OneSaneVoice
Backtalk by a Brooklyn Girl
OneSaneVoice
The Full Marilyn
A very small handful of celebrities manage to attain the status of worldwide icon. It's a combination of raw talent and hidden truths that create the legend of stars like Elvis Presley and John Lennon. Then those conjoined twins, commerce and the media, help them live on decades after their final songs.
Another handful of celebrities reach death before they reach their potential. If you look for them in stardom's early days, you could begin with Jean Harlow, with her platinum hair and ruby lips, gone at age 26. In the fifties, there was James Dean, the ultimate daredevil rebel, dead at 24. And Buddy Holly, whose plane crash death at 23 was called The Day the Music Died.
The sixties and seventies gave us almost more names than we could list, with a menu of unnatural causes: Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Judy Garland, Jim Morrison, Mama Cass, Sam Cooke, Jim Croce, Marvin Gaye, Elvis. Then Lennon in 1980, and on to more recent exits by Kurt Cobain, Heath Ledger, Tupac, Biggie Smalls, and England's crown jewel, Princess Di. As far as the American political theater goes, we can just say "Kennedy" and be done with it.
Daughter called from her vacation in California the other day, the day Michael Jackson died. She reported that people were crying in the streets. She herself said the news took her breath away and flooded her with emotion. In many ways, he was the most watched person in the world. Along with being the strangest, the most brilliantly talented, the most impossible to fathom, and at times, even recognize.
I was pregnant with Daughter in 1980 when John Lennon was murdered by a crazed fan in New York City. We were living in a Manhattan apartment building next to the hospital where Lennon died, and where Daughter would be born. Although the sirens had awakened me late at night, I first heard why the next morning while watching the Today show. It was Jane Pauley and Tom Brokaw who delivered the shocking news, but it was the entire public that felt its blow. I remember clusters of strangers in the subway hunched together over newspaper headlines, collectively grieving.
There will be much to say and hear about Michael Jackson's life and death in the coming weeks, months, and decades. Onstage since age five, there are few child stars who grew up to evoke our adoration, fascination, and revulsion as completely as the King of Pop. From his gender and race ambiguity to his towering achievements as an entertainer, from his brutal childhood to a lifetime of bizarre behavior, submerged in a sea of debt and moral shambles at his death, Michael Jackson has now reached a place where he can be worshiped eternally by his fans without having to explain himself. As if he ever could.
Daughter's Featured Fotos give us Close-Ups
horizon
cracked
drippy drip
salvage boat by abby goodman
Another handful of celebrities reach death before they reach their potential. If you look for them in stardom's early days, you could begin with Jean Harlow, with her platinum hair and ruby lips, gone at age 26. In the fifties, there was James Dean, the ultimate daredevil rebel, dead at 24. And Buddy Holly, whose plane crash death at 23 was called The Day the Music Died.
The sixties and seventies gave us almost more names than we could list, with a menu of unnatural causes: Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Judy Garland, Jim Morrison, Mama Cass, Sam Cooke, Jim Croce, Marvin Gaye, Elvis. Then Lennon in 1980, and on to more recent exits by Kurt Cobain, Heath Ledger, Tupac, Biggie Smalls, and England's crown jewel, Princess Di. As far as the American political theater goes, we can just say "Kennedy" and be done with it.
Daughter called from her vacation in California the other day, the day Michael Jackson died. She reported that people were crying in the streets. She herself said the news took her breath away and flooded her with emotion. In many ways, he was the most watched person in the world. Along with being the strangest, the most brilliantly talented, the most impossible to fathom, and at times, even recognize.
I was pregnant with Daughter in 1980 when John Lennon was murdered by a crazed fan in New York City. We were living in a Manhattan apartment building next to the hospital where Lennon died, and where Daughter would be born. Although the sirens had awakened me late at night, I first heard why the next morning while watching the Today show. It was Jane Pauley and Tom Brokaw who delivered the shocking news, but it was the entire public that felt its blow. I remember clusters of strangers in the subway hunched together over newspaper headlines, collectively grieving.
There will be much to say and hear about Michael Jackson's life and death in the coming weeks, months, and decades. Onstage since age five, there are few child stars who grew up to evoke our adoration, fascination, and revulsion as completely as the King of Pop. From his gender and race ambiguity to his towering achievements as an entertainer, from his brutal childhood to a lifetime of bizarre behavior, submerged in a sea of debt and moral shambles at his death, Michael Jackson has now reached a place where he can be worshiped eternally by his fans without having to explain himself. As if he ever could.
Daughter's Featured Fotos give us Close-Ups
horizon
cracked
drippy drip
salvage boat by abby goodman
Talk to Mister Ed
"What's the story with dust?"
This question was asked of me recently by Son, who I mentioned in Mad Skillz is the new owner of a nicely furnished home with flat surfaces that no doubt attract more than just compliments.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean growing up, I used to hear you complain that you were always dusting because we had oil heat and it's not as clean as gas. Well, I have gas heat and every time I turn around something's covered with dust."
Damn, I knew it would catch up with me. All lies do. It was time to come clean.
"I was always complaining about dusting because the truth is I hate to dust. It's pointless and never-ending and utterly impossible. Like cat herding."
Son nodded in agreement. He'd been up against many foes in his time, but none as insidious and elusive as the airborne particles in his home. He ate a chicken cutlet and left my house armed with a can of furniture polish, a stack of old t-shirts, and a box of those Swiffer dusters with the little blue handle. He turned at the door with one final question for the horse's mouth of housekeeping.
"If you're giving me the Swiffer dusters, why do I need all these t-shirts?"
I never find Son more endearing than when he's asking me a question I was born knowing the answer to. The way I see it, the desire to keep his home tidy far outweighs any uncertainty he might have about how to do it. This is in stark contrast to the lack of patience I feel when an adult male I share a home with feigns ignorance, or worse, really IS ignorant, about how to clean something basic like a toilet.
Back in my days before children, when it's possible I might have lived with a guy I wasn't married to, I recall asking my boyfriend to pitch in and clean the bathroom once in a while. He asked me what he should use. I put a can of Comet on the toilet tank and left for work. When I got home that evening, I went into the bathroom and lifted the lid to find the toilet seat covered with a layer of white powder. Dry white powder on the TOP of the toilet seat. Could a grown man actually not know how to clean a toilet? Did he think it was magic fairy dust that would miraculously scrub the bowl if he just sprinkled it all around? I couldn't have been more annoyed if it was cocaine and he was snorting it off the seat.
"Well," I told Son, "you need the t-shirts for when you use the furniture polish. Just cut them up into smaller pieces first. The Swiffers are for quick dusting in between polishings. Make sense?"
Son nodded attentively, and I could tell he was treating this like a school subject to be memorized and stored for future reference. He reached the end of the driveway, then stopped and turned around with the cleaners bundled in his arms.
"Did you tell me why I'm cutting up the t-shirts, or was I in the bathroom when you said it?"
Daughter's Fotos depict FIGMENT '09 on Governor's Island, a 3-day celebration of collaborative art and interactive fun. Click here for more on the outdoor sculpture garden that will remain season-long
let the sun shine
on the move
turfurniture
city of dreams installation
tipping
styrofoam AND day-glo
This question was asked of me recently by Son, who I mentioned in Mad Skillz is the new owner of a nicely furnished home with flat surfaces that no doubt attract more than just compliments.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean growing up, I used to hear you complain that you were always dusting because we had oil heat and it's not as clean as gas. Well, I have gas heat and every time I turn around something's covered with dust."
Damn, I knew it would catch up with me. All lies do. It was time to come clean.
"I was always complaining about dusting because the truth is I hate to dust. It's pointless and never-ending and utterly impossible. Like cat herding."
Son nodded in agreement. He'd been up against many foes in his time, but none as insidious and elusive as the airborne particles in his home. He ate a chicken cutlet and left my house armed with a can of furniture polish, a stack of old t-shirts, and a box of those Swiffer dusters with the little blue handle. He turned at the door with one final question for the horse's mouth of housekeeping.
"If you're giving me the Swiffer dusters, why do I need all these t-shirts?"
I never find Son more endearing than when he's asking me a question I was born knowing the answer to. The way I see it, the desire to keep his home tidy far outweighs any uncertainty he might have about how to do it. This is in stark contrast to the lack of patience I feel when an adult male I share a home with feigns ignorance, or worse, really IS ignorant, about how to clean something basic like a toilet.
Back in my days before children, when it's possible I might have lived with a guy I wasn't married to, I recall asking my boyfriend to pitch in and clean the bathroom once in a while. He asked me what he should use. I put a can of Comet on the toilet tank and left for work. When I got home that evening, I went into the bathroom and lifted the lid to find the toilet seat covered with a layer of white powder. Dry white powder on the TOP of the toilet seat. Could a grown man actually not know how to clean a toilet? Did he think it was magic fairy dust that would miraculously scrub the bowl if he just sprinkled it all around? I couldn't have been more annoyed if it was cocaine and he was snorting it off the seat.
"Well," I told Son, "you need the t-shirts for when you use the furniture polish. Just cut them up into smaller pieces first. The Swiffers are for quick dusting in between polishings. Make sense?"
Son nodded attentively, and I could tell he was treating this like a school subject to be memorized and stored for future reference. He reached the end of the driveway, then stopped and turned around with the cleaners bundled in his arms.
"Did you tell me why I'm cutting up the t-shirts, or was I in the bathroom when you said it?"
Daughter's Fotos depict FIGMENT '09 on Governor's Island, a 3-day celebration of collaborative art and interactive fun. Click here for more on the outdoor sculpture garden that will remain season-long
let the sun shine
on the move
turfurniture
city of dreams installation
tipping
styrofoam AND day-glo
When the Circus Comes to Town
The streets of New York have a scattering of makeshift designer dumping grounds known as Sample Sale rooms randomly strewn throughout the city. They pop up without notice or fanfare in an otherwise empty store on a busy street, and you could easily walk past the hand-lettered sign out front that says simply, 'Sample Sale'. Oftentimes there are bargain treasures to be found. Just as frequently, you get to see firsthand that designers occasionally make the same misstep as other businesses in predicting what the public might want.
Inside one of these unassuming, visually bland storefronts might be a few tables of Kenneth Cole shoes next to some racks of Calvin Klein clothes, all of which were left unsold in the designers' workroom or over-produced for their target market. It's not like real store shopping because the pants you love may only be present in size 2 or 12, and if you're an 8 you just have to fall in love with something else. Fortunately, love is fickle in spring.
Daughter met me on the Upper West Side the other day following one of my doctor appointments, and on our stroll down Broadway we ducked into a Sample Sale to check it out. I pulled a pair of intriguing capris off the rack and walked behind one of the shower curtains in the back that passed for a dressing room. The designer capris I tried on were a pretty blue and resembled harem pants, only shorter. Daughter's voice called my name from the other side of the curtain and I told her to come in.
DTR: What are these about?
OSV: They're like harem capris. I think they fit pretty well.
DTR: I think you should take them off.
OSV: Why do you think that?
DTR: Because they make you look like a clown.
OSV: Come on, don't sugar coat it. Say how you feel.
DTR: No, really. You need to take them off.
I love these moments in our ever-unfolding mother/daughter history that show I can still do something relatively innocuous that has the power to mortify my offspring. They're incidents that call to mind the moment in both my children's adolescence when I was required to drop them a block away from where they were going so their friends wouldn't see them getting out of my 1990 Volvo 240. Ah, memories.
A number of years ago, I read an article about the ways parents unwittingly manage to embarrass their children, and one particular anecdote stayed with me. My ex-husband had a really off-key singing voice, and the kids would make him promise not to sing along with the radio when their friends were in the car. In this article, a guy who had a daughter around Son's age was saying when he went out somewhere in public with her, she always made him swear he wouldn't embarrass her by singing. The guy's name was Billy Joel.
Alternate Transportation comes to mind in Daughter's Fotos taken on Governor's Island
Inside one of these unassuming, visually bland storefronts might be a few tables of Kenneth Cole shoes next to some racks of Calvin Klein clothes, all of which were left unsold in the designers' workroom or over-produced for their target market. It's not like real store shopping because the pants you love may only be present in size 2 or 12, and if you're an 8 you just have to fall in love with something else. Fortunately, love is fickle in spring.
Daughter met me on the Upper West Side the other day following one of my doctor appointments, and on our stroll down Broadway we ducked into a Sample Sale to check it out. I pulled a pair of intriguing capris off the rack and walked behind one of the shower curtains in the back that passed for a dressing room. The designer capris I tried on were a pretty blue and resembled harem pants, only shorter. Daughter's voice called my name from the other side of the curtain and I told her to come in.
DTR: What are these about?
OSV: They're like harem capris. I think they fit pretty well.
DTR: I think you should take them off.
OSV: Why do you think that?
DTR: Because they make you look like a clown.
OSV: Come on, don't sugar coat it. Say how you feel.
DTR: No, really. You need to take them off.
I love these moments in our ever-unfolding mother/daughter history that show I can still do something relatively innocuous that has the power to mortify my offspring. They're incidents that call to mind the moment in both my children's adolescence when I was required to drop them a block away from where they were going so their friends wouldn't see them getting out of my 1990 Volvo 240. Ah, memories.
A number of years ago, I read an article about the ways parents unwittingly manage to embarrass their children, and one particular anecdote stayed with me. My ex-husband had a really off-key singing voice, and the kids would make him promise not to sing along with the radio when their friends were in the car. In this article, a guy who had a daughter around Son's age was saying when he went out somewhere in public with her, she always made him swear he wouldn't embarrass her by singing. The guy's name was Billy Joel.
Alternate Transportation comes to mind in Daughter's Fotos taken on Governor's Island
Congratulations! It's a bouncing 7lb migraine
The headache center called with a last minute cancellation, so I got in yesterday instead of waiting until the end of July. I wrote about my face ache recently in Something For The Pain, in case you're coming to the party late. Wednesday saw a rare break in the weather, and me hopping in my car headed downtown.
I believe in omens. The early appointment was Omen #1. The ridiculously perfect parking spot right on the street at East 75th and Park Ave was Omen #2. Walking past the parking garage sign advertising $34.83 for the first hour was Omen #2½. And complimenting the neurologist on her stunning red slingback wedges and her taking them off to show me the brand was Omen #3. I live in a tightly ordered world of my own making. Don't we all.
Over the course of a nearly two-hour visit, the doctor and I outlined a course of potential treatments that would try several things in succession, with enough time in between to see what worked. She gave me samples, adjusted a current daily medication I've been on for several years, wrote out a schedule of dates and durations, and handed me eight prescriptions to hold until needed, if ever.
She also strongly recommended a chiropractor to help with the neck and shoulder misalignments I have left over from a head-on collision in 1990. I walked away from that accident with the insidious affliction known as whiplash after my chin hit the steering wheel and my head snapped back against the headrest. Even after the many months of physical therapy, exercises, x-rays and acupuncture, I always knew I wasn't done with that crash. Or it with me.
With my million dollar parking space and a rare sunny day, I decided to stroll over to Central Park past the luxury co-op buildings with their spiffily attired doormen. In front of one building that overlooked the park, a Hummer was waiting by the curb while a woman, her two very young children, and their two nannies tried to figure out how the back of it opened so the doorman could load their gear. Their gear included two Louis Vuitton backpacks. Could they belong to the children? It was an interesting thought, pitting the exclusive private schools with their fabled waiting list against the backdrop of our bleak economy. To say nothing of a Hummer in Manhattan. The only sight more absurd would be Rush Limbaugh sitting on a planter reading The Feminine Mystique.
I was feeling positive, empowered, and sunned on, so encouraged by the good omens that I decided to push all my chips into the middle. I called the chiropractor on the Upper West Side the neurologist had recommended and the receptionist said to come right over. The M72 bus that goes through the park was waiting on the corner as I hung up. Not that I'm counting, but that would be Omen #4. I was unstoppable. Flex your shoulder blades with me, one, two….
Daughter's Featured Fotos give us Sights You Haven't Seen Before
plastic people
chair dragon
the lady who knits and knits and knits and. . .
hoof heels
I believe in omens. The early appointment was Omen #1. The ridiculously perfect parking spot right on the street at East 75th and Park Ave was Omen #2. Walking past the parking garage sign advertising $34.83 for the first hour was Omen #2½. And complimenting the neurologist on her stunning red slingback wedges and her taking them off to show me the brand was Omen #3. I live in a tightly ordered world of my own making. Don't we all.
Over the course of a nearly two-hour visit, the doctor and I outlined a course of potential treatments that would try several things in succession, with enough time in between to see what worked. She gave me samples, adjusted a current daily medication I've been on for several years, wrote out a schedule of dates and durations, and handed me eight prescriptions to hold until needed, if ever.
She also strongly recommended a chiropractor to help with the neck and shoulder misalignments I have left over from a head-on collision in 1990. I walked away from that accident with the insidious affliction known as whiplash after my chin hit the steering wheel and my head snapped back against the headrest. Even after the many months of physical therapy, exercises, x-rays and acupuncture, I always knew I wasn't done with that crash. Or it with me.
With my million dollar parking space and a rare sunny day, I decided to stroll over to Central Park past the luxury co-op buildings with their spiffily attired doormen. In front of one building that overlooked the park, a Hummer was waiting by the curb while a woman, her two very young children, and their two nannies tried to figure out how the back of it opened so the doorman could load their gear. Their gear included two Louis Vuitton backpacks. Could they belong to the children? It was an interesting thought, pitting the exclusive private schools with their fabled waiting list against the backdrop of our bleak economy. To say nothing of a Hummer in Manhattan. The only sight more absurd would be Rush Limbaugh sitting on a planter reading The Feminine Mystique.
I was feeling positive, empowered, and sunned on, so encouraged by the good omens that I decided to push all my chips into the middle. I called the chiropractor on the Upper West Side the neurologist had recommended and the receptionist said to come right over. The M72 bus that goes through the park was waiting on the corner as I hung up. Not that I'm counting, but that would be Omen #4. I was unstoppable. Flex your shoulder blades with me, one, two….
Daughter's Featured Fotos give us Sights You Haven't Seen Before
plastic people
chair dragon
the lady who knits and knits and knits and. . .
hoof heels
The first rule of Fight Club is You do not talk about Fight Club
After several false starts and postponements, the FCC has officially switched over from analog to digital broadcast for the nation's televisions. I think I'm pretty smart, and I know Daughter is, but we still engaged in the following dunderhead conversation several months ago.
DTR: I got my converter box with that coupon the government offered so I'm good to go when they make the change.
OSV: Wait a minute. Don't you have cable in your building?
DTR: The building has cable. I don't have cable.
OSV: But I've watched your TV. You have great reception. Nobody in Manhattan gets good reception unless they have cable.
DTR: That may be, but my reception is off the roof antenna.
OSV: So that means you're analog? You get TNT. That's a cable station. Wouldn't that make you digital? Your set is like 2 years old. Aren't analog TVs the really old ones, the ones with the rabbit ears?
DTR: Rabbit ears? I'm waiting until June 12th to see what happens when I turn on the TV. Then I'll set up the converter box if I have to. There's just no other way to tell.
There hasn't been this much confusion in the streets since Orson Welles commandeered a radio frequency and read The War of the Worlds while people jumped out their windows. My elderly uncle is in a nursing home up in Westchester, and I've been getting mail from them asking if I want to order him cable for a monthly fee or buy my own converter box and have them connect it. Most of his television viewing is done in the library with the big TV, but he has a 13" in his room to watch the news at night, etc. So yesterday being the 12th of June, I drove up there to check things out.
I walked into his room and saw they had installed a Cablevision box on top of his little TV. I took a stroll down the hall and noticed all the private sets had cable boxes. Maybe the nursing home was feeling generous. Uh-huh. I also noticed everyone now had the standard Cablevision remote. I knew right away this was trouble. The first thing you do for an elderly relative in a nursing home is buy them one of those giant remotes with the three enormous buttons: POWER, CHANNEL, VOLUME. Any additional button is only a distraction to be accidentally pushed over and over without purpose. The Cablevision remote has about 50. Little. Buttons.
A half hour later, after my basic tutorial failed to train my uncle in which controls to ignore, I whipped out the black Sharpie pen that I always bring with me to the nursing home because something invariably needs to be marked. I drew the giant P, C, and V he's come to know and love around the corresponding controls and told him to ignore the others at his own peril.
OSV: By the way, Uncle, did you sign something when they came and installed that cable box?
UNCLE: Sign what?
OSV: Your name. On anything to do with the TV.
UNCLE: Not that I know of.
It now being the 13th, Daughter must have already turned on her TV. I figure that soon I'll be getting her analog call, and the nursing home's digital bill. The powers that be have spoken.
The Gritty City unfolds in Daughter's Featured Fotos
nightcall
i love a parade
bushwick
sunset over 6th ave
DTR: I got my converter box with that coupon the government offered so I'm good to go when they make the change.
OSV: Wait a minute. Don't you have cable in your building?
DTR: The building has cable. I don't have cable.
OSV: But I've watched your TV. You have great reception. Nobody in Manhattan gets good reception unless they have cable.
DTR: That may be, but my reception is off the roof antenna.
OSV: So that means you're analog? You get TNT. That's a cable station. Wouldn't that make you digital? Your set is like 2 years old. Aren't analog TVs the really old ones, the ones with the rabbit ears?
DTR: Rabbit ears? I'm waiting until June 12th to see what happens when I turn on the TV. Then I'll set up the converter box if I have to. There's just no other way to tell.
There hasn't been this much confusion in the streets since Orson Welles commandeered a radio frequency and read The War of the Worlds while people jumped out their windows. My elderly uncle is in a nursing home up in Westchester, and I've been getting mail from them asking if I want to order him cable for a monthly fee or buy my own converter box and have them connect it. Most of his television viewing is done in the library with the big TV, but he has a 13" in his room to watch the news at night, etc. So yesterday being the 12th of June, I drove up there to check things out.
I walked into his room and saw they had installed a Cablevision box on top of his little TV. I took a stroll down the hall and noticed all the private sets had cable boxes. Maybe the nursing home was feeling generous. Uh-huh. I also noticed everyone now had the standard Cablevision remote. I knew right away this was trouble. The first thing you do for an elderly relative in a nursing home is buy them one of those giant remotes with the three enormous buttons: POWER, CHANNEL, VOLUME. Any additional button is only a distraction to be accidentally pushed over and over without purpose. The Cablevision remote has about 50. Little. Buttons.
A half hour later, after my basic tutorial failed to train my uncle in which controls to ignore, I whipped out the black Sharpie pen that I always bring with me to the nursing home because something invariably needs to be marked. I drew the giant P, C, and V he's come to know and love around the corresponding controls and told him to ignore the others at his own peril.
OSV: By the way, Uncle, did you sign something when they came and installed that cable box?
UNCLE: Sign what?
OSV: Your name. On anything to do with the TV.
UNCLE: Not that I know of.
It now being the 13th, Daughter must have already turned on her TV. I figure that soon I'll be getting her analog call, and the nursing home's digital bill. The powers that be have spoken.
The Gritty City unfolds in Daughter's Featured Fotos
nightcall
i love a parade
bushwick
sunset over 6th ave
Something For The Pain
I have a brown circle of pigment on my cheek about the size of a dime, which I mentioned once before in Of Books and Faces. I've had it since I was born, hence the term "birthmark." Over the course of my life, I have visited dermatologists for other matters who guessed the moment I sat in their treatment chair, "I'll bet you're here to have that removed." For all they knew, my chest was covered with a rash in the shape of Nevada. But they were drawn to a small patch of dark on my cheek that I rarely remembered was there. I recall one doctor who wasn't even a dermatologist saying, as if to enlighten me about modern medicine, "You know, there are lasers now that can lighten that mark on your cheek." I said, "What mark?"
I also have slightly overlapping front teeth. My childhood dentist reassured my mother that nothing had to be done about my bite. My brother needed a bunch of orthodontia, and my mom was fretting about how to afford it all. So the dentist advised to go ahead and fix my brother's teeth because he'd be in business someday and should have straight teeth. He told my mother that when I was all grown up, my overlapping front teeth would look sexy. He really said that. I don't blame my mom at all for buying such absurd, objectifying advice. Back in the sixties, no one questioned the word of medical professionals. Until the end of the decade when everyone got stoned and questioned everything.
So I have no complaints about my face, except that for the past month it's been throbbing like a boom box. I'm a longtime headache sufferer, which I wrote about in To Do: Post Office, Car Wash, Brain Scan, and this bout of weather we're having has sent my vasodilating blood vessels into orbit. There's nothing like two weeks of steady rain, followed by 80 degree sun, followed by more rain, and then a cold spell. It hurts just to put my glasses on. Unlike the weather, my arsenal of remedies has run dry. In the supermarket the other day, I could see I wasn't alone in my suffering. At the end of the produce aisle, there was a young woman pressing a cool cantaloupe against her forehead like she was trying to read its mind.
If you get headaches, maybe this will sound familiar. A month ago I visited my dentist because my upper back gum felt inflamed, making my whole face hurt. He gave me antibiotics for a gum infection and the advice that if the pain didn't go away, I should see an oral surgeon to rule out a bone infection. When the pills were gone but the dull pain wasn't, I saw an oral surgeon who said it wasn't my teeth at all, but my sinuses. Since I already did a course of antibiotics, my internist put me on prednisone to shrink the swelling. When that didn't do it, I called my allergist who referred me to an ENT. I didn't even know I knew this many doctors.
The ENT informed me that many migraine sufferers think that because the pain is in their face, it must be sinus related. He said he's seen patients insist on sinus surgery to relieve their constant pain, only to discover it wasn't sinus headaches they were having, but migraines. The phrase I heard from every doctor I visited was "insidious to diagnose." They were talking about Migraine, which covers a whole spectrum of hurt. So now I have a July appointment at a headache center in the city, something I should have done years ago. If you have any personal experience with this subject or advice to share, I'd love to hear it via comment or email. Just do me a favor and leave the brown spot on my face out of it. Yesterday, as the ENT swooped in to look up my nostrils, he stopped about an inch from my face and said, "What is that on your cheek?" So many degrees, so little eloquence. I said, "My mother always told me it was a beauty mark." I could have just smiled with my fetching overlap, but my face was killing me.
Daughter's Featured Fotos offer Reflections & Advice
I also have slightly overlapping front teeth. My childhood dentist reassured my mother that nothing had to be done about my bite. My brother needed a bunch of orthodontia, and my mom was fretting about how to afford it all. So the dentist advised to go ahead and fix my brother's teeth because he'd be in business someday and should have straight teeth. He told my mother that when I was all grown up, my overlapping front teeth would look sexy. He really said that. I don't blame my mom at all for buying such absurd, objectifying advice. Back in the sixties, no one questioned the word of medical professionals. Until the end of the decade when everyone got stoned and questioned everything.
So I have no complaints about my face, except that for the past month it's been throbbing like a boom box. I'm a longtime headache sufferer, which I wrote about in To Do: Post Office, Car Wash, Brain Scan, and this bout of weather we're having has sent my vasodilating blood vessels into orbit. There's nothing like two weeks of steady rain, followed by 80 degree sun, followed by more rain, and then a cold spell. It hurts just to put my glasses on. Unlike the weather, my arsenal of remedies has run dry. In the supermarket the other day, I could see I wasn't alone in my suffering. At the end of the produce aisle, there was a young woman pressing a cool cantaloupe against her forehead like she was trying to read its mind.
If you get headaches, maybe this will sound familiar. A month ago I visited my dentist because my upper back gum felt inflamed, making my whole face hurt. He gave me antibiotics for a gum infection and the advice that if the pain didn't go away, I should see an oral surgeon to rule out a bone infection. When the pills were gone but the dull pain wasn't, I saw an oral surgeon who said it wasn't my teeth at all, but my sinuses. Since I already did a course of antibiotics, my internist put me on prednisone to shrink the swelling. When that didn't do it, I called my allergist who referred me to an ENT. I didn't even know I knew this many doctors.
The ENT informed me that many migraine sufferers think that because the pain is in their face, it must be sinus related. He said he's seen patients insist on sinus surgery to relieve their constant pain, only to discover it wasn't sinus headaches they were having, but migraines. The phrase I heard from every doctor I visited was "insidious to diagnose." They were talking about Migraine, which covers a whole spectrum of hurt. So now I have a July appointment at a headache center in the city, something I should have done years ago. If you have any personal experience with this subject or advice to share, I'd love to hear it via comment or email. Just do me a favor and leave the brown spot on my face out of it. Yesterday, as the ENT swooped in to look up my nostrils, he stopped about an inch from my face and said, "What is that on your cheek?" So many degrees, so little eloquence. I said, "My mother always told me it was a beauty mark." I could have just smiled with my fetching overlap, but my face was killing me.
Daughter's Featured Fotos offer Reflections & Advice
Mom will make it fit
Occasionally, Daughter calls my cell as she's walking to the subway on her way home from work. She's a head teacher of early education for special needs children, and she'll already be laughing as she tells me something hilarious one of her kids said. I know she adores her students and her work, so it's a pleasure to hear the joy in her voice as she repeats these very amusing incidents, none of which I can write about here due to HIPA laws or the Patriot Act or whatever requires modern life to be protected to the point of being covert. Which is one of the things that inspires caustic writers to blog anonymously.
Being an unidentified friend of a caustic writer, though, puts you out in open territory, so I regularly share anecdotes passed on by my pals. A great friend of mine, who we'll call Mrs. B, teaches ESL in the public school system and some of her stories slay me. She often wears a blazer in the classroom and adorns it with a pretty pin on the lapel. One day, a shy eleven-year-old girl from a country very far away was so taken with the lovely pins her teacher always wore that she said, "Oh, Mrs. B, I love your penis. I love all your penis."
My friend said the trick is to keep a straight face in a situation like this because the more hilarious the misstatement, the higher the embarrassment quotient for the student. This one was off the chart considering all the eleven-year-old boys in the room from countries maybe not so far away who were writhing in their seats with hysterical merriment. Mrs. B thanked the complimenting student by saying, "I’m so glad you like my pins, dear," as the boys from Brazil fell apart.
Another friend, the mother of three sons, related this tale of an average dinnertime at her house when the boys were very young and phone calls were discouraged at meals. One evening when the phone rang, my friend nodded at her youngest, the son with the smart mouth, to go answer it. The family heard the six-year-old tell the caller, "Yes, she is, but we're having dinner so can she call you back?"
When he returned to the table, my friend asked him who was on the phone. "Your boyfriend," he deadpanned. As his brothers giggled into their napkins, my friend looked over at her husband. He already knew which of his sons was the wiseass, so he just snorted while his wife made a mental note to torture the kid privately.
One incident my children still taunt me with came at the end of a hectic day. Daughter was five and Son was half that, with his language skills just developing. They were playing in their room, which shared a common wall with the kitchen where I was trying to prepare dinner. Son was repeatedly throwing a soccer ball against their side of the wall, causing the hanging pot rack on the kitchen side to shake precariously, along with my nerves. After several bounces I yelled for him to cut it out. A brief pause was followed by more bounces, followed by me yelling louder that he'd be sorry if he kept it up.
When the soccer ball hit the wall yet again, I lost it. I slammed my hands on the counter and screamed, "If you bounce that ball one more time I'm going to shove it down your throat!"
First there was dead silence, then Son's disbelieving little voice as he looked from the soccer ball to his sister.
SON'S LITTLE VOICE: Can't. Too big.
DAUGHTER'S LITTLE VOICE: (see title)
We're Talking City here with Daughter's Featured Fotos
rush
shrine
splintered (Feature INC)
wild life (DCKT Gallery)
Being an unidentified friend of a caustic writer, though, puts you out in open territory, so I regularly share anecdotes passed on by my pals. A great friend of mine, who we'll call Mrs. B, teaches ESL in the public school system and some of her stories slay me. She often wears a blazer in the classroom and adorns it with a pretty pin on the lapel. One day, a shy eleven-year-old girl from a country very far away was so taken with the lovely pins her teacher always wore that she said, "Oh, Mrs. B, I love your penis. I love all your penis."
My friend said the trick is to keep a straight face in a situation like this because the more hilarious the misstatement, the higher the embarrassment quotient for the student. This one was off the chart considering all the eleven-year-old boys in the room from countries maybe not so far away who were writhing in their seats with hysterical merriment. Mrs. B thanked the complimenting student by saying, "I’m so glad you like my pins, dear," as the boys from Brazil fell apart.
Another friend, the mother of three sons, related this tale of an average dinnertime at her house when the boys were very young and phone calls were discouraged at meals. One evening when the phone rang, my friend nodded at her youngest, the son with the smart mouth, to go answer it. The family heard the six-year-old tell the caller, "Yes, she is, but we're having dinner so can she call you back?"
When he returned to the table, my friend asked him who was on the phone. "Your boyfriend," he deadpanned. As his brothers giggled into their napkins, my friend looked over at her husband. He already knew which of his sons was the wiseass, so he just snorted while his wife made a mental note to torture the kid privately.
One incident my children still taunt me with came at the end of a hectic day. Daughter was five and Son was half that, with his language skills just developing. They were playing in their room, which shared a common wall with the kitchen where I was trying to prepare dinner. Son was repeatedly throwing a soccer ball against their side of the wall, causing the hanging pot rack on the kitchen side to shake precariously, along with my nerves. After several bounces I yelled for him to cut it out. A brief pause was followed by more bounces, followed by me yelling louder that he'd be sorry if he kept it up.
When the soccer ball hit the wall yet again, I lost it. I slammed my hands on the counter and screamed, "If you bounce that ball one more time I'm going to shove it down your throat!"
First there was dead silence, then Son's disbelieving little voice as he looked from the soccer ball to his sister.
SON'S LITTLE VOICE: Can't. Too big.
DAUGHTER'S LITTLE VOICE: (see title)
We're Talking City here with Daughter's Featured Fotos
rush
shrine
splintered (Feature INC)
wild life (DCKT Gallery)
If we don't have it, you don't need it
Thus read the sign in the Yarmouth Hardware Store window as we drove by in the rain. It rained almost across the board for our vacation in Maine, which you'd think would be a drag, but we actually had a terrific time.
To understand why, you have to consider the 'dumbfounded wonder factor' which struck Husband and I from the start. Meaning that extremely northern New Englanders are immune to weather of any kind, making them hard not to watch with interest. Even in a steady rain, as long as it's after Memorial Day, Maine natives wear sandals and t-shirts. In this case, squishy leather sandals and dripping cotton t-shirts. I guess they're just happy they're not shoveling snow.
Despite a constant rolling fog headed toward land, our view across Portland's Casco Bay was stupendous, with ships appearing like ghosts on the horizon, steadily growing in size as the distance diminished. The intermittent break in the clouds revealed a sun as bright as pirate gold and just as welcome. Husband and I sipped coffee by our picture window and feasted on lobster stew at the wharf across the street. The café next to our hotel served a cappuccino that made me think I was in Seattle.
Of course, shopping is always a good thing to do in the rain, and nearby Freeport houses the flagship L.L. Bean as well as dozens of upscale outlet stores that look architecturally more like historic landmarks than retail shops. Husband found me in Cole Haan clutching a pair of ballerina flats to my chest as I confided that everything on the first floor was 50% off. Drawing him close, I whispered, "The second floor is 60% off! Cole Haan!" He grabbed my arm and said, "You know what Cole Haan is at 80% off? Cole Slaw!" That boy ate too much lobster salad.
On the one sunny day of the week, I seized the chance to board the Portland Trolley and get familiar in 90 minutes with all the places of interest I'd read about in the travel guide. Local trolley tours aren't Husband's thing, but I try not to miss them in any city we visit. This one was especially entertaining because the driver had an easy patter and obviously enjoyed what he was doing. His regular job for the past 30 years is middle school math teacher. He said giving tours on the weekends is a pleasure because he gets to talk a lot while people actually listen.
So why, you ask, do port cities have so many cobblestone streets? Because the roads were made with the stone used for ship ballast. What's buried under the statue of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in Longfellow Square? A metal box containing the names of the New England schoolchildren who raised $17,000 to build the statue after his death.
And finally, what's behind the name of a pub on Commercial Street called $3 Dewey's? Well, back in the pub's heyday, the charge for entertainment there was $1 - looky; $2 - feely; $3 - doey. And that's without the second floor discount.
Daughter's Featured Fotos sing Here Comes The Sun
play
people watching people
entrance
fringe monster, DCKT Gallery
Note: This weekend, June 6th and 7th, is the annual Renegade Craft Fair in Williamsburg, Brooklyn at the McCarren Park Pool that I wrote about last year in Renegade Nation. Maybe Daughter and I will see you there.
To understand why, you have to consider the 'dumbfounded wonder factor' which struck Husband and I from the start. Meaning that extremely northern New Englanders are immune to weather of any kind, making them hard not to watch with interest. Even in a steady rain, as long as it's after Memorial Day, Maine natives wear sandals and t-shirts. In this case, squishy leather sandals and dripping cotton t-shirts. I guess they're just happy they're not shoveling snow.
Despite a constant rolling fog headed toward land, our view across Portland's Casco Bay was stupendous, with ships appearing like ghosts on the horizon, steadily growing in size as the distance diminished. The intermittent break in the clouds revealed a sun as bright as pirate gold and just as welcome. Husband and I sipped coffee by our picture window and feasted on lobster stew at the wharf across the street. The café next to our hotel served a cappuccino that made me think I was in Seattle.
Of course, shopping is always a good thing to do in the rain, and nearby Freeport houses the flagship L.L. Bean as well as dozens of upscale outlet stores that look architecturally more like historic landmarks than retail shops. Husband found me in Cole Haan clutching a pair of ballerina flats to my chest as I confided that everything on the first floor was 50% off. Drawing him close, I whispered, "The second floor is 60% off! Cole Haan!" He grabbed my arm and said, "You know what Cole Haan is at 80% off? Cole Slaw!" That boy ate too much lobster salad.
On the one sunny day of the week, I seized the chance to board the Portland Trolley and get familiar in 90 minutes with all the places of interest I'd read about in the travel guide. Local trolley tours aren't Husband's thing, but I try not to miss them in any city we visit. This one was especially entertaining because the driver had an easy patter and obviously enjoyed what he was doing. His regular job for the past 30 years is middle school math teacher. He said giving tours on the weekends is a pleasure because he gets to talk a lot while people actually listen.
So why, you ask, do port cities have so many cobblestone streets? Because the roads were made with the stone used for ship ballast. What's buried under the statue of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in Longfellow Square? A metal box containing the names of the New England schoolchildren who raised $17,000 to build the statue after his death.
And finally, what's behind the name of a pub on Commercial Street called $3 Dewey's? Well, back in the pub's heyday, the charge for entertainment there was $1 - looky; $2 - feely; $3 - doey. And that's without the second floor discount.
Daughter's Featured Fotos sing Here Comes The Sun
play
people watching people
entrance
fringe monster, DCKT Gallery
Note: This weekend, June 6th and 7th, is the annual Renegade Craft Fair in Williamsburg, Brooklyn at the McCarren Park Pool that I wrote about last year in Renegade Nation. Maybe Daughter and I will see you there.
Driving Siriusly
I recently did two things I've never done. That field becomes smaller and smaller as the decades pass, which is definitely my goal. I try not to obsess about my epitaph, but I'm thinking She Did It All would be a good one.
So the two things I can strike off my list now would be Drive To Maine and Own A Car With Sirius Radio. It's actually Husband's car, an Acura T-something, and it came with a free year of satellite radio, which we're just at the start of. Last month the lease on his Nissan was up and RIGHT BEFORE he had to turn it in, he was rear-ended on the Belt Parkway to the tune of $5600 in damage.
The driver who decided Husband's lane was so perfect he had to be there too was clearly impaired. Having caused the rush hour traffic on the Belt to back up to newsworthy proportions, the guy stood in the roadway waving his arms and wailing, "I'm so sorry, man! Like I really didn't see you, man, y'know? Are you okay, man? This was like totally incidental. . .I mean accidental. . . y'know, man?"
The responding police officers gave him a breathalyzer which he passed. Apparently they'd left the stonedalyzer back at the station. So there was no indication on the police report that this guy was messed up, and in the end he told his insurance company something wacky like the other car had backed into him on the parkway. At the time it happened, Husband felt confident it would be an open and shut case. It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye.
The trip to Maine took about eight hours, but it seemed much faster, accompanied as we were by Bruce Springsteen 24/7, The Grateful Dead All The Time, and Blue Collar Comedy. I never knew XM and Sirius when they were rivals – only as the conjoined twins they are now. The choice of stations was overwhelming, like the diner menu the waitress drops on your table with the thud of an unabridged dictionary. We ran through those stations like barefoot children on a summer day.
While Husband was driving, I related a story I had read that morning in the newspaper at home. There was an obituary that fascinated me, if you'll excuse my morbid excitement. A 97-year-old woman in Spain, who called herself the world's oldest blogger, had passed away. Apparently she had attracted a devoted readership with her musings and memories, among which was her opposition to Franco's regime. That would be Generalissimo Francisco Franco, who, as you know, is still dead.
After I gave Husband the basics of the story, I added, "She began blogging late in life," and he looked at me amused and said, "I would imagine so." Husband is always amused at my uncanny grasp of the obvious, and he often looks like he's restraining a chipmunk inside his cheeks following one of my insightful observations. What I was thinking when I said it was that a 97-year-old had racked up close to 2 million hits on her blog. Without doing the math, I figured I'd be about 140 by the time I had that many hits. Despite the Lipitor, the calcium chews, and the leafy green vegetables, I suspect whatever comes after Facebook and Twitter will probably kill me.
Unlike that big sinking ship, Daughter’s Featured Fotos will go On And On
butter-deer, PS122 Gallery
layers upon layers, LMAK Gallery
pressure
cubed
So the two things I can strike off my list now would be Drive To Maine and Own A Car With Sirius Radio. It's actually Husband's car, an Acura T-something, and it came with a free year of satellite radio, which we're just at the start of. Last month the lease on his Nissan was up and RIGHT BEFORE he had to turn it in, he was rear-ended on the Belt Parkway to the tune of $5600 in damage.
The driver who decided Husband's lane was so perfect he had to be there too was clearly impaired. Having caused the rush hour traffic on the Belt to back up to newsworthy proportions, the guy stood in the roadway waving his arms and wailing, "I'm so sorry, man! Like I really didn't see you, man, y'know? Are you okay, man? This was like totally incidental. . .I mean accidental. . . y'know, man?"
The responding police officers gave him a breathalyzer which he passed. Apparently they'd left the stonedalyzer back at the station. So there was no indication on the police report that this guy was messed up, and in the end he told his insurance company something wacky like the other car had backed into him on the parkway. At the time it happened, Husband felt confident it would be an open and shut case. It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye.
The trip to Maine took about eight hours, but it seemed much faster, accompanied as we were by Bruce Springsteen 24/7, The Grateful Dead All The Time, and Blue Collar Comedy. I never knew XM and Sirius when they were rivals – only as the conjoined twins they are now. The choice of stations was overwhelming, like the diner menu the waitress drops on your table with the thud of an unabridged dictionary. We ran through those stations like barefoot children on a summer day.
While Husband was driving, I related a story I had read that morning in the newspaper at home. There was an obituary that fascinated me, if you'll excuse my morbid excitement. A 97-year-old woman in Spain, who called herself the world's oldest blogger, had passed away. Apparently she had attracted a devoted readership with her musings and memories, among which was her opposition to Franco's regime. That would be Generalissimo Francisco Franco, who, as you know, is still dead.
After I gave Husband the basics of the story, I added, "She began blogging late in life," and he looked at me amused and said, "I would imagine so." Husband is always amused at my uncanny grasp of the obvious, and he often looks like he's restraining a chipmunk inside his cheeks following one of my insightful observations. What I was thinking when I said it was that a 97-year-old had racked up close to 2 million hits on her blog. Without doing the math, I figured I'd be about 140 by the time I had that many hits. Despite the Lipitor, the calcium chews, and the leafy green vegetables, I suspect whatever comes after Facebook and Twitter will probably kill me.
Unlike that big sinking ship, Daughter’s Featured Fotos will go On And On
butter-deer, PS122 Gallery
layers upon layers, LMAK Gallery
pressure
cubed
The Crossing
They were poised on the corner waiting for the light to change. I sat across from them in my car, stopped at the busy intersection that leads to the outer mall road on a stunning spring day. They were in the street in front of the curb on the other side, the only pedestrians, noticeable even had there been a crowd.
Maybe they were in their late teens, maybe early twenties. She was in a wheelchair, her upper body strong and defined, her pant-covered legs withered, hanging down to just above the foot brackets. She was Asian, pretty, with long dark hair that caught the spring breeze. Had she been alone, I'd have worried she couldn't safely cross the wide highway, four lanes across in either direction. It was a short light for pedestrians, with cars always jumping ahead of time impatiently. But she wasn't alone.
Standing next to her, with his arm resting on one of the wheelchair handles, was a young black man with a hip-hop haircut, tall and angular in his t-shirt and jeans. They conversed with animation while they waited, the girl looking up for his response after she spoke, while the young man leaned in toward her chair with obvious friendship and ease. I smiled to myself thinking what a nice way they had between them, and how lucky she was to have someone strong by her side, confined as she was in her clumsy chair.
Then the light changed and they moved swiftly into action. The girl threw her arms down hard on the tops of the wheels, propelling the chair forward with surprising speed. The young man swung his long left leg forward and the foot landed sideways in front of him, his body nearly crumpling in half to keep balanced. He leaned hard on the wheelchair handle to steady himself enough to bring his right foot ahead, landing sideways in front of him as his left had. His head rotated in a circle with each step, along with his hips and shoulders.
He may have been blind as well. There was no telling if he was focused on his surroundings, only on his forward motion as he clung to the girl's chair and moved his feet one after the other. The two no longer spoke; they only covered ground by way of the girl's strength and aim, and the young man's trust in her direction.
They reached the other side of the road where the curved indentation in the sidewalk was just a bit too high for the chair to roll over smoothly. The young man pulled himself to stand squarely behind the chair and leaned with all his weight on the two handles so the leg brackets went up in the air. The girl gave one final burst of strength on the wheel tops and jumped the concrete lip. Then they relaxed to a slower pace as they made their way toward the mall, moving in tandem like broken poetry.
They probably began talking again. The light had turned green for traffic several seconds ago, but none of the cars had moved yet. Maybe we were waiting to see them resume their conversation. Or watch the gentle glide of their fluid companionship. This time, none of the cars seemed impatient to jump ahead. After all, it was a lovely spring day.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos are simply Not Simple
look this way
birch legs
mind clutter
always ask for the carfax
Maybe they were in their late teens, maybe early twenties. She was in a wheelchair, her upper body strong and defined, her pant-covered legs withered, hanging down to just above the foot brackets. She was Asian, pretty, with long dark hair that caught the spring breeze. Had she been alone, I'd have worried she couldn't safely cross the wide highway, four lanes across in either direction. It was a short light for pedestrians, with cars always jumping ahead of time impatiently. But she wasn't alone.
Standing next to her, with his arm resting on one of the wheelchair handles, was a young black man with a hip-hop haircut, tall and angular in his t-shirt and jeans. They conversed with animation while they waited, the girl looking up for his response after she spoke, while the young man leaned in toward her chair with obvious friendship and ease. I smiled to myself thinking what a nice way they had between them, and how lucky she was to have someone strong by her side, confined as she was in her clumsy chair.
Then the light changed and they moved swiftly into action. The girl threw her arms down hard on the tops of the wheels, propelling the chair forward with surprising speed. The young man swung his long left leg forward and the foot landed sideways in front of him, his body nearly crumpling in half to keep balanced. He leaned hard on the wheelchair handle to steady himself enough to bring his right foot ahead, landing sideways in front of him as his left had. His head rotated in a circle with each step, along with his hips and shoulders.
He may have been blind as well. There was no telling if he was focused on his surroundings, only on his forward motion as he clung to the girl's chair and moved his feet one after the other. The two no longer spoke; they only covered ground by way of the girl's strength and aim, and the young man's trust in her direction.
They reached the other side of the road where the curved indentation in the sidewalk was just a bit too high for the chair to roll over smoothly. The young man pulled himself to stand squarely behind the chair and leaned with all his weight on the two handles so the leg brackets went up in the air. The girl gave one final burst of strength on the wheel tops and jumped the concrete lip. Then they relaxed to a slower pace as they made their way toward the mall, moving in tandem like broken poetry.
They probably began talking again. The light had turned green for traffic several seconds ago, but none of the cars had moved yet. Maybe we were waiting to see them resume their conversation. Or watch the gentle glide of their fluid companionship. This time, none of the cars seemed impatient to jump ahead. After all, it was a lovely spring day.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos are simply Not Simple
look this way
birch legs
mind clutter
always ask for the carfax