Un-Soprano-ed but Wired for Homeland

Posted on December 14, 2011 by sheilawill

I’ve never been one for television. When the kids were little I complained about the evils, the passivity, of television. Five years ago, when I first met Dan, he insisted there were better TV shows than movies. I found that hard to believe but took his comment to heart. Young love and all.

Now I’m hooked on “Homeland.” The first spectacular season will end Sunday with a 90-minute episode,  which is certain to be super-intense. Will Brody detonate the explosive vest he picked up — speaking Arabic to the back-room bomb maker in a clothing store — on vacation with his family in Gettysburg,? Will Carrie, the super-smart, manic CIA intelligence agent ever get her job back? And who is the mole passing valuable information to someone intending to wreak havoc on the homeland? Was seeing Iraqi children killed by American bombs enough to turn a marine against his own country? Stay tuned. 

House, The Mentalist, Castle, Person of Interest, Unforgettable are all shows that Dan and I watch together via computer magic. A cozy way to spend an evening. Part of our ritual is a delectable chocolate-soy treat from Trader Joe’s, or cuties, as we call them.

My brother, Joel, is also an ardent Homeland fan. We discuss each episode. He’s told me a zillion times that I must watch The Sopranos and The Wire. I’m going for The Wire next, mainly because both Brook and Ethan have highly recommended it.

On Thanksgiving evening in Jersey City, Brook, her grad school friend Kitty, Gian and I watched an episode of Homeland. Kitty assured me it wasn’t nearly as “brilliant” as The Wire.

Joel tells me that my sister-in-law, Sandy, a retired elementary school principal who abhors violence, recently watched all seven seasons of The Sopranos and loved it. I tried the first episode five or six years ago. The lead character (Mr. Soprano?) kicked someone in the head. Not for me, I thought back then.

Now that Sandy’s retired she’s catching up, my brother says. I read today about the key to happiness: Know yourself. I’m intense but way less anxious than I used to be. I won’t stay awake all night condemning a violent TV show in my mind, although I still refuse to watch Dexter. I won’t watch a program about a serial killer. I won’t watch comedy shows with canned laughter in the background. 

But maybe I’ll catch up too.

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Twelve-year-old bartender: Anything goes in NYC

Posted on December 10, 2011 by sheilawill

Anything goes in a traditional Central Park West household: a lavish dessert buffet, an overview of giant balloons ready to soar in the Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade the next morning, hip New Yorkers of all ages. What about a 12-year-old bartender in a coat and tie who confidently knew the difference between Pinot Noir and Zinfandel (I don’t!)?

August H. (don’t want to get him in trouble by using his real name) handed out business cards. He was a sweet, smart kid. “I’ve been doing this since I was 8,” he told us. His twin sister was the coat-check girl. When I met her she was lying on the bed under a pile of coats, probably being helpful matching the right coat to each partygoer. I never did catch her name; maybe it was Cordelia, which would have appropriately matched her brother’s name.

“We live in the building,” Augie said, as he poured a glass of wine, so there was no shortage of party-helper jobs. I was at an annual party held by a grad school friend of Brook’s, an older woman, well, my age. Great people watching: Young people in old jeans sat on the couch laughing. A perfectly buff middle-aged woman kept nodding her head, watching her silver-haired husband expounding to three or four younger women.

Charlotte, my friend since kindergarten, accompanied Brook, Gian and me to the party. She appreciated the NYC tradition, one that I had never heard of. We watched regular New Yorkers walking through the park below. I imagined them oohing and ahhing at the giant Snoopy, Spiderman and Energizer bunny balloons.

Funny thing, revelers in the posh Central Park West apartment were regular folk too. I didn’t feel out of place. In the bathroom I noticed Trader Joe’s citrus body wash, the same inexpensive kind that I use. Yup, it was a good Thanksgiving. I belonged.

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NYC Occupy Wall Street unoccupied

Posted on December 1, 2011 by sheilawill

Zuccotti Park had more private security people “occupying” it last Friday than Occupy Wall Street protesters. “Join us, join us,” a few people called out, huddling together at one end of the park in the rain.

“Sure,” I replied. A young woman offered me a luscious-looking piece of lemon pound cake from a large box, one of the food donations apparently still arriving at the park.

Amin Ali, 28,  a Pakistani financial consultant was the first person I spoke with. While working near Wall Street a few months ago, he had daily joined protesters for around three weeks.

“I wanted to see how inequality works here. I came here because of the American Dream,” he said. “You supposedly get to climb up the ladder, but it’s rigged.

“I know what it’s like to live in a place where rich people barely pay taxes. In Pakistan, the rich control everything. The rich are the government,” he continued. “There are no Abraham Lincolns over there.”

Ali, who currently lives in Atlanta,  said he doesn’t know if he’ll stay here. “The U.S. will end up being like Pakistan if the 99% doesn’t take control,” he lamented.

I couldn’t find anyone who had been at the park since the beginning of the protest on Sept. 17. Maria, who didn’t want to give her last name, is a paramedic and the psych coordinator for a church that now takes in former occupiers.

“At first, I came here to help provide adequate medical care for people who can’t get any,” she said. “I became involved, then I became angry.” The police would initially come by just to prove a point, but that changed, said Maria, who was at the park when police evacuated the protesters last month.

(I tried to engage NYPD officers still hanging out at Zuccotti Park, which I found out is privately owned. But they told me they couldn’t talk to the press: “Call the deputy commissioner’s public information [line]. They’ll talk with you for hours.”)

“A cop punched a kid in the face who was just sitting there locking arms with a few other kids,” Maria told me. While we were chatting, Eric came over and asked to be interviewed, which made me suspicious. I was wearing my press ID.

Eric had worked in marketing and promotion in the music industry, but “chose to be here full time. We’re here for the uplifting of humanity,” he asserted.

When I asked for examples of how to do that, he hesitated, after saying he was at the park “because the media coverage lacked clarity. I wanted to provide some answers.”

Here’s what he came up with: “Representative democracy hasn’t done too well for us. We need to limit interaction between Wall Street and politicians. We need more marches and boycotts around the entire world.”

OK, so I would much rather listen to Robert Reich or Paul Krugman “provide answers,” even if the powers that be don’t seem to be heeding their expert advice.

But clarify this: As a member of the 99 percent with an urge to do something, I’m heading to a local credit union this afternoon, switching my account from corporate Wells Fargo. I’ll tell someone there why I’m closing my account. Does it matter? Maybe.

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Amy Goodman and me

Posted on November 28, 2011 by sheilawill

Writing at 38,000 feet, on my way home to Tucson from New York City. So close to a sliver of moon. No stars in sight.

Last night, Amy Goodman of “Democracy Now” watched “The Descendants” with us, completing a day of superb visual entertainment — The Metropolitan Museum of Art and its new wing with a cornucopia of riches from Turkey, Iraq, Iran, Central and South Asia. Turquoise glazed pottery, elaborate rugs, and all sorts of pieces I couldn’t have imagined were magnificent.

We extended our art experience to food, having a fabulous dinner at the Pashra Turkish restaurant on the upper west side. “Can you have a bad eating experience in New York?” I asked Brook. She said it was possible but rare.

Tiny lamb dumplings in a creamy yogurt sauce, grape leaves that were more dilly than usual, and lamb entrees all around. A smoky eggplant puree made a bed for my tender  lamb entree. I could see myself sipping coffee in Turkey.

After dinner it was still early for a Saturday night in the giant apple. Brook suggested a movie at the 23rd Street Cinema, which catered to the Chelsea neighborhood, a hip place. Spotting Amy Goodman after the movie at around 11 p.m., I considered saying hi. After all, I stood next to her at the  2004 alternative Democratic Convention across the river from the real one at Boston’s Fleet Center. She asked questions, while her assistant maneuvered one of those giant fuzzy microphones. A niche newspaper reporter, I used a tiny digital tape recorder. Amy and I and her assistant chatted a bit.

But we were part of the same crowd then. Brook said if I wanted to talk with Amy, she and Gian would wait outside: “Go ahead, mom, I know you want to.”

I decided not to. One political junkie ranting to another, that’s what a hi could become. What was the point? She was out with a friend on a Saturday night. I had  spent a superb New York day with my daughter and her boyfriend.

New York/Jersey City/ Newark Airport/Tucson. Too much eating back east but it was all so delicious. Back to regular life in Tucson — salads, soy cuties for dessert. Back to the desert and Dan, which is okay by me.

 

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Jersey City rocks!

Posted on November 24, 2011 by sheilawill

Strolling down Bright Street I spotted an end-of-fall red- and gold-leafed tree interspersed among solar-paneled poles that power the street lights. I’m impressed, never seen that before. Jersey City has a splendid boardwalk bordering the Hudson River with the most awesome view of the New York skyline.  If the weather holds out tomorrow we’re taking the ferry to the World Trade Center stop before heading uptown on the subway.

Jersey City is much closer to Manhattan and all its glories than where Brook used to live on 207th Street. Jersey City isn’t as crowded as New York City. Okay, there aren’t many folks roaming the streets on Thanksgiving. One grandmother tried mightily to get her tiny granddaughter to walk more quickly, but recalcitrant Emma wouldn’t budge. (“Emma, what’s wrong? Comon’ Emma,” she repeated).

I didn’t much like Emma’s grandmother either (if I’m ever a grandmother I’d be a lot nicer).

Now I’m happy sitting in Brook and Gianmarco’s loft apartment in their Jersey City historic industrial building. Wish Ethan and Dan were here too.

We’re going to have the most luscious Thanksgiving dinner ever. A turkey just off the farm, Brussel sprouts sauteed in garlic butter, tons of other fun veggies, mashed potatoes with real gravy, homemade biscuits and apple pie lovingly created by Gian. And the best olives I’ve ever had.

Jersey City rocks because the yuppy Hudson Green market by the river had peach ginger sorbet and jalapeno chocolate sorbet that I bought as the Southwestern contribution to our dessert bonanza.

Am I “grated full” of joy to be here? (A student once wrote in an essay that she was “grated full.” Not joking. Those silly high school students.)

Thanksgiving reverie. I’m already sipping a glass of Malbec from Argentina, looking out at the NYC skyline in that sublime light that illuminates Mount Desert Island in September and spectacular Tucson sunsets. Here I am in Jersey City, which so rocks  because Brook and Gianmarco live here.

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Rumsfeld the warmonger and grandfather (at least in my dreams)

Posted on November 22, 2011 by sheilawill

Unlike Robert McNamara, who finally admitted that he was the architect of the Vietnam war, and that he made mistakes, Donald Rumsfeld’s new book does nothing of the sort. He made no mistakes, the deceptive bastard (more on that in a bit).

My son, Ethan, now 30, was a baby in my dream last night. He was all peaceful wrapped in a blanket, and we were out for a walk. Rumsfeld must have been summering in Northeast Harbor, Maine, on Mount Desert Island, where Ethan grew up.

The former defense secretary stepped onto his porch to pick up the newspaper. When he saw how sweet my little guy looked, he smiled, turned into a paragon of warmth and wanted to hold Ethan. I let him. (It was a dream, folks).

Fast forward 27 years or so. Intrepid Ethan was based in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, as a stringer for the New York Times. (Please search Ethan wilensky-Lanford on nytimes.com. I’m on a plane flying to Newark for Thanksgiving with Brook and Gianmarco and the connection is mucho slow).

Rumsfeld was in Bishkek to look in on the U.S. military base post violence in nearby Uzbekistan. He held a news conference and Ethan was there. Rumsfeld deflected answers to Ethan’s first two questions, passing the buck and saying he “didn’t know anything about that,” then telling Ethan he’d have to ask so-and-so. When Ethan hit Rumsfeld with yet a third quote, the ruthless defense secretary stared him down and asked, “Am I missing something in translation?”

“No, Mr. Secretary,” Ethan responded. “I’m speaking English.”

(Eth — I’m sorry if I haven’t gotten this exactly right, but it’s the punchline that matters, and that’s correct.)

At some point in his life Rumsfeld has held a baby, smiled warmly, cared about someone, but not so much when he sent other people’s sons and daughters to wage war with inadequate body or tank armor.

When Ethan was a baby in real life his dad and I heard Dr. Helen Caldicott speak at the College of the Atlantic in Bar Harbor. Ethan was peaceful in his baby car seat, taking it all in, I imagine. Caldicott, an early and passionate anti-nuclear advocate, asked if she could hold our “beautiful baby,” telling the audience that he was the reason she was so adamantly opposed to nuclear weapons.

She’s still at it — and so is Rumsfeld. I’m grateful for so much in my life — for Ethan, Brook and Gianmarco, Dan, the rest of my family, all my dear friends, and Helen Caldicott.

A Happy and Peaceful Thanksgiving to all.

 

 

Posted in Family Matters, politics, The Rest of the World | Tagged , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Hooray for food trucks!

Posted on November 15, 2011 by sheilawill

They’re in all the hip places, and after tonight’s first-ever food truck jamboree Tucson has definitely jumped on the bandwagon. Kudos to Julie Ray for encouraging culinary hipness!

I arrived at the Dinnerware Artspace parking lot — suitably decked out for the festive occasion with sparkly lights — around 6 p.m. Long lines of folks were waiting for Cuban pulled pork or jerk chicken at Jamie’s Bitchin’ Kitchen or taking in the aroma of Korean B-B-Q tacos at the MaFooCo truck. I had already sampled a pineapple-jalapeno thing- on-a-stick on Saturday from the Cyclopsicle. Gus Coliadis, the popsicle maker and owner of the orange bicycle with the cooler on back was there tonight, too.

Julie told me she was on channel 13 this afternoon so maybe that’s what brought out so many people, but I don’t think so. Soulful sax sounds along with flute and xylophone wafted from the building, where tables and chairs were set up.

Outside, I saw a few people I knew. Julie introduced me to a young woman in the Bitchin’ Kitchen line, and we sat together inside. She was from Washington, D.C., has been teaching special education in Tucson for seven years. Munching on our spiced-just-right jerk chicken, chatting and listening to the music, was one of those community happenings that made me feel I belonged.

It seemed like Tucson’s dining room, open to everyone.  I don’t know why, but it made me feel like a kid again.

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It’s been a good Sunday, rain and all

Posted on November 13, 2011 by sheilawill

Back east, I’d say what a dreary day. But here in Tucson the rainy grayness is so unusual, especially on a Sunday. It felt delicious heading to the living room couch with a cozy blanket and the New York Times.

It’s been an artsy weekend, even if I picked the wrong day and/or time yesterday to head to the “Tucson Shot Rock” photo exhibit on Congress Street or the holiday artisans’ market at the Tucson Museum of Art (oops, next week). I visited a few of the Open Studio weekend artists’ work places, including the studio of Keith Marroquin, whose website bio I liked a lot — spare and powerful, a good prerequisite for a creative person.

Last night I went back downtown to catch the rock photo exhibit by Tucson photographers. Immediately lured to the Woodstock corner, where Jim Morrison appeared in his infamous black leather pants in one almost life-size photo, and Jimi Hendrix in another. Hendrix, eyes closed clutching his guitar, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, appeared to be in some drug-induced stupor. Hendrix attacking the “Star Spangled Banner” is forever seared into my head.

Those Woodstock days popped up today, as I wondered what our newly elected mayor, Jonathan Rothschild, will accomplish in his first 180 days (I’ll interview him in late March). It was heartening to read that he listens to Jimi Hendrix on his car radio.

Is this what we baby boomers do, access old memories as we need them? What do we need them for?

Back to today, I circle plays we may want to see in NYC over Thanksgiving, jot down intriguing new exhibits at the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art and the Museum of Modern Art. I don’t want to miss anything.

Better make some popcorn. A perfect rainy day. What does yours look like?

 

 

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‘Gypsying Around’ for 100 years

Posted on November 12, 2011 by sheilawill

Brownie Ebner, my new friend and role model, turned 100 yesterday. Can you imagine living from Nov. 11, 1911 until Nov. 11, 2011? “I didn’t think I was going to make it the last few days,” she said at her senior living center party yesterday. Then she smiled, and asked me if her hair looked okay.

A woman in a sequined cocktail dress was crooning old tunes to around 40 assembled senior residents, most with walkers or in wheel chairs. Not at Brownie’s table: her three friends were probably all 20 years younger than her. When the singer used her microphone to send birthday wishes her way, Brownie told us that she had forgotten her hearing aid, and quipped, “Is she saying nice things about me?”

Brownie’s quick wit and “gypsying around” her whole life may have contributed to her longevity, along with her love of all games. “Maybe being active has something to do with living so long,” she says. Brownie has also had to adjust to whatever life throws at her. She attended 16 different schools in New York City because she and her mother moved around so much.

Brownie was born in Providence, R.I.,  and lived in Montreal, New York and Boston before settling in Tucson with her husband and son in 1949. We “gypsyed around” here too,  she says, having lived at 26 different addresses in Tucson.

“I have a lot of time to think about things now,” says Brownie, reminding me of a question I  had asked earlier about the changes she’s seen:

“I’m not astounded about anything because the changes have been so gradual. But it’s too bad children are so involved in staring at screens, [and they’re] not outdoors tossing a ball, or playing hopscotch. They’re too isolated. They don’t have the emotions we had. They’re disaffected and get callous at an early age.”

When Brownie’s daughter asked me to spin a family story about her mother’s upcoming milestone — interviewing Brownie and writing a creative piece about her life, which is part of my writing biz — I’ll admit that I wondered how coherent Brownie would be. But she has a better memory than I do. And she’s smart, articulate, and engaged with the world.

Two years ago, Brownie checked out the senior living center and noticed pool tables in a room near the main lobby. “Can people from the outside come in?”  she asked. Brownie had been part of a poker group “on the outside” for years. Yes, her poker group could play there. She moved in.

I’ve never imagined living till 100. But looking at Brownie’s smiling face, clearly enjoying all of her 11/11/11 hoopla, I thought to myself: Hmm…If I had all my marbles like Brownie, it would be okay.

 

 

Posted in Bopping Around Tucson, For Love of History | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Election night was just right

Posted on November 10, 2011 by sheilawill

Most Americans are sensible, decent folks, that’s what I think. So here’s my prediction: with all the yelling and nastiness, do-nothing obstructionist Republicans in Congress, and overreach of social conservatives trying to snatch people’s rights, President Obama will win re-eclection in 2012.

Maybe he’ll dive into his legacy, stand his ground for what he knows is right. Inequality doesn’t work; it brings everyone down.

Yesterday, across the country, voters refused to bow to bizarro Republican legislation and the anti-women — not pro-life — referendum in Mississippi. Even if a woman’s life was at stake, no abortion. Period. Personhood at conception? Show me a fertilized egg that goes to school, plays a musical instrument or does Zumba, and maybe then I’ll go along with such nonsense. My friend Mimi the fertilized egg…

Voted down 58 to 42 percent.

Leading Republican presidential contender Mitt Romney told former Arkansas governor Mike Hucklebee in an interview that he would “absolutely” vote for the Mississippi personhood referendum.  Let’s see how Romney flip-flops out of this one.

In Ohio, the electorate rescinded anti-collective bargaining legislation for public workers by a 61 to 39 percent vote. Maine returned to allowing voter registration on Election day. And here in Arizona, Republican State Senator Russell Pearce went down to defeat in a recall vote.

Pearce was the architect of the unconstitutional AZ SB1070, directing police to stop “suspicious-looking” (read: brown) people to check ID for U.S. citizenship. On tonight’s MSNBC Rachel Maddow Show, our Democratic Rep. Raul Grijalva said, “Without Russell Pearce I don’t know what [Gov.] Jan Brewer will do. She won’t have anyone to take directions from.”

In Tucson, we have a new Democratic mayor, Jonathan Rothschild, a real nice progressive guy, a poet and an attorney. He wants to improve education in the city, go more green, encourage clean businesses to locate here, and help uplift the place his family has called home for three generations. We’ll see what he can do in his first 100 days. I’ll interview him and get back to you.

It’s good to hear some good news in politics. Don’t let the mean-spirited screamers fool you.

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