With apologies to David Bowie for paraphrasing his hit song, here are some thoughts on change... Sometimes the smaller, more subtle ones are harder to deal with than big, seismic shifts. I grew up addicted to soap operas, in particular All My Children, which was yanked by ABC a few months ago. I watched the last episode but it just wasn't up to par. The Seventies and Eighties were the heyday of Pine Valley; Erica Kane, Tad & Dixie, Phoebe and Langley, and Richard Simmons' aerobic workouts at the town gym. Another female favorite, Oprah (a late afternoon staple of the days moms aren't shuttling children to every imaginable activity) no longer appears at 4 o' clock.
In 2011, as recently observed with the passing of Steve Jobs, cutting-edge devices and gadgets make their debuts only to be upstaged by "smarter" newcomers within weeks or less. Facebook and Twitter keep the population in endless, frenzied commentary on what's happening to everyone at every moment. No sooner have we adjusted to the "very latest," a fresh take on what we've just absorbed rushes in to alter the previous impression. I find all this institutionalized chaos hard to abide. Sure, I buy into some of technology's split-second sound and sight strobe light. Much of it I avoid, abstain from, or generally disdain. Call me Luddite Lite.
In terms of the Big Picture, change is, as we've all been reminded by parents, mentors and drinking buddies, the one constant. Ain't no getting around it, even if one manages to subvert change or distract oneself from it, you never leave home without it. And home, in both the elemental and Thomas Wolfe way, is a staging ground for the changes we often wish would never come. To wit, how is it that two of my trio of merry pranksters, with skinned knees and uncomplicated dispositions, have grown into what we call, after they hit 21, adults? "Just stop getting bigger," I beg my 17-year-old, remembering the wide-eyed optimist who now wrestles with adolescent angst.
From the vast amount written on the subject of the maturation process, be it a child-rearing guide, midlife crisis self help book, or philosophical tome, one would think Homo sapiens would have mastered it by now, evolutionarily-speaking. Which is not to disregard those who actually have a handle on maturity. Some rare folk are born with a tendency toward it or acquire a knack. But in my humble opinion, a majority of people have few clues. That's why humans have goals like self-actualization or becoming a boddhisatva. Most of us fight change tooth and claw, and are therefore deemed stubborn, while those who embrace it get labeled visionaries. Change is the ultimate double-edged sword. Its benefits or deficits are seldom realized in the short run, making us dodge the unknown with clever or clumsy tactics.
What springs to mind is the psychiatric list of the top ten life stressors: Death, divorce, moving, changing jobs, etc. Nobody sails through any of these unscathed. For those who weather such upheavals with grace, my hat's off to you. For me, I greet many transformational life events with equal parts dread and ecstasy, sometimes simultaneously. At a relatively ripe Boomer age, I've discovered that when we at last surrender to a variegated, thorny metamorphosis, we frequently breath a sigh of relief, pat ourselves on the back and utter, "Well, that wasn't so bad after all." Meanwhile, I admit, since it's Friday, you'll find me anchored to the sofa tonight, surfing through the MLB playoffs and bad cable movies. A mere lump of protoplasm. Tomorrow it's time, as Bowie sang, to "turn and face the strain" of those "ch-ch-ch-changes."
Friday, October 14, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Before Everything Changed
Recently one of my poems was published by an online magazine, Epiphany. It's called "Before Everything Changed" and it deals with adjustments we all had to make once our nation was shattered on 9/11. With the tenth anniversary of the attacks just a day away, I'm weighing in with my own recollections of that horrific event, although the poem probably does a better job of capturing my thoughts. You can see it at www.epiphmag.com.
Tuesday, September 11, 2001 began early for me. I had to get my middle-school age son to jazz band at 8 o'clock and drop my youngest at elementary school. On the way we listened to Breakfast With The Beatles on a local radio station in the car. I held forth with memories of growing up in the Sixties, when life for a pre-teen seemed limitless and carefree. The boys and I sang along. When I got home I saw my oldest boy off at the bus stop while taking my morning power walk with the family dog. Back at the house I gathered several notebooks full of writing projects, determined to spend the day working on my novel. I'd had a birthday the week before and vowed, as I do every year, to tackle the pages with gusto.
Shortly before 9 o'clock the phone rang. "A plane collided with the World Trade Center," my husband Paul told me. I went straight to the TV and, like millions of viewers across America and beyond, began watching the shocking spectacle unfold in real time. I called my loved ones. First my parents and then my sister and brother in-law. The five of us exchanged terrified words as the the second plane hit the South Tower. Then the third jet crashing into the Pentagon and finally, Flight 93 going down in Shanksville, PA. The media feverishly covered emerging details. I begged Paul to come home from work. David Bloom of NBC said one of the intended targets was believed to be Atlanta. Such false or speculative reports unraveled fast and furious, as I thought about going to pick up my kids at their schools. I decided against it, recalling the day in 1963 when teachers informed students of Kennedy's assassination. I reasoned that it was crazy to think my children were in danger. But it nagged at me all afternoon as I awaited their safe return on the school bus. I continued calling Paul, bewildered that his bosses and co-workers were going on with business as usual while the homeland was under siege.
That night my oldest son's basketball practice was still held and that weekend, during the game, I noticed how subdued and quiet the people in the bleachers were. Everyone was in a state of shock, stupefied that such an all-out assault on this country could have been carried out with relative ease. That week I insisted my children watch the celebrity telethon with me. Famous actors and musicians blanketed the airwaves, singing and speaking about the sacrifices and courage of the 9/11 heroes. America: A Tribute to Heroes raised money for the victims' families, opening with Bruce Springsteen's harmonica, as he began performing a song that ended up on his next album, The Rising. That album is one of the many amazing artistic reactions to 9/11, as rock gods like Bruce and movie stars like Tom Hanks suddenly seemed like neighbors: ordinary Americans reckoning with an unbelievable tragedy.
Ten years later it still seems surreal. Last night's NBC News showed a teenager who was only six at the time commenting "It was like a video game." It was astonishing and revelatory. Heinous and unspeakable. All dramatic adjectives apply. That week I took my grandfather's American flag out of the cobwebs in my basement and flew it proudly on my front porch. Flags popped up everywhere. On an early October car ride out of town for a visit with my parents, I suggested my kids count the number of Old Glories they saw on the way. We all chimed in with approximate guesses as to what the final total would be. In the end it eclipsed the highest estimate--over four-hundred. Songs and books have been written, memorials have been erected, commissions have examined, politicians have speechified, wars have been waged. One of our darkest hours became our most united front. It's worth revisiting those September days a decade ago, to try to rise above partisan bickering in Washington, the narcissistic nature of our culture and the economic gloom that pervades every choice in the marketplace. 9/11 is of such seismic proportion it seems futile and hopelessly redundant to add another commemorative voice to the national conversation. But ignoring it isn't an option. Cue Kate Smith and say your prayers.
Tuesday, September 11, 2001 began early for me. I had to get my middle-school age son to jazz band at 8 o'clock and drop my youngest at elementary school. On the way we listened to Breakfast With The Beatles on a local radio station in the car. I held forth with memories of growing up in the Sixties, when life for a pre-teen seemed limitless and carefree. The boys and I sang along. When I got home I saw my oldest boy off at the bus stop while taking my morning power walk with the family dog. Back at the house I gathered several notebooks full of writing projects, determined to spend the day working on my novel. I'd had a birthday the week before and vowed, as I do every year, to tackle the pages with gusto.
Shortly before 9 o'clock the phone rang. "A plane collided with the World Trade Center," my husband Paul told me. I went straight to the TV and, like millions of viewers across America and beyond, began watching the shocking spectacle unfold in real time. I called my loved ones. First my parents and then my sister and brother in-law. The five of us exchanged terrified words as the the second plane hit the South Tower. Then the third jet crashing into the Pentagon and finally, Flight 93 going down in Shanksville, PA. The media feverishly covered emerging details. I begged Paul to come home from work. David Bloom of NBC said one of the intended targets was believed to be Atlanta. Such false or speculative reports unraveled fast and furious, as I thought about going to pick up my kids at their schools. I decided against it, recalling the day in 1963 when teachers informed students of Kennedy's assassination. I reasoned that it was crazy to think my children were in danger. But it nagged at me all afternoon as I awaited their safe return on the school bus. I continued calling Paul, bewildered that his bosses and co-workers were going on with business as usual while the homeland was under siege.
That night my oldest son's basketball practice was still held and that weekend, during the game, I noticed how subdued and quiet the people in the bleachers were. Everyone was in a state of shock, stupefied that such an all-out assault on this country could have been carried out with relative ease. That week I insisted my children watch the celebrity telethon with me. Famous actors and musicians blanketed the airwaves, singing and speaking about the sacrifices and courage of the 9/11 heroes. America: A Tribute to Heroes raised money for the victims' families, opening with Bruce Springsteen's harmonica, as he began performing a song that ended up on his next album, The Rising. That album is one of the many amazing artistic reactions to 9/11, as rock gods like Bruce and movie stars like Tom Hanks suddenly seemed like neighbors: ordinary Americans reckoning with an unbelievable tragedy.
Ten years later it still seems surreal. Last night's NBC News showed a teenager who was only six at the time commenting "It was like a video game." It was astonishing and revelatory. Heinous and unspeakable. All dramatic adjectives apply. That week I took my grandfather's American flag out of the cobwebs in my basement and flew it proudly on my front porch. Flags popped up everywhere. On an early October car ride out of town for a visit with my parents, I suggested my kids count the number of Old Glories they saw on the way. We all chimed in with approximate guesses as to what the final total would be. In the end it eclipsed the highest estimate--over four-hundred. Songs and books have been written, memorials have been erected, commissions have examined, politicians have speechified, wars have been waged. One of our darkest hours became our most united front. It's worth revisiting those September days a decade ago, to try to rise above partisan bickering in Washington, the narcissistic nature of our culture and the economic gloom that pervades every choice in the marketplace. 9/11 is of such seismic proportion it seems futile and hopelessly redundant to add another commemorative voice to the national conversation. But ignoring it isn't an option. Cue Kate Smith and say your prayers.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Odds & Ends
It was bound to happen. Bloggers, like columnists, make errors. And they must be corrected. I guess I owe DSK (Dominique Strauss-Kahn) an apology. Some weeks ago I wrote about his presumed criminal behavior. The case against him fell apart because of the questionable veracity of his accuser. Apparently, the hotel maid was taking advantage of him, as the old phrase goes, rather than the other way around. Sorry, Dom.
Memo: I still think Arnold is a scumbag.
Yesterday the prize for bravest woman went to CNN reporter Sarah Sidner. Outside Gaddafi's compound, while "celebratory" gunfire went off all around her, she continued reporting as if it was nothing more than child's play. The sound of shots grew stronger as she stood her ground. I cringed as I watched, wishing the anchors would tell her take cover. Finally she positioned herself between two walls, taking mere steps away from the action, while cars and trucks rolled by carrying festive rebels. I checked the other networks but she had the scoop. I'd say she's due for a raise.
I'm reading a new hardback novel that I bought at the bookstore, rather than my usual method of getting fresh fiction from the library. It's published by Viking. I've counted three, count 'em, three typos. Millions of unemployed people are looking for a job, while some copy editor at this publishing house is slacking.
I'm debating buying a Kindle or Nook but feel this would be quite a sellout. A coffee mug of mine quotes Thomas Jefferson: "I cannot live without books." I mean "flesh and blood" books, not a plastic screen. It seems tantamount to betraying a lover.
I'm halfway through season four of Battlestar Gallactica and enjoying it tremendously. I'm not typically a sci-fi freak but this show rocks.
Looking forward to Martin Scorsese's "Living in the Material World" documentary about George Harrison.
I must admit I love YouTube's Mishka the talking dog.
The Dolphins will probably have another losing season but I'm gearing up for gridiron anyway.
I'm ready for fall!
Memo: I still think Arnold is a scumbag.
Yesterday the prize for bravest woman went to CNN reporter Sarah Sidner. Outside Gaddafi's compound, while "celebratory" gunfire went off all around her, she continued reporting as if it was nothing more than child's play. The sound of shots grew stronger as she stood her ground. I cringed as I watched, wishing the anchors would tell her take cover. Finally she positioned herself between two walls, taking mere steps away from the action, while cars and trucks rolled by carrying festive rebels. I checked the other networks but she had the scoop. I'd say she's due for a raise.
I'm reading a new hardback novel that I bought at the bookstore, rather than my usual method of getting fresh fiction from the library. It's published by Viking. I've counted three, count 'em, three typos. Millions of unemployed people are looking for a job, while some copy editor at this publishing house is slacking.
I'm debating buying a Kindle or Nook but feel this would be quite a sellout. A coffee mug of mine quotes Thomas Jefferson: "I cannot live without books." I mean "flesh and blood" books, not a plastic screen. It seems tantamount to betraying a lover.
I'm halfway through season four of Battlestar Gallactica and enjoying it tremendously. I'm not typically a sci-fi freak but this show rocks.
Looking forward to Martin Scorsese's "Living in the Material World" documentary about George Harrison.
I must admit I love YouTube's Mishka the talking dog.
The Dolphins will probably have another losing season but I'm gearing up for gridiron anyway.
I'm ready for fall!
Friday, July 22, 2011
Summer Stagnation
For the past few nights the heat wave has been the top story on network news. Anchors describe most of the nation trapped in a meteorological dome bearing down on us, raising temperatures to ungodly heights. Metaphorically speaking, I feel the same way, oppressed and sapped of energy. Summer is great when you're a kid: out of school with freedom to slack off for three months. For the rest of us, it may seem like a steady sinking into malaise, eager for fall to lift us out of our lethargy. The hot and humid days are long and draining. There's no mojo to get working.
Traffic slows, people drift off in mid-sentence, and everyone sweats their way through another day. I usually walk in the morning but even at 9 AM it's muggy. The beach beckons, but all I can think of are the latest studies that show most sunscreens don't protect you from evil UVA rays. I lost a friend this year to melanoma. Shark attacks are up. For me, that nixes the sand and surf. The neighborhood pool is teeming with splashing preschoolers and bored adolescents. Who wants to don a swimsuit in the midst of all those nubile teenage girls?
So I spend most of my time in my air-conditioned abode, flipping through magazines, while Netflix streams old episodes of Battlestar Galactica. I read, try to write, cross errands off my list. I wish I had a dynamic job pushing paper in some high rise on Peachtree Street. I drink lots of iced coffee. I'm still in re-entry mode from having done a play last month, immersed in the art, away from home. Sluggish in the suburbs, I trudge through the week, anxious for autumn leaves, pumpkins and football season. There's another reason I'm not fond of summer--it's the prelude to my birthday in September; I dread the impending hash mark of the calendar's cruel tally.
I guess the solution is to imagine all those January commercials enticing you to Cancun and Aruba while you shiver. Atlanta's six-inch snowfall early this year was no picnic. Come to think of it, that hibernation was as bad or worse than this sweltering summer. In the dreary gray winter I crave sunshine, suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Now we have solar overload. I'm counting the days till school starts, pouring myself another glass of sweet tea.
Traffic slows, people drift off in mid-sentence, and everyone sweats their way through another day. I usually walk in the morning but even at 9 AM it's muggy. The beach beckons, but all I can think of are the latest studies that show most sunscreens don't protect you from evil UVA rays. I lost a friend this year to melanoma. Shark attacks are up. For me, that nixes the sand and surf. The neighborhood pool is teeming with splashing preschoolers and bored adolescents. Who wants to don a swimsuit in the midst of all those nubile teenage girls?
So I spend most of my time in my air-conditioned abode, flipping through magazines, while Netflix streams old episodes of Battlestar Galactica. I read, try to write, cross errands off my list. I wish I had a dynamic job pushing paper in some high rise on Peachtree Street. I drink lots of iced coffee. I'm still in re-entry mode from having done a play last month, immersed in the art, away from home. Sluggish in the suburbs, I trudge through the week, anxious for autumn leaves, pumpkins and football season. There's another reason I'm not fond of summer--it's the prelude to my birthday in September; I dread the impending hash mark of the calendar's cruel tally.
I guess the solution is to imagine all those January commercials enticing you to Cancun and Aruba while you shiver. Atlanta's six-inch snowfall early this year was no picnic. Come to think of it, that hibernation was as bad or worse than this sweltering summer. In the dreary gray winter I crave sunshine, suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Now we have solar overload. I'm counting the days till school starts, pouring myself another glass of sweet tea.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Readers
Please excuse my typo in the post below. I wrote it, groggily, at 5 AM. The congressman who is the subject of the column is Anthony WEiner, not WIener. Next time I'll be more careful.
Wiener is as Wiener Does
My last post lambasted lame and lascivious men. Less than a month later, Washington has yet another powerful man worthy of pillorying--the willful, woeful Wiener, representative from New York. Now exposed (pun intended) as a titillated tweeter and foul Facebooker, Wiener refuses to resign, despite his admission of guilt and tearful apologies. At the current count, as many as six different women have claimed online exchanges with the politician, whose prurient predilection for sexting and sending "studly" photos of himself is an unmitigated disaster for the Democrat. This from a forty-six year old married less than a year ago. If Wiener was a horny high schooler caught in the internet act he would be sent to the principal's office. Instead we have a middle-aged man with compromised principles desperately clinging to his office.
It's hard to imagine what lunacy and stupidity possesses a smart guy like Wiener to engage in such juvenile behavior. Maybe being a Jewish Brooklyn boy, he was channeling his inner Alexander Portnoy, a' la Philip Roth. Whatever his motivation, it's clear he exercised precious little restraint, gallivanting through virtual escapades with college students, single moms and blackjack dealers, none of whom he knew personally. The evidence reveals Wiener was a compulsive attention-seeker, eager for any cyber coital contact he could find. It would have been less creepy if he'd had a garden-variety fling with an intern. The congressman posits his real world fidelity as a defense, hoping the public will forgive his computer habits. Memo to Wiener: sending pictures of your bulging boxer shorts to strangers is tantamount to violating your marital vows, as well as betraying your constituent's faith in you.
The worst aspect of all the shenanigans is Wiener's repeated lying about the incidents, fumbling through a prevaricating news conference last week and, one assumes, initially assuring colleagues it was all a prank. How is it that a grown-up doesn't comprehend the transparency of the worldwide web, where much of our personal histories are documented and dispensed at the click of a mouse? Wiener's ship is sinking fast; Republicans, naturally, are calling for his resignation and Democrats are distancing themselves from him. Wiener's digital delusions of grandeur as a "hot," popular politico have been replaced with reality-- he's the nerdy, gross classroom kid with cooties we don't want to catch.
It's hard to imagine what lunacy and stupidity possesses a smart guy like Wiener to engage in such juvenile behavior. Maybe being a Jewish Brooklyn boy, he was channeling his inner Alexander Portnoy, a' la Philip Roth. Whatever his motivation, it's clear he exercised precious little restraint, gallivanting through virtual escapades with college students, single moms and blackjack dealers, none of whom he knew personally. The evidence reveals Wiener was a compulsive attention-seeker, eager for any cyber coital contact he could find. It would have been less creepy if he'd had a garden-variety fling with an intern. The congressman posits his real world fidelity as a defense, hoping the public will forgive his computer habits. Memo to Wiener: sending pictures of your bulging boxer shorts to strangers is tantamount to violating your marital vows, as well as betraying your constituent's faith in you.
The worst aspect of all the shenanigans is Wiener's repeated lying about the incidents, fumbling through a prevaricating news conference last week and, one assumes, initially assuring colleagues it was all a prank. How is it that a grown-up doesn't comprehend the transparency of the worldwide web, where much of our personal histories are documented and dispensed at the click of a mouse? Wiener's ship is sinking fast; Republicans, naturally, are calling for his resignation and Democrats are distancing themselves from him. Wiener's digital delusions of grandeur as a "hot," popular politico have been replaced with reality-- he's the nerdy, gross classroom kid with cooties we don't want to catch.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Libidinous and Licentious
The lusty month of May has brought us two textbook examples of libido run amok--Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the former International Monetary Fund head's alleged sexual attack, and former California governor and so-called actor Arnold Schwarzenegger's fling with a member of his household staff, resulting in a love child. Freud asked What Do Women Want? I'm wondering Why Can't Men Stop? In the first case we have a sixtyish Frenchman emerging from the shower buck naked purportedly trying to live out a fantasy of sex with the maid. The second affair was consensual but resulted in more visible collateral damage: noble Maria Shriver exiting the mansion and the couple's four children's discovery of a half-sibling they didn't know existed. As their seventeen-year-old son tweeted, "some days you want to quit and just be normal for a bit."
Supposedly, testosterone is to blame in both instances, along with the aphrodisiacal effect of power and entitlement both men enjoyed in their respective professional lives. A New York Times reporter based in France was seen on MSNBC's Martin Bashir show yesterday, informing us that the French expect their politicians to be "sexually vigorous," while Arnold's 2003 gubernatorial bid unearthed several women claiming he'd groped or otherwise sexually harassed them. Both men acted in direct opposition to their own self-interests. Strauss-Kahn was widely believed to be making a run against Sarkozy for president of his country. Arnold jeopardized his 25-year marriage and the relationships with his four, uh, I mean five kids. All because of unbridled libido and colossal errors in judgment. What is it with men?
Leaving aside the issue of the Frenchman's presumed innocence, news of his previous sexual exploits surfaced as soon as the current charges appeared. He's a.k.a. "the great seducer," yet his American-born wife, Anne Sinclair, is standing by her man, coughing up a million in bail money. As for Arnold, his pending plans to return to movies and show biz are alive and well. It would seem that in a post-Charlie Sheen world, knocking up the family housekeeper is no big deal. Have we really grown so accustomed to grown men acting like hormone-crazed teenage boys that we give them a free pass on attempted rape and flagrant infidelity? Not from where I'm standing. Both scumbags deserve to be booted to the curb. In the case of the French Flasher we'll have to see what the trial brings and hope that justice for an immigrant hotel maid is served. But Maria should terminate Conan the Barbarian, revive her career as a journalist and focus on helping her brood heal their shattered lives. Even though she hardly needs the money, she should sue for the heftiest sum possible. With the Kennedy name and friends like Oprah she can bounce back, leaving that sorry slimeball in the dust.
In the meantime, I hope male movers and shakers will heed these cautionary tales and keep their pants zipped. Is it too much to ask for men to be faithful to their wives, behave like gentlemen, refrain from pawing and humiliating every female in their midst? I hope not. My husband and I have been married as long as Maria and Arnold. I trust my hubby 100% but I can't help thinking it's a good thing we've never been able to afford domestic help.
Supposedly, testosterone is to blame in both instances, along with the aphrodisiacal effect of power and entitlement both men enjoyed in their respective professional lives. A New York Times reporter based in France was seen on MSNBC's Martin Bashir show yesterday, informing us that the French expect their politicians to be "sexually vigorous," while Arnold's 2003 gubernatorial bid unearthed several women claiming he'd groped or otherwise sexually harassed them. Both men acted in direct opposition to their own self-interests. Strauss-Kahn was widely believed to be making a run against Sarkozy for president of his country. Arnold jeopardized his 25-year marriage and the relationships with his four, uh, I mean five kids. All because of unbridled libido and colossal errors in judgment. What is it with men?
Leaving aside the issue of the Frenchman's presumed innocence, news of his previous sexual exploits surfaced as soon as the current charges appeared. He's a.k.a. "the great seducer," yet his American-born wife, Anne Sinclair, is standing by her man, coughing up a million in bail money. As for Arnold, his pending plans to return to movies and show biz are alive and well. It would seem that in a post-Charlie Sheen world, knocking up the family housekeeper is no big deal. Have we really grown so accustomed to grown men acting like hormone-crazed teenage boys that we give them a free pass on attempted rape and flagrant infidelity? Not from where I'm standing. Both scumbags deserve to be booted to the curb. In the case of the French Flasher we'll have to see what the trial brings and hope that justice for an immigrant hotel maid is served. But Maria should terminate Conan the Barbarian, revive her career as a journalist and focus on helping her brood heal their shattered lives. Even though she hardly needs the money, she should sue for the heftiest sum possible. With the Kennedy name and friends like Oprah she can bounce back, leaving that sorry slimeball in the dust.
In the meantime, I hope male movers and shakers will heed these cautionary tales and keep their pants zipped. Is it too much to ask for men to be faithful to their wives, behave like gentlemen, refrain from pawing and humiliating every female in their midst? I hope not. My husband and I have been married as long as Maria and Arnold. I trust my hubby 100% but I can't help thinking it's a good thing we've never been able to afford domestic help.
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