(original post-date: November 18, 2009)
I appreciate that, for some people, obsessive compulsive disorder is no laughing matter. In one manifestation of OCD, an afflicted individual must constantly stop his car, get out of it, and check to make sure he didn’t just run over some formerly living thing. In another, the disordered person is compelled to wash her hands so frequently that the skin becomes raw and is rid of its capacity to stave off bad bacteria.
I feel for these people. I really do. A brain disorder can disrupt personal freedom in a big way. It can become the monster in the room that breaks deals and thwarts growth.
My manifestation of OCD, however, is downright comical, and my former husband (whom we’ll call Ben) knew how to make us both laugh at it. Once, when we were shopping at Ralphs together, I tossed a box of tampons in our cart. “Did you check the date?” he asked, with deadpan delivery.
An hour or so later, after we had returned home and put away the groceries, I went into the living room. Ben stayed behind in the kitchen to make a sandwich. We had just bought peanut butter, jelly, and bread, so how could he resist?
After a few minutes, Ben entered the living room. He was carrying the jar of peanut butter and wearing an expressionless face. He approached the couch, where I was sitting. And as he slowly opened the jar, he asked, with feigned concern, “Do you think this is okay?”
He then held out the opened jar. Written into the smooth top of the fresh peanut butter was the word, “DIE.”
Quite a card, that ex-husband o’ mine. With the tine of a fork, he could make me laugh at myself.
These days, I share OCD laughs with my neighbor and friend, Neil*. We are afflicted by similar manifestations of the disorder. Which is to say, we both tend to check things multiple times (particularly things that might catch on fire). And we share the concern that otherwise edible foods and beverages might be tainted.
One afternoon a few years ago, I was returning home, and Neil heard me approach the courtyard we share. Before I’d had a chance to head upstairs to my apartment, he flung open his door across the way. He had that deer-in-headlights look – clearly upset about something.
He then explained that his cat had just walked across his desk, and when she did so, her tail brushed against his teeth. He wondered if…
Neil didn’t need to explain. Adapting a comforting tone, I said, “I’ve got some Listerine upstairs. Do you wanna come up and have a quick gargle?”
He thought that was a good idea, and so we headed up my stairs together.
Once we were in the kitchen, I pulled a small glass out of the cabinet and filled it with about a quarter-inch of Listerine. I handed it to him. Then, like two athletes in some relay event, we crossed paths. He headed to the sink as I went in the other direction.
But my eyes widened in a big way when he reached for the cold-water knob and began, “I’ll just dilute—”
“Not THAT water!” I screamed, interrupting him.
With no further ado, we both doubled over laughing.
Neil’s concern for what his cat’s tail might have left on his teeth was trumped in that moment by my fear of unfiltered L.A. water.
Crazy advises crazy. Nuts is there to provide solace to nuts. Our fears are absurd, and we both know it. But they’re our fears. Our often humorous fears. We own them, and we’re there for each other.
We’re there to laugh together at the people we just can’t help but be.
+++
*not his real name
Monday, November 15, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Twenty-One
A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26th. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).
VI
“Aw, my room,” Joy says nostalgically, as she wheels her suitcase into her former bedroom and Evelyn follows.
“Pretty much as you left it,” Evelyn offers.
“No kidding,” Joy replies, adopting a teasing tone.
“What’s that about? Why isn’t this some archival library, like the others?”
“It’s birth order, sweetheart,” her mother explains. “As it turned out, I only needed two storage rooms, and so you and Adam have been spared.”
“Hmm,” Joy says, clearly tired, clearly fading, “birth order.”
Evelyn helps her lift her rolling suitcase onto the table along the wall. She senses Joy’s exhaustion and also envies it. She wonders if this is a moment when she might be overstepping her bounds.
“Is there anything you need, Joy?”
“No. Um, unless you’ve moved the bathroom. There are towels in there?”
“We put in a fresh set today. They’re the only ones in there.”
“And, um,” Joy’s sense of this being an awkward moment reaches Evelyn. “I have an alarm clock. So?”
“You don’t want me to tuck you in?” Evelyn asks, hoping her facetiousness is clear.
“Well—”
“Do you remember what you used to say, Joy, when I asked if I could tuck you in?”
Joy laughs. “How could I not?” She shakes her head, embarrassed, while pulling clothes out of her suitcase and putting them in available bureau drawers. “I used to say, ‘Mother, you don’t tuck me in; you tuck the sheets in.’”
“Right!” Evelyn agrees, clapping her hands as she had at the train station.
Now retrieving a pair of shoes from the bottom of her suitcase and placing them near the closet, Joy asks, “What kept you from slapping my smart-ass self?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how cocky!” Then, Joy repeats the line, with a childish smart-aleck tone: “You don’t tuck me in; you tuck the sheets in.”
“Joy,” her mother replies, lovingly, “you weren’t being a smart-ass.”
Evelyn then kisses her daughter’s forehead and looks her in the eye: “You were being logical.”
VII
An hour later, Evelyn retrieves Davy from the family room. With no protest on his part, she is able to lead him upstairs, help him into his pajamas, and direct him to his side of their bed. Once that is accomplished, she checks in on Joy. Her daughter—so perfectly independent now at the tender age of thirty-seven—is indeed fast asleep.
Evelyn does not waste time envying either of them. They can sleep; she can’t; that’s life.
But life also exists inside of Patrick’s former bedroom.
At least, that’s where much of Evelyn’s life seems to exist now.
VIII
ADAM, AGE 7-10 is the direction she receives from the first folded-up square she pulls from the bowl.
Adam, Evelyn thinks, retrieving the corresponding box. Adam! Whatever will I find in here?
What Evelyn might have been thinking, while retrieving the box, is dramatically different from what she comes upon once she opens it.
She pulls out a knit top. Totally generic. Casts it aside.
Another knit top. A different shade of pale blue, but still pale; still blue. Casts it aside.
As she continues foraging, she is more completely dumb-founded by her pack-rat self than she has been up to this point. These clothes are not special! she thinks. What the hell was I thinking?!?
Then. Suddenly. Buried beneath the dullness, Evelyn sees something that makes her sigh and smile. A soft pink ruffled shirt, specifically made to exist within the tuxedo jacket that is folded beneath it. Each, for some reason, designed to fit the body of an eight-year-old boy.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Adam spoke authoritatively, having gathered his family in the backyard, against the protests of some.
“Welcome! Welcome! And I am so glad you all could come tonight!”
“What choice did we have?” Evelyn heard Patrick say to Marilyn.
“Tonight, I am proud to share with you the amazing world of…” (and then he swirled his hands about in a tantalizing fashion) “…Adamagic.”
“OOOOHHHH!” Davy chanted, inspiring his wife and children to join in.
“OOOOHHHH!” the family chanted.
“Thank you very much,” said the young magician, clearly encouraged by the response.
“Tonight,” Adam continued, “you will witness the unfalmable…”
“Unfalmable!” Davy repeated, raising an arm of solidarity and causing the entire family to chant: “OOOOHHHH!”
“Tonight,” Adam said, beginning to show signs of selfconsciousness, “you will witness magic as you’ve never witnessed it before. May I have a volunteer, please?”
For a moment, there was quiet in the crowd—quiet that made Evelyn uncomfortable. She certainly didn’t want to volunteer herself, but she hated the thought that her baby would have no takers.
And Adam, ever the showman, recognized that quiet, too. “Any takers?” he repeated, his voice cracking a bit as he tried desperately to retain some sense of authority.
“At your service, Adamagic!” Davy exclaimed with enthusiasm, standing to the family’s now common “OOOOHHHH!”
“Very good, then,” Adam said, regaining his confidence. “Thank you, sir. If you will step forward.”
Adam then waved his arm dramatically, leading his father onto the “stage.”
Evelyn’s recollection of the ensuing program is that it did not go well for Adam-as-magician. His card tricks failed miserably. And, to make matters worse, they failed repeatedly.
But, as Evelyn recalls now, that failure did nothing to undermine Adam’s conviction. Because Davy—who remained the guinea pig throughout the repertoire—miraculously made every mistake look like it was his fault. It wasn’t Adam who failed to produce magic. It was Davy.
How did he do that? Evelyn now thinks. How did Davy produce magic by being party to the failure of magic?
How did he DO that?!?
Having tossed aside all other contents of the ADAM, AGE 7-10 box, Evelyn looks at the two pieces in front of her: the soft pink ruffled shirt and the tuxedo jacket.
Perfect, she thinks, envisioning the quilt. These two will go together… as an ensemble… in the same square.
* * *
to be continued on November 20th .
In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.
VI
“Aw, my room,” Joy says nostalgically, as she wheels her suitcase into her former bedroom and Evelyn follows.
“Pretty much as you left it,” Evelyn offers.
“No kidding,” Joy replies, adopting a teasing tone.
“What’s that about? Why isn’t this some archival library, like the others?”
“It’s birth order, sweetheart,” her mother explains. “As it turned out, I only needed two storage rooms, and so you and Adam have been spared.”
“Hmm,” Joy says, clearly tired, clearly fading, “birth order.”
Evelyn helps her lift her rolling suitcase onto the table along the wall. She senses Joy’s exhaustion and also envies it. She wonders if this is a moment when she might be overstepping her bounds.
“Is there anything you need, Joy?”
“No. Um, unless you’ve moved the bathroom. There are towels in there?”
“We put in a fresh set today. They’re the only ones in there.”
“And, um,” Joy’s sense of this being an awkward moment reaches Evelyn. “I have an alarm clock. So?”
“You don’t want me to tuck you in?” Evelyn asks, hoping her facetiousness is clear.
“Well—”
“Do you remember what you used to say, Joy, when I asked if I could tuck you in?”
Joy laughs. “How could I not?” She shakes her head, embarrassed, while pulling clothes out of her suitcase and putting them in available bureau drawers. “I used to say, ‘Mother, you don’t tuck me in; you tuck the sheets in.’”
“Right!” Evelyn agrees, clapping her hands as she had at the train station.
Now retrieving a pair of shoes from the bottom of her suitcase and placing them near the closet, Joy asks, “What kept you from slapping my smart-ass self?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how cocky!” Then, Joy repeats the line, with a childish smart-aleck tone: “You don’t tuck me in; you tuck the sheets in.”
“Joy,” her mother replies, lovingly, “you weren’t being a smart-ass.”
Evelyn then kisses her daughter’s forehead and looks her in the eye: “You were being logical.”
VII
An hour later, Evelyn retrieves Davy from the family room. With no protest on his part, she is able to lead him upstairs, help him into his pajamas, and direct him to his side of their bed. Once that is accomplished, she checks in on Joy. Her daughter—so perfectly independent now at the tender age of thirty-seven—is indeed fast asleep.
Evelyn does not waste time envying either of them. They can sleep; she can’t; that’s life.
But life also exists inside of Patrick’s former bedroom.
At least, that’s where much of Evelyn’s life seems to exist now.
VIII
ADAM, AGE 7-10 is the direction she receives from the first folded-up square she pulls from the bowl.
Adam, Evelyn thinks, retrieving the corresponding box. Adam! Whatever will I find in here?
What Evelyn might have been thinking, while retrieving the box, is dramatically different from what she comes upon once she opens it.
She pulls out a knit top. Totally generic. Casts it aside.
Another knit top. A different shade of pale blue, but still pale; still blue. Casts it aside.
As she continues foraging, she is more completely dumb-founded by her pack-rat self than she has been up to this point. These clothes are not special! she thinks. What the hell was I thinking?!?
Then. Suddenly. Buried beneath the dullness, Evelyn sees something that makes her sigh and smile. A soft pink ruffled shirt, specifically made to exist within the tuxedo jacket that is folded beneath it. Each, for some reason, designed to fit the body of an eight-year-old boy.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Adam spoke authoritatively, having gathered his family in the backyard, against the protests of some.
“Welcome! Welcome! And I am so glad you all could come tonight!”
“What choice did we have?” Evelyn heard Patrick say to Marilyn.
“Tonight, I am proud to share with you the amazing world of…” (and then he swirled his hands about in a tantalizing fashion) “…Adamagic.”
“OOOOHHHH!” Davy chanted, inspiring his wife and children to join in.
“OOOOHHHH!” the family chanted.
“Thank you very much,” said the young magician, clearly encouraged by the response.
“Tonight,” Adam continued, “you will witness the unfalmable…”
“Unfalmable!” Davy repeated, raising an arm of solidarity and causing the entire family to chant: “OOOOHHHH!”
“Tonight,” Adam said, beginning to show signs of selfconsciousness, “you will witness magic as you’ve never witnessed it before. May I have a volunteer, please?”
For a moment, there was quiet in the crowd—quiet that made Evelyn uncomfortable. She certainly didn’t want to volunteer herself, but she hated the thought that her baby would have no takers.
And Adam, ever the showman, recognized that quiet, too. “Any takers?” he repeated, his voice cracking a bit as he tried desperately to retain some sense of authority.
“At your service, Adamagic!” Davy exclaimed with enthusiasm, standing to the family’s now common “OOOOHHHH!”
“Very good, then,” Adam said, regaining his confidence. “Thank you, sir. If you will step forward.”
Adam then waved his arm dramatically, leading his father onto the “stage.”
Evelyn’s recollection of the ensuing program is that it did not go well for Adam-as-magician. His card tricks failed miserably. And, to make matters worse, they failed repeatedly.
But, as Evelyn recalls now, that failure did nothing to undermine Adam’s conviction. Because Davy—who remained the guinea pig throughout the repertoire—miraculously made every mistake look like it was his fault. It wasn’t Adam who failed to produce magic. It was Davy.
How did he do that? Evelyn now thinks. How did Davy produce magic by being party to the failure of magic?
How did he DO that?!?
Having tossed aside all other contents of the ADAM, AGE 7-10 box, Evelyn looks at the two pieces in front of her: the soft pink ruffled shirt and the tuxedo jacket.
Perfect, she thinks, envisioning the quilt. These two will go together… as an ensemble… in the same square.
* * *
to be continued on November 20th .
In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Red Flags at Work
It is perhaps an understatement to say that I have always approached employment with a certain amount of fluidity. The fact of the matter is, I have never really worried about it. Within that context, I’ve had two primary “careers.” The first was in the restaurant world of New York City, and the second has been in the nonprofit sector, beginning in New York, at the Ford Foundation. The nonprofit work has lasted quite long – it’s now been 23 years. Ironically, had I not been sent to Ford as a temp, I may never have discovered the sector.
Regardless of my good fortune in that assignment, I’ve always contended: you don’t necessarily need to know what you want to do for a living; just be really clear about what you don’t want to do. And be prepared to run like hell when things don’t work out.
I’ve run like hell on many occasions. And regarding a few of them, I distinctly remember the red flag that pushed me into a new job…
One of my two dozen waitressing gigs was at a Hungarian restaurant on Manhattan’s upper west side. It was more lucrative than anything I could have imagined then, but that income came at a price. The work was nonstop, Mondays through Saturdays. I amassed a weekly average of $350 (in the early 80’s, mind you!), and I didn’t reach that total because I was serving high-end entrees to parties of well-dressed theatre-patrons; rather, I was running my ass off, collecting $2.00 tips here and $3.00 tips there. Do the math.
There were three of us “on the floor” at that restaurant: the two Hungarian waiters and me (me: the native-born; born, for that matter, in Connecticut and to a pair of WASPs). The kitchen was run by guys from the Dominican Republic, and the owner and owneress were Hungarian. As you can imagine, I learned several Spanish and Hungarian phrases while working there. And as you also might imagine (particularly if you are familiar with restaurants as a workplace), most of what I learned contained words that children should not hear.
One morning, about eight or so months into my Hungarian stint, I woke up with one phrase in my head: bazd meg. This, my friends, means “fuck it.” In a language I do not speak.
Red flag: if you wake up in the morning thinking “fuck it,” you are in a bad psychic place. If you wake up thinking “fuck it” in a language you do not speak, consider a job change. Seriously.
…Years later, after I had moved to L.A., I accepted a mid-management position at an area nonprofit. Having done some consulting with them, I thought it’d be a good fit. It wasn’t. I was becoming increasingly unhappy with the administrative details of my responsibilities, and the bureaucracies of the organization disturbed me particularly. I think I had to fill out about three forms to request a legal pad, and six weeks later, I remained without one.
At the same time, this organization’s mission statement included the following phrase: “the elimination of racism.” I became bitter as I watched what was going on around me. All I could think was this: if it takes six weeks to get a legal pad, then good luck with racism!
One day, as I was driving to work, I took a quick glance at my speedometer. I was going eight miles per hour.
Red flag: if you are holding up traffic while driving to your job, it is not the right job for you. Make a u-turn and find another gig. It beats being rear-ended.
About a half-dozen years after that slow drive to resignation, I was once again settling into a new staff job. This time, I had gone through an arduous interview/writing sample process as I vied to become a certain nonprofit organization’s first-ever development director. I landed the job and a nicely competitive salary.
But the challenges became apparent early on. The executive director, who was a lovely person and passionate professional, had some issues with delegation. Issues? Okay, I’m being kind.
As an example: one day, she said to me, “Send an email to the program officer at XYZ. In the subject line, write ‘introducing myself,’ and then tell her who you are and let her know…”
And on it went. I was being told how to write an email. I was being dictated the entire contents of that email!
A week or so later, the executive director was away on business, leaving me to put together the type of funder report I had been responsible for five years earlier, when I was the next-to-the-lowest paid person in a development staff of six. Which is to say, it was an assignment I could have done with my eyes closed.
I put all the documents together and then set out to write the cover letter.
I began by typing, “Dear.”
Just then, the cartoon paper clip appeared on my screen.
“Looks like you’re writing a letter!” its balloon said. “Can I help?”
I practically leapt from my chair and stared down the paper clip. Then, using my outside voice, I screamed, “I KNOW HOW TO WRITE A FUCKING LETTER!”
Red flag: if you are audibly yelling at Microsoft icons, you are wasting your time. And if that yelling has been incited by the micro-managing behaviors of powers-that-be, your time is being wasted. Move on.
And that was the last staff job I ever held.
Go figure.
Regardless of my good fortune in that assignment, I’ve always contended: you don’t necessarily need to know what you want to do for a living; just be really clear about what you don’t want to do. And be prepared to run like hell when things don’t work out.
I’ve run like hell on many occasions. And regarding a few of them, I distinctly remember the red flag that pushed me into a new job…
One of my two dozen waitressing gigs was at a Hungarian restaurant on Manhattan’s upper west side. It was more lucrative than anything I could have imagined then, but that income came at a price. The work was nonstop, Mondays through Saturdays. I amassed a weekly average of $350 (in the early 80’s, mind you!), and I didn’t reach that total because I was serving high-end entrees to parties of well-dressed theatre-patrons; rather, I was running my ass off, collecting $2.00 tips here and $3.00 tips there. Do the math.
There were three of us “on the floor” at that restaurant: the two Hungarian waiters and me (me: the native-born; born, for that matter, in Connecticut and to a pair of WASPs). The kitchen was run by guys from the Dominican Republic, and the owner and owneress were Hungarian. As you can imagine, I learned several Spanish and Hungarian phrases while working there. And as you also might imagine (particularly if you are familiar with restaurants as a workplace), most of what I learned contained words that children should not hear.
One morning, about eight or so months into my Hungarian stint, I woke up with one phrase in my head: bazd meg. This, my friends, means “fuck it.” In a language I do not speak.
Red flag: if you wake up in the morning thinking “fuck it,” you are in a bad psychic place. If you wake up thinking “fuck it” in a language you do not speak, consider a job change. Seriously.
…Years later, after I had moved to L.A., I accepted a mid-management position at an area nonprofit. Having done some consulting with them, I thought it’d be a good fit. It wasn’t. I was becoming increasingly unhappy with the administrative details of my responsibilities, and the bureaucracies of the organization disturbed me particularly. I think I had to fill out about three forms to request a legal pad, and six weeks later, I remained without one.
At the same time, this organization’s mission statement included the following phrase: “the elimination of racism.” I became bitter as I watched what was going on around me. All I could think was this: if it takes six weeks to get a legal pad, then good luck with racism!
One day, as I was driving to work, I took a quick glance at my speedometer. I was going eight miles per hour.
Red flag: if you are holding up traffic while driving to your job, it is not the right job for you. Make a u-turn and find another gig. It beats being rear-ended.
About a half-dozen years after that slow drive to resignation, I was once again settling into a new staff job. This time, I had gone through an arduous interview/writing sample process as I vied to become a certain nonprofit organization’s first-ever development director. I landed the job and a nicely competitive salary.
But the challenges became apparent early on. The executive director, who was a lovely person and passionate professional, had some issues with delegation. Issues? Okay, I’m being kind.
As an example: one day, she said to me, “Send an email to the program officer at XYZ. In the subject line, write ‘introducing myself,’ and then tell her who you are and let her know…”
And on it went. I was being told how to write an email. I was being dictated the entire contents of that email!
A week or so later, the executive director was away on business, leaving me to put together the type of funder report I had been responsible for five years earlier, when I was the next-to-the-lowest paid person in a development staff of six. Which is to say, it was an assignment I could have done with my eyes closed.
I put all the documents together and then set out to write the cover letter.
I began by typing, “Dear.”
Just then, the cartoon paper clip appeared on my screen.
“Looks like you’re writing a letter!” its balloon said. “Can I help?”
I practically leapt from my chair and stared down the paper clip. Then, using my outside voice, I screamed, “I KNOW HOW TO WRITE A FUCKING LETTER!”
Red flag: if you are audibly yelling at Microsoft icons, you are wasting your time. And if that yelling has been incited by the micro-managing behaviors of powers-that-be, your time is being wasted. Move on.
And that was the last staff job I ever held.
Go figure.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Monday Reruns: My Lee Marvin Story
(original post-date: November 3, 2009)
Imagine a world where you can’t rent movies or look up some info online. In 1979, that was the world I was living in. And that’s where my tale begins…
It was early December in NYC. Which means it was that crisp, holiday time, and everyone was in a festive mood. My good friend, John, had some out-of-town guests, and because I was living in a rather spacious apartment, we volunteered my living room for the three guys’ crash pad.
After a day-and-a-half of running around town, we spent Sunday evening in. Just hanging around the living room, talking about whatever. The conversation turned to favorite movies, and John’s brother, Tom, mentioned that his was Cat Ballou. As we began to riff on the movie, we remembered that Lee Marvin played two roles: the drunk (Kid Shelleen), and… what was the name of the other character? He had a silver nose, and he was a bad guy! What was his name?
We couldn’t think of it, and so we moved on. But, for John and me, moving on was only temporary. For months after the three houseguests returned to Michigan, John and I continued to obsess over the unanswered trivia question. We’d quiz people at parties we’d attend. And, week after week, I’d peruse the TV listings in the paper to see if Cat Ballou might be that night’s late, late movie on network television.
I’d also check the movie listings in the Times and The New Yorker. There were lots of revival theatres back then, and it would have been fun to see the old western on the big screen. But… it never showed up.
Why were we so obsessed with getting the answer to this question?
Time passed… and the following July, I had tickets to see a production of Camelot at Lincoln Center. Richard Burton reprising his role, and Christine Ebersol playing Guenevere. I met my friend, Audrey, at the box office, where we picked up our tickets. Then, we entered the large lobby. We had a little time to mill about before heading up to our cheap seats, and as we both took in the array of people, I noticed a large man, about ten feet away.
“Look!” I said to Audrey. “Lee Marvin!”
Then, it dawned on me: He’ll know!
Without thinking twice about it, I raced over to him. And then, in a truly childlike move, I tugged ever so gently on the sleeve of his camel-colored jacket. “Mr. Marvin?” I said, my voice easily three octaves higher than it usually is. “Mr. Marvin?”
He looked down at me (not in a classist way; rather, in the way of someone who is just that much taller).
“Yes?” he said, his voice large, the word seeming to have so many more than three letters.
I was stunned, and I must have looked incredibly frightened.
“Yes?” he reiterated, his presence so far above me that his words echoed as God’s might.
(I was temporarily frozen by the reality of the moment: Lee Marvin was waiting for me to say something!)
“Um, yes, Mr. Marvin,” I began, sounding like a chipmunk on amphetamines, “Um, anyway, these friends of mine and I have been obsessed for a while with a trivia question, and…”
“Yes?” he asked again, still looking down upon me (not unkindly) and filling the time while I took a breath.
“And so we’re just wondering, Mr. Marvin, in Cat Ballou, what’s the name of that guy you played – not Kid Shelleen, we know about him, but the other guy… the guy with the silver nose?”
“Tim Strawn,” he said.
“Tim Strawn?” I repeated, my voice still sounding like I’d just inhaled a boatload of helium.
“Tim Strawn,” he confirmed, maintaining his solid standing and deep vocal register.
“Thank you,” I squeaked.
And as I scurried away, all I could think was, “I can’t wait to tell John!”
I got the answer! I got it from the man himself!
Imagine a world where you can’t rent movies or look up some info online. In 1979, that was the world I was living in. And that’s where my tale begins…
It was early December in NYC. Which means it was that crisp, holiday time, and everyone was in a festive mood. My good friend, John, had some out-of-town guests, and because I was living in a rather spacious apartment, we volunteered my living room for the three guys’ crash pad.
After a day-and-a-half of running around town, we spent Sunday evening in. Just hanging around the living room, talking about whatever. The conversation turned to favorite movies, and John’s brother, Tom, mentioned that his was Cat Ballou. As we began to riff on the movie, we remembered that Lee Marvin played two roles: the drunk (Kid Shelleen), and… what was the name of the other character? He had a silver nose, and he was a bad guy! What was his name?
We couldn’t think of it, and so we moved on. But, for John and me, moving on was only temporary. For months after the three houseguests returned to Michigan, John and I continued to obsess over the unanswered trivia question. We’d quiz people at parties we’d attend. And, week after week, I’d peruse the TV listings in the paper to see if Cat Ballou might be that night’s late, late movie on network television.
I’d also check the movie listings in the Times and The New Yorker. There were lots of revival theatres back then, and it would have been fun to see the old western on the big screen. But… it never showed up.
Why were we so obsessed with getting the answer to this question?
Time passed… and the following July, I had tickets to see a production of Camelot at Lincoln Center. Richard Burton reprising his role, and Christine Ebersol playing Guenevere. I met my friend, Audrey, at the box office, where we picked up our tickets. Then, we entered the large lobby. We had a little time to mill about before heading up to our cheap seats, and as we both took in the array of people, I noticed a large man, about ten feet away.
“Look!” I said to Audrey. “Lee Marvin!”
Then, it dawned on me: He’ll know!
Without thinking twice about it, I raced over to him. And then, in a truly childlike move, I tugged ever so gently on the sleeve of his camel-colored jacket. “Mr. Marvin?” I said, my voice easily three octaves higher than it usually is. “Mr. Marvin?”
He looked down at me (not in a classist way; rather, in the way of someone who is just that much taller).
“Yes?” he said, his voice large, the word seeming to have so many more than three letters.
I was stunned, and I must have looked incredibly frightened.
“Yes?” he reiterated, his presence so far above me that his words echoed as God’s might.
(I was temporarily frozen by the reality of the moment: Lee Marvin was waiting for me to say something!)
“Um, yes, Mr. Marvin,” I began, sounding like a chipmunk on amphetamines, “Um, anyway, these friends of mine and I have been obsessed for a while with a trivia question, and…”
“Yes?” he asked again, still looking down upon me (not unkindly) and filling the time while I took a breath.
“And so we’re just wondering, Mr. Marvin, in Cat Ballou, what’s the name of that guy you played – not Kid Shelleen, we know about him, but the other guy… the guy with the silver nose?”
“Tim Strawn,” he said.
“Tim Strawn?” I repeated, my voice still sounding like I’d just inhaled a boatload of helium.
“Tim Strawn,” he confirmed, maintaining his solid standing and deep vocal register.
“Thank you,” I squeaked.
And as I scurried away, all I could think was, “I can’t wait to tell John!”
I got the answer! I got it from the man himself!
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Twenty
A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26th. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).
III
“So Claudia and I talked this morning about dinner tonight,” Evelyn shares, while driving Joy home. “I’m assuming you’re still a vegetarian?”
“Well,” Joy squirms a little bit, but more from a feeling of inconvenience than of guilt. “Actually. No.”
“Okay…?”
“What can I say? I met a cheeseburger six months ago, and—”
“You took him home?”
“Oh. Oh, no,” Joy responds, waving off the concept as if it were trite. “We just did it right there in the restaurant.”
Evelyn laughs and smiles. “Should you be telling this to your mother?”
“I think you can handle it,” Joy says, her dimples as deep as ever.
“Okay,” Evelyn says, reaching an intersection near their home and waiting for a pair of rollerbladers to skate past the car. “I am not disappointed.” Then, looking at Joy, “I will never be disappointed. But: would you object to a vegetarian meal tonight?”
Joy looks at her mother for a moment and reveals the teasing temperament that defines her approach to life. “As long as they’re not the same vegetables I was involved with before.”
Her access into the intersection clear, Evelyn hits the gas. “I think we’re safe,” she says to Joy.
IV
Evelyn, Davy, and Joy share a dinner of vegetarian lasagna, salad, and garlic bread. And they wrap up the meal just as Claudia is leaving to go home.
Evelyn is surprised by the appetite she brought to the meal, so rarely does she eat this early. But she also realizes that the day began much earlier than usual. God, she thinks, as Joy graciously walks Claudia to the door, maybe tonight I’ll be able to sleep!
When Joy returns to the dining room, Davy looks at her quizzically. “Who are you?”
“I’m Joy, Dad,” she says, the slightest bit of unease showing through her smile. “I’m your daughter. We just had dinner together.”
“I don’t know you!” he replies angrily.
Davy then gets up from his chair and states, with the emphasis Evelyn knows is hyper-compensatory, “I’m going in there!”
As Davy heads for the door that leads to the kitchen, and ultimately, to the family room, Evelyn calls out from her chair, “Are you going to watch TV?”
“I’m just! I’m just! I’m going. I’m going to do,” Davy calls from the kitchen.
“He’ll be fine,” Evelyn says to her daughter. “He’s just…going to do.”
“Going to do,” Joy echoes, her dimples a bit crimped.
V
When Evelyn returns from settling Davy into the family room, Joy is sitting at the dining room table, looking stunned but not defeated.
“Let’s go in the study,” Evelyn suggests, retrieving her glass from her place at the table. “C’mon!” she says then, using the tone one would for a puppy.
And the tone, which helps Joy lighten up, leads her to the study, where Evelyn turns on a few lamps, sits in one of the leather chairs, and sets a relaxing precedent.
Joy, not ready to sit just yet, walks around the room. She looks at the bookcases as if she has never seen them before. She takes in the art on the wall. She circles about, caressing her wineglass and breathing deeply.
“Okay,” Joy finally says, exhaling audibly. “Okay,” she says again, descending into a corner of the leather couch and looking directly at her mother. “That was intense.”
Evelyn nods slowly, her expression somehow conveying love, sadness, and resignation all at once.
“But I really admire,” Joy begins, somewhat haltingly, “the way you communicate with him. In a way, you treat him as if nothing were different.”
“Mmm,” Evelyn says, nodding again, not knowing how to respond.
“And since we don’t know what’s different for him,” Joy continues, “I mean, we don’t really know, maybe that’s best.”
Evelyn looks at her daughter—appreciative of her presence, appreciative of her exploring mind.
“God!” Joy then exclaims. “Claudia told me earlier about his sax performance the other day!”
Evelyn nods, squinting through her emotions and so very glad that a family member is there to share some of them.
“I mean,” Joy goes on, “what’s that about? He hasn’t lost it all! Has he just lost his ability to communicate what he knows?”
“That’s the mystery,” Evelyn tells her daughter. “That’s the mystery. You know, a year or so ago, when I realized he was napping a lot, I worried about that. I thought he shouldn’t be sleeping so much. But then, I wondered about his dreams. We can fly in our dreams, right? We can do things we can’t do when we’re awake. So maybe, in his dreams, your father can have conversations! Maybe he can hold his own, you know?
“And,” Evelyn adds then, “if that’s the case, I say ‘let him sleep’.”
* * *
to be continued on November 13th .
In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.
III
“So Claudia and I talked this morning about dinner tonight,” Evelyn shares, while driving Joy home. “I’m assuming you’re still a vegetarian?”
“Well,” Joy squirms a little bit, but more from a feeling of inconvenience than of guilt. “Actually. No.”
“Okay…?”
“What can I say? I met a cheeseburger six months ago, and—”
“You took him home?”
“Oh. Oh, no,” Joy responds, waving off the concept as if it were trite. “We just did it right there in the restaurant.”
Evelyn laughs and smiles. “Should you be telling this to your mother?”
“I think you can handle it,” Joy says, her dimples as deep as ever.
“Okay,” Evelyn says, reaching an intersection near their home and waiting for a pair of rollerbladers to skate past the car. “I am not disappointed.” Then, looking at Joy, “I will never be disappointed. But: would you object to a vegetarian meal tonight?”
Joy looks at her mother for a moment and reveals the teasing temperament that defines her approach to life. “As long as they’re not the same vegetables I was involved with before.”
Her access into the intersection clear, Evelyn hits the gas. “I think we’re safe,” she says to Joy.
IV
Evelyn, Davy, and Joy share a dinner of vegetarian lasagna, salad, and garlic bread. And they wrap up the meal just as Claudia is leaving to go home.
Evelyn is surprised by the appetite she brought to the meal, so rarely does she eat this early. But she also realizes that the day began much earlier than usual. God, she thinks, as Joy graciously walks Claudia to the door, maybe tonight I’ll be able to sleep!
When Joy returns to the dining room, Davy looks at her quizzically. “Who are you?”
“I’m Joy, Dad,” she says, the slightest bit of unease showing through her smile. “I’m your daughter. We just had dinner together.”
“I don’t know you!” he replies angrily.
Davy then gets up from his chair and states, with the emphasis Evelyn knows is hyper-compensatory, “I’m going in there!”
As Davy heads for the door that leads to the kitchen, and ultimately, to the family room, Evelyn calls out from her chair, “Are you going to watch TV?”
“I’m just! I’m just! I’m going. I’m going to do,” Davy calls from the kitchen.
“He’ll be fine,” Evelyn says to her daughter. “He’s just…going to do.”
“Going to do,” Joy echoes, her dimples a bit crimped.
V
When Evelyn returns from settling Davy into the family room, Joy is sitting at the dining room table, looking stunned but not defeated.
“Let’s go in the study,” Evelyn suggests, retrieving her glass from her place at the table. “C’mon!” she says then, using the tone one would for a puppy.
And the tone, which helps Joy lighten up, leads her to the study, where Evelyn turns on a few lamps, sits in one of the leather chairs, and sets a relaxing precedent.
Joy, not ready to sit just yet, walks around the room. She looks at the bookcases as if she has never seen them before. She takes in the art on the wall. She circles about, caressing her wineglass and breathing deeply.
“Okay,” Joy finally says, exhaling audibly. “Okay,” she says again, descending into a corner of the leather couch and looking directly at her mother. “That was intense.”
Evelyn nods slowly, her expression somehow conveying love, sadness, and resignation all at once.
“But I really admire,” Joy begins, somewhat haltingly, “the way you communicate with him. In a way, you treat him as if nothing were different.”
“Mmm,” Evelyn says, nodding again, not knowing how to respond.
“And since we don’t know what’s different for him,” Joy continues, “I mean, we don’t really know, maybe that’s best.”
Evelyn looks at her daughter—appreciative of her presence, appreciative of her exploring mind.
“God!” Joy then exclaims. “Claudia told me earlier about his sax performance the other day!”
Evelyn nods, squinting through her emotions and so very glad that a family member is there to share some of them.
“I mean,” Joy goes on, “what’s that about? He hasn’t lost it all! Has he just lost his ability to communicate what he knows?”
“That’s the mystery,” Evelyn tells her daughter. “That’s the mystery. You know, a year or so ago, when I realized he was napping a lot, I worried about that. I thought he shouldn’t be sleeping so much. But then, I wondered about his dreams. We can fly in our dreams, right? We can do things we can’t do when we’re awake. So maybe, in his dreams, your father can have conversations! Maybe he can hold his own, you know?
“And,” Evelyn adds then, “if that’s the case, I say ‘let him sleep’.”
* * *
to be continued on November 13th .
In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Morning After
In the interest of full disclosure, I will confess that I am not writing this on Wednesday morning. Rather, it’s Tuesday night, and I’ve got the TV on in the other room. I’m listening with my left ear as I type with both hands. My mind is taking things in as I put things out. Call me versatile.
As with most years, I have been intrigued by the campaigns and rallies that have led up to this day of voting. In college, I majored in Poli-Sci, and electoral politics always held my interest most. Electoral politics reflect a combination of so many things: the personalities of elected officials and those who would like to hold office; the mood of the nation; the mood of individual groups within the nation; the economy; the income classes; the tragic tenacity of racism; what’s happening around the world; hopes and dreams; frustrations and difficulties.
This electoral season has been phenomenal on all those fronts. And what is abundantly clear is that a whole lot of people are pissed off. I’ve been sharing a quip for a few months now: if we Californians reinstate “Governor Moonbeam” as our chief executive, and if we simultaneously legalize marijuana, then make your moving plans. Please join me on the West Coast as we await the apocalypse.
That’s a joke, but the sentiment underlying it is not. Our country is having a serious meltdown. It actually might be a good idea for us to gather together around a fire, load up a very large bong, and sing Kumbaya for a while.
What concerns me most about the current angst is that it seems people are putting all the blame on the present. And, in my opinion, that is a huge mistake.
A lot of what is messed up today goes back to Reagan and deregulation. There also are the travesties of the first eight years of the current century…
I was on Amazon the other day, and I noticed their large advertisement for a book that will be released on November 9th. George W. Bush’s Decision Points.
I immediately questioned the title. Shouldn’t it be called Decidering Points?
As I thought about it, I realized there are many possibilities for the title of Dubya’s memoir…
How about Moments When Dick Cheney Told Me What to Do… ?
No? Okay then, here’s another option: How I Came to Support Halliburton While Hopin’ to Please Ol’ Pappy.
What do you mean you don’t like that one?
Too wordy, you say?
Alright then, how about My Delusion Continues.
Yeah, I agree, that might give him too much credit for introspection.
Of course, something extremely direct might be refreshing. Like… Check Out All These Ways I Fucked Up!
And here’s one that’s sort of obtuse: A Spine is a Terrible Thing to Waste.
(By which I’m speaking from the perspective of a librarian, not an anatomist.)
Update from my left ear: the news station I am listening to has projected Jerry Brown for governor.
Can you imagine spending $141 million in pursuit of a job and NOT getting it?
If tonight’s projections hold true tomorrow, then that’s what Meg Whitman did.
Everybody should be angry about that waste of too-much-money.
And if you think about it... and if you do so without partisan prejudice or any other ‘ism’s that might influence your perspective, you will realize that you cannot logically blame the obscene scenario of Whitman’s campaign on the Obama administration.
You just can’t.
As with most years, I have been intrigued by the campaigns and rallies that have led up to this day of voting. In college, I majored in Poli-Sci, and electoral politics always held my interest most. Electoral politics reflect a combination of so many things: the personalities of elected officials and those who would like to hold office; the mood of the nation; the mood of individual groups within the nation; the economy; the income classes; the tragic tenacity of racism; what’s happening around the world; hopes and dreams; frustrations and difficulties.
This electoral season has been phenomenal on all those fronts. And what is abundantly clear is that a whole lot of people are pissed off. I’ve been sharing a quip for a few months now: if we Californians reinstate “Governor Moonbeam” as our chief executive, and if we simultaneously legalize marijuana, then make your moving plans. Please join me on the West Coast as we await the apocalypse.
That’s a joke, but the sentiment underlying it is not. Our country is having a serious meltdown. It actually might be a good idea for us to gather together around a fire, load up a very large bong, and sing Kumbaya for a while.
What concerns me most about the current angst is that it seems people are putting all the blame on the present. And, in my opinion, that is a huge mistake.
A lot of what is messed up today goes back to Reagan and deregulation. There also are the travesties of the first eight years of the current century…
I was on Amazon the other day, and I noticed their large advertisement for a book that will be released on November 9th. George W. Bush’s Decision Points.
I immediately questioned the title. Shouldn’t it be called Decidering Points?
As I thought about it, I realized there are many possibilities for the title of Dubya’s memoir…
How about Moments When Dick Cheney Told Me What to Do… ?
No? Okay then, here’s another option: How I Came to Support Halliburton While Hopin’ to Please Ol’ Pappy.
What do you mean you don’t like that one?
Too wordy, you say?
Alright then, how about My Delusion Continues.
Yeah, I agree, that might give him too much credit for introspection.
Of course, something extremely direct might be refreshing. Like… Check Out All These Ways I Fucked Up!
And here’s one that’s sort of obtuse: A Spine is a Terrible Thing to Waste.
(By which I’m speaking from the perspective of a librarian, not an anatomist.)
Update from my left ear: the news station I am listening to has projected Jerry Brown for governor.
Can you imagine spending $141 million in pursuit of a job and NOT getting it?
If tonight’s projections hold true tomorrow, then that’s what Meg Whitman did.
Everybody should be angry about that waste of too-much-money.
And if you think about it... and if you do so without partisan prejudice or any other ‘ism’s that might influence your perspective, you will realize that you cannot logically blame the obscene scenario of Whitman’s campaign on the Obama administration.
You just can’t.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Monday Reruns: What Are You Waiting For? (Some Thoughts on Life Expectancy)
(original post date: October 27, 2009)
Last Spring, I participated in a few sessions of a women’s networking group. I was looking for ways to promote my novel, The Somebody Who, and I thought these monthly gatherings might be helpful. At the third of the three consecutive meetings I attended, I grabbed a chair that was next to a woman who was new to the group (or, at least, new to me). She was raving about something she had heard that day. She was excited because she had learned that some authority somewhere had suggested that life expectancy could be 140.
When I rolled my eyes, I must have done so audibly. When she turned to me, I apologized. “Sorry,” I said, holding up my novel. “But I’m here promoting a story about dementia. I just can’t get excited about that news.”
But she was. She really was excited by the prospect of living to be 140. And I just don’t get that.
You want to live to be 140? What? You want to take up space and resources that other, younger people need? Are you kidding? How do you envision all those extra years? You think you’re gonna have some good times? You think that, as you near the end, you’re gonna still have it together? Hell, I could be wrong; maybe you will live to be 140. Maybe, in fact, you’ll be in such good shape that you'll be able to comfort that daughter of yours. You know the one I’m talking about … think ahead: your little girl is 115, and she’s going through a rough time. But the two of you are close (who wouldn’t be after more than a century of bonding?), and so she’ll appreciate your words of motherly wisdom. She’ll appreciate your telling her, “Hang in there, honey. And don’t worry. It’ll all get better soon. The 120’s? Those are the best!”
… A part of me feels that if you don’t do the first 70 right, you don’t get another 70. You just don’t. (And, if you do do the first 70 right, you don’t need another 70. Follow me?)
I know I’m weirdly cavalier about the whole lifespan thing. I remember, three or four years ago, when I was getting ready to go back to Virginia to see my folks, a friend here in L.A. said, “Remember, Katie, this might be the last time you see your Dad.”
“That’s true for all of us,” I replied. “Every time we see each other. That might be the last time.”
Case in point:
In early March of '08 (a few weeks before my Dad died), I was running an errand in the Valley. I parked my car on Ventura Boulevard, and when I went to the meter, I realized I didn’t have enough change in my wallet. I had to head back to the driver’s side of my Corolla so I could get some quarters out of the compartment just left of the steering wheel. I took a broad step off the sidewalk, and when I took the next broad step, a piece of raised pavement threw me off in a big way. I tripped, but I didn’t fall. And after I didn’t fall, I took notice of the SUV that would have flattened my head if I had fallen. Standing there, tripped but not fallen (still alive), only one thought crossed my mind: “That’s what I’m talking about, people! That’s what I’m talking about.”
Don’t wait for your 120’s for everything to fall into place. There are too many SUVs out there.
Last Spring, I participated in a few sessions of a women’s networking group. I was looking for ways to promote my novel, The Somebody Who, and I thought these monthly gatherings might be helpful. At the third of the three consecutive meetings I attended, I grabbed a chair that was next to a woman who was new to the group (or, at least, new to me). She was raving about something she had heard that day. She was excited because she had learned that some authority somewhere had suggested that life expectancy could be 140.
When I rolled my eyes, I must have done so audibly. When she turned to me, I apologized. “Sorry,” I said, holding up my novel. “But I’m here promoting a story about dementia. I just can’t get excited about that news.”
But she was. She really was excited by the prospect of living to be 140. And I just don’t get that.
You want to live to be 140? What? You want to take up space and resources that other, younger people need? Are you kidding? How do you envision all those extra years? You think you’re gonna have some good times? You think that, as you near the end, you’re gonna still have it together? Hell, I could be wrong; maybe you will live to be 140. Maybe, in fact, you’ll be in such good shape that you'll be able to comfort that daughter of yours. You know the one I’m talking about … think ahead: your little girl is 115, and she’s going through a rough time. But the two of you are close (who wouldn’t be after more than a century of bonding?), and so she’ll appreciate your words of motherly wisdom. She’ll appreciate your telling her, “Hang in there, honey. And don’t worry. It’ll all get better soon. The 120’s? Those are the best!”
… A part of me feels that if you don’t do the first 70 right, you don’t get another 70. You just don’t. (And, if you do do the first 70 right, you don’t need another 70. Follow me?)
I know I’m weirdly cavalier about the whole lifespan thing. I remember, three or four years ago, when I was getting ready to go back to Virginia to see my folks, a friend here in L.A. said, “Remember, Katie, this might be the last time you see your Dad.”
“That’s true for all of us,” I replied. “Every time we see each other. That might be the last time.”
Case in point:
In early March of '08 (a few weeks before my Dad died), I was running an errand in the Valley. I parked my car on Ventura Boulevard, and when I went to the meter, I realized I didn’t have enough change in my wallet. I had to head back to the driver’s side of my Corolla so I could get some quarters out of the compartment just left of the steering wheel. I took a broad step off the sidewalk, and when I took the next broad step, a piece of raised pavement threw me off in a big way. I tripped, but I didn’t fall. And after I didn’t fall, I took notice of the SUV that would have flattened my head if I had fallen. Standing there, tripped but not fallen (still alive), only one thought crossed my mind: “That’s what I’m talking about, people! That’s what I’m talking about.”
Don’t wait for your 120’s for everything to fall into place. There are too many SUVs out there.
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