Scene: Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Temple of Dendur
Vivian: Oh, my God, look who's at our table.
Frederick: Who? Who's at our table?
Vivian: Shh.
Frederick: Don't shush me, goddamnit.
Vivian: Smile.
Frederick: Why?
Vivian: Smile, goddamnit. Pia, how are you?
Pia: Vivian! What a surprise!
Frederick: Hello, Simon.
Simon: Frederick. Didn't expect to see you here.
Frederick: Why not?
Simon:: Um, I don't know. I heard you were....
Frederick: Dead?
Vivian: We're certainly not dead.
Simon: Pia and I are glad you're not dead. We're delighted.
Frederick: Thank you.
Pia: It's true.
Frederick: One rolls with the punches.
Simon: Absolutely.
Vivian: You know where we've spent the past two weeks? The Seychelles.
Pia: Isn't that where Eliot Spitzer went after...?
Simon: You're thinking of Thailand.
Vivian: We have two words for you: Cousine Island.
Simon: Private?
Frederick: Extremely.
Pia: I've heard of it. I do think Eliot Spitzer went.
Simon: He didn't.
Frederick: We didn't see him.
Pia: This was after.
Simon: Stop saying that. So, Frederick, any irons in the fire?
Frederick: Not really, no.
Simon: Good. Great. That's wonderful.
Pia: It is.
Vivian: It's terrific having Fred home.
Pia: I'll bet.
Vivian: The kids love it too.
Frederick: They're adjusting. We all are.
Vivian: What's to adjust to? We love having you around the house. He fixed an Imari vase the other morning.
Pia: Wow. I'm impressed.
Vivian: You know what we said to each other on Cousine Island? "Before we had everything money could buy. Now we have everything money can't buy."
Pia: Isn't Cousine Island...?
Vivian: What?
Pia: Costly?
Frederick: Christ, yes.
Vivian: Rates do include a complimentary foot and leg massage.
Pia: So didn't you "buy" Cousine Island?
Simon: They didn't buy it; they stayed two weeks.
Pia: Didn't the Cousine Island experience cost money?
Frederick: Christ, yes.
Simon: Vivian means time. Now they have time.
Pia: So you're selling the place in Connecticut?
Frederick: Yes.
Vivian: No.
(Extended silence)
Pia: Doesn't the Temple look nice?
Vivian: Yes.
Frederick: Very nice.
Simon: I just want to say, Frederick: We miss you at the firm.
Frederick: I miss you too.
Vivian: But he doesn't miss the firm.
Frederick: I do.
Vivian: You told me on Cousine Island that you didn't.
Frederick: I didn't miss it when I was on Cousine Island. I miss it now that I'm in Manhattan.
Pia: This lobster bisque is divine.
Frederick: I miss the comaraderie, the joking.
Simon: There's no joking now. It's a morgue.
Frederick: I even miss the wastebasket next to my desk.
Vivian: Frederick and I made jam yesterday.
Simon: Isn't that swell!
Frederick: She made it; I watched.
Vivian: We bought paraffin and wore aprons.
Pia: Wonderful! We all need projects.
Frederick: I don't like unemployment.
Simon: That's understandable.
Frederick: I loathe it. We have three kids at Dalton.
Pia: Wow.
Vivian: We're crazy about Dalton.
Frederick: I'm not; not anymore.
Vivian: You said you were crazy about it on Cousine Island.
Frederick: I was crazy about Cousine Island; not Dalton.
Pia: They both sound wonderful.
Frederick: They're both too expensive.
Vivian: Frederick, please.
Frederick: We shouldn't be eating this soup: it's too expensive.
Vivian: Shh.
Frederick: Do you know how much paraffin costs?
Simon: I really don't.
Frederick: It's exorbitant. I mean, what is it actually? It's wax for Christ's sake. Are candles expensive?
Pia: They can be.
Simon: Pia, please.
Frederick: I told Vivian: each jar of jam is going to end up costing fourteen dollars.
Vivian: Frederick, may I speak with you privately?
Frederick: That's all we do: speak privately. We don't see anyone. No one calls. We have the rest of our lives to speak privately.
Vivian: Let's start now. Excuse us please.
Frederick: I haven't finished my costly soup.
Simon: I've been meaning to call.
Frederick: I very much doubt it.
Simon: I think I did phone....
Frederick: Trust me, you didn't. I'd know: I'm always home.
(Extended silence)
Frederick: We bought tickets for this shindig last September. Tonight, I tried to scalp them.
Pia: You're too funny.
Frederick: I'm serious. In front of the Stanhope. I almost had a couple of takers, but they weren't in black tie.
Pia: Listen, if we can help....
Frederick: You want to put three kids through Dalton? Two of whom have low grades?
Vivian: I love our kids. They're wonderful.
Simon: Of course.
Vivian: They're...what was the word you used, Simon? They're...swell.
Pia: We're here for you.
Frederick: Are you offering to buy a jar of jam?
Pia: No, but if you're serious about the place in Connecticut....
Friday, 30 October 2009
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Party of Five
I hope you've all marked your calendars to save July 14-16 for the upcoming McKenzie Family Reunion in Mansfield, Ohio. As you know from previous communications, Roger and Betty have generously offered their place for the weekend and my son Stephen Jr. tells me they have a banya (Russian-style sauna)! So even if you don't feel like a sauna in July, I hope you'll join the rest of the clan in admiring the structure from the outside during what promises to be an absolute blast!
Now, as for "the rest of the clan," a great deal of thought and energy has gone into planning this event. A lot of which has been mine. I don't want to sound sanctimonious, but I will be gravely disappointed and hurt if the number of people currently committed to the weekend (5) does not increase in the ten days between now and the Reunion.
I have sent out nearly 200 invitations in the past seven months and have received only one R.S.V.P. (a negative from Albert McKenzie, whose leg was broken when he received the invite but who, as far as I know, is now healed). I guess my feeling at this point is, Come on, McKenzies, we can do better!
Maybe Larry McKenzie, who graduated from B.U. and then attended B.C. Law, is competitive with his cousin Celia, who graduated from B.C. and went on to B.U. Law, but you each now live in Westchester, are married to physicians, and have children in private day schools, so isn't it time to bury the hatchet?
And yes, Bitsie did receive an inappropriate birthday card from Gus years ago. Many of us saw it and all of us agreed it was in poor taste and denigrating to Bitsie's newfound spirituality. But while I'm not excusing Gus's action, ashrams were in the news at that time and not always in a favorable light.
No one's denying the skirmish over Aunt Sadie's will was unpleasant and divisive. Nor is anyone denying that Aunt Sadie herself was unpleasant and divisive. But Hank, if you let this disagreement keep you from seeing Bruce this July, you know who wins? Sadie. You know who loses? You and Bruce. Now, Hank, you may feel you've already "lost" everything to Bruce. You may feel the terms of Sadie's will yanked you out of bed naked, hogtied you to the back of a Ford Bronco, and dragged you down a cinder road lined with shards of glass, rusty barbed wire, and, for all I know, an improvised explosive device or two. We're all family and we all know the terms of the will so I'll put it to you plain, Hank: $1.2 million is not that much money. If you live in Manhattan (and I realize Mechanicsville, Virginia is not Manhattan), it's chicken feed. Within a fifteen- block radius of Washington Square, $1.2 million is squat. Even if you have that much, you still can't get into the hot restaurants at a decent hour because they only take e-mail reservations these days.
Oswald, you were in rehab. And then while you were on the road to recovery, you dipped candles in Colonial Williamsburg wearing a frilly shirt and shoes with thick gold buckles. We know this about you. There are no secrets among the McKenzies. So Astrid did not betray you; she did not "out" you, or whatever it's called these days. If you want me to rent billboard space outside the Cleveland airport (the sole thing I haven't done while working tirelessly to put this weekend together) and announce to the world: "Oswald Kaynor is not now dipping, nor has he ever dipped candles in Colonial Williamsburg," I will do so, but in my opinion it's simply not necessary.
Sheila, you had your stomach stapled. Naturally we were suspicious: you lost 135 pounds in six weeks. So the cat's out of the bag. Big deal! You know what else is out of the bag? You look great. You can enter a bar for the first time in a decade without hiding behind a fern or the jukebox. I tell you this now, Sheila: When you do come to Mansfield, and I know you will, wear a hot-pink miniskirt and hold your head high.
Speaking of doctors, Teddy, you've applied to medical school eight times. No biggie. Your mother's stopped writing it on Christmas cards, but we know you're still trying. So what? Quitters never win and winners never quit. And you're neither quitter nor winner: you're a doctor. That's how I think of you: Dr. Teddy McKenzie. That's how we all think of you: a southern George Clooney. You know what the letters M.C.A.T. actually stand for? Mansfield Craves Absolute Teddy. Here's my Rx for you: an airline ticket to Cleveland, pronto.
Cynthia, you performed a sex act on Lyman the day of his wedding to Julie. That was a no-no. Many of those waiting to use the bathroom knew you were cousins. But it's water under the bridge: Lyman and Julie are no longer together, so let's move on. The Reunion is a time, as Kundera might say, of laughter and forgetting.
It boils down to this, people: how the hell can we have a tug o' war with five people? Can you imagine Roger, Betty, my husband, our son, and me dancing under a magnificent tent on which a substantial non-refundable deposit has already been made, drinking top-drawer liquor purchased in a March fire sale, and savoring delicacies provided by a choice caterer who has already been booked and paid nearly in full? Sure, it'll be fun, but not as fun as if you other 183 McKenzies join us.
Like any other family (or at least the Kennedys), we've had our share of separation, divorce, ugly child-custody battles, restraining orders, estrangement, extra-marital affairs, drug addiction, vehicular manslaughter, drowning, suicide, and deppression.
I know at Thanksgiving several years ago when Caitlin read her term paper on sexual molestation in the Hasidic community, more than a few McKenzies laughed. I was one of them: guilty as charged. But who's laughing now, Caitlin? You showed great foreknowledge in that essay and now the truth is splashed across the pages of the "New York Times": Jewish perverts.
I want my next group e-mail to you to be instructions on how to reach the Mansfield Children's Museum, with its fascinating interactive exhibits and discounts for groups of ten or more. The weekend of July 14th, I want us all frolicking in the museum's ball pit and learning about the surface of Neptune. And Caitlin, bring along that term paper: I'd like to read it.
Now, as for "the rest of the clan," a great deal of thought and energy has gone into planning this event. A lot of which has been mine. I don't want to sound sanctimonious, but I will be gravely disappointed and hurt if the number of people currently committed to the weekend (5) does not increase in the ten days between now and the Reunion.
I have sent out nearly 200 invitations in the past seven months and have received only one R.S.V.P. (a negative from Albert McKenzie, whose leg was broken when he received the invite but who, as far as I know, is now healed). I guess my feeling at this point is, Come on, McKenzies, we can do better!
Maybe Larry McKenzie, who graduated from B.U. and then attended B.C. Law, is competitive with his cousin Celia, who graduated from B.C. and went on to B.U. Law, but you each now live in Westchester, are married to physicians, and have children in private day schools, so isn't it time to bury the hatchet?
And yes, Bitsie did receive an inappropriate birthday card from Gus years ago. Many of us saw it and all of us agreed it was in poor taste and denigrating to Bitsie's newfound spirituality. But while I'm not excusing Gus's action, ashrams were in the news at that time and not always in a favorable light.
No one's denying the skirmish over Aunt Sadie's will was unpleasant and divisive. Nor is anyone denying that Aunt Sadie herself was unpleasant and divisive. But Hank, if you let this disagreement keep you from seeing Bruce this July, you know who wins? Sadie. You know who loses? You and Bruce. Now, Hank, you may feel you've already "lost" everything to Bruce. You may feel the terms of Sadie's will yanked you out of bed naked, hogtied you to the back of a Ford Bronco, and dragged you down a cinder road lined with shards of glass, rusty barbed wire, and, for all I know, an improvised explosive device or two. We're all family and we all know the terms of the will so I'll put it to you plain, Hank: $1.2 million is not that much money. If you live in Manhattan (and I realize Mechanicsville, Virginia is not Manhattan), it's chicken feed. Within a fifteen- block radius of Washington Square, $1.2 million is squat. Even if you have that much, you still can't get into the hot restaurants at a decent hour because they only take e-mail reservations these days.
Oswald, you were in rehab. And then while you were on the road to recovery, you dipped candles in Colonial Williamsburg wearing a frilly shirt and shoes with thick gold buckles. We know this about you. There are no secrets among the McKenzies. So Astrid did not betray you; she did not "out" you, or whatever it's called these days. If you want me to rent billboard space outside the Cleveland airport (the sole thing I haven't done while working tirelessly to put this weekend together) and announce to the world: "Oswald Kaynor is not now dipping, nor has he ever dipped candles in Colonial Williamsburg," I will do so, but in my opinion it's simply not necessary.
Sheila, you had your stomach stapled. Naturally we were suspicious: you lost 135 pounds in six weeks. So the cat's out of the bag. Big deal! You know what else is out of the bag? You look great. You can enter a bar for the first time in a decade without hiding behind a fern or the jukebox. I tell you this now, Sheila: When you do come to Mansfield, and I know you will, wear a hot-pink miniskirt and hold your head high.
Speaking of doctors, Teddy, you've applied to medical school eight times. No biggie. Your mother's stopped writing it on Christmas cards, but we know you're still trying. So what? Quitters never win and winners never quit. And you're neither quitter nor winner: you're a doctor. That's how I think of you: Dr. Teddy McKenzie. That's how we all think of you: a southern George Clooney. You know what the letters M.C.A.T. actually stand for? Mansfield Craves Absolute Teddy. Here's my Rx for you: an airline ticket to Cleveland, pronto.
Cynthia, you performed a sex act on Lyman the day of his wedding to Julie. That was a no-no. Many of those waiting to use the bathroom knew you were cousins. But it's water under the bridge: Lyman and Julie are no longer together, so let's move on. The Reunion is a time, as Kundera might say, of laughter and forgetting.
It boils down to this, people: how the hell can we have a tug o' war with five people? Can you imagine Roger, Betty, my husband, our son, and me dancing under a magnificent tent on which a substantial non-refundable deposit has already been made, drinking top-drawer liquor purchased in a March fire sale, and savoring delicacies provided by a choice caterer who has already been booked and paid nearly in full? Sure, it'll be fun, but not as fun as if you other 183 McKenzies join us.
Like any other family (or at least the Kennedys), we've had our share of separation, divorce, ugly child-custody battles, restraining orders, estrangement, extra-marital affairs, drug addiction, vehicular manslaughter, drowning, suicide, and deppression.
I know at Thanksgiving several years ago when Caitlin read her term paper on sexual molestation in the Hasidic community, more than a few McKenzies laughed. I was one of them: guilty as charged. But who's laughing now, Caitlin? You showed great foreknowledge in that essay and now the truth is splashed across the pages of the "New York Times": Jewish perverts.
I want my next group e-mail to you to be instructions on how to reach the Mansfield Children's Museum, with its fascinating interactive exhibits and discounts for groups of ten or more. The weekend of July 14th, I want us all frolicking in the museum's ball pit and learning about the surface of Neptune. And Caitlin, bring along that term paper: I'd like to read it.
Friday, 23 October 2009
My Bodyguard
Satisfy Your Wife Emotionally and Protect Your Marriage--government message on Saudi billboards
Faisal: Were you satisfied last night?
Aamina: What? At the barbecue?
Faisal: Yes.
Aamina: Shish kebab.
Faisal: You do not sound satisfied.
Aamina: I'm getting a little tired of lamb. Is that all your brother knows how to cook?
Faisal: I had difficulty reading your feelings.
Aamina: I'm not surprised: in my full-length abaya, with the hijab over my head, and a niqab across my face.
Faisal: It is important to protect your modesty.
Aamina: I've heard this.
Faisal: Vital. There was a male present who was not a direct relation.
Aamina: Right.
Faisal: Dearest, do not be angry. Perhaps today we can go for a drive.
Aamina: You mean you can go for a drive while I sit in the backseat.
Faisal: You didn't like the barbecue.
Aamina: Since when do you care?
Faisal: Aamina, I value your happiness above all else.
Aamina: Knock it off, Faisal; I've got a lot to do this morning.
Faisal: If you're less than happy, I want to know.
Aamina: I'm less than happy.
Faisal: How can we remedy this?
(Long, tense silence)
Faisal: Look, I brought you this for your terrarium.
Aamina: Great: more sand.
Faisal: You do not like sand?
Aamina: I do not like sand. I do not like lamb. I do not like black. And I do not like Grandfather.
Faisal: Aamina! You must respect Grandfather Fahim. His name means "intelligent."
Aamina: You could have fooled me.
Faisal: Come, sit down. Let us talk.
Aamina: What's gotten into you? Tell me.
Faisal: I saw a billboard.
Aamina: So?
Faisal: We must protect our marriage. To do so, I must strive to satisfy you emotionally.
Aamina: Yet if I drive a car, I receive 200 lashes of the whip.
Faisal: These are not my rules.
Aamina: I would like to sit in the driver's seat and pretend to drive the car.
Faisal: You must have sunstroke.
Aamina: I'll do it in the garage: no one will see.
Faisal: But why?
Aamina: It will satisfy me emotionally.
Faisal: May I instead suggest a shopping excursion?
Aamina: No.
Faisal: Well, that is what I am suggesting.
Aamina: I don't enjoy excursions in the company of a male guardian. I've told you I don't like Grandfather.
Faisal: Am I to assume you also do not like Father, Uncle, Son or Brother?
Aamina: Uncle Gabir, whose name means "comforter" or "consoler," made a pass at me.
Faisal: I do not like your tone.
Aamina: You do not like my message.
Faisal: I do not believe it.
Aamina: He tried to fasten my seat belt; he leaned across my bosom...
Faisal: Enough. Today you will not sit in the hot garage in a parked car. Today you will work on your terrarium.
Aamina: And which of your other wives will you be with?
Faisal: Don't start.
Aamina: I want to go over to Shada's.
Faisal: To watch Western television?
Aamina: What other kind is there?
Faisal: I prefer you to be with Brother Abdullah, whose name means "servant of Allah."
Aamina: How convenient.
Faisal: Your meaning escapes me.
Aamina: Everything Abdullah does is the will of Allah?
Faisal: Pretty much, yes.
Aamina: Then why can Abdullah not gain entrance to medical school?
Faisal: Because Allah does not intend it.
Aamina: Allah intends Abdullah to be an osteopath?
Faisal: You tire me, darling.
Aamina: No, Faisal. It is I who am tired. Everything I want to do is forbidden.
Faisal: Such is the nature of sin.
Aamina: How can it be a sin for me to sit in a car?
Faisal: It is not a sin for you to sit in a car. It is a sin for you to sit in a moving car unaccompanied by a male.
Aamina: You are as dense as this bag of sand.
Faisal: You speak in anger.
Aamina: Sand is dirt. A woman wants flowers.
Faisal: We dwell in the desert.
Aamina: Tell me about it.
Faisal: Dearest...the position of women in Saudi Arabian society is a complex and frequently misunderstood issue.
Aamina: Where's this coming from? Another billboard?
Faisal: The King's Web site.
Aamina: Please.
Faisal: The King is wise.
Aamina: The King is 85.
Faisal: With age comes wisdom.
Aamina: Let Grandfather in on the secret.
Faisal: Come. Let us pour this fresh sand in your terrarium.
Aamina: Get this through your skull: I am not working on that terrarium today.
Faisal: Darling, I want only harmony.
Aamina: And I want only to sit in the car, to move the steering wheel, and to make engine noises like a six-year-old boy.
Faisal: But you are not six years old.
Aamina: I know: I'm 37.
Faisal: You are not a boy.
Faisal: Were you satisfied last night?
Aamina: What? At the barbecue?
Faisal: Yes.
Aamina: Shish kebab.
Faisal: You do not sound satisfied.
Aamina: I'm getting a little tired of lamb. Is that all your brother knows how to cook?
Faisal: I had difficulty reading your feelings.
Aamina: I'm not surprised: in my full-length abaya, with the hijab over my head, and a niqab across my face.
Faisal: It is important to protect your modesty.
Aamina: I've heard this.
Faisal: Vital. There was a male present who was not a direct relation.
Aamina: Right.
Faisal: Dearest, do not be angry. Perhaps today we can go for a drive.
Aamina: You mean you can go for a drive while I sit in the backseat.
Faisal: You didn't like the barbecue.
Aamina: Since when do you care?
Faisal: Aamina, I value your happiness above all else.
Aamina: Knock it off, Faisal; I've got a lot to do this morning.
Faisal: If you're less than happy, I want to know.
Aamina: I'm less than happy.
Faisal: How can we remedy this?
(Long, tense silence)
Faisal: Look, I brought you this for your terrarium.
Aamina: Great: more sand.
Faisal: You do not like sand?
Aamina: I do not like sand. I do not like lamb. I do not like black. And I do not like Grandfather.
Faisal: Aamina! You must respect Grandfather Fahim. His name means "intelligent."
Aamina: You could have fooled me.
Faisal: Come, sit down. Let us talk.
Aamina: What's gotten into you? Tell me.
Faisal: I saw a billboard.
Aamina: So?
Faisal: We must protect our marriage. To do so, I must strive to satisfy you emotionally.
Aamina: Yet if I drive a car, I receive 200 lashes of the whip.
Faisal: These are not my rules.
Aamina: I would like to sit in the driver's seat and pretend to drive the car.
Faisal: You must have sunstroke.
Aamina: I'll do it in the garage: no one will see.
Faisal: But why?
Aamina: It will satisfy me emotionally.
Faisal: May I instead suggest a shopping excursion?
Aamina: No.
Faisal: Well, that is what I am suggesting.
Aamina: I don't enjoy excursions in the company of a male guardian. I've told you I don't like Grandfather.
Faisal: Am I to assume you also do not like Father, Uncle, Son or Brother?
Aamina: Uncle Gabir, whose name means "comforter" or "consoler," made a pass at me.
Faisal: I do not like your tone.
Aamina: You do not like my message.
Faisal: I do not believe it.
Aamina: He tried to fasten my seat belt; he leaned across my bosom...
Faisal: Enough. Today you will not sit in the hot garage in a parked car. Today you will work on your terrarium.
Aamina: And which of your other wives will you be with?
Faisal: Don't start.
Aamina: I want to go over to Shada's.
Faisal: To watch Western television?
Aamina: What other kind is there?
Faisal: I prefer you to be with Brother Abdullah, whose name means "servant of Allah."
Aamina: How convenient.
Faisal: Your meaning escapes me.
Aamina: Everything Abdullah does is the will of Allah?
Faisal: Pretty much, yes.
Aamina: Then why can Abdullah not gain entrance to medical school?
Faisal: Because Allah does not intend it.
Aamina: Allah intends Abdullah to be an osteopath?
Faisal: You tire me, darling.
Aamina: No, Faisal. It is I who am tired. Everything I want to do is forbidden.
Faisal: Such is the nature of sin.
Aamina: How can it be a sin for me to sit in a car?
Faisal: It is not a sin for you to sit in a car. It is a sin for you to sit in a moving car unaccompanied by a male.
Aamina: You are as dense as this bag of sand.
Faisal: You speak in anger.
Aamina: Sand is dirt. A woman wants flowers.
Faisal: We dwell in the desert.
Aamina: Tell me about it.
Faisal: Dearest...the position of women in Saudi Arabian society is a complex and frequently misunderstood issue.
Aamina: Where's this coming from? Another billboard?
Faisal: The King's Web site.
Aamina: Please.
Faisal: The King is wise.
Aamina: The King is 85.
Faisal: With age comes wisdom.
Aamina: Let Grandfather in on the secret.
Faisal: Come. Let us pour this fresh sand in your terrarium.
Aamina: Get this through your skull: I am not working on that terrarium today.
Faisal: Darling, I want only harmony.
Aamina: And I want only to sit in the car, to move the steering wheel, and to make engine noises like a six-year-old boy.
Faisal: But you are not six years old.
Aamina: I know: I'm 37.
Faisal: You are not a boy.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Dear Prudence
When my ex-girlfriend Prudence graduated from Barnard, she received two presents from her father: a trip to Italy and a $1,400 camera. I came to regret both. We started out in Venice, where my friend Stefano arranged a boat trip. We joined him, a group of old-age pensioners, and two men in their 40s (whom I didn't realize were brothers until one struck the other in the skull) on an excursion into the Venetian Lagoon. Like everything else in Venice--traipsing through labyrinthine, dark alleyways, toting groceries over bridges--rowing is a pain in the ass: Venetians do it standing up.
My oar kept slipping out of its oarlock and rivulets of sweat coursed down my face. Prudence asked if she could strip down to her bikini and sunbathe. Stefano reported that the consensus aboard the boat was that she could.
Beppe, who introduced himself as the commandante, stood in the stern and issued orders. Generally the word "commandant" summons unpleasant visions of World War II for me. And Beppe did prove to be a cantankerous martinet distressed by my faulty rowing technique. I hadn't been continuously yelled at since the age of seven and my nerves were fraying. "Beppe says your left shoulder's not moving forward enough on the upstroke, your torso should be parallel to the oarlock, your left foot is too far back, and your knuckles should be in the upright position," translated Stefano.
"Tell him this is the last time I'll be rowing Venetian style," I said, "so it doesn't really matter." "Beppe says it does," responded Stefano. Prudence laughed. To which I retorted, "You know, you could leave your floating tanning booth, babe, and take my place here as #3 galley slave."
That comment prompted the appearance of her camera, with its lens as long as Beppe's leg. There was a rapid explosion of Venetian dialect as Prudence began to snap pictures of me, cooing, "Il mio gondoliere." "They're upset, right?" I asked Stefano. "She's disrupting their routine." "Apparently not," he answered, "today they seem willing to suspend routine."
The click of that costly contraption was like a mouse gnawing through my shin. "Prudence," I hissed, "you're conducting a photo shoot in a bikini in front of men who haven't slept with their wives in decades." "Luciano in the prow speaks English," warned Stefano.
When we stopped for lunch on Murano, I was keenly aware of my musculo-skeletal system. Prudence had to help me remove my sea snails from their shells. "Can you really not do this?" she asked. "No," I told her, "I can no longer manipulate my fingers." Beppe said something to Stefano, who explained: "Upturned knuckles, otherwise pain." That was the only comment addressed to me during a three-hour meal. All others were addressed to Prudence. My companions' intense interest in Prudence's camera, Barnard, Westport, and her recent internship at CBS stunned me. Even I didn't care about these subjects.
"We're going to the Hungarian pavilion at the Biennale," announced Stefano. I had an inkling whose idea that was. "The Biennale admission fee is 18 euros," I said. "I don't think that'll go over too well with this group." "Actually, he said, "they know a guard."
By the time we'd consumed red and white wine, red wine with a splash of sparkling water, a tumbler of grappa and a bottle labelled Anima Nera (Black Spirit) had appeared on the table, we were pretty much shitfaced. I looked down at my swollen knuckles: "This has been fun, people, but I'm not sure we want to end things with the Hungarian pavilion." "We do, " asserted Prudence. "The Hungarian artist's theme this year is the male gaze."
"May I see you privately?" I asked her. She shook her head no. "Then will you at least turn towards me so that Luciano can't read my lips?" She adjusted herself in her chair. "Is my left shoulder forward enough?" she grinned. "Put down your Anima Nera and listen to me," I ordered. "This entire excursion has been about the male gaze. I'm surprised you put your shirt on for lunch." "Do you not want to visit the Hungarian pavilion?" she asked. "We could leave you here on Murano. There's regular boat service to the mainland."
"Well," I said, "I'd love to do that but I'd be abandoning my position in the boat." She turned to face Stefano, "Ask Beppe if my boyfriend's rowing expertise will be missed." "Hold on," I objected, "that's a somewhat loaded query." But Stefano had already popped the question. I do not speak the Venetian vernacular, but do know it lacks double consonants and the letter "l." Which seems fitting as it deserves neither. Venice is losing its population faster than any city in Europe and its local tongue may soon cease to exist. Which will be fine by me. Whatever Beppe said in response to Prudence's question, it was concise. And evidently very funny. For the table burst into laughter that rang in my ears for a good five minutes. It rings there still.
My oar kept slipping out of its oarlock and rivulets of sweat coursed down my face. Prudence asked if she could strip down to her bikini and sunbathe. Stefano reported that the consensus aboard the boat was that she could.
Beppe, who introduced himself as the commandante, stood in the stern and issued orders. Generally the word "commandant" summons unpleasant visions of World War II for me. And Beppe did prove to be a cantankerous martinet distressed by my faulty rowing technique. I hadn't been continuously yelled at since the age of seven and my nerves were fraying. "Beppe says your left shoulder's not moving forward enough on the upstroke, your torso should be parallel to the oarlock, your left foot is too far back, and your knuckles should be in the upright position," translated Stefano.
"Tell him this is the last time I'll be rowing Venetian style," I said, "so it doesn't really matter." "Beppe says it does," responded Stefano. Prudence laughed. To which I retorted, "You know, you could leave your floating tanning booth, babe, and take my place here as #3 galley slave."
That comment prompted the appearance of her camera, with its lens as long as Beppe's leg. There was a rapid explosion of Venetian dialect as Prudence began to snap pictures of me, cooing, "Il mio gondoliere." "They're upset, right?" I asked Stefano. "She's disrupting their routine." "Apparently not," he answered, "today they seem willing to suspend routine."
The click of that costly contraption was like a mouse gnawing through my shin. "Prudence," I hissed, "you're conducting a photo shoot in a bikini in front of men who haven't slept with their wives in decades." "Luciano in the prow speaks English," warned Stefano.
When we stopped for lunch on Murano, I was keenly aware of my musculo-skeletal system. Prudence had to help me remove my sea snails from their shells. "Can you really not do this?" she asked. "No," I told her, "I can no longer manipulate my fingers." Beppe said something to Stefano, who explained: "Upturned knuckles, otherwise pain." That was the only comment addressed to me during a three-hour meal. All others were addressed to Prudence. My companions' intense interest in Prudence's camera, Barnard, Westport, and her recent internship at CBS stunned me. Even I didn't care about these subjects.
"We're going to the Hungarian pavilion at the Biennale," announced Stefano. I had an inkling whose idea that was. "The Biennale admission fee is 18 euros," I said. "I don't think that'll go over too well with this group." "Actually, he said, "they know a guard."
By the time we'd consumed red and white wine, red wine with a splash of sparkling water, a tumbler of grappa and a bottle labelled Anima Nera (Black Spirit) had appeared on the table, we were pretty much shitfaced. I looked down at my swollen knuckles: "This has been fun, people, but I'm not sure we want to end things with the Hungarian pavilion." "We do, " asserted Prudence. "The Hungarian artist's theme this year is the male gaze."
"May I see you privately?" I asked her. She shook her head no. "Then will you at least turn towards me so that Luciano can't read my lips?" She adjusted herself in her chair. "Is my left shoulder forward enough?" she grinned. "Put down your Anima Nera and listen to me," I ordered. "This entire excursion has been about the male gaze. I'm surprised you put your shirt on for lunch." "Do you not want to visit the Hungarian pavilion?" she asked. "We could leave you here on Murano. There's regular boat service to the mainland."
"Well," I said, "I'd love to do that but I'd be abandoning my position in the boat." She turned to face Stefano, "Ask Beppe if my boyfriend's rowing expertise will be missed." "Hold on," I objected, "that's a somewhat loaded query." But Stefano had already popped the question. I do not speak the Venetian vernacular, but do know it lacks double consonants and the letter "l." Which seems fitting as it deserves neither. Venice is losing its population faster than any city in Europe and its local tongue may soon cease to exist. Which will be fine by me. Whatever Beppe said in response to Prudence's question, it was concise. And evidently very funny. For the table burst into laughter that rang in my ears for a good five minutes. It rings there still.
Thursday, 15 October 2009
Jean-Paul Est Mort
I stand in the kitchen of the converted olive oil mill in Normandy where our family has summered for as long as I can remember. A light rain slicks the mullioned windows; I absently trace an abstract figure on the glass and gaze out at the French countryside. In my periwinkle apron (which my husband says complements my eyes), hands covered in flour, I am in the midst of baking a batch of the poppyseed muffins Jean-Paul came to adore. I always left one outside his window with a simple note: "From moi."
New of his death brought me back to the spring of 1980, when a friend and I were backpacking through France. As we walked the streets of Paris, word of the great philosopher's demise was on all lips: "Jean-Paul Sartre est mort."
Jean-Paul Boucher, far from being a literary luminary, was a simple man who had difficulty reading (I always made sure to inform him that it was I who had left the muffin; in time, he came to recognize my stationery). But his absence is incalculable, not only to the village of M----, but to our family. We will miss his toothless grin (scurvy), his worn felt hat set at a rakish angle, and the many good times we shared.
An accident fated us to meet: my husband Ian, on his way to buy fresh raspberries at M----'s small Saturday market in the summer of 1998, struck Jean-Paul with his moped. Ever resilient, the old man (he was then into his eighties), in the words of the well-known tune, "picked himself up, brushed himself off, and started all over again." (Albeit starting all over again entailed proceeding with very few of the six dozen eggs he'd been toting to market still intact.)
When Ian related that morning's events, he and I had one of our rare spats. The soul of kindness, my husband had promised Jean-Paul a sturdier basket, which turned out to be the very one my mother had taken marketing during her many seasons in Normandy. "You drive your moped recklessly," I told him, "you should have taken the Peugeot." "If I'd taken the Peugeot, I would have killed him."
Just then, there came a soft tap at the door, and Jean-Paul, winded after walking the seven kilometers from the village center, entered our olive oil mill. After offering him Calvados, I explained that I could not bring myself to part with the wicker basket of ma mère, but in its stead I could offer a rugged canvas bag. And from that time, Jean-Paul was known throughout M---- for his Channel Thirteen Subsciber's Tote.
We learned just how much Jean-Paul loved Calvados the night of what has come to be known as "the naming ceremony." Five months pregnant, I was keen to have the input of an actual Frenchman. In truth, Ian and I would have preferred someone more educated, but the townsfolk have proven dismayingly aloof despite my family's presence here for more than four decades. (The French: c'est la vie.)
After rejecting Jean-Paul's three self-referential suggestions (Jean, Paul, and Jean-Paul), Ian and I had narrowed our future son's name to Marcel and Antoine. Back and forth we went with the two names, like a couple sawing in tandem an enormous sequoia: "Marcel, Antoine, Marcel, Antoine." Finally by 4:30 A.M., we'd settled on Antoine and Jean-Paul, bleary-eyed and non-responsive, seemed in no condition to walk home as he staggered down our cobbled walk into the night.
During the succeeding years, Jean-Paul Boucher became an honorary member of our household, driving us to and from Orly (five times) or DeGaulle (eight), storing our Peugeot outside his modest home and turning over its engine during the chill winter months, chopping and stacking our cord wood, and scrubbing the olive oil mill's tiled floors and en suite bathrooms prior to our arrival each June.
As he reached his mid-nineties, we noticed Jean-Paul's failure to adequately clean the pedestals of our sinks and toilets. "He must be blind," said Ian presciently, as it turned out our friend was indeed hampered by not one but two cataracts. It was at this time we reluctantly decided we could no longer entrust our safety to someone visually impaired (no matter how fond we were of him) and told Jean-Paul we would no longer require his services as a driver.
Apparently, he spent his 96th winter living in our car (when confronted, he claimed it was warmer than his traditional dwelling) and this proved to be the end of our friendship. What did Chinua Achebe write? "Things fall apart."
As I slide a tin of muffins into the oven, my heart is full of forgiveness and I feel closer to Jean-Paul than I have for years. Baking his favorite treat, I suddenly am at a loss: what shall I do with the muffin traditionally meant for him?
New of his death brought me back to the spring of 1980, when a friend and I were backpacking through France. As we walked the streets of Paris, word of the great philosopher's demise was on all lips: "Jean-Paul Sartre est mort."
Jean-Paul Boucher, far from being a literary luminary, was a simple man who had difficulty reading (I always made sure to inform him that it was I who had left the muffin; in time, he came to recognize my stationery). But his absence is incalculable, not only to the village of M----, but to our family. We will miss his toothless grin (scurvy), his worn felt hat set at a rakish angle, and the many good times we shared.
An accident fated us to meet: my husband Ian, on his way to buy fresh raspberries at M----'s small Saturday market in the summer of 1998, struck Jean-Paul with his moped. Ever resilient, the old man (he was then into his eighties), in the words of the well-known tune, "picked himself up, brushed himself off, and started all over again." (Albeit starting all over again entailed proceeding with very few of the six dozen eggs he'd been toting to market still intact.)
When Ian related that morning's events, he and I had one of our rare spats. The soul of kindness, my husband had promised Jean-Paul a sturdier basket, which turned out to be the very one my mother had taken marketing during her many seasons in Normandy. "You drive your moped recklessly," I told him, "you should have taken the Peugeot." "If I'd taken the Peugeot, I would have killed him."
Just then, there came a soft tap at the door, and Jean-Paul, winded after walking the seven kilometers from the village center, entered our olive oil mill. After offering him Calvados, I explained that I could not bring myself to part with the wicker basket of ma mère, but in its stead I could offer a rugged canvas bag. And from that time, Jean-Paul was known throughout M---- for his Channel Thirteen Subsciber's Tote.
We learned just how much Jean-Paul loved Calvados the night of what has come to be known as "the naming ceremony." Five months pregnant, I was keen to have the input of an actual Frenchman. In truth, Ian and I would have preferred someone more educated, but the townsfolk have proven dismayingly aloof despite my family's presence here for more than four decades. (The French: c'est la vie.)
After rejecting Jean-Paul's three self-referential suggestions (Jean, Paul, and Jean-Paul), Ian and I had narrowed our future son's name to Marcel and Antoine. Back and forth we went with the two names, like a couple sawing in tandem an enormous sequoia: "Marcel, Antoine, Marcel, Antoine." Finally by 4:30 A.M., we'd settled on Antoine and Jean-Paul, bleary-eyed and non-responsive, seemed in no condition to walk home as he staggered down our cobbled walk into the night.
During the succeeding years, Jean-Paul Boucher became an honorary member of our household, driving us to and from Orly (five times) or DeGaulle (eight), storing our Peugeot outside his modest home and turning over its engine during the chill winter months, chopping and stacking our cord wood, and scrubbing the olive oil mill's tiled floors and en suite bathrooms prior to our arrival each June.
As he reached his mid-nineties, we noticed Jean-Paul's failure to adequately clean the pedestals of our sinks and toilets. "He must be blind," said Ian presciently, as it turned out our friend was indeed hampered by not one but two cataracts. It was at this time we reluctantly decided we could no longer entrust our safety to someone visually impaired (no matter how fond we were of him) and told Jean-Paul we would no longer require his services as a driver.
Apparently, he spent his 96th winter living in our car (when confronted, he claimed it was warmer than his traditional dwelling) and this proved to be the end of our friendship. What did Chinua Achebe write? "Things fall apart."
As I slide a tin of muffins into the oven, my heart is full of forgiveness and I feel closer to Jean-Paul than I have for years. Baking his favorite treat, I suddenly am at a loss: what shall I do with the muffin traditionally meant for him?
Monday, 12 October 2009
Explaining My Tattoos
Shortly after agreeing to pay $15 million in penalties for overseeing fraudulent transactions at A.I.G., Maurice (Hank) Greenberg issued a defiant statement saying he bore "no responsibility" for fraud at the company, which he ran for four decades.--The Times
You're damn right I'm angry. Fifteen million isn't chump change. You know how long it took me to earn that? Never mind. You want some iced tea? I can turn up the air-conditioning. You want hot tea? I'll turn down the air-conditioning. It's a very responsive system.
Since you didn't bring a photographer, I'll show you my tattoos. Let's start out at the top and work our way down. This one here at the base of my neck is "Zeus." No, not the god; what ails you? A dog, for Chrissakes. Right, god spelled backwards. I hit my neighbor's mutt with my Bentley. Naming your dog after a god: and they say I have chutzpah.
That one there's for a squirrel. Unnamed. The Bentley again? I can't remember. I'm 84 years old. Am I supposed to remember every goddamned thing I've said or done for the past forty years? Yeah, well tell that to Andrew Cuomo. Bastard's got a civil suit against me.
This tattoo commemorates my honorary degrees from Brown and Middlebury. There's only one because it's on my bicep. It's a painful zone so I put "Middlebury" in brown ink: two birds with one stone.
No, I like to keep mine below my collar. Never did go in for facial work. That's more of a Maori thing. True: Mike Tyson also. Yeah, he may well be the only other tri-state resident to have earned a $34 million annual salary. But that was 2004; I worked my ass off that year.
Now this one over my heart is special: "Hank & Hank." No one calls me "Maurice"; I'm Hank to my friends. And one of my dear friends is Dr. Henry Kissinger. Yeah, I'm both a social acquaintance and a client: of his. He likes it that way: two birds with one stone.
This one here is a shell. Are you deaf? Not a shill, a shell. They say I formed a shell company in Barbados and dumped my losses there. You know what's in Barbados? Shells, not shell companies. You got your shell companies in the Cayman Islands, Turks and Caicos. Barbados is classy. I been: stayed at the Sandy Lane.
This is a chart of the highs and lows in the market. Right here's a sweet spot: when the Dow hit 14,000 in 2007. It's like an EKG reading stamped across my chest. Or a big, jagged scar. I've been scarred by the market. That's what people don't understand. When I hear them say A.I.G.'s the bad guy, I want to spit. Just let the saliva well up and let it fly. Like this! Sorry. I'll have the girl bring a napkin.
Now wait just a goddamned minute, there's nothing on my chest that says P.I.G. That's A.I.G. You're deaf and blind. I don't care if it looks like a "P," it's not a "P." It's an "A": an old letter that got worn down.
This on my belly's a $100,000 Bar. My favorite candy. I know, now it's called One Hundred Grand. Probably renamed by some meathead who thinks a hundred thousand is really grand. You know what a hundred thousand buys? Half a Bentley. Right: a squirrel.
Here's a quote from Frost: "Good fences make good neighbors." A touch of the poet. Specifically, it refers to the sons of bitches who live to either side of me and kept me from building an indoor swimming pool. They reported to the Historic District Commission. So I didn't report to the Commission and erected an obelisk on my lawn: 82 feet, solid concrete, ugliest damn thing you've ever seen. That'll teach 'em.
Let me roll up my pants. These four letters mean a lot. My left knee reads T.A. and my right reads R.P. When I press them together (which generally only happens at ballgames or when I'm on the can) you get T.A.R.P. Yep, that Troubled Asset Relief Program saved our bacon. Then they turned around and ate it. Well, A.I.G.'s nearly 80% government owned. If that's not a big bite, I don't know what is.
I pay a $15 million fine and Andrew Cuomo's still accusing me of doctoring financial statements. Let me drop my shorts and show you my latest. No, I want to. It would be my pleasure. I don't consider myself a bossy person, but it's a direct command to New York's attorney general. Let's call it an invitation. That's right, no fading here. I had it done Tuesday: "Kiss My Ass." That bastard wants to rumble with Hank Greenberg? I hope he likes concrete.
You're damn right I'm angry. Fifteen million isn't chump change. You know how long it took me to earn that? Never mind. You want some iced tea? I can turn up the air-conditioning. You want hot tea? I'll turn down the air-conditioning. It's a very responsive system.
Since you didn't bring a photographer, I'll show you my tattoos. Let's start out at the top and work our way down. This one here at the base of my neck is "Zeus." No, not the god; what ails you? A dog, for Chrissakes. Right, god spelled backwards. I hit my neighbor's mutt with my Bentley. Naming your dog after a god: and they say I have chutzpah.
That one there's for a squirrel. Unnamed. The Bentley again? I can't remember. I'm 84 years old. Am I supposed to remember every goddamned thing I've said or done for the past forty years? Yeah, well tell that to Andrew Cuomo. Bastard's got a civil suit against me.
This tattoo commemorates my honorary degrees from Brown and Middlebury. There's only one because it's on my bicep. It's a painful zone so I put "Middlebury" in brown ink: two birds with one stone.
No, I like to keep mine below my collar. Never did go in for facial work. That's more of a Maori thing. True: Mike Tyson also. Yeah, he may well be the only other tri-state resident to have earned a $34 million annual salary. But that was 2004; I worked my ass off that year.
Now this one over my heart is special: "Hank & Hank." No one calls me "Maurice"; I'm Hank to my friends. And one of my dear friends is Dr. Henry Kissinger. Yeah, I'm both a social acquaintance and a client: of his. He likes it that way: two birds with one stone.
This one here is a shell. Are you deaf? Not a shill, a shell. They say I formed a shell company in Barbados and dumped my losses there. You know what's in Barbados? Shells, not shell companies. You got your shell companies in the Cayman Islands, Turks and Caicos. Barbados is classy. I been: stayed at the Sandy Lane.
This is a chart of the highs and lows in the market. Right here's a sweet spot: when the Dow hit 14,000 in 2007. It's like an EKG reading stamped across my chest. Or a big, jagged scar. I've been scarred by the market. That's what people don't understand. When I hear them say A.I.G.'s the bad guy, I want to spit. Just let the saliva well up and let it fly. Like this! Sorry. I'll have the girl bring a napkin.
Now wait just a goddamned minute, there's nothing on my chest that says P.I.G. That's A.I.G. You're deaf and blind. I don't care if it looks like a "P," it's not a "P." It's an "A": an old letter that got worn down.
This on my belly's a $100,000 Bar. My favorite candy. I know, now it's called One Hundred Grand. Probably renamed by some meathead who thinks a hundred thousand is really grand. You know what a hundred thousand buys? Half a Bentley. Right: a squirrel.
Here's a quote from Frost: "Good fences make good neighbors." A touch of the poet. Specifically, it refers to the sons of bitches who live to either side of me and kept me from building an indoor swimming pool. They reported to the Historic District Commission. So I didn't report to the Commission and erected an obelisk on my lawn: 82 feet, solid concrete, ugliest damn thing you've ever seen. That'll teach 'em.
Let me roll up my pants. These four letters mean a lot. My left knee reads T.A. and my right reads R.P. When I press them together (which generally only happens at ballgames or when I'm on the can) you get T.A.R.P. Yep, that Troubled Asset Relief Program saved our bacon. Then they turned around and ate it. Well, A.I.G.'s nearly 80% government owned. If that's not a big bite, I don't know what is.
I pay a $15 million fine and Andrew Cuomo's still accusing me of doctoring financial statements. Let me drop my shorts and show you my latest. No, I want to. It would be my pleasure. I don't consider myself a bossy person, but it's a direct command to New York's attorney general. Let's call it an invitation. That's right, no fading here. I had it done Tuesday: "Kiss My Ass." That bastard wants to rumble with Hank Greenberg? I hope he likes concrete.
Friday, 9 October 2009
The Moralist Discusses Children
Dear Moralist:
We recently threw a surprise party for our eleven-year-old daughter, who entered the apartment and sullenly stated: "You can all come out from hiding. I've known about this party for ages." Needless to say, we were mortified and I felt especially bad for my husband, who travels frequently to the Pacific Rim and has missed our daughter's last six birthdays. Your advice?
Glenda
Dear Glenda:
Sounds like he'll be giving the next six a miss too, based on a certain somebody's behavior. Seriously, though, it's not as though your daughter's 37. Emotions are brittle and volatile in a pre-adolescent and it's distressing to have one's bubble burst by an unthinking acquaintance. I suggest taking your daughter into your bedroom, pulling out the box of crudely-carved wooden maple leaves, foam-core snowmen, and poorly-cut Valentine's hearts she's given you over the years and explaining that much as you oohed and aahed when receiving these gifts, they're stored under your bed for a reason and that, often, we pretend to be delighted, touched, or surprised on special occasions so that we don't bruise the feelings of others.
Dear Moralist:
My son's closest friend seems extremely slow-witted. When asked if he wants soda, "Bobby"'s response time is a good ten seconds. Is it harmful for my son to spend entire days with a child like this?
Phoebe
Dear Phoebe:
Why are you offering other people's children soda?
Dear Moralist.
We worry that our daughter may not have our aptitude. She tests in the middle of her class while my husband and I collaborate in a creative field (network TV) and last year earned more than $825,000.
Cynthia
Dear Cynthia:
I wouldn't fret. Nothing in your admittedly brief letter points towards overly superior intelligence. And television is not a creative field, particularly network.
Dear Moralist:
I have a fourteen-year-old son and a thirteen-year-old daughter. While her room is adorned with posters of pandas, elephants, and kitty cats, his features photos of depraved, half-clad women sucking lollypops or pacifiers or splayed across the hoods of late-model sports cars. Given that my children are approximately the same age, I find this pronounced difference in aesthetic preference disconcerting.
Gertrude
Dear Gertrude:
You describe a situation that is entirely normal; your daughter's interest in the animal kingdom is by no means aberrant. Rest assured, though today her tastes may appear to be dismayingly juvenile, she will mature.
Dear Moralist:
My son attends a well-regarded day school in the Philadelphia suburbs. This year the 14 fourth graders will journey to Greece during spring break. We have been asked to contribute toward the expenses of a girl whose family lacks the means to send her. Shouldn't this be covered by the school's scholarship fund? And if such monies aren't available, would it be the worst thing in the world for this youngster to remain home?
Tory
Dear Tory:
I hope your son has a very pleasant trip to Greece although the Athens airport is, along with that of Lagos, one of the least secure in the world and, according to the U.S. State Department Web site, a hotbed of smuggling, carjacking, and random gunfire.
Dear Moralist:
My wife likes to gape at others who discipline their children in public. She seems to get some sort of rise from watching an irate father dress down his son. When I tell her she's setting a bad example for our kids, she retorts, "I spend all day with them." What does she mean?
Roger
Dear Roger:
I believe she means that she spends great periods of time with your offspring while you, presumably, do not. Observing parent-child conflict is catnip to women such as your wife as it allows them to feel others suffer as they do. As long as she refrains from lambasting unknown children herself, I see no harm in mere observation.
[The following letter has been edited for length and clarity]
Dear Moralist:
Our son Luke is an amazingly precocious seven-year-old- Ever since he read "Origin of Species" at five, others have commented on his seemingly supernatural abilities. Just last week at the Museum of Natural History, he enthralled a group by explaining that the Copernican conception of the solar system is heliocentric (sun-centered) rather than geocentric (earth-centered). At his interview for the Johns Hopkins Center for Gifted...
Dear Whomever:
What, precisely, is your question?
Dear Moralist:
My ten-year-old daughter illegally downloads movies and watches them in forty-minute segments on her computer. She's currently viewing Quentin Tarentino's "Reservoir Dogs" and ignoring my advice that she watch the entire film in one go. Your input, please.
Stephen
Dear Stephen:
"Reservoir Dogs": great flick! And yes, I'm in complete agreement: a work which relies so heavily on jump cuts, flashbacks, scrambled time sequences, and interior monologues truly should be absorbed in one sitting to fully appreciate directorial craft.
Dear Moralist:
We currently reside in Zurich and our son is enrolled in a state-run elementary school where he is teased and bullied on a daily basis. Whatever happened to the notion of Swiss pleasantness?
Nancy
Dear Nancy:
I'm not sure to which pleasantness you refer. The Swiss are primarily known for refusing entrance to trains crammed with those fleeing the Holocaust, sheltering the ill-gotten gains of others, and chocolate. The Spanish are nice.
Dear Moralist:
As a stance against the rampant comercialization of American life, we have a family policy: no one is allowed to wear T-shirts which bear printed words. Recently, my son's uncle gave him a shirt stamped with the logo of a prominent New York investment bank. Given the prestige of this firm, do you think it would be acceptable just this once to waive our household rule?
Elizabeth
Dear Elizabeth:
Prominent New York investment bank? I didn't know there were any left. If you are referring to Morgan Stanley or Goldman Sachs, the names of which are still prone to provoke decidedly mixed feelings, I counsel caution until tempers have cooled. Remember, the Dow's still below 10,000.
We recently threw a surprise party for our eleven-year-old daughter, who entered the apartment and sullenly stated: "You can all come out from hiding. I've known about this party for ages." Needless to say, we were mortified and I felt especially bad for my husband, who travels frequently to the Pacific Rim and has missed our daughter's last six birthdays. Your advice?
Glenda
Dear Glenda:
Sounds like he'll be giving the next six a miss too, based on a certain somebody's behavior. Seriously, though, it's not as though your daughter's 37. Emotions are brittle and volatile in a pre-adolescent and it's distressing to have one's bubble burst by an unthinking acquaintance. I suggest taking your daughter into your bedroom, pulling out the box of crudely-carved wooden maple leaves, foam-core snowmen, and poorly-cut Valentine's hearts she's given you over the years and explaining that much as you oohed and aahed when receiving these gifts, they're stored under your bed for a reason and that, often, we pretend to be delighted, touched, or surprised on special occasions so that we don't bruise the feelings of others.
Dear Moralist:
My son's closest friend seems extremely slow-witted. When asked if he wants soda, "Bobby"'s response time is a good ten seconds. Is it harmful for my son to spend entire days with a child like this?
Phoebe
Dear Phoebe:
Why are you offering other people's children soda?
Dear Moralist.
We worry that our daughter may not have our aptitude. She tests in the middle of her class while my husband and I collaborate in a creative field (network TV) and last year earned more than $825,000.
Cynthia
Dear Cynthia:
I wouldn't fret. Nothing in your admittedly brief letter points towards overly superior intelligence. And television is not a creative field, particularly network.
Dear Moralist:
I have a fourteen-year-old son and a thirteen-year-old daughter. While her room is adorned with posters of pandas, elephants, and kitty cats, his features photos of depraved, half-clad women sucking lollypops or pacifiers or splayed across the hoods of late-model sports cars. Given that my children are approximately the same age, I find this pronounced difference in aesthetic preference disconcerting.
Gertrude
Dear Gertrude:
You describe a situation that is entirely normal; your daughter's interest in the animal kingdom is by no means aberrant. Rest assured, though today her tastes may appear to be dismayingly juvenile, she will mature.
Dear Moralist:
My son attends a well-regarded day school in the Philadelphia suburbs. This year the 14 fourth graders will journey to Greece during spring break. We have been asked to contribute toward the expenses of a girl whose family lacks the means to send her. Shouldn't this be covered by the school's scholarship fund? And if such monies aren't available, would it be the worst thing in the world for this youngster to remain home?
Tory
Dear Tory:
I hope your son has a very pleasant trip to Greece although the Athens airport is, along with that of Lagos, one of the least secure in the world and, according to the U.S. State Department Web site, a hotbed of smuggling, carjacking, and random gunfire.
Dear Moralist:
My wife likes to gape at others who discipline their children in public. She seems to get some sort of rise from watching an irate father dress down his son. When I tell her she's setting a bad example for our kids, she retorts, "I spend all day with them." What does she mean?
Roger
Dear Roger:
I believe she means that she spends great periods of time with your offspring while you, presumably, do not. Observing parent-child conflict is catnip to women such as your wife as it allows them to feel others suffer as they do. As long as she refrains from lambasting unknown children herself, I see no harm in mere observation.
[The following letter has been edited for length and clarity]
Dear Moralist:
Our son Luke is an amazingly precocious seven-year-old- Ever since he read "Origin of Species" at five, others have commented on his seemingly supernatural abilities. Just last week at the Museum of Natural History, he enthralled a group by explaining that the Copernican conception of the solar system is heliocentric (sun-centered) rather than geocentric (earth-centered). At his interview for the Johns Hopkins Center for Gifted...
Dear Whomever:
What, precisely, is your question?
Dear Moralist:
My ten-year-old daughter illegally downloads movies and watches them in forty-minute segments on her computer. She's currently viewing Quentin Tarentino's "Reservoir Dogs" and ignoring my advice that she watch the entire film in one go. Your input, please.
Stephen
Dear Stephen:
"Reservoir Dogs": great flick! And yes, I'm in complete agreement: a work which relies so heavily on jump cuts, flashbacks, scrambled time sequences, and interior monologues truly should be absorbed in one sitting to fully appreciate directorial craft.
Dear Moralist:
We currently reside in Zurich and our son is enrolled in a state-run elementary school where he is teased and bullied on a daily basis. Whatever happened to the notion of Swiss pleasantness?
Nancy
Dear Nancy:
I'm not sure to which pleasantness you refer. The Swiss are primarily known for refusing entrance to trains crammed with those fleeing the Holocaust, sheltering the ill-gotten gains of others, and chocolate. The Spanish are nice.
Dear Moralist:
As a stance against the rampant comercialization of American life, we have a family policy: no one is allowed to wear T-shirts which bear printed words. Recently, my son's uncle gave him a shirt stamped with the logo of a prominent New York investment bank. Given the prestige of this firm, do you think it would be acceptable just this once to waive our household rule?
Elizabeth
Dear Elizabeth:
Prominent New York investment bank? I didn't know there were any left. If you are referring to Morgan Stanley or Goldman Sachs, the names of which are still prone to provoke decidedly mixed feelings, I counsel caution until tempers have cooled. Remember, the Dow's still below 10,000.
Saturday, 3 October 2009
This Year's Geniuses
The John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation today announced 24 recipients of its annual "genius award." Winners include:
--Doug Morton, for his "extraordinary insight into the needs of his fellow man" and for an "unusually high emotional learning curve." After gracing his colleagues with his presence at lunch for 19 months and sharing with them a series of off-color remarks, racist anecdotes, and imitations of the previous evening's Jon Stewart routines, Doug demonstrated acute perception and ability to interpret the grimaces, winces, exchanged glances and, ultimately, stony silence of others by taking his tray to the far side of the cafeteria and eating alone.
--Larry Oshinsky, Sam Ruboff, and Dimitri Blankov shared an award for "unprecedented cooperation" in solving the conundrum of who would be the first to monopolize that morning's copy of the "New York Times" at their branch library on the Upper West Side. After decades of congregating hours before opening time, pushing, shoving, and moving each other's lawn chairs, the trio decided on a regular rotation in which each man was accorded priority two mornings per week unless Sam notifies Larry and Dimitri he will not show because he is staying with his daughter, who has Internet access.
--William J. and Dorothy K. Reynolds were honored for "exceptional humanity" and "monumental introspection" as they realized that thirteen years of private school, costly summer camps, enforced reading groups, bicycle tours through Europe, museum internships, and six months as an assistant on an EMT crew in Simsbury, Connecticut, have not transformed their son Edgar into an interesting person. This summer the Reynoldses finally granted him his greatest wish: to lie on his bed all day listening to the radio.
--Tiffany and Steve Brady and their twins Sheila and Curt were cited for "pioneering efforts in the field of aerospace travel." Through a series of intricate stratagems, excuses, pleas, feigned illness, and blatant lies, the Brady family was able to move cross-country, transporting 1,600 pounds of possessions from Seattle to Boston this winter (with a change of planes in Denver) on United Airlines flights without checking a single piece of luggage.
--David Witherspoon was tapped by the MacArthur Foundation for his achievements in "preserving the fabric of family life and promoting unity." David's openness of heart has prompted him to "take the baby" Sunday mornings while his wife sleeps in, recuperating from her Saturday night shift as a nurse at a local hospital. His innovative childcare methods include preparing a bottle for their infant, placing both child and bottle in front of the television, and, on Sundays with decent weather, observing Lily Cuthbertson, a 26-year-old new to the neighborhood, soap and wash her car.
--Elizabeth Ramson was singled out for "accomplishment in the realm of psychology." After an entire lifetime of speaking her mind, Elizabeth now tells others that their outfits look great, the meals they serve are delicious, they purchased their houses for reasonable sums, their children are amusing, she will see them in church Sunday "if there's not a conflict," that every word President Obama utters is profound, and that it was a pleasure meeting their parents in the parking lot of Stop & Shop.
--Alec Rogovoy was rewarded for "revelatory economic theory." Alec recently came to the stunning conclusion that even though calls placed to cellphones from his home phone are substantially more expensive than those made to fixed lines, there is no need to hover behind every family member who lifts the phone and mouth the words, "Are you calling a cell? If so, hang up," as he or she attempts to communicate with the outside world. Rogovoy's exploration of the opportunity cost of such behavior indicates that the ulcer he is giving himself is not worth the incessant badgering of loved ones and if, in fact, the family's monthly calls to cellular phones do total more than $26, the world will not end.
--Tug Phillips received his award for "heroic patriotism in the face of adversity and for personifying our nation's values." At a recent Yankees game, during the seventh-inning rendition of "God Bless America" (a custom introduced after September 11th), Tug observed a conspicuously uncooperative spectator not only refusing to mouth the words to the song, but to rise to his feet. Willing to miss the remainder of the contest despite holding season's tickets behind first base, Tug made his way to the perpetrator, confronted him, poured beer down his neck, dragged him from his seat out into the parking lot, beat him senseless, and left him for dead.
--Tina Sparrow was acknowledged for "adaptability in the face of globalization." During her traditional Friday night visit to The Lucky Wok, a Chinese restaurant in the Omaha suburbs, Tina declined to order the dish she has been requesting each week since 1982: Sweet and Sour Pork. Instead, she selected Five Taste Pleasure Fish with Water Chestnuts in an effort to "see if China has something else to offer." Her conclusion: it does not.
--Sandra Wilkinson, a resident of rural Montana whose anti-capitalist leanings have culminated in her incorporating as a "nation of one," was heralded for becoming a society in which the only acceptable method of commerce is barter. "She barters with herself I guess," shrugged a MacArthur spokesman, "beads, twigs, string, shells, berries, whatever." When pressed as to why precisely Wilkinson was a recipient of the half-million-dollar award, he conceded, "Well, we haven't had a winner from Montana in a number of years. Plus, giving all that cash to someone who's renounced money? To our mind, that's pure genius."
--Doug Morton, for his "extraordinary insight into the needs of his fellow man" and for an "unusually high emotional learning curve." After gracing his colleagues with his presence at lunch for 19 months and sharing with them a series of off-color remarks, racist anecdotes, and imitations of the previous evening's Jon Stewart routines, Doug demonstrated acute perception and ability to interpret the grimaces, winces, exchanged glances and, ultimately, stony silence of others by taking his tray to the far side of the cafeteria and eating alone.
--Larry Oshinsky, Sam Ruboff, and Dimitri Blankov shared an award for "unprecedented cooperation" in solving the conundrum of who would be the first to monopolize that morning's copy of the "New York Times" at their branch library on the Upper West Side. After decades of congregating hours before opening time, pushing, shoving, and moving each other's lawn chairs, the trio decided on a regular rotation in which each man was accorded priority two mornings per week unless Sam notifies Larry and Dimitri he will not show because he is staying with his daughter, who has Internet access.
--William J. and Dorothy K. Reynolds were honored for "exceptional humanity" and "monumental introspection" as they realized that thirteen years of private school, costly summer camps, enforced reading groups, bicycle tours through Europe, museum internships, and six months as an assistant on an EMT crew in Simsbury, Connecticut, have not transformed their son Edgar into an interesting person. This summer the Reynoldses finally granted him his greatest wish: to lie on his bed all day listening to the radio.
--Tiffany and Steve Brady and their twins Sheila and Curt were cited for "pioneering efforts in the field of aerospace travel." Through a series of intricate stratagems, excuses, pleas, feigned illness, and blatant lies, the Brady family was able to move cross-country, transporting 1,600 pounds of possessions from Seattle to Boston this winter (with a change of planes in Denver) on United Airlines flights without checking a single piece of luggage.
--David Witherspoon was tapped by the MacArthur Foundation for his achievements in "preserving the fabric of family life and promoting unity." David's openness of heart has prompted him to "take the baby" Sunday mornings while his wife sleeps in, recuperating from her Saturday night shift as a nurse at a local hospital. His innovative childcare methods include preparing a bottle for their infant, placing both child and bottle in front of the television, and, on Sundays with decent weather, observing Lily Cuthbertson, a 26-year-old new to the neighborhood, soap and wash her car.
--Elizabeth Ramson was singled out for "accomplishment in the realm of psychology." After an entire lifetime of speaking her mind, Elizabeth now tells others that their outfits look great, the meals they serve are delicious, they purchased their houses for reasonable sums, their children are amusing, she will see them in church Sunday "if there's not a conflict," that every word President Obama utters is profound, and that it was a pleasure meeting their parents in the parking lot of Stop & Shop.
--Alec Rogovoy was rewarded for "revelatory economic theory." Alec recently came to the stunning conclusion that even though calls placed to cellphones from his home phone are substantially more expensive than those made to fixed lines, there is no need to hover behind every family member who lifts the phone and mouth the words, "Are you calling a cell? If so, hang up," as he or she attempts to communicate with the outside world. Rogovoy's exploration of the opportunity cost of such behavior indicates that the ulcer he is giving himself is not worth the incessant badgering of loved ones and if, in fact, the family's monthly calls to cellular phones do total more than $26, the world will not end.
--Tug Phillips received his award for "heroic patriotism in the face of adversity and for personifying our nation's values." At a recent Yankees game, during the seventh-inning rendition of "God Bless America" (a custom introduced after September 11th), Tug observed a conspicuously uncooperative spectator not only refusing to mouth the words to the song, but to rise to his feet. Willing to miss the remainder of the contest despite holding season's tickets behind first base, Tug made his way to the perpetrator, confronted him, poured beer down his neck, dragged him from his seat out into the parking lot, beat him senseless, and left him for dead.
--Tina Sparrow was acknowledged for "adaptability in the face of globalization." During her traditional Friday night visit to The Lucky Wok, a Chinese restaurant in the Omaha suburbs, Tina declined to order the dish she has been requesting each week since 1982: Sweet and Sour Pork. Instead, she selected Five Taste Pleasure Fish with Water Chestnuts in an effort to "see if China has something else to offer." Her conclusion: it does not.
--Sandra Wilkinson, a resident of rural Montana whose anti-capitalist leanings have culminated in her incorporating as a "nation of one," was heralded for becoming a society in which the only acceptable method of commerce is barter. "She barters with herself I guess," shrugged a MacArthur spokesman, "beads, twigs, string, shells, berries, whatever." When pressed as to why precisely Wilkinson was a recipient of the half-million-dollar award, he conceded, "Well, we haven't had a winner from Montana in a number of years. Plus, giving all that cash to someone who's renounced money? To our mind, that's pure genius."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)