Up front, in the back

I can't hear you, this moron next to me is squealing.

I am a special person; I got to go to the New York premiere of "The Interpreter" tonight. It's luck more than anything else, really, not like I had anything to do with the production, which kicked off the Tribeca Film Festival (which itself oddly doesn't have much going on until the end of the week, but details, details).

And I had very nice seats -- not exactly dead center like Ms. Kidman and Mr. Penn, but actually right at the back before the raised mezzanine seats began, and a bit to the left so exiting proved quite easy. The Ziegfeld is a lovely old restored theater which gets most of its play from premieres like this. I've had crappy seats there and they're not horrible, but in a situation like this you like to see where you "rate" in terms of equality of seating. Not good enough to be with the stars, true, but apparently good enough to be on Kyle MacLachlan's level, because he and the woman who was probably his wife sat next to me. On the right.

On the left, on the other hand, were two of the crappiest women to sit next to. You'd think they never left the house. Truth: The woman directly next to me was okay, but her seat companion on the other side was ridiculous. She'd loudly whisper plot points ("his wife is DEAD") which weren't totally spoilers but were nevertheless advancing the plot beyond what we already knew, and so getting ahead of the game, and then she had a tendency to actually squeal or clap when seeing certain locations in the film -- Silvercup Studios, the Chelsea Hotel. I did hiss "get a grip," but not very loudly. I'm not good on the confrontation, only on the later grousing. But really, people. Shut the fuck up. Honestly.

The party afterwards, held at the refurbished Museum of Modern Art, was lovely. I refuse to pay the $20 admission, but at this rate I'll soon see the whole thing thanks to screenings and parties afterwards. They opened up much of the ground floor and upstairs balcony area, plus a good section of the gallery area. So while everyone hoovered up the steak, chicken, salmon, cornbread, onion rings, asparagus and dozens of little tiny bite size desserts, pushing and shoving and shouting over one another, a scant few of us retreated to the galleries and studied over Cezanne and Hockney. I'm not a modern art fan; frankly I don't think it's arty to create a "room" made of concrete by building a room, filling it with concrete and removing the perimeter walls. But some of the stuff was quite startling, like the wall-sized shot of the Rhine or the glass-encased miniature pots and dishes. And it was nice and quiet. I had seen Indie Movie Mogul guy leaving the theater earlier and was hoping to dazzle him with my dress and cleavage, alas, he was nowhere to be found in the party. So I ate, meandered and looked at a lot of people I didn't know, and a few I did (hello, random Anthony Edwards sighting), then left, running into first my co-worker on the street (just coming in with his friends from a different "Interpreter" screening) and then passing by Richard Belzer and Robert Klein leaving the party and heading towards 5th Avenue. Of course my first thought was: "They've both been on Law & Order!" rather than "There go two great stand-up comics."

One-track mind, seriously.

Retract! Retract!

Of course my wonderful friends and relatives have come through for me on the AIDS walk, so I am a loser with no patience and am retracting yesterday's grousing. So far I have $125 and raised my goal expectations!

It's nice to have lovely people like my friends and loved ones.

I also am wearing a T-shirt that reads "Simon & John & Nick & Roger & Andy" right now, so clearly I had a good time last night. Will write more soon, once my ears stop ringing.

Wondering

Okay, while it may be tacky to solicit friends to donate to your charitable campaigns, like walking for AIDS, at least I'm doing it for a good reason.

I can't think of a good reason why those same friends either can't drop a dime or email me back to say "gee, I'd love to but I just can't. Good luck!"

Or maybe the emails got lost along the way.

I will focus on Duran Duran and all will be well.

Setbacks

So, through a series of unplanned events (getting home late, eating at 8pm, playing with the dogs after eating), I ended up having "Nanny 911" running while I half-watched, half-threw balls, half-felt the biological clock turning back, and back, and back, and back. The kindly if completely insane red-haired mother had four screaming brats and a fifth child in her part-time-working, sleeping with the remote on his stomach, magazine readin' husband, who just took up space and occasionally hauled a child up to his bed by his arm.

Oh. My. God.

It is endearing to see how in an hour (or a week, depending on how you're measuring things on TV) that a complete disaster like this household can be fixed (I sense lots of writing and "acting" of pre-arranged scripts, despite the "reality" format), but you can't orchestrate kids like that. They're telling mom to "talk to the eyeball" and scribbling on pillowcases and basically beating the snot out of each other (a sentiment I appreciated, but it doesn't make for good households). When the husband whispered to the horror-struck nanny watching in the background that his wife was doing his laundry, and "isn't that cool?" with a smirk, I think the clock re-set itself to my pre-birth state.

Then I ended up watching another horror story called "Supernanny" (pictured above) which I've seen before, but again featured multiple children, overworked, soft-hearted mom, and clueless dad (though much less clueless than the Fox dad). Once again, in a week/hour the whole thing is fixed up and we can all sleep soundly in the perfection of the Family Unit: White, upper-middle class (these kids have more toys than God), husband/wife combo, big house. No others need apply.

Anyway, speaking of toys and God, here's the bestworst present I've ever seen. Buy multiple messiah for your kids, and watch them battle it out: "No, my Jesus is right!" "Well, my Moses will kick your Jesus's butt." "Maaaaaaam..."

Call Nanny 911, straightaway.

I'm walking

Yes indeed, I'm walking.

May 15: AIDS Walk NY.

aidswalknewyork2005.kintera.org/randeedawn

Whee!

Is it tacky to hit up your friends for donations?

Saturday in the park

Since Ciara hates going out -- and the one time I took her to Central Park her little head seemed ready to explode -- I left her home today and took Carrington out to Central Park. Which is by no means an easy journey: It's about 10 minutes walk to the subway, then he goes in a travel bag because no dogs that aren't contained are allowed on the subway (I found out once the hard way), then the train to where we changed for the 6 and then uptown -- in Yankees/Orioles traffic, gah -- and then walk from Lexington another 10 minutes or so to the park. But I have to tell you, the little guy was a trooper and loved all of it. He never acted tired, and lapped up water when I gave it. Everybody who saw him loved him, except for one odd voice I heard as I walked in the park: "Look at that mangy cat."

Huh?


I prefer "scruffy."

Anyway, little kids, adults, everybody loved him. And the great thing is that once somebody engaged me about him I could say he was up for adoption, just go to the Web site. (He's not up yet but should be soon.) Also, while there I was able to take some pictures.


I see a squirrel!


I see another squirrel!

It was truly an awe-inspiring day -- totally amazing. Bright blue, warm but not hot, people kicking soccer balls, playing baseball, sunning, walking dogs -- a lot of dogs, every shape and size -- rollerblading, bicycling, eating (Carrington particularly was attracted to the people with food). Sitting down outside the Boathouse for a quick breather to watch the toy sailboats motor across the water, I heard a saxophonist playing "New York, New York." It's like being in a movie to live here a lot of the time.


Cleopatra's needle, framed by not-yet-in-bloom cherry blossoms


The view of Turtle Pond from Belvedere Tower


The Turtles of Turtle Pond (sounds like a kids' book)


Flowers near Shakespeare's Garden

And now, he is called Carrington

Doggie is in the doggie protection program, so he's not Kurt any more -- he's Carrington. I kid you not; this is right from the rescue people. So, here are some more pictures. If you know anyone who wants a beautiful lively cairn, have them fill out the adoption form over here. Is he adorable or what?


Let me down!


Love me now!


Taking a rest after all this cuteness.


Watch out, Carrington. I know where you sleep. When are you getting out of here?

Dog fight

I read the fine print on the Dog Policy, and it seems I am allowed to have two dogs; if one goes I have 6 months to replace. So sez the managing guy of the co-op, too, so I submitted both doggies for acceptance. We'll see how this goes.

Meanwhile, here are the kids!


Kurt! I'm Kurt! Can't you see? Love me! Love me!


I'm Ciara. I'm pouty. There's a strange dog in my house.

The rain dogs of war

So, I've had my dog Ciara (a cairn) for about three years, and she's a rescue from the wonderful Col. Potter Cairn Rescue Network. She's got her quirks, like hating to be walked and having an overwhelming desire to have her stomach rubbed, but she's quiet and generally a good girl.

So I decided to get a second one. Or, rather, get a foster dog. I didn't want a second permanent dog, just one to help her socialize a bit and maybe learn just how to walk on a leash properly. And then I could feel like I was doing a good deed at the same time.

Getting Kurt up here was quite the process -- I'm calling it the doggie underground railroad. He was in Kentucky, and no fewer than four volunteers linked together to drive him the short spurts up to where I am in Queens. (I have no car, so I could only catch, not pitch.) The woman bringing him to me was a total stranger and couldn't even stop -- she had to run out to Short Hills, NJ to do another delivery. There's commitment, and then there's Commitment. Whoa.

He's adorable: sandy-haired, tiny (compared to Ciara) and though he's 10, he acts like a puppy, bouncing along, tripping down the sidewalk. Compared to Ciara, who's like a slug in motion, alternately yanking at her chain or pulling so hard it's like she's trying to hydroplane on the sidewalk. He's a joy to walk. He likes to climb up on my stomach and sniff my face. He has a little bald dark patch on his nose which is sweet. Generally, he and Ciara have gotten along well, just a few scuffles but nothing serious.

Anyway, he arrived Saturday. Peed on stuff right away. We're working on that part of things. Also arriving on Saturday: A revised and updated and actually created dog policy for the co-op. My plan with Kurt had been to just keep him until someone said something, and depending on who said anything just say I was keeping him for a friend for a short time. Which was more or less true. He wouldn't even be here that long, so why go through the whole process of asking permission? Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, sometimes.

Then came this policy, and it boils down to this: I can't keep him here; nobody's allowed to have second dogs -- or at least, that's how the president of the board interpreted it for me when I called to explain. The way I read it it seems to say that I could have two dogs, so long as I register them by April 10. But if they're going to give me shit, I don't know that I should fight this battle. So poor Kurt is going to have to go on the railroad again soon....

On a brighter note, walking two dogs at once is quite the challenge. I hold one leash in each hand and when everything's going well all I'd need is roller skates and they'd be pulling me forward. A woman carrying her child on her back saw us pass and said, "Look! It's like they're doggie reindeer, pulling a sleigh! And it's raining! Rain-dogs!"