FOR REAL . . .
"Truman," by David McCullough, is the only non-fiction book to date that has made me cry. I cried throughout Harry S. Truman's last weeks, and throughout his funeral services. Read it. It's soooo good. And Truman was a very nice man.
Thursday, November 18
Tuesday, November 16
GLIMMER OF HOPE? . . .
This, according to the New York Times:
[Condoleezza Rice] has told friends she looks forward to a period of diplomacy less clouded by memories of the Sept. 11 attacks. And on the weekend after Mr. Bush won re-election, Ms. Rice gave him a memo on how the United States might improve relationships with countries in Europe and the Middle East. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Bush announced that he intended to visit Europe "as soon as possible" after his inauguration.
Let's hope so.
This, according to the New York Times:
[Condoleezza Rice] has told friends she looks forward to a period of diplomacy less clouded by memories of the Sept. 11 attacks. And on the weekend after Mr. Bush won re-election, Ms. Rice gave him a memo on how the United States might improve relationships with countries in Europe and the Middle East. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Bush announced that he intended to visit Europe "as soon as possible" after his inauguration.
Let's hope so.
DON'T GOOOOOO . . .
Colin Powell is stepping down as Secretary of State. DON'T DO IT, MR. SECRETARY!!!!
The only voice of reason in Washington, D.C. is returning to private life. I guess he deserves it. He is -- or at least seems to be, by all accounts -- an honorable man unafraid to stick to his guns of integrity, a church-going man, a family man, a diplomat and a peace-maker, an intelligent man, a dignified man, a man who listens more than he speaks, a wise man, a man with whom you'd like to have a scotch on the rocks while discussing foreign policy, a man with whom you'd like to share a bag of chips while hooting and hollering at the contestants on the new season of "The Amazing Race" (which premieres tonight). Actually, no. I bet he doesn't hoot and holler much, or eat potato chips. But I bet he would enjoy "The Amazing Race."
He deserves private life. He deserves to spend some quality time with Alma and the three kids. He deserves to have some quiet inside his head, slippers on his feet, and a job he loves sauntering off to every morning. He did not deserve the last four years of bullshit that Shrub dished out to him every day on a silver platter, then instructed him to deliver unto the unknowing masses.
I know all that, and I know that having Condi Rice be the next Secretary of State will be an historic event: the first black woman to be the nation's top diplomat, and only the second woman ever to hold the post. But why do something for history's sake? For someone as accomplished and intelligent as she is, she has now turned into nothing more than a yes-woman. Images of her and Shrub's heads pressed together hatching another dastardly plot to rule the world make me nauseous still. She's the natural choice because we all know Shrub can't make any decisions on his own, and he loves to surround himself with people who will say "uh-huh, exactly, just go to war," but please. The next four years have to -- HAVE TO -- be different, and having Condi Rice be our Secretary of State will change the entire face of American diplomacy (or in Shrub's case, NON-diplomacy). God be with those in the State Department now; boy, am I ever glad I never passed THAT test. Incidentally, having Condi's Number 2 step in as the next National Security Advisor is merely a portent of our doom. We're screwed. As Hooch would say, "Second verse, same as the first." And it's not just me; a tried and true Washington insider speaks thusly:
Should Rice's nomination be approved, her top deputy, Stephen Hadley, will be promoted to national security adviser, the senior administration officials said.
The moves drew initial negative reaction from a former secretary of state who served Bush's father.
"I do not believe that you should have in the secretary of state someone who has spent their last four years in the White House next to the president," Lawrence Eagleburger told CNN's "Paula Zahn Now." "I do believe you need tension between the State Department, the Defense Department and the National Security Council.
"If the rumors prove correct and her deputy becomes national security adviser, everybody is going to speak the same language," he said. "Whatever influence, for instance, Colin Powell had is going to be much less under these new circumstances."
Uh-huh. You know it.
Colin Powell is stepping down as Secretary of State. DON'T DO IT, MR. SECRETARY!!!!
The only voice of reason in Washington, D.C. is returning to private life. I guess he deserves it. He is -- or at least seems to be, by all accounts -- an honorable man unafraid to stick to his guns of integrity, a church-going man, a family man, a diplomat and a peace-maker, an intelligent man, a dignified man, a man who listens more than he speaks, a wise man, a man with whom you'd like to have a scotch on the rocks while discussing foreign policy, a man with whom you'd like to share a bag of chips while hooting and hollering at the contestants on the new season of "The Amazing Race" (which premieres tonight). Actually, no. I bet he doesn't hoot and holler much, or eat potato chips. But I bet he would enjoy "The Amazing Race."
He deserves private life. He deserves to spend some quality time with Alma and the three kids. He deserves to have some quiet inside his head, slippers on his feet, and a job he loves sauntering off to every morning. He did not deserve the last four years of bullshit that Shrub dished out to him every day on a silver platter, then instructed him to deliver unto the unknowing masses.
I know all that, and I know that having Condi Rice be the next Secretary of State will be an historic event: the first black woman to be the nation's top diplomat, and only the second woman ever to hold the post. But why do something for history's sake? For someone as accomplished and intelligent as she is, she has now turned into nothing more than a yes-woman. Images of her and Shrub's heads pressed together hatching another dastardly plot to rule the world make me nauseous still. She's the natural choice because we all know Shrub can't make any decisions on his own, and he loves to surround himself with people who will say "uh-huh, exactly, just go to war," but please. The next four years have to -- HAVE TO -- be different, and having Condi Rice be our Secretary of State will change the entire face of American diplomacy (or in Shrub's case, NON-diplomacy). God be with those in the State Department now; boy, am I ever glad I never passed THAT test. Incidentally, having Condi's Number 2 step in as the next National Security Advisor is merely a portent of our doom. We're screwed. As Hooch would say, "Second verse, same as the first." And it's not just me; a tried and true Washington insider speaks thusly:
Should Rice's nomination be approved, her top deputy, Stephen Hadley, will be promoted to national security adviser, the senior administration officials said.
The moves drew initial negative reaction from a former secretary of state who served Bush's father.
"I do not believe that you should have in the secretary of state someone who has spent their last four years in the White House next to the president," Lawrence Eagleburger told CNN's "Paula Zahn Now." "I do believe you need tension between the State Department, the Defense Department and the National Security Council.
"If the rumors prove correct and her deputy becomes national security adviser, everybody is going to speak the same language," he said. "Whatever influence, for instance, Colin Powell had is going to be much less under these new circumstances."
Uh-huh. You know it.
Saturday, November 13
A short while back, my sister-not-by-blood and her family came to visit and stay with me. Having her here with me was like she was never gone; having her gone back home is sadder than ever. As we do on all of our visits with each other, we stayed up all hours of the night guffawing, arguing political points, browing the Internet playing nerdy trivia games, reminiscing, hearing each other's life updates. This time, with her and hers on MY turf, we hit the city and the Central Park Zoo, where, naturally, we couldn't resist the temptation to stick our heads into some holes. Sigh. Some things never change ...
OH, NO, IT DI'IN'T . . .
It snowed last night. My car has a light dusting of WHITE SNOW on it.
Damn. There go my hopes for a balmy 65-degree winter.
***
YOU LEARN SOMETHING NEW EVERYDAY . . .
I have never bought seafood from the seafood section of a grocery store or a fish market before. Today, I must buy bay scallops. I'm unsure of how I'm going to do this. Do I go up to the person behind the seafood counter at my local Super Stop & Shop and say "Hi, I'd like a pound of bay scallops, please"? Or is it self-serve, where I tear off a big plastic baggie and grab the scoop and pick out the best-looking scallops myself? Do I have to take a number, or will the seafood counter-person call out to me, "Can I help you, miss"? And what am I looking for anyway? Is there a difference between bay scallops and sea scallops ... other than that one apparently is from the sea and the other comes from a bay? What if the bay flows into a sea? Do I want the big plump scallops just because they look like they'd be really tasty and juicy, or do I want the little ones because they are actually what one would call 'bay scallops'?
Ugh. As a dear friend would say, I think too much. Let me hie myself to my snow-covered car and venture into the unknown.
It snowed last night. My car has a light dusting of WHITE SNOW on it.
Damn. There go my hopes for a balmy 65-degree winter.
***
YOU LEARN SOMETHING NEW EVERYDAY . . .
I have never bought seafood from the seafood section of a grocery store or a fish market before. Today, I must buy bay scallops. I'm unsure of how I'm going to do this. Do I go up to the person behind the seafood counter at my local Super Stop & Shop and say "Hi, I'd like a pound of bay scallops, please"? Or is it self-serve, where I tear off a big plastic baggie and grab the scoop and pick out the best-looking scallops myself? Do I have to take a number, or will the seafood counter-person call out to me, "Can I help you, miss"? And what am I looking for anyway? Is there a difference between bay scallops and sea scallops ... other than that one apparently is from the sea and the other comes from a bay? What if the bay flows into a sea? Do I want the big plump scallops just because they look like they'd be really tasty and juicy, or do I want the little ones because they are actually what one would call 'bay scallops'?
Ugh. As a dear friend would say, I think too much. Let me hie myself to my snow-covered car and venture into the unknown.
Friday, November 12
THINGS I LOVE COOKING . . .
White Bean and Cheddar Dip ... Toffee-Cranberry-Chocolate Cookies ... cakes ... wilted spinach with garlic and oil ... anything that causes my Empire Red KitchenAid Artisan mixer to whip egg whites and sugar until "stiff peaks form."
***
THINGS I LOVE READING . . .
Magazine articles that tell me that merely stretching can "whittle my waist" and that 15 minutes of exercise a day can "make a difference" ... Scott Peterson found guilty of two counts of murder.
***
THINGS I HATE READING . . .
Scott Peterson found guilty of murdering an unborn child ... bad grammar and spelling in The New York Times, namely: "The remains of Ms. Peterson and her unborn sun, who the couple had planned to name Conner, washed ashore in April 2003, a few miles from where Mr. Peterson told the police he had gone fishing." I'm not kidding. That's a real sentence from one of today's New York Times cover stories, complete with the lack of "whom" AND the fact that Ms. Peterson was going to give birth to a very very very hot ball of fire.
White Bean and Cheddar Dip ... Toffee-Cranberry-Chocolate Cookies ... cakes ... wilted spinach with garlic and oil ... anything that causes my Empire Red KitchenAid Artisan mixer to whip egg whites and sugar until "stiff peaks form."
***
THINGS I LOVE READING . . .
Magazine articles that tell me that merely stretching can "whittle my waist" and that 15 minutes of exercise a day can "make a difference" ... Scott Peterson found guilty of two counts of murder.
***
THINGS I HATE READING . . .
Scott Peterson found guilty of murdering an unborn child ... bad grammar and spelling in The New York Times, namely: "The remains of Ms. Peterson and her unborn sun, who the couple had planned to name Conner, washed ashore in April 2003, a few miles from where Mr. Peterson told the police he had gone fishing." I'm not kidding. That's a real sentence from one of today's New York Times cover stories, complete with the lack of "whom" AND the fact that Ms. Peterson was going to give birth to a very very very hot ball of fire.
Wednesday, November 10
SEASONS CHANGE . . .
Palestinian leader Yasir Arafat has died. The times, they are a-changin' ... someone will peg me an anti-Semite for even saying this, but ... I am sad. Obviously not because I knew the man. Perhaps I didn't even WANT to know him. But I am sad because watershed moments such as these keep coming and coming, and I wonder at the world's ability to keep up. Who will negotiate for peace in the Middle East now? Will Palestinian loyalists rise up in rage or in peace? Will Israel strike back or reach out a hand to shake? Will the United States tread lightly and carefully?
And what about the man himself? Was he really as evil as he was portrayed by others, and so roundly vilified? Could one person really have that much hate inside of him, with not one other iota of charm and happiness and light and hope and good will towards humanity? Did he not have passions and goals and hopes for his people, and are they not valid? And when he was dying ... was he dying with regret or with vigor?
We'll never know, but I hope he is at peace. For such a tumultuous life deserves some succor at the end, don't you think?
***
CLAUDIA JEAN . . .
Sometimes, I drift away from a beloved television program because it has become not as striking as it was when it first caught my affections and attention. "The West Wing" was one of those shows. But tonight, Claudia Jean brought me back. It was a cliche episode: person -- namely woman -- faces adversity in a male-dominated environment, but comes to hold her own and stand strong in the end. But I love cliches, and I love Claudia Jean and I love "The West Wing" once more.
The witty one-liners didn't hurt either. In particular, Toby referring to a senator thus: "He's a tool."
That's almost as good as calling someone a MO-RON, don't you think, Mrs.G? MO. RON.
***
FAMILY TIES . . .
No, I never watched the show much, but I must tell you that Appa writes the funniest emails. Today, he referred to our first golf outing together last Saturday morning:
Not only that,I will never forget this first rounding with my daughter, for sure it will be quite memorable. And C was very amicable and was a gentleman. Quite a many times, I would have hard times for finding a ball provided he didn't help me with location.
And then he spoke of my golf skills:
Anyway,about your golf swing, I was totally surprised to see your standard and smooth swing. You ,of course, just started, and didn't have chances to practise a lot, sometimes missed a good impact,but they are all controllable. Main thing is swing itself. All I can say is you have a good swing,like your Mom, particularly when you just look ball position straightly. I have no question you gonna be a good golfer later on.
Then he waxes poetic:
We all know that life is full of ups and downs.When sun is bright,we prepare for rainy day, when night darkens we prepare for the dawn to come.
Then he reminds me that I'm still his kid:
Above all, I want you to take care of your coughing,and hoarse voice. You can't deny you're too busy with all kinds of events. Rest goes first for everything.
And finally, he makes me remember why I love him:
See you soon. With our hands clasped in prayer for you,for everything. I love you, from daddy
Palestinian leader Yasir Arafat has died. The times, they are a-changin' ... someone will peg me an anti-Semite for even saying this, but ... I am sad. Obviously not because I knew the man. Perhaps I didn't even WANT to know him. But I am sad because watershed moments such as these keep coming and coming, and I wonder at the world's ability to keep up. Who will negotiate for peace in the Middle East now? Will Palestinian loyalists rise up in rage or in peace? Will Israel strike back or reach out a hand to shake? Will the United States tread lightly and carefully?
And what about the man himself? Was he really as evil as he was portrayed by others, and so roundly vilified? Could one person really have that much hate inside of him, with not one other iota of charm and happiness and light and hope and good will towards humanity? Did he not have passions and goals and hopes for his people, and are they not valid? And when he was dying ... was he dying with regret or with vigor?
We'll never know, but I hope he is at peace. For such a tumultuous life deserves some succor at the end, don't you think?
***
CLAUDIA JEAN . . .
Sometimes, I drift away from a beloved television program because it has become not as striking as it was when it first caught my affections and attention. "The West Wing" was one of those shows. But tonight, Claudia Jean brought me back. It was a cliche episode: person -- namely woman -- faces adversity in a male-dominated environment, but comes to hold her own and stand strong in the end. But I love cliches, and I love Claudia Jean and I love "The West Wing" once more.
The witty one-liners didn't hurt either. In particular, Toby referring to a senator thus: "He's a tool."
That's almost as good as calling someone a MO-RON, don't you think, Mrs.G? MO. RON.
***
FAMILY TIES . . .
No, I never watched the show much, but I must tell you that Appa writes the funniest emails. Today, he referred to our first golf outing together last Saturday morning:
Not only that,I will never forget this first rounding with my daughter, for sure it will be quite memorable. And C was very amicable and was a gentleman. Quite a many times, I would have hard times for finding a ball provided he didn't help me with location.
And then he spoke of my golf skills:
Anyway,about your golf swing, I was totally surprised to see your standard and smooth swing. You ,of course, just started, and didn't have chances to practise a lot, sometimes missed a good impact,but they are all controllable. Main thing is swing itself. All I can say is you have a good swing,like your Mom, particularly when you just look ball position straightly. I have no question you gonna be a good golfer later on.
Then he waxes poetic:
We all know that life is full of ups and downs.When sun is bright,we prepare for rainy day, when night darkens we prepare for the dawn to come.
Then he reminds me that I'm still his kid:
Above all, I want you to take care of your coughing,and hoarse voice. You can't deny you're too busy with all kinds of events. Rest goes first for everything.
And finally, he makes me remember why I love him:
See you soon. With our hands clasped in prayer for you,for everything. I love you, from daddy
Tuesday, November 9
CODEINE-INDUCED . . .
My least favorite part about getting sick (because I have so many favorite parts, right) is the part at the end of the sickness where the cough lingers. And lingers. And lingers. Like a bad stain of baby puke. Codeine helps, but I only take it at night, so during my waking (and working and driving) hours, I am alternately woozy from the lingering codeine and jolted awake by my dry hacking cough. Ick. Moments like these, I think that I will never get better and will never feel 100%. But then in a snap, I'm sure I'll feel better and won't even remember the last time I got sick. God bless the mysteries of the human mind. That is why women have more than one baby.
***
THAT GIRL IS . . .
POISON! I have only met one person in my entire life whom I would describe as being a poison upon the earth. And she drives me nuts and fills me with rage and anger and bitterness. She fills my mind with all sorts of things that I would say to her if only I could. And she makes me want to smack her. There are very few people in the world I want to strike. Actually, there are less than very few people in the world I want to strike. Poison is one of them. Actually, Poison is the only one. Sigh. As I am an avowed pacifist, I can strike her only in my dreams. Damn, I hope I have some good dreams tonight.
But the thing is ... every poison has an antidote. I wonder what can vanquish Poison.
***
LEGAL EAGLE . . .
For all that everyone touts federal judicial clerkships as being the shining and much-envied star on any attorney's resume, I'm finding that people like looking at your star, but won't necessarily want your star to shine in his or her office. I am inundated yearly with letters from local (and not so local: thanks, Alabama, but I don't really want to work there) law firms, big and small, white-shoe and tennis-sneakerish, who want me because of where I work, for they are confident that I am smart, capable, intelligent, personable, and highly qualified. Which of course I am, naturally.
But when they ask what experience I have, they seem to overlook the last four years of my life. I have handled all manner of legal issues -- some better than others, and almost all, largely with great assistance and insight from Hooch, the Legal Beagle -- ranging from employment law, to insurance law, to criminal law, to constitutional law, to intellectual property law. I've worked on cases involving car accidents, double murders, unique machinery, the Post Office, large things falling on small people, discrimination, police brutality, employment disputes and jails, children and boxing matches. From watching tardy and unrepentant attorneys, I've learned to be on time and be respectful. From reading shoddy paperwork, I've learned to spell-check, then check again. From working with Hooch and the Judge, I've learned to be concise and clear. From answering the phones and opening the doors and responding to questions, I've learned to be courteous and polite and even firm. Heck, I've even learned in some situations, to control the contortions of my face -- I can scowl and laugh internally with the best of them. I've done this for four years and churned out a respectable amount of paperwork -- none of which has been overturned, knock on dark mahogany federal courtroom wood, but it still doesn't matter.
Everyone wants me to have more experience.
Sigh. Maybe I'll ask my parents to support me while I go to cooking school.
If I could write any cover letter in the world, this is what it would look like:
Dear White Shoe/Tennis Sneaker:
My name is ChaEsq, and I'm not that interested in working for you unless you assign me to some interesting cases and let me do lots of pro bono work on the side and still pay me and respect me for it. After all, I have a mortgage to pay now.
I'm probably not all that qualified to do anything but prosecute, because that's just in my blood. But I am a quick learner, and I'm not just saying that. Ask my mom: when we go golfing, and I'm hitting some really bad shots, she tells me specifically what to do, and I do it, and my shots go far and straight, with that nice pinging noise as the club strikes the ball. I love that sound. Anyway, my point is that I can handle anything you throw at me, because I'll simply learn about it. I'm not kidding -- I will, and I'll do a good job for you.
Plus, I'm mostly a fun person. I make nice with almost everyone, and I'm not cutthroat or competitive. I don't bother people ... much. I coordinate events pretty well, and am all about bonding and relaxing. Trust me, relaxed employees are happy and productive employees. I'm not pretentious, and I don't strut around in really pointy high-heeled shoes that instantly scream "bitch from hell!" I eat almost everything and almost everywhere, although hoity-toity restaurants make me giggle. I don't take a lot of sick days, and I stock my drawers with lots of goodies so that my coworkers can share with me.
You should at least bring me in and talk to me. Let me charm you with my wit and humor, and show you that even if I don't know a lick about securities regulation, I am absolutely worth teaching.
Oh, and by the way, you have to let me leave at 5:00 every evening because I like to eat dinner in the comfort of my own home.
Thanks for your time.
My least favorite part about getting sick (because I have so many favorite parts, right) is the part at the end of the sickness where the cough lingers. And lingers. And lingers. Like a bad stain of baby puke. Codeine helps, but I only take it at night, so during my waking (and working and driving) hours, I am alternately woozy from the lingering codeine and jolted awake by my dry hacking cough. Ick. Moments like these, I think that I will never get better and will never feel 100%. But then in a snap, I'm sure I'll feel better and won't even remember the last time I got sick. God bless the mysteries of the human mind. That is why women have more than one baby.
***
THAT GIRL IS . . .
POISON! I have only met one person in my entire life whom I would describe as being a poison upon the earth. And she drives me nuts and fills me with rage and anger and bitterness. She fills my mind with all sorts of things that I would say to her if only I could. And she makes me want to smack her. There are very few people in the world I want to strike. Actually, there are less than very few people in the world I want to strike. Poison is one of them. Actually, Poison is the only one. Sigh. As I am an avowed pacifist, I can strike her only in my dreams. Damn, I hope I have some good dreams tonight.
But the thing is ... every poison has an antidote. I wonder what can vanquish Poison.
***
LEGAL EAGLE . . .
For all that everyone touts federal judicial clerkships as being the shining and much-envied star on any attorney's resume, I'm finding that people like looking at your star, but won't necessarily want your star to shine in his or her office. I am inundated yearly with letters from local (and not so local: thanks, Alabama, but I don't really want to work there) law firms, big and small, white-shoe and tennis-sneakerish, who want me because of where I work, for they are confident that I am smart, capable, intelligent, personable, and highly qualified. Which of course I am, naturally.
But when they ask what experience I have, they seem to overlook the last four years of my life. I have handled all manner of legal issues -- some better than others, and almost all, largely with great assistance and insight from Hooch, the Legal Beagle -- ranging from employment law, to insurance law, to criminal law, to constitutional law, to intellectual property law. I've worked on cases involving car accidents, double murders, unique machinery, the Post Office, large things falling on small people, discrimination, police brutality, employment disputes and jails, children and boxing matches. From watching tardy and unrepentant attorneys, I've learned to be on time and be respectful. From reading shoddy paperwork, I've learned to spell-check, then check again. From working with Hooch and the Judge, I've learned to be concise and clear. From answering the phones and opening the doors and responding to questions, I've learned to be courteous and polite and even firm. Heck, I've even learned in some situations, to control the contortions of my face -- I can scowl and laugh internally with the best of them. I've done this for four years and churned out a respectable amount of paperwork -- none of which has been overturned, knock on dark mahogany federal courtroom wood, but it still doesn't matter.
Everyone wants me to have more experience.
Sigh. Maybe I'll ask my parents to support me while I go to cooking school.
If I could write any cover letter in the world, this is what it would look like:
Dear White Shoe/Tennis Sneaker:
My name is ChaEsq, and I'm not that interested in working for you unless you assign me to some interesting cases and let me do lots of pro bono work on the side and still pay me and respect me for it. After all, I have a mortgage to pay now.
I'm probably not all that qualified to do anything but prosecute, because that's just in my blood. But I am a quick learner, and I'm not just saying that. Ask my mom: when we go golfing, and I'm hitting some really bad shots, she tells me specifically what to do, and I do it, and my shots go far and straight, with that nice pinging noise as the club strikes the ball. I love that sound. Anyway, my point is that I can handle anything you throw at me, because I'll simply learn about it. I'm not kidding -- I will, and I'll do a good job for you.
Plus, I'm mostly a fun person. I make nice with almost everyone, and I'm not cutthroat or competitive. I don't bother people ... much. I coordinate events pretty well, and am all about bonding and relaxing. Trust me, relaxed employees are happy and productive employees. I'm not pretentious, and I don't strut around in really pointy high-heeled shoes that instantly scream "bitch from hell!" I eat almost everything and almost everywhere, although hoity-toity restaurants make me giggle. I don't take a lot of sick days, and I stock my drawers with lots of goodies so that my coworkers can share with me.
You should at least bring me in and talk to me. Let me charm you with my wit and humor, and show you that even if I don't know a lick about securities regulation, I am absolutely worth teaching.
Oh, and by the way, you have to let me leave at 5:00 every evening because I like to eat dinner in the comfort of my own home.
Thanks for your time.
Sunday, November 7
CROWN ME . . .
I know I'm a drama queen, more so than some, less so than others. But I'm still amazed at my own ability to fall into a tailspin, mentally, emotionally, physically, anytime something goes wrong, something goes awry, something falls off-kilter. A misplaced word, a misunderstanding, a moment of being ignored, a tiff, a turned-away shoulder, a word spoken with averted eyes, a deliberate indifference to my existence. I can't hug those I want to hug, I can't enjoy an evening out with friends, I can't swallow a meal without choking on the lump in my throat, I can't sleep for seeing images and visions beneath my eyelids that grow the boulder lying in the slowly-stretching pit of my stomach. The stress puts lines on my face, turns my lips downward, makes me stare into space like an unhappy zombie in a room full of bustling cheerful people, shakes my hands when I most want to give off the image of steadiness and self-control. The indigestion gives me diarrhea, the guilt gives me insomnia, and my damn memory and conscience give me bruises, kicking me again and again and saying "what the hell were you thinking? Couldn't you just have let sleeping dogs lie? Did you have to have the last word?" And mostly, the replay button in my mind and my ever-present pessimism gives me great amounts of fear ... wondering if forgiveness is real and if relationships really can ever be truly and completely repaired without condition and without scars. The worst part -- as if it could get any worse (says the drama queen) -- is that the most recent happiest of memories seem like they happened decades ago, and are already fraying at the edges like a beloved old photograph that is taken out of the album and gazed upon again and again.
I know I'm a drama queen, more so than some, less so than others. But I'm still amazed at my own ability to fall into a tailspin, mentally, emotionally, physically, anytime something goes wrong, something goes awry, something falls off-kilter. A misplaced word, a misunderstanding, a moment of being ignored, a tiff, a turned-away shoulder, a word spoken with averted eyes, a deliberate indifference to my existence. I can't hug those I want to hug, I can't enjoy an evening out with friends, I can't swallow a meal without choking on the lump in my throat, I can't sleep for seeing images and visions beneath my eyelids that grow the boulder lying in the slowly-stretching pit of my stomach. The stress puts lines on my face, turns my lips downward, makes me stare into space like an unhappy zombie in a room full of bustling cheerful people, shakes my hands when I most want to give off the image of steadiness and self-control. The indigestion gives me diarrhea, the guilt gives me insomnia, and my damn memory and conscience give me bruises, kicking me again and again and saying "what the hell were you thinking? Couldn't you just have let sleeping dogs lie? Did you have to have the last word?" And mostly, the replay button in my mind and my ever-present pessimism gives me great amounts of fear ... wondering if forgiveness is real and if relationships really can ever be truly and completely repaired without condition and without scars. The worst part -- as if it could get any worse (says the drama queen) -- is that the most recent happiest of memories seem like they happened decades ago, and are already fraying at the edges like a beloved old photograph that is taken out of the album and gazed upon again and again.
Saturday, November 6
CUTE . . .
I find it strangely endearing that Brittany Murphy, the actress, lives with her mom.
***
SING IT, CHER . . .
If I could turn back time, I wouldn't do the big things over again. I wouldn't prevent war or famine or evil dictators. I wouldn't head off the Ice Age or stop the crucifixion of my Christ. I wouldn't try out a different college or law school or job experience. I wouldn't make different friends or travel to different places. I wouldn't even make Kerry President of the United States ... though I might be tempted.
I would, however, carefully and methodically undo every purposeful or inadvertent hurt I have ever imposed upon anyone. I would clear up every misunderstanding and ward off every potential misunderstanding. I would take back and choke down every word I spoke against a human being. I would bind my hands and shut my mouth and un-scowl my eyes so that I would never harm another person. I would anticipate every need and fill in every gap so that no one who comes into contact with me would leave me feeling empty or bereft. I would speak only kindness, do only good, meet every standard of trust, and live my life in a way that gave honor and shone light upon Christ and no one else.
***
COCKLES, BE WARMED! . . .
Sometimes, a softly, privately spoken word of kindness, affection and congratulations is greater, weightier, more meaningful and more loving than a big to-do in front of everyone.
Don't you think?
Thanks to you, for I am much encouraged and vastly cheered.
I find it strangely endearing that Brittany Murphy, the actress, lives with her mom.
***
SING IT, CHER . . .
If I could turn back time, I wouldn't do the big things over again. I wouldn't prevent war or famine or evil dictators. I wouldn't head off the Ice Age or stop the crucifixion of my Christ. I wouldn't try out a different college or law school or job experience. I wouldn't make different friends or travel to different places. I wouldn't even make Kerry President of the United States ... though I might be tempted.
I would, however, carefully and methodically undo every purposeful or inadvertent hurt I have ever imposed upon anyone. I would clear up every misunderstanding and ward off every potential misunderstanding. I would take back and choke down every word I spoke against a human being. I would bind my hands and shut my mouth and un-scowl my eyes so that I would never harm another person. I would anticipate every need and fill in every gap so that no one who comes into contact with me would leave me feeling empty or bereft. I would speak only kindness, do only good, meet every standard of trust, and live my life in a way that gave honor and shone light upon Christ and no one else.
***
COCKLES, BE WARMED! . . .
Sometimes, a softly, privately spoken word of kindness, affection and congratulations is greater, weightier, more meaningful and more loving than a big to-do in front of everyone.
Don't you think?
Thanks to you, for I am much encouraged and vastly cheered.
Thursday, November 4
YEAH, YOU KNOW IT . . .
Okay, normally I rail against elitism ... but not this time. We (and every other cosmopolitan East or West Coast city) are right and you are wrong. From today's New York Times:
A BLUE CITY (DISCONSOLATE, EVEN) BEWILDERED BY A RED AMERICA
By JOSEPH BERGER
Striking a characteristic New York pose near Lincoln Center yesterday, Beverly Camhe clutched three morning newspapers to her chest while balancing a large latte and talked about how disconsolate she was to realize that not only had her candidate, John Kerry, lost but that she and her city were so out of step with the rest of the country.
"Do you know how I described New York to my European friends?" she said. "New York is an island off the coast of Europe."
Like Ms. Camhe, a film producer, three of every four voters in New York City gave Mr. Kerry their vote, a starkly different choice from the rest of the nation. So they awoke yesterday with something of a woozy existential hangover and had to confront once again how much of a 51st State they are, different in their sensibilities, lifestyles and polyglot texture from most of America. The election seemed to reverse the perspective of the famous Saul Steinberg cartoon, with much of the land mass of America now in the foreground and New York a tiny, distant and irrelevant dot.
Some New Yorkers, like Meredith Hackett, a 25-year-old barmaid in Brooklyn, said they didn't even know any people who had voted for President Bush. (In both Manhattan and the Bronx, Mr. Bush received 16.7 percent of the vote.) Others spoke of a feeling of isolation from their fellow Americans, a sense that perhaps Middle America doesn't care as much about New York and its animating concerns as it seemed to in the weeks immediately after the attack on the World Trade Center.
"Everybody seems to hate us these days," said Zito Joseph, a 63-year-old retired psychiatrist. "None of the people who are likely to be hit by a terrorist attack voted for Bush. But the heartland people seemed to be saying, 'We're not affected by it if there would be another terrorist attack.'"
City residents talked about this chasm between outlooks with characteristic New York bluntness.
Dr. Joseph, a bearded, broad-shouldered man with silken gray hair, was sharing coffee and cigarettes with his fellow dog walker, Roberta Kimmel Cohn, at an outdoor table outside the hole-in-the-wall Breadsoul Cafe near Lincoln Center. The site was almost a cliché corner of cosmopolitan Manhattan, with a newsstand next door selling French and Italian newspapers and, a bit farther down, the Lincoln Plaza theater showing foreign movies.
"I'm saddened by what I feel is the obtuseness and shortsightedness of a good part of the country - the heartland," Dr. Joseph said. "This kind of redneck, shoot-from-the-hip mentality and a very concrete interpretation of religion is prevalent in Bush country - in the heartland."
"New Yorkers are more sophisticated and at a level of consciousness where we realize we have to think of globalization, of one mankind, that what's going to injure masses of people is not good for us," he said.
His friend, Ms. Cohn, a native of Wisconsin who deals in art, contended that New Yorkers were not as fooled by Mr. Bush's statements as other Americans might be. "New Yorkers are savvy," she said. "We have street smarts. Whereas people in the Midwest are more influenced by what their friends say."
"They're very 1950's," she said of Midwesterners. "When I go back there, I feel I'm in a time warp."
Dr. Joseph acknowledged that such attitudes could feed into the perception that New Yorkers are cultural elitists, but he didn't apologize for it.
"People who are more competitive and proficient at what they do tend to gravitate toward cities," he said.
Like those in the rest of the country, New Yorkers stayed up late watching the results, and some went to bed with a glimmer of hope that Mr. Kerry might yet find victory in some fortuitous combination of battleground states. But they awoke to reality. Some politically conscious children were disheartened - or sleepy - enough to ask parents if they could stay home. But even grownups were unnerved.
"To paraphrase our current president, I'm in shock and awe," said Keithe Sales, a 58-year-old former publishing administrator walking a dog near Central Park. He said he and friends shared a feeling of "disempowerment" as a result of the country's choice of President Bush. "There is a feeling of 'What do I have to do to get this man out of office?'"
In downtown Brooklyn, J. J. Murphy, 34, a teacher, said that Mr. Kerry's loss underscored the geographic divide between the Northeast and the rest of the country. He harked back to Reconstruction to help explain his point.
"One thing Clinton and Gore had going for them was they were from the South," he said. "There's a lot of resentment toward the Northeast carpetbagger stereotype, and Kerry fit right in to that."
Mr. Murphy said he understood why Mr. Bush appealed to Southerners in a way that he did not appeal to New Yorkers.
"Even though Bush isn't one of them - he's a son of privilege - he comes off as just a good old boy," Mr. Murphy said.
Pondering the disparity, Bret Adams, a 33-year-old computer network administrator in Rego Park, Queens, said, "I think a lot of the country sees New York as a wild and crazy place, where these things like the war protests happen."
Ms. Camhe, the film producer, frequents Elaine's restaurant with friends and spends many mornings on a bench in Central Park talking politics with homeless people with whom she's become acquainted. She spent part of Tuesday knocking on doors in Pennsylvania to rustle up Kerry votes then returned to Manhattan to attend an election-night party thrown by Miramax's chairman, Harvey Weinstein, at The Palm. Ms. Camhe was also up much of the night talking to a son in California who was depressed at the election results.
When it became clear yesterday morning that the outlook for a Kerry squeaker was a mirage, she was unable to eat breakfast. Her doorman on Central Park West gave her a consoling hug. Then a friend buying coffee along with her said she had just heard a report on television that Mr. Kerry had conceded and tears welled in Ms. Camhe's eyes.
Ms. Camhe explained the habits and beliefs of those dwelling in the heartland like an anthropologist.
"What's different about New York City is it tends to bring people together and so we can't ignore each others' dreams and values and it creates a much more inclusive consciousness," she said. "When you're in a more isolated environment, you're more susceptible to some ideology that's imposed on you."
As an example, Ms. Camhe offered the different attitudes New Yorkers may have about social issues like gay marriage.
"We live in this marvelous diversity where we actually have gay neighbors," she said. "They're not some vilified unknown. They're our neighbors."
But she said that a dichotomy of outlooks was bad for the country.
"If the heartland feels so alienated from us, then it behooves us to wrap our arms around the heartland," she said. "We need to bring our way of life, which is honoring diversity and having compassion for people with different lifestyles, on a trip around the country."
(Michael Brick and Brian McDonald contributed reporting for this article.)
Okay, normally I rail against elitism ... but not this time. We (and every other cosmopolitan East or West Coast city) are right and you are wrong. From today's New York Times:
A BLUE CITY (DISCONSOLATE, EVEN) BEWILDERED BY A RED AMERICA
By JOSEPH BERGER
Striking a characteristic New York pose near Lincoln Center yesterday, Beverly Camhe clutched three morning newspapers to her chest while balancing a large latte and talked about how disconsolate she was to realize that not only had her candidate, John Kerry, lost but that she and her city were so out of step with the rest of the country.
"Do you know how I described New York to my European friends?" she said. "New York is an island off the coast of Europe."
Like Ms. Camhe, a film producer, three of every four voters in New York City gave Mr. Kerry their vote, a starkly different choice from the rest of the nation. So they awoke yesterday with something of a woozy existential hangover and had to confront once again how much of a 51st State they are, different in their sensibilities, lifestyles and polyglot texture from most of America. The election seemed to reverse the perspective of the famous Saul Steinberg cartoon, with much of the land mass of America now in the foreground and New York a tiny, distant and irrelevant dot.
Some New Yorkers, like Meredith Hackett, a 25-year-old barmaid in Brooklyn, said they didn't even know any people who had voted for President Bush. (In both Manhattan and the Bronx, Mr. Bush received 16.7 percent of the vote.) Others spoke of a feeling of isolation from their fellow Americans, a sense that perhaps Middle America doesn't care as much about New York and its animating concerns as it seemed to in the weeks immediately after the attack on the World Trade Center.
"Everybody seems to hate us these days," said Zito Joseph, a 63-year-old retired psychiatrist. "None of the people who are likely to be hit by a terrorist attack voted for Bush. But the heartland people seemed to be saying, 'We're not affected by it if there would be another terrorist attack.'"
City residents talked about this chasm between outlooks with characteristic New York bluntness.
Dr. Joseph, a bearded, broad-shouldered man with silken gray hair, was sharing coffee and cigarettes with his fellow dog walker, Roberta Kimmel Cohn, at an outdoor table outside the hole-in-the-wall Breadsoul Cafe near Lincoln Center. The site was almost a cliché corner of cosmopolitan Manhattan, with a newsstand next door selling French and Italian newspapers and, a bit farther down, the Lincoln Plaza theater showing foreign movies.
"I'm saddened by what I feel is the obtuseness and shortsightedness of a good part of the country - the heartland," Dr. Joseph said. "This kind of redneck, shoot-from-the-hip mentality and a very concrete interpretation of religion is prevalent in Bush country - in the heartland."
"New Yorkers are more sophisticated and at a level of consciousness where we realize we have to think of globalization, of one mankind, that what's going to injure masses of people is not good for us," he said.
His friend, Ms. Cohn, a native of Wisconsin who deals in art, contended that New Yorkers were not as fooled by Mr. Bush's statements as other Americans might be. "New Yorkers are savvy," she said. "We have street smarts. Whereas people in the Midwest are more influenced by what their friends say."
"They're very 1950's," she said of Midwesterners. "When I go back there, I feel I'm in a time warp."
Dr. Joseph acknowledged that such attitudes could feed into the perception that New Yorkers are cultural elitists, but he didn't apologize for it.
"People who are more competitive and proficient at what they do tend to gravitate toward cities," he said.
Like those in the rest of the country, New Yorkers stayed up late watching the results, and some went to bed with a glimmer of hope that Mr. Kerry might yet find victory in some fortuitous combination of battleground states. But they awoke to reality. Some politically conscious children were disheartened - or sleepy - enough to ask parents if they could stay home. But even grownups were unnerved.
"To paraphrase our current president, I'm in shock and awe," said Keithe Sales, a 58-year-old former publishing administrator walking a dog near Central Park. He said he and friends shared a feeling of "disempowerment" as a result of the country's choice of President Bush. "There is a feeling of 'What do I have to do to get this man out of office?'"
In downtown Brooklyn, J. J. Murphy, 34, a teacher, said that Mr. Kerry's loss underscored the geographic divide between the Northeast and the rest of the country. He harked back to Reconstruction to help explain his point.
"One thing Clinton and Gore had going for them was they were from the South," he said. "There's a lot of resentment toward the Northeast carpetbagger stereotype, and Kerry fit right in to that."
Mr. Murphy said he understood why Mr. Bush appealed to Southerners in a way that he did not appeal to New Yorkers.
"Even though Bush isn't one of them - he's a son of privilege - he comes off as just a good old boy," Mr. Murphy said.
Pondering the disparity, Bret Adams, a 33-year-old computer network administrator in Rego Park, Queens, said, "I think a lot of the country sees New York as a wild and crazy place, where these things like the war protests happen."
Ms. Camhe, the film producer, frequents Elaine's restaurant with friends and spends many mornings on a bench in Central Park talking politics with homeless people with whom she's become acquainted. She spent part of Tuesday knocking on doors in Pennsylvania to rustle up Kerry votes then returned to Manhattan to attend an election-night party thrown by Miramax's chairman, Harvey Weinstein, at The Palm. Ms. Camhe was also up much of the night talking to a son in California who was depressed at the election results.
When it became clear yesterday morning that the outlook for a Kerry squeaker was a mirage, she was unable to eat breakfast. Her doorman on Central Park West gave her a consoling hug. Then a friend buying coffee along with her said she had just heard a report on television that Mr. Kerry had conceded and tears welled in Ms. Camhe's eyes.
Ms. Camhe explained the habits and beliefs of those dwelling in the heartland like an anthropologist.
"What's different about New York City is it tends to bring people together and so we can't ignore each others' dreams and values and it creates a much more inclusive consciousness," she said. "When you're in a more isolated environment, you're more susceptible to some ideology that's imposed on you."
As an example, Ms. Camhe offered the different attitudes New Yorkers may have about social issues like gay marriage.
"We live in this marvelous diversity where we actually have gay neighbors," she said. "They're not some vilified unknown. They're our neighbors."
But she said that a dichotomy of outlooks was bad for the country.
"If the heartland feels so alienated from us, then it behooves us to wrap our arms around the heartland," she said. "We need to bring our way of life, which is honoring diversity and having compassion for people with different lifestyles, on a trip around the country."
(Michael Brick and Brian McDonald contributed reporting for this article.)
Wednesday, November 3
NOW I REMEMBER . . .
... why I wanted Shrub not to be POTUS for another term ... THE SUPREME COURT!
Oh, a wacky bunch they are, and how I do love teasing them behind their backs. But they've grown on me, the whole lot of them (except for Clarence Thomas, who I hope never comes near enough to me to grow on me), and all I can say now is ... HANG IN THERE, BILLY REHNQUIST! FOUR MORE YEARS ... just HANG IN THERE!
... why I wanted Shrub not to be POTUS for another term ... THE SUPREME COURT!
Oh, a wacky bunch they are, and how I do love teasing them behind their backs. But they've grown on me, the whole lot of them (except for Clarence Thomas, who I hope never comes near enough to me to grow on me), and all I can say now is ... HANG IN THERE, BILLY REHNQUIST! FOUR MORE YEARS ... just HANG IN THERE!
Tuesday, November 2
KEEP AN EYE ON . . .
Sixty years of Korean cinema, presented at the Walter Reade Theater at Lincoln Center ...
"Southerners/Northerners" book launch and reading at the Korean Cultre Service ...
Sixty years of Korean cinema, presented at the Walter Reade Theater at Lincoln Center ...
"Southerners/Northerners" book launch and reading at the Korean Cultre Service ...