It happened the other day. Okay, it happened a couple of weeks ago and it’s exactly the kind of thing I should come home and write about immediately. But instead I let it sit in my brain.
I was on a late-morning, let’s-get-ready-for-lunch run to Giacomo, my favorite deli. On West 72nd Street. And the lovely woman who makes the best sandwiches on the planet was there. She was bantering with a pal, a guy who was harassing her from near where I was standing. But harassing in a good, friendly way. She was telling him to get lost. Also in a good, friendly way.
They were talking about her background, her ethnic heritage. I had always assumed that she was Italian, given that she makes the best Italian sandwiches. But she said that since her school days she’s been known as 3P. She grew up in Puerto Rico, but she’s Palestinian and Panamanian.
Almost instantly, that struck me as so New York. All those different backgrounds coming together in one woman, who I think of as Italian.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Finding Faith at the Marriott Marquis
“Retail is my detail,” famed realtor Faith Hope Consolo told a panel last Friday afternoon.
You got the feeling she’s used the line before.
You got the feeling that Consolo, famous for getting her name—and the names of her clients into the papers—has used a lot of her lines more than once. In person, she’s a force of nature. Funny in an old-school way.
I had wanted to see her in person, since I’ve quoted her in newspaper pieces and blog items for many years. And because she sends me stuff with her name on it, like pads and pens. She takes a fair amount of heat for her self-promotion, but she made it clear that she can live with that. If you can’t take the heat, then get out of the kitchen. And all that.
“You take the kisses. You take the hits,” is the way Consolo put it at the panel, which was part of a city real estate expo at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. Also on the panel: an old pal of mine, Linda Alexander, a p.r. guru with her own shop, Alexander Marketing Corp.
I love Consolo cause she’s so darn quotable, and so darn willing to share those quotes when an ugly deadline looms. She’s even good at getting back to me to tell me that she cannot get back to me, so that pretty much makes her a journalist’s favorite.
She’s enough of a traditionalist to believe in print, even in a digital age, and she says that her clients want to see their properties publicized in what may seem like an old-fashioned way. She held up an imaginary magazine and said, “They like to say, ‘Oh, my God. She looks terrible.’”
There’s something inspiring about Consolo, about the mix of gritty and funny, about the way she even bothers to have a public persona when so much about real estate in this city has become rote or tired. On Friday afternoon she was weary bright red and passing out candy, taking names and talking about making deals. But the warmth of her jokes and the talent of remembering names only goes so far. She’s tough too.
“We’re not here to make friend,” she said. “We’re here to make business.”
You got the feeling she’s used the line before.
You got the feeling that Consolo, famous for getting her name—and the names of her clients into the papers—has used a lot of her lines more than once. In person, she’s a force of nature. Funny in an old-school way.
I had wanted to see her in person, since I’ve quoted her in newspaper pieces and blog items for many years. And because she sends me stuff with her name on it, like pads and pens. She takes a fair amount of heat for her self-promotion, but she made it clear that she can live with that. If you can’t take the heat, then get out of the kitchen. And all that.
“You take the kisses. You take the hits,” is the way Consolo put it at the panel, which was part of a city real estate expo at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. Also on the panel: an old pal of mine, Linda Alexander, a p.r. guru with her own shop, Alexander Marketing Corp.
I love Consolo cause she’s so darn quotable, and so darn willing to share those quotes when an ugly deadline looms. She’s even good at getting back to me to tell me that she cannot get back to me, so that pretty much makes her a journalist’s favorite.
She’s enough of a traditionalist to believe in print, even in a digital age, and she says that her clients want to see their properties publicized in what may seem like an old-fashioned way. She held up an imaginary magazine and said, “They like to say, ‘Oh, my God. She looks terrible.’”
There’s something inspiring about Consolo, about the mix of gritty and funny, about the way she even bothers to have a public persona when so much about real estate in this city has become rote or tired. On Friday afternoon she was weary bright red and passing out candy, taking names and talking about making deals. But the warmth of her jokes and the talent of remembering names only goes so far. She’s tough too.
“We’re not here to make friend,” she said. “We’re here to make business.”
Monday, November 1, 2010
My Kind of Town
San Francisco is my kind of town.
Evidently.
At least that’s what the weird Facebook quiz just told me. In a test to see which city I should be living in, I wound up in California. At least metaphorically.
Granted, I was trying to wind up in New York. That’s why I voted for a place with high housing costs. Or at least said that I don’t mind high housing costs. Cause the places with low housing costs tend to be spots in which I do not want to live. Anyway, I think that my pro-Asian-food answer may also have helped land me in San Francisco. The truth is that I’d just as soon have a pizza, but there was no place to say that.
Usually I avoid Facebook quizzed like the plague. They seem like gigantic time-wasters. But after reading one jerk’s post about how the test sent him to live in Denver, Colorado…well, I began to wonder what kind of response I would get.
It was weird, too, cause I’ve been feeling a little bit under assault in the city lately. I mean that literally. Last night, Halloween, I was in a car that was hit by…was it a pumpkin? Something hard and squishy that landed on the car we hired to bring us back from the Bronx last night. It was no big deal, but it was no small one either. Cause it reminded me of being harassed on the street about two weeks ago at Herald Square. And of that time a couple of years ago I was bugged by a screaming teenager on a subway.
The little assaults start to add up. And I’m at the age where they become a little bit harder to shake off. Or is that nonsense, blaming age? I know the key to this, and to just about everything else, is to bounce back as quickly as possible. My basic rule—the one I carry around in the New York part of my brain—is to say to myself that if I have not been murdered and if there’s no slicing of my skin, then I’m fine. Good to go. Back to the streets of the big city.
The truth, though, lies somewhere else. I feel just a tad less safe than I used to. In New York and in general. I wish this were not so, but pretending otherwise, ignoring how I feel about things, would hardly be a New Yorker's kind of move. We do tend to call them as we see them. Right now I'm admitting to a sense of danger out there, but I also see the amazing interactions each day in this city. The woman in Washington Square who hands cash to the fellow standing next to her who lost it. The oh-so-many people who do things like that for me. The guy over the weekend who picked up the woman who was falling at Whole Foods.
I can think about those people instead of the incredibly flying objects. Think about the people who help instead of the ones who harass. It helps. I may be better off switching thoughts instead of switching cities.
Evidently.
At least that’s what the weird Facebook quiz just told me. In a test to see which city I should be living in, I wound up in California. At least metaphorically.
Granted, I was trying to wind up in New York. That’s why I voted for a place with high housing costs. Or at least said that I don’t mind high housing costs. Cause the places with low housing costs tend to be spots in which I do not want to live. Anyway, I think that my pro-Asian-food answer may also have helped land me in San Francisco. The truth is that I’d just as soon have a pizza, but there was no place to say that.
Usually I avoid Facebook quizzed like the plague. They seem like gigantic time-wasters. But after reading one jerk’s post about how the test sent him to live in Denver, Colorado…well, I began to wonder what kind of response I would get.
It was weird, too, cause I’ve been feeling a little bit under assault in the city lately. I mean that literally. Last night, Halloween, I was in a car that was hit by…was it a pumpkin? Something hard and squishy that landed on the car we hired to bring us back from the Bronx last night. It was no big deal, but it was no small one either. Cause it reminded me of being harassed on the street about two weeks ago at Herald Square. And of that time a couple of years ago I was bugged by a screaming teenager on a subway.
The little assaults start to add up. And I’m at the age where they become a little bit harder to shake off. Or is that nonsense, blaming age? I know the key to this, and to just about everything else, is to bounce back as quickly as possible. My basic rule—the one I carry around in the New York part of my brain—is to say to myself that if I have not been murdered and if there’s no slicing of my skin, then I’m fine. Good to go. Back to the streets of the big city.
The truth, though, lies somewhere else. I feel just a tad less safe than I used to. In New York and in general. I wish this were not so, but pretending otherwise, ignoring how I feel about things, would hardly be a New Yorker's kind of move. We do tend to call them as we see them. Right now I'm admitting to a sense of danger out there, but I also see the amazing interactions each day in this city. The woman in Washington Square who hands cash to the fellow standing next to her who lost it. The oh-so-many people who do things like that for me. The guy over the weekend who picked up the woman who was falling at Whole Foods.
I can think about those people instead of the incredibly flying objects. Think about the people who help instead of the ones who harass. It helps. I may be better off switching thoughts instead of switching cities.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
A Near-Marriage Ceremony
Thirteen days ago, we got sorta married.
Well, we did as well as you can do, legally speaking, within the confines of New York City. My boyfiend and I went to the marriage bureau downtown and registered as domestic partners. It’s not like we live someplace civilized, like Boston or Des Moines, where we could get married.
The first big surprise: the New York City bureaucracy not only worked, but it was shockingly pleasant. Everyone we dealt with was professional and speedy and made us feel great about the process, which began online when we pre-registered as a couple. Then we went in and were amazed at how quickly our domestic partnership happened.
We may have been inspired by a recent piece in the Times, in which what seemed like a lovely lesbian couple had a short service to accompany their domestic partnership. We opted out of the service, partly because I liked the whole “elopement” aspect of just the two of us doing this together and partly because we had read that Times piece. In it, the woman representing the city called the women by their last names—and, if I remember correctly, only their last names—and that made the proceeding seem like it lacked warmth.
Now that we’re domestic partners, we’re getting around to studying the rights we have. So far the answers are: not many, and we’d have more if we worked for the City of New York. We’re left feeling a little like second-class citizens in our own town and especially in our own state. The New York Times keeps telling me that Andrew Cuomo was terribly slow to embrace gay marriage here and did next to nothing to push a legal change when he was most needed. I hope he gets a chance his allegedly checkered past on the issue—and that the in the Republican rampage that is coming next week, enough Democratic state senators survive to help make gay marriage a reality in New York State.
Well, we did as well as you can do, legally speaking, within the confines of New York City. My boyfiend and I went to the marriage bureau downtown and registered as domestic partners. It’s not like we live someplace civilized, like Boston or Des Moines, where we could get married.
The first big surprise: the New York City bureaucracy not only worked, but it was shockingly pleasant. Everyone we dealt with was professional and speedy and made us feel great about the process, which began online when we pre-registered as a couple. Then we went in and were amazed at how quickly our domestic partnership happened.
We may have been inspired by a recent piece in the Times, in which what seemed like a lovely lesbian couple had a short service to accompany their domestic partnership. We opted out of the service, partly because I liked the whole “elopement” aspect of just the two of us doing this together and partly because we had read that Times piece. In it, the woman representing the city called the women by their last names—and, if I remember correctly, only their last names—and that made the proceeding seem like it lacked warmth.
Now that we’re domestic partners, we’re getting around to studying the rights we have. So far the answers are: not many, and we’d have more if we worked for the City of New York. We’re left feeling a little like second-class citizens in our own town and especially in our own state. The New York Times keeps telling me that Andrew Cuomo was terribly slow to embrace gay marriage here and did next to nothing to push a legal change when he was most needed. I hope he gets a chance his allegedly checkered past on the issue—and that the in the Republican rampage that is coming next week, enough Democratic state senators survive to help make gay marriage a reality in New York State.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Why 'The View' Looks Like Charlie Rose Today
It’s the upside to a freelancer’s life: I can spend my lunch hour watching TV.
Today that meant catching the series premiere of “The Talk.” And therein lies the downside.
“The Talk” is CBS’s answer to ABC’s “The View,” which is a semi-addiction of mine. “The Talk” makes “The View” seem like Charlie Rose.
At least that was the case on Day One, during which the women of “The Talk,” none particularly memorable, spent the first-half hour congratulating themselves on having a talk show. Julie Chen, the ostensible and forgettable host with hair that is a triumph of technology, made me feel better about Whoopi Goldberg. Over on CBS, the one from “King of Queens,” Leah Remini, was okay, although she struggled to be the officially sanctioned funny one. Also there: Sharon Osbourne, who I think is also on every other TV show. Among the others: Sara Gilbert, who I loved on “Roseanne,” explaining that she thought up the show after she joined a mom’s support group. It might have been more honest if someone had mentioned that ABC started a similar women’s panel a decade ago.
The first guest on “The Talk” was Christie Brinkley, who somehow managed not to meet my low expectations. The chatter was about Botox. Brinkley left audience members actually looking like they could not follow her alleged thought process. The whole enterprise came off as incredibly loud, almost depressing so. There was a depressing taped sequence about talking to kids about sex, which was more infantile than the children could ever be. If aliens arrived from another planet and watched “The Talk,” they would assume that women are morons.
Over at “The View,” there’s also plenty of silly chatter, but it’s mixed in amid some surprisingly relevant chat about the political state of the union and even changing sexual and workplace mores. I’ve heard recently that Barbara Walters, the powerhouse behind the ABC show, credited the success of the show with having picked the right women. After seeing the CBS version today, well, I think Walters may actually have a point. Take the dumbest “View” co-host and put her on “The Talk” and she would be my favorite.
Over the weekend, there was another, more subtle development in the women’s-talk-show wars. There was a “View” ad in the Sunday Times. In the news section. I think it was a pretty obvious shot at developing a sense of gravitas about a show that has been much-imitated but not always respected. But the best ad for “The View” ever could be “The Talk.” That’s only based on one episode, but a terribly bad one.
Today that meant catching the series premiere of “The Talk.” And therein lies the downside.
“The Talk” is CBS’s answer to ABC’s “The View,” which is a semi-addiction of mine. “The Talk” makes “The View” seem like Charlie Rose.
At least that was the case on Day One, during which the women of “The Talk,” none particularly memorable, spent the first-half hour congratulating themselves on having a talk show. Julie Chen, the ostensible and forgettable host with hair that is a triumph of technology, made me feel better about Whoopi Goldberg. Over on CBS, the one from “King of Queens,” Leah Remini, was okay, although she struggled to be the officially sanctioned funny one. Also there: Sharon Osbourne, who I think is also on every other TV show. Among the others: Sara Gilbert, who I loved on “Roseanne,” explaining that she thought up the show after she joined a mom’s support group. It might have been more honest if someone had mentioned that ABC started a similar women’s panel a decade ago.
The first guest on “The Talk” was Christie Brinkley, who somehow managed not to meet my low expectations. The chatter was about Botox. Brinkley left audience members actually looking like they could not follow her alleged thought process. The whole enterprise came off as incredibly loud, almost depressing so. There was a depressing taped sequence about talking to kids about sex, which was more infantile than the children could ever be. If aliens arrived from another planet and watched “The Talk,” they would assume that women are morons.
Over at “The View,” there’s also plenty of silly chatter, but it’s mixed in amid some surprisingly relevant chat about the political state of the union and even changing sexual and workplace mores. I’ve heard recently that Barbara Walters, the powerhouse behind the ABC show, credited the success of the show with having picked the right women. After seeing the CBS version today, well, I think Walters may actually have a point. Take the dumbest “View” co-host and put her on “The Talk” and she would be my favorite.
Over the weekend, there was another, more subtle development in the women’s-talk-show wars. There was a “View” ad in the Sunday Times. In the news section. I think it was a pretty obvious shot at developing a sense of gravitas about a show that has been much-imitated but not always respected. But the best ad for “The View” ever could be “The Talk.” That’s only based on one episode, but a terribly bad one.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
A Not-So-Cool Cafe
I couldn’t help but be horrified. And offended.
My eightysomething mom was in need of a cup of coffee. So we stopped at At65 Café, that glittery new place along Broadway in the newly revitalized Alice Tully Hall. Looks nice. I’d been thinking of going in there for quite awhile. So we did.
Big mistake. The hostess told us that we could sit anywhere along the wall (glass, of course) or outside or in the high bar seats, which I suspected might pose a challenge to my mom. The other, non-challenging seats inside were all taken. There were plenty of seats throughout the room, in what was apparently cordoned off as a dining area for meals. But it was late afternoon, and there was only one table taken—two at the most.
The sullen hostess never looked around to see that she was basically, by way of her instructions, tossing us out of the place. But she was. So we left.
Something else was left, too: a bad taste in my mouth. My mom was supporting Lincoln Center back before this hostess-bitch was born. Mom deserves better.
But it reminded me of something bigger and even worse. Many months back, before the latest round of needed construction at Lincoln Center, there was a mural up to hide some of the work. On the mural were pictures of many people enjoying a newly-revitalized Lincoln Center. It was a nice little hustle-and-bustle scene, a great New York night. Only on close examination did I realize I could not find any old people in the illustration. Here it was, a young yuppie’s dream: a Lincoln Center where nobody is aged.
If the people at Lincoln Center greet other seniors the way they met my mom’s needs last week, the dream could become a reality.
In the meantime, I'm left associating a center I love with some feelings I don't. I think if my mom had been younger and I had been thinnner, if we had been hipsters, we would have been treated more attentively. Or at least allowed to sit down.
My eightysomething mom was in need of a cup of coffee. So we stopped at At65 Café, that glittery new place along Broadway in the newly revitalized Alice Tully Hall. Looks nice. I’d been thinking of going in there for quite awhile. So we did.
Big mistake. The hostess told us that we could sit anywhere along the wall (glass, of course) or outside or in the high bar seats, which I suspected might pose a challenge to my mom. The other, non-challenging seats inside were all taken. There were plenty of seats throughout the room, in what was apparently cordoned off as a dining area for meals. But it was late afternoon, and there was only one table taken—two at the most.
The sullen hostess never looked around to see that she was basically, by way of her instructions, tossing us out of the place. But she was. So we left.
Something else was left, too: a bad taste in my mouth. My mom was supporting Lincoln Center back before this hostess-bitch was born. Mom deserves better.
But it reminded me of something bigger and even worse. Many months back, before the latest round of needed construction at Lincoln Center, there was a mural up to hide some of the work. On the mural were pictures of many people enjoying a newly-revitalized Lincoln Center. It was a nice little hustle-and-bustle scene, a great New York night. Only on close examination did I realize I could not find any old people in the illustration. Here it was, a young yuppie’s dream: a Lincoln Center where nobody is aged.
If the people at Lincoln Center greet other seniors the way they met my mom’s needs last week, the dream could become a reality.
In the meantime, I'm left associating a center I love with some feelings I don't. I think if my mom had been younger and I had been thinnner, if we had been hipsters, we would have been treated more attentively. Or at least allowed to sit down.
Monday, October 4, 2010
That Wild Card Still Feels Wrong
All these years later, it still feels like there’s something wrong with the wild card.
Just reading the back pages of the tabloids this morning reminded me of that feeling.
Yes, having a system with a wild card means that more teams can compete, ostensibly livening up the playoffs. But I’m old enough to be nostalgic about the times when the winners of the AL East played the winners of the AL West. And then on to the series. Before that set-up, I've read, the winners of the American League simply played the top team of the National League. Imagine that.
Having a wild card still feels like cheating to me. There's something weird about losing your division and winding up calling yourselves World Champions. Isn't there?
This all bothered me, at least up until yesterday, when the Yankees landed their wild card ticket to the playoffs. Then it was okay.
No, I’m kidding. It’s not okay. And so this morning I found myself feeling sad about the way the Bronx Bombers are heading into postseason play. Not bad enough to stop rooting for my traditional team this time of year. But bad enough to wonder all over again about the wild card.
I know I’m not alone. The fellow at the front desk in my building yesterday, listening on the radio to a Yankee loss, said that that if the Yanks win and get the number-one spot in their division, then they might just keep winning. But he could not picture the Yankees this year going from wild card status to winning the World Series. Maybe he was just being superstitious. I think what he was really saying was that he could not see this team winning the Series—period.
His skepticism may be earned. The Yanks did not look too good in the last couple of weeks. All shall be revealed to us over the course of the playoffs, which traditionally have been decent territory for the Yankees. We’ll see how wild it gets.
Just reading the back pages of the tabloids this morning reminded me of that feeling.
Yes, having a system with a wild card means that more teams can compete, ostensibly livening up the playoffs. But I’m old enough to be nostalgic about the times when the winners of the AL East played the winners of the AL West. And then on to the series. Before that set-up, I've read, the winners of the American League simply played the top team of the National League. Imagine that.
Having a wild card still feels like cheating to me. There's something weird about losing your division and winding up calling yourselves World Champions. Isn't there?
This all bothered me, at least up until yesterday, when the Yankees landed their wild card ticket to the playoffs. Then it was okay.
No, I’m kidding. It’s not okay. And so this morning I found myself feeling sad about the way the Bronx Bombers are heading into postseason play. Not bad enough to stop rooting for my traditional team this time of year. But bad enough to wonder all over again about the wild card.
I know I’m not alone. The fellow at the front desk in my building yesterday, listening on the radio to a Yankee loss, said that that if the Yanks win and get the number-one spot in their division, then they might just keep winning. But he could not picture the Yankees this year going from wild card status to winning the World Series. Maybe he was just being superstitious. I think what he was really saying was that he could not see this team winning the Series—period.
His skepticism may be earned. The Yanks did not look too good in the last couple of weeks. All shall be revealed to us over the course of the playoffs, which traditionally have been decent territory for the Yankees. We’ll see how wild it gets.
Monday, September 27, 2010
What Looks Like an Awfully Difficult Job
“Oh, to be a bus driver,” the woman next to me said.
Immediately I agreed. She and I had been watching as the complaints kept adding up on a rainy day on the M5 bus. We had seen the old ladies complaining about too much air conditioning and heard the travelers as they berated the driver about how slowly the traffic was moving. Then there was the requisite crazy guy offering tips on how to navigate the congestion.
For most of it, many blocks of the drama, we had not spoken to one another. But once my neighbor broke the silence, I instantly joined in. I said that being a bus driver certainly looked like a job I did not want. Everyone who complains thinks that they are the first too notice whether it’s too cold or whether there are too many cars on the road. New Yorkers are an insistent bunch, which can be a charming affectation or evidence of self-regard and decent character. But on this wet morning, they (we?) were just a pain in the ass.
It’s funny because a few years ago I made the mental leap from the subway to the bus. I began to wonder why I was in such a hurry. I started to like seeing the long journeys from one part of the city to another, especially on my beloved M5, which delivers me almost to my apartment building’s front door. The subway, I started to think, has become more worrisome in post-9/11 New York. The bus was worth the extra time.
Not on days like this, though. Today I was thinking the speed of the subway would be a plus. Less traffic and far less whining from the crowd. The bus driver, God bless her, took it all in stride. She responded well to the streaming critiques. If she had gone mad and began assaulting passengers, she would have been wrong, but I for one would not have eagerly testified against her. Difficult job, indeed.
Immediately I agreed. She and I had been watching as the complaints kept adding up on a rainy day on the M5 bus. We had seen the old ladies complaining about too much air conditioning and heard the travelers as they berated the driver about how slowly the traffic was moving. Then there was the requisite crazy guy offering tips on how to navigate the congestion.
For most of it, many blocks of the drama, we had not spoken to one another. But once my neighbor broke the silence, I instantly joined in. I said that being a bus driver certainly looked like a job I did not want. Everyone who complains thinks that they are the first too notice whether it’s too cold or whether there are too many cars on the road. New Yorkers are an insistent bunch, which can be a charming affectation or evidence of self-regard and decent character. But on this wet morning, they (we?) were just a pain in the ass.
It’s funny because a few years ago I made the mental leap from the subway to the bus. I began to wonder why I was in such a hurry. I started to like seeing the long journeys from one part of the city to another, especially on my beloved M5, which delivers me almost to my apartment building’s front door. The subway, I started to think, has become more worrisome in post-9/11 New York. The bus was worth the extra time.
Not on days like this, though. Today I was thinking the speed of the subway would be a plus. Less traffic and far less whining from the crowd. The bus driver, God bless her, took it all in stride. She responded well to the streaming critiques. If she had gone mad and began assaulting passengers, she would have been wrong, but I for one would not have eagerly testified against her. Difficult job, indeed.
Monday, September 20, 2010
People Need to Pay Me
I spent a chunk of the day trying to get paid for work I have done. Some of the pieces have been used, some not. Some of the people are pleasant about being behind on the bookkeeping, some not. In all cases, it’s enervating and demoralizing and feels way too much like begging on the streets.
Sometimes I just want to scream, “You people need to pay me.”
Cause they do.
It’s been strange and potentially healthy, this switch from one side of the street to the other. For years, I was an editor who depended (more than he knew, actually) on freelancers to fill the pages of a newspaper and then of a magazine and a web site. I was pretty good in handling these staffers, who were outside of the office and whose health care costs were way outside the interest of the companies where I worked. But I could have been better. More often I should have made the extra phone call, encouraging the freelancer to feel like part of the family.
Now I’m on the other side, provided copy that is met with what feels, even in the digital age, like a shrug. It’s all about content, but those of us who provide it sometimes find our work ignored. Not cause it's bad or even particularly good, but because there is too much crap for editors to wade through on any given day. The editors cannot possibly process it all with intelligence and responsiveness. The freelancers among us crave, meanwhile, crave feedback and recognition and appreciation. We’re lucky to get a returned email.
Which reminds me. Today a guy who I worked for full-time for five years…could not be bothered to return my email. What’s with that?
It’s the understaffing, probably. The lucky few left behind with full-time jobs are doing the work that the rest of us left on the way out. On this particular day, I’m not crying for any of them.
Sometimes I just want to scream, “You people need to pay me.”
Cause they do.
It’s been strange and potentially healthy, this switch from one side of the street to the other. For years, I was an editor who depended (more than he knew, actually) on freelancers to fill the pages of a newspaper and then of a magazine and a web site. I was pretty good in handling these staffers, who were outside of the office and whose health care costs were way outside the interest of the companies where I worked. But I could have been better. More often I should have made the extra phone call, encouraging the freelancer to feel like part of the family.
Now I’m on the other side, provided copy that is met with what feels, even in the digital age, like a shrug. It’s all about content, but those of us who provide it sometimes find our work ignored. Not cause it's bad or even particularly good, but because there is too much crap for editors to wade through on any given day. The editors cannot possibly process it all with intelligence and responsiveness. The freelancers among us crave, meanwhile, crave feedback and recognition and appreciation. We’re lucky to get a returned email.
Which reminds me. Today a guy who I worked for full-time for five years…could not be bothered to return my email. What’s with that?
It’s the understaffing, probably. The lucky few left behind with full-time jobs are doing the work that the rest of us left on the way out. On this particular day, I’m not crying for any of them.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Even More Mad About 'Mad Men'
A couple of weeks ago, someone with taste posted on Facebook that she's disappointed with "Mad Men" this year. I know that this is around the time when most TV shows tend to get soft or silly or both. Jump the shark and all that. But I'm finding this year better than ever.
Everyone from my Facebook friend to Regis Philbin has complained publicly and with considerable enthusiasm about missing those scenes of domestic hostility between Don Draper and his former wife, played weirdly but wonderfully by January Jones. I had had enough and like seeing the exes with new and, in Don's case, various mates. Both characters remain decidedly themselves and it shows how they carry their sometimes menacing character traits with them, regardless of who they wind up with on a given day or night. Not a bad relationship lesson, I'd say.
The other wonder of the season is that Elizabeth Moss as Peggy has gone from being everything from a feminist role model to, in the episode eight days ago, something out of "Long Day's Journey Into Night." I love me some Don and Peggy scenes, and that particular episode sported some exceptional acting and surprisingly subtle script choices tossed in with the dramatic fireworks. A lovely and lyrical mix.
A.O. Scott told the truth in yesterday's Times: TV is often better than its film equivalent these days. Nowhere is that more true than with "Mad Men." I get why some are turned off with the depressing subject matter and the consistent tie-in with historical moments. But so long as there are compelling characters saying funny and scary and sometimes even true things to one another...I'm sticking with Draper and company. And I'm grateful to have them.
Everyone from my Facebook friend to Regis Philbin has complained publicly and with considerable enthusiasm about missing those scenes of domestic hostility between Don Draper and his former wife, played weirdly but wonderfully by January Jones. I had had enough and like seeing the exes with new and, in Don's case, various mates. Both characters remain decidedly themselves and it shows how they carry their sometimes menacing character traits with them, regardless of who they wind up with on a given day or night. Not a bad relationship lesson, I'd say.
The other wonder of the season is that Elizabeth Moss as Peggy has gone from being everything from a feminist role model to, in the episode eight days ago, something out of "Long Day's Journey Into Night." I love me some Don and Peggy scenes, and that particular episode sported some exceptional acting and surprisingly subtle script choices tossed in with the dramatic fireworks. A lovely and lyrical mix.
A.O. Scott told the truth in yesterday's Times: TV is often better than its film equivalent these days. Nowhere is that more true than with "Mad Men." I get why some are turned off with the depressing subject matter and the consistent tie-in with historical moments. But so long as there are compelling characters saying funny and scary and sometimes even true things to one another...I'm sticking with Draper and company. And I'm grateful to have them.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
New Year's Day, or Something LIke It
I always feel like Labor Day is New Year’s Day.
So this is the day after New Year’s Day, when the holidays are over and it’s time to move seriously into a new year. The age of summer fun ends abruptly.
Of course there’s something about September, still the official back-to-school season. Even if my niece and nephew in Florida returned many days ago to school. There’s something, too, about the fall itself. The kickoff of the big season, especially in New York City, where we gear up for what a friend reminded me this morning is her favorite season. And probably her favorite season in the city. The “When Harry Met Sally” part of the year, as she reminded me. The glorious color. The end of the awful heat. The beginning of the theater season and the TV season and the movies not necessarily produced solely for 13-year-old boys.
With it all, though, comes a responsibility I can feel on my shoulders. Time to get going. Surely this is the time to fix everythin and clear things out, from the stacks of crap on my desk to the extra hair products in the bathroom. It’s time to make a few tough financial decisions about the future, add an extra day at the gym each week and somehow think short-term, medium-term and long-term. All simultaneously. That’s a hell of a to-do list, and so yesterday I spent a couple of hours shifting the lists themselves from a Word document to my Google calendar.
This is when I expect a lot of myself. Maybe too much. And perhaps that’s why, amid all the to-do lists, I want at this time of year to come up with a vacation schedule too. To have some labor-free moments to look forward to during these days just after Labor Day.
So this is the day after New Year’s Day, when the holidays are over and it’s time to move seriously into a new year. The age of summer fun ends abruptly.
Of course there’s something about September, still the official back-to-school season. Even if my niece and nephew in Florida returned many days ago to school. There’s something, too, about the fall itself. The kickoff of the big season, especially in New York City, where we gear up for what a friend reminded me this morning is her favorite season. And probably her favorite season in the city. The “When Harry Met Sally” part of the year, as she reminded me. The glorious color. The end of the awful heat. The beginning of the theater season and the TV season and the movies not necessarily produced solely for 13-year-old boys.
With it all, though, comes a responsibility I can feel on my shoulders. Time to get going. Surely this is the time to fix everythin and clear things out, from the stacks of crap on my desk to the extra hair products in the bathroom. It’s time to make a few tough financial decisions about the future, add an extra day at the gym each week and somehow think short-term, medium-term and long-term. All simultaneously. That’s a hell of a to-do list, and so yesterday I spent a couple of hours shifting the lists themselves from a Word document to my Google calendar.
This is when I expect a lot of myself. Maybe too much. And perhaps that’s why, amid all the to-do lists, I want at this time of year to come up with a vacation schedule too. To have some labor-free moments to look forward to during these days just after Labor Day.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Julia Roberts Talking About Being Too Fat
It’s hard to pick a least favorite moment of “Eat Pray Love.” Cause I hated so many of them.
But if pressed, I would go with the scene where she and another gorgeous woman chat about how they are both developing “muffin tops” during their trip to Italy. In this particular monstrosity of a scene, Roberts advises against worrying about weight and going ahead and eating the pizza and the pasta and Italy’s other great culinary gifts. She tells her pal and the rest of us that they will go out later and buy “big lady” jeans. I think that was the comment. Then, unfortunately, we get to see that scene . . . complete with Julia struggling to get into a pair of jeans.
So wrong on so many levels.
First of all, there should be a Constitutional amendment against Julia Roberts talking about being too fat. She’s basically skeletal. Second, she’s making the argument that she does not care about the weight gain or needing bigger pants and then she’s out struggling to get into jeans that are too small. Why the struggle, when the God-awful script just had her saying that the pizza was worth the bigger size? Sorry. My fault for paying attention to any of the words spoken here. Third, there’s an obesity epidemic going on and it’s jarring—it takes the audience out of the movie, way out—to listen to Julia Roberts talk about being too fat. Which takes me back to the Constitutional amendment.
I had read that this was a bad part of a bad movie. Probably right on both counts. Although I did like Richard Jenkins in his one big scene, where he basically gave a lesson in how to steal a film, and I liked Javier Bardem in everything he did, wherein he basically gave a lesson in how to be hot. Viola Davis was the wry, wise best friend, who was right to worry about whether any of this particular trip was necessary. I would have been happier if we had stayed with Davis in the city, seeing up close what it's like to juggle with good humor a job and a mate. Not as scenic as what "Eat Pray Love" offers us, but probably in the long run more useful.
But if pressed, I would go with the scene where she and another gorgeous woman chat about how they are both developing “muffin tops” during their trip to Italy. In this particular monstrosity of a scene, Roberts advises against worrying about weight and going ahead and eating the pizza and the pasta and Italy’s other great culinary gifts. She tells her pal and the rest of us that they will go out later and buy “big lady” jeans. I think that was the comment. Then, unfortunately, we get to see that scene . . . complete with Julia struggling to get into a pair of jeans.
So wrong on so many levels.
First of all, there should be a Constitutional amendment against Julia Roberts talking about being too fat. She’s basically skeletal. Second, she’s making the argument that she does not care about the weight gain or needing bigger pants and then she’s out struggling to get into jeans that are too small. Why the struggle, when the God-awful script just had her saying that the pizza was worth the bigger size? Sorry. My fault for paying attention to any of the words spoken here. Third, there’s an obesity epidemic going on and it’s jarring—it takes the audience out of the movie, way out—to listen to Julia Roberts talk about being too fat. Which takes me back to the Constitutional amendment.
I had read that this was a bad part of a bad movie. Probably right on both counts. Although I did like Richard Jenkins in his one big scene, where he basically gave a lesson in how to steal a film, and I liked Javier Bardem in everything he did, wherein he basically gave a lesson in how to be hot. Viola Davis was the wry, wise best friend, who was right to worry about whether any of this particular trip was necessary. I would have been happier if we had stayed with Davis in the city, seeing up close what it's like to juggle with good humor a job and a mate. Not as scenic as what "Eat Pray Love" offers us, but probably in the long run more useful.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Waiting Game
What a way to spend an afternoon.
We got to the doctor’s office before 1 p.m. Then we waited and waited and waited. My mom was finally called in at almost exactly 3 p.m.
I don’t want to go all street on you, or street from several years ago, but: Whassup with that? I mean, are people waiting two hours to see a general practioner?
They are in Riverdale in the Bronx. Granted, the cast of “Cocoon” in the waiting room was not going anyplace. Maybe this is the plus of being a doctor for the geriatric set. I sure as hell would not be waiting even an hour to see my doctor. But then again, I don’t love my doctor as much as my mother loves hers.
Sometimes it’s nice being me. This was one of those times. Not while we were waiting, but when we actually got around to seeing the doctor. The phrase “two hours” came out of my mouth within seconds after saying hello. Actually, I’m not sure I said hello before going for the complaint. She took it pretty well. Later, she even agreed to a profile in the New York Post, if my editor in the At Work section decides he would like an interview with her. And once we were in there, she really listened. Which is what I guess my mom likes about this doctor.
As I said to the doc, though: call and tell me that you are running behind a couple of hours. I’ve even had veterinarians do that much. Alas, when it comes to medical care, my cat is more likely to be treated well than a lowly human ever is.
We got to the doctor’s office before 1 p.m. Then we waited and waited and waited. My mom was finally called in at almost exactly 3 p.m.
I don’t want to go all street on you, or street from several years ago, but: Whassup with that? I mean, are people waiting two hours to see a general practioner?
They are in Riverdale in the Bronx. Granted, the cast of “Cocoon” in the waiting room was not going anyplace. Maybe this is the plus of being a doctor for the geriatric set. I sure as hell would not be waiting even an hour to see my doctor. But then again, I don’t love my doctor as much as my mother loves hers.
Sometimes it’s nice being me. This was one of those times. Not while we were waiting, but when we actually got around to seeing the doctor. The phrase “two hours” came out of my mouth within seconds after saying hello. Actually, I’m not sure I said hello before going for the complaint. She took it pretty well. Later, she even agreed to a profile in the New York Post, if my editor in the At Work section decides he would like an interview with her. And once we were in there, she really listened. Which is what I guess my mom likes about this doctor.
As I said to the doc, though: call and tell me that you are running behind a couple of hours. I’ve even had veterinarians do that much. Alas, when it comes to medical care, my cat is more likely to be treated well than a lowly human ever is.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Did Late-August Arrive in Mid-August?
It feels like the dog days came early.
I could be wrong. One of the dangers of freelancing is that I sit here alone in a room—well, you could count the three cats, as I certainly would—and come up with ideas about what is happening out there in the universe. I’m not sure that the notions imagined correspond with reality. Even when I warn myself about that, though, I cannot help coming up with a sense of what’s happening in the city and the nation and the would, what the mood is.
Especially when it comes to the city. And the sense I get on a Monday morning, the one that passed by relatively uneventfully a few hours ago, is that not a lot is getting done in the offices of my hometown. It’s not that I think that everybody is out of town. I worked 50 or so weeks a year in an office for too many years to believe that there are too many completely empty workplaces. But I do have the suspicion that not a lot is happening. People are in Wait Mode, getting done the absolute necessities and not much more. Returning my phone calls not necessarily having scored a spot as an absolute necessity. Unfortunately.
I read recently in one of those not very helpful stories about job-searching that it’s best to go full speed ahead in August. You don’t want to be one of those jerks who is calling prospective employers on the days after Labor Day, announcing to the world that you are back in the game. Better to make it clear during the dog days that one is ready, willing and able to rejoin the workforce.
That sounds sensible to me. Right now I’m after an array of writing assignments, from the full-time gig to the very-very-freelance assignment, but the editors I’m eager to harass are in Wait Mode. Unless, perish the thought, it’s just me.
I could be wrong. One of the dangers of freelancing is that I sit here alone in a room—well, you could count the three cats, as I certainly would—and come up with ideas about what is happening out there in the universe. I’m not sure that the notions imagined correspond with reality. Even when I warn myself about that, though, I cannot help coming up with a sense of what’s happening in the city and the nation and the would, what the mood is.
Especially when it comes to the city. And the sense I get on a Monday morning, the one that passed by relatively uneventfully a few hours ago, is that not a lot is getting done in the offices of my hometown. It’s not that I think that everybody is out of town. I worked 50 or so weeks a year in an office for too many years to believe that there are too many completely empty workplaces. But I do have the suspicion that not a lot is happening. People are in Wait Mode, getting done the absolute necessities and not much more. Returning my phone calls not necessarily having scored a spot as an absolute necessity. Unfortunately.
I read recently in one of those not very helpful stories about job-searching that it’s best to go full speed ahead in August. You don’t want to be one of those jerks who is calling prospective employers on the days after Labor Day, announcing to the world that you are back in the game. Better to make it clear during the dog days that one is ready, willing and able to rejoin the workforce.
That sounds sensible to me. Right now I’m after an array of writing assignments, from the full-time gig to the very-very-freelance assignment, but the editors I’m eager to harass are in Wait Mode. Unless, perish the thought, it’s just me.
Monday, August 9, 2010
If An Election Fell in the Forest, Would Anybody Notice?
The headlines about my Congressman, Charles Rangel, continue unabated. Certainly you cannot blame the dailies or the TV networks for noticing the alleged ethics violations, an 80-year-old legislative battler who refuses at this hour to give up the fight. He’s gone from being an inspiring figure to some of us…to an embarrassment. Sure looks like it’s time to give it up, Rep. Rangel. Thanks for proving the lesson of George Orwell’s “1984” all over again: Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
An entertaining and newsy lesson. But I wish that more attention would be paid to the electoral contest in Rangel’s district. A few years ago in another election season I interviewed Joyce Johnson. Now she’s among the candidates running against Rangel in the September Democratic primary. She’s barely mentioned, as are the others who want the job. They are not given much of a chance against Rangel, and Assemblyman Adam Clayton Powell IV gets most of the ink when anybody does get around to writing about the actual primary.
Actually, it seems from here like nobody’s writing about the primaries at all. The New York Times has not even gotten around to many of its one-shot pieces about various metropolitan area elections. I live in a district where there are contested Congressional and state Senate primaries, but the only signs of that are, well, the signs with the contenders' photos. Or bumping into the people on the street, which is how I found out the Anna Lewis is running for state Senate in the district that for so long has been the province of Eric Schneiderman, who is now running for state attorney general. See, we've got races.
Alas, we do not have much coverage of them. Maybe our radio stations are doing a fantastic job and I’m just missing it. But I doubt it. I’m pretty much the last person to media-bash, but the outlets that make fun of voters for not turning out to the polls should at least, in the weeks before voting, present the notion that there’s an election. Otherwise, we’re all just helping our Members of Congress and other politicos win re-election without anything resembling a contest. That’s a journalistic ethics violation.
An entertaining and newsy lesson. But I wish that more attention would be paid to the electoral contest in Rangel’s district. A few years ago in another election season I interviewed Joyce Johnson. Now she’s among the candidates running against Rangel in the September Democratic primary. She’s barely mentioned, as are the others who want the job. They are not given much of a chance against Rangel, and Assemblyman Adam Clayton Powell IV gets most of the ink when anybody does get around to writing about the actual primary.
Actually, it seems from here like nobody’s writing about the primaries at all. The New York Times has not even gotten around to many of its one-shot pieces about various metropolitan area elections. I live in a district where there are contested Congressional and state Senate primaries, but the only signs of that are, well, the signs with the contenders' photos. Or bumping into the people on the street, which is how I found out the Anna Lewis is running for state Senate in the district that for so long has been the province of Eric Schneiderman, who is now running for state attorney general. See, we've got races.
Alas, we do not have much coverage of them. Maybe our radio stations are doing a fantastic job and I’m just missing it. But I doubt it. I’m pretty much the last person to media-bash, but the outlets that make fun of voters for not turning out to the polls should at least, in the weeks before voting, present the notion that there’s an election. Otherwise, we’re all just helping our Members of Congress and other politicos win re-election without anything resembling a contest. That’s a journalistic ethics violation.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Can Rhinebeck Be Rhinebeck Again?
How weird to see Rhineback go national. Or international. Or whatever the hell happened over the last month or so, culminating last Saturday evening in what looked like a lovely wedding for Chelsea Clinton.
My partner and I stumbled on Rhinebeck a few years back, an unexpected treat that has become something of an addiction. We talk a lot about Oblong Books there. And the fantastic Rhinebeck Department Store, where the selection is smallish but smart. And the movie theater. And the restaurants, including the French one that looks too expensive but that absolutely figured in some of the Clinton-wedding stories of recent weeks. Having one of the world's great culinary institutes nearby does not hurt.
My own passion for the area stretches back decades, back to when my dad took me to Hyde Park to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Museum, the first of its kind. As a kid, I remember the cold day in Hyde Park that marked the 100th anniversary of Roosevelt's birth. The Roosevelt family home is there on the same site in Hyde Park, and in recent year the home of Eleanor Roosevelt, Val-Kill, has become an even more charming stopping point. There’s so much history in Hyde Park, but the modern-day town and its offerings have also grown on me over the years. The farmer's market in Hyde Park on Saturday mornings is worth catching. Eventually, over time, one drives around to neighboring towns and to communities beyond that...which is what we did. That's how we stumbled on Rhinebeck, which has an even more walkable downtown.
It’s fair to ask: will all the hoopla mean anything in the long term to Rhinebeck? At first I thought not, that there was only short-term attention and then Americans would go back to paying attention to other weddings and other towns. But now that I think of it, there really could be some long-term benefit to Rhinebeck.
Why? Because I know that after seeing it just once, being there a few afternoon hours, I pretty much fell for the place. I think that could happen to others, including the hundreds who went to last weekend’s wedding and the thousands of media folks who watched and chatted about the proceedings. If only a small percentage of all these people come back and spend some dollars and lavish some love on Rhinebeck, there may be an upside to the traffic of the past few weeks.
Rhinebeck richly deserves that kind of upside. It’s a lovely place, worthy of attention whether one is attending a wedding or not. How weird to see one of our secret places become anything but.
My partner and I stumbled on Rhinebeck a few years back, an unexpected treat that has become something of an addiction. We talk a lot about Oblong Books there. And the fantastic Rhinebeck Department Store, where the selection is smallish but smart. And the movie theater. And the restaurants, including the French one that looks too expensive but that absolutely figured in some of the Clinton-wedding stories of recent weeks. Having one of the world's great culinary institutes nearby does not hurt.
My own passion for the area stretches back decades, back to when my dad took me to Hyde Park to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Museum, the first of its kind. As a kid, I remember the cold day in Hyde Park that marked the 100th anniversary of Roosevelt's birth. The Roosevelt family home is there on the same site in Hyde Park, and in recent year the home of Eleanor Roosevelt, Val-Kill, has become an even more charming stopping point. There’s so much history in Hyde Park, but the modern-day town and its offerings have also grown on me over the years. The farmer's market in Hyde Park on Saturday mornings is worth catching. Eventually, over time, one drives around to neighboring towns and to communities beyond that...which is what we did. That's how we stumbled on Rhinebeck, which has an even more walkable downtown.
It’s fair to ask: will all the hoopla mean anything in the long term to Rhinebeck? At first I thought not, that there was only short-term attention and then Americans would go back to paying attention to other weddings and other towns. But now that I think of it, there really could be some long-term benefit to Rhinebeck.
Why? Because I know that after seeing it just once, being there a few afternoon hours, I pretty much fell for the place. I think that could happen to others, including the hundreds who went to last weekend’s wedding and the thousands of media folks who watched and chatted about the proceedings. If only a small percentage of all these people come back and spend some dollars and lavish some love on Rhinebeck, there may be an upside to the traffic of the past few weeks.
Rhinebeck richly deserves that kind of upside. It’s a lovely place, worthy of attention whether one is attending a wedding or not. How weird to see one of our secret places become anything but.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Smaller is Better, Except When It's Not
There are moments when my freelance career and my life intersect.
It happened again last week when I was working on a profile of Bashir Suba for the @ Work section of the New York Post. The piece appeared today at http://www.nypost.com/p/news/business/jobs/some_good_medicine_NsMFE6xxOg6bv0QlJoNuON and I'm pretty grateful. I love being printed in that lively tabloid.
But it was weird to be writing about the independent pharmacy. And it got weirder when Suba told me about how mail-order prescriptions are helping to kill his business. He knew as he said this that I'm part of the problem, using exactly that method to get one of the drugs I wish I did not have to take. But I do. And I don't love hanging out at the pharmacy, even the small independent one where he presides. I also don't like paying more, and I catch a break from mail-order program I use. It's not fair to small independent businesses like Suba Pharmacy.
I'm the son of people who ran a small, independent bookstore back when such a thing existed. Now I have a Barnes & Noble card and think of it favorably, if only because it was (is?) New York based and the Amazon people are out west somewhere. It's weird the emotional connections we feel with merchants, and when we lose the real connections to our small-town businesses we go right on imagining some relationship with a mega-corporation.
There's a wrinkle, though, with the smaller-is-better theory. And it plays out in real life. Like years ago when the Barnes & Noble on the Upper West Side drove out an independent bookstore and the writer (and my future professor) Victor Navasky wrote about how he was treated better at the superstore. I had something similar happen in Summit, N.J., where I eagerly awaited the arrival of Starbucks, having survived the sloppy service of a small, independent coffee store for years. I still love Starbucks, God help me, and could not help but notice this morning that the service at the Upper West Side place I frequent is nothing short of terrific. Speedy, too.
I don't feel good about it, but I recognize that sometimes smaller is better. Suba should not be at a competitive disadvantage, playing by more restrictive rules than the mail-order companies aligned with insurance giants. But I have enough guilt in my life without feeling too badly about my Barnes & Noble card.
It happened again last week when I was working on a profile of Bashir Suba for the @ Work section of the New York Post. The piece appeared today at http://www.nypost.com/p/news/business/jobs/some_good_medicine_NsMFE6xxOg6bv0QlJoNuON and I'm pretty grateful. I love being printed in that lively tabloid.
But it was weird to be writing about the independent pharmacy. And it got weirder when Suba told me about how mail-order prescriptions are helping to kill his business. He knew as he said this that I'm part of the problem, using exactly that method to get one of the drugs I wish I did not have to take. But I do. And I don't love hanging out at the pharmacy, even the small independent one where he presides. I also don't like paying more, and I catch a break from mail-order program I use. It's not fair to small independent businesses like Suba Pharmacy.
I'm the son of people who ran a small, independent bookstore back when such a thing existed. Now I have a Barnes & Noble card and think of it favorably, if only because it was (is?) New York based and the Amazon people are out west somewhere. It's weird the emotional connections we feel with merchants, and when we lose the real connections to our small-town businesses we go right on imagining some relationship with a mega-corporation.
There's a wrinkle, though, with the smaller-is-better theory. And it plays out in real life. Like years ago when the Barnes & Noble on the Upper West Side drove out an independent bookstore and the writer (and my future professor) Victor Navasky wrote about how he was treated better at the superstore. I had something similar happen in Summit, N.J., where I eagerly awaited the arrival of Starbucks, having survived the sloppy service of a small, independent coffee store for years. I still love Starbucks, God help me, and could not help but notice this morning that the service at the Upper West Side place I frequent is nothing short of terrific. Speedy, too.
I don't feel good about it, but I recognize that sometimes smaller is better. Suba should not be at a competitive disadvantage, playing by more restrictive rules than the mail-order companies aligned with insurance giants. But I have enough guilt in my life without feeling too badly about my Barnes & Noble card.
Monday, July 19, 2010
The President Takes a Stand
I’m glad the President called out the Republicans today on their opposition to extending unemployment benefits.
Unfortunately, this is something I know a little bit about. I’ve lived it over the past year. I’ve also lived with the sometimes crazy rules that come the financial assistance, which is appreciated and much-needed.
The Wall Street Journal keeps telling me that I’m being a drain on the economy by taking the unemployment benefits, and that I have no incentive to go out and get a job. Wrong on both counts.
The nation needs me out there buying my Starbucks latte, and as more and more Americans lose the little financial security that comes with unemployment benefits, businesses across the nation will find themselves losing customers at a time when they are desperately needed. As for an incentive to work, I have it. That’s why I’m freelancing as much as I can. But whether I’m motivated or not—and I’m more motivated than the assholes at the Journal who do not respond to my phone calls and emails—there are precious few jobs out there.
It’s a scary time. And it’s easy for a lot of us to feel left behind. Because we have been.
The President was right to behave as though he is that advocate. He was right to take a stand.
Unfortunately, this is something I know a little bit about. I’ve lived it over the past year. I’ve also lived with the sometimes crazy rules that come the financial assistance, which is appreciated and much-needed.
The Wall Street Journal keeps telling me that I’m being a drain on the economy by taking the unemployment benefits, and that I have no incentive to go out and get a job. Wrong on both counts.
The nation needs me out there buying my Starbucks latte, and as more and more Americans lose the little financial security that comes with unemployment benefits, businesses across the nation will find themselves losing customers at a time when they are desperately needed. As for an incentive to work, I have it. That’s why I’m freelancing as much as I can. But whether I’m motivated or not—and I’m more motivated than the assholes at the Journal who do not respond to my phone calls and emails—there are precious few jobs out there.
It’s a scary time. And it’s easy for a lot of us to feel left behind. Because we have been.
The President was right to behave as though he is that advocate. He was right to take a stand.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Go Ahead, Make My Month
Clint Eastwood could make staying in the city in July seem like the smarter choice.
At least some of us were feeling better about being here after reading the lineup of films that are part of “The Complete Clint Eastwood,” a comprehensive series at The Film Society of Lincoln Center. It turns out that the Walter Reade Theater is playing host to all the films that Eastwood has directed (at least so far), starting last week and continuing through July 27.
I hopped onto my beloved M5 bus and went downtown a couple of hours ago to catch “Play Misty for Me,” which was the first movie that Eastwood directed and is basically an earlier version of “Fatal Attraction.”
This time around Jessica Walter got to play the crazy broad who mistook sex for love. Eastwood cares more for Donna Mills, although it’s hard to see why in this particular context. There are some fine performances by supporting players in the movie, which holds up during the scary parts as decent popular entertainment. The movie, though, is most interesting in the way it represents interests Eastwood would explore in different ways in the years to come, like music and how music plays, literally and figuratively, in the movies. It’s also fascinating to see that two of the African-American actors in the movie, playing smaller roles, seem more three-dimensional in their performances than Eastwood or Mills do in leading parts.
There’s lots more coming. I’m interested to see if “Unforgiven” from 1992 was as good as I thought it was back then. I remember believing it really deserved the Best Picture Oscar that the movie nabbed. Others worth investigating: “A Perfect World” on July 20 and “Million Dollar Baby” on July 25 and “The Bridges of Madison County” on July 21. In the latter, Meryl Streep gives a great performance. Which is not exactly breaking news.
It’s good to have Eastwood’s films on view, especially in such a comprehensive way and in such a respected forum. He’s been such a pop culture icon for so long that it’s sometimes easy to forget that he’s a filmmaker with such a stellar record.
At least some of us were feeling better about being here after reading the lineup of films that are part of “The Complete Clint Eastwood,” a comprehensive series at The Film Society of Lincoln Center. It turns out that the Walter Reade Theater is playing host to all the films that Eastwood has directed (at least so far), starting last week and continuing through July 27.
I hopped onto my beloved M5 bus and went downtown a couple of hours ago to catch “Play Misty for Me,” which was the first movie that Eastwood directed and is basically an earlier version of “Fatal Attraction.”
This time around Jessica Walter got to play the crazy broad who mistook sex for love. Eastwood cares more for Donna Mills, although it’s hard to see why in this particular context. There are some fine performances by supporting players in the movie, which holds up during the scary parts as decent popular entertainment. The movie, though, is most interesting in the way it represents interests Eastwood would explore in different ways in the years to come, like music and how music plays, literally and figuratively, in the movies. It’s also fascinating to see that two of the African-American actors in the movie, playing smaller roles, seem more three-dimensional in their performances than Eastwood or Mills do in leading parts.
There’s lots more coming. I’m interested to see if “Unforgiven” from 1992 was as good as I thought it was back then. I remember believing it really deserved the Best Picture Oscar that the movie nabbed. Others worth investigating: “A Perfect World” on July 20 and “Million Dollar Baby” on July 25 and “The Bridges of Madison County” on July 21. In the latter, Meryl Streep gives a great performance. Which is not exactly breaking news.
It’s good to have Eastwood’s films on view, especially in such a comprehensive way and in such a respected forum. He’s been such a pop culture icon for so long that it’s sometimes easy to forget that he’s a filmmaker with such a stellar record.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Does That 'Liberal' Label Scare Kagan?
Just once I would like a Supreme Court justice to get to the bench before she begins disappointing me.
Alas, Elena Kagan has already had her sad moment. It came last week on the second day of her confirmation hearing before the Senate Judiciary Committee. Alabama’s gift to the Senate, Jeff Sessions, quizzed Kagan about whether she’s a “liberal progressive.”
Her amazing response: “I honestly don’t know what that label means.”
Here we go again. Back in 1995, Kagan wrote an article calling the confirmation process a “vapid and hollow charade.” This week she proved herself right.
Oh, she had some nice moments. In post-Bork America, we allow our judicial nominees to have a personality. So it was okay when Kagan, asked about what she was doing on Christmas Day, responded with a quip about how she, like all Jews, was probably at a Chinese restaurant.
Personality is fine, but philosophy is not. So when it came time to defend liberalism, Kagan punted. A woman who clerked for the late, great Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall went out of her way to tell us that she was a separate and distinct entity from her one-time mentor. No kidding. He would have answered the question about being a liberal.
How did we get here, to this weird moment in American political life, a time when nobody wants to be called a liberal, especially a liberal? It probably started around 1980, when candidate Ronald Reagan tarred Jimmy Carter as a liberal. Sessions tossed “liberal” and “progressive” together, a legitimate move since around the age of Dukakis the “liberals” started shying away from that term and moving toward “progressive.” And the trend certainly continued through last summer’s confirmation hearings, when Sonia Sotomayor steered clear of any such terms. Then she got on the court and began judging things just like a liberal. At the hearings, though, it's been like a book: Smart Women, Foolish Judiciary Committee Choices.
With Kagan, it’s worse. At least for those of us who spend our days on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Some of us are having a bit of trouble believing that Kagan, raised as a Jewish New Yorker in the age of feminism, never got around to defining the phrase “liberal progressive.” If nothing else, she could go back to the Latin roots of the word “liberal,” which would be “libera,” meaning “free,” and navigate from there. She might realize that a liberal is someone who believes in individual freedom and common purpose and the universal rights of men and women, pretty much as defined in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights back in December 1948. That document was the crowning achievement of former First Lady and international heroine Eleanor Roosevelt. She was, in case Elena Kagan has forgotten, also a liberal.
Liberals are victims of their own success. Good liberal ideas have been so accepted in the culture that they’re considered mainstream, not liberal. But Social Security is a liberal idea. So are federally-secured student loans. Housing and food for people in dire need. Unemployment benefits. Overseas, it’s a liberal idea to give aid to our allies. At home, it’s a liberal idea that women should be as free as men to sit on the U.S. Supreme Court, although it took the conservative Reagan to first make that happen. Liberals championed the idea that African-Americans should be allowed to vote without paying a poll tax and that gay people should be allowed to get married. Good ideas.
Still, liberals seem ashamed of their heritage or ignorant of it. Liberals should be explaining their successes instead of going into a kind of linguistic hiding. Cause the jig is up anyway. People tend to notice who’s a liberal and who’s not.
All of which makes Kagan’s dance this week so weird and depressing. This is a person who is going to do battle with Antonin Scalia? Granted, confirmation hearings are no longer the place for extended discourse on such matters. That’s how it is. But there must be some middle ground, some way to permit just a little candid talk about judicial philosophy before we hand over a lifetime appointment. Jokes about Chinese food are just not enough.
Alas, Elena Kagan has already had her sad moment. It came last week on the second day of her confirmation hearing before the Senate Judiciary Committee. Alabama’s gift to the Senate, Jeff Sessions, quizzed Kagan about whether she’s a “liberal progressive.”
Her amazing response: “I honestly don’t know what that label means.”
Here we go again. Back in 1995, Kagan wrote an article calling the confirmation process a “vapid and hollow charade.” This week she proved herself right.
Oh, she had some nice moments. In post-Bork America, we allow our judicial nominees to have a personality. So it was okay when Kagan, asked about what she was doing on Christmas Day, responded with a quip about how she, like all Jews, was probably at a Chinese restaurant.
Personality is fine, but philosophy is not. So when it came time to defend liberalism, Kagan punted. A woman who clerked for the late, great Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall went out of her way to tell us that she was a separate and distinct entity from her one-time mentor. No kidding. He would have answered the question about being a liberal.
How did we get here, to this weird moment in American political life, a time when nobody wants to be called a liberal, especially a liberal? It probably started around 1980, when candidate Ronald Reagan tarred Jimmy Carter as a liberal. Sessions tossed “liberal” and “progressive” together, a legitimate move since around the age of Dukakis the “liberals” started shying away from that term and moving toward “progressive.” And the trend certainly continued through last summer’s confirmation hearings, when Sonia Sotomayor steered clear of any such terms. Then she got on the court and began judging things just like a liberal. At the hearings, though, it's been like a book: Smart Women, Foolish Judiciary Committee Choices.
With Kagan, it’s worse. At least for those of us who spend our days on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Some of us are having a bit of trouble believing that Kagan, raised as a Jewish New Yorker in the age of feminism, never got around to defining the phrase “liberal progressive.” If nothing else, she could go back to the Latin roots of the word “liberal,” which would be “libera,” meaning “free,” and navigate from there. She might realize that a liberal is someone who believes in individual freedom and common purpose and the universal rights of men and women, pretty much as defined in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights back in December 1948. That document was the crowning achievement of former First Lady and international heroine Eleanor Roosevelt. She was, in case Elena Kagan has forgotten, also a liberal.
Liberals are victims of their own success. Good liberal ideas have been so accepted in the culture that they’re considered mainstream, not liberal. But Social Security is a liberal idea. So are federally-secured student loans. Housing and food for people in dire need. Unemployment benefits. Overseas, it’s a liberal idea to give aid to our allies. At home, it’s a liberal idea that women should be as free as men to sit on the U.S. Supreme Court, although it took the conservative Reagan to first make that happen. Liberals championed the idea that African-Americans should be allowed to vote without paying a poll tax and that gay people should be allowed to get married. Good ideas.
Still, liberals seem ashamed of their heritage or ignorant of it. Liberals should be explaining their successes instead of going into a kind of linguistic hiding. Cause the jig is up anyway. People tend to notice who’s a liberal and who’s not.
All of which makes Kagan’s dance this week so weird and depressing. This is a person who is going to do battle with Antonin Scalia? Granted, confirmation hearings are no longer the place for extended discourse on such matters. That’s how it is. But there must be some middle ground, some way to permit just a little candid talk about judicial philosophy before we hand over a lifetime appointment. Jokes about Chinese food are just not enough.
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