[For the duration of the 2008 campaign, the part of Sarah Palin will be played by Tina Fey]
On paper, Sarah Palin almost sounds like a meth-head. Okay, maybe that's too harsh -- how about insane survivalist?
Don't think so? Let's go through her bio one vice presidential quality at a time.
1. Female resident of Alaska.
What comes to mind? A well coiffed Ann Coulter lookalike? A poised replica of Condy Rice?
I don't know about you but my primary experience with women from Alaska was the late Iditarod musher, Susan Butcher. who wore snowmobile suits, lived in a cabin in the woods and raised sled dogs. What you couldn't experience watching on TV, according to people who interviewed her, was the smell of someone who didn't bathe very often.
I can just imagine what it was like when McCain's search team was sitting around late at night trying to think out of the box for a veep nominee. Whaddya think Marty? We're getting our asses kicked with all the Hillary love. Isn't it about time we vetted a broad, sorry, woman? Yeah, Roger, but, not just any babe, she ought to be from way out of town -- you know, like Alaska. Alaska's a state, right? You serious Marty? A woman from Alaska? C'mon! Are there any women in Alaska? Sure. They got all those descendants of the hookers who worked the pipeline. I even think they got a Hooter's. Hooter's? That's funny Marty. Can you see a buncha hotties in shorts and plaid shirts? Wanna buy some hot penguin wings Mister? I'm dying here.
Okay, seriousness.
You have to believe that a sight unseen woman from Alaska might be a hard sell to those Republican marketing twits at first. Why? Because you don't conjure up a pilates devotee in a tailored suit and heels. If you do, you're a liar.
With the image of Ms. Butcher on my mind, I'm thinking you'd get a big, lumberjacky babe who maybe runs a bar. Sorry, let's ratchet that stereotype back and just call her "larger than life," not "big."
2. Now add "mother of five" to the description. Does her butt look fat now? You bet.
3. Plus she's a card-carrying member of the NRA -- really likes to shoot moose, probably with a 'scope, throw the carcass into the pick up, drive home and make up a pot of her famous moose stew. Right next to the burner where she cooks the meth. You do whatcha gotta do with five screaming kids to feed, don't ya know.
No way I'm seeing anyone that resembles Nancy Reagan going out to field dress big game in the wilderness.
4. This next one pretty much guarantees that Sarah Palin on paper is going to be scary as shit: she helps out her husband on his commercial fishing boat. Ever see what they wear? Ever smell them after a day spent hauling ass on one of those trawlers? Living with sled dogs is Chanel No. 5 next to Odeur de Fish.
By the way, with the visual image this bio is building, can you believe Sarah Palin's actually got a husband? Sound impossible? Did I mention that the ratio of men to women in Alaska is 20 to 1?
5. But that's not the best part. Her hubba bubba is an Inuit. You know, one of those people we used to call Eskimos -- so we get a two-fer -- a woman AND her minority spouse. Is it great to be a Republican or what?
[For the duration of the 2008 campaign, the part of Ms. Palin's husband will be played by a regular white guy who looks just like him.]
6. Did I mention her nickname on the high school basketball team was "Barracuda"?
Wait a minute Marty, this basketball thing -- she's not a lesbo, right? Not a chance Roger, she was a beauty queen, ya know? Beauty queens can't be lesbians. Yeah, but exactly what is beauty in Alaska? Yer right, I dunno.
7. Here's the big finish: Sarah Palin is the governor of Alaska.
You pulling my leg, Roger? Would I lie, Marty? Sarah Palin is the bona fide governor of Alaska. For almost a year and a half. Can you believe it? No shit. Elected and everything. Actually, I think they flipped a coin and she lost.
Tell the truth, if you didn't know Sarah Palin was the governor, you'd be thinking she lived in a trailer down by the docks, heated with kerosene lamps, with a pick up out front and a broken down washing machine rusting out back.
But, quelle surprise, it turns out Sarah Palin is attractive. The Alaskan version of tits and ass. No way she hangs with McCain unless she's got the looky-loos. Anybody who thinks otherwise hasn't watched TV for the last forty years.
With a journalism degree from that hotbed of newshounds, the University of Idaho, she has become top dog in one of our least populous states. Wyoming, also nearly empty, has also had a female governor. She was a former rodeo queen. Together they barely rise above the credibility of Tupperware Ladies.
But part of Palin's charm is that she also has a reputation as a reformer, don't forget. Ooooo, I'm scared.
Alaska has a population of about one person for every forty-two miles, and they all have guns. Think nineteenth century frontier town, only way bigger. Up there, a fella takes off his hat for a pretty lady. If Sarah Palin had been a man when she achieved maverick status by taking on the state's notoriously corrupt politicians, they would have just pulled out a gun and shot her.
Did I mention her undistinguished degree in journalism from the Harvard of Baked Potato Land, where she probably set up a bogus residency to get the in-state discount? In the whole of Alaska there are only 670,000 people. So a local yokel like Sarah Palin could easily parlay her weak educational creds into a governorship, since nobody else finished high school.
Next to any number of women who deserve the vice presidential nomination more, she isn't even a little fish in a little pond. She's bait.
In the real world, Sarah Palin isn't qualified to hang Hillary's pantsuit. Although she could give Dan Quayle a run for his money.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
My First Eighteen Holes
When Tiger won his first Masters, I was watching on that historic Easter Sunday along with at least ten other people, most of whom were avid golfers. Until then, like anybody else who had been excluded from fairways and greens across the country because of gender or color, I never really cared which out of shape white guy won the latest PGA tournament.
But that day, when Tiger rewrote the record book, I became a believer. It was the very first time I remember watching every single hole from tee to green and never lost interest.
Now I wanted to play golf myself. Forced to retire from my other, supposedly more demanding, sports, I thought I would finally take up this lazy weekend activity. But after only one trip to the driving range for my first and only round of practice balls, it became apparent that I needed too many new body parts to play. For one brief, shining moment, I did enjoy smacking the poop out of the ball, swinging the club like a ballplayer reaching for a low outside pitch, until my back started sending cease and desist orders.
Disappointed that my plan for old age had come unraveled, I became a spectator and began to follow the fortunes of my college roommate's nephew instead. "Bubba" [a nickname bestowed on him by his brother's toddler] was amused to find that his adopted aunt read Sports Illustrated and preferred talking smack about formations and lineups, rather than following fashion and Jimmy Choos. Despite our huge age difference and obvious gender disparity, we found common ground in sports.
I shot his senior football season in high school, when he quarterbacked his team to the state championships. Vacationing with his family over the years at the Jersey Shore, we all played tennis and spent hours in endless beach paddle battles interrupted only by the incoming tide. At the end of the day at an empty ball field a block from the beach, I often caught his sister so she could practice pitching for her high school team.
But there were also several days when he and his father and brother plus several other male cousins would disappear for hours to play golf. Once, years ago, I asked if I could ride in the cart just to watch a round of golf up close and personal. But there was never an extra seat available, or they were going out too early. So it never happened.
This year, finally, I got my chance. "Do you want to go with us tomorrow when we play golf?" Bubba asked at the end of a day at the beach. You bet.
So, the next morning, on what turned out to be the most perfect day of the summer, we set out at eight in the morning for the Cape May National Course.
Over the years, as Bubba graduated from college and went to work for a consulting group, then went back to school for his MBA, it became apparent to me that, despite his infrequent play, he might have the skills and the work ethic to try making the tour. I was not very subtle about it either, giving him names of people to contact and generally bugging him to follow his heart.
I even enlisted Troy Aikman in my attempts to encourage him to play. A few years ago, I did a video with Troy, who is almost a scratch golfer himself. Like many pro athletes I got the feeling that if he could, he might have preferred golf to football.
In one of my efforts to get the Bub Boy to think about golf as a profession instead of a hobby, I asked Troy to autograph a book he wrote with an inscription to Bubba. "What do you want me to say?" he asked. How about "Bubba -- play golf. Troy Aikman."
So here we were several years later, on this beautiful day in southern New Jersey, Bubba and me in one cart, his dad and brother in the other. He had just received an offer to work for a big investment firm, which would seem to preclude any hope of a future on the tour. But, at least I would finally get to see him play instead of hear about it from other people. His brother also brought a video camera, so I could record this auspicious occasion.
He double bogied the first three holes.
Needless to say, most of what I videotaped up to that point were shots of him looking for his ball in the high grass, disappearing behind berms and reappearing several yards later. Finally, as he walked off the third green toward the cart, he announced that I was bad luck. He was only half kidding.
We weren't allowed to bring the carts up on the tees or greens so I often didn't get a good angle on the distance of their tee shots or the finesse of their putts. I watched a beautiful chip shot by Bubba's dad, but the camera was out of juice by that time.
I couldn't see how well they were hitting because I was usually sitting down and off to the side of the tees and greens. I could see the balls take off on their drives, but mostly they would disappear before I could track them on the fairway.
In all the years I've known him I've never seen Bubba lose his temper. But I lost track of how many times he blew up on the golf course. After he muffed a shot, he would get into the cart, take off like Tony Stewart and grumble until he found his ball.
That was pretty much how every hole seemed to go: a tee shot he hated, a second shot that landed badly, and yet, the ball was on the green I noticed, followed by two putts. I was surprised to learn that there are yard markers on the course. Hey, you can tell how far you've hit a ball. Who knew?
I looked over at Bubba's scorecard on the wheel of the cart and saw that after his terrible start, he was now playing par golf. Most of the time I saw him reach the green in two shots, so he even had some birdie opportunities too. Not that he made them.
After nine holes -- ta-da! we were back where we started. I had no idea that a golf course was set up so that the ninth hole led back to food and toilets. What a clever idea. I got a hotdog, a candy bar and a drink. I also asked someone to please put some teepee in the ladies room. Except for the women who worked there I was the only female around so the ladies' room was fairly neglected.
Meanwhile, the weather stayed as pretty as any day you could imagine, so I was having a great time. Bubba, not so much. He lost his temper a few more times as we began negotiating the back nine. Nothing serious mind you, just a primal scream or too. But I learned firsthand that golf can enrage even the most even tempered person.
The guys played very quickly. They would have played even faster if the people ahead of them didn't take forever to line up their shots. Normally they can play a round in under four hours. But we were out there for five and a half.
On the eighteenth tee Bubba drove the cart into forbidden territory, so I could finally get a better look at their drives. At that very moment the golf cart police happened to be driving by and we were chastised for not obeying the rules of the road. As it turned out I ended up with a great view of the fairway anyway.
I watched Bubba's dad and his older brother take their monster drivers and each of them easily hit their shots at least 240 yards down the fairway. [FYI, Remo, the average duffer hits a drive about 195 yards].
Then I finally got a real appreciation of what Bubba could do to a golf ball. Instead of using a driver he took a three iron and launched a missile that began with a long, low trajectory, which, instead of dipping down, started to rise like a rocket, lofting higher and higher, then farther and farther, right down the middle of the fairway. Easily 250 yards. Yep, he coulda been a contender.
Even better, all three of them made par on that hole. Afterward, Bubba's dad said the 18th was pretty tough, so all three making par was a nice way for them to end the day.
Nice for me, too.
But that day, when Tiger rewrote the record book, I became a believer. It was the very first time I remember watching every single hole from tee to green and never lost interest.
Now I wanted to play golf myself. Forced to retire from my other, supposedly more demanding, sports, I thought I would finally take up this lazy weekend activity. But after only one trip to the driving range for my first and only round of practice balls, it became apparent that I needed too many new body parts to play. For one brief, shining moment, I did enjoy smacking the poop out of the ball, swinging the club like a ballplayer reaching for a low outside pitch, until my back started sending cease and desist orders.
Disappointed that my plan for old age had come unraveled, I became a spectator and began to follow the fortunes of my college roommate's nephew instead. "Bubba" [a nickname bestowed on him by his brother's toddler] was amused to find that his adopted aunt read Sports Illustrated and preferred talking smack about formations and lineups, rather than following fashion and Jimmy Choos. Despite our huge age difference and obvious gender disparity, we found common ground in sports.
I shot his senior football season in high school, when he quarterbacked his team to the state championships. Vacationing with his family over the years at the Jersey Shore, we all played tennis and spent hours in endless beach paddle battles interrupted only by the incoming tide. At the end of the day at an empty ball field a block from the beach, I often caught his sister so she could practice pitching for her high school team.
But there were also several days when he and his father and brother plus several other male cousins would disappear for hours to play golf. Once, years ago, I asked if I could ride in the cart just to watch a round of golf up close and personal. But there was never an extra seat available, or they were going out too early. So it never happened.
This year, finally, I got my chance. "Do you want to go with us tomorrow when we play golf?" Bubba asked at the end of a day at the beach. You bet.
So, the next morning, on what turned out to be the most perfect day of the summer, we set out at eight in the morning for the Cape May National Course.
Over the years, as Bubba graduated from college and went to work for a consulting group, then went back to school for his MBA, it became apparent to me that, despite his infrequent play, he might have the skills and the work ethic to try making the tour. I was not very subtle about it either, giving him names of people to contact and generally bugging him to follow his heart.
I even enlisted Troy Aikman in my attempts to encourage him to play. A few years ago, I did a video with Troy, who is almost a scratch golfer himself. Like many pro athletes I got the feeling that if he could, he might have preferred golf to football.
In one of my efforts to get the Bub Boy to think about golf as a profession instead of a hobby, I asked Troy to autograph a book he wrote with an inscription to Bubba. "What do you want me to say?" he asked. How about "Bubba -- play golf. Troy Aikman."
So here we were several years later, on this beautiful day in southern New Jersey, Bubba and me in one cart, his dad and brother in the other. He had just received an offer to work for a big investment firm, which would seem to preclude any hope of a future on the tour. But, at least I would finally get to see him play instead of hear about it from other people. His brother also brought a video camera, so I could record this auspicious occasion.
He double bogied the first three holes.
Needless to say, most of what I videotaped up to that point were shots of him looking for his ball in the high grass, disappearing behind berms and reappearing several yards later. Finally, as he walked off the third green toward the cart, he announced that I was bad luck. He was only half kidding.
We weren't allowed to bring the carts up on the tees or greens so I often didn't get a good angle on the distance of their tee shots or the finesse of their putts. I watched a beautiful chip shot by Bubba's dad, but the camera was out of juice by that time.
I couldn't see how well they were hitting because I was usually sitting down and off to the side of the tees and greens. I could see the balls take off on their drives, but mostly they would disappear before I could track them on the fairway.
In all the years I've known him I've never seen Bubba lose his temper. But I lost track of how many times he blew up on the golf course. After he muffed a shot, he would get into the cart, take off like Tony Stewart and grumble until he found his ball.
That was pretty much how every hole seemed to go: a tee shot he hated, a second shot that landed badly, and yet, the ball was on the green I noticed, followed by two putts. I was surprised to learn that there are yard markers on the course. Hey, you can tell how far you've hit a ball. Who knew?
I looked over at Bubba's scorecard on the wheel of the cart and saw that after his terrible start, he was now playing par golf. Most of the time I saw him reach the green in two shots, so he even had some birdie opportunities too. Not that he made them.
After nine holes -- ta-da! we were back where we started. I had no idea that a golf course was set up so that the ninth hole led back to food and toilets. What a clever idea. I got a hotdog, a candy bar and a drink. I also asked someone to please put some teepee in the ladies room. Except for the women who worked there I was the only female around so the ladies' room was fairly neglected.
Meanwhile, the weather stayed as pretty as any day you could imagine, so I was having a great time. Bubba, not so much. He lost his temper a few more times as we began negotiating the back nine. Nothing serious mind you, just a primal scream or too. But I learned firsthand that golf can enrage even the most even tempered person.
The guys played very quickly. They would have played even faster if the people ahead of them didn't take forever to line up their shots. Normally they can play a round in under four hours. But we were out there for five and a half.
On the eighteenth tee Bubba drove the cart into forbidden territory, so I could finally get a better look at their drives. At that very moment the golf cart police happened to be driving by and we were chastised for not obeying the rules of the road. As it turned out I ended up with a great view of the fairway anyway.
I watched Bubba's dad and his older brother take their monster drivers and each of them easily hit their shots at least 240 yards down the fairway. [FYI, Remo, the average duffer hits a drive about 195 yards].
Then I finally got a real appreciation of what Bubba could do to a golf ball. Instead of using a driver he took a three iron and launched a missile that began with a long, low trajectory, which, instead of dipping down, started to rise like a rocket, lofting higher and higher, then farther and farther, right down the middle of the fairway. Easily 250 yards. Yep, he coulda been a contender.
Even better, all three of them made par on that hole. Afterward, Bubba's dad said the 18th was pretty tough, so all three making par was a nice way for them to end the day.
Nice for me, too.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Golf Was Always For Old White Men At Country Clubs
Until the recent years of the Tiger, I was never a big golf fan. To quote my great grandmother yet again, it always seemed like too much sugar for a cent.
It's the only sport I can think of where a really good player is someone who can hit the ball less and that's considered a good thing. What's the point in that?
In tennis and volleyball, a good rally means you hit the ball more often. A typical tennis game doesn't usually take more than two or three minutes. But during that time you can experience the great pleasure of head to head competition. That is primarily what sports has always been about for me -- hitting the snot out of a softball, volleyball, or tennis ball -- at someone else.
Even waiting my turn to bat wasn't enough for me in softball. In the field I pitched so I could challenge each player on the other team on every play.
For my needs, there was so much more satisfaction, more of a defining moment, competing directly against someone, giving them your best shot and taking theirs, trying to make them miss or dominating them with power, or, less often in my case, finesse.
Golf is too oblique for me. The game leaves you too much time for thinking instead of reacting. Plus, you play together in parallel universes which never intersect until you compare your scores at the end.
There are also too many pointless hours of walking in golf, most of them spent chasing after the ball before you get to hit it again. And what's with all those clubs? If you only hit the ball 80 to 100 times, why do you need so many different sticks just for swinging at it?
I could hit a tennis ball almost twenty times in a single two minute rally and I never needed to change rackets. In golf you need one club to hit the ball down the middle of the fairway, another club to hit the ball out of the rough, another for the sand, another one toget onto the green and a final one to get into the hole. In tennis, I just changed my grip on the racket depending on what kind of spin I wanted to put on the ball. Ground strokes, volleys, serves, drop shots -- one racket, different strokes. Is that so hard?
The clothes may have been the real killer. Compared to almost every other sport, golf garb is cheesy. And the shoes are supremely unattractive.
Perhaps golf couldn't do it for me because I have always been partial to immediate gratification. Sports is always about continuous motion, which tennis, volleyball and softball seemed to satisfy better. Cycling was good too because you could push yourself faster and faster, leading a peloton or racing against another person, or just beating your old time.
And, finally, I was raised during an era when women were restricted to the worst times and the most inconvenient days they could play on the course, so that pretty much queered the deal for me upfront.
The point of this little rant is to give you the back story of my golf experience during my vacation, which will be in the next entry.
It's the only sport I can think of where a really good player is someone who can hit the ball less and that's considered a good thing. What's the point in that?
In tennis and volleyball, a good rally means you hit the ball more often. A typical tennis game doesn't usually take more than two or three minutes. But during that time you can experience the great pleasure of head to head competition. That is primarily what sports has always been about for me -- hitting the snot out of a softball, volleyball, or tennis ball -- at someone else.
Even waiting my turn to bat wasn't enough for me in softball. In the field I pitched so I could challenge each player on the other team on every play.
For my needs, there was so much more satisfaction, more of a defining moment, competing directly against someone, giving them your best shot and taking theirs, trying to make them miss or dominating them with power, or, less often in my case, finesse.
Golf is too oblique for me. The game leaves you too much time for thinking instead of reacting. Plus, you play together in parallel universes which never intersect until you compare your scores at the end.
There are also too many pointless hours of walking in golf, most of them spent chasing after the ball before you get to hit it again. And what's with all those clubs? If you only hit the ball 80 to 100 times, why do you need so many different sticks just for swinging at it?
I could hit a tennis ball almost twenty times in a single two minute rally and I never needed to change rackets. In golf you need one club to hit the ball down the middle of the fairway, another club to hit the ball out of the rough, another for the sand, another one toget onto the green and a final one to get into the hole. In tennis, I just changed my grip on the racket depending on what kind of spin I wanted to put on the ball. Ground strokes, volleys, serves, drop shots -- one racket, different strokes. Is that so hard?
The clothes may have been the real killer. Compared to almost every other sport, golf garb is cheesy. And the shoes are supremely unattractive.
Perhaps golf couldn't do it for me because I have always been partial to immediate gratification. Sports is always about continuous motion, which tennis, volleyball and softball seemed to satisfy better. Cycling was good too because you could push yourself faster and faster, leading a peloton or racing against another person, or just beating your old time.
And, finally, I was raised during an era when women were restricted to the worst times and the most inconvenient days they could play on the course, so that pretty much queered the deal for me upfront.
The point of this little rant is to give you the back story of my golf experience during my vacation, which will be in the next entry.
Former Beauty Queen Chosen as McCain's Running Mate
Out of left field literally and figuratively, John McCain's choice for his vice president is the governor of our least populous state, Alaska. Sarah Palin is a 44-year-old "maverick" who just gave birth in April to her fifth child, a boy with Down Syndrome.
What's she going to do when McCain croaks and Iran attacks? Unleash the sled dogs?
This reminds me of when the Republicans put a guy who organized horse shows in charge of FEMA.
Not to mention the choice of the cadaverous Michael Chertoff, a fancy New York lawyer with no experience in law enforcement, who was picked to be the head of Homeland Security.
I can't wait to see how this one plays out. McCain is this close to checking out and his running mate is a soccer mom whose experience in foreign affairs is limited to dealing with a Latina cashier at Wal-Mart.
Somebody tell me this announcement was really an SNL spoof.
PS: Governor Pallin is being investigated for having a state trooper removed from her detail for personal reasons. Tsk. Tsk.
What's she going to do when McCain croaks and Iran attacks? Unleash the sled dogs?
This reminds me of when the Republicans put a guy who organized horse shows in charge of FEMA.
Not to mention the choice of the cadaverous Michael Chertoff, a fancy New York lawyer with no experience in law enforcement, who was picked to be the head of Homeland Security.
I can't wait to see how this one plays out. McCain is this close to checking out and his running mate is a soccer mom whose experience in foreign affairs is limited to dealing with a Latina cashier at Wal-Mart.
Somebody tell me this announcement was really an SNL spoof.
PS: Governor Pallin is being investigated for having a state trooper removed from her detail for personal reasons. Tsk. Tsk.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Story of My Summer Vacation, Eventually
You might think I would post something while I was on vacation, but except for the previous entry [now deleted] about my daughter's birthday, I did not feel compelled to. Not that my friends weren't asking. "Are you blogging about our vacation?" But until someone comes up with a laptop that resists sun, sand and Coppertone spray, I'd rather nod off in a chair, reading a book and listening to the waves.
I had one of those vacations that lasted so long I started thinking I actually lived in a multi-million dollar home a block from the ocean and partied with twenty to thirty people every night.
Psst. Cinderella. You're really a pumpkin.
So in the end I had to catch a plane and come back to my Jeep Cherokee reality.
The flight landed at 5:15, a remarkable fifteen minutes early. But early arrival at O'Hare just confuses the airport people. Early? We don't do no stinkin' early!!! As a result we had to sit on the tarmac, waiting our turn, so close to the jetway, and yet so far away.
One of the flight attendants welcomed us to Chicago where the weather was 73 degrees and clear. Then she warned us in no uncertain terms to remain seated "with your seatbelts fastened until the captain turns off the seatbelt sign." But we could now use our electronic devices without incurring a felony conviction.
Ah, the musical sound of a hundred cell phones powering up. And the tinkle of messages that need answering.
I called a friend I was meeting for dinner only to find out he wanted to meet at 7:00 not 8:00, so I was going to have to hoof it home.
That's when reality kicked in full throttle. Arriving at the house with fifteen minutes to spare, I jumped into my car and it wouldn't start. The lights lit up, but there still wasn't enough juice to go.
That really was a long vacation.
Luckily, in a gesture reminiscent of those halcyon days of yesteryear, my friend said he would swing by and pick me up. What a novelty!!!
Now I could worry about getting the car going later. That would be today. But I'm "blogging" so maybe not until tomorrow.
We went to a bocce/bowling/bistro place that was hosting a bocce tournament between Italians from Italy and Americans. We decided to sit outside by the firepit and order some "small plates' under the stars.
We spent the next several hours catching up with each other's lives until we were the only two people left and had the fire all to ourselves. Unfortunately, the fire's smoke kept swirling into our faces, so we finally moved to a bench to watch the flames and look at the stars from a less eyewatering distance.
Afterward we went for a drive, car roof open and radio cranked to an oldies station. For a few miles we were sixteen again before finally calling it a night.
This morning when I woke up trying to hold onto the last remnants of my vacation, I noticed that the house smelled vaguely smoky. [Hello, you were practically standing in a fire last night.]
Was there an electrical problem somewhere? Had the pile of newspapers I was saving for a rainy day finally spontaneously combusted? [Yo, old person, remember last night? The fire?]
I opened a window in case that smoldering smell was coming from outside. It wasn't. And I still couldn't imagine where it was coming from. [Sheesh.]
Does it smell in the living room too. I wondered? I got up, put on last night's shirt as a cover up. [Effing brilliant.] I had tossed it on the floor next to my bed because I was too tired the night before to do more than take off my clothes and go to sleep.
The smoky smell seemed to follow me into the living room too. [No shit, Sherlock.]
The phone rang. I let it go to voicemail. It was my friend. He was calling to say that he left his shirt hanging on his closet door last night and the whole room smelled smoky this morning.
Oh.
My body might be back, but my brain is still on a beach somewhere.
I had one of those vacations that lasted so long I started thinking I actually lived in a multi-million dollar home a block from the ocean and partied with twenty to thirty people every night.
Psst. Cinderella. You're really a pumpkin.
So in the end I had to catch a plane and come back to my Jeep Cherokee reality.
The flight landed at 5:15, a remarkable fifteen minutes early. But early arrival at O'Hare just confuses the airport people. Early? We don't do no stinkin' early!!! As a result we had to sit on the tarmac, waiting our turn, so close to the jetway, and yet so far away.
One of the flight attendants welcomed us to Chicago where the weather was 73 degrees and clear. Then she warned us in no uncertain terms to remain seated "with your seatbelts fastened until the captain turns off the seatbelt sign." But we could now use our electronic devices without incurring a felony conviction.
Ah, the musical sound of a hundred cell phones powering up. And the tinkle of messages that need answering.
I called a friend I was meeting for dinner only to find out he wanted to meet at 7:00 not 8:00, so I was going to have to hoof it home.
That's when reality kicked in full throttle. Arriving at the house with fifteen minutes to spare, I jumped into my car and it wouldn't start. The lights lit up, but there still wasn't enough juice to go.
That really was a long vacation.
Luckily, in a gesture reminiscent of those halcyon days of yesteryear, my friend said he would swing by and pick me up. What a novelty!!!
Now I could worry about getting the car going later. That would be today. But I'm "blogging" so maybe not until tomorrow.
We went to a bocce/bowling/bistro place that was hosting a bocce tournament between Italians from Italy and Americans. We decided to sit outside by the firepit and order some "small plates' under the stars.
We spent the next several hours catching up with each other's lives until we were the only two people left and had the fire all to ourselves. Unfortunately, the fire's smoke kept swirling into our faces, so we finally moved to a bench to watch the flames and look at the stars from a less eyewatering distance.
Afterward we went for a drive, car roof open and radio cranked to an oldies station. For a few miles we were sixteen again before finally calling it a night.
This morning when I woke up trying to hold onto the last remnants of my vacation, I noticed that the house smelled vaguely smoky. [Hello, you were practically standing in a fire last night.]
Was there an electrical problem somewhere? Had the pile of newspapers I was saving for a rainy day finally spontaneously combusted? [Yo, old person, remember last night? The fire?]
I opened a window in case that smoldering smell was coming from outside. It wasn't. And I still couldn't imagine where it was coming from. [Sheesh.]
Does it smell in the living room too. I wondered? I got up, put on last night's shirt as a cover up. [Effing brilliant.] I had tossed it on the floor next to my bed because I was too tired the night before to do more than take off my clothes and go to sleep.
The smoky smell seemed to follow me into the living room too. [No shit, Sherlock.]
The phone rang. I let it go to voicemail. It was my friend. He was calling to say that he left his shirt hanging on his closet door last night and the whole room smelled smoky this morning.
Oh.
My body might be back, but my brain is still on a beach somewhere.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Culture Shock
It's not new news. In a metropolitan area, schools in the suburbs spend more money per pupil than the city does. The deciding factor is often property taxes. While they are high everywhere, they are astronomical in wealthy suburbs.
Why? So they can have good schools, duh. Parents can also afford to provide laptops, cellphones, cars, and other perks associated with the higher incomes that suburban families enjoy.
One of the best schools in the state, perhaps the country, is New Trier High School. It's located in one of the wealthier suburbs of Chicago and its district includes students from several other nearby, equally wealthy communities.
New Trier spends over $17,000 per kid.
By contrast, the city of Chicago only spends a little more than $10,000 per kid in their school system.
One difference may well be that New Trier property taxes for a 3000 square foot center entrance colonial on 1/3 of an acre, with 3 BR and two and a half baths are $12,000 per year.
And the taxes for a home that size in the inner city aren't.
The other difference is that the teachers at New Trier earn more than teachers in other school districts. So a lot of the money spent per student is actually spent on the people teaching the students.
To protest the disparity between what Chicago Public Schools spend versus what New Trier spends, there's a movement among a couple of inner city ministers in Chicago to have the city kids ditch their schools in the city and register at New Trier this fall.
[By the way you can attend New Trier from out of the district, but it costs money, although not as much as a private school.]
Since New Trier is ninety per cent white, down from 99.9 per cent when I went there, and the inner city schools are more than ninety per cent minority in some cases, the race/ethnicity card is also being played. Can't be helped.
Too bad, since there are many excellent inner city schools with a high percentage of minority students that are providing an excellent college prep education to their students, no matter what's being spent.
Money isn't everything.
Besides public high schools like Roberto Clemente and Whitney Young, there are charter schools, parochial schools, and schools like Providence-St. Mel. After the archdiocese of Chicago closed Providence-St. Mel over thirty years ago, a dedicated principal, Paul Adams, and a group of equally dedicated teachers reopened it as a private school. Despite serving a population of low income students in one of the poorest sections of the city, PSM has sent 100% of their students to college for the last fifteen years.
I was there shortly after they reopened, when they were still struggling just to make ends meet. I wasn't a teacher. I was a copywriter from a big ad agency who went there to visit so I could write an ad to help them raise money to stay open. Even then I discovered they sent a higher percentage of students to college than a bunch of the top suburban high schools. So that became the jist of my headline.
That one ad raised $150,000, a tidy sum thirty years ago.
President Reagan heard about their hard work and dedication. So he came to make a speech to the student body in their auditorium. Before he said a word the kids stood up and recited the school mission in unison:
That was a powerful moment. I remember getting goosebumps when I heard all those teenaged voices speaking as one. A few years later, Oprah heard about the success of this hardworking high school and donated $1,000,000 to their endowment.
Even now, in the midst of this city vs. suburban financial battle, I have the feeling Paul Adams would be thrilled to have as much as $10,000 to spend on each of PSM's students.
Money isn't everything.
The one thing New Trier has in common with these high achieving inner city schools is a student body that shows up every day to learn and parents who offer their time and participation to insure that learning takes place.
The problem with this movement to register inner city kids at New Trier this fall is that on the surface, this seems to be about getting a quality education, but deep down, it sounds like pure envy.
All I hear about during interviews with the ministers is how the New Trier kids have laptops and they get better books to use.
But the NT school district doesn't hand out laptops. The parents buy them. And the students don't get handed their books for free. Their parents have to pay for those, too. And there are plenty of kids at New Trier who need scholarships because not everyone's dad is a CEO.
At the same time, I'm reminded why Oprah said she didn't want to start one of her leadership schools in the United States.
In Africa, attending school isn't a right or an entitlement. A child must have a uniform in order to go to school. It's simple. If the family doesn't have enough money to buy a uniform their child doesn't get an education.
Oprah saw how grateful the children were just to get uniforms. They didn't want computers or ipods or Air Jordans. They wanted an education.
Unlike Africa, in the US, every child is entitled to attend school for free. No matter what kind of clothes they wear.
Nothing else is promised.
But mass media has created a sense of entitlement among people who covet luxuries, but can't afford them.
That's how envy can fuel a sense of entitlement.
So instead of fostering this culture of entitlement with a march on New Trier, the Reverend Meeks would do well to encourage a culture of pride in education in his own community high schools.
Instead of complaining that another school has more money to spend than yours, make every dollar your school has count. With parental and community involvement.
Instead of expecting laptops and fancy books, expect good grades and perfect attendance.
In the end what goes around comes around. The reason kids can go to New Trier is because their parents worked hard and got an education. The reason they worked hard to get an education was so they could earn enough money to live where there was a culture that encouraged their own children to get an education.
My mother was valedictorian of her high school class. But her parents couldn't afford college. So she became a nurse. My dad had to work his way through college. My mother's job as a nurse helped to pay for his education. It took him eight years. After graduation he joined the Army and they put him through medical school.
It's not the laptops. It's not the iPods. It's the culture.
All you have to do is see what successful inner city schools are already doing.
Money isn't everything.
Why? So they can have good schools, duh. Parents can also afford to provide laptops, cellphones, cars, and other perks associated with the higher incomes that suburban families enjoy.
One of the best schools in the state, perhaps the country, is New Trier High School. It's located in one of the wealthier suburbs of Chicago and its district includes students from several other nearby, equally wealthy communities.
New Trier spends over $17,000 per kid.
By contrast, the city of Chicago only spends a little more than $10,000 per kid in their school system.
One difference may well be that New Trier property taxes for a 3000 square foot center entrance colonial on 1/3 of an acre, with 3 BR and two and a half baths are $12,000 per year.
And the taxes for a home that size in the inner city aren't.
The other difference is that the teachers at New Trier earn more than teachers in other school districts. So a lot of the money spent per student is actually spent on the people teaching the students.
To protest the disparity between what Chicago Public Schools spend versus what New Trier spends, there's a movement among a couple of inner city ministers in Chicago to have the city kids ditch their schools in the city and register at New Trier this fall.
[By the way you can attend New Trier from out of the district, but it costs money, although not as much as a private school.]
Since New Trier is ninety per cent white, down from 99.9 per cent when I went there, and the inner city schools are more than ninety per cent minority in some cases, the race/ethnicity card is also being played. Can't be helped.
Too bad, since there are many excellent inner city schools with a high percentage of minority students that are providing an excellent college prep education to their students, no matter what's being spent.
Money isn't everything.
Besides public high schools like Roberto Clemente and Whitney Young, there are charter schools, parochial schools, and schools like Providence-St. Mel. After the archdiocese of Chicago closed Providence-St. Mel over thirty years ago, a dedicated principal, Paul Adams, and a group of equally dedicated teachers reopened it as a private school. Despite serving a population of low income students in one of the poorest sections of the city, PSM has sent 100% of their students to college for the last fifteen years.
I was there shortly after they reopened, when they were still struggling just to make ends meet. I wasn't a teacher. I was a copywriter from a big ad agency who went there to visit so I could write an ad to help them raise money to stay open. Even then I discovered they sent a higher percentage of students to college than a bunch of the top suburban high schools. So that became the jist of my headline.
That one ad raised $150,000, a tidy sum thirty years ago.
President Reagan heard about their hard work and dedication. So he came to make a speech to the student body in their auditorium. Before he said a word the kids stood up and recited the school mission in unison:
At Providence St. Mel, we believe.
We believe in the creation of inspired lives
produced by the miracle of hard work.
We are not frightened by the challenges of reality, but believe that we can change our conception of this world and our place within it.
So we work, plan, build, and dream - in that order.
We believe that one must earn the right to dream.
Our talent, discipline, and integrity will be our contribution to a new world.
Because we believe that we can take this place, this time, and this people, and make a better place, a better time, and a better people.
With God's help, we will either find a way or make one.
We believe in the creation of inspired lives
produced by the miracle of hard work.
We are not frightened by the challenges of reality, but believe that we can change our conception of this world and our place within it.
So we work, plan, build, and dream - in that order.
We believe that one must earn the right to dream.
Our talent, discipline, and integrity will be our contribution to a new world.
Because we believe that we can take this place, this time, and this people, and make a better place, a better time, and a better people.
With God's help, we will either find a way or make one.
That was a powerful moment. I remember getting goosebumps when I heard all those teenaged voices speaking as one. A few years later, Oprah heard about the success of this hardworking high school and donated $1,000,000 to their endowment.
Even now, in the midst of this city vs. suburban financial battle, I have the feeling Paul Adams would be thrilled to have as much as $10,000 to spend on each of PSM's students.
Money isn't everything.
The one thing New Trier has in common with these high achieving inner city schools is a student body that shows up every day to learn and parents who offer their time and participation to insure that learning takes place.
The problem with this movement to register inner city kids at New Trier this fall is that on the surface, this seems to be about getting a quality education, but deep down, it sounds like pure envy.
All I hear about during interviews with the ministers is how the New Trier kids have laptops and they get better books to use.
But the NT school district doesn't hand out laptops. The parents buy them. And the students don't get handed their books for free. Their parents have to pay for those, too. And there are plenty of kids at New Trier who need scholarships because not everyone's dad is a CEO.
At the same time, I'm reminded why Oprah said she didn't want to start one of her leadership schools in the United States.
In Africa, attending school isn't a right or an entitlement. A child must have a uniform in order to go to school. It's simple. If the family doesn't have enough money to buy a uniform their child doesn't get an education.
Oprah saw how grateful the children were just to get uniforms. They didn't want computers or ipods or Air Jordans. They wanted an education.
Unlike Africa, in the US, every child is entitled to attend school for free. No matter what kind of clothes they wear.
Nothing else is promised.
But mass media has created a sense of entitlement among people who covet luxuries, but can't afford them.
That's how envy can fuel a sense of entitlement.
So instead of fostering this culture of entitlement with a march on New Trier, the Reverend Meeks would do well to encourage a culture of pride in education in his own community high schools.
Instead of complaining that another school has more money to spend than yours, make every dollar your school has count. With parental and community involvement.
Instead of expecting laptops and fancy books, expect good grades and perfect attendance.
In the end what goes around comes around. The reason kids can go to New Trier is because their parents worked hard and got an education. The reason they worked hard to get an education was so they could earn enough money to live where there was a culture that encouraged their own children to get an education.
My mother was valedictorian of her high school class. But her parents couldn't afford college. So she became a nurse. My dad had to work his way through college. My mother's job as a nurse helped to pay for his education. It took him eight years. After graduation he joined the Army and they put him through medical school.
It's not the laptops. It's not the iPods. It's the culture.
All you have to do is see what successful inner city schools are already doing.
Money isn't everything.
Dodging The Bullets
For some reason my town has not been hit with the last two storms that have blasted through almost every other inch of Chicagoland.
The storms have been so ferocious that they made the national news. Trees are down. Cars are crushed. There are fires caused by downed wires. Did I mention the hail?
We got -- nothing.
How do I know the storms made the national news? I've received phone calls and emails from Montana and Hawaii to see if I'm all right.
I almost feel guilty that we didn't have lightning strikes, the threat of tornados or flooding rains where I am. They passed to our north and south and even hit the town just west of us. But we've been in an island of strange, eerie stillness.
The pavement on my driveway is damp. But it's been dry under my car. I heard some faraway thunder, but I mostly I watched everything on TV like everyone else.
I guess that just means the sheet is going to hit the fan one of these days.
The storms have been so ferocious that they made the national news. Trees are down. Cars are crushed. There are fires caused by downed wires. Did I mention the hail?
We got -- nothing.
How do I know the storms made the national news? I've received phone calls and emails from Montana and Hawaii to see if I'm all right.
I almost feel guilty that we didn't have lightning strikes, the threat of tornados or flooding rains where I am. They passed to our north and south and even hit the town just west of us. But we've been in an island of strange, eerie stillness.
The pavement on my driveway is damp. But it's been dry under my car. I heard some faraway thunder, but I mostly I watched everything on TV like everyone else.
I guess that just means the sheet is going to hit the fan one of these days.
"A Complete Line of Leaky Bladder Products"
I somehow missed the first part of this commercial, but I managed to catch the last line -- "A complete line of leaky bladder products."
Naturally, with my interest piqued, I wondered how many different pads for persnickety pee a person with a leaky bladder could now choose from.
Pick the one that's right for YOU!!!
The Laugh Pad: you'll be smiling when you wear this thick, absorbent maxi for those moments of hysterical laughter. Thanks to its extra wicking, you can laugh your ass off up to ten times in three hours without a moment's thought about leaving a single telltale wet spot on your new velour sweats.
The Lily Pad: tired of jumping up to pee in the middle of dessert? Now there's no need to worry about those embarrassing sudden urges. Stay sitting pretty as a frog on a log while your pee is wicked away into the convenient reservoir until you're ready to go to the powder room.
The Launch Pad: those last few steps into the house can seem like a mile when you're a victim of a leaky bladder. But now you can take your sweet damn time looking for the keys at the bottom of your purse. Put those days of panic and ruined pantsuits behind you. The launch device in every pad senses your urgency and immediately sends a signal to Houston for a successful mission.
The Note Pad: even the most clever career woman can get stuck in traffic on a bus without a place to pee. No need to fret when you've remembered your Note Pad, the perfect pee accessory for gals on the "go." While you're hanging from the strap the dirty old man checking out your derriere has no idea you're taking care of "business," right in front of his nose, if you catch our drift.
The Football Pad: four hours of beers and brats in the nosebleed seats won't faze you ever again!! Because you're ready for some football with this convenient, ultra light, yet ultra maxed out pad with enough longterm absorbency to handle a whole team of Budweiser ponies.
So if you're one of the millions of American women who wanted to have natural childbirth instead of opting for a c-section and now you're stuck with leaky bladders -- it's time to stop your splattering!!! Get the protection only a professional pee pad can provide. Why piss on yourself when thanks to our handy pee pads you can piss off!!!!
Here's the new jingle:
[MARCHING MUSIC]
Today's the day I'm finally free of pee!
No more wet spots for anyone to see!
My bladder can leak all week if it wants
'Cause I won't make a peep when it taunts
[BRIDGE] No more shaking my leg
No more worry and tears
No more ups and downs
No more hurry and fear
[SHOUTING] I'm free! Yes, I'm free!
Today's the day I do it my way because -- I'm free!
[BIG FINISH] Today's the day I'm fin-al-ly free of PEE!
Don't get me started on E.D.
Naturally, with my interest piqued, I wondered how many different pads for persnickety pee a person with a leaky bladder could now choose from.
Pick the one that's right for YOU!!!
The Laugh Pad: you'll be smiling when you wear this thick, absorbent maxi for those moments of hysterical laughter. Thanks to its extra wicking, you can laugh your ass off up to ten times in three hours without a moment's thought about leaving a single telltale wet spot on your new velour sweats.
The Lily Pad: tired of jumping up to pee in the middle of dessert? Now there's no need to worry about those embarrassing sudden urges. Stay sitting pretty as a frog on a log while your pee is wicked away into the convenient reservoir until you're ready to go to the powder room.
The Launch Pad: those last few steps into the house can seem like a mile when you're a victim of a leaky bladder. But now you can take your sweet damn time looking for the keys at the bottom of your purse. Put those days of panic and ruined pantsuits behind you. The launch device in every pad senses your urgency and immediately sends a signal to Houston for a successful mission.
The Note Pad: even the most clever career woman can get stuck in traffic on a bus without a place to pee. No need to fret when you've remembered your Note Pad, the perfect pee accessory for gals on the "go." While you're hanging from the strap the dirty old man checking out your derriere has no idea you're taking care of "business," right in front of his nose, if you catch our drift.
The Football Pad: four hours of beers and brats in the nosebleed seats won't faze you ever again!! Because you're ready for some football with this convenient, ultra light, yet ultra maxed out pad with enough longterm absorbency to handle a whole team of Budweiser ponies.
So if you're one of the millions of American women who wanted to have natural childbirth instead of opting for a c-section and now you're stuck with leaky bladders -- it's time to stop your splattering!!! Get the protection only a professional pee pad can provide. Why piss on yourself when thanks to our handy pee pads you can piss off!!!!
Here's the new jingle:
[MARCHING MUSIC]
Today's the day I'm finally free of pee!
No more wet spots for anyone to see!
My bladder can leak all week if it wants
'Cause I won't make a peep when it taunts
[BRIDGE] No more shaking my leg
No more worry and tears
No more ups and downs
No more hurry and fear
[SHOUTING] I'm free! Yes, I'm free!
Today's the day I do it my way because -- I'm free!
[BIG FINISH] Today's the day I'm fin-al-ly free of PEE!
Don't get me started on E.D.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Catching Up
We're finally having a summer I have always hoped for, but never get. Yes, I've met Mr. Right. He's witty and rich, handsome and generous, charming and. . . I'm such a liar.
We're finally having the kind of summer WEATHER I have always hoped for.
Here it is, the start of August in Chicago, and we've only suffered a handful of ninety degree days. Even more remarkable, nothing in triple digits at all!! PLUS ta-da! much less humidity. How do I know? I have hardly used the air conditioning in my car. I can enjoy a cool breeze as I drive with the windows and sunroof open. It brings back memories of a red Le Sabre convertible I once knew. Sure a plastic bag or a book I was reading might be suddenly sucked through the roof, but that's a small price to pay for the sweet smell of summer blowing through my hair.
It's so nice to feel relativiely cool getting into the car, instead of toasting in oven quality air that bakes your lungs, while waiting waiting waiting for the AC to kick in. Eat your hearts out Phoenix and Dallas.
With such nice weather, I was glad to get invited to a backyard party over the weekend. My younger daughter has a friend named Anne who is hooked into Chicago's acting community. I got an invitation from her a couple of weeks ago to attend an all day party being thrown for people in film at a house on the lake. These days, I'm technically a person in audio and vidoetape, but who's complaining.
Admission was five bucks for all the brats, dogs, and burgers you cold eat. Females were also requested to bring a side dish. Males had to bring something liquid. Part of me thought that instruction might not be specific enough for some guys.
Feeling generous, I purchased some potato salad, cold slaw, and mixed fruit. In exchange, I ate two dogs and a burger. I would have preferred brats, but they lied about having brats. There was an overcooked pasta salad and some stale party mix besides my side dishes, so I was glad I brought as much as I did. I think everybody else brought cookies and cake.
Turns out, I didn't know anybody at the party. Nobody. Not a soul.
Imagine my surprise when I walked in. The "Anne" who invited me wasn't my daughter's friend Anne. This Anne -- there were two of them, in fact -- represented an Extras Agency -- the folks who populate the backgrounds of movies. Specifically, the films being shot in Chicago.
About six years ago I signed up with an agency to be an extra -- you never know when some casting director is desperate for a tall, older woman with an attitude and a SAG card. But when the feature film business dried up in Chicago that agency closed. Now thanks to better tax breaks, movies and tv shows are back in town. Apparently my name got forwarded/bought/sold to a different place.
Despite not knowing a single person, all the people at the party did have something in common -- we aspire to be the equivalent of human wallpaper. Since most folks can't make very big bucks working as a deocrative accessory in a movie, everyone had a real life job too. I met an earthquake specialist, a former zoologist who now collects and sells rare books, a lady lawyer, a real estate developer, and the sartorially resplendent owner of the party house. He spent most of his time driving up and down the highway looking for a side mirror that fell off his newly purchased antique Morgan roadster. With his bald pate and barbershop mustache, he looked like he was at an audition for the Great Gatsby.
His sister was one of the hostesses named "Anne."
Needless to say lots of conversation centered around movie life. I learned that Frank Stallone, Sylvester's brother, is an expert on boxing and seems to have a photographic memory for movie dialog. Clint Eastwood had a nickname for one of the hostesses that escapes me. Patrick Swayze is in town shooting a TV series for A&E. Even though he's fighting cancer of the pancreas, the guy is working 17 hour days. Still puffing on cigarettes, too. I asked, but no one had heard of Viggo Mortensen.
I spent most of the day and part of the evening hanging out. Had some food. Had some fun. Had to skip the American Legion baseball playoffs so I don't know who won. Drove home close to midnight with the roof and windows open. Penciled in the next "extras' party for December 20th. They say that soiree goes till dawn.
I better start napping now.
We're finally having the kind of summer WEATHER I have always hoped for.
Here it is, the start of August in Chicago, and we've only suffered a handful of ninety degree days. Even more remarkable, nothing in triple digits at all!! PLUS ta-da! much less humidity. How do I know? I have hardly used the air conditioning in my car. I can enjoy a cool breeze as I drive with the windows and sunroof open. It brings back memories of a red Le Sabre convertible I once knew. Sure a plastic bag or a book I was reading might be suddenly sucked through the roof, but that's a small price to pay for the sweet smell of summer blowing through my hair.
It's so nice to feel relativiely cool getting into the car, instead of toasting in oven quality air that bakes your lungs, while waiting waiting waiting for the AC to kick in. Eat your hearts out Phoenix and Dallas.
With such nice weather, I was glad to get invited to a backyard party over the weekend. My younger daughter has a friend named Anne who is hooked into Chicago's acting community. I got an invitation from her a couple of weeks ago to attend an all day party being thrown for people in film at a house on the lake. These days, I'm technically a person in audio and vidoetape, but who's complaining.
Admission was five bucks for all the brats, dogs, and burgers you cold eat. Females were also requested to bring a side dish. Males had to bring something liquid. Part of me thought that instruction might not be specific enough for some guys.
Feeling generous, I purchased some potato salad, cold slaw, and mixed fruit. In exchange, I ate two dogs and a burger. I would have preferred brats, but they lied about having brats. There was an overcooked pasta salad and some stale party mix besides my side dishes, so I was glad I brought as much as I did. I think everybody else brought cookies and cake.
Turns out, I didn't know anybody at the party. Nobody. Not a soul.
Imagine my surprise when I walked in. The "Anne" who invited me wasn't my daughter's friend Anne. This Anne -- there were two of them, in fact -- represented an Extras Agency -- the folks who populate the backgrounds of movies. Specifically, the films being shot in Chicago.
About six years ago I signed up with an agency to be an extra -- you never know when some casting director is desperate for a tall, older woman with an attitude and a SAG card. But when the feature film business dried up in Chicago that agency closed. Now thanks to better tax breaks, movies and tv shows are back in town. Apparently my name got forwarded/bought/sold to a different place.
Despite not knowing a single person, all the people at the party did have something in common -- we aspire to be the equivalent of human wallpaper. Since most folks can't make very big bucks working as a deocrative accessory in a movie, everyone had a real life job too. I met an earthquake specialist, a former zoologist who now collects and sells rare books, a lady lawyer, a real estate developer, and the sartorially resplendent owner of the party house. He spent most of his time driving up and down the highway looking for a side mirror that fell off his newly purchased antique Morgan roadster. With his bald pate and barbershop mustache, he looked like he was at an audition for the Great Gatsby.
His sister was one of the hostesses named "Anne."
Needless to say lots of conversation centered around movie life. I learned that Frank Stallone, Sylvester's brother, is an expert on boxing and seems to have a photographic memory for movie dialog. Clint Eastwood had a nickname for one of the hostesses that escapes me. Patrick Swayze is in town shooting a TV series for A&E. Even though he's fighting cancer of the pancreas, the guy is working 17 hour days. Still puffing on cigarettes, too. I asked, but no one had heard of Viggo Mortensen.
I spent most of the day and part of the evening hanging out. Had some food. Had some fun. Had to skip the American Legion baseball playoffs so I don't know who won. Drove home close to midnight with the roof and windows open. Penciled in the next "extras' party for December 20th. They say that soiree goes till dawn.
I better start napping now.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
The TED Prize
First there was TED, the airline. Now there is TED, the prize.
I guess they are taking nominations for the 2009 TED prize already. You can go HERE to read about it and nominate someone if you want.
Last year or so, someone nominated the guy who invented the technology for the iPhone. This year someone may propose the beautiful and talented Angelina Jolie, who has devoted her life to appearing on the cover of People Magazine every time she adopts a child from a third world orphanage. And let's not forget how much money she will raise for worthy causes just by giving birth to twins.
TED stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design. Terrorists, Evildoers and Despots need not apply. The judges award a $100,000 prize to individuals who have met the criteria for being inventive, innovative and inspirational. Famous doesn't hurt.
It also seems as though most past nominees are quite wealthy from their efforts. Even though the winners tend to be people who spend their days doing things that make the world a better place - tech-wise, entertainment-wise, or design-wise -- let's not kid ourselves. I doubt that many of them started out with that in mind. This is America. Making money was numero uno. But it's amazing how altruistic you can get when the dough starts rolling in.
Unfortunately, right now the TED prize has no way for anyone to nominate people who drive a bus for a living or run a neighborhood Mom and Pop store -- the people who keep things going in this country while the brainiacs talk among themselves.
Meanwhile, once chosen, the winners of a TED prize get to go to the TED conference to accept their awards and present an eighteen minute speech on a WISH they have. It should be a wish that makes the world a kinder, gentler place. Not something that enriches their bank accounts.
By presenting these pipe dreams to an audience of other Xtreme visionaries, there's a chance that some of them may actually come to fruition. To see what I mean, you can watch about 200 of these speeches online to get the idea.
Once again, let me point out that the people who are nominated for a TED prize are either famous already, like Bono, or, at the very least, famous among their peers.
Personally I think there ought to be a grass roots category to acknowledge somebody who can't afford a publicist. Why shouldn't a person who isn't well known as a great designer, entertainer or techno-geek get a chance to win for just having an imaginative, useful thought that deserves worldwide attention? Even if they don't work at a think tank or live on government grants.
I'm talking about Mr. or Ms. Average Mope. These are people who may not be doing anything more exciting with their lives other than raising law-abiding children who vote, have careers and don't live at home.
In fact, why shouldn't someone who is incarcerated be able to enter their 100 word WISH for the WORLD into the TED prize competition? Granted, I may have mentioned that Evildoers are no doubt excluded from being nominated. However, on the other hand, what better way to redeem yourself than providing a useful solution to a worldwide issue?
I am reminded of Illinois' former governor, George Ryan, who is currently in the slammer himself for six years. He is a prime example of how a moral compass can still be operative, even in the midst of a federal investigation. Before sentencing, actually before there was enough evidence to take his case to the grand jury, the guv commuted the sentences of all the prisoners on death row. He did the right thing when it became clear that a lot of these convicts had been wrongly accused. I think the governor's gesture could have made him worthy of consideration for a TED prize. But he went for the Nobel instead. No, really.
Whatever. If someone is chosen as a grass roots winner, they could then present their very own eighteen minute I HAVE A WISH speech, along with the likes of Steve Jobs and Bill Clinton, so that people who matter would listen. Think of it, a high school principal, a daycare provider, or your town's fire chief with a revolutionary idea. Just like the fancy folks.
I mentioned that the winners each get $100,000. This amount might just cover the monthly light bill for most of the past nominees. On the other hand, for the folks in the grass roots category, that $100,000 could have some real purchase power.
Not that I think the TED prize suffers from an annoying celebration of elitism or anything.
So, do any of you average Joes and Janes have an idea that could make the world a better place? Feel free to leave it in a comment here. Maybe someone will nominate YOU for a TED prize.
I guess they are taking nominations for the 2009 TED prize already. You can go HERE to read about it and nominate someone if you want.
Last year or so, someone nominated the guy who invented the technology for the iPhone. This year someone may propose the beautiful and talented Angelina Jolie, who has devoted her life to appearing on the cover of People Magazine every time she adopts a child from a third world orphanage. And let's not forget how much money she will raise for worthy causes just by giving birth to twins.
TED stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design. Terrorists, Evildoers and Despots need not apply. The judges award a $100,000 prize to individuals who have met the criteria for being inventive, innovative and inspirational. Famous doesn't hurt.
It also seems as though most past nominees are quite wealthy from their efforts. Even though the winners tend to be people who spend their days doing things that make the world a better place - tech-wise, entertainment-wise, or design-wise -- let's not kid ourselves. I doubt that many of them started out with that in mind. This is America. Making money was numero uno. But it's amazing how altruistic you can get when the dough starts rolling in.
Unfortunately, right now the TED prize has no way for anyone to nominate people who drive a bus for a living or run a neighborhood Mom and Pop store -- the people who keep things going in this country while the brainiacs talk among themselves.
Meanwhile, once chosen, the winners of a TED prize get to go to the TED conference to accept their awards and present an eighteen minute speech on a WISH they have. It should be a wish that makes the world a kinder, gentler place. Not something that enriches their bank accounts.
By presenting these pipe dreams to an audience of other Xtreme visionaries, there's a chance that some of them may actually come to fruition. To see what I mean, you can watch about 200 of these speeches online to get the idea.
Once again, let me point out that the people who are nominated for a TED prize are either famous already, like Bono, or, at the very least, famous among their peers.
Personally I think there ought to be a grass roots category to acknowledge somebody who can't afford a publicist. Why shouldn't a person who isn't well known as a great designer, entertainer or techno-geek get a chance to win for just having an imaginative, useful thought that deserves worldwide attention? Even if they don't work at a think tank or live on government grants.
I'm talking about Mr. or Ms. Average Mope. These are people who may not be doing anything more exciting with their lives other than raising law-abiding children who vote, have careers and don't live at home.
In fact, why shouldn't someone who is incarcerated be able to enter their 100 word WISH for the WORLD into the TED prize competition? Granted, I may have mentioned that Evildoers are no doubt excluded from being nominated. However, on the other hand, what better way to redeem yourself than providing a useful solution to a worldwide issue?
I am reminded of Illinois' former governor, George Ryan, who is currently in the slammer himself for six years. He is a prime example of how a moral compass can still be operative, even in the midst of a federal investigation. Before sentencing, actually before there was enough evidence to take his case to the grand jury, the guv commuted the sentences of all the prisoners on death row. He did the right thing when it became clear that a lot of these convicts had been wrongly accused. I think the governor's gesture could have made him worthy of consideration for a TED prize. But he went for the Nobel instead. No, really.
Whatever. If someone is chosen as a grass roots winner, they could then present their very own eighteen minute I HAVE A WISH speech, along with the likes of Steve Jobs and Bill Clinton, so that people who matter would listen. Think of it, a high school principal, a daycare provider, or your town's fire chief with a revolutionary idea. Just like the fancy folks.
I mentioned that the winners each get $100,000. This amount might just cover the monthly light bill for most of the past nominees. On the other hand, for the folks in the grass roots category, that $100,000 could have some real purchase power.
Not that I think the TED prize suffers from an annoying celebration of elitism or anything.
So, do any of you average Joes and Janes have an idea that could make the world a better place? Feel free to leave it in a comment here. Maybe someone will nominate YOU for a TED prize.
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