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!"

Unclear on the Concept

Turks are making "Mein Kampf" a bestseller.

Yo, folks, while you're in the midst of dissin' and hatin' on the Jews, how about looking into the rest of der Fuhrer's top ten list of inductees to his little getaway camps? When he and those like him start talking about "mud people," Jews may be first on the list ... but I guaran-damn-tee you Arabs, Turks and every other non-Ayrian on the block (i.e., most of the rest of the world) ain't all that much further down in the top 10.

History will teach us nothing.

Link via Bookslut

Written on the subway wall

There are whole sites devoted to finding the poetic in the commonplace and thrown away -- witness Found magazine.

I found something of my own today, but didn't keep it.

Waiting at the head of the 6 train to go uptown I noticed someone had very carefully taped up a computer-created (and colored) sign, basically expressing the hope that someone the person had seen on the train the day before would email him, as they didn't exchange any information and he'd like (I say he, but I don't know) to see her (again, don't know) again. Each line (and some words) were colored differently, each thought separated by line of space. It almost read like free verse and began:

"I should have said hello yesterday (Tuesday)"

Which sounds like the title of a poem or a song lyric.

It said what "you" had been like: Blue eyes, gray Calvin Klein bag; "I" had a red hat on. It all ended:

"Email me and tell me what I had in my hand."

That's just interesting and strange and enigmatic enough to be poetic, to me. I only had a minute to scribble down the first and last lines, and I didn't get the email address (it wasn't simple like "meonsixtrain@yahoo.com") but I got enough. I can't decide if it's worth creating a story around. I just like thinking about it.

And I hope they reconnect.

The Inbox

I got a spam today.

Inside, it was trying to point out in big block blue letters the importance of:

Spur-M.

Those spam-filter evaders have now given us the next big rap star name, I'm sure of it.

Losses

I lost two things this week: My great Aunt (who was a little crazy and not much in touch with us and 88 and it was sudden) and my wallet (which was with me about 2 years).

Guess which one gets more sympathy at work?

Anyway, I'm not writing about dead relatives. I'm writing about the purse. Damnit! I'm fairly sure (like about 90 percent) that it's my fault. I took out money so I'd have it in my pocket to buy a croissant from one of those street vendor guys. Now, in my right mind I'd have zipped up the wallet and put it back in my backpack, hopped out at 8th Street and gone on my way. Instead, I stopped in a store, realized the backpack was open and of the three objects in there -- the purse was the one missing.

It is possible someone saw my stupid backpack open, reached in and grabbed it, but there wasn't all that much time (and very little standing-still time) from the time I got up to the time I got to the store, so I think I just had it on my lap and it fell off. The thing is, how could I not see it fall? It's a fairly big thing for a wallet (more like a clutch purse).

At work, everyone was very sympathetic, and all but forced me to borrow money. The only nice thing about the wallet loss is I had all the money already in my pocket, only one credit card (now cancelled) and my driver's license. The rest of it was just things like a nearly-empty phone card, a photo or two, an ACLU membership card, a Blockbuster card -- that kind of stuff. Some coupons. A photo. Stuff I'd have liked to not lose, but which will not be valuable to anyone who finds it. The thing is, I really liked that purse. Damnit.

I hope it comes back to me. Lost Property on the MTA say they won't get it until next Wednesday.

Poor lonely purse.

Oh, and bye to Aunt Beatrice. She was a decent sort, in a nutty way. Even if she did wear 60's style librarian glasses in 2005.

New meaning of the concept of a facial

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Social insecurity

There's a great scene (one of many) in "It's A Wonderful Life," where Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey attempts to explain the banking system to an unruly mob of scared neighbors who think the bank's going to run out of money.

In it -- I don't have exact quotes here -- George entreats everyone to understand that their money isn't physically at the bank right now, not every single penny and dollar for every single person, because it's in their homes, it's invested elsewhere so that they can have some kind of rate of return. Not everyone gets him, and so he ends up having to pay out the money he was about to use on his honeymoon to quell the fearful and keep the bank open so that Potter can't take it all over.

This movie is hugely popular at Christmas, and for some all the year round. People have internalized it to the point where they know what you mean by Pottersville, and Zuzu's Petals was even the name of a band.

So why would anyone agree that privatization of social security makes sense?

I sure don't know about all of the math, fuzzy or not. And I do believe we need some rehauling to keep this viable another 50 or more years. But the idea of letting Joe Average use his money to invest in the stock market to save up money for his social security is not only precarious and dangerous -- it avoids the basic understanding of social security money. I'm not getting my money when (if) I start drawing on it in my 60s -- I'm getting someone else's, just as someone ahead of me is now getting my money. Like the Building and Loan in "Wonderful Life," the money isn't just sitting there idle waiting for you to claim it -- it's working to pay part of the expenses of the latter years for the elderly right now. It's over there, and over there. So if Joe Average makes a killing in the stock market, he's going to want his money when he's ready for it. Not someone else's, who didn't invest -- or who didn't do well.

The whole concept came out of a period where the government and many of the masses believed that as a prosperous nation, we had an obligation to help one another. It wasn't just "all for me, and if you can grab some, fine, some for you." It makes me ill to see how all of that is being torn down, because that's not something that just springs back up with a new cycle.

Social Security needs help -- but it does not need this help, President Potter.

A faxing riff

I sit near a faxing station (among many other noise-generating areas, despite which the place is generally quiet). These are the things I hate about sitting next to a faxing station:

1) People who leave their faxes to go through while they wander merrily away. (C'mon, folks, it's 30 seconds out of your life. Nothing is that pressing.)
2) People who leave their faxes to go through without them and don't even have the fax number right. (dial tone. dialing numbers. ring, ring. "Hello?" beep, beep. "Hello?" beep beep ad infinitum)
3) People on the other end of #2 who go tharn when it happens. ("Hello? Hello? Who is this? Hello?") C'mon, folks, the fax has been around at least a generation and other than your tottering old grandma in the nursing home (who shouldn't be getting much fax action anyway), who doesn't know what it sounds like when you pick up the phone and it goes "beep beep"? Either hang up the frickin' thing or transfer it to the fax machine.

The White Stuff, Day 2, Continued

Okay, the last snow photos, I promise.



The view down 35th Avenue in Jackson Heights, Queens.



The view down at my doggie Ciara.

*************************

In unrelated news, it's always funny to find former classmates not just doing well, but doing well enough to be mentioned in national publications.

My friend Lynda swears that this guy is the Judah Friedlander we went to high school with. Age is right, and as she notes, "how many Judah Friedlanders can there be?" but I've never seen a photo of him that made me think, "Oh, damn, yeah!" Needless to say, in high school he did not wear those sorts of glasses or have those sideburns.

Anyway, so he's in the paper. This comes on the heels of a few months ago discovering that fellow high school classmate Maarten Troost not just had a book out, but got an A from Entertainment Weekly for it. Maarten was kind of in my general circle; I hung out with the people who wanted desperately to go study abroad, and Maarten was both European and somewhat hunky and used too many vowels in his name, which indicated something both pretentious and foreign simultaneously. Anyway, I'm still not a hundred percent sure this is he, but using the Lynda philosophy, how many Maarten Troosts can there be?

The investigation continues.

LATER: Oh, yeah, this is the Maarten I knew.

The White Stuff, Day 2

It's only technically day two, being 1 in the morning, but after this I'm crashing. And they say the big stuff is coming tomorrow early morning!

The White Stuff

So, today: Snow. Lots of it. Yay!

I love a good snow (particularly if I don't have to drive in it, shovel it out, or prevent rugrats from freezing to death outside and driving me nuts inside). So, herein, an attempt to document it. It started here around noon, and if I pay attention I should be able to get photos of the increasing inch-age every couple of hours. Hurray!







The view from my bedroom window (Jeez, it makes it look like I live in the projects) at 12:30pm (above).





The view from my bedroom window at 4:15 (above). Would have taken three pictures, but the rechargable batteries are in need of, well, recharging.







And these from around 9pm; the last one is with the flash so ... snow, close up!

Up next: Small black dog in tall white fluff!

Food R Us

They say we Democrats need to find out how to make amends with our alienated Republican bretheren.

But things like this just make me believe it isn't possible.

Yes, that's right, one of the Inaugural menus from yesterday included ingredients like Coke, Dunkin' Donuts and Snowballs. And canned pineapple. I think Britney Spears planned the dishes.

I've had many a reason to be mortified by the things my so-called government has done in the past four-odd years; this is right up there in the top 10.

UPDATE: I've been had! I'm pretty sure. Snopes was clear, so you never know but ... okay, I think I got got on this one. It's almost certainly satire. (Worked for me, though.)