diverse group.

In my day, parents sent their kids to "progressive' private schools, or if they didn't believe in private schools or couldn't afford them moved out of the city to suburbs. They didn't believe that they could change a failing system. We ended up living among people who were exactly like us. I hated it.

Parents today try; I've watched Mrs. Ralph (they live in Queens, the most diverse county in the country; Mrs. Ralph was a young mommy for here) battle the school system for years as Kati, my birthday mate and very close friend, has some learning disablilites. She's now a sophomore at FIT, and thriving. Ashlee her younger sister goes to one of the most selective high schools in the city, LaGuardia.

This year Lucia used up all her vacation and sick time battling the school system to make sure that Little Luce got into the high school of her choice. (Using all days off for your child's education are two seperate subjects I will go into at another time.)

Only I could go from believing in Santa Claus to changing a school system, but they are related. Staying in the city and trying to change a school system that has been known to be failing, one kid at a time, takes guts and belief in the inherent goodness of most people.

I don't care if kids believe in Santa Claus or not; I care that they are responsible and respectful of all people. Kati's best friend is Muslim. I've heard about her for years but only knew what her religion is when she began dating a Jehovah's Witness and his family objected.

Here's to Santa Claus and all kids who are growing up thinking that all people really are equal and have (or should have) the same rights, priveleges and pursuit of that great intangible--happiness that they have.

Shameless Self-Promotion

2004-12-18T15:14:00.000-08:00

I love blogging. While I have been doing it since the summer I began to do it seriously about four weeks ago.

Reaction. Validation. Two things every writer looks for; at least every honest one who has been published. First I wrote for fun or to gain some clarity on life. Then I had to be published and was in desperate search of feedback. Being published was no longer enough. Now I want to be half rich and half famous from my writing. If that happens...Sure, it's like the lottery I spend a dollar on each time the jackpot's really big, and for about ten minutes am sure that I'm going to win.

Though some people have a hard time believing this: I'm shy, and have too much false pride. It's difficult for me to ask people for things in general.

It's truly hard for me to ask people if I could link to them or would they want to me. I guess this is a general call.

Once I finish my new site WWW.CourtingDestiny.Com, I want to do interactive stuff, but I have a hard time with sites that ask people to answer questions though I enjoy them.

As a writer who does this to write as much as possible and put it out there, I don't see how it helps except for the publicity part. Okay, I understand.

Though I can find anything on the Internet; I'm not good at coding and making my site look pretty so I had to get help, and that is taking longer than I would have liked it to.

I'm writing a novel about a singer/songwriter who came to New York in the late 1970's from, uh, New Orleans, and almost made it. (I'm tone deaf and have been paid not to sing) Nothing on my blog, except maybe a description of New York is in it. Love writing it because it takes me back to a time when I was very young, really really cute and everything was possible.

I feel fortunate to have lived in New York then. New York was magical; I took my life for granted when it was one that many women would have killed for. Now I take nothing for granted. There's beauty in life I was too selfish or too young to notice before.

I've written many stories and kept them in draft about my friends, especially the ones who died. I began my 20's as a generic JAP who hated going to visit people in the hospital. By my 40's I was a Nursing Home Social Worker by choice. A lot had happened in the interim.

I'm not planning on having these published at this minute and so might put them on my site.

I write about politics and social issues often because I feel passionatly about the direction my country is going in.

I can write on demand about almost everything, am fast and good, and can be found at my site WWW.CourtingDestiny.Com, once it's more than a shell. For now I can be found at Blogger or Blogexplosion.

Not that I'm promoting myself or anything like that.

Will the Jews be blamed? Is a National Religion around the corner?

2004-12-18T13:50:00.000-08:00

I love Frank Rich; if he wasn't already rather famously married, I'd probably throw myself at his feet. Yes I know what he looks like, but brains, insight and wit count more than almost anything. Here's the link

http://www.nytimes.com/2004/12/19/arts/19rich.

Next week I'll learn how to do it so that just the word "Frank" appears in blue.

It's a good article partially about how The Passion of the Christ didn't receive any Golden globe nominations and if it doesn't receive any Academy Award Nominations will Jews be blamed?

We're beginning to sound a lot like our parents or grandparents. I've never been on blame Jew alert before, but I think it's something I might have to get used to.

I hadn't realized that it was Newt Gingrich, somebody I really love to rant on, who said "are we going to abolish the word Christmas." Then he warned that it could happen.

I've always felt that I have the best of Christmas--the lights, other people's trees, Italian Christmas dinners, some gifts, coquito (Puerto Rican eggnog and a thousand times better) without really straining myself.

I don't understand why people teach their children that there is a Santa Claus or Easter Bunny. I'm pretty sure I always knew the tooth fairy was a myth. Fave's Niece's best friend is of Irish descent and several years ago Fave Niece (around 7 then) told me in reverent tones why we should respect our friends' beliefs, and never ever tell them that there is no Santa claus.

No parent has ever been able to explain to me why they think this is a good thing. Long before they were parents they would tell me about the exact moment they found out there was no Santa Claus and how and why it scarred them for life. Nothing in life's really rational so I don't press them on this; I'm just curious.

My friends don't blame me for the state of the world or taking Christmas out of the holidays. They don't usually go to Church so perhaps they don't really count as Catholic's though they might believe in God and/or Jesus. Life's complicated enough without analyzing this.

Frank Rich quotes Bill O'Reilly:
"Remember more than 90 percent of American homes celebrate Christams. But the small minority that is trying to impose its will on the majority is so vicious, so dishonest--it has to be dealt with."

Rich goes on to talk about how Christians who aren't into spreading dogma could be construed as anti-Christian. He says a lot more and it's scary to somebody who believes she was born in a country that was founded upon the principle of freedom of religion.

While the majority of the people in America might be Christian, this isn't a Christian country. We don't have a national religion. If we did what would it be? Certainly not Catholic as Catholics are still not the majority of Christians here.

Would it be a mainstream Protestant branch or would an evangelical leader be appointed to a new cabinet post "National Religious Leader?"

I have lived my youth and early middle-age in a country I always felt secure enough to say anything I wanted to in. I harp on this subject because it niggles through the empty vessel I call my brain. I hate living in a country where people are divided over most everything or so it feels.

When I was in grad school I had a teacher from New Mexico (a state that I'm not picking on.) He nevr understood how my class--a rainbow of colors, etc., could debate everything fiercely, and then go out to lunch and laugh about something on TV. That one's sometimes simple to understand: debate releases the valves and stops the explosion.

My looks are Slavic or Irish; my name could be from many countries. I have heard people speak against Jews and never really took them seriously. It's different now.

Now we are all about morals and values. I thought that my morals and values were good, not perfect because I'm too opinionated, talk too much and for a few thousand other reasons, but good.

Now I realize that my morals and values will never be good to many people: I believe that people have the right not to believe in doctrines, to have abortions, to get married if they're gay, to be whoever they're most comfortable being as long as they don't hurt other people. When did "moral values" become one phrase?

Now we don't have to apologize for our mistakes if we confess them. (Something I will never understand; my five loyal readers might remember that the screensaver on my cell reads "I'm sorry," about fifty times. Now instead of saying it, I just whip out the phone.)

Now we are about good vs evil with evil being anything Mel Gibson doesn't like.

We're in a war that makes me less and less sense every day, yet instead of thinking up plans to end this war, we're expanding it.

Take a minute today to think about Seymour Melman who died on Thursday and was the first person to rebut the big argument that war drives an economy upwards, and showed how it did the reverse.

Sometimes in my most paranoid late-night "achoo, a Jew" state (in Annie Hall Woody Allen kept on confusing sneezes with the phrase a Jew,) I think our ultimate aim in this war is to establish religious dominance. How? Don't ask me. Why? Don't ask me.

Today I'm in a totally paranoid Woody Allen state of mind. God it must not be fun to be him.

Social Insecurity, Bernard kerick and other ranting

2004-12-17T13:21:00.000-08:00

Thank you for all your positive responses to my rant on privatizing Social Security. And you, few, who make the negative ones, read a bit more carefully.

I said that Social Security needs fixing but private accounts (which Bush said yesterday will help "the markets") aren't the answer. I also said that any "trust" that can be invaded and put into other areas of the governments isn't a true trust. Actually when I was in training to work for Social Security we were taught that SSI and other programs were in trusts; Social Security itself wasn't. This was fourteen years ago; I only worked for Social Security for 30 something months, as an SSI Claims Rep before going to grad school but I don't recall the law changing.

I could go on about Social Security law but there are many places on the Internet you can find great information. Haven't checked the sites included in comments on my last rant but I will.

As was pointed out nowhere did I equate Bush with Hitler, nor will I ever. I know the best way to react to negative mail is to ignore it and let it speak for itself.

I live in New York and have seen and known many people with numbers tatooed on their arms. Some of my relatives were Survivors; so excuse me for being more than a little offended by that remark. Ignorance breeds an environment that's ripe for ideologues of all persuasions; right, left and much more.

Yes I'm a pushy New York Jew who feels more comfortable saying "happy holidays" because New York is so diverse. Though I wish people I know a "Merry Christmas" when I know that it's their holiday.

September 11, 2001 changed our lives more than most people outside the metro area can imagine. We had to explain to kids that the world wasn't going to end when we didn't believe it ourselves. We haven't healed; i doubt that New Yorkers will ever be the same. But we learned that in order to survive as a city we had to get along.

People talk about Bush being great on terrorism. I don't get it. What has he done that's so great? Nominating Bernard "I'm not perfect" Kerick to be head of Homeland Security? Read his memoir; the man's a total sleaze. Remember how we were supposed to be looking for Osama Bin Laden? What happened?

If somebody could explain to me why Bush is so good on terrorism i'd be happy to listen to their answers. But please explain it without rancor, cursing,or treating me as if I'm the enemy and an idiot.

While I too am not perfect I take the blame for my own mistakes. I couldn't live in my city successfully if I judged people based on skin color, ethnicity, religion or socio/economic status. I do judge people based on class. But class to me means being caring, compassionate and dare I say it--good manners.

Next a shameless plug. Somewhere between Christmas and New Years Day my URL will be changed to WWW.CourtingDestiny.Com

I have many passions and interests. I don't want to have fifteen seperate blogs. My new one will have the most recent posts on the home page and there will be various categories that people can go into, and skip the ones that they don't want to read.

I don't want to be all politics all the time, but sometimes W is so inspirational. And didn't anybody in the federal vet Kerick before announcing his appointment? He's an obvious sleaze. Any remaining respect I had for Rudy has left, but I didn't have much respect for him to begin with.

More about that later also.

Can't wait for my new URL to be up and running. Can't wait to begin linking and hope to have dialogues about a variety of subjects.

Thanks for all the positive response so far. And keep the negative ones coming.

Oh my, Bush really isn't living in the real world

2004-12-17T05:23:00.000-08:00

To all of you who worship at the altar of the person occupying The White House: You are fools if you think that Bush's plan (if it could be called that) to set up private accounts in Social Security will rescue the markets, ensure your comfort in old age, or your childrens' and their children.

The "markets" as Bush called them are inherently risky. Even the most skilled stock picker makes mistakes. There's this little thing called timing: knowing when to buy and when to sell.

If you're an adult now; you lived through the '90's and should understand what I'm saying. Fortunes could be made overnight, and lost even more quickly.

How do you know that the wonderful company you researched thoroughly, and think that you know everything about doesn't have some hole that can cause the stock to plunge quicker than I can write this. Do you really research everything very carefully? Do you understand how to research a company and what exactly you should be looking for?

I don't always nor did my father and it was (is) the family business. We have done very well; we also had and have some big big losses.

Morals can't be regulated. No matter how much oversight there is, people will always find a way to circumvent them. There will always be stocks that seem to good to be true and are. There will always be stocks that can be manipulated by one person in its companys management; there will always be stocks that can be manipulated by large investors.

I'm not saying that people are inherently dumb and shouldn't be investing. I am saying that there are many variables nobody can teach you about. Nobody calls stock picking: The science of picking stocks; it's called the art of stock picking for a reason; picking successful stocks over and over again, and knowing when to sell is almost an intutitive art that also involves skill, knowledge of specific industries and KNOWING WHEN TO SELL AND WHEN NOT TO.

AND HOW THE HELL IS PRIVATIZING SOCIAL SECURITY SUPPOSED TO HELP THE MARKETS RECOVER?

Just wanted to put in my views as my father devoted much of his life to not just teaching me about the markets, but teaching me about most recessions since 1962. I was very young then and sheltered from it but my father gradually introduced recession training to my life skill training. It was the most important lesson he taught me.

He taught my sister and I caution and so we didn't lose much money.- We actually made some from the 1990's experiment in "I'm a millionaire; you're a millionaire; we're all going to be millionaires." We all saw how that ended.

The market up and downs then were neither Bill Clinton's success or failure. He happened to be president during a time when our economy was changing from a service/manufactoring one to a information/technology one.

Personally I'd think Bush is on such an ego power trip that he's planning to do things that can really hurt our country for many generations to come.

Social Security needs to be changed; private accounts are not the answer.

If we stopped tapping into the so called Social Security "trust" for other things there might be a chance Social Security could begin to replenish itself with some help--intelligant thought out help.

Why is something called a "trust" when it can it be invaded for anything? Because it's not a "trust," but given that label since it sounds more secure.

I'm a baby boomer; I've lived through too many recessions already. It's time to pump up the economy not through private Social Security accounts but by creating new professional level jobs, ensuring that every job pays a living wage and that there are jobs for everyone who wants one.

How can this be done? Many ways: giving new businesses good incentives to start up in large urban areas; giving exsisting businesses more incentives to stay in the same areas; building affordable housing for workers (think Mitchell-Lama, a great program that helped keep New York vital for many years.)

Taxes are never a bad thing if used to tax people who actually have money rather than being used to hurt poor people by implementing a national tax on clothes and other neccessities of life.

Taxes are supposed to be progressive. Think about it. Most really rich people don't pay regular income taxes because of passive business losses and other tricks, don't pay estate taxes because their money is put into trusts that like Social Security can be invaded. The difference is when a person is worth less than the really rich they might really need to invade that trust to live. Oh wait, there's no difference. Maybe trusts should be tightened so that they can't be invaded.

If we do the things W believes in, we're going to be a regressive nation filled to the brim with rich and poor people. Say goodbye, as we are in Manhattan, to the middle class--the people who work their butts off and still live from paycheck to paycheck. Or are laid-off because younger people who will work for less money and have less to contribute can take their places.

The USA should be the greatest country; it shouldn't be a place where more and more people live in fear that not just their old age will be resource-less but so do a growing number of middle-aged people.

No matter what you personally think of New York; think about the entire middle class of New York City moving to your states because they can get jobs, affordable housing, and the cost of living is much less. ONE THIRD OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK LIVES IN POVERTY OR ON ITS EDGE. That's 33 percent--a very high figure.

Do you really want us in your backyard? Get ready; we're coming!

Losing my store envy

2004-12-16T20:46:00.000-08:00

When I first moved to Manhattan we had many independent stores. Now it's mainly chain stores. (I love the Time Warner mall, though I want to bomb Time Warner--not really but I dream about it.)

We have a Home Depot in Manhattan. It's a combination Home Depot/Expo store; I shake at the mere thought of it. A Bed Bath & Beyond recently opened in my 'hood. Haven't been in it yet because I know that I would buy out the store.

When K Mart first opened my friends and I went to both Manhattan stores often because it had things we had never seen before at home.

I just heard that a Wal Mart is opening in Queens. I've never been in one. Fave niece cried when I told her, several years ago, that I had never been in a Target. She thought I lived a deprived life and was the poorest person she had ever met. When I explained that we didn't have any she didn't believe me. Then she wanted to take me to one.

I called her to tell her that a Target had opened 20 minutes uptown by subway. She was very happy. So am I. Life is good.

I know many people think that the brilliance of Manhattan is its independent stores. I used to. But life was more difficult and the chains came in anyway. Might as well be ones I can use.

Tomorrow I'm going to Home Depot for a new shower head. Life is better than good.

more about elder abuse

2004-12-15T07:49:00.000-08:00

Here is a letter printed in today's New York Times. It speaks for itself.

NYTimes:
Stopping Abuse of the ElderlyPublished: December 15, 2004

To the Editor:
"Bowed by Age, Battered by an Addicted Nephew and Forced Into Begging and Despair" (front page, Dec. 12) ironically came just days after Congress failed to pass comprehensive legislation to combat elder abuse, the Elder Justice Act.
The days of denial about elder abuse, neglect and exploitation by local, state and national policy makers must end.
Elder abuse is as real and pervasive as child abuse and domestic violence, but it lacks the federal response and resources necessary to combat it.
According to Senator John Breaux, the Louisiana Democrat and the author of the Elder Justice Act, less than 2 percent of the funds spent on abuse prevention goes to combat elder abuse.
The goal of new federal legislation should be to render help and service to victims, provide training and related services to prevent new victimization, and ensure that we have accurate data about the extent of the problem nationally.
It should no longer be a question of should we act but how soon.
Robert B. Blancato
National Coordinator
Elder Justice Coalition
Washington, Dec. 13, 2004

But as always I have to put in the last words: I feel much guilt for having been unable to work in elder abuse; directly with the victims and their families after my mom joined the ranks of the frail elderly. But I can still advocate through writing and taking action.

In this polarized political season many of us forgot about our other causes. They're all tied together.

When you meet victims of elder abuse it hits you in places you never knew existed. Three examples:

One resident of the nursing home would go home some weekends to be with her husband. She began showing obvious signs of abuse. It was difficult for her to communicate.

I brought her up at a meeting of the various disciplines.
"Mr. O'Rourke? He's so cute. I saw him yesterday driving the wrong way down 231 Street."
"Yes, he was coming to a meeting with me. He was so shit-faced at 11 AM, I had to air out my office for fifteen minutes to get the stench of alcohol out. And 231 Street is a steep hill. How can anybody be cute going down the wrong way?"
They thought about that and grudgingly admitted he might not have been so cute. But the attitude that an elderly person could be cute and not capable of abusing a less able elderly person remained.

Another resident had fallen in her bathroom, and was in it for 24 hours before the deli-delivery guy broke into her apartment and brought her to a hospital. He was considered a hero, and was much lauded. Turned out that she had been paying him $1,000 a month to deliver ten dollars worth of food daily. She paid that also. Hero, I don't think so. She had been too scared to admit this. She had money, but had been neglecting to pay her bills. Once she realized that she could no longer take care of herself, and agreed to stay at the home, she did admit this.

Between the back rent, and the cost of staying at the nursing home, she lost her resources. Medicare will pay the first hundred days of a person's stay if they have some problem that might be helped through some form of rehab. She didn't have any physical disorders that might have passed Medicare's tests. We tried hard to find one.

Another woman had been living in an assisted living facility in Florida. Her family brought her back to New York when she had become obviously demented. Only the unit's nurse and I spent "too much time," working with her. She had been dehydrated--the number one cause of reversable dementia; she had constant urinary tract infections which can cause reversable dementia.

We brought her back to a point where she could have spirited conversations, remember where her room was and much else. But at that time the home didn't even have a "wonderers garden," where people with dementia who wondered could have access to a place where they could walk as much as they wanted to. Usually these gardens are mazes which makes it into a type of puzzle, and provides stimulation. We had nothing to keep her stimulated. Were we guilty of neglect? Not in any legal sense, but....

I don't think that nursing homes are the future, or even the present. There has to be better ways for older people to live at home with dignity and respect. When I began studying gerentology I was excited at the possibilities of alternate living facilities. I lost that excitement when my school (ten years ago, it might have changed) didn't share my excitement. Actually I had to take doctorate level courses and independent studies to have geriatrics as a true concentration.

One of my so-called teachers tried failing me because she didn't think that working with the elderly was a true function of social work, and she didn't understand my interventions which are very different than interventions with the families of younger people. As I had an almost all "A" average, the school asked to see my work, and I was given a "B+."

I happen to believe that most grad school grades are inflated, and don't put much stock in them, but this was so blatant. My teacher was in her 60's.

We fear what might happen to us. I fear growing old alone without anybody to advocate for me. I have pre-planned as much as I can. My friends think that's crazy--but if they had seen the people who ended up in the nursing home because of neglect or abuse, they'd be planning like crazy.

This holiday season take a minute to think about your grandmother, mom--or your own future. The way this country's going if you're going to be 80 in 60 years there won't be any great changes.

Think about the elderly you see on the street. Do more than talk about how repulsive or cute they are. Aint nothing cute about old age. Write or e-mail your congress people and ask them to rethink the Elder Justice Act. The life you save may be your mothers, or your own.

My mind; my blog; my voice

2004-12-15T05:06:00.000-08:00

Yesterday's posts (the last absolutely) were examples of how my mind can go from one subject to another in a matter of seconds. I'm used to that; I can even change my thinking now to think like everyone else.

I'm a great example of a non-sequential or non-linear thinker. I'm the person who thought outside the box before the term was ever coined.

I was fortunate enough to begin college when people like me were embraced, not thought weird or strange. Take that back; all the people I liked and wanted to like me back might have found me weird but loved me anyway.

Last night I dreamed I had a reunion with my friends from Putnam Avenue, Cambridge MA where I lived when I went to Boston University, and in a giant leap for me, actually attended not just one class a semester, but all classes. That helped my GPA immensely.

I didn't learn until too late that most grad schools--including law schools--take a person's last years in college, dedication to course work, LSAT or other testing, and finally--the perfect essay--into consideration. And they're impressed by a person who can explain in that essay why it took three schools and eight years (with much dropping out for living and working) for me to graduate.

I always felt less than because I had problems and didn't think I could effectively advocate for myself. I was scared of everything though I had incredible friends and a family that thought I could be the first Jewish, woman president--but the job wasn't good enough for me.

I became great at advocating for myself and for others. It's true; the more life you experience; the better you can get at it.

But how I got from there to here: Guess that will take much longer to explain than I have time for today. It could be a book, one that I've begun and put away many times. It's hard to relive the past. Though sometimes necessary to understand the present.

(I can also make anything into a political metaphor.)

Multi-tasking blog

2004-12-14T14:35:00.000-08:00

Hi and thanks to all who voted for me. Oh right, that will come when I make my annual Academy Award speech. When I gave it at the nursing home they thought I deserved a bed in the home until they realized that I was kidding. I have a sense of humor that can be over the top and it can be so wry people don't get it.

My blog began as a writing exercise. But I was also angry at things that were happening to my city that were a direct result of 9/11 and the federal government. Remember Montana got the same amount of aid as New York did propotionately. I don't think anybody except for some residents of Montana thought that was fair.

New York looks better than ever; except for that hole called Ground Zero. New York has many private groups funding much of what makes it look better. It's in much worse shape than it was three years ago.

The average price of a Manhattan apartment is now a million dollars. Where people get this amount of money is beyond my comprehension and I'm not poor. Many buildings require 40 or 50 percent in cash. Some require all cash from certain people. The all cash people don't scare me.

The people who pay 10 to 50 percent in cash and get a mortgage for the rest really worry me. What if a person loses his job just when interest rates go up? The finger that's holding the concrete in place is going to crushed.

I want to write about other things. My life isn't about politics. I really want to write about HBO and how it out Miramax's Miramax (probably not a good example today, but...) Geoffrey Rush who has given some brilliant performances was at his most brilliant as Peter Sellers. The Life & Death of...should have had a theatrical opening; it was a thousand times better than most films out now. I'm in total shock that he died at 54; I thought he was old when he died. I guess I thought 54 to be ancient then.

I want to write about the conversation Big Luce and I had last night about James Spader. I told her about the comment I received about him being fat. She kept on thinking that I was talking about somebody else. I pointed out that his face has gotten heavier. She agreed.

Then we dissolved into laughter thinking about him sitting in a law firm meeting with a silver sequin star on his head. It looked like something both the character Alan Shore and James Spader would do. Big Luce and I laughed longer because I'm the only other person we know who would do something like that.

I'm all about silver sequins and stars. When Big Luce first knew me, I would wear purple heart shape sunglasses and other non-professional attire to work. I still was promoted because they had to promote me. I was one of the best workers, and had a 'tude that outwardly said I don't care, while inwardly I cared all too much. But if they wanted to fire me for my outward 'tude, they were welcome to. I wasn't desperate for money and knew I could always get another job. Part of me really felt worthless; another part felt more worthy than anybody else. I admit that's a strange combination, but one that more people have than you think have.

Alan Shore, James Spader's character, is unethical in a legal sense, and is also the most ethical character on TV, because he's all about compassion and righting personal wrongs. He acts like he couldn't care less, but I think he's like I was when I worked in corporate jobs. I adore the character.

Yes I think that James Spader's one of the most underrated, underused (until recently) actors. Three movies prove that--Sex, Lies and Videotapes; White Palace, and finally my favorite, Secretary. It's on record somewhere that I picked it to be the best film of 2002. I believe that now more than ever.

I wrote this piece to prove to myself that I could turn any article I write into one of three topics: Me, me and more me; James Spader; James Spader and me.

You see I'm not all about politics and or social issues. I don't spend all my time or even half my time hating Bush. And I can't wait for Sunday nights which usually belong to HBO but right now belongs to ABC. Come on Extreme Makeover--Home Edition, that's an hour of tears of enjoyment. Desperate Housewives is just fun. Then, stop my heart from pattering, there's Boston Legal.

For awhile I was having trouble with my cable box which is also a DVR. Every Sunday night it would freeze on James Spader. Since I have another, old set I'd watch Boston Legal on that one. In the morning when I'd wake up I'd turn on the TV to see if it would unfreeze. There would be James Spader in digitized glory. The set would unfreeze; I finally convinced the cable company to give me a new box. It works fine. I kind of miss that one second of looking at the digitized James Spader.

Ha? What does this have to do with Bush?

2004-12-14T13:45:00.000-08:00

Bush has many many points to target if you wish to mock him, his intelligence, his followers and their intelligence that's fine...ignoring elder abuse based on their voting patterns is um...frightening! --Posted by Sally to Courting Destiny at 12/14/2004 12:39:42 PM

This is a comment I just received. If I indicated anywhere that Bush is ignoring elder abuse because people didn't vote for him I truly apologize.

I might not like Bush; I might think that he ignores or dislikes entire cities (such as mine) but I would never think that he would ignore older voters at all. Actually, based on Florida, 2000 I think he pays much attention to older voters.

Sorry couldn't help that.

I have learned since I began blogging that people only read what they wish to read. The person who made this comment obviously didn't read the original post, the comment that I was answering or my answer very carefully.

Bush isn't mentioned in my original post at all. Newt Gingrich is because he was the person who drafted much of the legislation that changed federal social services that then affected state and city services.

Some of the changes might be good. I don't have the statistics in front of me about welfare-to-work programs. But many of the changes mostly affected poor people with mental (and to some extent) physical problems. Mental health clinics were shut down. Since most hospitals don't keep patients for very long this creates many direct and ancillary problems.

The elderly suffer the most as they either refuse to seek help because they have too much pride, or aren't in a position to as they're being abused by their own child. There's only one thing that I can imagine to be equally bad--and that's a parent abusing a child. To me these crimes are equal to murder.

Somebody saw the name of my URL, decided to make a negative comment no matter what, and while most of my posts lately have nothing to do with politics or social issues this one did. But it certainly didn't say that Bush had anything to do with elder abuse.

It linked to a New York Times Sunday First Page Article which meant that the editors consider it to be important. If anything it was making fun of The Times. My post says that the Times discovered elder abuse. I meant that satirically.

My response to the person who asked me if I was going to hate elderly people since the majority voted for Bush was based on the knowledge that the majority of older voters live in large urban areas which are heavily Democratic. Older people tend to vote more than younger people.

Older people know the problems with Medicare first hand. Older people know what it's like to not be able to afford needed medicines much more than younger people do. Older people know what it's like to be treated as less than just because they've reached a certain age; older people know what it's like to be told that their services and positive functions in society are no longer required.

Older people are infantilized in our society and that makes me sick. I could go on forever on this subject but that would take a book. I have nothing but respect for older people and I think my prior posts reflect that.

I did become political in my response because I was going to write a seperate post about Kerick, and it just seemed to fit in that one.

I did state that I don't judge an individual based on political beliefs. My father was a rabid Reaganite and he taught me the true meaning of the term "compassionate conserative."

A more famous "compassionate conserative" was Andrew Heiskell who died several years ago. He was a member of the Board of People for the American Way; a true believer in The First Amendment, began and funded the Andrew Heiskell Library for the visually impaired. It's a branch of the public library (at least in New York) and I could never thank him enough as that library helped my mother live a more full life in her last years. He was also a Republican.

I did say that I was sick of the whole blue/red thing. I do have to say that if Bush's parents were sick, he might think very differently about stem cell research.

When I looked Sally up to answer her personally her Blogger profile was blocked. I really believe that if a person is going to make negative comments they should give their name or some way of getting in touch.

However, I'm a writer, a licensed social worker, and both professions require one to be thick skinned. I actually enjoy negative comments because they spur me on.

Thanks for all the positive ones. I live to be validated. And that's one of my better qualities.

Hate mail is so much fun

2004-12-14T08:14:00.000-08:00

I believe somebody commented "the majority of old people voted for Bush. Do you still want to help them."

1) I'm changing my URL not because I believe in Bush or any person associated with his administration. If one of them had taken twenty minutes to skim through Bernard Kerick's memoir, he never would have been a serious candidate for Home Land Security.

While I didn't like Rudy and thought that 9/11 saved him big time, I had thought he was intelligant. After reading Kerick's memoir, I thought that they had about seven brain cells left between them.

(If I counted how Kerick had his memoir researched--I would have given them a minus brain cell count.)

2) The phrase "Home Land Security," I can't help it but it reminds me of something the Nazis and/or Facists would have named a department.

3)Back to the comment that made me think of all this: The majority of "old people" live in Blue States or "Blue Counties." I think many if not most voted for Kerry

4) That's not even the point: I seperate people from politics. I have never disliked people based on who they voted for, but on many other factors that I won't go into here.

5) That isn't even the real point. Older people (whoever they vote for) deserve help. Elder abuse and neglect is a real and growing problem. Protective Services (at least in New York City) was ineffectual for many reasons. Most are gone into in the Times article.

Elder abuse is at the point that partner abuse was at 20 years ago.

How can you know if it's not seen or reported?

If the abused person refuses help what do you do?

What consitutes elder abuse? If a caretaker or relative forgets to buy food for a day is that neglect or just forgetfulness? That's really simplistic, but our court system makes decisions based on capability and that can be seperated into many areas.

Is a person capable of maintaining his own apartment?

If it's a messy five floor walk-up and the person refuses to move or have it cleaned is he still capable of living in it alone?

The short answer to that is yes. I'm talking about New York law as that's the only law I know. I guess many people will discount that as we're Blue, and I'm so sick of the whole "Blue" "Red" thing.

As long as the person makes arrangements to get food, can get up and down the stairs when needed, the "mess" doesn't go from floor to ceiling and there's a clear path to the door, the person pays his bills each month and is generally oriented to what day of the week or time of the year it is, where he is, and who he is than he can live how he pleases.

6) What does disliking Bush and wanting to help people have to do with each other anyway? If you're going to write me avarice comments and your Blogger account appears set up just so that you can write comments to anti-Bush URL's do it with a little more intelligance.

Elder Abuse

2004-12-12T13:10:00.000-08:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2004/12/12/nyregion/12elder.html?hp&ex=1102914000&en=300e83657df6f34c&ei=5094&partner=homepage

I had promised myself that I wasn't going to post anymore today, and stay off the computer.

But the New York Times has discovered elder abuse. When I was practicing social work some cases almost literally fell into my hands. When doing post-grad training I gave the presentations on abuse to other social workers because so few had any practical experience.

It was depressing; made more depressing by the lack of organizations that could or would help. It wasn't considered important. No matter what they say, old people have been treated as expendable. Newt Gingrich and his cronies made sure that money allocated to social service agencies was scarce. When they had to prioritize, children took first priority.

Yes, children are important, but so are all people.

Social Work organizations like the one mentioned here are well-intentioned but the social workers are overworked, and not considered important. Just the words "social worker" are enough to make some people laugh.

Rather than stir the pot or find new solutions, many social work agencies want to continue the status quo. This saddens me.

The women in this article are compartively young--71 and 75--actually shockingly young. Imagine being abused or neglected for 20 or more years when you're getting older by the second.

I feel strongly about many issues but elder abuse is among the top five because the people are too shamed or unable to speak for themselves.

"C" for clarity

2004-12-12T09:09:00.000-08:00

That's the grade I gave myself for my last post. I'm more a cultural Jew than a practicing one. but that might change.

I was really just wondering why people say "Happy Chanakauh to our Jewish friends," when that's kind of obvious.

When my grandparents came to this country they were excited to be free for the first time in their lives. They were excited that they could be citizens, excited to own land, (but were way too poor to), very excited that they could say whatever they wanted to, and when they became citizens could vote. That's the mini-mini-version of why many Jews think of The First Amendment as sort of a bible.

My grandparents were also excited that they no longer had to actually practice their religion. Opressed people sometimes do things as a revolt. My grandparents came here as teens and revolted both against organized religion, and I guess their parents though they would have never admitted that.

My father remembered being forced to go to a religious Passover Seder when he was three that turned him off any religious practice until I was thirteen or fourteen and we went to visit relatives in Mobile Alabama who were Orthodox. He was thrilled that everybody took turns reading.

Our Passover's went from being giant dinners to real Seders. My hippie Buddhist aunt--then a beatnik--had her kids make picket signs. "Pass over the seder," and other clever retorts. Everybody wanted me to read the most because I could read as fast as an auctioneer auctioning off the cows that would make the brisket. (Ick, horrible thought alert, too late.)

I loved them and miss the 40 people squeezing into our dining and living rooms.

Though I celebrate Christmas in some ways: Buy Christmas gifts; go to Christmas parties; and dinners, I've never had a Christmas tree of my own. It feels wrong. Though I do have white branches I've had forever, somebody puts red ribbons on every year when I'm not around.

I've been to Midnight Mass; don't think that I've been to a Protestant Church celebration.

I resent the giant tips I have to give the building workers--but if it weren't at Christmas time it would be another time of the year. I resent having to give gifts to people I barely know, but everybody resents that.

When I was growing up and until recently it wasn't cool to be Jewish. Big Luce, my closest girlfriend, is of Puerto Rican Catholic/Baptist descent; and Rafael, my closest male friend is from Colombia and a non-practicing Catholic though he's one of the most spiritual people that I know.

I spent years trying to explain how they're automatically cool because of their ethniticity where I'm automatically a nerdy dork--sheerly from ethnic and religious background.

I finally got them to understand--and then Madonna made the Kabbalah cool, so thanks Madonna. Unfortunately the Kabbalah's supposed to be learned after a person (male, 40 or over) learns the Torah inside/out.

Fave-bro-in-law made sure that fave-niece goes to a Temple where girls are considered on a par with boys and get to do everything. Someday, i hope, women will officially be allowed to learn The kabbalah. I will of course learn it because I'm not supposed to.

When my parents taught my sister and I to question everything they didn't conciously realize that they were paying homage to The Talmud which teaches that there are no fixed answers but many, many questions.

(Not going to get into the Torah or the 695, I believe, commandments.) They taught us to be good, and to treat everyone well. But respect--well that belongs to the people who deserve it. Actually that subject re my parents will be a later post.

I love the Adam Sandler generation where being Jewish just is normal and can be referenced in songs and movies without a great deal of fuss. Jerry Seinfeld, on the other hand, shows us as as kvetchy, ironic people, who love nothing more than to sit around doing nothing but kvetching and still managing to get into trouble. Have to admit that I'm more used to the Seinfeld school.

I love America's diversity; I love celebrating other people's traditions with them. I hope that we're not all thrown into a blender and come out homogenized. I hope that we don't have to fight to keep our beliefs and identities, and I'm not talking about fighting foreign countries.

I hope that our troops come home soon and are safe. If this turns into another Viet Nam--I can't imagine.....

I treasure The First Amendment because it gives us freedoms never spelt out by other countries. The First Amendment is one of the things that make us great.

I hope that it's kept in its present form and not messed with as the voting amendments were in the 2000 election.

I fear that our country is moving in a direction that won't allow us to be who we want to be.

But it's holiday season for most everybody and in that spirit, I'll enjoy every blintze, drink all the Cocquito Big Luce makes, laugh at the dancing Santa doll who also sings Elvis (Presley, of course) songs, and feel happy that I made it to 2005.

Yes, "enjoy every blintze" was blantly stolen from an idol of mine, Warren Zevon's philosphy of life, "enjoy every sandwich." So do so!

Just wondering

2004-12-11T14:05:00.000-08:00

Why do people say "Happy Chanakauh to all our Jewish friends"?

I've never heard anybody say "Merry Christmas to all my Christian friends."

I understand that people are doing this in the spirit of the season and inclusion, and that's nice, but...

It reminds me that I live in a Christian country and with the man-in-the-white-house practically pimping for Jesus, I don't need anymore reminders.

I can't walk in my own neighborhood or anywhere in my city because the streets are mobbed with people shopping or looking at the sights.

At this particular time in our country's history we need to be all inclusive all the time. So

Happy Holidays to all

Brief Encounter

2004-12-11T13:58:00.000-08:00

Everyone has a Mafia story. This one is mine. On a hot June day in the late 1980’s, I was walking up Lafayette Street, in what’s now called NoLita, with two friends. Patrick was in from Baltimore, and Lucia managed an architectural detail store that made plaster moldings, gnomes, sconces and the like across the street.

Almost every week we would bring in wine and other things, close the store, put on good music, and begin partying. People would look in, think we were having an opening, knock on the door, and try to get in. If we liked their looks they might get in. Sometimes we would go out afterwards. On more than one occasion Lucia and I crashed there.

We were almost at the firehouse when we heard the fire bells peal. But the firemen didn’t run out. The fire bells pealed when important people passed it. Important meant needed by the neighborhood. Lucia, Patrick and I weren’t really listening. The bells are city sounds, as common as car alarms but nicer.

I had a good figure, and my mother (bless her) had brought me up to show off my assets. I was wearing a blue flowered bustier dress that looked like a Marilyn dress from the waist down. Just to be clear on this, I was wearing a matching bathing suit bottom; the yellow flowers were slightly smaller...

When the dress blew over the subway grating, I wasn’t concerned. I couldn’t understand why Patrick and Lucia were desperately trying to keep the dress down. I turned around, to see four very well dressed men trying their hardest not to laugh. One of the men looked very familiar.

Now it was my turn to blush as I tried to get the words out. “Uh, Mr. Gotti, if you’re going to remember me—and, uh, you will, try to be kind.” I was under pressure, and couldn’t remember the real quote. Then I burst into hysterical laughter as did the man for whom the bells were tolling, his son John Jr., and their bodyguards.

Lucia, Patrick and l regained a sort of consciousness, looked at each, and bid the Gotti’s a quick adieu. When we were half way up the block, I turned around. Mr. Gotti was looking at me as his son and associates talked. We smiled and walked into our own worlds. Lucia and Patrick remember it slightly different than I do. They claim I wasn’t wearing underwear.

If I wasn’t wearing underwear, wouldn’t I have wanted to die on the spot?

Would I have claimed ownership of this story if I didn’t have anything on under my dress? I’m too respectable to even dream that. I was counting on John Gotti to affirm my version. But he’s dead, and I’m going to have to listen to Lucia tell her version for the rest of our natural lives.

Admitting something dangerous

2004-12-11T13:32:00.000-08:00

This is where I admit that I never liked John Lennon. Loved his music but something about him left me cold. He emitted a self-importance that just made me nuts. Okay, he was important and probably one of the two or three most influential rock writers, but Yoko and his bed-in left me yearning to see them vertically.

Though I'm pretty sure that wasn't the first thing to turn me off to him. I can't remember what the first thing was or when it happened. As I grew into my teens I realized that I liked almost every other rock star more. Maybe they seemed to take themselves less seriously.

While music's as important as brain surgery, I wouldn't like a brain surgeon who walked around practically forcing people to adapt his views on everything. Which isn't to say that I disagreed with John Lennon's views. Just his persona.

If the Ralph's find out about this blog and read this I'm dead or banned for life from their Christmas dinners which would be a shame since Mr. and Mrs. Ralph are both half-Italian and have divine dinners featuring the best in home-made Italian food.

Have to go read Rolling Stones list of the 500 most important songs (didn't they do that last year?) so that I can argue with Mr. Ralph. I'm not sure what we're going to argue about--I'll leave John Lennon out of it as I always do because that's a no win argument for me, and makes me seem intolerant.

God, I don't feel better for having admitted this but have been dying to say it for awhile.

Explanation offered

2004-12-10T15:53:00.000-08:00

I know my posts can be rather long and probably long winded. My new blog, currently still in the design stage, will have the first paragraph of my past week's post on the home page. My posts will be divided into categories such as "family stories," "political rants," "rants," and seven more. I'll also have an archive with all the stories chronologically arranged--and their categories. It will be up hopefully by the end of next week, or just before Christmas.

My url will be www.courtingdestiny.com, and the site will be much more interactive. I'm not linking until I get the new site up, and am looking forward to that.

Blogging's so great for getting things out, and for just writing not caring about word count, word count, offending people, or being biased. I love it; i've never felt so much freedom as a writer.

Thanks for the feedback.

Reality becomes her

2004-12-10T13:41:00.000-08:00

It's raining huge drops and windier than you imagine Chicago to be. You're wearing cotton lined sweats, Uggs and an Oakley hooded sweatshirt that sometimes almost serves a winter jacket (under too pricey leather jacket that the shoe repairman was able to fix.) You're still cold in your 630 square feet of prime Manhattan real estate on a street that most people call "the wind chamber."

The number 5 bus is just across the street, but there's no bus shelter (wouldn't look right in a historical district,) and the bus doesn't come according to schedule. To get a cab you have to walk up a hill to West End Avenue. You're only aware it's a steep hill in weather such as this. On these days everybody wants a cab and few come with the yellow light on; it's shift change time and many come with the yellow lights on, on the side and really mean it. They were supposed to stagger shift changes when they got their fare increase, but somehow...

The subway is an Avenue and three blocks past West End Avenue; three blocks that used to have much scaffolding to shield you but this week has none. It's you and the wind, and you'd rather suffer it at home.

This is the downside of a Riverside Avenue address. You don't face the river. but West End from the living room, and Northern Manhattan from the bedroom, so you don't really think of yourself as living on Riverside which is really not an Avenue but a Boulevard. Guess Riverside Boulevard doesn't sound as good.

You try to understand the difference between an Avenue and a Boulevard without looking it up. A Boulevard must be grander, and
change course with much open space.

The upside of living on Riverside is being close to the Hudson that in fall smells just like the ocean; the park is your backyard with piers on the river, and a wallkway that is really a bikeway. You've begun to hate all bike riders because they curse you and all serious walkers for invading their space even when the sign says "no bikes allowed."

A day like today is a no-walk-anywhere-day and you really need to in order to get yourself out of the slight funk you're beginning to get into. Any time you begin thinking that the last spate of really great weather was autumn, 2001, you know you're going to begin a minor depression; like a slight cold or fever, it doesn't really stop you, just slows you down and makes you feel out-of-sorts.

Your sister called. Fave niece's favorite game is "Who wants to be a Millionaire." She plays it constantly. You told your sister that it was mommy's other favorite show during the last couple of years. Your sister and you then talked about how fave niece's just like mommy in many ways.

Oh you don't want to think about your mother, and how when "Who wants to be a Millionaire" was on three times a week you'd be so happy because mommy would have one program to watch. She explained how she couldn't follow dramas or even most sit coms once she had lost her sight almost completely. Sometimes she could see shadows, and that would make her happy.

You know that your mother had a great life and most times that knowledge is enough. But on days like today you remember the end; how old she suddenly became. How guilty you felt for trying to have your own life when all she wanted was for you to visit her all the time. That's all.

You're not a super-daughter or super-woman who can do everything effortlessly. And since you had to take public transportation to North Shore Towers the journey could take two hours one way. She hated it when you arrived at noon and insisted on taking the four PM bus to Manhattan because the next one was at seven. You knew that she was being unreasonable and selfish and so did she most of the time.

She hadn't raised you to be her constant companion and yet that's all she wanted the last several years. The irony being that for some of this time you were a social worker at the nursing home you had worked at before.

The Social Service Director, so prim and saint-like would sniff her virginal nose at families that didn't visit often, and show her disdain for you when you would argue their side. She had never personally liked you. You were too sexual; too young looking for your age.

She had to keep you for you were the person who had thought up the home's most lucrative grant, and she took most of the credit. You weren't even mentioned by name. You hadn't thought it a brilliant idea, just practical--to have a cordless phone by the nurses station bed-bound residents without phones of their own could use. Really, you couldn't imagine life without a phone. It was easy to implement and control. The director at first thought it was a stupid JAPPY idea from the Princess of all JAP's. (Anybody who knew you at all knew that the last thing you were was a JAP, though you easily passed for one.)

You brought in one of your cordless phones and demonstrated how it could work. The aides might be a inconvenienced, but truly it would be one of the less stressful or gross part of their jobs. Your idea became a national model that won awards not that you shared in the glory. You know, you just realized how sick that was.

Though other social workers were currently married with children, and had much money; you epitomized everything she couldn't understand.

You never quite grasped what she didn't like about you or why she didn't like you. You were used to your bosses thinking that they had found the goose that laid the golden egg when you worked for them. You probably stayed around too long to try to make her respect you for you knew that you were a dedicated and good employee.

After your mother died, fifteen minutes after falling in her bathroom, and cried into her Companion Button that she was scared and didn't want to die, you walked around in a haze of darkness. You alone knew that your mother sometimes became disoriented in her own apartment. Not the traditional type of disorientation. She certainly knew that she was in her apartment, but very occasionally she wouldn't be able to find her way.

She had an aide that came four hours a day five days a week and refused to get more help. She told you that if and when she died, she wanted it to be in her apartment so you listened to her. Maybe you shouldn't have. Would you have allowed this to happen to a client who was living at home just like your mother?

Legally, you're 100 percent correct. You can't force an adult who has capabilty to live how you want them to. You did have a client who lived in a fifth floor walk-up and went home to it though you tried to get her to exchange their apartment for an avaliable ground floor apartment on the same floor. She refused, and you wrote on the case summary "unsafe discharge." You had convinced her to stay in the home until her apartment was cleaned, exterminated and deemed safe for human habitation.

You had many other clients with similiar situations. As long as you wrote that you counseled them against it and wrote "unsafe discharge," you were working within the law. You didn't even have to look for alternative answers or do anything taxing, really. Most times Medicaid home care agencies would be involved but they would basically just rubber stamp you. Though they could approve or disaprove it before you worked on it, and had the final say.

Yet you had one blind client (resident really) who had been living in the apartment building for the well-elderly associated with the home. The
home-care agency approved her leaving the nursing home. You told the resident she could go home.

You had a complicated relationship with this woman because her daughter had been the developmentally-disabled clerk (really a victim of fetal-alcohol syndrome) at your last job. You counselled the daughter often. She would listen to you as you had been one of the few employees to treat her with any respect. Everyone agreed that it was best if the mother knew nothing about your relationship with her daughter. It didn't feel right.

The mother would tell stories about her "happily single" daughter, her growing up years, her present life, and other untruths and it would break your heart but what could you do? Confront an old lady who was trying to come to terms with her life? Never.

Just before she was slated to move back to the apartment the home care agency rescinded their asccent. They couldn't let a home care aide (she would have 24 hour care as she was on Medicaid and deemed needy enough) give her, her meds, and as she was blind she couldn't take them herself.

Your mother had invented the rubber band guide to med containers as she would put rubberbands of various thicknesses on each bottle. But your mother had always thought on her feet, had always trained her memory and mind. Your mother had always been a beautiful fun woman who attracted people like bees to honey.

After she became blind and lost her confidence she became scared and grateful for any contact. You couldn't stand that. She did have good friends who hadn't deserted her but when you would see them you thought that she bored them with her tales of traveling around the world with your father. It turned out that she hadn't, but you were so scared and on guard for any signs of human frailitites.

After she had become blind she became a human phone directory. You had always called her when you couldn't find a word in the dictionary due to your inability to hear words correctly. Nothing to do with your hearing, it's perfect; a lot to do with how your mind processes information. Until she became blind she could spell anything.

Now she lost that ability because she needed her brain for more pressing matters. She drove both you and your sister crazy because she'd make you check her clothes for stains and when she owned the house she had made both your and your sister's rooms into extensions of her closet.

When she agreed to the aide she agreed to let her look at the clothes. This had made you much less resentful.

But the resident couldn't learn the rubberband guide to meds. After you told her, she blamed you and you couldn't blame her. You had been the bearer of first good news then bad news; shoot the messenger, please. Your relationship became adversarial, but you continued to counsel her daughter in maintaining her own life.

Yeah, really, you couldn't count the times she had been sent home from the Social Security office for not bathing or having worn filthy clothes. She dirtied the bathroom we shared with claimaints as much or more than any of them and was one of the reasons you practiced the Kegel at work.

Later at the home, the nurses would try to teach it to the residents but most couldn't remember how to do it, five minutes after learning it. Practice never helps, they were so different than your mother who was older than many of them.

When your mother falls and then dies, four days after her 86th birthday, you bring all this baggage and guilt plus more. And your mommy who had always been considerate until the final chapter, died on the first day of the week New York ran out of empathy, October 13, 2001.

At first you were nice; totally messed up but nice. Then six days after the death one of your best friends told you to get over, it was old. And soon you found most of the city in agreement. Your mother was old; mourn the young.

The friends you kept understand much more now. We were a city in collective grief, and our grief wasn't acknowledged as more rampagant than the rest of the country's. The Towers were more important to you than the Empire State building though your dad had clients there and even an office when he became Mr.-Hot-Shot-Accountant.

The Towers were important to you because you had hung out at its bars and restaurants in your long prolonged youth; it was the only mall you could stand. Your sister lived in Battery Park City and you would take the wonder child, Little Luce to see wonder baby, fave niece. You hung out outside the Financial Center, and you walked down paths that had room for both bikers and walkers. You went to free concerts--Janis Ian was the last before. It was a wonderful complex and all but the hole that's called Ground Zero has risen again.

Your grief has ebbed and flowed with the tides of the Hudson. When the weather is good, you feel good, but the weather has been shades of rain for much of the past three years--and winter has become almost arctic.

On days like today when the wind bears freezing into your apartment, your brain turns arthritic and you mourn for your mommy and wonder why you have to have such a marvelously, complicated family.

Then you feel glad for having been adopted into them. Your parents drove you crazier than a loon who left the lake, but crazy is relative, and some kinds of crazy can be good.

Yesterday

2004-12-09T15:30:00.000-08:00

I forgot that yesterday was the 24th anniversary of John Lennon's death. For other reasons I remember that night like it just happened.

My boyfriend The Bum didn't come home that night or call every seven minutes. No bartender called me to ask me to pick him up as I laughed to the phone.

The Bum was homophobic. I had known very few homophobic men, and chose to overlook it at first because it was so odd, I couldn't believe it. He was a singer/songwriter who had written some really good alt folk songs, though it wasn't called that in the '70's and '80's. People who wrote about oppression tended to be more tolerant.

Our problems had become big and unsolvable. I had gotten rid of all the knives because I was afraid that I would use one and they didn't have "battered woman syndrome," then. Anyway, it hadn't become physical. I was to to kick him out for good later when he broke some of my things.

But the night John Lennon died I was scared. Five gay men were killed in a bar, The Ramrod, in The Meat Market. It was way different then without the trendy stores and restaurants. The Meat Market consisted of markets and gay bars and discos that went from bad to nobody wants to know about them.

I could picture The Bum walking in and randomly shooting. For some reason I was sure that he was the killer. I was actually glad to get one of his eight hourly calls the next morning when I was at work. I was the group supervisor, but I couldn't answer the groups phone as he called so often.

I had gotten him a job. He deemed to come to work about twice a week and was allowed to get away with every rule as I was one of five out of 80 supervisors who knew the job inside/out. I was young, ditzy but smart. and working at Summit Inc. was like being in college all over again. I think of all the really nice but boring men I wouldn't date and sometimes regret it. They probably make great husbands.

I met The Bum at the club-where-everyone-did-know-my-name. It was a good club with great live music and I hold nobody there personally responsible, even if one of the owners played a part in The Bum and I meeting.

We fell in lust in a major way and couldn't stay away from each other. By the time John Lennon and the men in The Meat Market were killed, I hated him and he was obsessed with me. Still I was happy that he wasn't a murderer.

I'm sure that I talked about it at work. I've never been one for long silences. My former assistant Bianca came from a distinguished Black family. Her father was a well known minister. I had made her my assistant over the objections of some people who argued that she was a single mother who was going for a Masters at Columbia.

That's why I wanted her: she was smart, and needed the money. She could be counted on to consistently do a good job. Bianca and I were a good team and friendly at work. We went out very ocassionally as she had her daughter and school. She quit when she began her social work internship; fortunately she was given many grants.

Several months later my friend Shelby was at a church function with Bianca, and her cousin. Shelby teased Bianca about having the same last name as the Ramrod killer who had been caught shortly after the murder. Bianca ran out of the bathroom onto the street and her cousin said that Bianca's brother, a cop, was the murderer.

I had never put it together. I never even realized that they had the same last name, when usually I would have noticed that immediatly. It was beyond my understanding that somebody I knew fairly well had a brother who was a murderer. I could picture The Bum as one, but nobody else.

Kids say the darndest....

2004-12-09T07:08:00.000-08:00

My sister, fave-bro-in-law and niece were over last weekend. My sister was flipping through Vanity Fair and came upon the question page.

First question my sister asked: "Did you know that Art Linklatter's still alive?" Of course not; fave-bro-in-law and I thought fave sister was kidding. Though why we had no idea. It turned out that he is still alive, and my fave-famly didn't, at first, remember that Linklatter had a daugher, Diane, who jumped out a window while high on Acid.

Do I have to remember everything for everybody? What's going to happen when I don't remember everything that ever happened to everybody I know or who has been in the news. Is my family going to put me in a home pronto? Am I going to spend the next part of my life worrying about my memory so much that I actually do lose it?

And the things that I remember won't let me win on Jeopardy; however I'm great at Trivial Pursuit type games. I had a boyfriend who, along with his friends was more intellectual than good for them. They talked in ten dollar words and I had to translate to the general public and people my boyfriend and I worked with. His friends thought that I was cute but dumb until we played said game.
"Who was the first woman to win the Indy 500?"
"Janet Guthrie."
I suddenly changed from dumb redhead to brilliant mauvehead. Now that's stupid. I've read almost every issue of People since its beginnings and in 20 minutes would learn more about pop culture than I cared to know but did have a need to learn about.

Unfortunately the world has changed so much and there's so much info out there that one or five pop publications doesn't keep a person in the know. Back to last weekend:

For some reason fave-bro-in-law kept on confusing Art Linklatter with another--kind--of--reality--show icon of our childhood.

True story: Around 1970 a plane on route to Miami was highjacked to Cuba. When the high jackers told the passengers they began laughing and laughed all the way to Cuba. Do you know why? Fave-bro-in-law didn't and he should have.

Alan Funt was aboard, and the passengers thought that they were on Candid Camera. If you're going to be highjacked I think that's a good way to pass the time. My family loves it when I tell stupid stories like this one.

Fave-bro-in-law, fave-niece and I then played "Who wants to be a millionaire" on computer. I knew every answer so I guess I still know more than I think or that game is for idiots. I think more the later. Fave niece is just ten and she knew more than half the answers. Of course, she practices by herself and many of the questions are repeats but still....

Note for those of you who don't know who Art Linklater is and why you should know or want to know is beyond me: He had a show cleverly called "the Art Linklater Show" that I would watch on sick days. It was before Queen for a Day" which was before "American Bandstand." Oh Dick Clark, please recover before New Years Eve; America needs you.

In a segment of "The Art Linklater show," he'd go into the audience (seperate child section) and talk to kids. They said "The darnedest things." The show was spun off and he co-hosted it with a little known comic named Bill Cosby. I think, but can't be sure, that they were the first Black/White co-hosts on TV.

Art Linklater's 92 now, and I apologize for making so much fun of him when I was young. We all thought that the underground movie "The Diane Linklater Story" was the funniest thing. Of course we'd go to anti-drug lectures at college high on mescaline and do other stupid things.

This is my mass apology to anybody I might have offended during those days. No it isn't. I'll write more about the days when I believed my friends and I ruled the world later. We were basically nice kids turned mean for awhile.

Art Linklater didn't deserve the grief we gave him. And I apologize for all the phony phone calls my friends and I made to Perry Como. We had his home number and would sing his theme song into the phone. Anybody who knows me will pay me not to sing.

Why I don't write about my day

2004-12-08T16:35:00.000-08:00

I worked on my blog, novel and other things from 6:30 this morning until 11:30 when I took a long shower. I put on my clothes (jeans and a long sleeve pink beaded tee,) was on both my cell and cordless, confirming important appointments when the intercom buzzed. The super was on his way to tell me when the building painter was going to come and paint the outside of my door.

He said the painter was at lunch and would come in about half hour. I told him that I was leaving in a few minutes and asked if he would open the door so that the painter could do the door frame.

The super never asks; I had to tell him that it's illegal to come into an apartment in New York without notice on a non-emergency basis more than once. I said this because I was trying to establish a decent relationship with him as he control's the coop board.

I made sure that my pink filofax (my one low tech item) and wallet were in my Eddie Bauer daypack. Then I put on my very pricey long leather jacket. The leather's sublime.

As I opened the front door I ran into the painter who was on his knees painting the door. On the elevator I talked to three neighbors about how fast time passes. I saw the doorman, another worker, and some more neighbors in the lobby, then I walked down to West End Aenue to get a cab as I was late for my doctor's appointment.

After going into the waiting room, I took my coat off and gasped. The entire back was covered in yellow oil pant as were parts of the sleeves. I never did have the appointment. Nurse Jenna and I spent ten minutes trying to think of a solution. I love this jacket, and the board would tell me to contact my insurance company though it happened on my front door which the building's responsible for.

The super hadn't wanted to have the door painted anyway as I wasn't one of the new residents who paid anywhere from 875K for the one bedroom with dining room and view of the Hudson two doors from me, and still needs much renovation, to 3 mil forone of the penthouses where George and Ira Gershwin spent their most productive years. (It says so on the plaque ou the outer wall next to the entrance.)

I wasn't thinking about that when I cursed my building and everybody in it as I realized that a camphone isn't a luxury or a toy but just as much a neccessity as a cell. I photographed the coat from all angles. Nurse Jenna found a camera and photographed me next to the coat so that there would be a witness.

She called her drycleaner who had no idea what to do as they send oil paint spills on leather out. But brilliantly, she thought about a shoe repair place a block away. I went there. The man tested it and said that he could do it. I'll know tomorrow.

I had to pick up a prescription and do some other errands (I cancelled my appointments. This was much more than a bad hair day.) A woman stopped me and asked why I was coatless in December. I explained. We laughed at the absurdity of it as I went into Talbots the nearest store that sold coats. Feline's Basement, three blocks away and across Broadway was way too far. I'm cold bloodied; I wear sweaters in August. I had to have a jacket that second. I stupidly didn't think of going into Big Luce's apartment and borrowing a jacket. Her apartment's just off Broadway, a block before Talbots and I have keys. STUPID.

I bought a cute but unlined jacket at Talbots that was still over a hundred dollars. My leather jacket was much more than that and was in perfect condition.

At the pharmacy I ran into a more-than-semi-famous-actress I had taken some classes with. She's been in many things since our last class two years ago but of course I could only remember the three minutes she was on The Soprano's.

We talked like people do who like each other but know that they'll never stay in touch; a bit awkwardly but prolong the seperation. I didn't even mention my jacket.

As I walked home I wondered whythe people in the elevator hadn't mentioned it? The doorman? Why had the cab driver picked me up and not kicked me out when he saw the paint. Was it magical paint that just appeared at the doctors?

I asked the doorman; he said that he hadn't noticed. I went up to my apartment and vowed never to leave it again.

This was an average day in my life. I'm a magnet: somebody spilled his coffee on my pink casmhere sweater; I was walking down the street a woman swung her arm out and burned my red casmere sweater with her cigarette; things like that happen to me often. I vow never to leave my apartment again at least five times a week, but somehow always do.

What would Shatner do? And why is this country such a mess?

2004-12-08T13:18:00.000-08:00

Ugh! I was closing a page when a banner flew by with the term "what would Shatner do?" I couldn't get the page or the banner back, but now I'm intrigued.

I'll mention it to The Countess of Atlanta and Myrtle Beach who was the first to notice how well dressed Shatner is on Boston Legal, and thus began my casually mentioning him to my other girlfriends. The Countess is Big Luce's older sister--though never say that to her--she thinks she's younger and none of us have the heart to tell her....

While I was out doing errands I couldn't stop think about why I like James Spader so much. It boils down to one thing. He's quirky and not afraid to show it. I also just find him sexy, real sexy. Those eyes....

I almost wrote People Magazine when they didn't name him one of the fifty sexiest men. But I've always wondered about people who actually take the time to write to People or to TV guide--don't they have a life?

I guess James Spader is too quirky for mainstream America. That's fine with me.

I love quirky people. The rest of the world is boring.

I love David E Kelley for all the great programs he's done, but especially because last year he used The Practice to talk about the evil that's been happening in this country lately.

I think that every thinking person connected to the arts in anyway has a duty to protest in some way. That's why my URL is currently called freenynyfrombushtoday@blogspot.com

I'm changing the URL so I can sneak in readers who might not come if they're offended by the name though why I would want readers who hate me is beyond me. I've been getting some hate e-mails which just spurs me on. But then they vote at BlogExplosion without ever really reading my blog and that's not fair.

I don't want to spend the next four years angry or sad. Life's short and I believe it's supposed to be fun.

Moving to Canada never entered my radar. This is my country and as a USAmerican, I want to help make it better.

New York, my city is in horrible shape though it looks great from the outside. Sort of like a body rotting inside a made-over outside.

We get the blame for everything and we also get to pay for everything. The cost of living in Manhattan is becoming out of reach of most people, and I'm not talking about rent or coop prices for people who have lived here for awhile. I'm talking food, and other basic life neccessities. Sad, very sad.

Courting Destiny

2004-12-08T08:22:00.000-08:00

When I first began blogging last summer it was strictly for fun; a way to get out all my political and residue 9/11 fears and rants.

It wasn't something that I did evey day, and half my posts remain in draft form, unposted.

Something happened several weeks ago. I thought about the title that I had rather flippantly named the blog. It truly describes what I'm trying to do.

I read old posts and newer ones and saw how much my writing and I have changed in less than six months. I liked it, and decided to test it on Blog Explosion until the new year. The results, so far, have encouraged me to put my soul into it.

I've never believed that life comes with a safety net or if it does, that it should be used. I like challenges; I like hanging on the edge of the cliff changing positions to suit my mood and to stay alive but keeping things in the almost-danger zone.

The thing is I don't know where my blog belongs. When it's redesigned, I'm going to have categories so that people can read what they want and skip the rest.

I don't want to have many blogs to express the many facets of my mind and my life.

One blog, for one person with many interests and moods. That could be a motto, I guess.

As I'm courting my destiny, and chasing my dreams, I feel calmer and more secure than I ever have. It's a great feeling.

But I've never been a niche person, and don't think I fit into any known category.

I'm not even really sure how this blogging thing works. I think I understand linking, and will do it when I have my new polished blog.

I don't really understand credits or what sites to put my blog on or anything like that.

As I surf blogs and read them I become more and more amazed by the talent that's out there. Blogging's a true democracy/meritocracy; it's going to change publishing. I know that.

But where does my blog (and I) belong? Any suggestions will be more than appreciated.

When you're brought up on The New Yorker....

2004-12-08T07:27:00.000-08:00

Today would have been James Thurber's 110th birthday.

I taught myself to read from looking at the words in The New Yorker's cartoons. It, and the cartoonists and writers have always been part of my family.

During President Clinton's impeachment I began doing volunteer work for a first amendment group. They had me calling celebrities because I don't get all starry voiced. I'm rather blase:
"Oh X how nice that you had dinner with Brad and Jennifer last night. But tell me about the food."

When I reached Calvin Trillin's name I couldn't make the call. I was afraid that if his wife, Alice, (who died later, the same week as my mom), I would say something stupid:
"Alice, let's eat."

I was afraid to speak to Calvin Trillin because some of his New Yorker pieces are some of my favorite writings. I was so star struck, I was afraid that if Alice didn't answer, I would lose my ability to speak and hang up the phone. While this has never happened in my adult life, there's always a first time.

I gave the phone number to a starry voiced, starry eyed volunteer, who couldn't understand why I didn't want to make this call, after all, his last name wasn't Klein.

James Spader (just once) redeux

2004-12-08T05:07:00.000-08:00

A comment somebody made on my prior James Spader post:
"No woman in her right mind could find that fat, bloated, pig sexy. I am truly sorry."

Nobody has ever said that I'm in my right mind. Sorry couldn't resist.

I have spent my life going for the tall dark, Byronic looking skinny men. Actually it's a family tradition.

When I saw Sex Lies & Video Tapes, I was shocked that I found James Spader to be one of the two or three sexiest men I had ever seen. When I reviewed films I put Secretary on the very top of my ten best list because it was, and until my old DVR player died it was much played.

I love James Spader's ability to get into a character and become it. I love the editing he does, and how stingy he is with his lines. He lets his face and body do most of his acting and I'm in awe of that.

He has the sexiest eyes in the history of eyes, and can say more with looks from those eyes that most men can with a thousand words.

When he started on The Practice (thinner, I agree, than he is now) I and all my friends were totally thrilled with the Alan Shore persona--part snark, part Robin Hood, pure sex appeal, riveting, intelligant, and most important somebody we knew would be there for us if he were our friend, lover, lawyer--even enemy.

His was a new character for TV; he never plays Alan Shore safely, and I love that.

We're all getting older, and with middle-age comes some wonderful perks, like the ability to really laugh at ourselves (as he does), and maybe some wisdom. But our bodies, none of them, are what they were at 20.

As you (the commenter) feel sorry for me, I feel sorrier for you, for you'll never know the thrill of watching people age and liking them even more for now it's not just about bodies, and cuteness and ratings, but content.

James Spader's content just keeps on getting better.

Did I mention those eyes?

More Tom Waits

2004-12-07T13:45:00.000-08:00

WFUV, the radio station that inspired me to go to one of the grad schools associated with it (I know I'm totally shallow) is having Tom Waits day.

When they did covers I thought it would include the old chestnuts such as Rod's "Downtown Train" or Bruce's "Jersey Girl," (if that word could ever be used for Tom Waits), but they included Tim Buckley's cover of Martha, a song I loved but had forgotten about.

Then I heard that he was nominated for a grammy for a song on "Blood & Money," or maybe the whole albumn--I tune out when the dj's talk. But it makes me so happy when a radio station has Tom Waits day. I know, I know they have a day for everybody.

But Tom Waits deserves at least a week, so I think that I'll spend the rest of the week just listening to him.

James Spader, James Spader, William Shatner, uh Denny Crane, Denny Crane

2004-12-07T08:38:00.000-08:00

All my girlfriends are madly in love with William Shatner. They watch Boston Legal faithfully to see his latest suits, his Denny Crane thing, his seemingly incompetence turn into magnificant questions and closings.

When I lived in Cambridge with six of my best friends in 1974, and two people who hated me--no we weren't a comune--every afternoon at four, the guys would gather round the TV and watch Star Trek re-runs, can't say I was particularly impressed with William Shatner then. He was an old man, to my youthful eyes.

I wasn't a brat pack devotee so I wasn't really aware of James Spader until
Sex Lies & Video Tape. He was blonde so how could I like him? I did, I did. Over the years I liked him more and more. He was the first actor I've had a crush on since I was a kid--well the lifetime achievement award for my heart went to Alan Bates, but James Spader, James Spader was catching up and surpassing Alan Bates--especially after he died.

(Tom Waits and all musicians I don't personally know but love earned another place in my heart, but not in the lust after section.)

I began watching Boston Legal (something's wrong with my Italics on Blogger) just for James Spader, James Spader--have to say his name twice, it's a little habit I developed over the years--as if he'll magically appear if I say it enough.

I resented William Shatner when he first showed up on Boston Legal. Did love the "Denny Crane, Denny Crane," thing. My girlfriends' hearts all went a flutter. I could understand liking him, and as a geriatric social worker saw where they were going with the character pretty quickly, but liking him as a sex symbol?

I'm beginning to understand the allure of William Shatner to women aged 35 to 58--don't have good girlfriends younger or older, and they're all in agreement over this. I find that interesting and noteworthy because they don't all know each other or agree on many things--except hating Bush.

Yes, William Shatner's is this years thinking woman's sex symbol.

But me; my heart still belongs to James Spader, James Spader. Ah unrequited lust for somebody I don't know, will probably never know; I forgot how much fun this type of crush could be as it hasn't happened since I was eleven.

Let my girlfriends dream of William Shatner; I'll always have James Spader, James Spader.

Happy Birthday Tom Waits

2004-12-07T07:41:00.000-08:00

Today's Tom Waits 55th birthday. Think it should be a national holiday.

Like every true believer I remember the day, the place and whom I was with when I first heard him.

It was June, 1979 and I was in Park Slope with the-bum-who-came-for-dinner-and-stayed-forever visiting one of his few (in New York) friends.

Park Slope, especially around Fifth Avenue, where the bum's friend lived, wasn't yet yuppie heaven but it was nicer than people said.

My office, or the people and records in it, to be precise, had moved from Broadway in lower Manhattan where we overlooked Saint Pauls Church to Flatbush Avenue Extension near Juniors, so I had low standards.

When the bum's friend played "The Heart of Saturday Night," I felt like I had entered a new world that reflected me, or wanted me as I was, or was pure poetry in motion or something. I didn't really think about it but immediatly ran out and bought all his tapes--later changed to CD's.

I corrupt a lot of his lines because they're so waiting to be corrupted or used. I'm kind of incoherent on the subject of Tom Waits.

"Waltzing Matilda" was always one of my friends, Helaina's, favorite drinking songs. When I played the Tom Waits version she became very mad and almost walked out of my apartment.

People have been known to apologize to me for not liking Tom Waits. Something about his voice....I don't get it, but nobody needs to apolgize for not liking my taste in music.

I finally saw him in concert, at the Beacon, four or five years ago. It was a three hour show more worthy than any one-man Broadway show. He was brilliant and it was the concert I'll remember in heaven or hell or whatever.

When I write, my computer's been drinking, not me--as I'm apt to do, it's my homage to genius. It's not the only line I've corrupted, but the one that expresses my feelings the best.

I could talk about Tom Waits, the man and his music forever, but I'd rather just listen.

Happy birthday Tom Waits, and thank you for helping me find my own voice.

New Year; New Look; New URL

2004-12-06T13:53:00.000-08:00

By the new year my blog will have all of the above--with of course a redirect page.

I like my current URL; I was going to keep it as a protest for the next four years. But while I want to continue writing political rants, I don't want people to see the URL "FreeNYNYfromBush..." and be turned off to reading it.

Can't help that. I want all people to at least try reading my blog once. Then a person can hate me if he/she wants to. I don't personalize comments.

Everybody likes to be liked. And I love the encouraging comments. But the negative ones serve a purpose also. They inspire me to write more, to learn more, to research any question I can't answer.

That's my sickeningly earnest rant for the year.

Note: I know that Bakersfield and Barstow aren't going to win any beauty awards, but for a Northerner who dreams of the west they have a fantasy under tone. I did say Noir not art deco or riot of colors though some of the best noir places have both (South Beach, Miami Beach where I spent my second winter, and then watched go from old people's heaven to body beautiful.)

I just spend too much time plotting my move to California-- a beach town near LA that I love, not Venice but next to it--Santa Monica where I can go from the beach to Topanga Canyon to the Santa Monica Mountains all in the space of an afternoon.

A Manhattanite who has to travel to get to the ocean, mountains and wouldn't know a canyon if it hit me in the head, can dream impossible dreams.

Mom's revenge

2004-12-06T10:46:00.000-08:00

My mom had always been a very happy person. Anxious, but happy. After she lost her sight she became much more anxious and much less happy.

One of her few pleasures was tormenting me over the TV schedule. Like I was personally responsible for each network's lineup. Though I knew the programs she liked and the programs she disliked, she would ask me to read her the entire network schedule from The New York Times.

Had to be The Times because my mother ranked reading tabloids equal to reading The National Enquirer or The Weekly World News that wonderful precursor to The Onion. People just don't seem to get that The Weekly Word News was a total joke and it drives me crazy.

Many things drive me crazy. When I have this site redesigned I'm going to have a list so that people can see my quirks at a glance and run quickly if she desires.

Like all good mothers, mine knew exactly what buttons to push to make me even crazier than normal. I've been told by too many people that there's nothing funnier than witnessing one of my anxiety attacks unlike one of my PMS attacks which could occur at any time of the month.

My PMS attacks are never funny. Years before the color codes for possible terrorist attacks my friends color coded my PMS stages:
Blood Orange/Red: Don't even attempt to call her for a week
Red: Think about contacting her in a few days
Fuschia: Contact her tomorrow
Dark pink: Contact her at your own risk
Pink: Take your chances
Salmon: All clear; she's probably good for a few days.

I think my mom had something to developing this code as she was my mom and had to speak to me five times a day. (It's in the Jewish or Italian mom handbook--look it up.)

At six PM no matter where I was or what I was doing I would have to stop whatever I was doing and call with Times in hand. Say I tried reading a description from David E. Kelley's Picket Fences. I wouldn't get past the title when she would go
"yick, ugh, how can you read this to me?"
"Because you'd love it, let me read it to you."
"No, it sounds horrible."

One night she watched Picket Fences on her own.
"How could you not tell me about this program. It's great; incredible."
"I tried. You'd never let me get past the title."
"I thought it was a show about a small town that had houses with picket fences. "
"Yeah, ma, it is, but behind those picket fences....."
"Don't call me ma."

I only called her that when she was being ma'ish. Plus Rhoda Morgenstern called Nancy Walker "ma," and I loved that. Anyway, after we got through the pregame show we would have a great talk about Picket Fences, and how I learned more about social issues from it than I did from my top ranked grad school of Social Work. (Happened to be attending it then; watched much TV.)

She found Everybody Loves Raymond on her own, and that's all I heard about for a long time.
"Why aren't you watching it? It's the greatest show on TV."
"Not home on Monday nights."
"Why don't you tape it on that machine?"
Because that machine would only tape shows from one station and I had a jones for General Hospital. Couldn't really stand it and would fast forward through it, but I was totally obssessed with it. But I really couldn't admit this to a woman who had never watched a soap in her life, and she knew that I watched HBO on Sundays like every normal person. During the week I could only watch ABC shows and the pickings were pretty limited.

Then 9/11 happened and I lost all network TV shows. Then my mom suddenly died, and all I wanted out of life was to watch Everybody Loves Raymond.

For many months I only had cable TV stations and sparodic Internet and e-mail service as my cable company modem was out more than it was on. I had to pick my fights with the cable company and chose to solve my modem problems as I really needed e-mail to send the articles that didn't support me in style to my editor.

I finally got network TV. (The cable modem problem was to become the war with the cable company.) I watched Everybody Loves Raymond and immediatly understood why my mom had been so insistent. Ray Romano was exactly like every man we had ever known. He was my dad, my bro-in-law, my former significant others (except for one.) He was so sick, so sarcastic, so funny and cute.

My mom didn't relate to Marie, Ray's mother. She could manipulate a thousand times more subtely, she could get anybody to do anything. And she was funny like Debra. The early Raymond's relied heavily on physical comedy. I spent a year, no really two and a half, feeling guilty that I hadn't taped Raymond so that i could explain all the silent scenes to her.

I don't feel guilty anymore. But I never miss an episode.

Ray

2004-12-05T18:40:00.000-08:00

Big Luce and I both have been negligent in our movie viewing lately. The Upper West Side has the largest movie going public in the country with the Loews at 68th Street having the highest seat per screen profit. (I'm a font of useless knowledge that I delight on passing on.) Sometimes I go to Barnes & Noble, get some books and arrive at the theater early, and sit and read before the commercials that lead to the trailers that finally lead to the film. Uh, bliss. I can even walk out if I don't like the film.

When I reviewed films I didn't have that option and had to stay alert during some of the worst films ever made.

But tonight Big Luce and I saw Ray. It's been playing at the Loews 84th street, right across from her house for almost two months. There was always a reason not to see it.

Jamie Fox was sensational. Ray Charles had to have been the most amazing man. I had known his story--how he was the first person--Black or White to own his own masters; how he was a brilliant working junkie and how many children he had by various women. The last was the only thing to be slightly glossed over.

I didn't expect to feel the tidal wave of emotions that I swept over me. I cried me buckets. I'm going to download every Ray Charles song I don't already have for the Ipod I'll own in a month.

Crying gives me a migraine but I'm a totally sentimental person. I cry at the DeBeer Diamond commercial that was filmed in Trafaleger Square as I used to cry at the phone company commercials and the Hallmark ones. And I wouldn't have bought a Hallmark card then as they were so trite.

Do I write sentimentally? No, of course not. I could take the murder of 20 people and turn it into a police blotter report with a sardonic edge. If I didn't enjoy being-too-clever-for-my-own-good as a writing teacher once said, I never would have taken up reviewing.

Being clever at other peoples expense grew old quickly. Didn't matter if we didn't know each other, I felt for all the independent film makers who had a dream but no vision.

Ray Charles, obviously, couldn't see but ended with many visions. It was I think the best movie of the year. Even better than The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

An old former friend of Big Luce's and mine, from our girl-about-town-days, played himself and that was an amazing surprise. We knew that we had been destined to see Ray together.

I'm seeing it again and can't wait until it comes out on DVD when I'll buy it. It felt good to see something so soulful.

California Noir Dreaming

2004-12-05T14:13:00.000-08:00

Let other people dream of Morocco and Maui. I dream of Barstow and Bakersfield. As much as I’ve tried I’ve never been to fully realize my noir fantasy in Wildwood, Miami, Florida City or any place in the east including Manhattan, my home for most of the past 29 years come January.

In Sonoma in the ‘80’s when I was staying at Roger’s Yurt, with a group of French people I had first met at the Limelight, in New York one Christmas Eve, we went down the mountain to the biggest baddest club I’ve ever been to. People came from an 80 mile radius to listen to live good old rock & roll much like Bob Seger.

I was in dance hall heaven. I looked, then, like early Madonna or maybe she looked like me because I had been dressing in twirly skirts, fitted tops, tons of bracelets, lace socks under my red platform sandals, and lace in my long red curly hair, for longer than I had heard of her.

I began dancing by myself. Men looked at me and I smiled at one. He wanted to know what color my eyes really are. They have huge pupils that change color from Elizabeth Taylor lilac to deep blue to emerald green. We began dancing and finished dancing the next morning in his log cabin that had facilities unlike Roger’s Yurt where we had to go outside to pee and more. I would have liked him for that alone.

That night we went back to the club where a 25 piece brass rock orchestra played. I began to see infinite possibilities in staying in Sonoma. Real life beckoned the next week and I went back to New York and the corporate world.

There’s a saying that New York’s an island off Europe, and for years more I flew over the ocean to explore the lands of my forbearers.

But the dream lingered and I flew to Oregon before traveling south. I dreamed of encounters by the sea, dusty desert scenarios, a world without a past and with a future for somebody who needed a fresh start. I dreamed of books written eons ago, and forgotten movies where the girl was as bad as the boy. I dreamed of flaming red lipstick that left huge circles on cigarette butts, glasses, and men; I dreamed of long flaming red matching nails that tore into skin sometimes gently and sometimes with abandon.

I dreamed of a world before my time where women were dames and men were rugged. I dreamed of love lost and then found; of encounters in honkytonks, and cheap beer places.

Sometimes I even dreamed of being a waitress with a sharp tart mouth or a sales clerk in a store in a small town. I knew that my dreams were a romantic illusion but I dreamed them anyway, and set out to explore them.

I dreamed of real nylon stockings with garter belt, silk or rayon summer dresses. I dreamed of being a character in a Coen Brothers movie that hasn't yet been made; a sort of sequel or prequel to The Man Who wasn't There.

I dreamed of being everything I a native New Yorker couldn't be: impulsive, dangerous, exploring new roads and riding fast over sharp curves. I dreamed of men in sharp suits who tipped their hats as they said "morning, miss."

I dreamed of wide open spaces and roadsters kicking dust. I dreamed of the west as most people do--to forge new starts and to forget painful pasts.

In the Sierra Nevada’s I found a motor court with bungalows overlooking a lake. One night I stood on my porch, and spotted a handsome cowboy with a mysterious past and a deep dark secret. He could see that I had my own. Soon after the high full moon passed, he ripped my lingerie, while I did nothing to stop him, and everything to encourage him.

I had turned into a Veronica Lake somewhat look-alike with platinum wavy ‘40’s hair that curled over one eye, redder than red lipstick, and vintage silk lingerie, in perfect condition that wouldn’t stay that way.

As we watched the sunrise in shades of pink over the lake, I thought that I should begin exploring again. He wasn’t the one. I stopped in town after town sometimes staying for a day, a week, a month—I wasn’t in a hurry. When I met him or found the place I would know. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for.

By the time I arrived in LA I was tired of shedding personas and skins. I rented an apartment in an old building on the boardwalk in Venice. My hair was just below the chin but longer looking, straightesh chestnut. Somewhere on the road I had Lasix surgery on my eyes, but still they changed color; still the pupils were huge.

One day in town I saw a handsome stranger with thick brown blonde hair just a bit too long and a perfect James Dean smoldering face. I knew that he was trouble, but my heart fell into my knees and I began to tremble.
“Think,” I instructed my rational side, but my desire took over. We drank vodka out of Mexican glass goblets and smoked hashish from a water pipe as stood on my balcony and watched the sunset over the Pacific.

Later long after he first unhooked my bra, and we had made passionate love, and learned each others secrets, I would find out if he was the one.

New Design and bitch fest (a montage)

2004-12-03T14:27:00.000-08:00

Sometime next week my blog will be completely redesigned with user friendly features, and other wonderful things. I am so psyched.

In my last post I talked about how blogging has brought back the joy to writing. It no longer seems like a chore or worse.

The feedback I'm getting has been more helpful than all I received last year when I took two semesters of classes with noted-tell-all-writing-teacher. I could have handled a bitchfest. This was a kill-all-the-possible competition festival of death.

I don't care if people disagree with my political views; it's a free country and they're not attacking me personally. Last year it was personal. I had to keep on reminding myself that I was the only woman/girl in the class who was being published weekly.

Somehow the more I tried the more disorganized my work became. Sometimes it wasn't disorganized but people would say that it was and I would believe them. It was like the worst day's of junior high which is how I was able to write the story about me, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and my father in perfect-eleven-year-old-girl pitch.

I'm tone deaf though I live for music. I can't learn foreign languages but if I hang out with kids I can then write in their tones. I can take myself back to any age from nine to eighteen and remember all the frustrations and happiness.

I have perfect pitch in teenage voices. That and an ability to manipulate the English language to describe what I want to are my only linguist gifts--actually two of my only gifts. But they're more than enough, I think.

Blogging Blogs

2004-12-03T13:29:00.000-08:00

Since I've been blogging compulsively, I've lost most of my other Internet obssessions. I don't check weather.com set for five different geographical areas every two hours. I no longer obssessively think about my novel without putting pen to paper or really finger to keyboard. I just do it.

Blogging lets me get out all the thoughts that run around around my brain like mice on speed. Somehow it lets me organize them more thoroughly. I don't really understand that one. I would say it's because I'm writing more but I'm not really, just putting the words out there.

I love words. I would never use "obssessive" when I mean "compulsive," or "they're" for "their." But I do have problems spelling and my word editor doesn't work when I write directly into Blogger. So forgive me any sins.

Before I began using a word processor in the 1980's I couldn't spell to save my life. Now I can spell a thousand times better. All the flash cards, that my poor parents used to have to quiz me with, were useless compared to seeing words over and over again in type; and the miracle of spell checks. For some of us they are true miracles as we couldn't even use the dictionary. So don't put us down!

I used to write strictly for fun. In the 1980's I wrote stories about my three best girlfriends and me trying to navigate life in New York. My friends called them my "girl stories," and each new one was eagerly awaited. We were divorced, in our 30's, and at times living with men, at times totally single.

Lucia and I went out at least four times a week together. Men would buy us champagne and/or whole meals as Lucia and I continued our ever going conversation that had begun one night in the 1970's. Sometimes if the men were cute enough or funny enough or something enough we would actually talk to them, and things might or might not happen

My writing teachers would beg me to try to get them published and I would say:
"Hah? This is what I do for fun, not for a living."
I couldn't imagine being published in the magazines that they suggested I send my work to.

The New Yorker was a family bible that I had been taught to revere. (My sister's Sweet Sixteen, arranged by our mom, had a Black and White theme very closely based on Truman Capote's Black and White Ball.)

About three and a half years ago I decided that I wanted to be published. I would read the message board for my old high school on Classmates and realized that people were fascinated by the trivia that had made up our lives. When somebody wrote that he wanted to communicate with any hippie girls who had gone to a certain college from 1968-70, I laughed. That was my "It girl" school. I didn't want to communicate with him; I wanted to get paid for my writing about that era.

The funny thing was that my mom said that she thought I had to go for the whole enchilida. I couldn't believe that she gave me her blessing though I would have done it anyway.

About three years ago an old friend began a new newspaper and asked me to come along. Somebody wanted to pay me to write about me. I was in writers heaven. Of course he had been my first real love and was a little prejudiced.

The column was actually read, but I didn't live in the geographical area that the column was supposed to talk about and have you ever tried working for your first ex-husband?

We remembered everything that we hated about each other, along with everything we liked.

I gained an immense amount of experience in a short time. I went somewhere and realized that the story I had been told would make a great cover story. It did.

I went from never having been published to having a cover story in a bit over a year. However my mom had died suddenly and I went through a protracted mourning period and was in general a bitch. I apolgize to anybody I might have offended.

Somewhere along the line writing became a job rather an a joy. Compulsive blogging has brought back the joy.

Teenage girl without any confidence desired life

2004-12-03T05:51:00.000-08:00

I've said that I was a shy awkward teenager. I was also clumsy, not coordinated and had zilch ability to laugh at myself or my problems.

But in high school I began working against the war in Viet Nam and immediatly found a boyfriend. My freshman year in college I felt like a kid in a candy store with an unlimited supply of candies (boys). It felt weird and undeserved.

I didn't think that I was pretty but I was. My looks paved the way and opened doors that should have been closed as I had no personality I was willing to share with the world. I hated myself.

I could pick out and explain everything that was wrong with me in minute detail. I didn't understand why people wanted to know me or sought me out. I thought that they were confusing me with some other better girl. One who had worn Villager clothes and Capezio shoes in Junior High; one who had good legs rather than breasts and a waist. I hated having an hour glass figure in the time of Twiggy--long lanky no waist no breasts.

I thought that there was only one type of pretty and that looks were all that counted--well, wit and a good personality too, but since I didn't have any of that...

I didn't realize that people liked nice girls with good manners, and that I had a subtle or not so subtle wit and personality. When I had been nominated for a senior class "best" in high school, I thought that I was the joke candidate. I wasn't and lost by three votes but didn't really believe that.

My poor parents. They did everything and more to make me believe in myself and nothing worked.

I've always blessed the hippie era and its allowing strange people to take center stage for everything good that happened to me.

Cheerleaders hated me; and one tried to get me expelled from school freshman year as we were roommates and she was ashamed of that.

I couldn't wear my hair in a sleek style because I had no ability to keep my hair from frizzing. I hated my legs so I would never wear a mini skirt.

It turned out that the cheerleader was jealous of all the attention I got. Even her boyfriend liked me. Though I would have been the first to tell him that I wasn't worth it.

I never had a "euraka" moment where I realized how great I was. I still backslide at times. On women like me it comes out as being rude and stand-offish. It came out that way in high school when my mother would tell me that she knew for a fact certain boys had a crush on me.

She wouldn't give their names so I thought that she was just being a loyal mother. Turned out that she was right.

My other best friend besides Lucia, Rafael, a straight male hair stylist told me last name that I'm "hard,' as in the hardest women he's ever met to get to really know, to ask out, or to sleep with. He's married and I would die before I slept with him. But he said that he wasn't refering to himself.

I wish I had learned back in high school and college it's not all about looks and that ones personality and persona could be quirky and sort of early Goldie Hawn ditsy and people will love her anyway.

But when you're in junior high and the teachers tell the kids through example that it's okay to pick on you and make fun of you, it's easy to lose the path to happiness and self confidence.

I would listen to Murray the K, a New York disc jockey legend, and try to learn about music and everything else through his words. He seemed to know everything in the world. He gave me hope and made me happy several hours a night, and all night Saturday when I would make my little sister stay in her room, make tons of perced coffee and dance in the living room. Murray the K played golden oldies on Satuday nights then and I learned all about the music from the '50's and early '60's. I was convinced that the key to life was contained in at least one of those songs.

(Our parents would go out every Saturday until the wee Sunday morning hours, when I would run into bed and pretend that I had been asleep. I couldn't sleep anyway when they were out. Though they didn't really drink, and I knew that my father became more awake the later the hour, I was always afraid that somebody would hit their car and that they would die.)

I wish that I had understood how much I was loved. Not just by my parents but my first husband and others. I wish that I wasn't constantly second guessing myself. I come off assured now and in control, but I'm not. I'm really not!

Only recently have I started to become truly happy with me. I wish that it hadn't taken me 50 years to get to this place. I wish that I had known how good I was when I was younger. I wish I had the confidence I see in most 20 somethings. They feel entitled. I never did. Feeling entitled isn't such a bad thing.!

But I know many beautiful teenage girls who share the lack of confidence that I had. Little Luce is stunning. 5'9'' perfect figure, sharpest wit in the ninth grades, a brainac who procrastainates. Everybody remarks on her beauty; all eyes turn when she walks down a street.

She does what I did: Puts on a street face and look that makes her look ugly. She has to do this; it's called street smarts. I hope that one day this won't be her natural face as it became mine for too long.

Though once I reached college I was a jumble of varied emotions. But I spent most of my time smiling as life was happening to me and I loved it.
Couldn't understand that I deserved it; couldn't make things happen to me but allowed life to take over and just happen. I wasn't proactive.

In retrospect that's simplistic. I achieved much, and was responsible for much of the good and the bad. But I didn't realize it then.

I'm writing a novel about something that happened in my late 20's but I keep on coming back to this subject. I seem to be an eternal teenager; and I still believe that I can find the meaning to life through music lyrics. And I'm very happy to have reached a place in my life where I can look back without anger--just some residual sadness, and much joy.

Rally days

2004-12-03T05:08:00.000-08:00

Kid, you're pretty damn ignorant about the whole Iraq war. You think that some unwashed hippies at a stupid rally (note: libs have this time to kill because they don't have jobs) is the best reason to have not ousted Saddam Hussein and stop his reign of terror.....? --Posted by Anonymous to Courting Destiny at 12/2/2004 11:40:33 PM

I'm trying to understand this. "Unwashed hippies," I thought those days were over 30 years ago. Now almost all women and some men get manicures before going to a rally. We wear designer jeans and place our cells and in the pockets. We leave the credit cards at home, bring some cash and ID.

As the rallies are usually on weekends or after five we can go without missing work.

Oh I hadn't seen something like this reply in so long I kind of think that's a put on as in satire. Remember Ed Anger in The Weekly World News? On Monday morning break when I was a litigation support project manager somebody would read the column out loud. Spewing venom against hippies and such, Ed Anger was a great laugh.

Years before that I had a summer job checking newspaper ad's for accuracy. We checked all major papers on the East Coast except for The Times. The Manchester Union Leader, Manchester NH was my favorite as the headlines would read, sometimes in 16 or 18 inch bold: Hippies Go Home or Dirty Long Haired Hippie spotted near library and chased out of town. I always looked forward to getting that paper.

Yes I said that when I was a shy awkward kid working against Viet Nam was a great way for me to meet people. I didn't have to be a cheerleader or whatever. But I was in high school then college. I worked during the summers. I'm not giving myself the hard life of the century award. I had it easy.

But when Nixon was running for reelction I was in college, working full time and having a difficult marriage. I still put in 20 hours a week at least toward his ouster. I felt it to be my moral duty to work against him and his policies. I believe that my cohorts and I were proven right not to much later. Here's the rest of that response:

"First off, I have talked with several of our brave troops from Iraq, and they tell a totally different story than what CNN or CBS says. Try actually talking to a soldier before you try to understand what is going on over there. Secondly, you're going to have a LOT of bitching to do because this is just a part of the War on Terror. Ya still got Iran, Syria, Yemen, North Korea, Lebanon, and possibly Saudi Arabia and Pakistan to go, not to mention going further with dismantling their financial network, trying to win the information battle with such anti-American news outlets as Al-Jezzera, and protecting our homeland. Or was 9/11, as Kerry put it... just a "nuisance". --Posted by Anonymous to Courting Destiny at 12/2/2004
11:40:33 PM

I won't dignify the "just a 'nuisance'" remark. Nobody who lived through 9/11 thought that way. It was the single worst thing that happened to me in my life, except for breaking a nail or my hair needing a trim.

So we're going to go to war against five more countries or possibly seven? And who are we going to ally ourselves with? Or can we win this on our own with an all volunteer army?

Because every parent I know will make sure that their child leaves the country if a draft is reinstated for this.

"Homeland" always sounds like a German referring to the Third Reich to me. I've never understood why we use that term when it's so Nazi like.

History has proven that it's impossible to win a guerilla war; and since we'll have no allies--oh yes, there's always Poland--we'll be depleting our most precious of all resources (our people) for an unwinnable war. Does anybody really want to die or have their child die for this?

Up close and personal

2004-12-02T05:08:00.000-08:00

Did something I promised myself that I would never do. Took a person's remarks:
liberals are such idiots
and personalized it. So I wrote a stupid reply to something that wasn't worth replying to.

That remark in itself was not worth replying to. Before President Clinton's impeachment but especially after I've been seeing changes in this country that make me sick.

If a Republican commits a crime it's in the public interest even if it lines their pockets; if a Democrat doesn't commit a crime, but does something Republican's don't like it's a crime against humanity and our way of life.

I don't get this whole anti-liberal thing. When did compassion become something that only religious people are capable of? When Bush decided that since he's bankrupting our country, religious insititutions should take care of social programs, I would think.

When did it become wrong to question our government? Don't say on 9/11 because 88 percent of all Manhattanites who voted didn't thing so--we do vote in large numbers, and we are the people who had the most at stake, before the Iraq fiasco.

I support our troops in Iraq, but they don't belong there. It's turning into another Viet Nam. My growing up years could be measured by that war. Personally it gave me a focus; and for a shy awkward teenager it was a good cause and a good way to meet people. But that's a hell of a reason for supporting (or not) a war.

I don't want to become a bitter angry person; I've seen too many people die alone because they were. I don't want to turn my blog into a platform against Conseratives.

I don't spew my views with venom or malice. I hope others can do the same.

A story about the Red Ribbon

2004-12-01T09:30:00.000-08:00

When I began to work as an SSI Claims Rep in The Bad Old Bronx, I was afraid that I would be prejudiced against the first AIDS claimant. But he was a ninteen year old boy, some woman's son, who described his living conditions at The Palace Hotel.

In 1991, the city and state paid $2,000 for him to live in what was virtually a cage. This made me sick.

I had thought that I would be prejudiced because nine of my closest friends had died between 1985-1990. I'm afraid that I thought of them as the worthy AIDS sufferers. All they had done was have sex; and paid the ultimate sacrifice for doing a very natural act. Five more would die within the next two years.

Patrick was my first friend to die. He became sick sometime in the early 1980's and it took a long time for us to get a diagnosis. When I say "us," I mean "us," for he, Lucia and I researched hospitals and doctors, filled out some of the most absurdly personal but I suppose necessary forms:
"Did you ever have sex with a bird?"

I wasn't used to sick people then. But Patrick of the smoldering eyes, sexy body, mannerisms that would make me shudder with desire, biting wit and naive native brilliance was, along with Lucia, my best friend. Both Lucia and I had almost slept with him once, we found out when comparing notes, and had lived to feel good about our restraint.

Patrick was a shipping executive who wanted everybody at his company to think that he was straight. When I worked downtown I would meet him for lunch and then drinks on Fridays. Actually lunch was liquid--two Martinis for Patrick, diet coke for me. I'd match him Martini for Martini after work. It was easy to pretend to be Patrick's girlfriend. When he'd light my cigarette, I'd tremble with passion. Something kept me from sleeping with him and it wasn't lack of desire.

After Patrick was finally diagnosed it became increasingly difficult for me to see him. I was very aware that people called me Private Benjamin for I had a Princess sensibility. I couldn't even go to Chinatown in the summer for bad smells made me vomit.

Once I went on what became known as the Frank diet. When I was a mere coder of documents, in 1977, I sat next to Frank who would take out a huge submarine sandwich at morning break that consisted of about ten luncheon meats, liverwurst and other things that I had never been exposed to. The smells would waft up all morning from the brown paper bag that he kept his sandwich in, and by the time he finally took it out and had the first bite I would have to run to the bathroom. I couldn't eat for the rest of the day and lost 20 pounds (ten not needed) in record time.

The boys, straight and gay, for some weird reason found this endearing as they thought that almost everything about me was. I just loved boys, straight, gay whatever. My life until 1985 consisted of work, parties, clubs, and boyfriends without too many redeeming features.

I learned to take care of Patrick. It angered me that TV would show parents in Howard Beach protesting schools opening "without proper precautions." It angered me even more that in his last months when all he could do was watch TV, it would increasingly give into AIDS paranoia. By the next year, anchor people and reporters would act as if they had discovered that AIDS could only be communicable under certain circumstances:
1) UNSAFE SEX--AND THAT INCLUDES ORAL SEX
2) DIRTY NEEDLES
3) EXCHANGE OF BODY FLUIDS
4) BLOOD and PLASMA TRANSFUSIONS (much less frequent)
5) AN ORGAN TRANSPLANT (again this should be easily detected)

On October 9,1985 I was in Venice with my parents. We were staying in a hotel directly on a canal; for weeks the weather in Austria, Germany and Italy had been unseasonably hot and humid. That night it thunderstormed, lightening boldly attacking the water, and the hotel lost its electricity. I went up to my parents room:
"I don't have to light candles for Patrick anymore. He's gone."
The moment that I said that turned out to be the exact moment he died.

By the time Neil became sick in 1990 I spent a week helping him get his affairs in order. Neil had been a poor black boy from the Deep South who had become a successful software designer. When we finished all the work, we stayed in Neil's bed and laughed until my eyes turned red and my contacts came out; and Neil coughed up so much phlegm that I became scared. But it turned out to give him a second wind. He asked me:
If you had to give a eulogy at Roger's funeral tomorrow what would be the only positive thing that you could say?"
"Roger was a great dancer." We said in unison.

Roger was our friend Shelby's boyfriend. She deserved better but love's irrational. Roger had been a hot hair cutter in the 1960's, but now he couldn't handle a scissor if somebody bet him a million dollars. Though his death certificate would say that he died of a heart attack, all of us knew that he died of living a dissapated life--way too much booze, hard drugs and hard living.

Lucia was a new mother then; Shelby was in shock over Roger, and Helaina had to work in the suburbs so I was the only one who could stay with Neil. His lover, Doug, a WASP cable network executive had died two months of the monster that Neil was trying so hard to fight.

I would make or more often order dinner at night and Helaina would join us. That night Neil's friends from New Jersey came over. They acted like mice who couldn't find the maze. When they began ordering me around I decided to leave. As none of them had any sort of HIV nor any experience with people with AIDS they acted nervous and stupid. None of them would get physically near Neil just in case....This was in the last month of 1990. They should have known better.

When I kissed Neil good night, he whispered to me:
"I would come with you if I could only get out of bed."
He died the next morning while Shelby was eulogizing Roger.

More friends would die while I worked at my new career for the Federal Government. For the first time I met women with HIV. Many of them lived at the shelter across from the Social Security office. I found myself liking them. Victims of the crack epidemic many had slept with husbands and old boyfriends who knowingly infected them; others had shared dirty needles.

I quickly gained a reputation as somebody who would walk the extra mile for anybody infected with HIV. I also walked the extra mile for anybody who was sick with anything. Dignity matters to a sick person and all I did was treat them like humans, and I filled out the forms to show how sick they were.

It didn't matter how people were infected with HIV. It eventually killed almost everybody who had it. Death's an equal opportunity employer and it was the first time some of these people were treated as equal opportunity employees.

Though I would think about Patrick, one of the more bigoted people on this planet, yelling about his hospital roommates on Medicaid who were given free ambulance rides to and from the hospital. Though he disliked all Black people in theory, in reality he had many Black friends.

Lucia had married Patrick's lover, Hiram, a Mexican waiter who had made tons of money waiting tables at La Folie and Sign of The Dove. She refused any money but Patrick had made sure that her name was on his large one bedroom rent stabilized apartment.

She and Little Luce live there today. Ironically Gods Love: We Deliver was started in her building, and Lucia spent much time cutting up vegtables and delivering meals.

Big Luce (as I now call her) and I share an unbreakable bond. Together we are stronger than we are individually, and we have become strong women. Our sisters understand and appreciate this as we have become more thoughful sisters. Our true friends think of us as detached Siamese Twins, with differing thought patterns. People who try to come between us soon learn not to. We don't spend all our time together but we consult each on the most minute decisions.

Big Luce was the only person who helped me with my year long coop search. On the morning of 9/11 we would stay on our phones together whenever they weren't dead. We met at her daughter's middle school without having planned it.

We began our friendship as two 20something formerly married girls who were always up for a good time. A plague ensured that we would always be tied together Now in real undeniable middle age we appreciate it.

I shall always miss the boys. Think for awhile about almost an entire generation of young bright striving men who died long before they should have. I think about them at least weekly.

I think about how they could have contributed to the arts and the business world. I think about how different the world could have been now. Together they would have made a great impact.

Honestly, I find Will and Grace tiresome. Pretty desirable girl/woman has a gay best friend. How original.

I would never argue that every TV show has to have a message. But AIDS changed Lucia and my life almost as much it changed any sufferer, just differently.

I see many younger gay men who think that it's a poor African thing now. It is. It's also a revival of crack thing, an oral sex thing, a woman who doesn't use protection because it can't happen to her thing, and very much a gay man thing.

Take time today and think about how lucky you are. Think about all the people who could have contributed so much; the inner-city woman who was just getting her life together and would have gone on for a teaching degree.

This is the link to the government's site on how many American's are infected by HIV and AIDS, and the number that have died.http://www.whitehouse.gov/onap/facts.html Almost 439,000 American's have died in the past 20 years.

The figures about Africa are much more startling and heart breaking. They're not just losing a generational subset but entire generations.

Please remember that AIDS remains as large a plague today as it did in the 1980's--or larger, because we choose to ignore it.

cut, action, delete

2004-11-30T08:10:00.000-08:00

I meant to push copy but I accidentally hit cut, hadn't saved the post and lost my last and I thought one of my best.

There's a lesson in here somewhere besides the obvious--always save--but it escapes me at the moment.

I've been trying to make banners but I'm really horrible at it--as in can't do. I've been trying to make a new template that's cool, with more features and is more user-friendly (for both the reader and me) but I'm such a zilch at it, I almost feel defeated.

However, I've been in too good a mood to let anything get me down. Including a comment from anonymous "oh good, another anti-Bush site..."

While I don't recognize Bush as president--I'll never be convinced that election wasn't stolen somehow--I've been veering away from him. After I finished my post that ws lost, I realized that there wasn't one 9/11 reference in it.

I've lost the anger that I was feeling for so long and I feel so light and so good I'll take stupid sarcastic comments about my blog. I'll even take venomous e-mails from somebody I know because I know that I'm not the person this person describes. If I thought I was I would have checked myself into a mental hospital or done away with myself a long time ago.

Anyway, Dick Ebersol's plane crash has really saddened me maybe because I've always adored Susan Saint James especially in The Name of the Game, used to watch all the 12:30 reruns. I can't imagine having one child trying to save another child's life. Her older son tried to save his brother's life. God, to live with that knowledge would be more than I could bear. I hope that her husband and older son fully recover.

Then I read about the new Avian Flu and how it will probably cause a pandemic if it affects humans. I began personalizing that one--not my death but kids I know and had to stop reading it.

Then I read a column by David Brooks about a "rational evengalist" who would deny me the right to an abortion, and try to convert me, but he represents the best in Evangical thinking. If that's the best, I can't imagine the worst.

I'd give up newspapers but I like reading them too much.

How I began to become an adult

2004-11-29T13:28:00.000-08:00

The studio had found me three years earlier, when I took my parents to see the apartment, I had found across Central Park in the West 70s. The Upper West Side was the perfect neighborhood for me then filled with people my age (boys, lots of young single straight boys) I could easily meet in the Laundromat, coffee shops, on the street, in my building, anywhere.

I was trying to make amends with my father, who had suffered my long drawn out adolescence not with silence or mortar, but with exasperation and sarcasm. At 25 I had finished college six months earlier, and was officially living at my parents home on the Island while I worked and saved money for an apartment in the city. Officially meant that one or two nights a week somebody would drive me home at three AM, or I would take the railroad and fall out exhausted for twelve or more hours.

Banks gave presents for beginning accounts then, and I knew that it was time to leave home when my bleary-eyed father presented me a set of Teflon pots and pans. He didn'tt like the apartment on West 75th Street. It was in the front of the building; garbage cans lined the area near the apartments window, and worst of all it was in a neighborhood my father hated. He bought a Times and circled an ad for a lg studio, East 60s, wbf, sep kit. It was $300 a month--$50 more than the apartment on the West Side. The last tenant had moved there the year of my birth1950.

She was a madam who had run a profitable business out of the apartment. Soundproofing was half on and half off the walls, there were more telephone lines than I had ever seen at an office, the kitchen had last been updated sometime in the 1940s and the linoleum was tinged with decades worth of dirt.

But it was a large kitchen, the archway that separated it from the living room was large enough to be a dining room, the ceilings were high, all three bay windows stunning, and the architectural bones were good. Even I could see its inherent possibilities. I had never heard of crown molding; my studio had it both just off the ceiling and near the floor. The later was a bitch to keep clean.

We made an appointment to see the owner, a white collar criminal lawyer, who knew my father, a CPA. My name wasnt allowed to be on the lease which I found strange as I had been signing leases since I was 20. But this, my father said in an effort to explain, "This is the big time.

There were certain things we didn'tt take into account. I was disorganized with absolutely no ability to organize space. It was a difficult apartment to keep clean for many reasons and I had no cleaning abilities. While there were three large closets they weren'tt modern and totally overwhelmed me. The building didn'tt have a Laundromat, nor was there one near my block.

The only supermarket was a Gristedes where I would tell the men behind the checkout counter what I wanted, and they would get the food for me. Everything was incredibly overpriced, and when I would buy things for the apartment such as new flooring the price would be jacked up after the sale when the clerk or store owner found out my address.

None of that really mattered. As I didnt really live in a neighborhood, I considered all of Manhattan to be my neighborhood, and learned the city better than most people ever do.

My apartment was dark, and at night with candles glowing, it looked wonderful. As it was over 40 feet long it was the perfect party apartment, with distinct areas for food, liquor and dancing nobody ever refused an invitation to 5 East 63rd Street. I lived in the center apartment on the first floor and nobody complained when the 100 or more people at my all night parties spilled over onto the street.

I had qualms about taking money from my father; I didnt want to be his possession. He only offered when I was fully employed, and I took his money with much hesitation. It felt as if I were being bought.

But as he had insisted that I take this apartment, I felt less guilty than I had when I had dropped out of college, and saved my money for an open-ended ticket to Europe and Israel and back to Europe.

He had beaten me to the travel agency and the clerk was all aflutter over the longish haired older good looking man with a moustache who had picked up my ticket. It wasnt the first time and wouldnt be the last time that my father had been mistaken for my lover. It was totally humiliating.

The more I prove myself to be a worthy adult, the more my father wanted to be involved in my life. If I had allowed him to he would have bought my groceries, cleaned my apartment (well, he would have paid somebody to do those things), gone out on my dates with me, and decorated for me. Fortunately my mother made him see reason (sort of.)

Once he brought over a client/friend, a graphics designer, who had a written and produced a Broadway hit that was currently playing. I had been offered various jobs that I would have taken in a heartbeat if my father had only told me about them. The one thing that my father insisted upon was that I find my own jobs.

My father's friend was entranced by the way I had decorated the studio. A huge muslin screen embossed with a palm tree separated the living area from the bedroom. My couch and chair and a half were upholstered with pink flamingos. I had two deco swivel chairs that were upholstered in a more sedate blush with small mauve rectangles, built in shelves held my collection of Oaxacan pottery; many books were in the bookshelves. It had a decidly undecorated but stylish look. I was proud of it except when my father came over.

"This is wonderful. I love it!" My father's friend had always been given to hyperbole but in this case it made me happy.
"She has good taste?" My father asked that in an astonished voice.
"Better than good. Clever, witty and interesting. Exceptional."
"Oh, just like me," I couldn't help interjecting.

My father left in a trance. He had to process this new information. An internationally known expert on design had just pronounced my taste to be exceptional.

I hadn't been using the money my father put into my bank account each month as I made enough to pay for my apartment and expenses and was trying to begin saving for something. He had noticed that and was a little sad and a lot proud. My credit card had a higher limit than his, though when he found that out he immediately applied for an increase.

When we would have dinner together once a week, he had gotten into the habit of talking about his business problems with me. I was a good sounding board with good answers. Now he officially found out that I had good taste.

I called my mother to tell her that he just might have a heart attack on the way home. I was no longer his wayward child.

How Diana Ross changed my life

2004-11-29T11:26:00.000-08:00

Diana Ross stands on the drivers side of her limo with her mouth frozen in a huge smile, and her right arm soldered into what could be construed as a wave. Her office is down the street from my mini-loft, and I see her most nights on my way home from work. I can never decide whether this is her way of recognizing me.

Perhaps she is standing giving a mass greeting, or she suffers from some syndrome that freezes her body. I ponder this each time I see her for the thirty seconds it takes me to walk to my building. But I would have heard as Im tuned into New York and/or music gossip.

I hate Diana Ross. Her friend, Ed Koch, the otherwise occasionally fabulous mayor has let her put no parking signs on either side of her building. 63rd Street, between Madison and Fifth, is a deceptively quiet street where nothing ever seems to happen. Its a great place to live partially because people who insist on driving everywhere could always find parking, and cant bitch about the hour wait. Secretly, they love the hunt. Im a big proponent of banning private cars from Manhattan, but enjoy having company more.

Diana Ross is ruining my secret parking street as she almost ruined my birthday when she insisted on having that infamous concert in the park during a thunderstorm when young boys ran to Tavern on the Green to overturn tables, and frighten people. A new term will enter the lexicon that night wilding.

The boys wanted to take me to a club on the East Side that features Maria Monteyo, a singer in drag, who looks almost as good in gowns as I do. Actually she looks better as she knows how to walk in stillettoes. She has tried to teach me but I'm hopeless.

We've agreed to go to the club the next night so that the boys can come to my surprise birthday party. It's going to be at my girlfriend, Lucia's apartment, and I've planned almost every detail as one of my talents is planning parties. If only I had planned to get to the Upper West Side earlier, but how was I supposed to know that people wouldn't be allowed to go from one side of the park to the other. Both Central Park South and Central Park North are cordoned off to traffic for too long.

My boyfriend has to work late, but Ive seen pictures of the ring hes going to give me. Its immense.

I cant get to the West Side until sometime in the wee morning hours. Everybodys blitzed; Im shown Polaroids of my birthday cake so I can see what I missed; my boyfriends making out with some unknown girl who he will impregnate that night and marry. He wont give her that ring.

He will call me every night for months and beg me to take him back.
It wasnt anything. She was there and you were nott.
Should have thought about it then.

Im nothing if not principled. Later I will realize that he was a good boyfriend who actually had money, values (though not that night) and loved me. I hold Diana Ross personally responsible for all that happened that night. Too bad she wouldnt give a damn if she had learned about it.

I spend a long time lamenting not accepting the boys invitation. It was the last year that they were all alive; and the last year before people begin joining "A" groups enmasse.

New York will lose some of its glimmer; stars literally will burn a little less brightly, and for the first time I won't blame myself for everything that will go wrong. No, it's all Diana Ross's fault.

Back in the '80's daddy was in a MTV commercial

2004-11-29T10:24:00.000-08:00

Sometime in the mid 1980’s
My dad, Max, a CPA calls me one day from his client/friend's studio penthouse at One West 47th Street. His client's a cartoonist and graphic artist who I have known since I was a child.

Max sounds perplexed but proud:
“I’m going to be in an MTV commercial.”
“That’s too cool, daddy. What are you…?”
He interrupts before I can finish my question.
“So what’s MTV?”
“It’s a TV station that only plays music videos. It has VJ’s instead of DJ”s. Get it?”

I have forgotten for a second that this is my father I’m talking to. He likes the world to fit his perceptions. If his perceptions don’t fit, he changes the facts around until they make sense to him. I know that he’s a brilliant accountant with the ability to quickly read, say a balance sheet, see the whole picture, and explain it. He calls himself an accountant. My mother, Marion, calls him a CPA. Most of his personal clients call him “my business adviser” or “my business manager.” He’s in his 70’s and each time he thinks of retiring a new and more prestigious client drops his way.

Yet I wonder how he can be so brilliant at his work, and still perceive ordinary life so wrongly. He also believes that Nixon and Reagan are the two best presidents ever. Except for some Russian émigrés he hates conservatives. Trying to understand Sam is like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with some pieces missing. It just can’t be done. Yet….Of course he didn’t get my explanation of MTV. If my parents would get cable he could see for himself. But on principle they won’t. Don’t ask what principle. They’re a two person household with four TV’s.

He sighs. “No, you’re wrong. There can’t be a station that only plays rock music. An hour a day, I can see. But no station can survive by playing videos.”

“Why don’t you ask?”
He won’t. Admitting that he doesn’t know what MTV is would mean that he’s not in tune with pop culture. If Max doesn’t like the answer he can’t tell his client he’s wrong. Max only tells his clients they’re wrong on matters relating to business and politics. I don’t want to get into a fight over this.

“What are you going to do?”
“He told me that I was just going to hold a sign that says ‘MTV’ and stand in for the real actor. But when the people from MTV saw it they wanted me.”

He sounds a little incredulous. I smile because I’m sure that his client planned this the whole time. Max doesn’t look or act shy but he is. Sometimes he’s amazed at how his life turned out. He did the whole early 20th century, poorer than a Shul mouse Jewish boy bit. Marion and I are the only two people to realize that he’s always on poverty alert. In his head he’s still a boy in East Harlem.

Max's a handsome man, I guess. He’s my father so it’s a little difficult to see him objectively. In 1969 he grew a moustache, and it’s remained black as his hair is graying so he kept the moustache. He has deep set eyes that are remarkably like mine though I was adopted, a small mouth like mine and large Slavic cheekbones that are also like mine. Only his nose is different; larger and with a bump. I have heard all the jokes, and no he definitely didn’t sleep with my birth mother. My friends think that they’re so funny.

Daddy’s going to be in an MTV commercial and he hasn’t even invited me to the taping. I gave up relationships with men in music a few years ago for attorneys with Doctorates in math or science. Now I seem to be going through a character actor and men who produce or are cameramen on TV stage. Once again Max tops me. Not that we’re in competition or anything. He doesn’t even know that I’m dating or who I’m dating. But I’m too happy for him to let this be anything but a passing thought.
“When’s the shooting?”
“Tomorrow. They told me what suit to wear, and to bring two shirts one in pink and one in blue. Know what the best part is?”
The hunky cameramen, I think.
“I have no idea.”
“They’re paying me. $250. I would have done it for free.”
“Did you call mommy?”
“She’s not home.”

I’m not home either. I’m a project manager for a litigation support company. It’s a stressful job, and I used to be always reachable by phone for family members until I stopped answering my own line. I talk if I have the time or it’s a real emergency.

The commercial turn out to be part of a series. Max's client's younger son plays the teenager or the expected viewer; Mrs. Havasi, the client's mother-in-law plays the “old lady;” and Max's the “successful middle-aged businessman.”

I know this because Max calls one day to tell me to look at The New York Times. There’s a fawning article about the series. (Blechman does op-art and other cartoons for it.)
“Mrs. Havasi is younger than me.”

I can’t resist. As a child I was taught to read The Times with a skeptical eye. Max's a rabid newspaper reader who thinks that The Times distorts the truth. When he was “progressive,’ it was regressive; now it plays fast and furious with the facts.
“You know to never believe anything you read in the Times. Except maybe the obits.”
“Well, Pia, sometimes even they are right.”

The commercials are nominated for Clio’s. (They don’t win.) Somebody from the TV show PM Magazine interviews Max. It’s in every market but the New York metro area. Nobody we know anywhere knows how to program a VCR.
“I was horrid in it anyway.”
“Why?”
“They asked if anybody followed me around asking for an autograph. Nobody ever has so I said ‘no.’”

I feel for Max I really do. Bui I would have said ‘just my daughters. They run down the street with blank checks for me to sign.’ Then I would have held up pictures of me and Cara. No I wouldn’t have been that tacky but…
It’s not that I’m in need of a job or a man, but just once I would like my father to introduce me to somebody who has a great job to offer or has a great job, is single, straight and looking. He loves to give us money but he would never introduce us around, and he knows so many people. Is he ashamed of us or just shy as Marion claims?

I don’t have a VCR so I lend my copy to my mother’s younger sister, my hippie Buddhist aunt Adele. If I have one adage in life, it’s never lending anything you want back to somebody who has slept at the Dali Lama’s feet. Being Max's daughter entitles me to be quirky, and while not anti-New Age (I’m sure that Yanni has some good qualities) I’m too New York, too cynical, too fast, and too in love with my own life to need Marianne Williamson, the Dali Lama, Gary Null, and everyone in between to tell me how to live my life.

Obviously Max knows that. People are always telling him how much they love my “fierce independence.” Many people assumed that I was going to be a daddy’s girl. I fought it, and now our relationship is one of equals. I know how much he needs me, and I’m beginning to believe that I need him also.

I meet rock stars like Iggy Pop; Max knows (and has kept me from meeting many times) Mick Jagger. True I have given up musicians but there's a part of me that is and shall always be star struck. It's Max's fault, of course, he brought me up to expect the moon to fall into my hands if I want it badly enough.

City life in the last century

2004-11-29T09:43:00.000-08:00

Explanatory note for all who don't know New York: Duane Reade is a huge chain of everything stores that were named for two Manhattan cross streets. Duane Reade is always made fun of, but life was much more difficult before it.

I used to live on 63rd Street off Fifth Avenue; in a huge studio that had seen better days. I had been planning to move to the Upper West Side (UWS) where I fit in perfectly. My father found this apartment in The New York Times, and begged me to take it. I felt out of place until I realized most people on the side streets were more eccentric then me. Life was incredibly inconvenient then.

My first years were the heady ones of “Ford to City: Drop Dead.” Subway service was erratic, at best. For weeks there would be a 7:55 A. M. Double R train, and then it would no longer be in service. When I worked in downtown Brooklyn, and had to be at work, promptly at 8:30 A.M., my commute took almost an hour.

Con Ed and the phone company never took special circumstances into consideration—such as walking around with the envelope for a month. A person paid her bill or didn’t. There were two ways to pay a bill—by mail, or at a service center. It helped to be unemployed to do the later as the hours were 9-5, and the lines were long. I wasn’t unemployed, but I was young and disorganized and many times would fear coming home to the dark without a phone.

There were no Duane Reades’, and no Korean groceries. Back in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s I had my choice of an expensive Gristedes that stunk of roasted chicken, and the rip off store where they never got my phone orders right, but delivered what they thought I needed.
I was always standing on line. Lines were common at the pharmacy, and in those pre managed care days only certain pharmacies had lower cost prescriptions. Aspirin, tampax and all the other necessities of life cost me more in 1985 than they I pay for them now. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to look for Liquid Plumber in a pharmacy. That belonged in WG Lemmon or Gracious Home, the two neighborhood hardware stores. I love movies, but they were a hassle. Standing, on long lines, in the ice cold or bitter heat, and praying for a good seat, was never my idea of fun.

I was always trying to modernize and improve my space. When I moved in it had a refrigerator that was one step up from an icebox. The kitchen floor hadn’t been changed since 1950, nor did it look as if it had been cleaned too often. My electricity was always on the blink, and I lost the little light I had to the shadows of the (then) new ATT and IBM Buildings

The nearest laundry was at my nearest friends building. I wasn’t above taking a suitcase to my parent’s house on Long Island. No, my mom wouldn’t do it for me. I dreamed of owning a washer and dryer.

No matter how good the apartment cleaner was, it never seemed clean enough. I would paint, and then paint again. Still dust settled everywhere. I called it Trump White in honor of the person who was causing so much of the dust.

Whenever I bought something that had to be delivered from a store, I avoided giving my address until the end of the transaction. I had learned early that the price of linoleum, bought in Astoria, would be jacked up ten percent as soon as the sales person heard the names of the cross Avenues. The first time I saw a Home Depot I cried. It was inconvenient for city people, but Home Depot spelt equality to me.

I grew to hate all parades equally. It began with the St Patrick’s’ Day Parade. I lived a block from the grandstand. My block would always be cordoned off. Every old lady, in a lime green polyester pants suit, would be waved into the street by the police. My hair was usually one of forty shades of red. By birth I’m half Irish. I never wore orange, but I always wore black. I was your average American IRA terrorist, just waiting for the opportunity to bomb whoever the Cardinal was.

I would be asked for ID. My ID would never be good enough. Even a passport. I didn’t like being treated as an interloper on my own block, and would tell the police that. They would escort me to my building, to make sure, I really lived there. Once at my building things would go from bad to worse. Most of the people in my building had never learned to use the intercom and would buzz everyone in. That’s when the police would smile and tell me that getting into my apartment was my problem.

During the worst years people would be in my building lobby—smoking anything, drinking beer, and peeing. Most of my neighbors were ineffectual characters who had learned years before that St. Patrick’s Day was an occasion to stay home and drink and drug themselves into even more of a coma than they were usually in.

When I brought up the idea of hiring a security guard for the day, they laughed. I lived on the lobby floor, they didn’t. My first floor neighbors then were a crazy psychiatrist who later killed himself, and the first kept woman I had ever knowingly met.

One year a woman rang my door bell. “Can we use your bathroom? We’re with the parade.” Did I care? I looked out the hole and saw a woman with at least ten kids in full marching regalia. When I said sorry, the woman cursed me out.

I hated leaving my building during a parade. Every Sunday for about three months a year, I would walk out to my stoop which would be filled with people who really didn’t want to move for me. Then I would try to cross Fifth Avenue with my bike. Give up on the bike, bring it into the building, and then try to cross again. I would have to wait for at least three minutes as people in the parade took precedence over neighborhood residents. It sounds stupid, but I felt violated. This was my neighborhood, my house and I had fewer rights than people who didn’t live there. One year, at exactly noon, I woke up to hear Telly Salvas sing God Bless America in Greek. I would have enjoyed that had I not been incredibly hung over and in need of much more sleep.

Don’t get me started on production shoots. It was my street, and some P.A. would stop me from entering my building. Usually I really had to go to the bathroom or was waiting for an important phone call Producers learned to never cross a woman who needs her bathroom.

I knew as soon as I saw my first Duane Reade that my life would be changed forever. Unfortunately, my Duane Reade was on 58th Street between Madison and Park. Leaving my quiet street for midtown was never one of my favorite things. The crowds grew larger and more obnoxious, every year, and each street seemed closer to midtown. Every man acted as if he had a direct link to Donald Trump; every woman acted as if she owned the street when it was obvious I did.

I learned the best time to go to Duane Reade was eight AM. Saturday morning as it wasn’t open 24/7 then. I couldn’t believe the things I bought—before Duane Reade I would have to go to four stores to buy the necessities of life. And I would pay three times the amount.

Then Korean groceries opened. They were open 24/7. Madison and Lexington had been dead at night except for some restaurants. The brightly lit Korean groceries made the neighborhood feel safer. They sold fresh flowers, and other nice things. Life gradually became much easier in New York.

In many ways my ‘hood was extraordinarily convenient. I could walk almost anywhere in Manhattan within an hour. Nobody ever refused an invitation to my apartment. My woman’s group would meet there every Saturday because it was equidistant to the Village, the Upper West Side and Queens. Biannually, I had huge parties. It was the perfect party apartment. Drinks in the kitchen, food in the large archway, and dancing in the big room.

The doormen at The Pierre would ask me if I wanted to come in and make big money dating a resident. At the time I thought this was horrible. I never even asked how much money I would make, what type of resident I would date or what I would have to do. When they finally stopped asking me years later, I would spend hours at the mirror looking to see if I had suddenly gotten fat, and wrinkled.

My neighborhood was on a short downside when I moved. I was the first person to go to work in the morning and there would be people sleeping in the lobby. If I would wake them I would apologize and tell them to go back to sleep. One day I realized that they could have been crack addicts or just crazy and this could be dangerous. I would count the cheap ale bottles on my way to the Lexington Avenue Subway. I didn’t leave because I was ready to leave.

I left because the new owners had succeeded in making it truly inconvenient. My new next-door neighbors presented themselves as models, but everyone thought they were cheap prostitutes. I thought that the doorbell rang too often for three women to actually have the time to begin and complete any act. Since then I’ve learned more about prostitution through films, ($10 hookers, Monsters Ball) and have come to realize they could have been prostitutes. Whatever they were this wasn’t a healthy place for me to be living.

My hair cutter moved to 64th Street between Fifth and Madison less than a year after I left the neighborhood. I have watched my building become a showplace. I walk up the street and think—I lived here, I really lived here for sixteen years.

Alphapbet Soup and other learning disorders

2004-11-28T13:24:00.000-08:00

Until recently I thought of myself as a critical mass of ADHD, OCD, disorganization and other major learning disablities. If people could have scanned my body they would have seen a map with all the disablities marked instead of body parts.

My disabilities weren't diagnosed until I was in my 30's and in retrospect I'm not sure that it was the smartest thing to go for testing. I had lived 36 years without knowing what was wrong with me, and had basically a great life. But....

I wanted to know why my balance seemed to be out of synch with the rest of the worlds. I wanted to know why I could read and understand almost anything, but couldn't spell, and could only put my thoughts together in a coherent organized manner because I didn't write creatively but was a technical writer where I just knew how things should be written.

I would (and did) apologize to a lamppost for bumping into it. I had lucked out in the looks department and knew it. I honestly thought that was the only reason why people wanted to befriend me. I had no idea why men wanted to marry me, let alone be my boyfriend.

I was diagnosed when ADHD and OCD were just being discovered. The testing psychologist who would watch me begin a test and then say "you really can't do it can you?" told me that if I worked with him I would be his first adult patient.

I was very angry and walked out. I talked endlessly to my two other therapists about the differences between coping (which is what the testing psycholgist said that I had been doing) and compensating (which is what he said I should strive for.)

I've always been an idiot savant when it comes to vocabulary. Ever since I was a small child I've been able to understand minute differences in verbiage. I knew that to be a successful project manager in large scale litigation projects I had to have been more than coping. My two therapists agreed. Unfortunately they had no ready answers.

I had always been angry but had never expressed it. Now I let the anger out. I began to think of myself as a brain damaged person who had never received the proper rehabilitation.

Why I couldn't think of myself as a person who had overcome tremendous obstacles is beyond my comprehension. I cut everybody but me a break. Now I wonder why my big name shrink's hadn't suggested that.

I kept on challenging myself to learn new skills and take on new and consecutively more difficult and depressing careers. It was as if I were punishing myself for having had been adopted by parents who loved me, having had friends, and men who loved me.

(I won't get into the adoption equals ADD theory as I believe that to be rubbish in my case. I spent half my childhood, and young adulthood, in therapy arguing with therapists about being a "happy adoptee.")

I have tried most anti-anxiety drugs, depression drugs and everything else. Nothing worked. Well, Prozac was great for PMS but I was a bitch the rest of the month. Zoloft made me feel like my brain was asleep and I gained an inordinate amount of weight. I forget which drug made me want to leave someplace as soon as I got there. I have a list on my computer of drugs and my reactions to them.

Computers made me seem organized. If they had been around in their present form 30 years ago I could have been anything. But they weren't and I am glad they are here now.

There was a magazine article about ADD in the work place. I wrote a response to that and sent it to the author. She replied with a name of a coach. I have a therapist's license; I have spent my life seeking out help. Yet I couldn't help thinking that since most therapists I saw did more harm than good as they were looking at the wrong problems, I didn't want any help. And all I could do was picture the testing psycholgist taunting me as I sat at a child size desk and took the damned tests.

I was fast forwarding commercials one night when I saw one for Strattera. I rewound the commercial and watched it. The woman said that life looked out of perspective until....I had learned not to pin my hopes on anything but I had a doctor's appointment that week. Before I could say anything he suggested it.

The changes were minimal at first. I did feel happier and calmer. As time went on I felt even more calm. This was new for me and could have been because I began true peri-menopause. I dared not hope.

After awhile I realized that nobody had yelled at me on the street for sometime for bumping into them. I was, despite myself, more concious of my surroundings. I began to notice that I could take the time to do things properly. Then I saw that I had become more organized.

I'm only about fifty percent there, and while I'm hoping that this is the miracle, I've always longed for, I'm not betting on that yet. I do feel wonderful: Calm most of the time; happy at least half the time. I no longer feel the need to scream or be angry at times.

2004 is the year I reinvented myself--with a lot of help from Strattera, my friends, family and my doctor.

Two percent--kinehorah

2004-11-28T11:15:00.000-08:00

Friday, November 26, began my least favorite time of the year. It's the time that reminds me I didn't grow up celebrating Christmas, and have never really understood the frenzy that accompanies the season.

While I have tried not to define myself as a Jew, it's hard because everybody in New York is a hyphenated something and most Jews come from families that were distinctly not allowed citizenship in the country that the family originated in.

When my father asked my grandmother if she wanted to go to the former Soviet Union for a vacation, she spat. While that might have been a classless act, it was an understandable reaction. In Russia/Poland (the borders were constantly changing) she wasn't allowed citizenship, to own land, or to go for further education.

My other grandmother was chased by a group of Cossaks and had to hide in a friendly Christian's cellar for a week while her parents didn't know if she was alive or dead. She was eleven.

Until recently I thought that America was a safe place for me not to practice my religion. Since I'm Jewish, my religion is also my culture and that's where the problem begins.

I'm proud of my religion and its history. Until the end of World War Two and the establishment of Israel we were forced to survive on our brains alone. Israel, I was always told, provided the muscle.

I'm a Rabin Jew. His assasination was the saddest day in Israeli history because it began a new era of fighting. I don't like or agree with Sharon; I wish that the lands had been given back years ago.

What does that have to do with my life in New York? A lot. Many people can't understand why non-religious Jews, or cultural Jews, still partially define themselves as Jewish. Because it's our history; because we were raised to respect it and all religions. Because I feel comforted by certain rituals and prayers even if I don't understand all of it as I never went to Hebrew school and my parents wouldn't let us learn Yiddish as they wanted my sister and I to be 100 percent American.

Because the Evangical movement is growing rapidly in America and won't be satisfied until all Jews convert. I forget the names of the best selling series of books in America but I've read enough about them to know that they are a call to arms.

Because Bush believes that his small popular vote victory was a mandate and he feels that he can do anything as president including screwing with The First Amendment--the Amendment that allows me not to practice my religion and feel comfortable with that; and to say anything that I damn well want to say.

Jews are two percent of the population of the US, yet our mere presence seems to incite people to hate. Hey, I didn't start the mess in the MidEast. It really began when no country including this one would let survivors in after World War Two. We took the survivors, put them into displaced persons camps and treated them as if they were the criminals.

Our big punishment to the Germans--we didn't let them have an armed force so they could put all their resources into creating goods and a vibrant economy.

But this isn't about Israel or how much I disliked it the one time I was there.

It is about assumptions. People assumed that my dad had help going to college and that's why he became successful. Nobody helped him. He had to drop out of day school, lose his basketball and math scholarships, work during the day and take courses at night. When he finally graduated, at the top of his class, he saw classmates who barely graduated join large accounting firms. Same for his friends who graduated law school.

Since the large prestigious firms were closed to them just because of the size of their noses and their religion, they created their own firms. That is, I believe, the American way. Though when newer groups began coming up they made room for them in their firms because that's the honorable way. They would take on lost, unpopular causes that might run contrary to their own views because every person deserves a good defense, or in my dad's case a good accountant.

We're not a religion of Shylocks--money lending was one of the few professions open to us during midevil and later times.

We don't control the media though we are represented in larger numbers than our two percent of the population. Is there shame in striving? Nobody complains when we give large gifts, endowments, and other things to more disenfranchised groups.

No other group feels the need to apologize for having made it. No other group, except perhaps Muslims and Sikhs, feels the need to apologize for having certain views.

When I was a teenager I almost killed my father for bringing home Allan Sherman's "Jewish American Princess" albumn. I still think it was stupid, but as I grow older I understand how proud he was in having raised two princesses.

Our religion and culture might not be soulful, hip or too cool for words but if anybody has denigrated it, it's been us. Woody Allen's the first of several hundred examples that spring to mind. We satirize both our weakness's and our strengths; we make fun of everything.

Hundreds or thousands of years of living as oppressed people has made us wary of our luck. In our collective unconciousness we know that it could end at any moment. Only Jew can think that too much happiness is a bad thing. Only Jews can think that guilt is a very useful and good defense. So we joke to chase the evil eye away. Kinehorah.

Approximately entitled. An adoption story.

2004-11-28T08:06:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving turned out to be wonderful. My sister's birthday was the day before and she, fave-bro-in-law, and fave-niece went to one of the Island's pricer restaurants for her birthday dinner.

I looked at them, sighed, and said: "you're my only family."
"No" they said in family synche, "we're ALL your family."

Then I told them my plan to find my birth father's family. I know his name, his ethniticity, the approximate year he was born (very approximatly) as my birth mother was very vague on details, the approximate (more fixed) year he died, the number of children he had, and the approximate years they were born. Everything's very approximate.

I think that I know the actual town he was born in and the town he died in. The historical society in that town lists births and deaths beginning with the seventeenth century. I love scanning lists and wish that this information was on the net. As it's not, I'm going to have to take a long trip to New England to see the records.

All my family offered to come with me and make it into a family thing. I'm pondering the offer. Life's a bit different than it was sixteen years ago when I met my birth mother almost by accident. For many reasons it wasn't a successful meeting. One of the big outcomes was me feeling like a failure because I hadn't lived the life she had envisioned for me when she gave me up.

I always realized that was stupid because it had nothing to do with me the person, but me the fantasy. But as she had kept me for three weeks in the home for unwed mothers and called the agency for two years for progress reports until they told her she wasn't allowed to anymore, I felt somewhat responsible for not living up to her fantasy.

Totally irational but that's the world of closed adoption records. It makes people irrational because when you're cut off from knowing about your genes, you're cut off from understanding your beginnings. Everyone needs that road map to origins.

My parents had always been honest with me. They shared whatever knowledge they had with me, and my father was totally into the search. It was beyond his comprehension that the law would stand between me and my roots.

I think that every birth parent who doesn't want an open adoption (and I can understand that) should be required to write a letter to the child to be given to her when her parents think she is ready explaining who she is, what her background was like, who the father is and his background. I think that both parents should be required to follow-up with yearly health reports for as long as they live.

The child should be allowed to write letters to her birth parents and at certain ages ask if the birh parent(s) want to meet her. While this sounds like too much work, it could prevent many problems. Because every thinking person goes through a "who am I" stage, but none go through it like people who have no idea about their genetic roots.

My adoptive parents were my real parents and I was happy to adopt their roots. But I went through my teenage years wondering about what generation of my parents' grandparents stopped being mine. Was it my great-great grandparents since my parents had never known them?

Minor questions that occupied maor amounts of time.

I always knew that meeting my birth mother wouldn't make me feel complete. I didn't know that it would make me feel empty; devoid of who I had spent my adult life becoming.

People in the adoption movement then said that the meeting was enough to make you feel complete; now they say that it's just the beginning and that you should work at getting to know one another. Trust me, I thought of that then.

She would never have gone into counseling with me. She wouldn't even meet in neutral terroritory. We had to meet at her house where I wasn't allowed to walk around in case somebody saw me. (We look nothing alike.) Once I realized what the weekend was going to be like I should have left.

But I had gone knowing that my instincts told me we should have met in a motel in some town where neither of us were known. The playing field would have been more level.

She accused me of playing with her head when I called and had her nephew to back her up when I told her that I was sorry for having paused for too long in between my name and my birth date. I know, I know--that's totally irrational. I thought so too but what was I supposed to say? I paused too long. I'm sorry. Usually I speak way too fast. I suppose that I was trying to compensate for that.

After the long horrible weekend was over, we corresponded for awhile. Her letters were filled with admonitions and lists of cities for me to move to that had nice Jewish men. Dating was not one of my problems.

A year or so prior to the meeting I had been diagnosed with an alphabet soup mishmash of problems and learning disablities. While I had compensated for my problems, I was getting older (late 30's) and scared that I wouldn't be able to compensate as well when I hit 40. I had an amazing life, but it was one that I assumed was held up by mirrors and smoke.

I spent my early 40's working at the most difficult job I could find. Then I went to grad school--all to prove to myself that I had a working mind. My dad died suddenly; my mom became frail; my sister and I became care givers. The difference was that my sister had met fave-bro-in-law the summer before my dad died and had a daughter. My sister had new life around her. I was a gerentologist who was constantly surrounded by old age and death. It was very depressing.

Now that I no longer work in the field I feel a thousand pounds lighter.

I didn't feel entitled when I met my birth mother so I played the game her way. I should have felt entitled. I was raised to feel great about myself. But the synapases in my brain never allowed me to feel good for too long.

About eight months ago I went on Strattera. It began working slowly. Little by little I began noticing changes in my attitude and behavior. For the first time in my life I feel at peace; I also feel entitled. Entitled to a good life; entitled to have fun; entitled to joy; entitled to laugh when people say that ADD is a byproduct of being adopted. I know that for many reasons that I will be writing about, but I knew it mainly because Strattera wouldn't have had such a dramatic impact on my behavior and thought patterns if I hadn't needed it.

One day in the not too distant future all of my family is going to go to some small town in the inner depths of New England. If I can get my naturally bubbly sister to promise not to tell anybody why we're at this historical society as my birth uncle is still involved with it. His (mine?} was the first Jewish family in town.

I'm going to find the names of my three half siblings. They might be grandparents by now as they were born soon after I was. They might be dead; they might be bums. I don't know what type of expectations I'm putting on them.

I know now that I expected my birth mother to love me unconditionally. That was wrong as only my real parents could or would love me unconditionally, and they loved me so much it hurt.

On Thanksgiving my sister (born to them) and I forgot to listen to the family song "Alice's Restaurant," but we talked about it, and how our dad recorded it and would make people listen to all 22 minutes. We talked about the parking ticket he got from Officer Oppie--on purpose of course.

We talked about the Thanksgiving dinners our mom would put together from scratch (using many convience foods) for 35-40 people. Only my sister shares my whole past; she was jealous when I went off to meet my birth mother, but understands now that even if I decide to meet my half-siblings, she will be my only true sister.

My niece told me that she was mad that she never got to meet my dad. So was I and I told her so. But I told her that she was named for him and it's a great name and I feel comforted by her having his name. She smiled for she loves her name, and is old enough at ten to understand what I was really saying. My parents live on through her, the stories we tell her and she devours.

Though our Thanksgivings are different now they are still the best of all holiday's, the time we put aside our differences and celebrate our intertwined lives in the USA, still with all its problems, the best of all countries.

Colorblind

2004-11-24T06:34:00.000-08:00

When did Red become the symbol of Conseratives rather than Communism? It seems wrong somehow, however....

Tomorrow we're going to be equally divided between Blue and Red people. (That reads like some bad sci-fi.) The Red are going to be smugly ignoring their less-than-a-mandate-victory, for about a half an hour. Then they'll talk about it.

I'll let them gloat. It's probably the last time they will be able to in the next four years. They're going to end up just as scared and sad as the rest of us. But us Blue's will be able to think: we didn't vote for him; we worked against him.

Before we go to the Red's house, I'll be at the Blue's. At noon, we'll listen to "Alice's Restaurant," and I'll tell my niece about her grandfather who she never met and was named after. I'll tell her about how he recorded the song and made people sit through all 20 minutes of it, and how when my parents and their friends were in Stockbridge, my dad sought out Officer Opie the only way he knew how to, by getting a parking ticket on purpose.

My sister would have told her about the Thanksgivings held in that house when we were growing up. (My sister bought my parents house.) There would be 30 to 40 people all talking all over each over; each person with his/her own opinion. It didn't matter what subject we were supposed to be talking about. Put 35 of us in a room, and you heard 49 different opinions, and different stories. It was comforting; it was the sound of holidays at home.

Now we'll be at the Reds where everyone has to talk in turn, and while I'll be longing for the Thanksgivings of yesterday, I'll look at my niece and melt. She's what we have in common; for her we'll become colorblind and put aside our differences or maybe even shout them out so that she can have her own memories. Different than ours; but hers to hold onto. One thing that she'll know for sure is how much she's loved.

Maybe people don't have to talk on top of each other to have a Thanksgiving conversation. I wouldn't know as I've never tried it. Maybe Thanksgiving could be a good holiday with just ten people at the table. Maybe.

A seasonal moment

2004-11-19T06:12:00.000-08:00

Big Luce has a demanding job that pays ok but not enough to live in New York, and a daughter, Little Luce who will be fourteen on Saturday. The ex lives out of state, and that's a good thing.

An ex friend of mine, still a friend of Big Luce, and I somehow got her a job that was supposed to be straight manuscript typing job. It wasn't. I decided to help her. The first day was sheer hell, but by the second day I deloveped a rythmn and a beat. Then I had to go to the dentist.

My dentist's office is on Fifth Avenue, two blocks from where I used to live there. Going there always leaves me feeling strangely nostalgic. It was humid and I was tired; I decided to take a cab home to the Upper West Side.

Historically shift change for cab drivers has always been between 4:00 and 5:30, just when they're most needed. This was supposed to have changed when they received a recent much needed, but hurtful for the customer, raise.

I was going to give up and walk which I should have been doing anyway, when I saw a woman getting out of a cab. I ran. The cab driver was a handsome Asian-looking man. Fifth Avenue, further down, was a mess of news trucks and people.

"Oh, the snowflake," I said, "they're finally changing the snowflake, and putting it up tonight."

The cab driver didn't understand what I meant. He thought that I was a tourist who wanted to see Fifth Avenue. I explained that the snowflake was hung over Fifth for the winter.

The cab driver asked me to explain what a snow flake is. I'm still trying. How do you explain the brilliance of one fleck of snow?

The cab driver turned out to be from Nepal and we spent the rest of the ride chit chatting. Just normal conversation; nothing sparkling; nothing out of the ordinary.

When we arrived at my building he refused my fare.
"You can't. Nobody ever refuses my money."
"You have soft voice. You very nice. You good to talk to."

Then he rode away.

Sometimes life is a wonderful thing.

Polarization

2004-11-18T06:53:00.000-08:00

When I was a teenager this country was bitterly divided. It kind of made sense in a pervese way. You either believed in the war in Viet Nam or didn't. Boys had long hair or didn't. Parents thought one way; their kids another way. Then we found our way back to each other.

For years I could be around rabid Republicans because they had redeeming characteristics. But when President Clinton was being impeached and I demonstrated for the first time in over 20 years, a businessman spit on me.

I began to realize that things were going back to the past and we weren't going to live in peaceful harmony or detente anymore. I can't get away from the subject of politics because it seems to invade every area of life these days.

The future no longer belongs to America. We've lost any right to hold the title of leader of the free world; we've lost so much in the past years. Is the cost worth the price? I don't think so, but who am I? Just another sitting target for another terrorist attack. Yet my vote doesn't count. (Sorry can't get away from that.)

I just heard that the Senate passed a bill allowing 800 billion dollars in future debt. That's great. Bolster the economy with a house made of ice cream sticks and watch the sticks fall. Give us fifteen more years and we'll be the biggest third world country.

Hope

2004-11-18T05:45:00.000-08:00

I was feeling sad about Margaret Hassan who was a better person than I will ever be. But I was in a life goes on type mood.

Then I looked at the newspaper headlines. "House GOP acts to protect chief." If Tom Delay is indicted, they're going to change the rules that they enacted in order to prosecute Democrats. That's fair. A Democrat's always guilty; a Republican never is.

I love living in a Republic; steal an election---become president; have oral sex with somebody not your wife--be impeached. I will never move beyond the 2000 elections--never. Everything that's happened in this country since then has been predicated on that.

God, it's wonderful to live in a free country. Makes me want to scream even louder.

Back in the past

2004-11-17T08:46:00.000-08:00

We moved when I was twelve. It was exactly the wrong time; had it been earlier or later I would have been the person I had been and the person I would become.

But then I was shy, scared, devoid of humor and personality. When a girl told me that she'd beat me up if I looked at her best friend's boyfriend who was looking at me, I believed her. Went home and seemed to gain 35 pounds over night.

I realized later that she was paying me a back hand compliment of sorts. I was competition. Without a best friend to mull this over with, and being scared as we had moved from a middle class area to an affluent one, I was clueless and remained in that state for way too long.

I was never friends with the mother of the girl I talked about in my last post. She lived down the block and at any stage of my life we might have been good friends, as most of my friends were similiar to her in looks and personality.

But I was deeply depressed and mute. Instead of helping me, the teachers led the teasing. I discovered how cruel life could be. Except for my parents, everyone assumed I was a fat stupid slob. I did nothing to change this impression.

Then a zillion years later I turned fifteen and became "pretty." I still lacked basic social skills that I had known until seventh grade. But I no longer felt so alone.

Life became great once I went to college and it kept on getting better. Then it went downhill; now it's back to almost excellent and keeps on improving.

Blogging is cathartic to me; but at times it becomes discouraging. Why am I doing this? Do I want validation about my past? Do I want validation about my writing? Validation for my political views? I can go on.....I'm just not sure why I'm doing this but I can't stop. (Addictive personality)

Teenage misery

2004-11-16T14:24:00.000-08:00

What happens when you're randomly reading blogs and come across a girl's blog who happens to be the daughter of somebody you went to high school with and kind of idolized, though you were too cool to admit that.

The girl I went to high school with was kind of like Shannon Dougherty on Beverly Hills 90201; her daughter sounds like the post-modern version. I know she's her daughter as she has her parents names in it.

She also has her size, hair color and a lot more revealing details. Probably has an eatting disorder and is major league troubled. I almost called her mother who I haven't seen since high school or was going to post something on her blog.

In the end I did nothing. My rationale for this is that everybody Googles themselves and if they don't somebody else will Google them and tell the parents, or if that doesn't happen the parents sound sophisticated enough to figure things out for themselves.

It was the first time I felt like an internet stalker yet it was totally random. Weird.

semi-luddite

2004-11-16T14:10:00.000-08:00

For some reason I joined a blog hosting spot that has a chat room, and each person on the spot can rate everybody else's blog. People can be downright nasty talking about other people who don't know HTML. Used to know it; forgot everything.

I want a professional looking blog. More than that I want a place to rant and express myself. Kind of thought that was a major part of blogging. I thought that blogging was a new and fascinating way of communicating.

If everyone rates sites based on looks--well then--I should put my picture on it.

Or if everyone rates sites based on fields of knowledge I'll be glad to rate American history, European history, American Lit, Public Policy, all types of research and more. Sounds stupid doesn't it?

Heightened Sense of Insecurity

2004-11-16T06:21:00.000-08:00

I was talking on the phone with a friend who told me about the heightened terrorist upgrades. We both agreed that it was hyperbole and that we didn't care.

Then I realized that my entire family lives on Long Island and I have to go there for Thanksgiving. So does my friend. The Long Island Railroad is in Penn Station. My best friend, Big Luce, works in Penn Plaza over the station. She always lives in unconcious fear and me in unconcious fear for her.

82 percent of all Manhattanites voted against Bush and for Kerry for a reason. Bush doesn't care about us. We are the people who were attacked and yet almost to a person we didn't want the war in Iraq. If we had gone after Bin Laden, then yes, most of us would have supported it. Most of us learned from Viet Nam that it's impossible to win a terrorist war. They're spawned to believe in Jihad. Imagine a mother who thinks that the most noble thing her infant son could do when he grows up is to kill himself in the name of Jihad. I can't.

W was trying to finish what his father couldn't. Future historian/psycholgists are going to have an incredible time analyzing that---if we survive for them to talk about it.

To all of you who voted for Bush because while you dislike his domestic agenda but think he's good for terrorists I have one word: How? 9/11 happened under his watch.

President Clinton might have been a populist president; he might have a likable personality with some humaness mixed; he might have been a lot of things, but....

HE READ. He actually read all the memos given to him, and comprehended their meanings. Think it was just a coincidence that nothing bad happened on Y2K? Think nothing bad had been planned? Think again. President Clinton might have been too laid back for your tastes. He might have indulged in sex with a woman not his wife--Linda Tipp and Lucianne Goldberg made sure that you knew about it--but he was a great president. He took action so that the rest of us didn't live in fear.

Personally I can't imagine any woman wanting to sleep with or indulge in any type of sex with the man who occupied the White House for four years, and now might have been actually elected. I'm not sure about that;:I'm beginning to understand my mother's generation of conspiracy theorists; and my generation of people I frankly used to think were crazy when they would talk about conspiracy's. Now I think that they've watched too many X-Files re-runs but they just might be on to something.

I'm tired of writing about 9/11; tired of being unconciously scared; tired of freaking each time I see an unattended package; tired of thinking each time I have to leave my neighborhood about the possibilities of a subway attack. We don't conciously think these things; we don't want to live in fear. We do anyway.

We don't have the luxury of thinking about moral values. We live on top of each other. We're so liberated that we can (and I do) complain that this new generation of gay men can be obnoxious and don't respect their own history. Almost all of my gay friends died in a six year time period. It aged me; and made me wary about making new gay friends. I feel as if I should have a checklist of questions to ask, beginning with
1) Do you practice safe sex?
2) Do you have more than one sexual partner?

I would never ask those questions because they know the risks, and I never ask personal questions to people I'm not interviewing. If they choose not to practice safe sex, then.

In Manhattan we try to accept people as they are. Again we have to. As everyone knows we sacrifice to live here. Would anybody in any other part of the country who is my age and has some resources choose to live in two and a half rooms? I don't think so.

I moved here because I couldn't imagine living anywhere else--29 years ago this coming January. I moved here because the energy was incredible; I found a great studio--45 feet long--for $300 a month. In the sixteen years I lived there the rent only went up to $500. When I was 40 I was ready for a bedroom and moved. (Other reasons too that I won't go into here.)

New York in the mid to late 1970's and 1980's was a great place to be young in. I'm middle aged now--though I try to stave that off by having younger friends, looking younger, eating properly, sleeping more, etc. Then I wonder why I do all these things if I'm going to be incinerated one day soon.

I'm tired of living in recessions and other events where the city becomes dangerous, subway maintainiance is ignored as are subway schedules, the parks fall into disrepair and....I know we have conservatories and private groups that maintain these things now, but it's already depressing.

It's one thing to be poor in your 20's or even 30's but at 50 it's downright sickening especially if you work all day, make what seems like a decent income, and still go into debt because the cost of living in New York goes up all the time while salaries remain stagnant or even go down.

I'm scared. I just heard that W wants Condee to be Secretary of State. They'll sell New York to the lowest bidder in a second. What do they have invested here?

82% of all Manhattanites and way more than 70% of all people from the outer boroughs and Nassau County voted for Kerry or against Bush.

We're every color, religion, ethnic group--and we get along! We've never had a major race riot. In the last black-out there was almost nil looting. I worked for Social Security in the Bronx. My office served 41 seperate ethnic groups--the second most diverse in the country after Jackson Heights Queens.

I'm tired of beating a dead horse, but it's better than being dead, and I'm scared that living in New York will kill me. And guess what? We normally live an average of seven years longer than the rest of American's do. Whether it's because we have access to great medical care or the ability to live in adverse crowded conditions helps a person become strong, a combination of the two or something else, nobody yet knows.

If we're attacked again, we might never know the answer to that question, and I think that it's important for future generations. However the man in the white house thinks that he has a mandate, but he can't pretend it came from New York, New Jersey or Conneticut.

If he can't beat us and make us compliant he can have these absurd warnings issued that only serve to scare us. The day the real attack happens we won't know anything, because somehow that notice wasn't given.

I'm not running to Canada--the weather doesn't suit me. But as soon as I can I'm leaving New York. If a draft happens I will make sure that my Goddaughter, Little Luce and my niece move out of the country, because girls will be drafted.

I'm tired of writing about this; tired of thinking about this but this is life in New York these days.

For all of you who feel morally superior to New Yorkers--you're so far inferior that it's not worth talking about. Remember we're a city that's banned smoking from bars; we've cleaned up Times Square so that it looks like a futuristic area and there's already a generation of New Yorker's and tourists that don't remember it any other way.

The Village, where I spent my high school years, hanging in is just another area where chain stores compete for attention.

We even have many Evangalists, but they're mostly Black so I don't know if W counts them.

W IS PROBABLY GOING TO BE ABLE TO PACK THE SUPREME COURT. I know that many historians and columnists believe that even Conseratives when they get onto the Court become less conserative and support womens' right to choose and civil rights but can we be sure? Look at the people he's been picking for his cabinet.

I fear that W's going to finish the job that Joe McCarthy began; my list of fears is long and none have to do with me personally. That scares me. When somebody as self-centered as me no longer has any phobias or personal worries but is scared for my country, then it's in deep trouble.

I'm sorry

2004-11-15T11:31:00.000-08:00

When we write about something, an incident particular to our lives and one that might have shaped our character, we risk hurting the people we love the most.

I don't like doing this as it makes me want to say "I'm sorry" two zillion times. "I'm sorry" is the expression on my cell screen saver.

The memoir I was writing--and almost assured of having published--is now becoming a novel so that even things that are exaggerated for literary reasons won't come back to haunt me.

I love the people in my life very much. Big Luce's sister is now one of my idols. She's a walking talking hyper beautiful advertisment for Match.com. She met a man who was not at all her type, took a leap of faith, and now the best dressed couple have been husband and wife for over a year.

It's amazing to me how two people who can seem superficial but are really incredibly warm-hearted, generous, beautiful, smart, witty and fun found each other.

As a writer I should be hard, and I can take rejection very well. I just can't take not being loved by people that I love. So, please love me, my friends. This is a blanket apology for anything I might have done, are doing, will do that might offend you.

Partial profanity

2004-11-15T09:33:00.000-08:00

Just for fun I put my blog into blog explosion. My thumbnail sketch wasn't ready, but under my blog name was "partial profanity."

I found this to be funny because I've been accused of not cursing enough in my writing. When I write about my teenage years there isn't any cursing because I didn't use words like "fuck."

When I was fourteen and my sister was twelve, she put a hole in my bedroom door. I told her to fuck off and my father punished me, not her. (I've always resented that.) But it was many years before I began cursing. I might have been a teenage wild child, but I had an excellent clean vocabulary.

Towards the end of his life my father began cursing. Always on the look out for strokes or impending dementia I asked him why. "Because those words have lost all meaning."

I was very excited as I thought the same thing. Any word is vulgar when used with hate; profanity isn't vulgar when used almost as an exclamtion point.

Let me get real. Most people don't over analyze things--in this case--words to death. They use profanity (for lack of a better word) because it's needed in context, they like to curse (again for lack...) or they have very limited vocabularies, in which case they must be very limited and probably boring.

In the interests of free speech I will continue to use profanities though in real life I'm much more likely to say "heck," "golly gee," or "gosh darn it." I've seen Hairspray (the original movie) too many times and have a ten year old niece who uses the above words for affect.

But here's to partial profanity.

Misery

2004-11-15T09:14:00.000-08:00

Everybody, with almost no exceptions, that I know is depressed, poor or both.

I guess I'm a bit jealous, not of being poor, but of people (or me) listening to their whining. When I was depressed it was made clear to me that whining is not acceptable behavior. (Springs Girl this isn't about you; don't take it personally.)

Eventually I stopped whining because I wanted to have some social life, and my sister is basically my only real relative. When I call my sister if she doesn't like the tone of my voice or what I have to say she'll hang up. I can't do that so last night I was subjected to another 45 minute long diatribe on everything and nothing. I finally couldn't take it anymore so I hung up as I had spent most of the day cheering Big Luce up.

We've been friends for almost 30 years and I can make her laugh by just giving her a look or saying almost anything. Big Luce is so deluded she thinks I'm the female straight David Sedaris (in my dreams.) I can make Little Luce (fourteen, ninth grade) laugh too, though at 5'9" she's hardly little. Little Luce's sentimental and couldn't believe that I remembered her first written report in kindergarten in its entirety. Sometimes I think that it's the most brilliant paper that I ever coached out of a kid.

Subject: What's your favorite food, and where do you eat it? (This is New York, they weren't refering to the room.

Report: I like French Toast at French Roast.

If all reports, writing and life could be that simple.

No more

2004-11-15T08:54:00.000-08:00

I will no longer write about dead or dying parents, though their lives as it impacted mine are fair game. Will only write about 9/11 in the context of something else.

Will not whine; will be clever and witty; will have a daily journal about my incredibly boring life. Will magically become brilliant, incisive and have an amazing life. Oh right, I did in the long ago 1980's. I was in 30's then which apparently is the only age one can be interesting--except for even younger.

Thing is I feel like in my 50's I'm only beginning to hit my prime or stride or whatever.

Several years ago, I was sitting next to two women on the subway. They began whispering to me, "Is that Gloria Steinam?" Yes it was. She was in her late 60's and in her black tee shirt, and black jeans, she looked a lot like an older me. As the women acted like teenage groupies, I smiled at Gloria who smiled back to me. Sad but it was a defining moment in my life.

After I walked up to the street, I took out my cell and called my mom: "I saw Gloria Steinam on the subway. She looks like an older me. We have the same tight face and figure type." My mom thought that Gloria had always looked like an older me and was pleased that I had noticed the resemblance. We talked about how Gloria had married for the first time in her 60's. If I get married then it won't be for the first time but maybe I'll be mature enough to make it work.

It's the little things like seeing Gloria Steinam that make me miss my mother. Who else can I tell these things to? Who else would care? Only somebody who has "unconditional love for my daughters--the best and the brightest" tattooed on her forehead would give a darn.

Yes she really had that tattooed; and I have a picture of my father in drag over my desk, but that's a whole other story.

If Queens is the new Brooklyn then blogs are....

2004-11-15T08:38:00.000-08:00

Why do I have to devote half my time to getting my blog to be seen when I began a blog as a means of getting out all the things running through my head that would never be published?

I began blogging to rant and not to edit or care about grammar, puncuation, style or the like. I did mean to try out new styles, but blogging seems to take on a life of its own.

I never thought of myself as a competitive person but like most people who think of themselves as writers, I want to be read. But my blogging is not like my other writing in style or substance so why do I care>

I'm not a pretty writer. I don't do flowerly well; I don't do faux sophisticated at all. All I have is a love of words and more thoughts than could possibly be good for me and a need to get them out as I don't want to talk everyone's heads off. I'm not even particularly clever though I can pass for witty.

I'm confused but the disc jockey just said everybody is confused today so I guess that I'm in the majority. I've never been in the majority so that couldn't have been true.

I really just want to be Dorothy Parker without the alcohol, but with the Round Table and the men. Is that too much to ask for?

A pharmacy delivery, a coop and a girl

2004-11-13T10:11:00.000-08:00

It was pouring and freezing yesterday. I had a mountain of errands to do, and had to drop off a prescription at the drug store. (Controlled Substance—has to be done in person.) I go to the fanciest drug store on the Upper West Side as it accepts insurance, and then goads you into not buying the incredible candles, skin care products, and other expensive sundries. I’ve been going to this pharmacy for seven years and love it since they treat people like human beings unlike the chains.

Had the headache from hell. My sinuses can’t take this much rain and they were letting me know it’s time to leave for a drought area. Usually I wait the fifteen minutes until the prescription’s ready but the rain had turned into drizzles and I knew that it was only a matter of minutes until it began pouring again. I asked for a delivery. It was about noon.

I went home to my building that once was homey, but in the seven years since I bought my apartment has become a big deal. Translation for non Manhattanites—the new doormen all speak English as a first language and cater to the people who pay the most for their apartments.

Our new day doorman is bright, witty and I like him. But he claims he’s been ringing my intercom and I don’t answer. Somehow I don’t have this problem with any of the old doormen who do the late afternoon, night and weekend shifts.

I told the doorman that I was expecting a delivery from the pharmacy. My head was crying out for sleep and Advil; but I stayed awake so that I would absolutely hear the intercom. Became immersed in some activities, and then looked at the clock. It was 5:40. Called the late afternoon/evening doorman, who said that nothing had arrived for me. Called the pharmacy; they said it had been delivered at 1:40 and somebody named “Tony” had signed for it. Knew that was impossible as nobody who works in the building is named Tony and told them so. They didn’t believe me.

Went downstairs and had the doorman look for the package. There was one delivery for somebody, not me, who lives three stories up in an apartment with the same letter—12 D. Called the pharmacy back. Didn’t want to get into an argument, but they were pushing my buttons. However they finally agreed to call the deliveryman who they said had signed off from his shift and might not be reachable.

He hadn’t signed off from his shift as his delivery truck had collided with a garbage truck. I just happened to be the first person to call and complain as I had been waiting the longest. Two hours later my prescription arrived. I could finally change into my PJ’s, turn on the TV and watch DVR’d episodes of TV shows.

Why couldn’t I have changed into my PJ’s sooner and watched TV while waiting? Couldn’t be too comfortable least I fall asleep and not hear the intercom. Couldn’t put on the TV or music for the same reason.

Realize how insane this sounds but this is Manhattan and my building owns me. When I first moved in I was on the must be catered to, paid good money list, but now I’m way down on the list. One of my big responsibilities in life is to make the building staffs lives easier. Don’t ask; that’s just the way it is here.