My favorite Dorothy Parker poem Frustration, copied from a book long before the internet made it easy to print out, has hung on the cabinet in my office, and has had a place of distinction wherever I have been sitting in my current and past jobs. When my boss noticed it not too long ago, he told me I had to take it down. Though she was known to have made more than one suicide attempt, I don’t think Dorothy Parker had any intention of physically harming anyone. I myself have carried an imaginary bazooka since I was in my early 20s, and when I worked as an assistant manager at a Victoria’s Secret store more than 20 years ago, I found that I also had an imaginary machete, which was used to chop off the hands of a piggy male client. And although my mind saw his severed bloody hands flop to the floor, that was and remains the extent of my violent behavior.
I share Ms. Parker’s frustration that there are so many awful people out there, chief of whom will be taking office shortly, and there is little we can do about it. So we imagine their demise and hope that karma gets them in the end, so to speak. The poem is now tacked up behind my computer monitor where it is still visible to me.
The impetus of tonight’s post came this week when the phrase “What fresh hell is this” came to mind, for a reason I don’t recall though I am sure is work related. When I looked up the phrase, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it is attributed to Ms. Parker with a story that goes thusly: She was working on a manuscript when the phone rang causing her to cry out loud “Oh what fresh hell is this.” Obviously amused by her own utterance, from that point on she would answer the phone not with hello, but with those words as her greeting.
Like many others I’m sure, I’ve noticed the similarities between Dorothy Parker and Carrie Fisher; their work as writers and on movie scripts, and their caustic wit, their addiction issues, among other things. I was fortunate to see the documentary last night that was released months early due to the odd yet now understandable circumstances of Fisher’s and her mother Debbie Reynold’s deaths. Bright Lights: Starring Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds, is, I think, a really good documentary on its own, made ever so much more poignant by their recent deaths one day apart. One line in particular stood out for me when Carrie Fisher pondered: “If you die when you’re fat, are you a fat ghost, or do you revert to a more flattering time.” Hmmm.
BTW – Even though I have dramatically cut down on my dairy consumption, prompted by a friend’s suggestion that it may help me avoid a third bout of breast cancer, I just noticed that my Sunday brunches at Tribeca’s Kitchen where I compose my weekly blog post, and where everyone knows that I must sit in Alberto’s section and that my coffee cup must always be filled, I consume nearly a whole pitcher of milk. You know, the small metal ones with the flip lids. And I don’t even drink my coffee light. What a dilemma. Cancer or coffee the way I like it, and lots of it (coffee, that is).
Did you ever get that mortifying feeling of horror when you suddenly realize that you have mixed up Leon Redbone and Kinky Friedman, and have published your blunder? If you have, then you know just how I feel.
Two weeks ago I wrote about Leon Redbone (this is so embarrassing), mentioning that he had run for an office in Texas, and I quoted him as saying that he was “too young for Medicare and too old for women to care.” Then the other evening, while in the shower from where all ideas originate, it hit me why I could not find the information online to back up this distinct memory. It was not Leon Redbone at all. It was Kinky Friedman. I should have known better. Kinky is a country musician and satirist whose name I would often see on marquees in downtown Manhattan, but he’s a Texas boy who has run for Justice of the Peace and for Governor of Texas. He lost both. Leon Redbone did write “Seduced” however.
Holiday Bummer Story – My Christmas eve present to myself was three CDs that I purchased from the Housing Works thrift shop in Brooklyn Heights. The day after Christmas, I thought I would listen to a couple of tracks starting with Tony Bennett and Paul McCartney singing “The Very Thought of You” on the former’s Duets CD, before my workout. But when I opened the case, no CD, only the book of liner notes. Damn. Suspecting the worst, I opened the Lady Gaga CD case to find the same results. Bummer. I actually don’t know any Gaga songs but I have heard of her Born This Way album and there it was for a dollar. Of course I know Tony Bennett, who is of my parent’s generation, and the adoration of his fans of all ages like Gaga and the late Amy Winehouse, but other than the fact that Lady Gaga is not stupid and does annoying stuff, I’m not familiar with her music. My radio station plays none of her music, though some of the new stuff considered rock is rather poppish drivel. I was ready to venture out into uncharted territory as the music of some of the artists singing with Tony Bennett is also unknown to me. Thankfully, the third CD, Peter Gabriel’s So was intact. It is wonderfully satisfying to have access to “In Your Eyes” at any time you want or need it.
BTW – A totally swell New Year to all kind people! I hope you made rather merry last night. My New Year’s resolution for 2017 is to find the perfect toilet paper. Oh yeah, and to become an activist.
Along with the lovely holiday party my company throws each year, this one having a most unusual ending that involved my staff among many others, they have also provided me with a company phone for quite some time. It is a very nice perk and I try not to be too demanding of it, but recently my IPhone started acting weird. After years with my 5c that I was perfectly happy with, Siri no longer knew me and was kind of getting an attitude about it, and then the battery, which had been running down quicker and quicker, as they will, was now wanting to no longer exist, and the phone began to randomly opening up different apps though they weren’t being called upon to do so. It was time to ask for a new phone.
I now have an SE, yes, way behind everyone else, but very much like the one I’d been with for the last few years. One exception is Siri. I have choices now so that snippy Siri who couldn’t be bothered with me anymore, is an Australian male, who can be a bit playful. I think he likes me.
Everything was transferred from one phone to the other by one of our lovely IT guys, except the music a friend had uploaded from my CDs last year before I went to visit my stepmother in Holland. It got wiped out. I am not one of those people you see plugged into their phones, not paying attention to the noises of the City that may call for attention, nor did I use the music much on my trip, though I doubt I would have heard it above my own internal screaming. The problem is that my alarm was set to play “Heard It Through The Grapevine” by Gladys Knight and The Pips at 7:40 every morning. I’ve found the regular sounds are entirely unsatisfying, and the free download of the latest U2 album is not offering me any motivating wake-up songs. I guess I have to spring for the $1.29 to download the song. I should be able to handle that.
I had mentioned previously that I was determined to make to under 140lbs by the time the holiday season was over, which may have to be extended to include Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday. Just a smidge is fine, but it’s not going that well, so I have amped up the exercise a wee bit. Sunday’s have the same hour and fifteen minute workout since I substituted my lost alarm song for the Missy Elliot tune, but for four weekdays I decided on a mix that started with the usual alternate Linda Ronstadt songs; “Silver Threads and Golden Needles,” a country song, “Desperado,” a California song, and “Long Long Time,” the biggest heartbreak song of my high school years. I follow that with Fiona Apple’s “Criminal,” “Rainy Day Women” by Bob Dylan (you know that’s “Everybody must get stoned, right?), Gladys and the Pips’ “I Heard It Though The Grapevine” twice, The Beastie Boys’ “Finger Lickin’ Good” and “So watcha watcha watcha want,” (that’s actually a line, the title is just one watcha), and then I finish off with at least the first 20 minutes of Fiona Apple’s Tidal, giving me the opportunity to hear “Criminal” again. My neighbors must think Sybil lives here.
Since learning of the post office holiday party events, in detail from three very similar perspectives, I’ve been trying to write a country song called “Get the Bitch Off Carla.” It’s not quite coming together in that genre, but the Beastie Boys are proving to be an inspiration.
BTW – Happy Holidays!
Perhaps by now you understand how my mind works. The tangent thing. I think of one thing that leads to another thought, oh and possibly one or two more and then I write something that has nothing to do with the first thought, and so on. I have no albums, tapes or CDs by Leon Redbone, but let me use him to demonstrate.
It’s Christmastime, no matter what we celebrate or don’t celebrate, that’s what this is. And during this time of year we are bombarded with Christmas music, as I was, and probably you too, today. Fortunately, at least for me, the hot song this year is Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You,” and I don’t mind so much. Except for Adam Sandler’s “The Chanukah Song” it’s all Christmas music, even the seasonal songs that are weather related. My two favorite holiday songs fall into that last category.
“Walking in a Winter Wonderland,” has always had me singing along until I realized there was a verse about clowns, and I’ve developed a dislike of clowns. Rock Hudson singing “Baby It’s Cold Outside” with Mae West on the Academy Awards (before my time, thank you) would make anyone really appreciate the song as I do. Now, if you will follow me in the bend in Tangent Road, “Baby It’s Cold Outside” is thought by some to be a tale of a man infringing on a woman’s right to say no. But she knows she ought to say no, no, no sir, and does not. Does she even want to? I’ve always thought of it as a tale of seduction, and done nicely, I think.
Leon Redbone’s (we’re here – everybody out) 1981 timeless classic, “(I Want to be) Seduced” celebrates the need for seduction, that is made all the more enjoyable by his unusual voice and appearance. I am not exercising to Leon Redbone music, and may know only a handful of his songs, but at one time he was running for a local office and it is during a campaign speech, if memory serves, that he said, “I’m too young for Medicare and too old for women to care.” And that’s why we’re discussing Leon Redbone tonight.
Part Two – It’s All About the Bourbon
I wobbled home Friday night having had just enough bourbon to make me cross from the tipsy to the wobbly side. The venue for this year’s office holiday party was at the restaurant on the Hudson closest to us that is slightly recessed inside the park. As a group of us walked the short way through the park I made note of how I would exit later, knowing that I had a date with Jack. I live on just a bit north of where we were, but had never walked through this particular park at night. Plus I would be alone and in a special condition.
Upon the recommendation of the new guy in Marketing, I tried Bulleit Bourbon and had been looking forward to doing so. If you remember, Jack and I have a tenuous relationship, and he is only allowed in my home in small doses, or larger at Thanksgiving when I make my infamous bourbon balls. The bartender served me a healthy sized glass of the new bourbon, not quite a double, and I grabbed a mini slice of pizza from the server who passed me with a tray of them so the alcohol had something to land on. With all its faults, and there are many, my company does throw a nice holiday party, and those who attend are rewarded with an AMEX gift card.
So I come, I drink too much and shove the passed hors d’oeuvres in my mouth and wait for the gift card. The new bourbon was okay, but the second and third drinks were all Jack. I think the bartender was impressed with my drink of choice, and I hope I didn’t disappoint him by leaving the last one only half consumed. I loathe the boomby boomby loud disco enhanced music, and left my colleagues to dance the night away, taking one of the foam covered glo-sticks being handed out.
The park, usually filled with tourists, was void of anyone, and without my glasses, I plotted the course to the other side, guessing correctly each time I maneuvered around the metal fences that seemed to have no purpose whatsoever other than to provide me with an obstacle course. After making it all the way home, I realized that while it was only 8:30 when I ventured through the park, it was perhaps a reckless thing to do and it reminded me of the more reckless behavior of my youth. Yes, it was mildly reckless as it’s not a dangerous nor secluded park, but I like the fact that I made it through successfully with only my glo-stick for protection, and what I assume would be a nice clear yelling voice and the willingness to have a would-be attacker thinking I was too nuts to deal with.
On a related note, Trouble-Buddy, whom you may remember from past stories of youthful recklessness, is a food-editor, and has a lovely blog on her local NPR radio station. She asked for my recipe for bourbon balls, and recently published the article and instructions all about them. It’s short so take a look. I do have to clarify that you mix the coating, which is no set amount, you have to play it by eye, on a flat rolling surface. I have an old plastic cutting board that sucked as a cutting board but has been a dedicated instrument in the annual rolling of the balls. LINK.
Cool, huh. But dammit, her editor changed one word in the opening sentence. I wrote “I have been making these damn balls for more than a quarter of a century now” and the editor censored the damn and replaced it with the word “bourbon,” changing the flavor, if you will, of the article and changing my voice. It’s just one damn thing, but is it editing or censorship? Damn is probably one of the most innocuous things a New Yorker could say. I would understand if I had said I had been making these fucking balls, which I was tempted to do as the original article had a bit more innuendo, or even if I had written goddamn balls. Could be a difference between New York and North Carolina, although it is an NPR station, but I would have been happier with “Gosh-darn” balls. And that is all I’ll say, as I do thank TB for including the article, and urge others to take a look at her wonderful site.
Love Lane is in Brooklyn Heights. It is all of one block between Hicks and Henry Streets, this being the exit on to Henry. Whenever I have occasion to pass it, I hear Jim Morrison in my head singing “she lives on Love Street.” Perhaps Jim’s road of love was longer, and not so bleak. And perhaps Love Lane is someone’s idea of a cautionary tale.
The good news is that I have to spend time today writing an extraordinary query letter to shop around the article I’ve written about immigrants in love and the quest for a Green Card. Vicki’s husband, who knows a thing or two about a thing or two gave me some good feedback and tips so off I go. The better news is that this is this evening post. Nice and short like Love Lane, and no political rants.
BTW – Max is now just under 20 pounds and I can’t weigh myself until I get the bourbon balls out of my refrigerator. Well I can, but I won’t.
I am in a bit of a flux today (seems like this is becoming my recurring theme). My usual waiter at Tribeca’s Kitchen is on vacation for TWO WEEKS, and he didn’t tell me. So here I sit, with my laptop and my notebook that has several ideas for this evening’s post, at a loss. All the staff here has always been lovely to me, and I am still in capable hands, but what to write about. I didn’t realize how much Alberto effects my usual routine. And now, the atmosphere is bothering me. I can tune things out or absorb them, sometimes pay attention to an interesting conversation, but the couple sitting next to me is bothersome and I just stuck my sleeve in the cream cheese (I’m doing the bagel and lox platter today as a change, even though I’ve cut down on dairy).
So instead of writing about my recent trips to the Abingdon Theater and the history of my obsession with off-beat, yet not weird for weird-sake, theater, I have decided to pick on poor old fool of an idiot, president-elect trump and his creepy family and supporters. For those of us boomers who remember Yellow Submarine and the takeover of Pepperland by the evil Blue Meanies, we must call upon our inner Beatles to fight the tyranny of the new administration and save our own Pepperland. So I’m sharing with you a picture of his blueness the president-elect, his lovely 3rd wife (see, she even wears an M on her chest), and his minions, plus a picture of some of the cabinet picks. Who do we think will be the Glove? Hmm. Stop your messing around.
BTW – I got myself a new mattress topper with a free Bed, Bath and Beyond gift card from bank points I earned and a 20% off coupon, and I am so digging it. And speaking of thing that have gone right, my office-issued cell phone (they lend me a phone because I wouldn’t get one) had to be replaced and now I don’t have to charge my battery twice a day, Gilda and I had a swell slumber party the other evening, and this year’s bourbon balls have been rolled and after fermenting for just a week are FABULOUS, with an extra batch of first-time rum balls that I made last night. I just have to get them out of here before I wind up eating them all.
And a special BTW shout out to the Standing Rock Sioux. Woohoo! Now that is inspiring!
trump’s cabinet
Today is my birthday. The photo is a movie poster from a 1981 film that I never heard of. That’s not surprising as the genre is not my cup of tea, however in the early 80s so many movies of this type seemed to be hitting the theaters. The most successful of the gory, thriller movies at the time was American Werewolf in London, which had been highly recommended to me by my mother, who if you may recall from a post earlier this year, had some odd tastes in movies. I thought of neither of these mother-related facts when Vicki and I went to see it way back then.
We sat in the theater in front of a few couples, or they sat in back of us. Before the movie started, the guys were laughing and howling, trying to and succeeding in annoying their dates. This was supposed to be a very scary movie, and would not normally be one that I would go see, so I was also unamused be their antics. As we waited for it to begin and the guys continued to try torment their dates, Vicki asked, “Are you sure we should be seeing this movie?” “My mother saw it and she really liked it,” I replied. Then I thought for a second and added, “Of course, she saw The Exorcist three times and thought it was funny.” Vicki turned to me with a look of horror, and as the lights dimmed I swear I could still see the whites of her eyes bugging out at me. It occurred to me as well that I had just taken the advice of a certified nut job (she wasn’t actually certified at that time, that came later), and dragged my dearest friend with me.
The movie had us all on the edge of our seats from the get-go, and the howling, laughing boys behind us were surprisingly silent. The whole theater was silent until one scene in which a couple was going to dinner at a friend’s and were obviously targeted as the next victims. “Oh no, get out of there,” I heard someone say. “Oh no, oh no,” the voice repeated. It wasn’t coming from the screen, but from the seat right next to me. “No, please,” Vicki was begging for the couple to be saved, out loud. “They’re young and in love,” she said. I don’t think she could help herself, and the thing was that the commentary seemed to work well with what was happening on the screen. No one shushed her. And she continued to voice her terror throughout the movie.
I had known Vicki for nine years or so by that time, and had been to the movies with her quite a few times. This was a behavior of hers that until that night, I had been unaware. The movie was a really good one, but did not entice me to want to see other gory thrillers. Shortly there after, we had a small dinner party at the house in Huntington, and when everyone decided to watch one of these cheap slasher movies, probably on HBO, I decided to do the dishes. Even though one of the guests had volunteered to clean up afterwards so I could join them, I explained that it was a good excuse for me to not watch, but they should please enjoy Vicki’s company. And sure enough, as I washed dishes and cleaned the kitchen, I could hear the movie, hear the silence from its small audience, and then hear Vicki saying, “Oh no, get out of there.”
Here’s something really cute. I went to Google and the image has birthday candles. Who’s birthday are they celebrating? Jimi Hendrix, Carolyn Kennedy. No. It’s me. Well, that’s what the banner reads. When clicked on it just goes into events of the day including birthdays of those more famous than I like Hendrix and Carolyn. I also share my birthday with Bill Nye the Science Guy, and Urkel.
BTW – A big change to the Sunday line-up has been made. Sunday evenings, just to refresh your memories, is when I do a full workout that usually lasts about 1 hour 13 minutes. After voice stretching and warmup, I have been starting the aerobics portion with Missy Elliot’s “Dog in Heat.” With apologies to Miss E, she has been replaced with none other than “Heard It Through The Grapevine” by Gladys Knight and the Pips. Twice. That adds an extra 30 seconds of aerobics.
Adam Yauch Park with Trump Influence
Ah, the melancholy continues and will probably not fade until president Boaty McBoatface is imprisoned. Yeah, I think he’ll be impeached, but I’m not going to settle for just that. And of course, as we go from class to trash, it is effecting my workouts. “But I don’t want to exercise” – I whine to myself. “Okay, okay. Why not just put on some music then,” my mature self says to the frustrated little girl that just wants to kick the idiots of the world in the kneecaps. So I do (listen to music, not kick kneecaps), and as soon as a song starts playing, I find myself moving. Music is a powerful healer.
On one particular bad day I found an unusual line-up to be quite soothing. I started with Fiona Apple’s “Criminal” (because it’s a damn good song, not in honor of president McBoatface, even though the line “what would an angel say, the devil wants to know,” is applicable), Bob Dylan’s “Rainy Day Women,” and Gladys Knight and her Pips’ “Heard It Through The Grapevine,” which I listened to twice because I started writing in the middle of the first round. “Good Lovin’” by the Rascals followed and I was so lost in the silly dance I barely thought about the trouble we’re in. I listened and sang along to my three Linda Ronstadt alternates (“Silver Threads and Golden Needles,” “Desperado” and the wonderfully heartbreaking “Long, Long Time”), and motivated by the passing of Leon Russell last week, I felt like taking out my Delaney and Bonnie and Friends album. I haven’t put that on the turntable since it made the Ram 20 list, way back when I was exercising through my albums, swearing that when I got to ZZ Top, I would continue to exercise to the 20 records of the collection I determined were the best to work out to. That didn’t last long as I started picking up cheap CDs.
Hey Trouble Buddy – when I hear Bonnie Bramlett screech out “The Love of My Man” (though “That’s What My Man is For” is better), I think of you.
But, when the music stops, there is silence, and I think how much I will miss the Obamas and the example of intelligence, caring and class they set for the world, which will be glaringly absent until we can do something about our current condition (sounds like a rash, doesn’t it?) And Joe Biden. Frankly, I’m hot for Joe, and had he entered the race, it would have been a real tough one for me, primary wise. In fact, one of the nicest moments of this whole, long campaign, and all those republicans, was an interview I saw with Lindsey Graham, one of those republicans, talking about Joe Biden. “Who doesn’t like Joe Biden,” he exclaimed, and even got a little misty when noting all that our current Vice President has endured in his life, and is an intelligent human being, who remains amiable, concerned and sensitive. Graham called him “as good a man as God has ever created.” It was quite moving. Biden really seems like a nice guy with a good sense of humor and honest, rational reactions. I wouldn’t be surprised if a good portion of the Joe Biden memes are based in some truth.
Music truly does have charms to sooth the savage breast, and if I was going to go for the obvious here, I would add that it sooths the savage pussy as well. I am finding that Gladys and the Pip boys are a major soother. However, I am sorry folks, but it does look like The Walrus Was Paul will remain political for quite some time. Not MY fault.
BTW – I’m holding at a comfortable 142lbs, still far from my goal, but I’ve plans to get through the entire holiday season through Presidents Day, by sneaking in under 140, no easy task considering the time of year. Max, who if you remember, came with me to the office on election day, and I realized I was lugging around over 21 pounds of cat, has now lost close to a pound.
I decided to mix up tonight’s workout, though I rarely tamper with Sundays, and did the hour and 15 minutes to some of the aforementioned tunes, with the Beasties Boys taking center stage. There’s a reason for that. I think the picture explains it.
I am very, very, very angry. Do I know what I’m going to do with that anger right now? Nah. I’m just trying remain sane while insane thoughts and visions of what I’d like to do if I were another kind of person, go through my head.
On Tuesday evening I had emailed my friend in Hoot ‘n Holler that my weekly post was just about written as it was all about the events of the day. All about Tuesday. Windows scheduled to be replaced in my apartment, 21.2lb Max coming to the office with me, voting, and the fact that I had one of the nine cans of Progresso Vegetarian Vegetable Soup with Barley for dinner that night. It was good that I felt like having soup that night. I just thought the sight of little more than nine cans of the same kind of soup in the cupboard was kind of amusing.
“I just hope it has a happy ending,” I wrote to my friend about the post. After that, the rest of the night is but a blur.
Now – I want to rail into the morons who support trump, but I’ve said what I think of them before in previous posts, if you’re interested, so I won’t tax my fingers on them at this moment. I want to trash the next first family with infantile abandon by referring to them as president dickwad, The First Whore and the creepy kids. But I must rise above that. Or not. Really it is a great deal better than some of thoughts that had been mulling about, so I will settle for an occasional outburst, occasional being a relative term.
But, more than any of that, more than my hate-filled, vengeful words, I wish I could say something to Hillary, something comforting and heartfelt. Something like thank you, oh so monumentally much for giving this feminist from the womb a glimpse, a grasp at seeing a woman, the right woman, as president of our country, though it was not to be. And it wasn’t anything you did. You did so well throughout it all. (Frankly, your decorum during the stalking debate was impressive. I would have turned to the jerk and yelled at him to sit the fuck down!) You were and are inspiring. Please continue to be a leader in this fight, for women, for respect, for social progress. For all of us, even the dunderheads who follow that cartoon of a two-year-old in a pompous old man’s body. Not the evil ones, just the stupid ones who helped to tear our dreams out from under us and set us back decades. I don’t see you, Ms. Rodham Clinton, sitting out the rest of your life stewing about this, though you’ve every right to. But we still need you and this is what you were meant for. So thank you. Take a deep breath, take a break, take a vacation, with or without Bill, and come back swinging. We’ll be here.
BTW – Saturday evening, TCM, Turner Classic Movies, ran a movie that came out in 1940 called The Mortal Storm, which I’m sure was no coincidence. James Stewart stars, but I’d never heard of it. It’s about the rise of Hitler in Germany. The parallels are eerie. It sent chills down my spine.
BTW2 – Leon Russell died today. I have but two of his albums, but he has a bigger presence in my record collection than that. Thanks Leon for the great music and the great influences.
My brushes with Weiner have nothing to do with sexting. I’m not his speed. But then, he’s not mine either. Nor do they have anything to do with the accompanying photo that is an actual Avon product and serves as an adequate substitute for a picture of the former Congressman.
I didn’t know him from a hole in the wall when he came to the geriatric center, a large complex of apartments, nursing home, adult day health care, where I worked. He and some other local politicians were there in the large auditorium to speak to the community. Many were residents and many came from the neighborhood, a largely Spanish-speaking area of northern Manhattan. I had met Scott Stringer before at a charitable event, and he was gracious as ever. This little pipsqueak guy, who also showed up, was kind of rude. But I’ll tell you, when he spoke, he came across as smart and passionate. He even got an open guffaw from one of the male residents and titters from others when he started a sentence with “I may not look like much…” He seemed to like the response. He then, quite abruptly mind you, shushed someone in the audience then quickly acknowledged – “oh, you’re translating,” before he moved on without apology. Eyes rolled. He was a bright, young politician, obviously ambitious, and ringing asshole.
Anthony Weiner was not the only visitor to the center that made an impression on me. My position in the marketing department was as publications coordinator, and my officemate was the community coordinator. She hadn’t told me she was expecting a visitor on this particular day, but maybe she only just found out after I had gone off to the cafeteria to get my lunch, that I would eat at my desk. When I got back, she wasn’t there, and as I was busy eating my messy and yummy wings, the director of security was standing at the door calling my officemate’s name. I didn’t know where she was, I told her. “I have Mrs. Cuomo here to go on a tour,” said the director. And there stood, dressed in beige and white, the lovely Matilda Cuomo. She was out campaigning for her son, who was running for Attorney General of New York State at the time. I quickly tried to wipe the sauce from my hands as she apologized for interrupting my lunch, and came towards me with her outstretched hand after I told her who I was. I started to extend my hand that we both realized was in no condition for a handshake. We each er’d and uh’d until I came up with a brilliant idea. “Let’s shake elbows, like in Young Frankenstein,” I said. And so we did. Yes, I shook elbows with the former first lady of my state, and mother to our current governor.
My second encounter with the not so lovely Anthony Weiner came at my next job at Queensborough Community College at the commencement ceremony that year. I met lots of local politicians as events and activities attracted them to the culturally diverse community and sprawling grounds. Many were helpful in getting the new Holocaust Center built, like the Weprin brothers, and John Liu came and read a story at a performance for children at the college’s theater. They were always showing up for something. And of course, they would show up for the commencement ceremony, which this particular year was held outdoors in weather that was cooperating nicely. They showed up early for socializing and robing, and then would lead the hundreds of graduating students to the rows and rows of metal folding chairs that faced the tiered stage where the politicians would sit with the other dignitaries, which included the school VPs and my boss, who was merely a department director.
My job at the ceremony was to stay by the front gate to greet the late politicians. We had hoped that our junior senator Hillary Clinton would show up, but understood that our State Senators had a lot of ground to cover during this time of year. I wound up on the phone with our senior senator Chuck Schumer’s assistant who told me that Senator was on his way, but would be late, and there was of course the chance that there would be a last minute diversion. Then I see Councilman David Weprin approaching. I meet him in the parking lot used for the dignitaries, which is the school’s bus stop, but because of the event, the buses were re-routed that day. I handed him his robe that I had piled on top of the clipboard and whatever else I was holding, but when he put it on, the zipper would not go up. I tried to help him, but it was stuck, and I told him as much, a couple of times, thinking – okay, you’re late, you got the robe that doesn’t zip, just go on stage, before I realized he was not going to budge without being zipped. So, I shoved the stuff I was holding into his arms and kneeled down to get a better angle on it. Yes, it worked, but in the nick of time as the position I was in, kneeling on the ground before this man, this local politician, with my face to his crotch, pulling up his zipper. I sent him on his merry way before a car pulled into the lot.
I’m still waiting to hear back about Senator Schumer, when a suited young man approaches me and tell me to expect Congressman Weiner. Hmmm. Not on my list, but hey, a congressman. Another car pulls up and out steps that scrawny guy, the guy that rang asshole, from my last job. He refused a robe so I escorted him to the stage and pointed him to an empty seat on the second tier. That one empty seat in the front tier? Well that was reserved for the Senator of course. But that little Weiner, which is exactly what I was thinking, he walked right to the seat in the front row as I watched him from the side of the stage defiantly sit in the front row and turn to me with a look that read, “What are you going to do about it.” Nothing. I couldn’t do a damn things about it. He spoke, he was smart and passionate, because, I believe he is. But I could tell he was just a big jerk from these brief encounters. My opinion was subsequently confirmed as I would read about his inability to hold on to staff members as he was too difficult to work with. All that other stuff was yet to come.
Councilman Weprin, however, with whom I had just formed a relationship in the parking lot, apparently needed to leave shortly after his speech. When my boss, who was on stage, and I compared notes afterward, she then understood what she had seen from there. Our VP, who was seated next to the Councilman, was fussing with his robe, as was he, until finally, he tore it off over his head and threw it on his seat and stormed off. I, still at my post at the front gate, just hearing that Chuck Schumer was called away and couldn’t make it, saw David Weprin coming down toward the gate, walking quickly in his light-colored summer suit. I waved at him as he left, and he smiled and waved back. I guess the frustration he had over his faulty robe that caused him to make a bit of a scene on the stage in front of the entire graduating class, dissipated as he saw me, which I’m sure brought back the fond memories from the parking lot. Weiner had long gone. Made his speech and left. There was no waving between us, and I knew there never would be.
BTW – On a personal note, props to Cousin Bratty for being true to herself, and to my friend from Hoot ‘n Holler for being true-blue.
The Walrus Was Paul 