We read the NY Times over the quick breakfast that we share together, She gets the front, I get the business/sports, we kick the Arts back and forth. And so this morning, when She stuck the front of the paper over my cereal, folded to the editorial page (which I only read if She finds something She thinks I should read) I left the business travel and moved on to the editorial about Serena.
Everyone should read this editorial and learn from it...learn how not to behave, learn how not to make amends, learn how to point their children in the exact opposite direction. The phrases that jumped out at me in block caps included I WAS IN THE MOMENT (as an excuse for not remembering what she said), I'M MOVING ON (as a way of leaving the event behind her) and I JUST WANT TO GIVE HER A GREAT OLD HUG (as if that would make everything as it was). In a sport that prides itself in its civility, where the audience is told to be quiet and they obey, in a sport where there is absolute silence during serving, the image of a player raging at an official and threatening to shove a tennis ball down her fucking throat (good lip reader that I am) is unconscionable. And to learn that whatever additional punishment against her may be mitigated due to fear of loss of television viewership is deplorable.
The outburst during President Obama's speech last week initiated this past week of uncivility, and the Congressman who blurted out the comment about lying should be punished as severely as possible. There doesn't need to be any reference to the race card here, as President Carter posited. This was just misbehavior and disrespect of an individual and his office.
And then there's Kanye West's bizarre stepping on poor Taylor Swift's toes, in his inability to understand why someone else's choice of music might be different, let alone better, than his.
All in all, a sad week for civility and manners and decorum.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Was I Supposed To Look---redux
A while back, I posed the question as to whether I was supposed to look at the bodies of women as they moved back and forth in the gym...the women in black tights, bright colored leotards over the tights, crotch bound with tiny bright colored strings caught between their buttcheeks., whether women with deep cleavage and exposed boobs wanted to be ogled and checked out and admired.
And the response was a resounding YES!!
And so I was shocked this morning, as I was walking down the street to my garage. A woman approached me, still dressed for summer despite the cool weather in the NYC morning. She had on a blouse with a very deep V, her boobs were large, propped up, and jiggled as she walked towards me.
And I looked, first at her tits and then at her face.
And she mouthed the words "Fuck You," as she walked by.
Did I miss something here? Was I not supposed to stare and admire what was on display? Was the display meant for someone, but not for me? Was I rude for looking even though she was generous in her showing herself off?
Sometimes I'm soooo confused.
And the response was a resounding YES!!
And so I was shocked this morning, as I was walking down the street to my garage. A woman approached me, still dressed for summer despite the cool weather in the NYC morning. She had on a blouse with a very deep V, her boobs were large, propped up, and jiggled as she walked towards me.
And I looked, first at her tits and then at her face.
And she mouthed the words "Fuck You," as she walked by.
Did I miss something here? Was I not supposed to stare and admire what was on display? Was the display meant for someone, but not for me? Was I rude for looking even though she was generous in her showing herself off?
Sometimes I'm soooo confused.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Go Back To Whever You Came From
For better and for worse, the summer is coming to an end...it's cooler, drier, the light has changed.
One of the people I sit on the beach with day after day is P, a staunch Republican from a family of Democrats, the anomaly who nobody ever understood, a states rights, me first guy. His attitude about the South American day laborers who have populated our community for the past several years is to just deport them all, and send them back to where they came from, and that this is one way to fix the health care system. I try to remind him that it is those very people who do all the work that nobody else wants to do, the lawn mowing and landscaping, the butt end hod carrying in the construction work, the dishwashers in the restaurants.
But this post isn't about him, or them.
We walk everywhere in New York City, and this morning, while waiting for the light to turn green on a side street, I watched as an SUV lumbered through the intersection, just slowly enough to keep the sedan behind it from making the light. The sedan drive leaned his head out the window, and screamed out "Go back to Boston", and I turned to see the plate on the SUV, which of course was from Massachusetts. And then I turned back to the sedan, to see just where he came from, and lo and behold, a Jersey driver, notoriously the worst. And it was all I could do to restrain myself, as I laughed to myself, from hollering out to him to go back to New Jersey.
One of the people I sit on the beach with day after day is P, a staunch Republican from a family of Democrats, the anomaly who nobody ever understood, a states rights, me first guy. His attitude about the South American day laborers who have populated our community for the past several years is to just deport them all, and send them back to where they came from, and that this is one way to fix the health care system. I try to remind him that it is those very people who do all the work that nobody else wants to do, the lawn mowing and landscaping, the butt end hod carrying in the construction work, the dishwashers in the restaurants.
But this post isn't about him, or them.
We walk everywhere in New York City, and this morning, while waiting for the light to turn green on a side street, I watched as an SUV lumbered through the intersection, just slowly enough to keep the sedan behind it from making the light. The sedan drive leaned his head out the window, and screamed out "Go back to Boston", and I turned to see the plate on the SUV, which of course was from Massachusetts. And then I turned back to the sedan, to see just where he came from, and lo and behold, a Jersey driver, notoriously the worst. And it was all I could do to restrain myself, as I laughed to myself, from hollering out to him to go back to New Jersey.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Paying Rent
She has long been bullied and abused by Her older sister, a cold distant person who hides behind the supposed mask of her bipolar disorder...the manifestations of which are an inability to edit her comments and criticisms, her need to be always right, and the fact that she views anyone not agreeing with her and her behavior as being "disloyal" to her.
We had dinner last night with Gayle and her husband, Gayle of the Playing With Old Friends posts of last July and August. Despite past histories and alienations, She and Gayle has become good friends yet again, trading on a history that goes back to grade school, the knowledge of one another that transcends the need for explanation and backstory.
And so, last night, as She related the tale of her older sister and her mean spirited treatment, Gayle reminded her that she has been treating Her this way since they were children, and had treated Gayle the same way. And then she capsulized what I have been saying for years:
"Forget her. She's been taking up space in your mind for years and not paying rent."
BULLSEYE!!
We had dinner last night with Gayle and her husband, Gayle of the Playing With Old Friends posts of last July and August. Despite past histories and alienations, She and Gayle has become good friends yet again, trading on a history that goes back to grade school, the knowledge of one another that transcends the need for explanation and backstory.
And so, last night, as She related the tale of her older sister and her mean spirited treatment, Gayle reminded her that she has been treating Her this way since they were children, and had treated Gayle the same way. And then she capsulized what I have been saying for years:
"Forget her. She's been taking up space in your mind for years and not paying rent."
BULLSEYE!!
Friday, August 28, 2009
The Comeback
I've been in a bad place the last few weeks. I've been threatened professionally and it's caused me to shut down every which way...I haven't been working, haven't been reaching out to friends and colleagues for help, She and I have moved the gearshift to neutral, I've been in avoidance with almost everything because I wasn't dealing with my professional difficulties.
I still haven't resolved the situation, but at least I've taken a step or two forward, and instead of napping in the afternoons, I'm back to working, even on the projects I didn't want to know about. I sang Wednesday evening for the first time since the end of June, and was able to hold my own (no wicked pun intended, you filthy minded folk), at least until my voice gave out in the last half hour.
Perhaps I really was ready for summer to be over. It breaks my heart in some way, but perhaps it's time for "back to school", which is another whole post.
I still haven't resolved the situation, but at least I've taken a step or two forward, and instead of napping in the afternoons, I'm back to working, even on the projects I didn't want to know about. I sang Wednesday evening for the first time since the end of June, and was able to hold my own (no wicked pun intended, you filthy minded folk), at least until my voice gave out in the last half hour.
Perhaps I really was ready for summer to be over. It breaks my heart in some way, but perhaps it's time for "back to school", which is another whole post.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Light Changes
I've never hidden the fact that I'm a slut for the beach, and will do anything to get there...well, almost anything. I've spoken of how God looked after me when I first met Her, as she grew up in a seaside town, no summer camps, no enrichment programs, just go to the beach and come home for dinner. And how God looked after me when Her mother passed, and we went shopping for a house of our own, steering us away from from the house with too much land for us to use and toward a home on a quiet side street that was, as they say in the nursery tale, "just right."
And so, sitting on the beach weekend after weekend, and vacation after vacation, I've made some acquaintances, not serious friends, just folks to stand at the edge of the surf and while away the hours, admiring the surf and the break of the wave and the ever changing collection of "inventory" the ocean brings in with every wave and movement.
Jack is a good 10 years older than me, with a full shock of white hair and the endless patience for a day at the beach. He retired years ago before he was 55, the beneficiary of a buyout package at some major insurance company. He invested wisely, and has never looked back. A few years ago, as we stood at the edge of the surf, he remarked that the summer was over, and I asked him how he could say that, as it was only the first week in August. He turned to me and explained how the light had changed as it hit the water. The sun was positioned differently in the sky. It wasn't bad, just different.
And although I agreed with him at the time, I never truly understood the change in the light.
Until yesterday.
Granted that it IS the end of August. But yesterday was a typical summer day in New York City, much the same as we had all last week, close to or up to 90, heavy humidity, a stay inside air conditioner day. But as I went out to the post office, I was struck by how different the light was from the week before, how much lighter and thinner it was (poor words to describe the quality of light, but I'm a musician, not and artist). Even at that relatively high temperature, I could see the end of summer just around the corner, and with it the end of short pants, flip flops, the openness of having nothing to do, the return to prime time television. In spite of the fact that boobs abound and the streets are rife with the cleavage that hot weather brings, it's only a matter of time until we're all covered from head to foot, wrapped in jackets and coats, longing for the return of the lazy hazy days of summer, which I will miss this year more than ever, even as I recognize that this summer has been difficult for me on so many fronts.
Sigh....
And so, sitting on the beach weekend after weekend, and vacation after vacation, I've made some acquaintances, not serious friends, just folks to stand at the edge of the surf and while away the hours, admiring the surf and the break of the wave and the ever changing collection of "inventory" the ocean brings in with every wave and movement.
Jack is a good 10 years older than me, with a full shock of white hair and the endless patience for a day at the beach. He retired years ago before he was 55, the beneficiary of a buyout package at some major insurance company. He invested wisely, and has never looked back. A few years ago, as we stood at the edge of the surf, he remarked that the summer was over, and I asked him how he could say that, as it was only the first week in August. He turned to me and explained how the light had changed as it hit the water. The sun was positioned differently in the sky. It wasn't bad, just different.
And although I agreed with him at the time, I never truly understood the change in the light.
Until yesterday.
Granted that it IS the end of August. But yesterday was a typical summer day in New York City, much the same as we had all last week, close to or up to 90, heavy humidity, a stay inside air conditioner day. But as I went out to the post office, I was struck by how different the light was from the week before, how much lighter and thinner it was (poor words to describe the quality of light, but I'm a musician, not and artist). Even at that relatively high temperature, I could see the end of summer just around the corner, and with it the end of short pants, flip flops, the openness of having nothing to do, the return to prime time television. In spite of the fact that boobs abound and the streets are rife with the cleavage that hot weather brings, it's only a matter of time until we're all covered from head to foot, wrapped in jackets and coats, longing for the return of the lazy hazy days of summer, which I will miss this year more than ever, even as I recognize that this summer has been difficult for me on so many fronts.
Sigh....
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Boy And His Book
Three months ago I posted about one of those wonderful days when everything went just right...the day The Boy participated in the commencement exercises from grad school. Yesterday his bound dissertation arrived in the mail, and I opened it to the acknowledgment section, where he recognized everyone that helped him along the long hard road to completion.
But this needs a bit of a backstory first.
We had always read books to him, bedtime stories, books during the day, books at night, from the time he had been able to concentrate on what he was hearing. The first nighttime book was Good Night Moon, with laminated pages for those lunging hands. As the years went on, the books became more sophisticated, but always age appropriate. Anyway, we were standing on the subway platform sometime during the Christmas season, going shopping somewhere for presents. He was 4 years two months old, and as we waited for the downtown train, he asked me "What does 'come home to red' mean?". And I asked him where he was getting the question from, and he pointed across the station. On the uptown side was a billboard for Johnny Walker Red. And I knew that at a very early age, he knew how to read, and had been doing it for some time, asking me the question only because he didn't understand the billboard.
The acknowledgment thanks everyone that ever walked in shoe leather, but here's the part I liked best, and I quote:
"My parents...always encouraged me to read and think about whatever my interests and passions led me towards, even (and perhaps especially) when those interests and passions included the back of the cereal box or the billboards in the subway station. That faith and support underlies this project in more ways than one."
That's my Boy, thanking me in the privatest way that he knew, harking back to the very beginning.
But this needs a bit of a backstory first.
We had always read books to him, bedtime stories, books during the day, books at night, from the time he had been able to concentrate on what he was hearing. The first nighttime book was Good Night Moon, with laminated pages for those lunging hands. As the years went on, the books became more sophisticated, but always age appropriate. Anyway, we were standing on the subway platform sometime during the Christmas season, going shopping somewhere for presents. He was 4 years two months old, and as we waited for the downtown train, he asked me "What does 'come home to red' mean?". And I asked him where he was getting the question from, and he pointed across the station. On the uptown side was a billboard for Johnny Walker Red. And I knew that at a very early age, he knew how to read, and had been doing it for some time, asking me the question only because he didn't understand the billboard.
The acknowledgment thanks everyone that ever walked in shoe leather, but here's the part I liked best, and I quote:
"My parents...always encouraged me to read and think about whatever my interests and passions led me towards, even (and perhaps especially) when those interests and passions included the back of the cereal box or the billboards in the subway station. That faith and support underlies this project in more ways than one."
That's my Boy, thanking me in the privatest way that he knew, harking back to the very beginning.
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