b.o.w.m., or bitter old white man

Last night Tom and I went to see the movie--the first in many many months--Munich, directed by Speilberg and partly written by Tony Kushner. (When Tom told me Tony Kushner, who is one of the celebrities I've met and actually had a one-sentence conversation with (I was wearing my Amnesty International anti-death penalty t-shirt when I went to a reading and he said, I like your shirt. I said, Thanks.), wrote the screenplay, at first I thought he'd said Ashton Kuchner wrote it--I was floored, to say the least.)

Although I can't say I'll see it again any time soon, it's not because it was horrible. It was so emotionally gut-wrenching I can't imagine going through it again for a while. So it was my kind of movie. I felt it showed both sides of the violence between Palestine and Israel, and neither come out pretty. (I must say, the woman who played Golda Meir did a beautiful job of being a gentle yenta and a cold mastermind.) Munich was a bit on the long side; I think some things could've been cut or at least condensed, but it is Speilberg--and he can basically do whatever he wants anymore.

Afterwards we went to a diner to get something to eat to appease our contraband Milk Duds--we always buy candy at a Duane Reed or CVS--and were seated next to this cute old couple: white hair, matching canes. They reminded me of the couple in a diamond ad I used to see a lot: a young, hip couple comes upon an older couple in a park and pass them by, but the hip woman looks back and takes her man's hand and the breathless voice-over says: A diamond is forever.

Well, our food came and we were talking about the movie and I wasn't paying much attention to what they were saying. At first I thought they were married, but he said he was a Democrat who voted Republican, and she seemed shocked, so I guess they were casual acquaintances. He spoke of abortion (pretty much against, which I thought was typical for an old white man who'll never have to deal with such a situation), Bush (fairly warmly, but critical), etc. But then I heard the word Negro again and again.

They want whatever they can get, those Negroes, he said. All they want is a free ride, those Negroes. He just kept saying it over and over until I could no longer think but listen to his hurtful words. Then he started in on homosexuality: There's fags and lesbians running our city, he announced for the world to hear. This might as well be San Francisco!

Tom and I looked at each other and kept our heads down and ate. We tried to keep up some semblance on a conversation, but as soon as we were done we made an exit. The whole time I weighed the pros and cons of saying something, but decided against it. Tom did too. It wouldn't have changed his mind. We did say as we got up, loud enough for him to hear (though he probably was too deaf): Let's go somewhere where there's some opinions from this century. I think the woman heard. She seemed a little embarrassed.

Tom says he lived in Richmond among some real racist folk, but he never heard the word Negro among them.

tim robbins sighting at a speakeasy

I can add to my ever-growing list of celebrities the Shawshank Redemption-star Tim Robbins. It was in probably one of the coolest bars I've been in yet--it rivals the KGB bar on 4th St. (Where KGB is all about hole-in-the-wall grime and Communism, this one is all about opulance and Capitalism.) This bar is completely on the DL. If you don't know what you're looking for, you'd miss it. Luckily Tom and I were behind some (rather annoying) people and they were talking about The Toy Company, the name of said bar, so we followed them down some creepy stairs to an alley to another set of stairs and suddenly you're in this posh little Prohibition-themed bar with gilt ceilings, chandeliers, comfy chairs and ottomans and the walls are padded with gorgeous fabric.

As we were trekking to this little booze haven, it wafted up that Robbins and wife, Susan Sarandon, were in this bar. Some chick behind me literally pushed me aside to run down the stairs to see for herself. As if they would disappear suddenly.

I didn't see Sarandon, in the proper gloom of a speakeasy, but I was about eight feet or maybe a little more from Robbins. He's a tall galoot of a man, gray hair that needed a trim, and a pair of glasses perched on his largish nose. He looked like some absent-minded professor you'd have in college, teaching a literary criticism class entitled: Gender Switching from Shakespeare to Modern Drama.

I say this with all fondness. I'm very fond of galoots, as you well know as well as English teachers.

BTW, I haven't seen my big galoot crush since school started again. There's a reading next week; maybe he'll be there.

rugs

We got a rug in the mail today. Of course I was so convieniently in the shower so I begged the guy behind the door to wait a moment so I could get decent. (We rarely get knocks on the door so I always know it must be important. My mum and I laugh because in my hometown mail people just leave packages on the doormat, while here you have to be around and able to sign for it. (Though I'd be willing to bet no one would molest it--on my floor, at least. A neighbor has had a copy of the Daily News by his door for 3 days now, and no one has taken it.) She said when we were in Ann Arbor over xmas, the mailman tucked the package behind the screen door since he knew my folks were gone!) He obliged, however, and soon it was in my hands.

I'm a little unsure of the rug. Apparently it's more of an indoor/outdoor rug and isn't soft. We wanted something with a little nubbins--no shag, but nubbins. And that was the idea I'd gotten from the website. I haven't laid it out as of yet. It's standing guard at the door right now. So, we'll see.

Ordering things other than books hasn't always worked out for me. I bought some boots for Anna and Ben's wedding, and they turned out to be the wrong size--they'd sized them according to European standards wrongly and they no longer had the size I needed--so I had to mail them back. I then went to the store where I'd seen them first and bought them. I had bought them online because they were cheaper, but I ended up spending almost the same amount with the return postage! The same thing happened with a top I'd seen for said wedding. It was nothing like the photo. Then I randomly found a close approximation at this little store near my pharmacy. So, I mailed the offending item back, again. And spent more money than on the other top.

I'm thinking I won't try to order clothes online for awhile--at least until you can try them on virtually or something. Like when you can order things that appear at one of those little boxes on Star Trek. Only you could only have them for an hour or so. They would disappear after the timeframe was up. That would be great.

the art of the hunt

Today Tom and I were tramping around Manhattan with a soon-to-be-Manhattanited friend from college (let's call her Lady L for now--I don't know if she wants to star in my blogs just yet), looking for an apartment. We found one we all liked, liked the rent (it's funny how the concept of 'reasonable' has changed since we moved here--at Stone House, Sarah and I each paid 150 for a (small, but bigger than our studio) one bedroom and we groaned about it constantly), and went back to the broker so she could fill out the paperwork, etc.

I am very excited about someone from my past moving up here. It makes me feel more stable, somehow. That this is where I want to be for awhile. Which makes me more determined to find a good job that will keep us for a long while.

I need to tear myself away now. I have two workshop stories to read and critique. I keep reminding myself: You are back in schooooooooooooooooooool...

dayquil dreams

I'm dealing with this on-again-off-again sore throat and earache thing. I've been taking DayQuil--rather, the generic version of it--and though it's not supposed to make you drowsy, it definately has made me rather looney.

I just finished A Feast for Crows, by George R.R. Martin. It is book four of a series of fantasy novels. Though I've always been a bit snobbish about such kinds of books, I love these. They're fantasy but not at the same time. Through his detailed characterization you actually eventually root for bad bad guys--and I'm serious about the badness. I checked our bookring, and noticed Tom hasn't reviewed it or any of the others, so I'll have to do it sometime. I've gone off my beaten path as far as novels go. I've read Anansi Boys and American Gods, The Time Traveler's Wife--I think those are the most recent.

But, I've now returned to my first love: books about sadness, dead children, etc. This often goes to my movie tastes as well, though I admit it's been nice dealing with mythical gods and the like for awhile. I started Gilead last night, and I love it. It's a slow, wandering sort of book, about a pastor in Iowa writing to his son. Some reviews I've read have been rather nasty about it because of this, and they've bemoaned the fact that it won the Pulitzer, but I think it is totally deserving. Brian was the first to reccomend it to me. Several others have said the same since then. Mostly because a lot of themes in my own work have centered around rural life and religion--things I always avoided while growing up and in college. I guess because I was always surrounded by those things. In this city they seem exotic to friends and colleagues at school. Who knew? Not to say I'm her equal, but I believe that it was Sarah Orne Jewett who told Willa Cather that you had to seperate yourself from something before you can truly write about it.

I guess I've been somewhat depressed lately, and it's only in my DayQuil stupor that made me realize it. In A Feast for Crows there is a character who had his tongue torn out, and it made me think of Steve, a guy I knew from Pax Christi days. Steve was a homeless guy who got throat cancer a few years ago, and had to have his tongue removed and a trachea put in. The church I worked in hired him to be the sexton, and gave him a place to live in payment. Steve wasn't perfect. He sometimes left things undone for weeks at a time, and he and the pastor didn't always get along. I'd always gotten along with him. He'd developed a kind of sign language, and we'd pass along greetings as we went through our day. Steve always complimented my dress and laughed at my jokes. Who wouldn't like that?

Over a year ago, the cancer creeped back and he died. He knew a few months beforehand that this was going to happen. The chemotherapy wasn't working. I merely happened to stop by the Pax office when he told people. He wrote a note that I didn't want to finish reading because then I would have to say something. I don't remember exactly what I said. I remember I didn't say I felt sorry for him. I've always hated that when people have said this to me about my problems. I think I said something about praying for him. He asked me how I was doing, with my radiation and so on, and then I put my hands together as if in prayer and bowed to him. He bowed back. I scurried away.

I only found out he'd died about a month after it had happened. I always have felt guilty about not keeping in touch with him. I'd intended to, but life got in the way. I've always wished I could have said something--I don't know what. Tom has had coworkers die, and I still can't believe it. I think they must be somewhere, incognito. These are people I knew. Who I greeted when I went to the agency. That student of mine, from Valhalla, vanished life less than 24 hours after she left prison.

Enough said.

i'm hungry

It's 2:16 and I am yet to eat lunch. This happens a lot with my (mainly Tom's) schedule. Since he works 12 to 8s every day except Saturdays, I rarely need to get up before 9:30 or so, so breakfast isn't till at least 10, so my real lunch time is 3 or 4. Since my classes are all in the late afternoons there's no reason to get up any sooner. I've always been a nightowl anyway, though not like in college. In college I was lucky if I went to bed before 3, especially when I edited the WeatherVane. Then I often didn't get to sleep at all on Wednesday nights. And I still had classes at 8 or so.

But anyway, back to eating. I didn't eat breakfast today either. Now, don't rush to the conclusion of my being anorexic--I love food too much and I've seen how it damages the body beyond repair. For the most part it's because I just don't think about it. The only reason I did right now is because I noticed the dishes in the sink and looked at the clock and then noticed my tummy was complaining.

Tom says it's because I'm too lazy to cook for myself--he's probably right up to a point--he's the cook in this little family. He also says your IQ retreats to that of a 70-year-old if you don't eat breakfast. (He says 70-somethings aren't stupid, they're just a little slower on the uptake.) He's probably right in that also. But one of my theories is that it keeps me more on my toes. I've noticed I'm often much more productive (at least in writing) when I have a little hunger inside me. I think it makes me remember that I'm alive. When I'm well-fed I lounge more. I'm more interested in TV or a book or just wandering the city. I feel too at peace with the world to think of conflict, climax and dialogue.

Although it's interesting to note that the exact opposite happens when I'm in class or at work--back when I had a job. Then I'm ravenous. I must eat, otherwise I just drum my fingers and imagine what I could be eating.

I figure that every writer needs a weird quirk to get them producing--maybe this is mine.

this is not your father's camera

Remember that jingle: This is not your father's Oldsmobile? This is the new generation of Old! Anyone? Well, I distinctly remember it from my young days of a three (sometimes four) channel television set. (I remember the day when we got a TV that managed to capture Fox 24 and we didn't have to go to Grandma's to watch the Simpsons. (We also had to drive to Grandma's when there were tornados around because our basement was a deathtrap, but that's another blog.) Yes, my grandmother watched the Simpsons. Mostly because--and brace yourself if you haven't already heard this from me or a member of my family since we practically tell everyone we know--Matt Groening is a distant cousin. She felt she was honor bound...but she did laugh at the show.) Now I can surf digital cable of 145 channels, the web, talk on a cellphone and now, dum dah dah daaaaaaaaah...

Tom and I broke down and purchased a digital camera today with some windfall Xmas money--actually, we did this order online, pickup at the store thing. Which protected us from too-friendly salespeople and the weekend crowds. Thanks to my brother, David, we had computer geeks recommending what kind to buy. We still had to brave the crowds to get it, but it made us get out of our cocoon of a studio and wander the bracing cold that has returned after a week of weirdly springlike weather. It was so cold, I had to go and buy a hat--and bought this really hipster hat.

We've played around with it some, and are yet to download the software so we can put them on the laptop, but we'll get there at some point. Although the advent of a digital camera to our little Penner/Smith duo is important, what's been the focus today is tonight is the season premier of "24," which Tom (and eventually me) is completely addicted. Only an hour and 18 minutes to go, if the damn Bears/Carolina game is over by then--Fox better show the whole show of "24" or there will possibly be blood on the streets...

With the camera, now Tom and I can become one of those people that feels they need to record every single moment of everyone's life.

dedicated to linda, dan and michael

Yesterday I remembered yet again why I love New York: people can call you up on the fly and invite you to a Broadway play. And you can "postpone" a lunch date because of it--well, I could, at least.

Linda, a friend from Manhattan Mennonite Fellowship (otherwise known to some as pigeon haven ;)) called yesterday and asked if I was free to see the musical "Spamalot," as she had an extra ticket. A phone call to postpone the said lunch date and a subway ride later, I was sitting in a beautiful theater, laughing and remembering middle and high school days when Monty Python was all the rage. (For my farewell party before I left for college in the great beyond of Virginia, some friends (two boys) had a group of us who'd never seen "The Life of Brian" (all girls), pay close close attention to a segment they said you wouldn't get unless you were close to the TV--then there's a moment when Brian flings open the window and there is his penis--they thought they were hilarious.)

There were some weaknesses (I love David Hyde Pierce from "Fraiser" days, however, his presence on stage was often a bit sketchy--though his big number in Act II, where he states that no play can make Broadway without at least one Jew was great; King Arthur left something to be desired; there were too many skinny women on stage; the Lady of the Lake was a good singer but not much of an actor), but I loved it because it was just a fun play, and you could tell the actors were having as much fun as the audience. There was this little kid behind us that was singing along on the better known songs (the "Look on the bright side of life" song, for example) and his running commentary was sometimes annoying, sometimes hilarious.

After the play we went to the Olive Garden in Times Square, where I'd never been. It was a pretty fancy pants joint. I think the last time I'd been at one was when Tom and I were returning from our honeymoon at Chincoteague and Assateague Islands. Dan kept saying things to embarrass his 18 year old son, which was nice dinner entertainment.

After dinner, I went to an information meeting about becoming a New York City Teaching Fellow. You have to get a Master's in Ed while you're teaching at a high-need public high school, but it gets paid for by the city and you get a regular salary. The starting salary for BA-holders is 42 thousand (more if you have a Master's or higher), which is a huge amount of money to me, though not to a me who lives in New York. I'm not too fired up to go back to more school, but there is an opportunity to teach ESL (there is always a need for ESL teachers) , and I'd been considering getting a certificate in ESL lately, so this would be a way to do it. We'll see what happens. The competition is pretty tough, and there's only a 1 in 8 chance that I'd be accepted--the admissions process is rigorous--so, I may not even be chosen. So I'm not holding my breath. I'm also applying for an assistant editorship at HarperCollins (another long shot) and some adjunct positions (again, long shot--I'm counting on the impression factor of being an SLC grad might help).

dum dah dah daaah

Here's the first proof--photographic, that is--of my brother and Anna's nuptuals and my success as a matchmaker. (Back Row: brother David, husband Tom, brother Ben, cousin Todd, cousin Mark. Front: Me, sister-in-law Anna, cousin-in-law Lori and cousin-in-law Melissa.) There is a more formal photo including my parents and Aunt Lori and Uncle Doyle, but I think I look fat in it. I'm smiling so beautifully because Tom is tickling me from behind. Maybe you can tell from his impish grin that he's up to no good. I wish someone would tickle me every time I have to have my picture taken. I have to admit, Ben's eyes are a little demonic from the red-eye.

the end of the affair

Relationships are a weird thing. Some just sort of creep up on you. Others are chosen. Others, like family, are chosen for you. I’ve been thinking about relationships, my own, for quite some time now. Mainly the transformation or even disintegration of relationships.

I’m thinking it’s the gradual, little things that make transformation or disintegration of relationships rather than big ones, like moving to a different state or country. It’s more the change of focus for one or both people—this seems to happen even if they stay in the same town. It is especially prevalent in a place like New York. People I worked, studied or lived with daily suddenly disappear when the job is done, the class ends, the easy lock of the door closes. Though I usually fault myself for the relationship’s demise, some sort of shock me. I tag along on what I realize, too late, is one too many activities. I email too much. I think about them more than they think of me. I’m not trying to sound whiney here. Because there are some that have remained strong, even though we don’t necessarily see or hear from each other day-to-day. There’s a certain feeling in those relationships I haven’t gotten with others—and they are often the ones I didn’t plan on. The ones I believed would dry up the moment we parted. In contrast, the ones I most counted on have, by degrees, faded, until we smile and (I think) are genuinely are glad to see each other, but there is an emptiness to the gestures. One or both of us are relieved when something comes up to distract us. Sometimes we float away from each other—sometimes they have floated away from me.

The question is, I guess, how often does one run after the relationship? How often does one cross the room (so to speak) and hope for more than a gesture?