The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade – brought to you by the NRA?

Ever since I can remember I have watched at least some of the Macy’s parade on Thanksgiving morning – or I have forgotten to and then regretted it. Since the arrival of TiVo – the best invention of the last hundred years if you ask me – I have often recorded the parade and then skimmed through it, pausing to watch the people I recognized.

Those people have grown fewer and fewer. This year I think there were two: Renee Fleming and Idina Menzel. Macy’s lists the following personalities:

The Big Apple Circus, Before You Exit, William Blake, Sabrina Carpenter, Cirque du Soleil, Hilary Duff, Renee Fleming, Becky G., Lucy Hale, Nick Jonas, KISS, Sandra Lee, The Madden Brothers, Idina Menzel, Miss USA 2014 Nia Sanchez, MKTO, the cast and Muppets of Sesame Street, NEEDTOBREATH, NHL players John LeClair and Pat LaFontaine, Pentatonix, Romeo Santos, Cole Swindell, Meghan Trainor, The Vamps, Quvenzhané Wallis, and more.

OK, I’ve seen the Big Apple Circus and Cirque du Soleil; I know who Nick Jonas is; I know Kiss, but not their music – and that’s it. The rest of those people? No clue. I checked in on a few of them but fast forwarded almost immediately. (I do know this guy on the left though).

Missing from that list are the real stars of the show: the Radio City Music Hall Rockettes. I watched and loved them, as my Dad did before me. You can see their routine here. I do have to say though: what’s with one -- 1 -- black Rockette? One? That’s the best they could do? A sea of white bodies and one set of dark legs? Just because turkeys come that way, does our entertainment, in 2014, have to?

But, moving on: I did also stop fast forwarding as many of the marching bands came into view. Don’t ask me why – maybe because I went to Notre Dame – but I’ve always liked marching bands. The athleticism of those toned young bodies, the precision of their steps, the intricacies of the patterns they form, the height the twirlers throw their batons . . .

Ok, wait a minute; so what if the kids are not all svelte and fit like they used to be – I’m not either. And so what if their routines sometimes come undone on the cold concrete of Manhattan? But I put my foot down when it comes to rifles replacing batons. OK, fake rifles if you will, but what’s up with that? Nearly every band I saw had young women (I don’t think I saw any young men) twirling fake rifles. Band after band. Had I inadvertently tuned into the National Rifle Association parade?

Sure as hell seemed so. Not something I’ll be doing next year I’ll wager.

The Strangest Phone Call

New York City has just announced a plan to install almost 10,000 free Wi-Fi kiosks, most in spaces currently occupied by defunct phone booths – though booth is really a misnomer if you know anything about New York public phones. The kiosks are said to broadcast a Wi-Fi signal for 150 feet and CityBridge, the company hired to install the devices, claims that up to 250 users at a time can use each kiosk without diminishing the service. (We’ll see about that; “up to” are the keys words here).

For reasons not clear to me, the city has also promised to maintain three currently working phone booths on West End Avenue. And these are truly booths; in fact, they are called “Superman pay phones” because they’re the old-fashioned type, large enough to accommodate flash clothes-changers. Or amorous couples.


Which brings me to my story. It was likely the Fall of 1970 when I was crashing at a friend’s apartment near Columbia University. I worked at Steak and Brew in the theatre district and would sometimes ride my bike there. One night while I was heading home the telephone was ringing in a booth at 88th and Riverside. Intrigued, I got off my bike and picked up.

“I want to fuck,” said the male voice, clear as a bell.

Still, I replied, “Uh, what?”

“I want to fuck,” he said, a bit slower and an octave lower.

“Um, do you know where you’re calling?”

“Yeah, the phone booth at 88th and Riverside.”

“Well, yeah, ok. Where are you?”

“Turn around.”

For a moment I panicked, thinking I was about to face a crazy man who didn’t want to have sex with me but was instead going to kill me. This was an irrational fear since we were decades away from cell phones, but I clearly remember thinking that.

“See the building across the street at the corner? Count up six floors and then over four windows.”

“Damn, “ I said, “there you are.” All I could see was a shadow but it was clearly a man and only one thing extending from his body was a telephone.

“So, are you interested?” he asked.

The truth is, I was. I was also scared as hell so I said no, but couldn't resist asking, “How often does this work for you?”

“You’d be surprised” was all he said.

We hung up and I pedaled to Claremont Avenue, repeating every word we had spoken so I would be sure to get it right when I told this most New York of stories. As you would expect, it was a great hit, with half of my friends telling me I was a fool not to at least go up and meet the guy. The other half cringed, knowing I would have died had I done so. For my part, I wondered for years what would have happened.

I passed that phone many more times that year.

It was never ringing.

Hibernophobia and Homophobia

British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881) reportedly said

The Irish hate our order, our civilization, our enterprising industry, our pure religion. This wild, reckless, indolent, uncertain and superstitious race has no sympathy with the English character. Their ideal of human felicity is an alternation of clannish broils and coarse idolatry. Their history describes an unbroken circle of bigotry and blood.

That is about as clear an example of Hibernophobia, anti-Irish sentiment, as I can find. A more succinct example is in the sign pictured right, something that was seen in many shop and factory windows in nineteenth century America and the UK. Another example, below, meant perhaps to be funny, shows more Irish racism.

For years I’ve thought about anti-Irish sentiment whenever I’ve passed a sign advertising a blood drive. I’ve wanted to grab a felt-tip marker and write across it “Gays Need Not Apply,” because ever since 1983 gay men who have ever –EVER! -- had sex with another man since 1977 have been barred from donating blood. After 9/11, after Katrina, after the Boston Marathon bombings, as calls went out for blood donations, gay men were turned away.

I have complained bitterly to the Red Cross, but they say they are only following federal guidelines. Those guidelines were put in place when we knew very little about AIDS, its transmission and its course. You may remember that, at the very beginning, it was sometimes referred to as the “Gay Plague.” It was understandable, though misguided, that public officials, seeking to protect the blood supply, limited donors.

Very soon, after a blood test identifying tainted blood was introduced, it was obvious that this blanket refusal to accept blood from gay men was misguided and based on homophobia, not science. But the policy remained in place.

To this day, I cannot donate blood unless I lie about my sexual history. I have been in a monogamous relationship with Ransom for over twenty-eight years, but I cannot donate blood. It’s unbelievable, as well as humiliating and counter-productive.

Today, finally we learn that this hateful, homophobic policy may finally change. Bloomberg reports 

A U.S. advisory panel is poised to recommend for the first time that the 31-year ban preventing gay and bisexual men from donating blood should be partially ended, placing the nation’s policy in line with other countries.

Men who had sex with men anytime since 1977 are barred from giving blood in the U.S., a policy that dates back to 1983 because of concern that the AIDS virus could be transmitted through blood transfusions. Groups like the American Red Cross say that risk is infinitesimal in many cases, not enough to justify a full ban that prevents much-needed donations.

AFT!

Remembering Jan Palach

Twelve years ago Don and I spent three wonderful days in Prague; we visited Vienna and Salzburg too, as well as the charming alpine town of St. Wolfgang on the beautiful Wolfgangsee lake. There were wonders and delights in all those places, but my favorite, without doubt, was Prague. In fact I have never been so enchanted by a new city. From Ron’s Rainbow Guesthouse (!) where we spent our nights, to the spectacular St. Vitus Cathedral high above the river, to the packed-with-activity fifteenth century Charles Bridge that takes you to the cathedral, to the rathskellars selling great sausages and beer, to the warmth of the people – it was all just perfect. I even heard a concert version of Porgy and Bess played by the great Czech Philharmonic in the exquisite Rudolfinum.

Prague was not always such a warm and welcoming place. In late summer of 1968, responding to Alexander Dubček’s attempts at liberalizing the government, the Soviet Union invaded the country, closing its armed fist around the throat of progress. On 16 January 1969 Jan Palach, a student of history and political economy at Charles University, set himself on fire in Wenceslas Square to protest the invasion and the complacency of the population. He urged them in a letter sent to several prominent leaders to rise up and throw off their oppressors.  He died from his burns three days later.

The international press picked up the story and that’s how I, an idealistic VISTA volunteer in Aurora, IL, came to know of it. I did not read the papers everyday but somehow I saw this story and I have never forgotten it. I wrote in my journal, "Just thinking about the courage of his convictions, and the sad state of the world that made him do it -- it's so depressing but, then, also optimistic -- for the hope of the world is with people like him." I've lost most (all?) of that idealism, but when I finally made that trip to Prague I visited Jan’s grave and cried all over again for his bravery and conviction.

Now, all these years later, HBO Europe has released a film about Palach, the reaction to his self-immolation and the government's attempts to quash the story and deny the country its hero. Titled Burning Bush, it was originally a Czech mini-series which has been made into a three-part film; it is available from Netflix.

I have watched the first two parts and am eagerly awaiting the third. I cried three times so far. I don’t know that most Americans watching it would have my reaction, but, as I said, I’ve known of Jan Palach since 1969 and his story has haunted me. He was almost exactly my age at the time he took his life and I have repeatedly asked myself if I have ever believed in anything so strongly. During the Vietnam War I said I would go to jail rather than be drafted, but would I?

I don’t know – and I’m talking about only being willing to go to jail, not setting myself on fire. Watching this docudrama forces me to realize I have never truly been threatened. Tanks have never roared through my town; my life has been easy compared to Jan Palach’s and the Czechs who lived through the late sixties and into the seventies.

His sacrifice did not end the Soviet takeover at the time, but the resentments he fanned smoldered for twenty years, finally erupting in the Velvet Revoluition of 1989, ending the Communist control of Czechoslovakia and freeing the people from Soviet control.

Like the Czech people, I will never forget him and will always be emboldened by his courage. Thank you, HBO, for letting me remember his power.

The memorial in front of the National Museum at the top of Wenceslas Square, Prague,

to Jan Palach and Jan Zajíc, another student who burned himself to death a month after Palach,

NOT a message I enjoyed reading

As you may have learned from reports in the media, one of the doctoral students who returned recently from a research mission to Liberia was hospitalized in isolation on Wednesday night after developing a low-grade fever.

I understand that this situation may be worrying to some of you, to your families and friends, and to members of the Yale and New Haven communities. 

-President Peter Salovey, Yale University, 16 Oct 2014 

First South Africa, then Texas and Spain and now New Haven.

I am not an alarmist, but things tend to get worse before they get better and now Ebola may have landed in my back yard. MAY have. We don’t know yet and I am not losing any sleep over it. Still, I take little comfort from all the comforting words when I see that, notwithstanding all the protocols we thought were in place in Texas, we learned of another sick health care worker, and of her travels on a commercial plane.

Forgive me if I have my doubts and if I think this is how so many disaster movies started. Everything’s calm and normal and then slowly one thing goes wrong and before you know it the monkeys and apes have taken over the planet and the Statue of Liberty is lying on a beach.

Does art imitate life or is it in fact the other way around?

Stay tuned.

Update: Yale New Haven Hospital has confirmed the patient does NOT have Ebola.

A bullet dodged.

Honoring the Vietnam War?

I read a piece in the NY Times yesterday about anti-protesters in Hong Kong. These are the people who are protesting the protests — those being led by students in the city, demanding more freedom from the Chinese authorities.

I was taken back to May of 1970. Four days after the Kent State and Jackson State murders the AFL-CIO organized a bunch of construction workers to protest an anti-war march filled with high school and college students in lower Manhattan. (Picture below). Some seventy people were injured and there were six arrests. Compared to Tiananmen Square or to the current situation in Hong Kong, this was a small event, but the image filled newspapers across the country and fanned the already blazing flames as the country tore itself apart over the disastrous war in Vietnam.

Yet another article in the Times took me back to Vietnam days. This one, Paying Respects, Pentagon Revives Vietnam, and War Over Truth discusses the website the Pentagon has launched to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the war.

According to the Times

the extensive website, which has been up for months, largely describes a war of valor and honor that would be unrecognizable to many of the Americans who fought in and against it. 

Leading Vietnam historians complain that it focuses on dozens of medal-winning soldiers while giving scant mention to mistakes by generals and the years of violent protests and anguished debate at home.

I haven’t spent much time on the site, but I did look up May 4, 1970, the day that the words "Kent State" came not to mean a college but, rather, a date — things were either “before Kent State” or after. The picture below shows the scant account the Pentagon gives to that momentous event.

As I click through the timeline, the long list of soldiers awarded the Medal of Honor makes the whole enterprise seem like a glorious battle where truth and the American Way fought against the red hoards from the North. That’s not what I remember. I remember endless deaths, endless broken promises, endless broken lives. I remember My Lai and street executions and naked children running from napalmed villages. I remember being proud of Walter Cronkite when, on February 27, 1968, he told the truth to the American people, saying "it is increasingly clear to this reporter that the only rational way out then will be to negotiate, not as victors, but as an honorable people who lived up to their pledge to defend democracy, and did the best they could."

The Times report includes the following:

The glossy view of history has now prompted more than 500 scholars, veterans and activists — including the civil rights leader Julian Bond; Daniel Ellsberg, who leaked the top-secret Pentagon Papers; Lawrence J. Korb, a former assistant secretary of defense under President Ronald Reagan; and Peter Yarrow of the folk trio Peter, Paul and Mary — to join Mr. Hayden in demanding the ability to correct the Pentagon’s version of history and a place for the old antiwar activists in the anniversary events. 

This week, in a move that has drawn the battle lines all over again, the group sent a petition to Lt. Gen. Claude M. Kicklighter, the retired Vietnam veteran who is overseeing the commemoration, to ask that the effort not be a “one-sided” look at a war that tore a generation apart. 

General Kicklighter declined to be interviewed, but a Pentagon spokesman, Lt. Col. Tom Crosson, said in an email that the mission of the commemoration, as directed by Congress, is to “assist a grateful nation” in thanking veterans and their families. He said that the Pentagon was willing to make corrections “when factual errors or potential mischaracterizations are brought to our attention,” and that “there is no attempt to whitewash the history of the Vietnam War.

A grateful nation thanking veterans? Come on! I am a patriotic son of a career military man, but the Vietnam War was a mistake from day one, we were never a grateful nation as far as Vietnam was concerned and we have no reason to thank the Pentagon. As for the veterans, I honor their sacrifice and I mourn their loss, but the war was wrong. The honorable thing to do at the time was to resist the draft, resist the war and kick the generals in the balls.

Perhaps the second two are still honorable in 2014.

She killed her children!

It was in June 2001, that Andrea Yates drowned all five of her children, claiming that she was saving them from hell. Marybeth Tinning apparently killed nine of her children, though not in one fell swoop. She enjoyed doing it for over fourteen years. (Bad habits are hard to break). You may remember Susan Smith; she strapped her two boys in a car and pushed it into a lake, claiming at first that a man had abducted them – “a black man,” said the racist murderer.

Deena Schlosser, a true believer, used a knife to amputate both arms of her eleven-month old, who then bled to death. Cops found her singing to Jesus. Robin Lee Row proved that lightning can strike twice; she collected on a life insurance policy in 1980 when her son died from a fire and then twelve years later turned off the smoke alarm and burned her husband, son and daughter alive. The lightning struck twice; the insurance company didn’t.

Frances Newton can’t tell us why she did what she did: the state of Texas executed her in 2005 for shooting to death her husband, her seven year-old son and twenty-one month-old daughter in 1987. Susan Eubanks out shot Newton: she killed four sons, execution style, blaming her alcoholic parents.

In 2005 China Arnold did the poodle-in-a-microwave urban legend one better: she stuffed her four week-old daughter in a microwave oven and zapped her to death.

In an average year over two hundred (200!) mothers kill their children. Last night I went to see the story of perhaps the first maternal filicide, Euripides’s Medea, as performed by London’s National Theatre and shown in auditoriums around the country in High-Def. It was a brilliant production and still packs a wallop 2,500 years later, even though the oncoming murders are telegraphed throughout the play. You know what’s coming but are still horrified by it when it arrives.


A friend of mine used to come to New York annually and was in the habit of asking me to recommend THE show she should see. One year I told her that the current Medea was getting rave reviews; she went.

And hated it. She said, as above, “She killed her children!” Well, yes, I thought, she’s Medea, while asking, “Wasn’t it a great performance?”

My friend couldn’t get past the murders. She never again asked me for a recommendation.

For my part I thoroughly enjoyed last night’s brilliantly staged, locomotive-fast Medea. And you know, I can’t get it out of my head as I read about Tom Cutinella, a 16-year-old Long Island high-school football player killed on the field this week. Another sixteen year-old, this one from Staten Island, and a twelve year-old from New Jersey also died during football practice recently.

Is it a stretch to say that mothers who allow their teenage sons to play football are killing them? Maybe. Maybe not.

RIP Tom

Maximum Minimalism!

Question: you’re at the concert hall and see the stage set with four (4!) grand pianos. What are you about to hear?

You also notice 3 marimbas, 2 xylophones and a metallophone. When the percussionists enter they are joined by a violinist, a cellist, 2 clarinetists and 4 singers.

What, indeed, are you about to hear?

It could only be Steve Reich’s epic, hour-long Music for Eighteen Musicians, premiered in April, 1976, at New York’s Town Hall. It changed music forever and, hearing it two nights ago, it continues to involve and move an audience.

Richard Scheinin, writing for the Mercury News in 2013 said:

I love this piece to death, feel a long and deep attachment to it, even attended a 1976 pre-premiere performance of it by Reich's ensemble at a Soho loft. It was one of those "wow" experiences, and, 37 years later, I found myself nodding in agreement with Steven Schick, the Contemporary Music Players' artistic director, who discussed "Music for 18 Musicians" in a pre-concert talk at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. He called it "one of the great pieces of the 20th century."

I have not known 18 Musicians for quite 37 years but I have loved it for decades and was thrilled to hear it live for only the second time on Tuesday night. It was part of the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s Nonesuch Records at BAM Festival, which included an historic three night reunion of two American titans, Philip Glass and Steve Reich. Both are known as great writers of minimalist music, a term neither uses.

It was at the Virginia Museum Theatre in the early 80s that I first heard Philip Glass. I don’t remember who I was with or how I came to be there, but the concert transformed me. I had not known that “classical” music could be so intense, so complicated, so LOUD. Some in the audience hated it; I couldn’t get enough. When he released Songs for Liquid Days in 1986 I ate it up, playing it over and over. Later I saw Twyla Tharp’s company dance In the Upper Room and I was ready to swear allegiance to the god that was Glass.

My connection to Steve Reich is more personal. His 1982 composition Vermont Counterpoint was written for my husband and was the first piece I ever heard Ransom play. It’s a piece I still love and I was sorry it was not on the program at BAM, but clearly these three evenings were focused on ensemble work.

When I first heard about these concerts months ago I went online to buy a ticket to one. I realized that almost nothing was to be repeated; each night had a set list differing from the other nights. What could I do but buy tickets for all three — cheap seats in the balcony, with hundreds of 20-something hip Brooklynites.

Each concert was perfect. Music for 18 Musicians was brilliant, but the Philip Glass pieces before it were all exciting too. Four Organs, which opened both the first and second night, was new to me but I was quickly enchanted and especially loved the fact that Glass (right) and Reich were two of the organists.

Drumming was the the audience favorite from night two, but for me that honor goes to the selection from In the Upper Room. As I implied above, it’s a dance piece I love; I've seen it many times by Twyla Tharp, ABT, Juilliard Dance and others, and have listened to it dozens of times.

The emotional heart of the final night was, naturally, WTC 9/11, as it was Thursday, 9/11/2014, when we heard it. The short silence that greeted the finish was likely the audience’s stunned reaction to what we had just heard and what we had all remembered. Very powerful stuff.

If you don’t know this music I invite you to give it a try. I have an unnamed friend — are you with me, Phil? — who HATES this music, and I know others who are bored by it. I am rocked by it. In fact, one of the thoughts I had repeatedly in Brooklyn was that these musicians go about their business with no histrionics and with little movement except when they are switching instruments and yet create a sound fuller and just as loud as many thrashing rock bands. "A Wall of Sound" Phil Spector might say. A towering wall.

Below is a list of the three night’s programs. I’ve linked some of them to samples online. Check them out —  but be sure to either wear good headphones or run it through a strong sound system. As Lynyrd Skynyrd would say, “Turn it up.” And if you don’t like the first couple of minutes of something, give it time. This music is filled with illuminating ear worms that might just burrow into your brain as they have mine. An easy start is Façades form Glassworks.

Here's a link to Anthony Tommasini's New York Times's review of the first concert; he discusses the music far more intelligently, and specifically, than I can.

September 9
Four Organs

by Steve Reich

Performed by Steve Reich, Philip Glass, Nico Muhly, Timo Andres, and percussionist David Cossin



the CIVIL warS: “Cologne” excerpt
by Philip Glass

Performed by the Philip Glass Ensemble

Music in Twelve Parts: Parts 1 & 2
by Philip Glass

Performed by the Philip Glass Ensemble



Akhnaten: Act 1, Scene 1, “Funeral of Amenhotep III”
by Philip Glass

Performed by the Philip Glass Ensemble



Music for 18 Musicians
by Steve Reich

Performed by Steve Reich and Musicians


September 10
Four Organs

(as above)

Drumming
by Steve Reich

Performed by Steve Reich and Musicians



Music in Similar Motion
by Philip Glass

Performed by the Philip Glass Ensemble with Steve Reich



In the Upper Room: Dance IX
by Philip Glass

Performed by the Philip Glass Ensemble

Einstein on the Beach: Act 4, Scene 1, "Building"

by Philip Glass

Performed by the Philip Glass Ensemble



Powaqqatsi: “Mosque and Temple”
by Philip Glass

Performed by the Philip Glass Ensemble



Koyaanisqatsi: “The Grid”
by Philip Glass

Performed by the Philip Glass Ensemble



The Photographer: Act III
by Philip Glass

Performed by the Philip Glass Ensemble


September 11
Clapping Music
by Steve Reich

Performed by Steve Reich and Russell Hartenberger



Piano Phase/Video Phase (1967/2002)

by Steve Reich

Performed by David Cossin



WTC 9/11
by Steve Reich

Performed by Steve Reich and Musicians



Sextet
by Steve Reich

Performed by Steve Reich and Musicians


Music in Similar Motion
(as above)

Glassworks: “Floe”  “Façades”  and  “Rubric”
by Philip Glass

Performed by the Philip Glass Ensemble



Symphony No. 1 "Low": II, “Some Are”
by Philip Glass

Performed by the Philip Glass Ensemble



Einstein on the Beach: Act 4, Scene 3, “Spaceship”
by Philip Glass

Performed by the Philip Glass Ensemble

Road Trip Thoughts

As was clear in my last post, I had a great time road tripping through a chunk of these United States. According to Google Maps I travelled 1,744 miles; Google says the driving time was 27 hours, but me and my 65 year-old bladder took more like 32, and, with a few side trips, likely hit 1,800 miles — all in four days. Damn.

Some observations:

- It’s a beautiful country, but some parts are more beautiful than others. Pennsylvania’s at the top of the list with its hills, mountains and immense stands of trees. If any of the driving could be said to have been “fun” it was there in my home state.

- Ohio is flat and boring, at least from the driver’s seat of a speeding car.

- But Toledo, Ohio, was a great stop, thanks to my favorite little prince, TMcD, and his wonderful wife Liz. It would only have been better if their son Dan had been there.

- Notre Dame has one of the truly great campuses in the country. Unlike Yale, with lots of city streets bisecting it, ND is a place onto itself. Rarely do students have to play dodge car.

- Much of the time in the car I had my iTunes playlist 4E Essentials on shuffle play. Although I had chosen each of the tracks or albums for that list, I never knew what was coming next. It was great fun to go from the Beatles to Crosby, Stills & Nash to Love to Sugarloaf (come on, you remember their hit) to Led Zeppelin. When I needed a little rest I listened to Dvorak and Beethoven via Spotify.  The oddest coupling of the trip was the long version of Sugar, Sugar (that is one of the greatest rock and roll songs of all time, right?) followed by Gerry and the Pacemakers’ version of You’ll Never Walk Alone. I may no longer be Catholic, but my tastes are catholic.

- Americans drive FAST. No, make that REALLY FAST. I used cruise control almost all the time. If the speed limit was 55 I set it at 58; when it was 65, I chose 67; and when the limit was 70 I set the control to 70. In ALL cases hundred of people passed me; many of them were really flying by. And tail gating is a national pastime! Ransom says I do that, but if I do — and I argue the point — it’s at city speeds; I have very good reflexes and am in control. I never once tailgated on this trip — except when people would pass me and slide in far too close to my front bumper.

- I love the fact that when I drive to New York it’s on a CT parkway; that means no trucks, no busses. I saw truckers pulling three (3!) trailers; they weren’t full size, but still, 3! And in one case (pictured) I saw a trucker with two full-length trailers attached. I can only imagine the stopping distances involved.

- I have a new favorite budget hotel: Holiday Inn Express. Stayed at one in Rochester; where other choices was $100 and up, HIE was $80 and that included a refrigerator and microwave in the room, free WiFi and a very extensive free hot breakfast. Check them out.

- I brought home, as my Dad always used to do, a package of white hots. This is a delicacy I’ve never seen anywhere but Rochester. They’re like Brats, but different. One bite and I am remembering my childhood.

- And speaking of Rochester, I was very pleased to notice how kind and polite people were there. The young man in maybe his twenties who held not one but two doors open for me and Aunt Sally, while wishing us a happy Labor Day, was as gentlemanly as he was comely. The cashier at Wegman’s — the absolute BEST grocery store I know — was cheerful and helpful and gave us the card holder price when she didn’t need to — I’ll remember her. And the waitress at Long Horn Steakhouse, a low-price chain restaurant, was as thoughtful and polite as she could be. I am definitely NOT used to all this charm, but I mo’ demily appreciated it.

- I ended the trip in Vermont and Massachusetts, visiting with my favorite cousin, Bill Foery, his wife Denise, their soon-to-be-a-rock-star son Brendan and their youngest son, Ethan, as well as Bill’s mom (my Aunt Kay) and Denise’s mom. Here’s a couple pictures of what we did there. It reminded me that Bill and I need to do another road trip like we did in the 90s: roller coasters and other thrill rides!

Road Trip!

I haven't written in quite a while, for several reasons: summer's ending and I've had the usual work to do to get ready for another Yale term; summer's ending and I've been enjoying the last couple of weeks; summer's ending and I've not wanted the plethora of bad news in the world to bring me down. Smarter people than I can flesh out that last bit, but, jeez, what misery the news has brought this summer! Why some people remain optimistic is beyond me. (Take THAT, Anne Frank!)

I'm on the last day of a road trip right now. I had to find something fun to lift me from the miasma.

In 1974 I took a month-long road trip; I left Richmond for Charlottesville and The Last One, a huge party thrown by the guys who lived at 1708 JPA (Jefferson Park Avenue), a legendary house that hosted equally legendary parties, each attended by maybe 300 people. The day after, no doubt blurry-eyed and fuzzy-toothed, I headed to Aurora, IL; Detroit; Toronto; Rochester, NY; Montreal; Provincetown, MA, and New York City. It was an incredible rush of old friends, new men, new cities, fulfilling sex, empty sex, beautiful vistas, heartbreak, love, lust and call-of-the-road youthful yearning.

Since then I've done several roller coaster road trips, venturing through Ohio and Pennsylvania, New England and New York, Virginia and Georgia, looking for great rides. But it's been quite a while since I've done any kind of road trip, so this one now, short but far, has been a welcome return to an American tradition.

Notre Dame's Golden Dome and the Basilica with Holy Cross Hall across the lake

I left Friday morning early, heading west to Toledo, OH. Total time in the car: 12 hours 15 minutes. That long partly because one thing that's changed since my last road trip is my bladder. Enough said. Saturday Tom McDonald (TMcD) and I headed to Notre Dame for the 75th anniversary of the dorm I lived in as a freshman, and the ND/Rice game. Driving time: 5 hours back and forth. It was great to be back on campus. There's something about that place that, no matter how much I denounce catholics, god, and conservatism, still rushes my blood and swells my chest. I LOVE the place, what can I tell you? The memories of good times and better friends nearly overwhelmed me. A highlight this trip: a twenty minute visit with Father Don McNeil, second floor rector in BP in 1966, son of Don McNeil of Breakfast Club fame, founder of the Notre Dame Center for Social Concerns and a towering mentor in my late teens.

Yesterday I headed back East, arriving in Rochester, NY, after seven plus hours in the car. If you're counting, that's about 24.5 hours in three days. Today: Rochester to Vermont to Massachusetts and then home. A road trip both short and long.

Last night I had dinner with my remarkable Aunt Sally, 94 years young. She walks with a cane or a walker, but other than that she seems the same to me as she did the last time I saw her, the time before that, and the time before that. We went to a restaurant and then to Abbott's for frozen custard (a must-do in ROC) and on to Wegman's so I could buy some white hots (another must-do). Through it all she was witty and with it, telling family stories, asking questions and acting like any 49 year-old you might meet.

Soon I'll see my Cousin Bill and his family, including his mom, my 92 year-old Aunt Cathy. She and Sally are the last two of that generation and are therefore the last ties to my history. So this is more than just a road trip; this is a life journey and so far, a damn good one.

- posted from the Port Byron Travel Plaza, New York State Thruway

The Godfather of Soul

I had finished my route and was headed back to the car when I noticed a dry cleaners across the way. I had thrown a sports jacket in the back seat since I was going out that weekend; the jacket was mighty rank. I walked in the place and a grizzled black man of maybe 60 looked me over.

"Can I get this cleaned and pressed and pick it up on Saturday?" I asked.

"Saturday?" he replied, as if I had spoke foolish. "Saturday? We won't be here Saturday. James is comin' to town. How about Monday?"

I told him no, I needed it for the weekend, and headed for the door. My curiosity got the better of me so I turned back and asked, "James? James who?"

"James who? Why James Brown, you fool," he chuckled out the words, confirming his first take on me.

I knew who James Brown was; hell, anyone who loved music knew who he was, and I heard him a lot on the local black radio station, WANT. But I didn't know he was coming to Richmond and I had never thought of going to see him.

"Oh, right," I said, trying to cover my honky ass. "Maybe I'll go."

"Uh-huh," is all he said, so I turned and left.

I thought about that encounter yesterday as I saw Get On Up, the James Brown Story at my local multiplex. It's a damn good film and Chadwick Boseman, who so convincingly played Jackie Robinson in 42 is uncanny as Mr. Brown -- as he insisted on being addressed by everyone around him. After a while I forgot it was a movie and thought I was watching a documentary. The musical numbers are especially convincing and took me back to the three or four different times I saw the James Brown Show.

I can't honestly remember if I went that long ago Saturday after the conversation at the dry cleaners. But if not then, I went the next time "James came to town," something he did a couple times a year. The film shows a kid postering for a show at the Richmond Arena, a venue I knew well and was in many times, though never for a concert. I saw James Brown at least twice at the Richmond Mosque, a cavernous auditorium with the second worst acoustics on the east coast. Didn't matter, he was incredible. You can catch some of the excitement in the film.

The most memorable time James came to town was to a different town: South Bend, IN. He was scheduled for two performances, 8 and 11. I told my buddy John that the 11pm show would be far better. How right I was! The early show, of course, ran late, so the second show didn't start til after midnight. The Famous Flames danced and sang, the band backed up a string of opening acts -- all excellent and all forgotten -- and then the "hardest working man in show business" took the stage at maybe 2am. The place rocked til past 5 -- the sun was rising when we left! It was a night I will never forget and a concert that was perhaps never topped.

Mr. Dynamite (he had so many names) was a flawed individual who was in and out of trouble with the law, but he was also an amazing musical force who has influenced countless musicians after him; to this day he is one of the most sampled artists in history. He was also the man, as the film accurately depicts, who pretty much single handedly kept Boston from going up in flames the night Martin Luther King was assassinated. See the film, learn the story, listen to the music and then go play James Brown: Live at the Apollo, his incredible 1962 album that changed everyone's mind about what a recorded concert could be (pictured right; be sure you listen to this one, not the inferior Volume 2 from 1968.) It's the first thing I played after seeing the movie; right now I'm maybe a third of the way through the nine hours of James Brown music I own.

"The amazing Mr. Please Please himself, the star of the show, James Brown." Amen to that!

A 44 year wait

On August 2, 1970, I was at the Forest Hills, New York, tennis stadium, waiting for a concert to begin. I had left Notre Dame in mid-May after the murders at Kent State and had spent the summer living in my brother's Bronx apartment and working at Steak & Brew at 51st and Broadway -- a former location of Lindy's, for those who care about cheesecake and New York landmarks (see Guys and Dolls). After working at McDonald's in high school, Steak & Brew was my first real restaurant job and I wouldn't shake the habit for another sixteen years.

There are great stories to tell about my time at 51st Street, like the afternoon I "almost" knocked over Katharine Hepburn; or the busboy who stuffed doggie bags full of lettuce, keeping the steak morsels for himself; or the day one of our waiters landed a job on a soap opera -- I was the only one on the schedule who wasn't trying to break into show business.

But this story is about that night at Forest Hills and the forty-four year disappointment that was partially addressed last night. We were waiting for Janis Joplin to take the stage, but the skies had been threatening since late afternoon. By concert time the rain was falling softly and an announcement was made that the show would be postponed for a bit as we watched the skies. We waited over an hour, but the rain only fell harder. Finally we were told, "sorry, folks, it's not gonna happen tonight."

We were disappointed of course, but we were stoned, we were off work, we were young -- it wasn't that big a deal.

Until Janis died two months later. I had missed my chance to see one of the iconic rock and roll stars of all time.

Fast forward almost forty years. A Night with Janis Joplin opened on Broadway on October 10, 2013, to mixed reviews. Mixed for the show that is; near-unanimous praise for its star. Charles Isherwood in the Times wrote,

Mary Bridget Davies, whose positively uncanny vocal impersonation of Joplin keeps the house rocking for much of the show’s running time . . . rockets through at least a dozen of Joplin’s best-known songs, and sings them with a throbbing fervor that is often riveting. Her ability to match Joplin’s highly emotive style could probably give members of the audience who saw the real woman something close to a contact high — or maybe a nostalgia high is the better term.

I meant to see that show, I really, really did, but I didn't act quickly enough. It closed on February 9, 2014. But then in a highly unusual twist the producers announced they would bring the show back, off-Broadway this time. I hurried to get tickets.

Then, forty-eight hours before the first performance of the revived Night, it was abruptly canceled. Bummer. No, BUMMER! The producers blamed slow ticket sales; insiders complained the show wasn't given a chance to find its audience. In the most ironic footnote to the story, Mary Bridget Davies was nominated for a Tony for the original Broadway run. She lost to Jessie Mueller's amazing portrayal of another rock goddess, Carole King, but the nomination confirmed the critic's praise.

I never saw A Night with Janis Joplin but I am ecstatic to report that I did see Mary Bridget Davies, last night at B B King's in Times Square. In a concert that included lots of Joplin's best known tunes -- and a surprising amount of other music -- Davies dazzled, leading an amazingly tight seven-piece band that sent the mostly-my-age crowd into a rock and roll frenzy. But it was her show, or rather, her's and Janis's. When she sang Ball and Chain I truly felt that Joplin had returned to 42nd Street and Davies's final number, Piece of My Heart (of course) was an everybody-on-your-feet, fist-pumping, lyric-shouting adrenalin rush like I haven't experienced in quite a while.

If there is any justice in this world -- and that, I admit, is a huge if -- Mary Bridget Davies will be a mega-star.

Elaine Stritch 1925-2014

There has never been,

there will never be,

another.

RIP you glorious dame!

Syn City

I spent the weekend in Las Vegas, attending the reunion of the school I went to in Japan in the early 60s. Zama American High School included grades 7-12; we left Japan after my freshman year and my brother's graduation. I have many, many fond memories of our time there.

The reunion comes around every two years and, unlike traditional reunions, welcomes anyone who ever went to the school, regardless of graduation year or whether one in fact graduated from Zama. Two years ago it was in San Francisco and I meant to go; four years ago it was in DC and I was in town, though not part of the reunion. I did manage to hook up with two women I had not seen in 47 years! It was a delight but, alas, neither came to Las Vegas.

In fact no one I was close to fifty years ago was there. My buddy Will, with whom I am in occasional contact, didn't make it and of course my friend Gary, who I have longed to see for five decades now was once again among the missing. I did chat with several of my brother's friends and met a handful of people, but I'm not great at the meet and greet stuff.

I'm much better at having a good time on my own, and the weekend gave me plenty of opportunity to do that. I saw two Cirque du Soleil shows: Kà at the MGM Grand and Love, the Beatles show, at the Mirage. They were both excellent. I especially loved hearing the Beatles music at very loud but perfectly clear volume and was also dazzled by the stage craft of both shows.

I rode the High Roller, the Vegas version of the London Eye. It was delightful and was the one time I truly felt relaxed with a bunch of Zama people I mostly did not know.

Las Vegas is a city of blistering sidewalks, and I walked them for blocks and blocks. I am mysteriously drawn to the fountains at the Bellagio. I truly do not understand it. I am something of a world traveler and I think of myself as jaded, but those damn fountains mesmerize me. I twice took the long hike in 90+ heat to have a look.

Another thing that mesmerizes me is the parade of Americans one sees in Las Vegas. Wow, are we a fat culture! And boy, was taste given out sparingly when most of us were born. May I say this to many of the men I saw: Hawaiian shirts are NOT meant to be tucked in. They are meant to flow loosely, evoking the breezy island life. And about t-shirts with stupid writing on them I offer Fran Lebowitz's immortal words, "Most people don't want to talk to YOU. What makes you think they want to hear from your clothes?"

On previous trips I have taken advantage of Las Vegas's well deserved reputation as a fantastic food destination. I remember wonderful meals Ransom and I had at Aqua in the Bellagio and Renoir at the Mirage and solo stops at Spago and Commander's Palace. None of that this trip. I ate cheap Mexican, late night pizza, a scrambled egg crepe and the very best Palmier ever at Jean-Phillipe, but no sit-down expensive outings. Just not the same when I'm alone.

I'm glad I went, I'm glad I faced my fears about going and I really felt the pain of having lost touch with so much of my past.

Gary Winston, it's been 51 years since I've seen you

and still I miss you a lot!

Death Watch

Gotta have one of these! Or maybe not.

A countdown clock that tells me when I'm going to die. How uplifting! As pictured, someone has fifty-four years left. That's easy to swallow and by the time s/he gets even a quarter of the way there the clock will no doubt have stopped working. But I'm about to be sixty-six years old. What would my watch display? Not sure that I want to know.

And you know what, I'm not entirely sure I trust these people. They claim, "It also gives you the correct time."

Is that so? Tell me exactly where in the world "12:76:08" is the correct time, please.

Sometimes stupid people are helpful

I subscribe to the New York Times Friday through Sunday. That's enough; I don't miss the stack of papers glaring accusingly at me from the coffee table (Read Me!) But I do miss a regular Monday morning column, Metropolitan Diary. New Yorkers send in short vignettes of life in the city. I came across this one online the other day; it's perfect; I can add nothing to make it better.

METROPOLITAN DIARY
Jul 9 8:36 am

Disappointed Fireworks Fans in Brooklyn
By GORDON ROTHMAN

Dear Diary:

To unhappy fireworks fans on the Brooklyn Promenade,

We know you were disappointed, as you streamed away from the waterfront by the score. Many of you bellowed in frustration that the Fourth of July pyrotechnics were too small and too far away. You shoved and snarled through the elbow-to-elbow crowd to make your escape.

Most of us, it seems, recognized that those bombs were actually bursting in Jersey City’s air, and that our show had yet to begin. Perhaps we should have set you early departers straight. But we hated to embarrass you in such a public forum. And we did appreciate your letting the rest of us get a little closer to the action.

I Believe in Miracles

I've loved music since I can remember. My first 45 RPM record was Elvis's recording of Love Me Tender. Through the 50s and 60s I listened mostly to rock and roll, although, considering what was to come, it's probably better described as pop/rock. Later on I came to like guitar-driven hard rock, classical, a little country and, yes, disco. I admit it. The Pointer Sisters Jump! still sets my heart racing and Gloria Gaynor's classic medley of Honeybee/Never Can Say Goodbye/Reach Out is still eighteen minutes of bliss --  sorry, couldn't find a link to the whole medley.

Hot Chocolate's You Sexy Thing has never been a favorite but today I can't get its opening line, "I Believe in Miracles," out of my head.

I needed a plumber. I checked Craig's List, but who knows what I'd get if I went with someone there. So I looked at the Better Business Bureau website. There were lots of nearby plumbers, but only one was BBB accredited. I called them.

A pleasant woman answered the phone and when I told her what I needed she said, "well, I don't think we could get there this morning."

This morning? OMG, I would have been happy if she had said someone might get there the last week of July. She went on to promise someone would call me after 1pm.

I don't know if miracles are ranked by the church like sins are (venial and mortal), but I'd call it a minor miracle that someone from Jiffy Plumb actually did call me back. He said he would stop by between 5:30 and 6.

And then the major miracle. He actually DID show up at the appointed time and, right then and there, did the job, quickly and politely.

A tradesman showing up on time and getting the work done quickly? That is indeed a miracle.

Years ago I had someone come measure our driveway for paving. He spent an hour at the house. We talked at length and got along well. He promised to send me an estimate.

Never heard from him. He ignored my three voice messages. What's that about? Why would he spend an hour of his time and then just disappear? Maybe he was abducted by aliens. Yeah, I bet that's it.

But Jiffy Plumb -- praise the gods! They make me believe.

The message is clear

Ever since returning from our May cruise I have been trying to eat sensibly. I start my day with either a bowl of cold cereal and almond milk or a breakfast sandwich: one egg, two small sausage links and fat-free cheese on an English muffin. Lunch almost everyday is the same: a container of yogurt with an apple, an orange and a banana mixed in. At dinner I eat a smaller amount than usual. I have in fact lost a few pounds.

Today the drill was the same except that at lunch time when I diced my perfectly fine-looking, blemish-free apple, this is what I got:

I don't know about you, but I think the message is clarionly clear: eat a cheeseburger!

But I'm an ex-catholic who would feel too much guilt to do that and, anyway, I don't believe in messages from above, so I ate the yogurt, the orange and the banana.

And I'm hungry, dammit.

A much more enjoyable take on god

I was brought up in a Catholic household in the 50s and attended St. Bridget's elementary school from third through sixth grades. The nuns taught me everything I've ever needed to know about grammar and did a pretty good job of teaching me a lot of other things -- including the remarkable observation that when I misbehaved in class the thorns dug a little deeper into the baby Jesus's head! WTF?! Since when did the baby Jesus wear a crown of thorns?

I remember too the day when one of the kids put a thumbtack on another kid's seat. He screamed, we laughed, Sister Never-Smile chided us: "Go ahead and laugh, but let me tell you about poor little Johnny in my previous school. Someone put a tack on his seat and those students laughed too but then the wound became infected and nobody laughed when THEY HAD TO AMPUTATE HIS LEG!"

Jesus, Sister, terrorize children much?!

One thing I didn't learn from the nuns was the bible. Catholics back then were told not to read the bible. It was too difficult and too confusing. Father Never-Met-An-Altarboy-He-Didn't-Like would tell us what we needed to know. So it was that I never read much of the bible until my late fifties when I was briefly a member of the Episcopal church and a house group that met weekly to read and discuss the world's most popular book. I learned enough about "God" during those sessions to give up my faith completely.

Yesterday I attended a performance of The Mysteries, a spectacular theatrical event that tells the story from Adam and Eve to Paul -- everything you ever wanted to know about the bible while laughing your ass off. It was hysterically written, incredibly staged, beautifully acted, terrifically sung and amazingly choreographed in an area the size of two parking spaces.

Seriously. I've tried to give you an idea of the space. Each x is a seat; there were between 65-70 of them, that's all. The dark blue area is where the action was staged. Behind the second row of seats was a passageway where cast members often stood, or sang, or played instruments.The cast is 48. Forty-eight! It was a tight fit but never for a second felt uncomfortable.

Not even during the intermission, when we served dinner at our seats. Served. At our seats. Dinner. Incredible, and as far from any concept of dinner theatre you've ever before had in your head. At the second intermission we were served dessert.

And did I mention that the show is five and-a-half hours long? Well, if I didn't, that's probably because it felt half that length; it flew by.

And may I tell you that three hot men get naked? Well, bonuses galore.

When I see a show like this -- has there ever been a show like this -- and think of what the Topeka tourist sees when she comes for a "theatre" weekend in New York, I cringe. At the chandeliers. At the stuffed-animal actors. At the ear-splittingly loud scores. At the technical wizardry. For an antidote to all that wham-bam-dazzle-you-ma'am we are lucky to have The Flea in Tribeca, presenting one of the most original theatrical experiences you will ever come across. It runs til July 14. Get your butt to New York!

Hats off to HBO

In the mid 70s I was a member of the Gay Alliance of Students; we had to sue Virginia Commonwealth University to win the right to exist and to use a classroom for our meetings. Forty years later the country is on the road to recognizing marriage as a civil right for all people, in all states. It's been a breathtaking ride.

HBO tells the story of the landmark court case that brought down the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) and sent California's hateful and homophobic Proposition 8 to the trash heap of history in an uneven but powerful documentary, The Case Against 8. It's a bit too dry and not as gripping as it deserves to be, but I was nonetheless moved by the courage of the plaintiffs and sat in wonder at how much things have changed since my day in court.

Kris Perry, one of the plaintiffs in the Case Against 8, and one of her sons

Two days later I watched another HBO presentation, Larry Kramer's The Normal Heart, about the early days of the AIDS epidemic. This one is not dry. Neither were my eyes. It's powerful stuff and the lead character, Ned Weeks (Larry Kramer in fact) is convincingly played by Mark Ruffalo, an actor whose work I have long enjoyed.

The most sobering moment of The Normal Heart comes at the end when a slide tells us that 35 million people worldwide have died from this plague. 35 MILLION PEOPLE! The mind cannot grasp the enormity of that. In America we lost a generation of young men but eventually turned AIDS into a manageable chronic health problem -- at least for those lucky enough to have good health insurance. The rest of the world, especially the African continent, has not been so lucky.

In the US, AIDS has been somewhat tamed and homophobes have been chastised. It's politically correct to support gay marriage and, in the greater New York area at least, being gay ceased to be an issue for many of us quite some time ago.

But hatred and stupidity are alive and thriving in other parts of the country, and the world. Watching The Case Against 8 and The Normal Heart is an important reminder of that fact.