Though raised in the United States, I am the eldest son of a Japanese mother and French father and have the sort of refined Eurasian looks which have served me well in poetry workshops. It was in one such workshop that the student next to me drew my attention to my beautifully-tapered fingers: "Each is like an exquisitely-carved ivory netsuke," she commented.
I remembered this after I'd been teaching English to Japanese businessmen in Kyoto for 16 months. The job had its moments, like when one fellow began speaking reverently about his "great uncle's decorative pond full of crap" (he meant carp), but the pay wasn't as great as I'd been led to believe and the classroom smelled like ammonia. One day while pretending to listen to Mr. Nobu Tanaka conjugate the verb "to swim," I glanced down at my hands. "Surely," I thought, "I can do more with these delicate gifts than erase chalkboards."
It was then that I began my journey into the very heart of Japan. For I had vowed to become a geisha. Not only Kyoto's first Eurasian geisha, but its first male geisha as well. This leap of double daring was to alter my life forever.
Few men appreciate the pain entailed in plucking hair from their knuckles. I am one of these men. After plucking my knuckles, I then waxed the back of my hands and forearms (ouch). What spurred me on was the knowledge that the rest of the geisha community in my district of Kyoto was adamantly set against my joining their ranks.
I've always thrived in the face of adversity and the few conversations I conducted with geisha convinced me that they possessed no qualities absent from my own character. I was also taller and seemed to have better posture than most.
No geisha ever forgets their first kimono and I was no exception. A glance at myself in the mirror in the richly-brocaded teal and crimson garment sent my heart racing. With my hair adorned with ornaments and done up in the style of a young geisha in the momoware style (meaning "split peach"), I was utterly transformed. My magnificent kimono was bound with a stunning obi (or sash) and my countenance painted a striking shade of white. Not to be too M. Butterflyish about it, but I looked ravishing. After using the restroom (note to self: in future visit the bathroom before donning kimono), I tottered out into the streets of Kyoto in the tall wooden shoes worn by apprentice geishas, prepared to conquer the world.
Being a man, I'd been unable to find a geisha to mentor me, but felt secure that I would soon progress from apprentice to full geisha under my own steam. The "gei" of "geisha" means arts and the word "geisha" actually means "artisan" or "artist." It was here that my poetry workshops at NYU and the Learning Annex paid off. Much of my poetry (particularly my early work) had centered on water, stone, and wood. Coincidentally, much Japanese poetry is also about these elements. Since water, stone, and wood are found in my verse, in Japanese poetry, or in both, they comprise the set-theoretic union of the two. Mathematically, this is expressed: Eric's poetry U Japanese poetry.
As a geisha, I had to master Japanese flute (I'd played recorder briefly in eighth grade), a small drum known as tsutsumi and an incredibly annoying stringed instrument called shamisen. I've never been musically inclined, but I knew my future male clients would be interested in one thing only: how I poured tea. And though I don't want to puncture the rice-paper screen of my modesty, let's just say that I do a damn fine tea ceremony.
For I grew up at the side of a Japanese mother who had the equivalent of an American Ph.D. yet was trapped in a drafty house in northwest Connecticut while my father was away on business ten months per year. During frequent snowstorms that wreaked havoc on our television reception, we had two choices: to drive by William Styron's house to see if he'd either constructed, destroyed, or constructed and destroyed a snowman, or to brew tea. We usually opted for the tea.
My first gig (a word nearly impossible to translate to the Japanese) came when an apprentice geisha toppled from her tall wooden shoes into a full-fledged geisha and fractured the latter's right tibia. In desperation, the teahouse phoned and asked if I could fill in.
Who's that famous actor who was an understudy in whatchamacallit when so-and-so fell ill and suddenly the rest was history? Well, think "All About Eve" with the Eve Harrrington role filled by a really good-looking guy from Connecticut.
As the door to the private room in the teahouse was rolled back, I came face to face with six Japanese businessmen and my face flushed with embarrassment. "Goddamnit," I realized, "it's Nobu Tanaka and the rest of my old English class."
I prayed that $4,600 worth of women's clothing and makeup would prevent them from recognizing me. They scrutinized me as I looked demurely at the floor, my ruby-red lips curled in an enigmatic half-smile. I was prepared to pour tea, flirt, sing a traditional Japanese ballad, or pretty much do anything to avoid detection.
"Eric-san?" asked Mr. Tanaka tentatively. I remained silent. Then he solemnly intoned, "I swim, you swim, he or she swims." "Yes, yes," I said impatiently, "very good." "Eric-san, you are now a...geisha?" "I'm an apprentice geisha, but your culture is so hidebound and myopic that I can't find a mentor." Tanaka responded proudly: "Today I find, yesterday I found, I have found."
"O.K., guys, you know what? Let's just make this a language class." The quick consensus was that this was a dreadful suggestion and that I should pour them sake. I agreed to this though I noticed several men peering up the length of my kimono sleeve while I did so. "Now, please play shamisen," they asked. "Oh, come on," I groaned. "Play, play," they implored. "USA! USA!" I picked up that hateful instrument and banged out a tune, thinking to myself, "At least in here it doesn't smell like ammonia."
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
The Chosen
Announcing that Vanderbilt intends to recruit Jewish students, the University's chancellor explained, "Jewish students by culture and by ability and by the very nature of their liveliness make a university a much more habitable place in terms of intellectual life"--The Wall Street Journal
We are currently engaged in assembling the most intellectually curious, accomplished, dynamic student body in the United States of America. We value those who esteem scholarship and are motivated to succeed. Our prospective applicants have that indefinable quality, that little something extra that sets them apart from the crowd. They're highly verbal, gregarious, opinionated, and they love to learn.
Do you enjoy films, be they the comedies of Woody Allen, the dramas of Steven Spielberg, or the documentaries of Frederick Wiseman? Do you particularly relish documentaries about your own people? Do you dream of writing, starring in, directing, reviewing, or merely discussing films about your own people (or any other people, for that matter)?
Do you love to laugh and to make others laugh? Do you have the same gift of laughter as Groucho Marx, Milton Berle, Jack Benny, Albert Brooks, Ben Stiller or Jon Stewart?
Is your surname a color: Gold, Silver, or Green? Or perhaps a variation on a color: Goldfine, Silverman, or Greenspan? Is your surname Rosen or a version thereof: Rosenberg, Rosenfeld, Rosenbaum, Rosencrantz, or Rosenquist? If so, we have exciting news: our university may well be for you.
We're rolling out the red carpet for those who hail from major metropolitan areas or suburbs with strong public school systems. We look for students with varied interests: if you play chess, organize and run an investment club at your school, have volunteered on a kibbutz, or have interned in a hospital where one or both of your parents is a specialist, please consider us.
We cherish strong communication and writing skills. If you possess the zeal and talent to become a columnist like Thomas Friedman or William Safire, an investigative reporter like Seymour Hersh or Jane Mayer, or are equipped with the business savvy to helm a major news organization like Arthur Sulzberger, Jr., we eagerly await your application. Whether you hope to contribute to society as a titan of literature like Bellow, Roth, Ozick, Mailer, or Salinger, or merely to give back philanthropically like Annenberg, Zuckerman, Bloomberg, Geffen, and Tisch, we urge you to apply.
Our ideal candidates have a solid background in math and science, four years of English and foreign language, and three of four grandparents who are Jewish. An applicant is expected to submit SAT I and II scores, an official transcript, two teacher recommendations, and proof that his or her birth mother is Jewish. (Please note that mothers who have converted to the Jewish faith may not have done so in a reform synagogue.)
We realize in a diverse society such as ours that members of minority groups are often sensitive to special treatment. Let us be perfectly clear: no one is being "targeted." We're simply trying to raise the intellectual tone on our campus, to stimulate thought, and to gather a group of individuals who prize the old-fashioned art of conversation.
We strive to select those who feel deeply, can be counted on to cry at weddings and other social occasions, debate issues well into the night, and above all, care. We're searching for what might be termed the "creative personality," who not only plays a stringed instrument, sculpts or paints, writes and performs monologues, but who expresses a zany, urban sensibility that captivates others.
We want catalysts: people who intend to be pioneers in law, medicine, business, journalism, entertainment, and academia. We hunger for those who ultimately will augment, transform, and dominate these fields.
If you're boisterous and effervescent, we want you. If you're feisty, combative, argumentative, outspoken, and controversial, we want you. If you're dynamic, explosive, formidable, and larger than life, we want you. We covet aesthetes, activists, and aspiring anesthesiologists. We applaud those who are passionately involved in this great enterprise called life.
If you've ever felt marginalized, misunderstood, denigrated, unappreciated, unfairly maligned or otherwise victimized, we are your promised land. We herald both your past and future accomplishments and bid you welcome. We implore you: consider yourself a member of our club.
We are currently engaged in assembling the most intellectually curious, accomplished, dynamic student body in the United States of America. We value those who esteem scholarship and are motivated to succeed. Our prospective applicants have that indefinable quality, that little something extra that sets them apart from the crowd. They're highly verbal, gregarious, opinionated, and they love to learn.
Do you enjoy films, be they the comedies of Woody Allen, the dramas of Steven Spielberg, or the documentaries of Frederick Wiseman? Do you particularly relish documentaries about your own people? Do you dream of writing, starring in, directing, reviewing, or merely discussing films about your own people (or any other people, for that matter)?
Do you love to laugh and to make others laugh? Do you have the same gift of laughter as Groucho Marx, Milton Berle, Jack Benny, Albert Brooks, Ben Stiller or Jon Stewart?
Is your surname a color: Gold, Silver, or Green? Or perhaps a variation on a color: Goldfine, Silverman, or Greenspan? Is your surname Rosen or a version thereof: Rosenberg, Rosenfeld, Rosenbaum, Rosencrantz, or Rosenquist? If so, we have exciting news: our university may well be for you.
We're rolling out the red carpet for those who hail from major metropolitan areas or suburbs with strong public school systems. We look for students with varied interests: if you play chess, organize and run an investment club at your school, have volunteered on a kibbutz, or have interned in a hospital where one or both of your parents is a specialist, please consider us.
We cherish strong communication and writing skills. If you possess the zeal and talent to become a columnist like Thomas Friedman or William Safire, an investigative reporter like Seymour Hersh or Jane Mayer, or are equipped with the business savvy to helm a major news organization like Arthur Sulzberger, Jr., we eagerly await your application. Whether you hope to contribute to society as a titan of literature like Bellow, Roth, Ozick, Mailer, or Salinger, or merely to give back philanthropically like Annenberg, Zuckerman, Bloomberg, Geffen, and Tisch, we urge you to apply.
Our ideal candidates have a solid background in math and science, four years of English and foreign language, and three of four grandparents who are Jewish. An applicant is expected to submit SAT I and II scores, an official transcript, two teacher recommendations, and proof that his or her birth mother is Jewish. (Please note that mothers who have converted to the Jewish faith may not have done so in a reform synagogue.)
We realize in a diverse society such as ours that members of minority groups are often sensitive to special treatment. Let us be perfectly clear: no one is being "targeted." We're simply trying to raise the intellectual tone on our campus, to stimulate thought, and to gather a group of individuals who prize the old-fashioned art of conversation.
We strive to select those who feel deeply, can be counted on to cry at weddings and other social occasions, debate issues well into the night, and above all, care. We're searching for what might be termed the "creative personality," who not only plays a stringed instrument, sculpts or paints, writes and performs monologues, but who expresses a zany, urban sensibility that captivates others.
We want catalysts: people who intend to be pioneers in law, medicine, business, journalism, entertainment, and academia. We hunger for those who ultimately will augment, transform, and dominate these fields.
If you're boisterous and effervescent, we want you. If you're feisty, combative, argumentative, outspoken, and controversial, we want you. If you're dynamic, explosive, formidable, and larger than life, we want you. We covet aesthetes, activists, and aspiring anesthesiologists. We applaud those who are passionately involved in this great enterprise called life.
If you've ever felt marginalized, misunderstood, denigrated, unappreciated, unfairly maligned or otherwise victimized, we are your promised land. We herald both your past and future accomplishments and bid you welcome. We implore you: consider yourself a member of our club.
Sunday, 22 November 2009
Friday, 20 November 2009
Chafed
I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone for their cards and letters sent in anticipation of my upcoming procedure. Since returning from our Hawaiian honeymoon, we've devoted nearly all our time to navigating the health care labyrinth, phoning specialists and clinics.
Though much is unknown about my condition, with little to be found in the annals of medicine, there is one point on which there is unanimous agreement: I am the victim of extremely unfortunate timing. My marriage proposal in 2003 to young Meryl (nineteen at the time) was sullied by my immediate imprisonment for grand larceny. Our inability to consummate our union proved frustrating not only to Meryl, then living at home with her mother who required round-the-clock care, but for me, confined to a federal correctional facility with few outlets for my primary desires other than exercise and cable television.
Upon my early release, Meryl and I flew to paradise to rediscover each other and to cement our vows. The result is what has best been described by Dr. Herbert Marcus of the UCLA Medical Center as "excessive chafing." Meryl has been nothing short of heroic throughout my ordeal, displaying reserves of patience and empathy I did not know she possessed. In this respect, I am a lucky man.
During my hospitalization, I know I can depend on many of you to comfort her with concern, company, and, yes, casseroles. Also, if you visit within 72 hours of my arrival home, please bring vast quantities of ice as Dr. Marcus has informed me that there will be significant swelling.
The procedure will be performed by Dr. Harold Bronstein and I feel sure I am in competent hands as he has years of experience ministering to transsexuals, transgender individuals, and Michael Jackson. He is uncertain at this point if a skin graft will be necessary, but if any of you is willing to donate that bit of epidermis found between your big toe and its neighbor, please contact me as soon as possible.
A few folks have already dropped off mix tapes for Meryl to enjoy during my absence and for me to savor upon my return. Knowing we are in your thoughts means the world to us. I also deeply appreciate all the pro bono work being done on my behalf by my cousin Peter Schreiber and his law firm in my attempt to obtain a settlement from the Hotel Hana Maui.
Experts tell me a hostelry such as this certainly would have seen its share of honeymoon fatigue and should have ignored our "Do Not Disturb" sign after the fifth day and interrupted our exertions in order to salvage what was left of my midsection. Their complimentary fruit platter and Hana Maui ice packs for our journey home in no way absolve them of responsibility.
I do not deny that I overdid it with my comely minx, Meryl, but cannot help see myself as Tess of the d'Urbervilles: "more sinned against than sinning." To be incarcerated for 78 months with a roommate from a radically different social background who had virtually no interests nor, indeed, teeth; to be given only back issues of "Mad" magazine and "Martha Stewart Living"; to be deprived of female companionship except in the form of Vice-Warden Susan Prother's twice-weekly appearances at breakfast; and to be told that one is less than a man because one has committed a financial transgression (albeit a particularly sizable one) against society is to reduce one such as I to a weak-willed being, unable to make just decisions.
For those of you who saw the excellent film "Kinsey" (featuring the stellar Liam Neeson as the famous sex researcher), you know the human body is capable of unimagined achievement in the pursuit of pleasure. The nature of my plight obviously begs discretion, but I believe I can share one anecdote without betraying our privacy: on the final night of our honeymoon, Meryl said to me, "Now that you've spent yourself in every orifice of my body for the eighth day in a row, do you think we could order a sandwich?"
That cracked me up. But it was just as our BLT Club arrived (a choice I heartily recommend to prospective guests), and I was spreading a damask napkin across my lap, that I felt my first twinge. Though my eyes were crossed in pain and Meryl had a strip of bacon dangling from the corner of her mouth, I found myself in the grip of desire and, knocking our sandwich to the floor, I began, oh so gingerly, to undo my bathrobe for that final, fateful time.
Though much is unknown about my condition, with little to be found in the annals of medicine, there is one point on which there is unanimous agreement: I am the victim of extremely unfortunate timing. My marriage proposal in 2003 to young Meryl (nineteen at the time) was sullied by my immediate imprisonment for grand larceny. Our inability to consummate our union proved frustrating not only to Meryl, then living at home with her mother who required round-the-clock care, but for me, confined to a federal correctional facility with few outlets for my primary desires other than exercise and cable television.
Upon my early release, Meryl and I flew to paradise to rediscover each other and to cement our vows. The result is what has best been described by Dr. Herbert Marcus of the UCLA Medical Center as "excessive chafing." Meryl has been nothing short of heroic throughout my ordeal, displaying reserves of patience and empathy I did not know she possessed. In this respect, I am a lucky man.
During my hospitalization, I know I can depend on many of you to comfort her with concern, company, and, yes, casseroles. Also, if you visit within 72 hours of my arrival home, please bring vast quantities of ice as Dr. Marcus has informed me that there will be significant swelling.
The procedure will be performed by Dr. Harold Bronstein and I feel sure I am in competent hands as he has years of experience ministering to transsexuals, transgender individuals, and Michael Jackson. He is uncertain at this point if a skin graft will be necessary, but if any of you is willing to donate that bit of epidermis found between your big toe and its neighbor, please contact me as soon as possible.
A few folks have already dropped off mix tapes for Meryl to enjoy during my absence and for me to savor upon my return. Knowing we are in your thoughts means the world to us. I also deeply appreciate all the pro bono work being done on my behalf by my cousin Peter Schreiber and his law firm in my attempt to obtain a settlement from the Hotel Hana Maui.
Experts tell me a hostelry such as this certainly would have seen its share of honeymoon fatigue and should have ignored our "Do Not Disturb" sign after the fifth day and interrupted our exertions in order to salvage what was left of my midsection. Their complimentary fruit platter and Hana Maui ice packs for our journey home in no way absolve them of responsibility.
I do not deny that I overdid it with my comely minx, Meryl, but cannot help see myself as Tess of the d'Urbervilles: "more sinned against than sinning." To be incarcerated for 78 months with a roommate from a radically different social background who had virtually no interests nor, indeed, teeth; to be given only back issues of "Mad" magazine and "Martha Stewart Living"; to be deprived of female companionship except in the form of Vice-Warden Susan Prother's twice-weekly appearances at breakfast; and to be told that one is less than a man because one has committed a financial transgression (albeit a particularly sizable one) against society is to reduce one such as I to a weak-willed being, unable to make just decisions.
For those of you who saw the excellent film "Kinsey" (featuring the stellar Liam Neeson as the famous sex researcher), you know the human body is capable of unimagined achievement in the pursuit of pleasure. The nature of my plight obviously begs discretion, but I believe I can share one anecdote without betraying our privacy: on the final night of our honeymoon, Meryl said to me, "Now that you've spent yourself in every orifice of my body for the eighth day in a row, do you think we could order a sandwich?"
That cracked me up. But it was just as our BLT Club arrived (a choice I heartily recommend to prospective guests), and I was spreading a damask napkin across my lap, that I felt my first twinge. Though my eyes were crossed in pain and Meryl had a strip of bacon dangling from the corner of her mouth, I found myself in the grip of desire and, knocking our sandwich to the floor, I began, oh so gingerly, to undo my bathrobe for that final, fateful time.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Enough is Enough
The best part of working at Starbucks in Malibu is serving Warren Beatty. It's a true privilege. Of course, our clients include many of America's most famous stars, but it's very different making a chai latte for Larry Hagman or Robin Wright Penn than making one for Warren. Trust me, I know. Over the years, I've made him far too many to count (1,236).
I love when the Beattys come in as a family unit. That cracks me up. As I said to Warren one day when I handed him a scone, "Who'da thunk?" He seemed confused. I gestured to his brood: "Who'da thunk?" "Yeah," he deadpanned, "three girls and a boy. What are the odds?" "I get you," I said, "but I meant the odds of your having a family. Man to man, I mean, come on, you? 'Splendor in the Grass'? 'Shampoo'? 'Bonnie and Clyde'?" He tapped his scone on the counter: "I think I'm waiting on a chai latte." "O.K.," I nodded, "I'll catch you on the flip side."
The next time he stopped by, I was on him like white on rice. "You remember what we were talking about last time you were here?" He seemed confused: "When was that?" "March 26th, 11:38 A.M.," I informed him. "You have quite a memory," he said. "Our register has an internal clock," I explained, "all receipts are time-stamped." "No," he said. "They are," I insisted. "No," said Beatty, "I don't remember what we were discussing at 11:38 on March 26th."
"Let me ask you a question, Warren." "You don't have to," he responded, "I'll tell you: I'd like a chai latte." "Let me ask you a personal question." "Oh," he said warily, "I don't like those." "Because you're a movie star?" "Because I'm a person." "O.K., Warren, why don't you ask me a personal question?" "I just did: may I please have a chai latte?"
I smiled. I had to admit: the guy was sharp. Not like some of these stars who come in and still can't quite believe that someone with no talent and a gut is living in a $16 million house in Malibu. They love to talk. About their $16 million house. But not Warren. He's over himself. Way over himself. He's been famous for nearly fifty years. He turned down ten football scholarships to attend drama school at Northwestern. His life's been cake, but his body language tells me he's open to others.
I tried again: "You've probably never been asked this, but how much sex have you had?" He stared at me: "Can I just have my tea?" "C'mon," I said, "indulge me. How much sex have you had?" He paused for longer than I've ever seen a normal customer pause. Then he answered, "Enough."
"Oh, no, you don't," I said, "don't be coy. That's not an answer." "Well," he said tightly, "it's my answer." "That's a grade-school response," I told him. "I'm rubber; you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you," I recited. "You seem to be both rubber and glue in this situation." he said. "In that each is an irritant to one who's seeking tea."
"Let's start alphabetically," I prodded, "Adjani, Bening, Christie..." "Enough," he cut me off. "You don't actually know, do you?" I asked. "That's incredible. And sort of disgusting." "I'd like to speak to the manager," he demanded. "I am the manager." I love saying that. I've said it to Danny DeVito and Illeana Douglas and Rob Lowe. "Warren," I continued,"have you never sat with a cocktail napkin when you were really bored and listed your partners?" Warren Beatty has a very disconcerting gaze. It was evident in a few frames of "Dick Tracy," but most filmgoers probably aren't aware of it.
"Now, I remember you. My children were in a pageant at their preschool...." "Yes," I confirmed, "your youngest wore a pumpkin for a head." "I asked you to stop snapping pictures with your cellphone." "You did indeed." "But you persisted." He appraised me: "You're very persistent." "And you," I said as I handed him his chai latte, "are very observant."
I followed him to his booth: "Do you mind if I join you?" He looked up: "You want to have sex?" "Now, that's the Warren I know and admire," I laughed. "The Warren who wrote and directed 'Reds' and 'Bulworth.'"
"Don't sit down," he said.
"'Parallax View' is extremely underrated."
"You seem to know me pretty well," he said, "why don't you answer your own question?"
"Cryptic," I smiled, "I like that."
"Don't sit down."
"How about a scone on the house?"
"No."
"O.K. I will answer my own question: Adjani, Bening, Christie..."
"There's a line."
"And you're saying I've crossed it?"
"There's a line at the counter."
"It doesn't matter: I'm the manager."
"Why don't you answer your own question from behind the counter? You could reduce the line."
"Warren, at this point, it's your question. You asked me, 'Why don't you answer your own question?'"
"It wasn't a question. It was a request. Actually, more of a command."
"There are no commands at Starbucks. It's posted in the staff room. We're a team."
"The team seems to have its hands full with that queue."
"Let me explain something, Warren. I travel in coach. I'm not the last one to board the plane or whatever. I'm worth $38,000, $39,000 tops. There's no special booth for me at the Malibu Starbucks. I return my rental car on time like everybody else. There's a 59-minute grace period and then I get hit for two extra hours just like every other sucker...."
"Christ, you're hyperventilating."
"Because I've served you 1,236 chai lattes. Excuse me, 1,237, and you won't answer a simple question."
"1,237? You keep a tally?"
"That's my question for you, Warren: do you keep a tally?"
"No."
"Have you made use of a cocktail napkin?"
He was silent.
"At a family reunion, at a bar mitzvah, when Robert Evans was showing slides of his vacation in Gstaad, have you never found yourself tabulating, reminiscing, recollecting?"
"You're talking about mental calculations."
"Precisely."
"O.K., Tim, how many people have you slept with?"
"My name's not Tim. This is somebody else's name tag. Tim's."
"O.K., whatever your name is, how many people have you shagged?"
"That's a bit blunt, isn't it?"
His eyes narrowed. "All right, we'll go letter for letter. You offer up an 'A' for my 'A.'"
I stared at him.
"You linked me with Adjani."
"Right, but that 'A' is taken. Give me another."
"Fine. Andress."
My eyes bulged. "Ursula Andress? 'Dr. No'? The bathing suit, the conch shell, the scabbard?"
"I'm waiting for your 'A.'"
"That's easy," I told him. "My wife's named Amy."
"So you're not using surnames."
I frowned.
He sighed, "My wife's Annette. Annette Bening. A and B."
"You're lucky there," I told him.
"And your 'B' is?"
"Listen, Warren, I'm out of ammo."
He stared at me. "I've read about people like you. It's some sort of movement or something...."
"It's not that unusual," I told him. "If you have a sec, I'll explain..."
"Don't sit down."
I love when the Beattys come in as a family unit. That cracks me up. As I said to Warren one day when I handed him a scone, "Who'da thunk?" He seemed confused. I gestured to his brood: "Who'da thunk?" "Yeah," he deadpanned, "three girls and a boy. What are the odds?" "I get you," I said, "but I meant the odds of your having a family. Man to man, I mean, come on, you? 'Splendor in the Grass'? 'Shampoo'? 'Bonnie and Clyde'?" He tapped his scone on the counter: "I think I'm waiting on a chai latte." "O.K.," I nodded, "I'll catch you on the flip side."
The next time he stopped by, I was on him like white on rice. "You remember what we were talking about last time you were here?" He seemed confused: "When was that?" "March 26th, 11:38 A.M.," I informed him. "You have quite a memory," he said. "Our register has an internal clock," I explained, "all receipts are time-stamped." "No," he said. "They are," I insisted. "No," said Beatty, "I don't remember what we were discussing at 11:38 on March 26th."
"Let me ask you a question, Warren." "You don't have to," he responded, "I'll tell you: I'd like a chai latte." "Let me ask you a personal question." "Oh," he said warily, "I don't like those." "Because you're a movie star?" "Because I'm a person." "O.K., Warren, why don't you ask me a personal question?" "I just did: may I please have a chai latte?"
I smiled. I had to admit: the guy was sharp. Not like some of these stars who come in and still can't quite believe that someone with no talent and a gut is living in a $16 million house in Malibu. They love to talk. About their $16 million house. But not Warren. He's over himself. Way over himself. He's been famous for nearly fifty years. He turned down ten football scholarships to attend drama school at Northwestern. His life's been cake, but his body language tells me he's open to others.
I tried again: "You've probably never been asked this, but how much sex have you had?" He stared at me: "Can I just have my tea?" "C'mon," I said, "indulge me. How much sex have you had?" He paused for longer than I've ever seen a normal customer pause. Then he answered, "Enough."
"Oh, no, you don't," I said, "don't be coy. That's not an answer." "Well," he said tightly, "it's my answer." "That's a grade-school response," I told him. "I'm rubber; you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you," I recited. "You seem to be both rubber and glue in this situation." he said. "In that each is an irritant to one who's seeking tea."
"Let's start alphabetically," I prodded, "Adjani, Bening, Christie..." "Enough," he cut me off. "You don't actually know, do you?" I asked. "That's incredible. And sort of disgusting." "I'd like to speak to the manager," he demanded. "I am the manager." I love saying that. I've said it to Danny DeVito and Illeana Douglas and Rob Lowe. "Warren," I continued,"have you never sat with a cocktail napkin when you were really bored and listed your partners?" Warren Beatty has a very disconcerting gaze. It was evident in a few frames of "Dick Tracy," but most filmgoers probably aren't aware of it.
"Now, I remember you. My children were in a pageant at their preschool...." "Yes," I confirmed, "your youngest wore a pumpkin for a head." "I asked you to stop snapping pictures with your cellphone." "You did indeed." "But you persisted." He appraised me: "You're very persistent." "And you," I said as I handed him his chai latte, "are very observant."
I followed him to his booth: "Do you mind if I join you?" He looked up: "You want to have sex?" "Now, that's the Warren I know and admire," I laughed. "The Warren who wrote and directed 'Reds' and 'Bulworth.'"
"Don't sit down," he said.
"'Parallax View' is extremely underrated."
"You seem to know me pretty well," he said, "why don't you answer your own question?"
"Cryptic," I smiled, "I like that."
"Don't sit down."
"How about a scone on the house?"
"No."
"O.K. I will answer my own question: Adjani, Bening, Christie..."
"There's a line."
"And you're saying I've crossed it?"
"There's a line at the counter."
"It doesn't matter: I'm the manager."
"Why don't you answer your own question from behind the counter? You could reduce the line."
"Warren, at this point, it's your question. You asked me, 'Why don't you answer your own question?'"
"It wasn't a question. It was a request. Actually, more of a command."
"There are no commands at Starbucks. It's posted in the staff room. We're a team."
"The team seems to have its hands full with that queue."
"Let me explain something, Warren. I travel in coach. I'm not the last one to board the plane or whatever. I'm worth $38,000, $39,000 tops. There's no special booth for me at the Malibu Starbucks. I return my rental car on time like everybody else. There's a 59-minute grace period and then I get hit for two extra hours just like every other sucker...."
"Christ, you're hyperventilating."
"Because I've served you 1,236 chai lattes. Excuse me, 1,237, and you won't answer a simple question."
"1,237? You keep a tally?"
"That's my question for you, Warren: do you keep a tally?"
"No."
"Have you made use of a cocktail napkin?"
He was silent.
"At a family reunion, at a bar mitzvah, when Robert Evans was showing slides of his vacation in Gstaad, have you never found yourself tabulating, reminiscing, recollecting?"
"You're talking about mental calculations."
"Precisely."
"O.K., Tim, how many people have you slept with?"
"My name's not Tim. This is somebody else's name tag. Tim's."
"O.K., whatever your name is, how many people have you shagged?"
"That's a bit blunt, isn't it?"
His eyes narrowed. "All right, we'll go letter for letter. You offer up an 'A' for my 'A.'"
I stared at him.
"You linked me with Adjani."
"Right, but that 'A' is taken. Give me another."
"Fine. Andress."
My eyes bulged. "Ursula Andress? 'Dr. No'? The bathing suit, the conch shell, the scabbard?"
"I'm waiting for your 'A.'"
"That's easy," I told him. "My wife's named Amy."
"So you're not using surnames."
I frowned.
He sighed, "My wife's Annette. Annette Bening. A and B."
"You're lucky there," I told him.
"And your 'B' is?"
"Listen, Warren, I'm out of ammo."
He stared at me. "I've read about people like you. It's some sort of movement or something...."
"It's not that unusual," I told him. "If you have a sec, I'll explain..."
"Don't sit down."
Friday, 13 November 2009
Stallin'
What possesses a seventeen-year-old boy to spend an entire Sunday afternoon in a catatonic trance on his bed, staring at the ceiling? I know it's not congenital; at my son's age, I was already canvassing for an ultimately successful congressional candidate. Thus it surprised and alarmed me that Derek was not even attempting to grapple with a crucial assignment: to pen a tribute to me for my Harvard 25th reunion class book.
When I initially mentioned this endeavor to Derek, his response was characteristically flip: "Aren't your classmates summing up their own lives for the reunion book?" I conceded that many undoubtedly were, but added that not all of their sons were applying to Harvard. Should Derek's loving and well-written essay find its way to the Admissions Office (or be spotted and flagged by an astute alum), it could only bolster his chances in what has become a relentlessly competitive process.
My son attempted to shirk his task and asked why his mother or sister couldn't do it. "Because," I responded, "Mom and Betsy don't feel the way you do about me." "Damn straight," he said, but gave no sign of moving forward.
"May I suggest a topic sentence?" I asked. He nodded glumly. "Dear Dad, you are admired and respected throughout the business world." For the next three weeks, I noted not the slightest effort on Derek's part to begin his essay. What I did observe was a habit which had lately driven my wife and me to distraction: his strolling about the house humming the tune to a Michael Jackson song while periodically erupting with the phrase "Beat it" in an uncomfortably menacing manner.
After two months, Derek, who is a day student at Milton Academy, had come up with this: "Dear Dad, you are admired and respected throughout ther business world. When I began my research to write this, I realized how many things you have done and how much you are admired."
I asked Derek point-blank, "Are you brain-damaged?" He indicated that he was not. "Because Harvard accepted seven percent of its applicants last year and none of them was brain-damaged."
This unfortunate outburst led to Derek's writing a hostile paragraph comparing me unfavorably with a genocidal maniac. I informed him that the reunion book would never publish such an effort and added that Stalin was spelled with one "l."
"I'm a successful entrepreneur and an avid golfer with a 12 handicap," I reminded Derek. "Can it really be so difficult to find something to say about me?" I believe he replied, "Beat it" (my wife heard "Eat it").
So we reached an impasse, not the first such we've encountered with Derek. In the past, we'd both "helped" him complete assignments, but this time something stuck in my craw. Of course I wanted to see Derek at Harvard, but first I needed to see him out of bed, at his desk, with the overhead light illuminating a clean sheaf of paper and a pencil at the ready.
I noticed he'd had time to affix a sticker ("Nazi-free Zone") to the headboard of his antique Hepplewhite bed, to down multiple cans of soda (but not time to dispose of them in a nearby trash receptacle), to text someone named Lucius non-stop at dinner for four nights running, and to use a stack of overdue library books as a pedestal for what is possibly the crudest clay depiction of an anatomical part I have seen in two decades as a parent.
"If you ever removed the iPod from your ears, you'd be halfway toward finishing your essay." "What?" Derek yelled, as I forcibly removed his iPod. I repeated what I had said. "You mean I'd be halfway toward finishing your essay."
Derek has always been overly preoccupied with what everyone else is doing instead of focusing on his own labors. Raking leaves as a young adolescent, he was forever casting glances at Betsy's pile. "Don't worry about Betsy," I told him, "it's not a race, which is fortunate for you since she's raked twice as many leaves." Our family spent a very tense fall as my wife and I left a series of reminders in Derek's room ("1984: Dad climbed Mt. Rainier";"Began Harvard Business School in 1990") which were less than gratefully received.
Finally, I ushered Derek into my study and pointed out a signed photo of me at the White House with George W. Bush: "Perhaps this will prompt some memories." "Why?" responded Derek, "I wasn't there." "No, but I was. Some are lucky enough to sup with presidents and kings...." "What is 'sup,'" he asked, "a verb?" "Yes," I said, "short for 'supper.'" "Then shouldn't it be to eat sup with presidents and kings?"
Derek's at college in Ohio now. He's not home for Thanksgiving and offered no excuse. But it doesn't take a genius to know what keeps him away: we've got two acres here in Belmont and that makes for an awful lot of leaves.
When I initially mentioned this endeavor to Derek, his response was characteristically flip: "Aren't your classmates summing up their own lives for the reunion book?" I conceded that many undoubtedly were, but added that not all of their sons were applying to Harvard. Should Derek's loving and well-written essay find its way to the Admissions Office (or be spotted and flagged by an astute alum), it could only bolster his chances in what has become a relentlessly competitive process.
My son attempted to shirk his task and asked why his mother or sister couldn't do it. "Because," I responded, "Mom and Betsy don't feel the way you do about me." "Damn straight," he said, but gave no sign of moving forward.
"May I suggest a topic sentence?" I asked. He nodded glumly. "Dear Dad, you are admired and respected throughout the business world." For the next three weeks, I noted not the slightest effort on Derek's part to begin his essay. What I did observe was a habit which had lately driven my wife and me to distraction: his strolling about the house humming the tune to a Michael Jackson song while periodically erupting with the phrase "Beat it" in an uncomfortably menacing manner.
After two months, Derek, who is a day student at Milton Academy, had come up with this: "Dear Dad, you are admired and respected throughout ther business world. When I began my research to write this, I realized how many things you have done and how much you are admired."
I asked Derek point-blank, "Are you brain-damaged?" He indicated that he was not. "Because Harvard accepted seven percent of its applicants last year and none of them was brain-damaged."
This unfortunate outburst led to Derek's writing a hostile paragraph comparing me unfavorably with a genocidal maniac. I informed him that the reunion book would never publish such an effort and added that Stalin was spelled with one "l."
"I'm a successful entrepreneur and an avid golfer with a 12 handicap," I reminded Derek. "Can it really be so difficult to find something to say about me?" I believe he replied, "Beat it" (my wife heard "Eat it").
So we reached an impasse, not the first such we've encountered with Derek. In the past, we'd both "helped" him complete assignments, but this time something stuck in my craw. Of course I wanted to see Derek at Harvard, but first I needed to see him out of bed, at his desk, with the overhead light illuminating a clean sheaf of paper and a pencil at the ready.
I noticed he'd had time to affix a sticker ("Nazi-free Zone") to the headboard of his antique Hepplewhite bed, to down multiple cans of soda (but not time to dispose of them in a nearby trash receptacle), to text someone named Lucius non-stop at dinner for four nights running, and to use a stack of overdue library books as a pedestal for what is possibly the crudest clay depiction of an anatomical part I have seen in two decades as a parent.
"If you ever removed the iPod from your ears, you'd be halfway toward finishing your essay." "What?" Derek yelled, as I forcibly removed his iPod. I repeated what I had said. "You mean I'd be halfway toward finishing your essay."
Derek has always been overly preoccupied with what everyone else is doing instead of focusing on his own labors. Raking leaves as a young adolescent, he was forever casting glances at Betsy's pile. "Don't worry about Betsy," I told him, "it's not a race, which is fortunate for you since she's raked twice as many leaves." Our family spent a very tense fall as my wife and I left a series of reminders in Derek's room ("1984: Dad climbed Mt. Rainier";"Began Harvard Business School in 1990") which were less than gratefully received.
Finally, I ushered Derek into my study and pointed out a signed photo of me at the White House with George W. Bush: "Perhaps this will prompt some memories." "Why?" responded Derek, "I wasn't there." "No, but I was. Some are lucky enough to sup with presidents and kings...." "What is 'sup,'" he asked, "a verb?" "Yes," I said, "short for 'supper.'" "Then shouldn't it be to eat sup with presidents and kings?"
Derek's at college in Ohio now. He's not home for Thanksgiving and offered no excuse. But it doesn't take a genius to know what keeps him away: we've got two acres here in Belmont and that makes for an awful lot of leaves.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
The Moralist Discusses Travel
Dear Moralist:
When we travel through Asia, my wife insists on leaving the mosquitoes she has killed squashed against her face as a badge of honor. There is frequently blood, never mind the splayed body of the mosquito. I carry moist towlettes for the express purpose of removing such insects, but she refuses to use them. Your thoughts?
Greg
Dear Greg:
I understand your feelings, but Asia is an exasperating continent and often taking the life of a bug proves to be the sole satisfaction of one's day; it's natural to want to gloat. I also believe moist towlettes can be put to better use and as for the blood that mars your wife's face, it is most likely her own.
Dear Moralist:
Why is England so expensive?
Mark and Trudy
Dear Mark and Trudy:
Excellent question. The cost of things in England has astonished visitors for many decades. It's usually difficult to get the English to admit to their stratospheric prices as many have never left the island. Those who have mutter something about their nation being isolated, etc. When in Jolly Old, the only items I purchase are a Mason-Pearson brush and a jar of Tiptree jam. If embarking on a short stay, I bring food in my luggage. And I never, ever buy a grapefruit in England.
Dear Moralist:
During a five-week trip through Italy last summer, my husband refused to utter a single word of Italian. He would not even deign to say "grazie" to waiters, announcing, "If I do, I'll sound stupid."
Grace
Dear Grace:
No, your husband wouldn't have sounded stupid in Italian saying "thank you"; he sounds stupid in English saying that he would.
Dear Moralist:
My boyfriend is from New Hampshire and I never hear the end of it. He claims to hail from one of the "most important" states given that Dixville Notch is the first town in the nation to vote. Give me a break.
Sharon
Dear Sharon:
Yes, every four years during primary season we hear about the Sheraton-Wayfarer in Bedford and about the 23 votes cast in Dixville Notch. For those interested in New England, I recommend Maine.
Dear Moralist:
We live in Tucson, which, as you know, has its share of border strains. My husband has difficulty holding his liquor, never more so than last Thursday when I'm afraid he offended a Syrian couple by playfully recommending we solve our immigration problems by regularly mowing down with a machine gun all applicants for citizenship queuing outside the federal building.
Phyllis
Dear Phyllis:
Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't most of Tucson's "border strains" Mexican in nature? Nor do you explain the presence of your Syrian friends in Arizona (a Fulbright perhaps?). Nonetheless, it's possible that amends are in order. May I suggest you make a "hajj" to their door bearing foods Syrians enjoy such as lamb and, I believe, stuffed grape leaves?
Dear Moralist:
My wife and I each hold Ph.D.s in art history from leading research universities and are somewhat prominent in the Manhattan art world. We recently joined a group of like-minded scholars on a three-week bicycle trip through the Netherlands. By the first afternoon, it was apparent that two scholars were pedalling exceedingly slowly. To wit, we lost sight of them for more than an hour and a half and when they finally appeared they were panting and wheezing. As a result of their tardiness, we missed seeing many precious Vermeers at the Mauritshuis in The Hague. The next morning, one of the scholars expired and the second accompanied his body back to Wisconsin. Nevertheless, we feel the tour operator should issue us a refund for that first catastrophic afternoon.
Paul
Dear Paul:
I agree. Sorry you missed those Vermeers: "Girl With A Pearl Earring" is a must (and I say that independent of the book and subsequent movie). Now that you're back in, presumably, New York, you can view three Vermeers at the Frick and five at the Met (two of which are worth seeing).
Dear Moralist:
My fiancée has in her living room a map of the world into which she presses push pins to indicate places she has visited. She then connects blue thread from these pins to the central pin, representing Minneapolis, where we reside. I recently noticed a pin in Tokyo, but know for a fact that she merely changed planes there. I'd be interested in your opinion.
Derek
Dear Derek:
There are two possibilities. The first is that the pins on your fiancée's map represent places where she has changed aircraft. The second is that your fiancée feels that visiting a place is synonymous with passing time in its airport. Confronting your fiancée may cause her to remove the map, which could be detrimental should you move into her home after marriage and find yourself lamenting its absence.
Dear Moralist:
When we travel abroad, my husband insists on looking like a grub. He wears dirty, tacky clothing, shaves in a sloppy manner or not at all, etc. I believe we are ambassadors for our country and our appearance should reflect that.
Sylvia
Dear Sylvia:
No, your husband is not an ambassador unless he happens to have donated a substantial sum to the American political party in power and to have been rewarded with a sinecure which, I'll grant you, does require shaving and a clean shirt. Ask yourself if your husband will ever again see any of the people you meet oversees. The answer, in the case of a train conductor in Hyderabad, is "probably not." Essentially, it doesn't matter how we Americans are seen by others. They still all want to be us whether we have gravy stains on our trousers or not. Our personal grooming and appearance are irrelevant except in the following locations: the entire nation of France, London, Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and the north-east quadrant of Sardinia (between July 1st and September 15th).
When we travel through Asia, my wife insists on leaving the mosquitoes she has killed squashed against her face as a badge of honor. There is frequently blood, never mind the splayed body of the mosquito. I carry moist towlettes for the express purpose of removing such insects, but she refuses to use them. Your thoughts?
Greg
Dear Greg:
I understand your feelings, but Asia is an exasperating continent and often taking the life of a bug proves to be the sole satisfaction of one's day; it's natural to want to gloat. I also believe moist towlettes can be put to better use and as for the blood that mars your wife's face, it is most likely her own.
Dear Moralist:
Why is England so expensive?
Mark and Trudy
Dear Mark and Trudy:
Excellent question. The cost of things in England has astonished visitors for many decades. It's usually difficult to get the English to admit to their stratospheric prices as many have never left the island. Those who have mutter something about their nation being isolated, etc. When in Jolly Old, the only items I purchase are a Mason-Pearson brush and a jar of Tiptree jam. If embarking on a short stay, I bring food in my luggage. And I never, ever buy a grapefruit in England.
Dear Moralist:
During a five-week trip through Italy last summer, my husband refused to utter a single word of Italian. He would not even deign to say "grazie" to waiters, announcing, "If I do, I'll sound stupid."
Grace
Dear Grace:
No, your husband wouldn't have sounded stupid in Italian saying "thank you"; he sounds stupid in English saying that he would.
Dear Moralist:
My boyfriend is from New Hampshire and I never hear the end of it. He claims to hail from one of the "most important" states given that Dixville Notch is the first town in the nation to vote. Give me a break.
Sharon
Dear Sharon:
Yes, every four years during primary season we hear about the Sheraton-Wayfarer in Bedford and about the 23 votes cast in Dixville Notch. For those interested in New England, I recommend Maine.
Dear Moralist:
We live in Tucson, which, as you know, has its share of border strains. My husband has difficulty holding his liquor, never more so than last Thursday when I'm afraid he offended a Syrian couple by playfully recommending we solve our immigration problems by regularly mowing down with a machine gun all applicants for citizenship queuing outside the federal building.
Phyllis
Dear Phyllis:
Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't most of Tucson's "border strains" Mexican in nature? Nor do you explain the presence of your Syrian friends in Arizona (a Fulbright perhaps?). Nonetheless, it's possible that amends are in order. May I suggest you make a "hajj" to their door bearing foods Syrians enjoy such as lamb and, I believe, stuffed grape leaves?
Dear Moralist:
My wife and I each hold Ph.D.s in art history from leading research universities and are somewhat prominent in the Manhattan art world. We recently joined a group of like-minded scholars on a three-week bicycle trip through the Netherlands. By the first afternoon, it was apparent that two scholars were pedalling exceedingly slowly. To wit, we lost sight of them for more than an hour and a half and when they finally appeared they were panting and wheezing. As a result of their tardiness, we missed seeing many precious Vermeers at the Mauritshuis in The Hague. The next morning, one of the scholars expired and the second accompanied his body back to Wisconsin. Nevertheless, we feel the tour operator should issue us a refund for that first catastrophic afternoon.
Paul
Dear Paul:
I agree. Sorry you missed those Vermeers: "Girl With A Pearl Earring" is a must (and I say that independent of the book and subsequent movie). Now that you're back in, presumably, New York, you can view three Vermeers at the Frick and five at the Met (two of which are worth seeing).
Dear Moralist:
My fiancée has in her living room a map of the world into which she presses push pins to indicate places she has visited. She then connects blue thread from these pins to the central pin, representing Minneapolis, where we reside. I recently noticed a pin in Tokyo, but know for a fact that she merely changed planes there. I'd be interested in your opinion.
Derek
Dear Derek:
There are two possibilities. The first is that the pins on your fiancée's map represent places where she has changed aircraft. The second is that your fiancée feels that visiting a place is synonymous with passing time in its airport. Confronting your fiancée may cause her to remove the map, which could be detrimental should you move into her home after marriage and find yourself lamenting its absence.
Dear Moralist:
When we travel abroad, my husband insists on looking like a grub. He wears dirty, tacky clothing, shaves in a sloppy manner or not at all, etc. I believe we are ambassadors for our country and our appearance should reflect that.
Sylvia
Dear Sylvia:
No, your husband is not an ambassador unless he happens to have donated a substantial sum to the American political party in power and to have been rewarded with a sinecure which, I'll grant you, does require shaving and a clean shirt. Ask yourself if your husband will ever again see any of the people you meet oversees. The answer, in the case of a train conductor in Hyderabad, is "probably not." Essentially, it doesn't matter how we Americans are seen by others. They still all want to be us whether we have gravy stains on our trousers or not. Our personal grooming and appearance are irrelevant except in the following locations: the entire nation of France, London, Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and the north-east quadrant of Sardinia (between July 1st and September 15th).
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Early Action
One good thing about professionally tutoring students for the SAT in the Midwest is that no one asks if I was admitted Early Action (no) to a school like Stanford (no). Queries from parents here tend to be along the lines of, "Did you yourself graduate from an accredited four-year institution?" (Yes.)
I am a statuesque redhead in her early 30s with stunning blue eyes and a supple (possible SAT word) and lithe (probable SAT word) body. A delicate tracery of veins shows through my nearly translucent skin, particularly around my neck and upper chest when aroused: a veritable road map of desire.
Jeremy was my first tutee. A tall, well-built high school junior, with tufts of dark hair peeking through the collar of his Pendleton work shirt, he hoped to attend Carleton. We initiated our sessions in the Berkowitz living room, but soon moved to Jeremy's bedroom for reasons of enhanced lighting and space.
One day after running through a few rudimentary vocabulary warm-ups, he confided that he felt a special connection to me. I was standing near his bedroom window, autumnal light silhouetting my leggy physique, a slightly too-short kilt encasing my girlish waist. "How," I asked, "do you explain this affinity? (definite SAT word)" "I think it's because you're Jewish." I stared at him. He clarified: "You know, Stanley Kaplan." I laughed and moistened my index finger in the corner of my mouth like a sweat-slaked Burmese maiden tentatively tasting her first dew-drenched sugar-cane shoot. "Oh, Jeremy, I'm not Jewish; Kaplan is just the organization for which I work."
"Still," he said and looked down, his full eyelashes accentuating the vulpine shape of his eyes. "Jeremy," I whispered, "have I hurt or confused you in any way?" I placed my hands at the base of his broad neck and began to slowly rotate my thumbs in a circular motion in order to alleviate any tension I may have spawned in my young charge.
I continued to comfort him while inhaling his scent of rain-washed grapes and purring softly that I felt sure his chances of admission to Carleton were rock solid. "Let's continue our drill," I coaxed, "write the following words as I dictate: prowess, glisten, hilt, stimulate, nexus."
I noticed Jeremy's pencil trembling as he turned and gazed up at me. I looked down at him and parted my lips, emphasizing a prominent overbite which has led many to mistakenly think me French: "Yes?" "I'm not sure," he confessed, "of the difference between prostate and prostrate." "Jeremy," I offered, "why don't you lie on the floor and I'll show you."
Eddie Phillips had a wrestler's torso: taut and muscular with what I can only call torque. His weakness was math and my weakness was allowing him to see me in an angora sweater my second husband claimed should be registered as a weapon. That Tuesday in November, I was extremely tired: stifling yawns and stretching my arms in such a manner as to arch my back and make evident my fatigue. "You seem exhausted," Eddie said. "Concentrate on your rigid protractor, Eddie." "I like your sweater."
"Eddie," I asked, "do you know what will soon be long and hard?" He stared at me, the downy hairs on his forearms glinting in the glow of his desk lamp. I answered my own question: "The math section of the SAT if you don't focus."
"I'm having trouble finding the hypotenuse," he explained. "Many do," I responded, tossing my coppery coils like a young lioness surprised in the midst of a morning bath by a stealthy intruder. "Shall I help you?" "Please," he said in a throaty rasp.
"If you want to measure the hypotenuse, there's a little trick they taught me at Princeton." "You went to Princeton?" he asked incredulously. "No, silly," I said as I ran my finger from his clavicle to the base of his sternum (two probable SAT words), "Princeton Review: my previous employer." "All you have to do," I explained, as I lifted a sheet of paper from his work surface and wetted its very tip with the edge of my tongue, "is take your test booklet and use it as a strong, straight edge to measure all sides of a given triangle."
He gaped at me, his eyes coming to rest in a field on angora. "It's a shortcut, Eddie. Not strictly legal, but certainly...admissable. Let's just call it a lesser sin."
"I'm not sure I get it," he replied. "Remember, I'm not good in math." I yawned again with the concomitant arching of my back. "It's all in the angles." He looked confused. "Proportions, Eddie, proportions. If one side of a right-angled triangle is six inches, and another is eight, then my question for you, mister," I said as I breathed damply against his freshly-shaven cheek, "is how long is your hypotenuse?" His eyes grew wide, as if in awe of his answer: "The length of my hypotenuse is ten inches."
I am a statuesque redhead in her early 30s with stunning blue eyes and a supple (possible SAT word) and lithe (probable SAT word) body. A delicate tracery of veins shows through my nearly translucent skin, particularly around my neck and upper chest when aroused: a veritable road map of desire.
Jeremy was my first tutee. A tall, well-built high school junior, with tufts of dark hair peeking through the collar of his Pendleton work shirt, he hoped to attend Carleton. We initiated our sessions in the Berkowitz living room, but soon moved to Jeremy's bedroom for reasons of enhanced lighting and space.
One day after running through a few rudimentary vocabulary warm-ups, he confided that he felt a special connection to me. I was standing near his bedroom window, autumnal light silhouetting my leggy physique, a slightly too-short kilt encasing my girlish waist. "How," I asked, "do you explain this affinity? (definite SAT word)" "I think it's because you're Jewish." I stared at him. He clarified: "You know, Stanley Kaplan." I laughed and moistened my index finger in the corner of my mouth like a sweat-slaked Burmese maiden tentatively tasting her first dew-drenched sugar-cane shoot. "Oh, Jeremy, I'm not Jewish; Kaplan is just the organization for which I work."
"Still," he said and looked down, his full eyelashes accentuating the vulpine shape of his eyes. "Jeremy," I whispered, "have I hurt or confused you in any way?" I placed my hands at the base of his broad neck and began to slowly rotate my thumbs in a circular motion in order to alleviate any tension I may have spawned in my young charge.
I continued to comfort him while inhaling his scent of rain-washed grapes and purring softly that I felt sure his chances of admission to Carleton were rock solid. "Let's continue our drill," I coaxed, "write the following words as I dictate: prowess, glisten, hilt, stimulate, nexus."
I noticed Jeremy's pencil trembling as he turned and gazed up at me. I looked down at him and parted my lips, emphasizing a prominent overbite which has led many to mistakenly think me French: "Yes?" "I'm not sure," he confessed, "of the difference between prostate and prostrate." "Jeremy," I offered, "why don't you lie on the floor and I'll show you."
Eddie Phillips had a wrestler's torso: taut and muscular with what I can only call torque. His weakness was math and my weakness was allowing him to see me in an angora sweater my second husband claimed should be registered as a weapon. That Tuesday in November, I was extremely tired: stifling yawns and stretching my arms in such a manner as to arch my back and make evident my fatigue. "You seem exhausted," Eddie said. "Concentrate on your rigid protractor, Eddie." "I like your sweater."
"Eddie," I asked, "do you know what will soon be long and hard?" He stared at me, the downy hairs on his forearms glinting in the glow of his desk lamp. I answered my own question: "The math section of the SAT if you don't focus."
"I'm having trouble finding the hypotenuse," he explained. "Many do," I responded, tossing my coppery coils like a young lioness surprised in the midst of a morning bath by a stealthy intruder. "Shall I help you?" "Please," he said in a throaty rasp.
"If you want to measure the hypotenuse, there's a little trick they taught me at Princeton." "You went to Princeton?" he asked incredulously. "No, silly," I said as I ran my finger from his clavicle to the base of his sternum (two probable SAT words), "Princeton Review: my previous employer." "All you have to do," I explained, as I lifted a sheet of paper from his work surface and wetted its very tip with the edge of my tongue, "is take your test booklet and use it as a strong, straight edge to measure all sides of a given triangle."
He gaped at me, his eyes coming to rest in a field on angora. "It's a shortcut, Eddie. Not strictly legal, but certainly...admissable. Let's just call it a lesser sin."
"I'm not sure I get it," he replied. "Remember, I'm not good in math." I yawned again with the concomitant arching of my back. "It's all in the angles." He looked confused. "Proportions, Eddie, proportions. If one side of a right-angled triangle is six inches, and another is eight, then my question for you, mister," I said as I breathed damply against his freshly-shaven cheek, "is how long is your hypotenuse?" His eyes grew wide, as if in awe of his answer: "The length of my hypotenuse is ten inches."
Monday, 2 November 2009
Situational Awareness
Those investigating why a Northwest Airlines flight overshot its destination by 150 miles and did not respond to radio calls from controllers were told by crew members that "they were in a heated discussion over airline policy and lost situational awareness"--The Times
It all started with my captain's name tag. "Good morning, Greg," I greeted him, "I'm First Officer today." "My name's not Greg," he responded. "This is someone else's name tag. Greg's." We then began earnestly to debate how mistakenly donning another pilot's name tag could affect airline operations, particularly since real-life Greg turned out to be an unusually inept union representative who had made a number of ill-advised concessions during recent negotiations.
Issues of identity preoccupied us as we took off from San Diego and I mentioned that I'd been reading some Nietzsche lately and had become interested in his philosophy of masks. I put the following question to my co-pilot, "Is it proper to 'put on a mask' for the purpose of your own entertainment?" "You misunderstood me," he replied, "I didn't want to assume Greg's persona. In fact, I loathe him for spinelessly capitulating to management." I clarified: "In 'Beyond Good and Evil,' Nietzsche writes, 'Every profound spirit needs a mask: even more, around every profound spirit a mask is continually growing, owing to the constantly false, namely shallow interpretation of every word, every step, every sign of life he gives.'" At this point, the captain began fooling around with a spare oxygen mask and I abandoned what I could see would be a fruitless discussion.
We flew in silence over the Arizona desert and I could tell he felt chastened. Finally, he burst out, "What do you want me to do? Stand in the corner?" I observed that there was no corner as the cockpit was spherical in shape, but told him that matters of perception and role-playing were of paramount importance. "All the world's a stage," I reminded him, which led to his confessing that he had always wanted to be an actor: "Like Leonardo DiCaprio. Wasn't he fantastic in 'Catch Me If You Can,' impersonating a pilot?" "Look," I noted casually, "the Rockies. You are, by the way, a certified pilot, right?" "Absolutely," he laughed, "14,000 hours in the air. But my true passion is cereal."
It emerged that my co-pilot had a vast collection of vintage cereal boxes with an emphasis on Kellogg's Snack Packs. I admitted I never bought these miniature offerings as I found them hideously expensive and did not like Apple Jacks, which seemed to be present in whatever medley I saw. "And another thing," I asked, "Can you truly perforate the box, add milk, and have the cardboard function as an actual bowl?" He told me he had no idea as he'd been reluctant to tamper with his collection and thereby damage its resale value.
"What sort of price would you place on your collection?" I asked. He appeared nonplussed: "Do you want to buy it?" "No," I told him, "I'm just interested in its value." His next comment led me to believe I'd underestimated him: "What is the true value of anything?" he sighed.
"Ah," I said, "the old conundrum: worth versus value. What is it Oscar Wilde said, 'A cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing'?" He responded: "Then Greg must be a cynic: he certainly didn't seem to know the value of our pensions." We had a good laugh over that as we passed over golden fields of corn.
Eventually, the captain began toying again with the spare oxygen mask. "Do you know what I'm doing?" he asked. "Annoying me?" "I'm doing connected breathing." "Is that so?" I remarked with disinterest. "Yes. I've completed my practitioner training." "Great," I replied, "and you are a certified pilot?""Hilary Swank was phenomenal as 'Amelia,'" he answered. "Right," I told him, "great at playing a pilot."
"I'm certified in rebirthing," he told me: "reliving the birth experience through connected breathing." "What's the point?" I asked. "To heal the trauma of one's own birth. Notice how I'm not pausing between inhale and exhale. This causes a build up of oxygen in the blood and a subsequent accumulation of prana or life energy."
"Prana," I ventured, "what is that? Hindi?" We began to talk about India and he corrected my pronunciation of the word "Himalayas." "I know it's singular," I said, "but it's like pronouncing the Cyclades kih-klah-dez: you feel like an asshole. Particularly if you haven't been to either place."
After a while, he inquired if I'd like to experience rebirthing. "What does that entail?" "Well," he explained, "breathing sessions are done lying down and usually last 1-2 hours." "We're due in Minneapolis in 80 minutes," I observed, "do you think we have time?" He thought for a moment: "Let me ring the stewardess for a pillow."
Thus it began: the most intense period I've spent on this earth. Or, actually, above it. It all flooded through me: my insecurity as a boy, my overbearing father, two years at a substandard military academy, a skein of intimacy issues with my first three wives....
I was sobbing, gasping for breath, shaken to my core. Tears streamed down my face like marbles and I was suddenly awash in metaphorical amniotic fluid, the crown of my head pressing out through my mother's pulsing pelvis, the bright lights of the OR and the kindly face of the attending doctor now visible as I heard the steady beat of my newborn heart amplified by his stethoscope. It was a rude jolt to realize this was, in fact, a flight attendant pounding on the cockpit door. "What is going on in there?" she demanded. "Glory of glories," I shouted in response as my eyes rolled back in my head, "I've arrived."
It all started with my captain's name tag. "Good morning, Greg," I greeted him, "I'm First Officer today." "My name's not Greg," he responded. "This is someone else's name tag. Greg's." We then began earnestly to debate how mistakenly donning another pilot's name tag could affect airline operations, particularly since real-life Greg turned out to be an unusually inept union representative who had made a number of ill-advised concessions during recent negotiations.
Issues of identity preoccupied us as we took off from San Diego and I mentioned that I'd been reading some Nietzsche lately and had become interested in his philosophy of masks. I put the following question to my co-pilot, "Is it proper to 'put on a mask' for the purpose of your own entertainment?" "You misunderstood me," he replied, "I didn't want to assume Greg's persona. In fact, I loathe him for spinelessly capitulating to management." I clarified: "In 'Beyond Good and Evil,' Nietzsche writes, 'Every profound spirit needs a mask: even more, around every profound spirit a mask is continually growing, owing to the constantly false, namely shallow interpretation of every word, every step, every sign of life he gives.'" At this point, the captain began fooling around with a spare oxygen mask and I abandoned what I could see would be a fruitless discussion.
We flew in silence over the Arizona desert and I could tell he felt chastened. Finally, he burst out, "What do you want me to do? Stand in the corner?" I observed that there was no corner as the cockpit was spherical in shape, but told him that matters of perception and role-playing were of paramount importance. "All the world's a stage," I reminded him, which led to his confessing that he had always wanted to be an actor: "Like Leonardo DiCaprio. Wasn't he fantastic in 'Catch Me If You Can,' impersonating a pilot?" "Look," I noted casually, "the Rockies. You are, by the way, a certified pilot, right?" "Absolutely," he laughed, "14,000 hours in the air. But my true passion is cereal."
It emerged that my co-pilot had a vast collection of vintage cereal boxes with an emphasis on Kellogg's Snack Packs. I admitted I never bought these miniature offerings as I found them hideously expensive and did not like Apple Jacks, which seemed to be present in whatever medley I saw. "And another thing," I asked, "Can you truly perforate the box, add milk, and have the cardboard function as an actual bowl?" He told me he had no idea as he'd been reluctant to tamper with his collection and thereby damage its resale value.
"What sort of price would you place on your collection?" I asked. He appeared nonplussed: "Do you want to buy it?" "No," I told him, "I'm just interested in its value." His next comment led me to believe I'd underestimated him: "What is the true value of anything?" he sighed.
"Ah," I said, "the old conundrum: worth versus value. What is it Oscar Wilde said, 'A cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing'?" He responded: "Then Greg must be a cynic: he certainly didn't seem to know the value of our pensions." We had a good laugh over that as we passed over golden fields of corn.
Eventually, the captain began toying again with the spare oxygen mask. "Do you know what I'm doing?" he asked. "Annoying me?" "I'm doing connected breathing." "Is that so?" I remarked with disinterest. "Yes. I've completed my practitioner training." "Great," I replied, "and you are a certified pilot?""Hilary Swank was phenomenal as 'Amelia,'" he answered. "Right," I told him, "great at playing a pilot."
"I'm certified in rebirthing," he told me: "reliving the birth experience through connected breathing." "What's the point?" I asked. "To heal the trauma of one's own birth. Notice how I'm not pausing between inhale and exhale. This causes a build up of oxygen in the blood and a subsequent accumulation of prana or life energy."
"Prana," I ventured, "what is that? Hindi?" We began to talk about India and he corrected my pronunciation of the word "Himalayas." "I know it's singular," I said, "but it's like pronouncing the Cyclades kih-klah-dez: you feel like an asshole. Particularly if you haven't been to either place."
After a while, he inquired if I'd like to experience rebirthing. "What does that entail?" "Well," he explained, "breathing sessions are done lying down and usually last 1-2 hours." "We're due in Minneapolis in 80 minutes," I observed, "do you think we have time?" He thought for a moment: "Let me ring the stewardess for a pillow."
Thus it began: the most intense period I've spent on this earth. Or, actually, above it. It all flooded through me: my insecurity as a boy, my overbearing father, two years at a substandard military academy, a skein of intimacy issues with my first three wives....
I was sobbing, gasping for breath, shaken to my core. Tears streamed down my face like marbles and I was suddenly awash in metaphorical amniotic fluid, the crown of my head pressing out through my mother's pulsing pelvis, the bright lights of the OR and the kindly face of the attending doctor now visible as I heard the steady beat of my newborn heart amplified by his stethoscope. It was a rude jolt to realize this was, in fact, a flight attendant pounding on the cockpit door. "What is going on in there?" she demanded. "Glory of glories," I shouted in response as my eyes rolled back in my head, "I've arrived."
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