Stop the Trump World, I Want to Get Off

I'm paraphrasing the Broadway show, "Stop the World, I Want To Get Off," a musical from the Sixties. Ironically, that show featured a hit song, "What Kind of Fool Am I?" In Trump World, his supporters are the fools who make sane voters 'want to get off ' a globe that is making a megalomaniac a successful candidate for the leader of the free world. A president conducts his or her behavior with respect for propriety, our nation, the honor of being Commander-in-Chief, and achieving goals that serve America's citizens. The GOP front-runner (better known behind Congressional doors as The One To Be Gotten Rid Of) is driving a stake through the Republican Party's "heart." Donald Trump's dog and pony show is both incomprehensible and terrifying. His gullible fans consist of people who have drunk more of the Kool-Aid than all of Jim Jones' Guyana cultists.  

Donald Trump is nothing more than a carnival barker who cons people into buying tickets to his own freak show. He is the Two-Headed Man, The Three-Legged Cow, under the tent at the Youth Fair I frequented as a teen. He's a six-hundred pound jabba the hut, the warped image of America as reflected in the House of mirrors. Trump makes Gordon Gecko look like Jesus. You remember "Wall Street," the movie where Michael Douglas utters the famous line, "Greed is good." Apparently, the despot who just ran the Super Tuesday table is locomotive breath the frantic, berserk Republicans cannot slow down.

Any third-grader can tell you what the Ku Klux Klan is. If it's not your common knowledge that white supremacists exist, and you cannot recall the nightmare of David Duke, you have no business running for student council, let alone the President of the United States. 'Stupid like a fox' was Trump in the interview with CNN's Jake Tapper, during which he claimed all of the above. He feigned ignorance to secure the bigot vote just in time.

"Making America Great Again" is code for ensuring rich, whites' prominence remains intact. The unprecedented, disrespectful treatment our current POTUS has endured, set the stage for Donald Trump's bombastic entrance to "take our country back" from those evil liberals. Grand Old Party, get used to your triumphant Frankenstein. You created him.                 

The Top Worst Songs

I suffer from an incurable affliction. It often occurs in vintage junk shops that play "Sixties on Six" on Sirius XM. But it can happen anywhere, anytime, especially in the shower. Imagine the following paraphrasing of the famous movie line, "I see dead people." When I hear horrendous top forty hits, the barest snippet of such songs holds my brain hostage, sans "delete" button, and SHRIEK! "I hear bad music." Everyone has this once in a while, right? It's not just me that goes berserk when her ears are assaulted by records that never should have been recorded, let alone still played four or five decades later?  

The following are my picks for The Top Worst Songs, chosen from hits I heard growing up in the Sixties and Seventies, from transistor to cassette and eight-track. Feel free to leave comments on tunes you hated from that era. In no particular order:

"Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I've Got Love in My Tummy" Ohio Express
"Sugar, Oh, Honey, Honey" The Archies
"Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree" Tony Orlando and Dawn
"You're Having My Baby" Paul Anka
"Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown" Jim Croce
"I Write the Songs" Barry Manilow
"It Must Be Him" Vicki Carr
"Muskrat Love" Captain & Tennille
"Honey" Bobby Goldsboro
"The Harper Valley PTA" Jeannie C. Riley

This is but a sampling of the trash I was subjected to in my youth...until I could race to the volume knob and shut the music off.







       

Grief Part II

The last time I even looked at my blog I felt terribly guilty for not writing anything for over two and a half years, since my father's death. Tragically, this post covers the same ground. I've lost another part of my whole world, my only sibling. Now I am the only surviving member of my family of origin. Death, a stealth fighter, an invisible thief doing his work in the night, robbed all of those who loved my older sister, Nancy Russell Dearr. In the wee hours of Wednesday, she left without leaving a calling card or a known cause. She was sixty-two; seemingly healthy, prepared to go the distance. Everyone was blindsided.  Since the dawn of time, we gather the shattered remnants of the history of a person gone too soon. Once again, my experience is the shattering of a bond deeply embedded in my soul.  I'm missing my trusty other half; Scout sans Jem, Dean Martin without Jerry Lewis, Hope minus Bing, Fred without Ginger, Groucho absent his Marx brothers. I'm painfully reminded of the unavoidable fact that we are not, any of us, "getting out of here alive."

My sister is dead. We can all say "passed," to put a polite expression on the most brutal, existential question all of us face: the unseen force of Fate's biggest coup. The hard truth is, my sister died in her sleep totally unexpectedly, just days ago. There was no warning to blunt the inevitable. Being without Nancy is akin to, as a woman told me when she lost her mother, "... feeling like my right arm had been severed." Everyone debates whether such tragedies are "the will of God," or simply due to the unfair, random nature of  universal departures from this plane of existence. I'm a believer, but I have a lot of resistance to the former point. If I believed that God, in whatever form God takes, snuffs out millions of lives on a whim, it would belie every precept of why we turn to Him and Her for help. Face it: no one knows what's out there till the jig is up. Proving or disproving a higher power is irrelevant. Those left behind run the gamut of mourning, the famous phases of grief. I needn't list the stages, they are well known.

Nancy was the bossy older sister, the trailblazer, a role model. In recent years, prominent psychologists have concluded that in many ways, one's siblings shape their growth, and are as big, if not a bigger influence on the formation of how siblings' personalities and temperament have a deeper affect on them than their parents do. That was certainly true in my case. Nancy flagrantly broke rules, challenged authority, and guided me, a shy, cautious introvert, through steps I wasn't bold enough to tackle on my own. She teased me mercilessly as a child and teen, part and parcel of virtually every sibling relationship. I remember pseudo fistfights, both of us pummeling each other over arguments.

Most Christmas mornings Nancy woke first, ready to grab the goodies, even though she'd already searched our parents' closets to get sneak previews. I thought the whole purpose of Santa Claus distributing gifts was that it was supposed to be a surprise. I was "the perfect child" while Nancy pushed the envelope, charged ahead undaunted. She was a troublemaker and risk taker, rebelling at every turn. I envied my sister's cavalier yet determined goal of doing anything she chose to do. As rivals, we often clashed and were competitive children. She had embraced the hippie flower power child identity. I clung to Jesus Freakery. By the time we entered our twenties those conflicts evaporated. We became equals, true friends, partners in crime, and came to agree on virtually every subject. We tripped the light fantastic on our Manhattan stomping grounds for four years, partied, went to numerous concerts, loved New York's cinema and most of all, we were B'way babies, sharing a wild passion for the theater. We breathed in every ounce of culture in New York City and felt unstoppable.

Nancy will never see her childrens' weddings, experience the unprecedented bliss of us being grandmothers together in our future. We thought we'd be in those old folks' rocking chairs, talking for hours while cooking up a storm for our (hopefully) big family. Nancy gave me and everyone she met warm welcomes, laughs, put people at ease in minutes. She struck up conversations with strangers, making friends anywhere on the spot. Her talents are too long to list. The dedication to her family of four was unshakable: her devoted hubby Ryan, Taylor, the precocious firstborn son, and her daughter Siobhan, a great dancer and social butterfly. My sister was a force of nature as a PTA supermom, always volunteering, lending her many talents the whole time her kids were in school. Nancy and Ryan's entertainment in their home was legendary; her gourmet cooking creations, the lively atmosphere, the love.

She was my rock, greatest ally, best friend and "therapist". We talked endlessly on the phone, followed each minute of breaking news stories, and  hashed out every conceivable hot topic of the day. Nancy will forever be the only person on earth who shared the same womb as I did. They say twins have a unique bond by virtue of how they both inhabited their mother's uterus simultaneously. The same blood ran through our veins. We had a storehouse of abundant memories and classic rites of passage. In some ways we were opposites. But most of the time we delighted in our side-by-side lives.

Nancy Jean Russell Dearr, 1952 to 2015: a stellar life, a light that can never be extinguished. I'm lost and numb now that a vital piece of my self is gone. Nancy would remind me of Winnie the Pooh's famous quote: 

" If there ever is tomorrow when we're not together...there is something you must always remember. You are  braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart...I'll always be with you." Nancy, you can count on that. I miss you beyond measure and I love you forever.                         

Grief

For the few of you who occasionally check my blog, my absence has been a long one. I've been in no mood to post my ruminations, opinions, or point of view. Ten months into 2013 I can say unequivocally, it's been a bad year. I lost my father in July. He was 91, a veteran journalist and columnist, who passed through the first subtle, then pronounced, stages of dementia over the last decade. Another member of my family has been in steady decline for the past few years. Not due to health reasons, but a far more complicated affliction that offers no easy answers. Both of these events have plunged me into a state of bereavement that shows little sign of letting up.

The best book I've read on the subject of grief is "The Year of Magical Thinking" by Joan Didion. I read it after my mother died eleven years ago. I recently reread it just before my father made his exit, unaware of the timing, about to confront the same theme again. One of the most telling details in the book is Didion's inability to get rid of her deceased husband's shoes, because he will need them when he "comes back." We're often irrational when we lose a loved one. Or we maintain a stoic posture. We drift through the days feeling robbed, despite one indisputable fact: as Jim Morrison said, "No one gets out of here alive."

These losses force us to face our own mortality. I look at my sons and wonder how they will "handle" me when I'm old. I feel pressure to accomplish certain goals because I'm not getting any younger. I'm grieving for two generations: my dad's, with his stellar record of WWII service and innumerable professional achievements. And my children's: a world where communication is breaking down (everyone staring at their various screens), where the idea that they will find gainful employment is tenuous, where their country's government is hopelessly dysfunctional.

I submit such depressing commentary only to explain why this Edgy Blogger has been MIA for so long. Maybe some readers will think it a sob fest, self-pitying and indulgent. But for anyone who's dealt with or is dealing with this state, perhaps it's nice to know you are not alone.      

Auditioning

Tomorrow I have an important audition. Unlike the typical process of strutting your stuff for a particular theater, this one is a mega-event: thirty Atlanta companies represented in one place, three-hundred actors vying for attention. Each actor has a total of two and a half minutes to show the casting people what they've got. In most cases, that means two contrasting monologues (one comedic, one dramatic) and sixteen to twenty bars of a song, if they can sing. Two minutes thirty seconds isn't much time, but Ethel Barrymore once said that if an actor is good, one minute is enough. If an actor is not, it's too long. She had a point. Once an actor opens his mouth it's clear very quickly whether or not he has the chops.

Since the age of fourteen, I've been to a gazillion auditions. Some have been grand, like the time a director stopped me in mid-song and told the assembled waiting competitors, "That's exactly the voice I'm looking for." I got the part and sang the then-top-forty hit, "Day by Day" in "Godspell." On another occasion I auditioned for a major company in a large city. The two auditors, one wearing a backwards baseball cap, were about fifteen years younger than I. They greeted me with a bored hello. Once I began my pieces I couldn't help picking up their vibes; they looked at me quizzically, like I was from outer space. Many auditors are friendly and seem genuinely happy to see you. Others, like those rude ones, seem perturbed you even walked into the room. It runs the gamut.

Like any other practice, I do better in these situations when I've been performing frequently. I faced a roomful of metro D.C. theaters just days after finishing a season of summer stock. I was lucky to follow a woman who did an overwrought monologue, complete with crocodile tears. My one-minute zany selection brought the house down. I got eight callbacks. Much of the time, for a lot of actors, the audition leads nowhere. You rehearse long hours at home for very little, if any, return. You're not the right type, you're too old or too young, too tall or too short, thin when they want heavy, heavy when they want skinny. Frustration abounds: you know you did a damn good job, you're perfect for the part, they give you great feedback, but you still come up empty.

Rejection is, as everyone knows, germane to the pursuit of a career in show business. An actor has to accept the terms of the deal (85% unemployment, a constant for as long as I can remember) and resolve to do better the next time, to keep at it, never give up. The same is true for writers. The old saw about Hemingway papering the walls of a room in his house with rejection slips (or was it Fitzgerald? Faulkner?) isn't a myth, to my knowledge. It comes with the territory, which is why writers tell would-be authors, "If there's anything else you can do, do it." They're warning you of the stark facts---that the likelihood of getting published is slim to none, at least until you're really adept at the craft and find a suitable home (publishing house, literary review or journal) for your work. (Or you write cheesy books about vampires, zombies or the same tired love story recycled over and over.)  

I have the misfortune to be both an actor and a writer, which must make me some kind of masochist. I think the reason I stay with it is that while the payoff may be elusive, when you hit the mark, it's glorious. Tomorrow, even if I do my best, it's entirely possible that nothing will come of my time and effort. I'm used to it. I'm like the pessimist who says, I'll assume the worst and if something good happens I'll be pleasantly surprised. I never had a choice. I knew I wanted to be an actress from the age of five. I began writing at eleven. No, you'll never see me on the Red Carpet, at the Globes, Emmys, Grammys or Oscars. But I'll keep on trying to crack these professions because I have to. It is, as those sage men and women of letters or the theater will tell you, a compulsion.                    

Suffer The Little Children

Writing a blog post about what happened in Newtown, Connecticut seems a trivial thing to do in light of the unspeakable event. But as a mother I can't "move on" until I've had my say. What a terrific irony it is, that we move on from these mass killings and accept them as the status quo, only to be shocked and saddened by the next one, then return to the business of our lives as if nothing happened. Imagine our country a century or two from now. Children in history classes will learn about the barbaric environment in which we lived in 2012. A nation where a mentally ill twenty-year-old can walk into an elementary school, toting legally purchased guns and rounds of ammunition, and shoot first-graders at point blank range. The textbooks of the future will reference the early twenty-first century's most powerful lobby, the National Rifle Association, hellbent on ensuring the rights of Termininators. Along with highlighting the once-invincible NRA and it's endless flow of money, it will mention the cowardice of politicians and the grossly misinterpreted second amendment of the Constitution. Hopefully the book will then describe the citizens' uprising that put an end to easy access to guns, a force similar to the civil rights movement, the women's movement and gay rights advocacy.  

We can talk about mental illness, the inadequacy of available services for those who need psychiatric intervention. We can debate this subject, with its entrenched opinions on either side. Facebook and Twitter have been plastered with pleas for prayers, along with posts about how "God was taken out of the schools," as if that were literally true or the reason for the slayings. The NRA has had no comment, unsurprisingly, in the wake of the massacre of twenty six and seven-year-olds, not to mention the six adults who were killed trying to protect Sandy Hook's children. This tragedy calls for a complete overhaul of how we view gun rights in this country. It triggers renewed cries for school safety. It encompasses the desensitization towards murderous rampages depicted in video games, and a culture that glorifies violence in movies and television. We have failed our nation's innocents. Because of our inaction, our apathy, our capacity to forget such atrocities within weeks or months, twenty small children were slaughtered.

If an enemy missile had hit the school America would be responding militarily. But because this act was perpetrated by yet another loner, outcast, "crazy" man, we accept it as part of the "price we pay" for our freedoms. That is unconscionable and should be roundly denounced. Simple transactions that allow one to purchase high-powered firearms is what caused the horror. Guns do kill people. Assault weapons, with the capacity to annihilate scores of victims in seconds, have no place in our so-called civilized society. We need to rise up and spearhead a serious campaign to mitigate this carnage with unflinching resolve. The President, Congress, governors and elected officials at every level should make gun control a priority. Sweeping the horrific, steady stream of shootings under the carpet is over. We must act now. As one commentator put it on a morning show today, "After this nothing can ever be the same." It is time for real change.     

 

Republicans Finally Get the Memo

It's hard to believe that the losers in the 2012 election are shocked by the outcome. Did they really think their plastic, prevaricating candidate could fool the American people? A politician whose spokesman once said that their camp wasn't going to "let fact-checkers run our campaign" was clearly not going to allow a little thing like reality get in the way of his mission to take the White House. The GOP was betting on white men and seniors to put them over the top. Instead, African-Americans, Latinos, Asians and a lot of angry women delivered a whopping victory for Obama. It's time for Team Red to wake up and smell the coffee. Rachel Maddow of MSNBC and others have pointed out that conservatives have been living in a self-styled bubble, thinking they could insulate themselves from shifting demographics. They clung to the illusion that strides minorities have made were some sort of meaningless blip on the radar screen. They've been stranded on an island of denial, vainly struggling to preserve a Wonder Bread world. For Republicans, multiculturalism is a dirty word. Democrats proved that, as Dylan so aptly observed over forty years ago, the times they are a changin'.

The mandate demonstrated that putting the first black president in charge of the country was no fluke. Team Blue mobilized against GOP efforts to suppress the vote, they were determined to give Neanderthals like Todd Akin, Richard Mourdock and Joe Walsh the boot, and were eager to prove that both genders should share power. Twenty women are headed to the Senate, gay marriage was approved in four states and Colorado and Washington voted to legalize marijuana for recreational use. This is cause for celebration, not an excuse to go back to "the good old days" of June Cleavers, closeted homosexuals and people getting busted over a single joint. Slowly but surely, America is shaking off its puritanical leanings and there's no turning back.

Republicans risk becoming obsolete unless they get a bigger tent, stop trying to control women's bodies, stop impeding the liberties of same-sex couples and cease obstructionist tactics that block progress. There's a clear need for fiscal responsibility, a balanced budget, debt reduction and bi-partisan cooperation. But we won't get there with half of the country believing we're a nation of "takers" rather than producers, the 1% should retain their tax breaks and the affordable health care act is a socialist plot. The people have spoken and the message is clear: we stand for inclusion, reproductive freedom and the right of privacy. Hopefully the Republicans will heed the call and revise their strategy. If not, the elephants may be destined for extinction.            

The Misogynists

I'm a woman living in 2012 America and I cannot believe what this presidential campaign has wrought. Men are standing up with straight faces pronouncing that rape is open to interpretation, that women possess the ability to "shut down" fertilization, and it's God's intention that rape victims be impregnated. How did these guys pass Biology 101, graduate high school, and why are they legitimate voices in the Republican party? Why are they not being laughed out of the building, indeed, run out of town on a rail? Team Red has surrendered to the extremist right wing; the religious fanatics, the Tea Party and a host of other desperate characters who want to eviscerate women's rights. The Taliban apparently has its share of fans in Todd Akin, Richard Mourdock and the GOP ticket, Romney-Ryan. And that's just to name a few.

It's beyond me how women can support this unholy alliance, a turn-back-the-clock madness which has taken hold of politicians and voters with a vengeance. I respect those who are pro-life, but are reasonable enough to recognize that exceptions exist for cases of rape, incest and the health of the mother. For the life of me, I can't fathom those who seek to overturn Roe V. Wade and return to the ugly, deadly era of back alley abortions. Easy for "severely conservative" men to take such a position, but Republican women? How can  mothers advocate a society in which their daughters face the grim, devastating outcomes of unwanted pregnancies without access to safe, legal abortions? These same people think abstinence is the answer to teenage sex, that it's not essential that their children be armed with contraception. They believe equal pay for both genders doing the same job is debatable. And most telling of all, they abandon the precious babies they claim to care so much about the minute those infants enter the world; kids who'll need Head Start, food stamps and affordable health care to stay alive. Make no mistake, this is an all-out war on women.

Sisters, we need to rise up. We need to be doing everything in our power to see that Obama is reelected: phone banking, canvassing, getting out the vote. There are a plethora of reasons why Mitt Romney is not a viable choice for the White House. Leaving aside all the issues he's vacillated on, his archaic stance on women's rights should strike fear and terror into the heart of any female. Yesterday I watched footage of the President casting his early vote in Chicago. He was greeted by roughly a dozen volunteers, all but two of which were women. Everyone with a half a brain knows that both candidates are targeting suburban mothers and "waitress moms." In this critical election we have the chance to be the "deciders." The Supreme Court hangs in the balance. Our futures and our daughters futures are at stake. 

          

    

Addendum

I posted the previous entry, "Romney's Female Problem," without mentioning the glaring facts of his anti-women policies on reproductive health. I assume my readers are well aware that Mitt flipped his abortion position and would now, supposedly, deign to allow it for the life of the mother, rape and incest. He's been all over the map on this point, like so many others. Women can't trust Romney for a host of reasons, not least of which he wants the government to control women's bodies.

Romney's Female Problem

Mitt Romney's now-infamous remark in Tuesday's debate on seeking "qualified women" for his administration as Governor of Massachusetts, yielding "binders full of women," should come as no surprise. He's a man so far removed from the real world that his personal sphere apparently didn't include women he deemed worthy of top jobs. He had to go out of his way to ask women's groups to elucidate where he might find topnotch female applicants for his camp. It's as if he were talking about some strange new species with which he had no acquaintance. It was a revelatory moment, illuminating just how alien a concept it was to him that such creatures were in abundant supply. He's stuck in the Fifties and early Sixties: Ward Cleaver meets Don Draper.

A vote for Romney is a giant step backward into that unenlightened era, when the best barometer of a woman's worth was how tasty her meatloaf was. His wife Ann only adds to the perception that her husband is out of touch with an entire gender, as she speaks on the stump about how great it is that women are talking about the economy. As if this was a new development. Women have long been the economic backbone of their own households, for starters. They've long been the overseers of finances, the most likely member of a family to keep and balance a checkbook, institute and follow a budget, and apportion the family income. Needless to say, women apply these same skills in the workplace.

The overriding impression I got from watching Mitt spar with Obama was how rude, uncooperative and selfish he was. He came across as spoiled and bullying, trying to run the whole show, attempting unsuccessfully to bulldoze Candy Crowley like he did Jim Lehrer. At one particularly revolting moment, he told the president to desist and wait his turn, like a schoolmarm correcting an errant child. I suppose he thinks he can treat other world leaders with the same dismissive, condescending attitude he exudes. It demonstrates another myth the GOP is trying to sell, that with a Republican at the helm and more money for the Defense Department, the rest of the planet will quake in the face of American might. Their candidate has zero foreign policy experience, a deficit that will no doubt be brought into sharp focus next week, when the last of the three debates covers that ground. Mitt is unaccustomed to being challenged, having to adapt and put the greater good ahead of his personal agenda. He's a CEO chauvinist who hogs the ball. That's not what the American people need in a president.      

   

Joltin' Joe

Like legions of other Obama supporters, I watched last week's debate in a state of disbelief and major disappointment. I phoned my oldest son after the show was over and said, "Obama tanked." A former debater himself, Devin wasn't sure the president's performance had been that dismal. The way high school debating goes, you're scored on points and your arguments have to jibe with reality. Romney did a great job of reinventing himself as a moderate who isn't really out to slash Medicare, eliminate Planned Parenthood and let the middle class bear the burden of higher taxes. But we all know that dude doesn't square with the candidate who's been campaigning as a "severe conservative." And speaking of burdens, tonight the task of damage control and rebounding falls to Vice President Joe Biden.

A fighting Irishman, seasoned senator and loquacious pol, Biden has the edge on up and coming Paul Ryan, by virtue of his considerable experience. But if Ryan is as much of a workout nut as he's reputed to be, I've got a feeling he won't pull his punches. He's younger and therefore more ambitious, anxious to keep the GOP ticket's momentum going. Joe, on the other hand, has to undo the disrepair Obama's lackadaisical showing  dealt the Democrats. The two men come to the table with established weaknesses, the somewhat gaffe-prone Biden versus the I-don't-have time-to-explain-the-math budget fixer Ryan. If people really believe Sarah Palin won the veep debate four years ago, then the Kentucky Derby, as the pundits have dubbed it, is Biden's chance to shine. Palin didn't win the '08 round, she simply avoided falling on her face. Now it's time for Joltin' Joe to step up to the plate and knock it out of the park.

It's time to hit the Republicans with the 47% remarks, Bain Capital's questionable business tactics and Romney's unwillingness to release his tax returns. It's time to point out the flip-flopper and empty suit isn't fit to be president. Time to highlight the GOP's war on women, their free pass for Wall Street, their indifference to the plight of the poor. Joe has the bonafides to sock it to them and I hope he comes out swinging.        

Losing Letters

I recently joined a Facebook group called Save the U. S. Postal Service by Writing More Letters. It may seem a quaint notion to some, who've already ceded the technological takeover without protest, but I find it dismaying. While I enjoy the wizardry of instantaneous communication, nothing can replace handwritten missives that date back decades, tied with ribbon and stored for posterity. I have virtually every letter anyone ever wrote to me: my parents', best friends from high school, fellow artists, and of course, lovers. Remember the pen pal? I had scads of them.

Generations of readers have pored over the collections of letters of our most renowned authors, painters, composers, military heroes and film stars. What record will live on in the absence of thoughtful reflections rendered in ink and sealed with a kiss? When was the last time, if ever, you printed out an email? That's what passes for a rough equivalent. Many people can't type a decent electronic message; lots of books cover the business of tapping out one's thoughts and clicking send. If we need help crafting an effective email, then God knows the touch screen generation needs lessons in the snail variety.

Emails get deleted, while letters are time capsules. I get a kick out of looking at the worn envelopes from years past, with six cent stamps and goofy graffiti in vibrant colors etched on the back. I can read the letters I sent home from college that my mother saved, a window into being eighteen again. How juvenile I sounded when I thought I knew everything. Then there are the dispatches from my life in New York City, in my early twenties, drinking in all the glory and grit of Manhattan. I've even kept ancient correspondence from elementary school days, including notes passed between desks in sixth grade.

Yes, it's true, the boxes take up a fair amount of space in my closet and I rarely revisit them. But I'd like to think one day after I'm gone, one of my sons or grandchildren may discover clues about me at different life stages, the times I lived in, the people I loved. Besides, admit it, it's a big deal when you open your mailbox and find a handwritten note. In cursive. The real thing. 

The Hollow Man

Say what you will about disappointment over Obama's first term, the ticket Republicans are offering as an alternative is absent any sense of purpose and devoid of substance. Mitt Romney feels he is somehow entitled to the White House by virtue of his repeated attempts to get there and his supposed savvy over all things economic. His wife Ann even declared in an interview, "It's our turn," as if the presidency was some sort of take-a-number deli line. Commentators and politicos have served up phrases to fit Romney like "out of touch," "rich guy-itis," and "unable to connect." People are waiting for his speech at the GOP convention Thursday night to highlight who he is personally. The fact is Mitt is a privileged Ken doll of a candidate who has no acquaintance with what average Americans face every day. There is no there there. He's a man who has mastered appearances and little else.

Romney is vying for an office which requires tremendous finesse with the spoken word, as the whole world hangs on every sound bite from the commander in chief. Yet he says inexplicable things like "The trees are the right height," when he stumped in his home state of Michigan. On the same visit he proclaimed his love of automobiles, even though he thought it was okay to let General Motors fail. He goes on an overseas jaunt for what should have been a cakewalk and ends up insulting the Brits, our greatest allies. The dude thought it was a good idea to strap his dog to the top of his car for a family road trip. On another campaign stop, sitting at a picnic table surrounded by doting women, he had an issue with the quality of the cookies they served.  This man continuously demonstrates a deep detachment from real life, from ordinary affairs, yet he wants us to make him the leader of the free world?

To make matters worse, he chose Congressman Paul Ryan as his running mate, Mr. Gut the Social Safety Net budget fixer. Notwithstanding his gym rat status as a workout devotee, Ryan sports a haircut my boys outgrew at age twelve. He may look like an innocuous boy scout, but he co-sponsored two bills to redefine rape with the Right Wing's albatross Todd Akin, the cretin who thinks women are equipped with spermicidal secretions which shut down pregnancy in cases of "legitimate" rape. Akin has Republicans pleading for his withdrawal from the Missouri race for the Senate, and Ryan revamping his stance on the topic, now saying, "Rape is rape." He also claims to have fallen in line with Romney's slightly less Neanderthal views on abortion. That's one thing R & R have in common: change your position on issues when warranted and evade questions on your brazen inconsistencies. Meanwhile, when in doubt, crack a bad joke about the president's birth certificate.

As I write this post Ann Romney is gearing up to give a speech at the convention that will reassure female voters that her man is a flesh and blood sweetheart. I'll bet she trots out some cutesy anecdotes about how Mitt helped her raise their male clan.Women are the engines behind voting in most households and they won't be fooled. The choice this November is simple: You can vote for a real human being or a wind-up toy.  

      

  

    

Compilation CD

I have a friend who makes theme-based CDs for her closest pals. Let's call this post a mixed bag of what's been on my mind for the past month...

The summer before kids start college rivals the Terrible Twos. My youngest son has been moody, sullen and smug. He wants me to get lost. He's not real chummy with his dad either. Experience in this area tells me that about six weeks from now, he'll be singing a different tune.

We know a lot about Mitt Romney's father, but what to make of his mother? It's usually the mother who educates children about proper etiquette and good manners. Clearly, she failed in this regard. His remarks about London's supposed lack of preparedness for the Olympics, and his slight, to put it mildly, of the Palestinians in Israel, are just the latest examples of his utter lack of tact and diplomacy. Didn't Mom teach him that you don't insult your host or alienate people you someday hope to influence? Memo to Mitt: you're using the wrong fork.

I returned from Wildacres Writing Workshop earlier this month, after a blissful week of immersion in the craft of writing, reunion with old friends and meeting new ones. The annual conference is hands-down, one of the best in the country, as its 45% returnee rate confirms. In addition to seven days of the written word, we make music, have theme parties and put on The Gong Show, a collection of freshly-penned skits. At times like these I'm reminded why I'm happy to be an artist instead of a venture capitalist.

I'm prepping for an upcoming audition, working two new monologues and a song. We actors put in unseen amounts of toil for five minutes of a directors' time, usually resulting in the occupational hazard of rejection. Writers also routinely endure this. Sometimes I wonder why I keep doing it, setting myself up for almost inevitable failure. Answer: because once in awhile, I get the job or the publishing credit. That exhilaration is worth the price of repeated, seemingly futile attempts to get noticed. As Samuel Beckett said, "All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."

      

The Almost Empty Nest

In late August my youngest son will depart for college. His older brothers have already flown the coop. Once my husband and I move Travis into his residence hall in a small, private school in Ohio, we'll drive away sans children for the first time in twenty-four years. Although we'll always be parents, and no doubt will be called upon for assistance, our roles will shift from leading players to extras or cameos. Our jobs will be permanently downsized, our input rarely sought, our purpose no longer vital. Sure, we'll still get the frantic phone calls over unexpected mishaps and dwindling money. We'll get questions about how to handle a bank account, file taxes and other bureaucratic snafus. But we will be more or less retired from service, pink-slipped, fired.

Handling this transition will require as much adjustment as the eighteen-year-old navigating campus life on his own. How do we proceed with life without three active boys dominating the atmosphere, without sports, pediatrician appointments, playdates, parent-teacher conferences, piano recitals and garage bands? After two decades of chauffeuring, counseling, cooking, volunteering and meeting every need, what the hell are we supposed to do? How do we break the habit of caring for kids 24/7 and get back to being a couple? Granted, there are definite perks involved: no more nagging, cleaning up after, hustling and setting a gold-standard example. But just how do we turn off the switch exclusively geared to the well-being of our offspring?

Perhaps it's the same sort of separation anxiety infants and preschoolers feel when first left in the care of someone other than mom or dad. Is it possible I'll really miss the dirty socks and shoes left on the floor,  blaring music and video games, trips to the emergency room, the forgotten lunch or homework? When you're knee-deep in parenting you barely have time to breathe. There's always something that needs to be done, some crisis, a science fair project, a late-night trip to Walgreens for cough medicine. Without the baby chicks you have time on your hands, unstructured days, an empty canvas. It will take a major re-orientation to adapt.

As a stay-at-home mom my job description was clearly defined. I have many wonderful memories but much of it is a blur--get in the car! You'll miss the bus! Stop doing that! And, like my mother always said when the boys were younger, it went by too fast. I was in overdrive for so long, now I'm moving at a snail's pace. I guess it's time for museums, movies, hobbies, a European vacation. Now I have time, at last, for me and surprisingly, it doesn't feel as liberating as I expected; it feels strange. Indistinct. Nebulous. Eventually grandchildren will grace the stage and it will all repeat itself. The children who wanted mom to simply go away will be calling on her for babysitting.

I have two months left of the last kid at home and I'm going to enjoy every moment. I'm sure I'll have a quiet meltdown the day we drop Travis at his dorm and take off, unencumbered. A new chapter of my life will be unfolding, one that is both dreaded and welcomed. A paradox. It will be an opportunity to pursue those deferred dreams. But every time I see a young mother in Target, hushing her brood bouncing around the shopping cart, I'll feel that familiar tug. I'll want to stop and tell her to enjoy the madness, but I won't. It would be lost on her. Part of me will want to trade places with the harried mom. The other part will be happy the most challenging task of my life is behind me.     

   

The Hue and Cry

Forty-five days after gunning down Trayvon Martin, George Zimmerman was finally charged with second-degree murder by the Florida state attorney Angela Corey. Despite the late arrival of this column, like legions of others, I've been incensed and increasingly outraged over this case since Day One. As a citizen and as a mother, the unacceptable delay in arresting Zimmerman made me apoplectic. When the NBC Nightly News flashed the headline "Boiling Mad" some weeks ago, they used the same words I've been spewing in my house since late February. Unless you live under a rock you already know this story. The death of the unarmed seventeen-year-old Martin is rife with racial tension, insane legislation (Florida's "Stand Your Ground" law) as well as incompetence and/or corruption in the Sanford police department. People rallied and marched daily. Most would agree that if the players in this drama were reversed, if Martin had been the shooter, he would have been hauled off to jail, pronto.

Now, thanks to an overwhelming demand for justice across the nation, Zimmerman will stand trial. But it took blanket media coverage, Americans turning out in great numbers to protest, and the unwavering determination of the Martin family to achieve their goal. Some of the lawyers and leaders surrounding the Martins are speaking of the Trayvon moment becoming a movement. It's long overdue. Martin's death has drawn attention to the clear disparity between treatment of blacks and whites in the criminal justice system. One can only hope that the senseless death of a teenager will foster greater scrutiny into racial bias across the board.

"The Artist"

Yesterday my faith in filmmaking was restored. I was transported from the subdivided Cineplex back to the days of movie immersion, wrought in an expansive theater with larger-than-life imagery. I saw the incandescent story of "The Artist." I went into the experience in an almost virginal state: I'd seen no trailer nor read any reviews. Its title meant that this movie was a must-see for me, as an actor, writer and lifelong lover of Hollywood. I doubt I can fully articulate the impression it made on me.

The tale of George Valentin and Peppy Miller, the former a soon-to-be-extinct silent movie star, the latter an aspiring actress swept into his world and beyond, "The Artist" asks the near-impossible from a 21st. century audience: that you plunk down nine bucks to watch a black and white film with virtually no dialogue. To those who say they'd rather not revisit the mute Twenties era, view a movie with no color, no car chase, explosions or sex scene, I say, balderdash! Miss this gem and miss out on one of the most rewarding times to be had in the world of entertainment.

"The Artist" is no mere valentine to a bygone age, it's a rebirth of everything we go to the movies for: to fall in love, to be moved, to emerge changed. Jean Dujardin and Berenice Bejo ignite the screen in their roles, representing The Old and The New at that critical historical juncture of the late Twenties, moving into the "talkies" of the early Thirties. The supporting players, everyone from the forgotten Penelope Ann Miller as Valentin's wife, to the always outstanding John Goodman as the studio executive, to James Cromwell as Valentin's loyal valet, are spot-on. The scene-stealing Jack Russell terrier, Uggie, Valentin's constant companion, is so delightful he'll make you want to run to the Humane Society and adopt a devoted canine.

"The Artist" explores the trajectory of fame and fortune, the relationship of the artist to his or her art, and the very nature of The Self. It elicits the gamut of emotions; a breezy comedy that plunges you into tragedy, evokes edge-of-your-seat tension, pathos, and ultimately uplifting triumph. Its final scene turned my knowing grin and tears into a 100-watt smile. Writer and director Michel Hazanavicius has created a simple, elegant, transforming experience in cinema. It's arguably the best film I've seen in a decade. Prognosticators buzz that its ten Academy Award nominations may garner it a Oscar night sweep. It certainly would be a travesty to hand a gold statue to Clooney or Pitt over the work of Jean Dujardin in the Best Actor category. The handsome French leading man has already taken home the Globe and the SAG. Admittedly, I've seen but a smattering of this year's contenders. IMHO, "The Artist" deserves to win big.

On Dreams

I have had a lifelong fascination with dreams. Several books on the subject line my shelves. I dream in cinematic splendor and horror every night, without fail, waking with a bizarre fragmentation of images that I spend the day trying to arrange in a linear fashion. It's very difficult to shake my dreams. They have both positive and negative effects. On the positive side, I'm rarely at a loss for ideas to utilize in my work as a writer. I've kept a dream journal since I was thirteen. I can call up evocative levels of consciousness denied me during the waking state. The negative part of dealing with dreams is the crippling effect they sometimes have on my "everyday mind," the one devoted to tasks, errands and obligations. I'm often hamstrung by the power of my nocturnal struggles. They can consume my thoughts, leading to inaction. I am, in short, haunted by these subconscious excursions.

Some dream in microcosm, others on a huge canvas. Some characters in these nighttime stories show up regularly. Others make cameo appearances and never return. Dreams are a universal thread common to all cultures and religions. They often serve a prophetic function, as in the Bible and other spiritual texts. Everyone is dreaming while they are asleep, whether they're aware of it or not. My husband doesn't remember his dreams. I once had a writing instructor, a brilliant woman with an abundance of wisdom and ingenuity, surprisingly inform the class that she did not remember her dreams at all, ever. I assumed all artists were as caught up in their dreams as I. It was one thing for my husband, a pragmatic, left-brained individual, to have no dream recall. Quite another to learn of a fiction writer having none.

Why the random nature of this ability to retain our subconscious scenarios? Is there some physiological reason why some do and others do not? Could it be a sign of how evolved we are? Is dreaming as momentous as evidence of reincarnation or something as trivial as a digestive disturbance? Do dreams foretell the future? Or are they merely recycled bits of effluvium dressed up as a Fellini film? Whatever they are, I believe dreams carry far more weight than the simple explanation some offer for the phenomenon--that dreams are a way of resolving otherwise irreconcilable conflicts in our waking lives. A realm which has inspired and informed much of human history, especially the arts, is not just a clearinghouse for solutions we can't or won't reach in the cold light of day. I'll quote Willy on this one and conclude, "We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded by a sleep."

Slumps & Starts

I know it's a holiday in England, but I consider Boxing Day, December 26th, to be one of the worst on the calendar. The gifts, abundant and attractively arrayed throughout the month under the tree, have been opened, leaving a heap of torn wrapping paper and ripped ribbon. Everyone seems to have gained five pounds in 24 hours. Half a dozen Pyrex dishes need washing. Bustling, eager shoppers have turned into lengthy lines of sour-faced discontents holding the literal bag. The radio station that played Christmas tunes for six weeks goes back to broadcasting soft rock, an oxymoron for lousy music. Pine needles litter the floor. It's time to painstakingly wrap all the delicate ornaments and put away the cheery mementos your kids made when they were in preschool.

After an eventful fall packed with festive occasions (Halloween, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah and Christmas) and great football, against a backdrop of beautiful autumnal leaves, we face the stark, cold month of January when we all resolve to make improvements: lose weight, join a gym, quit smoking or give up some other nagging vice. The credit card bills arrive in the mail. The party's over. It's time for stalwart action. By mid to late February most people abandon their resolutions and go back to overeating, puffing those coffin nails and spending more time on the couch.

Years ago I read of a man who did not make a New Year's resolution of his intent to meditate every day, he made it a vow. Taking a vow, as anyone who's gotten married or joined a convent knows, is a bigger deal than resolving to do something. There's a spiritual, serious aspect to it. It's supposed to be for keeps. It takes a sort of discipline unfamiliar to most of us born in the middle of the last century up to the present. Ask any teenager if he's willing to give up his Xbox, Facebook or iPhone for an extended period of time. Few, if any, could meet such an abstentious goal for Lent, let alone a whole year. We live in a culture that, for a price, will satisfy our demands before we're even aware of them. Because we're surrounded by limitless possibilities, it's all the more difficult to deny ourselves something we think we need, when in fact we're burdened by the weight of these desires, satisfied or not, as any good Buddhist will tell you.

So what am I willing to do without in 2012? I have the usual laundry list: more exercise, less crappy food, more books and less TV. But I have a rather lofty intention, one I've postponed innumerable times, that is crying out for my undivided attention come January 1st. To finish my novel. I'm making this declaration on my blog so that I'm actually going on record. Hopefully, the eventual eating of humble pie required by not meeting my commitment will be incentive enough to spur me on. Sure, I want to be skinny, healthy and more literate. But I can't live with myself if I don't vow to complete something decades in the making. My mother, a journalist who made her living by writing, often declared over cigarettes and Chardonnay, "Just wait till I write my novel." After many years of hearing this proclamation I asked her where her novel was. She said, "It's in my head."

She is no longer with us and no novel lives on in her absence. Her unfulfilled promise is part of what dogs my days as a fiction writer. I was once quite determined not to chalk up my story to the "dreams deferred" category. The older we get the harder it is to muster the drive that seized us in our youth. We're all too willing to leave our neglected objectives unmet, especially with society telling us we're over the hill. Charles Frazier, author of Cold Mountain, the 1997 National Book Award winner, once said prior to his novel's publication that if nothing else, he wanted to have a finished manuscript he'd be proud to tuck away in the attic. I doubt I'm destined for the bestseller list, but I hope my long-languishing opus will someday see the light of day.

A Day in the Life

"I read the news today, oh boy..." When this anniversary rolls around every year it reignites the unforgettable grief and rage we felt over losing John Lennon. The tragic irony of a man who"advertised" peace via the Bed-In, War is Over, his anti-Vietnam protests, gunned down by a fat loser when John was at the most fulfilling stage of his life. It's the bad dream that never stops aching. But Lennon's legacy of hope, idealism and activism continues to inspire. I recall reading a quote from John about how his penchant for peace developed. It was an admission that he was inclined towards bad behavior and a turbulent temperament from an early age. He said, and I'm paraphrasing, it was the troublemakers that ultimately turned to peace. Because he had lived through abandonment and turmoil he had come to appreciate non-violence. John will always be the upstart art school non-conformist who lived life outside the margins.

When I look at old footage of the Fab Four's arrival on our shores, that first press conference right off the plane at Kennedy Airport, I'm struck by what Beatle historians have called Lennon's "lacerating wit." When asked by one of the reporters if they'll sing, John replies, "No, we need money first." It was John who had the audacity to compare the popularity of the Beatles to that of Jesus, generating a fiasco of misunderstanding, outrage and record-burning. Years later, only the very daft could fail to see the point: rock and roll music speaks to young people in a way that the church does not. Not exactly a newsflash today, but scandalous at the time.

Love her or hate her, Yoko Ono became the driving force behind Lennon's evolution from a Beatle into a political activist, feminist and ultimately, a househusband. John got a second chance at hands-on parenting, giving his son Sean what he failed to provide for Julian, his child by his first wife Cynthia Lennon. As a mother of three, one who sacrificed many artistic ambitions to raise kids, I think Julian is spot-on when he gripes about how cheated he felt over his father's devotion to Sean, having come up short as a dad in his twenties. But the thing about John is he was always evolving; he gave up a rock superstar lifestyle to change diapers and bake bread. Which makes it all the more heartbreaking that when he did get back in the studio and created "Double Fantasy," he was murdered before he could enjoy his musical reemergence.

In the wake of Lennon's death there was a haunting refrain from one of his songs, "the dream is over." In 1981 I clipped a fan's quote from Rolling Stone Magazine, "the dream is still alive. Long live the dream." I have a 21-yr-old son who, like his brothers, was schooled in classic rock from an early age, the Beatles being the quintessence of the genre. He composes and plays original songs that don't conform to commercial standards. He's also a visual artist, a cheeky lad and a rebel. When I hear rough cuts of his latest tracks, I'm proud when I detect a trace of Lennon in his style and vocals. Imagine that.