Ma vie sans chat

This will be the first time in 15 years I have not lived with a cat. As I got out of bed today and walked to the bathroom, I kept watching my feet to be careful not to step on a cat eager for her breakfast. Although I've noticed that before during periods when Betty was staying over at her Aunt Oddrun's, it was especially poignant this morning. Then this afternoon I sat down to watch TV and had to keep myself from calling her to join me. (We both loved lazy TV days sometimes.)

George and I had a nice quiet little "service" for Betty. We laid her to rest in a quiet spot in our backyard. We buried her with her hand-made kitty bowl (since food was her favorite pasttime), an old t-shirt of mine, a few of her toys, and pictures of me, George and Oddrun (who was her sometimes-mommy). Then we lit a pretty citronella candle holder that looks like a miniature gazebo, some other candles and incense sticks, and sat at her grave for about an hour sipping tawny port wine. It was very healing.

Thanks to everyone for all the very sweet phone calls, emails and notes on the blog entry. We are sad, but compared to the other two deaths we have dealt with the past few months, at least this one wasn't tragically early. It's the difficult part of having pets - having to say goodbye at the end of their lives. But we know what a difference we made to Betty, having saved her off the farm and giving her 14 years of food, warm beds and love. And she returned it all tenfold (at least the love part of it.)

We're going to be pet-free for a while until we get settled into our apartment after it is rebuilt. At some point after that, be prepared for a blog entry to introduce you to our two new pets: a French bulldog for George and a new kitten for me. We're going to raise them together, and also bring them over right away to meet Oddrun's cats, Clarence & Lucy, so that they can all be pals and have sleepovers together.

Betty

There's a new angel in heaven.  

In the fall of 1991, when I was still living in Minneapolis, I decided to get a playmate for my cat Shirley, who had recently moved in with me and away from her step-brother, Atticus. I was doing that stupid thing where you assign human emotional norms to your pet. I figured, Shirley is lonely and she misses Atticus! She needs another cat around to keep her company while I'm at work! Only later did I discover from Shirley's previous owner that she HATED Atticus, and couldn't wait to get away from him.

So, in keeping with my stupid human plan, one chilly Sunday morning my then-boyfriend Mark & I drove out to Vasa, Minnesota, where my friend Aimee's parents lived on a large country estate with lots of random animals, including a pack of barn cats. The most recent litter of kittens had been born just a few weeks earlier. Autumn is late in the year for kittens to be born on Minnesota farms, where the early cold can make it hard for a non-house litter to survive. So I knew that whichever kitten we chose was going to be one lucky cat to be able to go home to a nice warm apartment.

I really wanted a grey kitty. There were several that I thought were really cute, but they were already a bit long in the tooth to be handled by humans, and kept running away from us as we tried to catch them. At one point Aimee did grab hold of one very pretty grey tabby, who subsequently bit her finger almost clear through to the bone. We let that one go.


Betty with prey.  

After a while Mark said "look at this little orange and black one. She keeps following us around." I looked down and saw the tiniest little tortoise colored kitten in the world. She was only about as big as one of my fists, but she was plenty feisty, walking around on all fours, mewing up a storm. When you looked at her she would return your gaze and head straight for you, meowing as if to say "Pick me, pleeeeeease, pretty please, pick me!!!" I wasn't that fond of her coloring, and besides that she had a pin head with a strange orange stripe running down the length of her forehead. I kept on with my search for a grey kitten.

But she would have none of it, and would not leave us alone. Finally Mark said "well Tom, I think this one is choosing us!" And I had to admit, something about her insistence was really endearing. She was clearly very intelligent, which I figured would make up for her strange appearance. I decided to take her home, and the second I picked her up she started purring.

I drove home, and the new kitten slept on Mark's lap the entire way. "What should we name her?" I asked. Mark suggested the name "Stripe" because of the orange stripe on her forehead. Hmmm, not really my style. I've always preferred old lady names for my female cats: Shirley, Lucy, Samantha - that sort of thing. I never wanted to name a pet something that might be confused with a beer commercial mascot.

"How about Sabena?" I replied. Mark was of German descent, and I thought he would appreciate it. "Sabena? That's weird. Let's think about it some more."


Betty was an avid connoisseur of house plants. 

I took the kitty home that evening, and set up a tiny little bed for her in a corner of the bedroom. (Shirley, who had not reacted well to the kitten's entrance, was banished to the living room for the night.) I didn't want the kitten sleeping in my bed because she was so tiny, I was afraid I'd roll over on her and not hear her meows. So I put the kitty in her bed, got into my own bed, turned out the lights - and then about 10 seconds later heard this little scratching noise. Then I noticed the comforter moving slightly - and up appeared the kitten, who climbed up the comforter into bed with me. After several attempts at putting her in her own bed, I had to let her sleep with me. And we succeeded - she curled up on a pillow next to my head where she was remained safe from possible suffocation.

The next morning I was talking to my friend Laurie, and we were reminiscing about an old joke of ours where we thought it would be really funny if we started calling our friend Beth "Betty". It was really, really stupid, but for some reason it just made us laugh uncontrollably. My friend Sarah had always gotten a kick out of that joke as well. Later I started thinking "Betty. Why not name the cat Betty?" I made a mental note to speak with Mark about it. I also called my friend Sarah and left her a message to tell her about my great idea for the cat's name.

Normally I would have wanted my boyfriend to like the name of my new pet. But as fate would have it, Sarah called me back later that day, before I had a chance to see Mark, and left me a message on my answering machine: "Hi Tom! Hi Betty! So how is Betty enjoying her new home?" It seemed too much like fate that the cat was already getting answering machine messages addressed to her by her name, "Betty."


Betty was a notorious cover and pillow thief.  

A few hours later I talked to Mark on the phone and told him why I had decided, finally, that the new kitten would be called "Betty." "Betty?" he said. "How about Sabena? I guess I really like Sabena!" I detected downright panic in his voice. But it was too late. Betty was already becoming known in my circle.

Betty was nothing if not a charmer. She was very bright, and had a distinctive and sometimes rambunctious personality. When we lived in West Hollywood she used to sit outside in the front yard of my house and greet all the passers-by. Sometimes I would sit out front with her and complete strangers would walk right up to us and say "Hi, Betty!" She had more friends in the neighborhood than I did.

Betty loved food almost more than anything else. I used to call her "Concentration Camp Kitty" because if left uncontrolled, she would eat as if she'd been intentionally starved for months. Those early days on the farm without enough food for all the cats must have made a strong impression. I remember the first week that I had her home as a kitten in Minneapolis. I was having my dinner, and Betty was sitting on my lap while I ate. She was obsessed with trying to taste all the food on my plate. I let her sniff a piece of meat before I put it in my mouth. She wanted it so badly and she actually reached up and stuck her entire little paw in my mouth to try to get it.


Betty's religion considered it a sin to let humans eat alone.  


Probably my favorite thing about Betty was her love of cuddling. I used to call her the "Teddy Cat" because she would cuddle on demand. If I was in the living room watching something sad on TV, sometimes I would decide I needed Betty to come keep me company. I would call "Betty! Come see me!" and in about five minutes she would appear from whatever she had been doing to join me on the couch. I'd never had a cat so willing to drop everything for a cuddle. She was an absolute sweetheart. She would also sleep right next to me in bed every night, letting me clutch her like a teddy bear.

There are too many Betty stories to share right now, as we mourn her passing earlier today. I had her for fourteen wonderful years, and George enjoyed her company for eight of those years. I will write more Betty blog entries as the thoughts come to me. Meanwhile, we drink a toast to the life of this remarkable and wonderful cat.


Betty 1991-2005 

Is John Roberts a Total 'Mo?

Maybe Souter won't be the only closeted justice on the Supreme Court. See this link for details.

Traitor 

My new summer drink

One of the best things about being a transplanted Midwesterner is that everyone thinks you're some kind of genius just because you know how to mix a drink. It just doesn't seem to dawn on people that if you grow up surrounded by drunkards you have to learn these skills at a tender age.

I'll admit that I'm not always that swift in the kitchen. I can manage just fine, but I'm not always the kind of cook who knows how to add "just enough." I like measurements, approximate if not exact.

But when it comes to drinks, I do it all by feel. I just know when I've got the right mix of vodka to orange juice, for example. I can tell by the smell of the lime how much sugar I'll have to add to make that cocktail delicious instead of too tart or bitter. I know how to eyeball a jigger, even if I'm a bit heavy handed (another Midwestern bonus.) It is a proven fact that my mixed drinks are so delicious and deceptively strong that I can put an entire dinner party under the table before the first course is on the table. (I've learned, the hard way, to give the chef half strength drinks to avoid having your dinner ruined before it's served.)

With that, I will share with you my latest summer cocktail advenure, Planter's Punch.


 

Squeeze the juice of one lime (or 1.5 limes if you like it tart) into a collins glass. Add sugar or sugar syrup - up to a tablespoon's worth (more if the limes are especially tart.) Mix well. Add soda, about twice as much as the amount of lime juice. Add a bunch of ice cubes and stir until the glass becomes frosted. Throw in a few dashes of bitters, and fill the glass almost to the top with light rum (a shot or two.) Add more ice, then top with grenadine (I like to see the grenadine drizzle down over the ice cubes.) Garnish with lime wedges & whatever other fruit you have. DELICIOUS!

Advice from my mother

One time when I was a teenager I was complaining to my mom that people don't automatically like me because I don't smile enough. She said "so do you think you should walk around like you have a mouth full of shit?"

Post-Traumatic Etiquette Whore Series: Miss Manners Part 1

Gentle Readers,

I've spent much of 2005 either terribly stressed out or in mourning, having lost two loved ones in the space of three months, on top of a few other disasters of notable size. One of the things I've noticed about myself is that in these recent times of turmoil, I have become incredibly aware and critical of the bad behavior of others. From the strange behavior of certain individuals at Jacob's memorial service to the acquaintance who wore flip-flops to our friend Jae's wake and funeral, I've been there with my mental notepad, keeping score on who commits the biggest social gaffes in the face of unspeakable tragedy.

I keep track of who calls and who doesn't call; who sends cards & flowers and who sends none; who dresses and behaves appropriately and who ends up lacking. I make note of the stupid and thoughtless things people do and say, although I do offer a sliding scale for people who unwittingly commit gaffes when they are just trying to be nice. But come on. Flip-flops at a funeral?

It's obviously a coping mechanism, a way of avoiding the overwhelming sadness that might otherwise engulf me and take over my life. But for whatever it's worth, for good or for bad, it's who I've turned out to be. And although I don't deny that I've been incredibly rude myself at times during my life - remember that I get scored along with everyone else - the plain & simple fact is that I've turned into a Post-Traumatic Etiquette Whore.

Miss Manners would not be kind about this blog entry, and I don't blame her. After all, the purpose of etiquette is not to make others feel uncomfortable or embarrassed; in fact, the purpose of etiquette is quite the opposite. Those of us who weren't raised in barns try to observe simple rules of good manners to show our respect for others and to avoid making others uncomfortable. Publishing crudely worded blog entries seems to fit neither of those purposes.

I sincerely hope that none of my gentle readers feel uncomfortable with what I am expressing today. But if anyone were to feel uncomfortable with my new moniker "Post-Traumatic Etiquette Whore," I would simply have to remind him or her that Coaster Punchman's World ain't no tea party. In this purportedly warm & welcoming cyberspace, we live only by the rules conjured up by my sometimes dark & twisted mind. "House rule, sweetie."

And so, to celebrate my newfound status as Post-Traumatic Etiquette Whore, I have decided to share some occasional words of wisdom from the etiquette maven of the millennium herself, Judith Martin, aka Miss Manners. My hero, she is. Only Miss Manners can slay people with such delightful charm & grace.

*************************************************************************************

DEAR MISS MANNERS: An acquaintance of mine recently informed me and others, through e-mail, that our children would not be invited to her child's birthday party due to the large number of possible guests. She was very apologetic and hoped that this would not harm our relationship.

I had thought not to invite her child to my own child's party for similar reasons. Should I now inform her so, as she did for me, or am I right in thinking that this approach is presumptuous and rude?

GENTLE READER: The announcement that you - or in this case, your child - did not make the cut when a guest list was scaled back to only the most desirable guests is not Miss Manners' idea of a charming social form. You did not seem to care for it, either. So why would you consider adopting it?

Nazi Pope

Ratz is at it already with the gay-bashing. God forbid more than a few months should go by in his papacy without his lashing out at birth control and same-sex marriage. See this Yahoo! news story.

Why is it that millions of people take all this advice on sexuality from people who claim to have never had sex? Even if they know what they're talking about, they're not supposed to.

The Pope can bite me. There, I said it.

Dysfunctional Family Dialogue

Me: I'll try to be nicer to you.

Him: That's ok, I'd rather you just be yourself.

Jae

Jae Woo Yoo (known to his American friends as "Jae") came to New York from Korea in 1980 to stay with his brother Jae Hyun, who was then a Ph.D. student at Columbia University. It soon became apparent to Jae, his family and everyone else that had ever met him that Jae was made for America and especially for the excitement that was life in New York. Although Jae never lost any love for his family or his native land, with his vivacious and artistic personality and his profound knowledge of American movies, music and media, Jae found so much happiness in the US that he decided to make New York his permanent home.

George met Jae in 1982 while they were both volunteering for an Asian men's organization, and they formed a strong bond that would last for the next 23 years. A talented visual artist with a boundless sense of humor and an extraordinary zest for living, Jae was immediately drawn to George because of his own humor, artistic talent and strong personality. Although nearly five years older than George, Jae placed him on a pedestal and found in him a role model for living as a strong Asian-American man. Together they bounded through New York life, sharing their respective joys, sorrows, triumphs, defeats, romances and heartaches. They were true soulmates in every sense of the word.

I first met Jae in January, 1998, shortly after George and I had begun dating. The moment we walked in the door to his apartment, Jae said "You play piano, right? Here, play this for me!" and handed me the sheet music to Madonna's "You'll See," a sad love ballad. I sat down to sightread the music, and Jae immediately plopped down next to me on the piano bench, belting out "YOU THINK THAT I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT YOUR LOVE, YOU'LL SEE!!!!" - almost so loudly that I couldn't hear what I was playing. I looked across the room and saw George sitting with this big grin on his face.

About halfway through the song, Jae jumped up from the piano bench and said "George, you have to see this new Chinese movie that I just got!" and ran over to his VCR and started fumbling around with his tapes. Since we were obviously through with the Madonna song for the moment, I went over and sat next to George on the couch to watch the movie that Jae had started playing. He'd say "George, watch this scene, this is really great!" and then he talked all the way through the scene. "Oh, you have to see this Korean movie I have..." It became apparent within the space of about 10 minutes that he had a serious case of ADD. But he was so sweet & charming that it didn't bother me.


Jae & George 

A kitchen designer by trade, Jae would sometimes hire random workers to help him deliver new kitchen cabinets to his customers. When I first moved to New York I wasn't working, so Jae enlisted my services as a driver to make deliveries. I spent about eight weeks working with Jae, and nearly lost my life several times in the process. I loved Jae, but he was a MAJOR spaz. I'd be driving along the interstate when all of a sudden he would SCREAM at the top of his lungs "OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!" causing me to swerve or slam on the breaks. "What's the matter?" I would ask. His reply was usually something like "we missed the exit!"

I didn't fare much better during the physical delivery of the cabinets. I tried to help him carry cabinets into buildings, being careful not to scratch and mar doorways or damage the merchandise. I soon learned that carrying a heavy, bulky item with Jae was not a good idea. Several times I almost had my arm ripped off as Jae violently maneuvered us through tight doorways and elevators. Invariably Jae would start hoisting entire cabinets onto his back and running with them. One time he tried to run through a garage door with a low clearance. The top of the cabinet crashed into the doorway, knocking Jae over so that the heavy cabinet fell right on top of him. I was horrified, sure that he had broken several limbs or his neck. He laid on the ground for about 10 seconds, groaning in pain, after which he jumped back up to repeat the entire process.

The merchandise got broken often. "Jae, the cabinet is cracked!" I'd say, and he'd stop to look at it and say "oh, it's only the back side, it won't matter." Occasionally he would damage the cabinets so badly that he'd have to replace them, but I guess he figured he was at least breaking even considering the high volume of work he was able to deliver at (almost literally) break-neck speed.

Although Jae was frightening as a worker, I actually appreciated his rough antics the day he came to our house to deliver new cabinets when we remodeled our kitchen. When George's mother, who is often stubborn and difficult for no apparent reason, saw him hosting the cabinets up the steps, she came out to try to stop him. "No, no new cabinet!!!" she screamed. He literally shoved right past her the entire time, even when she physically tried to block him. When he was through, Jae said to me "God, I always think George is so mean talking about his mother, but now I understand. She's just so, so bitchy!"

Jae played as hard as he worked. He enjoyed a 20-year love affair with Fire Island, and often rented houses for the entire summer with various friends, including George & me. He barely slept whenever we spent time with him because he never wanted to miss any of the action. He also enjoyed the company of many, many friends during these summer adventures.

Jae loved living so much that he usually ignored any pain he was feeling. He was incredibly accident prone, and had a body full of scars to prove it. "I don't need tattoos, I have scars" he would often proclaim proudly. While we can never be sure why his liver cancer was not diagnosed until it was much too late to help him, we can only guess that his incredible tolerance for pain may be part of the reason.

A few weeks ago Jae went to the emergency room because he was having pain in his chest & abdomen. The doctors diagnosed him with pleurisy, an inflammation of the lung lining that can cause a lot of discomfort. They discharged him, sending him home with painkillers.

A week later, Jae called George and asked him to come over because his pain had returned with a vengeance. Knowing I was nearby, George called me on my cell phone and asked me to go help Jae immediately. By the time I got to his apartment, the paramedics that George had called had already arrived. I rode with Jae to Belleview hospital, holding his hand the entire way. Three hours later, the doctors told me that Jae had an enormous tumor on his liver that had ruptured, and that I needed to get his family there immediately.

Since Jae had given me a key to his apartment years before, I ran back to his apartment and rifled through his files until I found an address and phone number for his brother, Jae Hyun. With the assistance of one of Jae's Korean-American friends, we called Korea to notify the family, and Jae Hyun was with us in New York several days later.

Jae's very short battle with cancer came to an end yesterday morning at 6:15 am, with several of his best friends at his side.

We all miss you, dear Jae Woo Yoo, and will be forever grateful for the fun, laughter and love you shared with us over all these years. May we all take a lesson from you and live every minute of our lives as though it were our last. May God bless and keep Jae in His loving care for all eternity, and send comfort and peace to Jae's family and other loved ones as they mourn the passing of this truly remarkable person. He will be missed more than I can put into words.


Jae Woo Yoo September 20, 1954 - May 29, 2005 

The family is asleep

The family is asleep 

TV Expert

There's this quirky movie from 1990 called "Metropolitan" about these horribly pretentious Manhattanite college students. One of them talks about literature a lot, but admits that he never actually reads novels; he only reads literary criticism. At least he did better than our former vice-president Dan Quayle, who saw himself fit enough to criticize Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses in public without ever having read the book. (Click here for that story and more entertaining Quaylisms.)

I've decided to take the Metropolitan/Quayle idea a step further. I'm going to become a renowned expert in TV shows I've never seen by watching only the E! True Hollywood Story behind-the-scenes documentaries about said shows.

I'll admit I sort of backed into this project by accident. One day I was channel surfing when I came across The E! True Hollywood Story of the sitcom Growing Pains. I started watching, even though I had never even heard of this show that ran from 1985-1992. After only a few minutes I was hooked on the tale of how this show was cast, the love-affair-that-almost-was between Alan Thicke and Joanna Kerns, and the love & respect the players had for each other until teen heartthrob Kirk Cameron's foray into fundamentalist Christianity and oh-so-cute Tracey Gold's anorexia almost tore the cast apart. Throw in a former Playboy Playmate getting kicked off the show because it offended Kirk's new Christian sensibility, and you have a real behind-the-scenes HIT with me. I had more fun watching this drivel than I ever would have seeing the show itself. The way I see it, why waste your time with the real show at all if you can get the recap AND the scandals in one shot from the E! True Hollywood Story?

It's like CliffsNotes for TV. It's brilliant. From now on when somebody asks me if I've been following such-and-such show, I can just tell them "oh I don't watch shows on TV - I just wait for the E! abbreviated version to come out." Imagine how much time I'll have for other projects.

And it doesn't have to stop with sitcoms either. Thanks to VH1's Bands Reunited, I am now intimately familiar with the careers and surrounding scandals of the members of the bands Vixen and Klymaxx, two bands I had never even heard of before this brilliant VH1 series brought them to my attention. Years down the road when I'm sitting around with my friends reminiscing about the past, I'll be able to talk about how I used to rock down to Vixen & Klymaxx. (I'll conveniently forget to mention that I rocked down to them for a period of one hour apiece during these VH1 specials.) I'll seem that much more culturally literate. It can only help.

The Wizard and I

For months I've been going over to the Gershwin Theater at random intervals to stand in line for the $25 lottery to try to get tickets to the Broadway musical "Wicked." It's a great deal. You can show up two hours before any show and put your name in a raffle for the right to purchase up to two front-row tickets for only $25 each. Several theaters do this as a way to enable regular-income folk like us to see Broadway theater at affordable prices.

George and I agreed on a once-a-week trip (for him) into the city to meet me after work to try to get tickets, and then go out for a consolation dinner when we don't make it.

I've REALLY been wanting to see this musical. I read the book "Wicked" by Gregory Maguire last summer and really fell in love with the story. For those of you who haven't read it, it's a behind-the-scenes look at the life of the "Wicked" Witch of the West, starting with the story of the relationship of her parents before her birth.

Although it's a fun fantasy-type story to many, I found the book to be much more than that. It's really a social and political commentary that rings true to so much that is happening in the world right now. It's about people and nations creating "enemies" that they can unite against, because having these enemies makes it easier for said people and nations to achieve their own covert and dishonorable objectives. Sound familiar?

And to those who stand up to the masses to say "this is wrong, this shouldn't be happening" - what becomes of them?

Aside from the political overtones, the story also speaks to the universal theme of not belonging, and the feelings of isolation and vilification that accompany. The search for love and acceptance, of finding your safe zone in the world, only to have it yanked out from under you unexpectedly. The heartbreak that comes with the realization that the generally accepted ideas of "good" and "true" in the world are specious, based on lies and deceit.

Most interestingly, the story speaks to the problem of negotiating the fine line between "good" and "evil." Everyone makes their deal with the devil at some point in their life. How do we navigate and manage the inevitable changes in our personalities that come from years of hard living?

The book goes into a lot of complexities about these ideas, much more than the Broadway musical adaptation is able to. But the show does a great job of at least skimming the surface of all of the above. I highly recommend it. The music adds a lot to the emotions behind these questions, and there are some really great showstopping numbers to boot. I think my favorite one is "The Wizard and I," a song the witch belts out early in the show, as she describes her feelings of hope and elation after she is told she'll be able to meet the Wonderful Wizard of Oz in person. Although the song itself is upbeat, the idea behind it is just so heartbreaking that I sobbed all the way through it.

I just realized I never told you how we got in to the show! Yesterday afternoon I called George to tell him to come into the city to meet me for the weekly lottery. What I didn't realize was that Tuesday shows start at 7:00, not 8:00, so I got to the theater an hour too late to join the lottery. So instead I decided to stand in the cancellation line, and in less than an hour was rewarded with two orchestra level tickets, just about the best seats in the house. I paid a pretty penny to get them, but the joy seeing the show brought me made it all worth it. As for George, he says he's never enjoyed a Broadway production more in his entire life.

Read "Wicked." Buy the soundtrack. Come see me in New York and go to the musical with me. You'll like it.

I'm still here

Sorry for my lack of blog updates. I am still here, but have been suffering from a lack of free time as well as a lack of interesting things to blog about. ("Well that never stopped you before," many of you are thinking to yourselves.)

Some of you know about our domestic disaster. I'm not blogging about it in detail due to potential legal ramifications, but suffice to say that a utility company destroyed our apartment and we have been left without a permanent place to live for nearly three months. It is starting to get old. We just want our stuff back and a place to call our own. Meanwhile, everything in life feels up in the air and unsettled. I'm starting to have fleeing fantasies - wanting to flee this side of the country as quickly and as soon as possible. I can just hear the Monty Python knights in my head shrieking "run away! run away!"

Mindy June thinks I should move to England to get away from the stresses of my current life as well as from all the bad people who support the Iraq war and the idea of an American totalitarian theocracy. Although it's kind of like the cat telling you "you should really come have all your meals on the floor, next to me!", she does have a point. I told her I should probably stay in the US because someone needs to keep voting against the bad people. She said "oh you should definitely still vote, but it doesn't mean you have to live there with them."

Sigh.

30-Second Bunnies Theater

No post tonight except to draw your attention to my new links for a few of my favorite 30-Second Bunnies Theater. Enjoy!

The Joys of New York

The other day I was walking down 44th street when I came across this guy handing out flyers inviting gentlemen to visit a local strip club. He was shoving these flyers in the faces of practically everyone, male & female, who passed him. I was actually curious to see what the flyer said specifically, but when I got up to him he completely ignored me. Didn't offer me a flyer, wouldn't even look at me. I guess I'm not the type of riffraff they want hanging out in their club.

Then the other night George & I were offered free tickets to a dress rehearsal for "Purlie," a remake of a musical from the 1970s. We were walking toward the stage door where our friend, a musician in the pit orchestra, told us to meet him so we could pick up our tickets. As we approached we heard a man shouting obscenities about 5 feet from where our friend was standing waiting for us. He was really unleashing a stream of words I hadn't heard since I burned a hole in my mom's new carpeting when I was a kid. I made a comment to our friend about it and he said "oh yeah, he's here every night, he's really funny" and then changed the subject and started talking about an upcoming audition. Then three busses pulled up and dozens of preteenage kids started to disembark - apparently they were attending the show that night. The foul mouthed man continued belting out "why you pack of mother-f***ing rats, get the h*** out of my space you a** wiping worthless no good sh*theads....." Everyone just completely ignored him and carried on their conversations.

Will I ever get used to living here?

What's with all the big heads?

Parts of this entry are kind of gross so if you're squeamish, consider yourself warned.

I had a dream many years ago that still haunts me. In the dream I was walking in a woods when I came to a clearing and a wide river. There was a car stuck in the middle of the river. Trying to escape from the car was this family of people with normal bodies but incredibly huge heads, like cartoon character size. The father of the family was standing in the river while trying to pry open the doors of the car to free his family. His huge bulbous head kept bobbing all over the place as he tried to jimmy the car door, while at the same time diarrhea was spilling out of his pants.

This dream disturbed me to such an extent that even today I still get alarmed when I see a drawing or other likeness of a human with an enormous head. Which brings me to the question that is the subject of today's post: what's with all the big heads?

A few years ago I stopped dead in my tracks, slackjawed, after I came across an NYC bus stop shelter displaying the then-new Steve Madden ad campaign that featured cartoonish people with enormous heads. See this link: Disturbing.

Or when I was in law school I was reading a case about the creators of HR Pufnstuf suing McDonald's for allegedly stealing their idea for make-believe characters with gigantic heads, like this one: This bothered me as well.

But today I saw something even more alarming along these lines. I was passing by Saks Fifth Avenue when I noticed that in their display windows they had mannequins, both male and female, dressed to the nines in their new spring line. But instead of having human heads, or no heads at all, these mannequins were adorned with humongous heads of chickens and bunnies where the human heads should have been. I wish I had a picture to share with you.

Please make it stop.

Luck 'o the Irish + Prader-Willi

Last week was St. Patrick's Day, which is quite an event for the people of New York (except for the gay Irish who aren't allowed to play with the other parade people). My office is on 5th Avenue, so this year I had the pleasure of the parade taking place right outside my door. At one point I went around the corner to the drug store, and it took 25 minutes there and back. There was a big pool of spilled beer right in front of the door to my building, with a bunch of drunk frat boys doing stuff like jumping up in the air and bumping their torsos together. People told me that the police had really started cracking down on public drinking on St. Patrick's day, but the shenanigans I just described were happening right in front of a group of cops, so who knows.

The day before I had been at a department store downtown across from the WTC site. In front of me in line there was a group of drunk Irish people. They were involved in some sort of gentle row with the sales clerk over the use of a coupon. Apparently they weren't able to use $5 worth of the coupon right then. They left after far too long, and I asked the clerk what was going on. She said "they're Irish and they're already drunk. I swear, these people can't wait until March 17 to start drinking." I was nodding my silent understanding when one of the drunk Irish people walked up to me and handed me the $5 coupon that she wasn't able to use. So I saved $5 off my purchase. Then I felt bad for agreeing with the clerk that they were drunk & obnoxious. That's what I call the Luck o' the Irish!

PS: Now I'm watching a Discovery channel program about people with Prader-Willi syndrome, a rare disorder that makes people eat uncontrollably. They have to live their entire lives under constant supervision or else they will literally eat until they die. And when you don't let them eat, they fly into these hideous rages.

I think I might have Prader-Willi syndrome. And now my relationship with George is taking on a whole new meaning.

Grief

Now that we're all back home and the funeral services are over, we resume our daily lives. My clients call me in the office demanding things; friends leave casual chatty voice mail messages on my cell phone; I give the cat her daily medicine.

But I don't know how to go on after all this. I either feel empty or hopeless. My sister in law Ruby invited me to go to the movies tonight. I don't want to go. I don't want to do anything that is supposed to be fun. I don't feel like trying to have fun. I don't feel like doing yoga or mixing drinks.

When Jacob graduated from high school he announced that he wasn't going to college. He thought maybe he'd do a technical program at one of those schools that advertise on late night television.

His parents weren't happy. My sister called and said she wanted to send Jake out to stay with me for a while so that I could convince him to go to college. I said "fine." He came out, we had a blast, we talked about college every now & again. When he got home he told his parents that he was taking a year off, but that he would go to college after that. He did. He graduated with straight A's.

A few years ago my sister called to tell me Jake wanted to join the Army. She asked me to call him and talk him out of it. "He'll listen to you," she said. I never called. I figured he was an adult and able to make up his own mind. I also believed the lines they fed him and his parents about not sending only children into combat.

I wish I had called him. I could have called and said "Jake, I know you hate your job. I'm sending you a ticket to New York. Come stay with us for a while, take a break, do whatever you want. Let's talk about this Army idea." It would have been so easy. A phone call, a plane ticket. I didn't do it.

Then when we found out he was going to Iraq, my sister asked me to come for Christmas because he'd be home. I didn't go. I was having stresses on my new job, and I just wanted some time to myself. I could have seen him again. I could have given him a hug before he left for Iraq. Instead, I called him from a bar in Manhattan on Christmas Eve. I said to him "it will be ok. They'll just have you in an office over there." That was the last thing I said to him.