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Old Books

I recently ran across a copy of a book that had been read by me and most teenage girls: Go Ask Alice. It was strange to see that haunting black cover and to be immediately transported to 1980, the year I read this book. Of course I read it for the titillating sexual references and the thorough analysis of drug use. This book, along with Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret, were the touchstones of my adolescence. Salinger would follow shortly thereafter, but these two books were ones I read late into the night, holding my breath in fear of being discovered by my parents.

I saw this copy of Go Ask Alice in a hip clothing store in Soho, of all places. I wasn't surprised since they were featuring a new line of clothes designed by an actress known more for her style than her acting. She, like so many young girls growing up in the late 70's and 80's, had obviously found this book to be one of those seminal discoveries of her life. No need to ask whether I bought it since my original copy was long lost or packed in boxes stored in my parents basement. Not only did I buy it, but I came home and reread it, this time with different set of eyes. Yes, I'm a wee bit older this time and a bit more experienced. Regardless, I still flipped through those pages quickly, practically devouring the words.

The first thing that struck me was how implausible it was that these entries were written by a young teenage girl. Believe me, I still have my diaries from high school. And they are not nearly as eloquent or well written, and I was a better writer than most of my peers. Diaries tend toward the minutiae. This book seemed to be tackling big humongous themes of social unrest, social upheaval, all experienced through the eyes, even if they were clouded by drug use, of a young teenage girl. Right, highly improbable.

When I'd read the original copy, I didn't give much thought to the accuracy of its authorship. It was sold as a real diary written by someone named, Anonymous. And most of us read it as such. The underlying message of drug use being bad was accepted as truth since Anonymous supposedly dies a few weeks after her last, rather upbeat, entry. OK. Let me just say the anti-drug message of the book didn't do much to deter my own experimentation with drugs, which followed shortly after I'd read this cautionary story.

Now as an adult my curiosity was piqued. Who was this Anonymous? Since the book came out during an era where only three networks and two or three local channels existed, the media storm that would have followed didn't occur. Instead, the book became the source of local fights about the First Amendment as communities banned the book from the shelves of local libraries. But again, these were local fights, and not likely covered by Walter Cronkite and others. Imagine this book coming out today with our 24 hour news networks, of which we now have a dozen. There is no way the 'author' of such a controversial book could hide, even under a quarry of rocks, without being hunted down and found.

I did a Google search and discovered that the book was purportedly written by its editor, who is a devout Mormon. Not too long ago, another writer, most likely the ghost writer, was discovered as the other author of this book. In light of the writer, the Mormon one, the book's message of anti-drugs is all the more understandable. True, the author was writing in response to the late 60's and early 70's when our cultural understanding of America was splintering beyond recognition. Does all of my new knowledge about its authorship change the impact this book had on my adolescence? No. I read it as truth. And in truth, I read it for the salaciousness of it all. And not too soon after, I was taking my first puffs.

Now with a child, I am wracked by how to answer that inevitable question "did I use drugs?" If asked this many years ago, I would have said veracity would be the only solution to being able to have an honest dialogue with your child about this very important subject. But now as a parent, that notion seems fraught. It feels like hypocrisy of the worst kind to tell your child, "yes I used drugs, but you shouldn't use them". Somehow such an admittance feels like you've lost your moral authority to have any say in this matter. As if you are giving your child permission to try since you had and survived. See, how impossible this is for someone who had experimented quite happily and blindly?

My new copy of Go Ask Alice will now join my collection. I'm glad to have rediscovered it again, and to have read it through these older eyes and through the reading glasses I now have to wear. It was something to be transported to 1980, lying on my bed, my bedside lamp on, flipping the pages as quietly as I could deep into the night. Being so quickly transported to your childhood is a rare occurrence these days, especially for me since I am feeling so adult of late.

Poetry and More

As a mom I'm a bit fascist about certain things that can, and will, influence my son's life. We monitor his television viewing assiduously, only allowing an hour each day. We don't allow him any video or computer games. We make sure he eats good, wholesome, healthy but tasty food. We don't allow him to play with guns, although we did break down and allow him swords. We are, like all other parents of our generation and class, annoying helicopter parents. Fortunately for us, and unfortunately for him, our 'uniqueness' makes all the rules interesting, at the very least.

As a writer, I am strident in things I will read, or not read, to our son. Books without a narrative, the only exception being poetry, are off limits if it's mommy's turn at the bedtime reading ritual. The information laden books boys love about topics like Mummies are saved for his father, who has no such ridiculously pompous edicts. Music, something on our house more than the television, is expansive, covering all genres and styles. We deplore the new batch of music for kids, put out by musicians who seemed to find success with the four and under crowd. The only exception to this was Dan Zanes, formerly from the Del Fuegos, who put out albums that adults could stomach. Let's just say we attended enough Dan Zanes shows, which reminded me a bit of the Dead shows I used to attend, to label ourselves Zane Heads.

So, last night my son and I finished off his Valentines for his classmates. We were feeling especially close, having had an inordinate amount of time together this week. He read to me from the two books he was assigned for homework. The repetitive sentences in the books, all in an effort for him to learn to read, are prosaic, and in truth, boring beyond belief. They make the Dick and Jane series from our childhood read like masterpieces. After two such books, I suggested we read some poetry to counter balance the stilted prose and unimaginative vocabulary. He agreed and suggested Robert Frost's, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening". We read this familiar poem two times because of the brevity, and to prolong that time of the day when we say 'goodnight'.

After we were finished, I asked if he would like me to read him some Langston Hughes, whose collection I was rereading. I chose as the first poem "Negro". He listened intently to it, not asking questions as he is apt to do. I should have stopped there, but I was quite honestly reveling in the language of Hughes, and wanting to prolong this day just a few minutes more. So I picked "The Negro Mother," a longer narrative poem that is beautiful and heartbreaking. As I got to the line, "Children sold away from me, husband sold, too," a sob welled up. Yup, crazy, right? Crazy to be reading him Hughes, and this poem in particular. As tears streamed down, I read on. My son's little hand wiped away my tears as he listened to his lunatic mother continue to read Hughes words out loud.

It's times like this when I think how much better off he'd be with a more normal mother, one who'd happily read him books about Mummies. The only consolation is, I suppose, his life will never be dull. Not with me as his mother. So, we kissed and said our 'goodnight.' It's funny what he'll remember about this night. Will it be my tears, or the transcendent language of Hughes, or both? I pray that it is both.

Security

The going joke among black comics is the bit about the first Black President, delivering his State of the Union address, not at the podium, but rather running across the floor of Congress, all in an effort to dodge the bullet from a would-be-assassin. This image of a grown man, much less the Commander-in-Chief, having to skitter across the floor of Congress is hilarious. Yet, you can imagine the fear that a black President must have each time he stepped out into public, wondering whether this would be the day a bullet would deliver a fatal blow. Colin Powell, another black man of political stature, had entertained thoughts of running, but he was, supposedly, discouraged by his wife. It seemed she was afraid she would become another national widow, like Jackie Kennedy, Coretta Scott King, and Ethel Kennedy, all of their husbands now part of the myth of lost hope and opportunity for this land of ours, a job she did not want.

As I watch the excessive coverage of Barak Obama, a contender for the top job by all the projections, I can't help but wonder how much money is involved to keep him safe. And whether his security detail will be greater, more intense than any other President in our country's history. Our world, now a place where terrorist threats are a reality, is also a country deeply conflicted about gender and race, despite the unexpected results of this primary season.

It may not be a crazy fundamentalist, from some country where men wear grow beards to show their piety, who may do the unthinkable. He or she may be a homegrown, whose fervency is not about religion but about purity of race, who may be the person to pull that trigger, thereby ending this new era of hope, change, and new direction.

My son, all of five years old, has asked us whether we are voting, and for whom. A part of me is proud he knows the names of all the candidates, even if he calls Barak Barakie. He has plugged into the significance of Barak Obama being the first black, or in his words, first brown President if he were to win in this election. Again, I'm immensely proud to see him absorbing the reality of a black man and a woman candidate. While all of us focus on the significance of this moment, given our country's history, for him this is just the way the world works. And isn't that what we hope for our next generation?

I'm sure as Barak Obama's stature has grown, the crowds he addresses swelling to sizes not seen in a long long time, his security detail has also grown. No doubt, political powers, behind closed doors, must be wringing their hands each time he steps up to a podium or reaches into the crush of well-wishers. If he were to be elected President, a part of me will be holding my breath, perhaps for the entire four years, that the unthinkable will not happen, yet again. I'd rather see his superstar status tarnished as we realize that he is mere mortal, full of idiosyncrasies, complexities, and contradictions, all of it to be played out on the stage of our political arena. I don't want his image to become mythologized, joining the ranks of so many, his image this momentary flash for hope and healing--the tentacle-like shackles of our slave past finally cut off the limbs of our country's consciousness. So, let his security detail swell to a size that none of us had seen ever if this is our only hope to keep him out of harms way.

Sick Days

There is nothing worse than a sick child. You are never more helpless or desperate than seeing your child taken down by whatever ailment. When my son was just over a year old, he became very ill. His cough was so violent he vomited the little food we had been able to feed him. As we listened to these coughs wracking his little body, I went upstairs half-crazed with worry. Not knowing how to make him better, I found myself climbing into his crib, so I could lie next to him, rubbing his back, hoping his cough would ease enough for him to sleep. I remember listening to his uneven breathing as he finally drifted off to sleep, my feel scrunched up under me, realizing I was quite stuck inside his crib. When my husband finally came upstairs to carry me out of the crib, he knew I had turned a corner, some would say into the heart of every mother where any, and all, sacrifice for your child is never given a second glance. You can understand how mothers of serial killers will be unwavering in their love for their child, even if he or she had become a monster of the most unimaginable variety.

I pray for his health, always. I'm always aware of how precarious life is for us all, especially the young. And nothing seems more cruel or inexplicable than a child facing down a life threatening illness. With that said, I can honestly say I get more than a bit annoyed when my child develops the sniffles, something that occurs with great frequency given his age and the propensity for kids his age to touch everything and everyone. Being sick is terrible, indeed. But being just sick enough to warrant a stay home, but not sick enough to sap his energy is what feels like you are the unwitting victim of a cruel hoax, the kind that ends up on "Candid Camera," with you looking like an idiot on national television.

First, there is the energy level, which doesn't seem to abate with a little cough or stuffy nose. In fact, there are moments during the day when the energy level seems to spike, so you watch in amazement as your child does a strange Irish jig across your living room rug. With his hands on his hips, doing a strange imitation of Lord of the Dance, you wonder what about parenthood was enticing enough for you to have gone off of birth control. Along with the energy, which doesn't cork itself with a few sniffles, is the never quenched inquisitiveness. It's as if his mind becomes one big permanent question mark since each sentence is guaranteed to start with, "Mommy, why---". Perhaps your sympathy, empathy, and patience would be unflinching if only your child didn't suddenly turn into Lord of the Manor, every request sounding more and more like an imperious bark as the day wears on.

The day has a certain symmetry to it. It is something I can predict with some accuracy now, my fifth year into motherhood. The first hour they are home is fueled by your anxiety that he is simply battling a cold and nothing more serious. With the recent meningitis outbreak, my mind immediately rushes toward the catastrophic as my hand reaches out and feels his forehead every few minutes. The second hour we are stuck together has me looking anxiously and longingly at the work on my desk, all of it obviously left untouched. See, even if he weren't so noisy, demanding, and just a plain nuisance, all of my energy is sapped from all the worrying,tending, fetching, and negotiating.

The third hour has me wishing I'd sent him to school, germs be damned, instead of having him cooped up in this apartment with me. The fourth hour, the most dangerous time of the day, has me contemplating stealing out of my apartment, leaving him alone so I can clear my head and squelch my ever-growing anger and antipathy for him, his father, his school, that cough-riddled classmate, and the parents that sent the germ-riddled kid to school. Yes, child welfare services would certainly get involved if I were to do that, but I can't stop dreaming about escape, no matter how severe the consequences. The fifth hour is when I call my husband at the office, my anger having built to such a level where blame needs to be aimed and fired. Yes, poor husband.

By the sixth hour, I am doing online searches for apartments in Paris, my new city of choice. When I was in LA, I used to spend hours on Craigslist looking for places here or in New Orleans, another city (pre-Katrina) that seemed exotic and exciting, two words that would not be used to describe my life with a sick child home from school. The seventh hour has me cowering in utter defeat in the face of the little Napoleon sprawled all over our bed. Every bark is met with me rushing to fill his water cup with icy cold water, the pillows plumped up for fear his neck develops a crick, and possibly rubbing his little feat, if he so desires. Should I also say that I am still in my pajamas as is my congested child?


As the gray day turns to early night, my body aches from the emotional turmoil of being an attentive mother to a mildly sick child. With dinner looming, another demand to be met as his stomach seems untouched by this recent ailment, I marvel at the vicissitude of this life, my life, so utterly different than anything I had ever imagined. I know all mothers out there, those that are somewhat attentive and loving, have had many days like this one. But you never quite get over how alone, utterly alone, you feel in this prison the one created by a little cough, a little congestion.

I am into hour two of our day together. I haven't yet started online searches for a new home, really a studio apartment for one in some far flung city. But I'm sure that will occur within the next hour or two. With the imperial request for salmon for lunch, I find myself taking out the frozen salmon pieces from our freezer. As wearying as the day becomes, the phrase, "This day will end," becomes a mantra of sorts.

Families

It's endlessly fascinating how families function, or not. As an outside observer you are given mere glimpses into the dynamics of mother, father, child or children. Don't add grandmother, aunt or uncle to that mix since that will surely mean endless hours of speculation and discussion. I feel you always get a more honest view when you aren't intimately involved with other families. It's as if proximity has a way of distorting the reality of a family's dynamics, the dysfunctions, in particular. I suppose that's to be expected since your affection for the family will make you gracious and generous in your opinions, even if their child is a hellion and off the hook, the parents barely functioning, and the husband prone to alcoholic rages. See, your affection can forgive many, many transgressions.

When you are mere neighbors, your view, really, snapshots into their lives, occurs with no ability on your end, or theirs, for control. You, and they, are exposed in such naked fashion. The shrieking you hear through the walls has no context since you aren't in the apartment to witness the irrational, full-blown melt down your child or theirs may be having. Instead, all you hear is the shriek, which sounds, despite it being muffled, agonizing, as if the child were being tortured behind the wall that separates your apartment from theirs. These unplanned occurrences do have a way of exposing the real truths to families since you aren't in control of them. I know most of us wish walls were thicker, the ceilings made of steel, basically your apartment soundproofed to mask your family's dysfunctions from the rest of the world. If only.

Living so close to others makes you hyper aware of how your family sounds more than the way you appear. You become self conscious about the noise you make, even if it is more pleasant than a child's shrieks. Even in your most heated moment, you are reluctant to raise your voice above normal speaking range, for fear your neighbors will imagine you and your spouse headed to divorce court.

All of this is a change from our life in LA where sound was rarely considered. You felt quite alone in your home, the neighborhood just a backdrop to the drama unfolding behind closed doors. I can only imagine how much more alone, and the sense of freedom that must provide, if you lived in a home shielded behind gates. It's only in LA that the Manson family could have tortured and brutally murdered so many people. You can imagine those poor souls crying and begging for their lives, their pleas unheard or noticed by their neighbors. Such a thing is unimaginable here where lives are barely separated by walls and ceilings.

As our son pitches a fit about something, whatever is the grievance of the day, I become aware of how we must sound to those next, above, and below. They must think, as we do about our next door neighbors, that our child is either a monster, our parenting skills bordering on ineptitude, or our child is the victim of the worst crime imaginable--child abuse. After one of these episodes, your chagrin is written across your face as your run into one of your neighbors in the elevator or by the mailbox. You smile, make small talk, and hope they have picked the less egregious assumptions about your child, your parenting, and your family. And pray their memories are not so long since they will hear the distress signals coming from our apartment soon enough.

Season of Lent

It is that time again, the season of lent where abstinence, abstention, abstemiousness, and asceticism are the words one associates with this season of Ash Wendesday, Good Friday, and finally Easter. It is, unlike the Christmas season, a more somber time despite it occurring in spring. As a Catholic we are told to give something up for the season of Lent. And each year I ponder what one thing I can forgo as a way to show my devotion. For a girlfriend, it was food. Of course she was being funny, but also a bit serious since like most women, dieting was as much a way of life as breathing despite her enviable figure.

As a child I would make sure to give up things that weren't going to be missed. I didn't understand how one's piety had to do with suffering. I hadn't learned about the Catholic tradition of flagellation and deprivation since my Catholicism was about faith and love. I guess this is all a way for me to say that I never really practiced Lent all that seriously.

But this year for some odd reason, I am considering this ritual a bit more closely. Lord knows I have so many vices that would be difficult, if not impossible to give up. The first vice is my habit, my absolute love for all profane words, particularly the F word. It's funny, despite being a word person I still view four letter words as somehow so perfect in all of their vulgarity and aggression. Sadly, it is an adolescent rebellion I have not outgrown, much to my mother's dismay. Then there is the love for wines. Hmm. Since becoming a mother, a healthy dose of drinking is required to get through a day, if not a week. Giving up drinking might end with me in sanitorium, perhaps permanently since life would feel so much more sane inside the loony bin than outside with a small child and no booze.

If I wanted to be kind to my spouse, I might forgo shopping for this season of abstention. But then there is the spring season with all of the shoes and hand bags in jewel tones to make that consideration absurd. But since my shopping is not limited to clothes and accessories, well, where would one start? Books? Surely God doesn't have such grandiose expectations for his flawed and human flock, right? Needlepoint? Well, let's not take away the one thing that can quell my ever-churning mind. Forgoing this obsession might mean my husband and child may need a Mommy break of the permanent variety. Food? We all know I'm the last person who can afford to not eat. Music? Magazines? Where do I start to come up with something of the purchasable variety that would be appropriate to give up in the name of my devotion?

See how impossible all of this is for a person with my particular peculiarities? It is a challenge since so many of my vices stem from the neuroses of being me. Doesn't Lent mean more than simply giving something up? Or am I missing the point? That's not too hard to imagine since I was not a diligent student in my CCD classes, the ones I attended and didn't blow off to sit in the nearby Roy Rogers with my other lapsed Catholic friends. So, I will ruminate, rule out, consider and reconsider all of the options available to me for this season of Lent. And since I seem to do most things at a blistering pace, anything that involves serious thought and consideration, I might just come up with the appropriate thing, item, to forgo just in time before Lent is officially over.

Woman for President---Why Not?

Of course this is a stupid question. As a woman, raising a boy, I still find it amazing, if not bordering on shocking, how more than half the world is governed by men. Really, have you seen them as a five year old? It's unbelievable that the spastic boy, skipping, karate-chopping his way down the sidewalk could, one day, be the President of the United States. When this spinning dervish is cutting a swath down any sidewalk in our neighborhood, I pretend he belongs to someone else, and not me. Believe me, it's much easier and less embarrassing this way.

So, why not a woman for President? Haven't we waited long enough for this moment? Geraldine Ferraro was more a symbol than a real possibility. And in truth, our country wasn't ready at that time to wrap their heads, male and female, around the possibility of the White House having to contend with PMS and other known stereotypes of "womanhood." Yes, the Brits had had Thatcher for years, but again our country is so much more entrenched in patriarchal models than other nations.

I guess my real question is not why not, but rather why her? She being Hillary Rodham, then known as Hillary Rodham Clinton, and now just known simply as Hillary Clinton. I am an ardent foaming-at-the-mouth feminist. Add French Deconstructionist, Marxist, and you may have an idea of my militancy. In high school, I was chosen by my school to attend a symposium held at the UN where high school delegates from all over the country would listen to speakers on the topic of the symposium, which in my year was: Feminism in the World. It was in the great UN General Council hall, at the same podium where world leaders have spoken, berated, or begged their international brothers and sisters, that Betty Friedan and other noteworthy Feminists espoused their derision for the male species. I was asked to give a speech at this conference in the UN General Assembly, addressing my view that Feminism was a Western middle-class construct, and therefore not to be exported in its singularity all over the globe. Yes, I really did give such a speech in high school.

I've thought a great deal about Hillary Clinton, and why it is I'm exhausted by the thought of her running this country. Yes, if she weren't up against the superstar of a Barak Obama, maybe I would be less ambiguous about her as a candidate and as a President. But then I recall our first introduction to Hillary Rodham, claiming rather defensively she didn't "stay home and bake chocolate chip cookies," since she was out busy fighting for woman's rights, and fighting in general to make sure her husband would become the most powerful man in the country. The backlash from this statement, the message of which was not lost on a great many women, was that Hillary Rodham quickly became Hillary Rodham Clinton. Then there was the Hillary Rodham Clinton, who defended her philandering husband by stating, again rather defensively, she was "not some little woman standing by her man". And now we have Hillary Clinton telling us, urging us, to believe in her ability to lead this nation, all the while sending out her husband as an attack dog. Hmmm...Does give one pause, right?

True, she was the first, First Lady to have an office where more was being done than simply scheduling state dinners. Remember the mess she made of the health care issue? But those eight years, the crowning moment being the impeachment trials, and then the charges they had plundered the White House on their way out, and the country's fatigue with all things Clinton (the result of which has been the last eight years, along with our current First Lady, who by all measure, is supposedly smart, if not mute) has brought us to a point where the country is begging for something more, something different.

I wish I could love the first woman, who has a real shot at being President. What a significant moment this is for us, but again I'm plagued by my ambivalence about, and toward, Hillary. The transparency of her ambition, which should be viewed as a positive attribute, has the exact opposite effect. Instead of applauding her chutzpah and drive, I am made uneasy by it. Why? Are the subconscious messages of the archetypes of the powerful woman as a sinister figure, just remember Medusa and Lady MacBeth, so ingrained that I'm made to question this smart, driven, woman, who just happens to want to be President? Does my uneasiness make me less of a Feminist? Or is there something more behind my uneasiness?

Or is it that she is a feminist of her particular generation, thereby making it harder for me to understand the stridency and urgency behind all that she had accomplished? Do I suffer from the luxury, made possible by Hillary and her cohorts, of having less to prove, thereby left with the need to have a more nuanced approach to the battles between the two sexes? Whatever the causes behind my ambivalence, I am left grappling with the complex emotions, rather strong, that she brings out in me. Believe me when I say I so wish I didn't feel this way. No matter what happens, she's already done more to break that final glass ceiling in our country. She's made it possible for us to consider, rather seriously, a woman as Commander-in-Chief of this nation. I do believe what we need the next time out is a superstar of Barak Obama's caliber, a woman who can transcend gender. Unfortunately for Hillary, she ain't it. That, I do believe, will happen with someone who will be more my contemporary.

Missing Friends

My day was interrupted yesterday by a call. It was one of those calls that are so welcome, a call from a dear friend in LA. It seemed she was headed to New York, surprise, surprise, and hadn't called earlier until she had ticket in hand, her arse nearly in the seat. She is the kind of friend where distance is of little consequence. It is a relationship that seems, to the rest of the world, inexplicable, yet it is a relationship of the best kind--the one of the heart. It is the kind of friendship where you feel safe enough to show your bruises, those wounds that are shielded, held tight against the rest of the world. She is also the kind of friend that makes you laugh at yourself, herself, the world, and sometimes just laugh for no real reason. Even though we don't speak much, our daily contact broken, our relationship is still intact, the affection and fondness never dimming despite the distance. She is also the kind of friend always on the ready to share a bottle of wine or two, or in our case, three or four.

It was after a call from our other friend, we were a trio, that I felt a momentary, heart-stopping sense of loss. I'm happy here, yes, and the work of constructing my life and my work is all consuming. And perhaps that is why it's been easy to keep my head down, bury myself in words, my son, my husband, and push aside the sadness of so many I miss, especially my girlfriends.

She called from the car as it lumbered its way through Queens, headed toward the city. With little prompting, I got up and raced to meet her at her hotel. As we sat in a French Bistro, another bottle ordered, the miles, physical and metaphorical, disappeared. We were again exchanging confidences, our hearts reconnecting in a way that only women can do with one another. See, men may be for some of us the framing of a house, but your girlfriends, well, they are the trimming that makes a house a home. Without them, it would be just plaster, structure, and an empty shell, no matter how strongly constructed.

This morning my head was a little fuzzy, my heart just a bit heavier, missing my girlfriends.

Election Day, Parade Day, All in One City

This is a bonanza for news junkies all over the country: Super Duper Tuesday. It is the day that will not decide who will win the Democratic nominee since it's apparent no real front winner will be announced at evening's end. For New Yorkers, it's also the day the Super Bowl Champs will arrive to be driven down Broadway for their celebratory parade. The news broadcasts' forecast for the traffic woes is disheartening. The subways, headed downtown, will be jam packed with people in Giants gear, hoping to catch a glimpse of their new heroes. With so much going on, it's hard for New Yorkers to prioritize--go to work, vote, or go to the parade. This idea of skipping work is problematic since all indications point toward a major recession, a deflation where many will be humbled by their shrinking investments.

This week's New York magazine was sobering, indeed. They listed cheap places for hair cuts and eateries where $16.00 can buy you enough food for more than one meal. With private equity and hedge fund money now being compared to the 80's junk bond hey day (anyone remember Mike Milken?), well, it seems the party is now over. Of course, these new kings of private equity and hedge funds will have an opportunity to remake themselves into the mold of Milken, now listed as a philanthropist, new age guru, and general Los Angeles crazy person with too much money.

Another article in the depressing issue of New York magazine also dissected how money, the illusion of it, the lack of it, adds to an illusory deflation or inflation of one's real self worth. And how with more than a few people being brought down to a level, not of the masses, but down a notch or two, may do wonders for the psyche of the average man. Perhaps if the city, particularly those making as much money as the budget of small or mid-size nations, is not doing as well, the focus will shift from consumption as a past time to something less tangible. If people were worried about belts being tightened, even if those belts are Hermes, they might spend their energies in other ways that doesn't involve profligacy being the center piece of their project. This city may finally become a city of dreams, but also heart. It's an interesting idea, don't you think?

It's interesting for me to be here just as another era, the one defined by private equity, hedge funds, and private jets, is coming to a close. I've just left a city that is all about glitter and illusion. It is a city where people, living in studio apartments, lease cars that are equal in cost to the mortgage of a house in St. Louis. It is a city where you can peel away the many layers of gilded paint, revealing just plaster underneath. It is a city where flash trumps substance, where money, or the illusion of it, is the ultimate game. And where this parlor game gets played on all socio-economic levels from the gated homes in Holmby Hills to the barrios far east. Everyone gets caught up in, regardless of the size of your pay check.

I know money is the blood line for New York, yet...I haven't felt the anxieties most describe about being surrounded by such uber-wealth. I find enough people here are realistic about their lives. Perhaps that is the difference between LA and New York, two similar animals, yet also diametrically opposite. LA is all about illusion instead of the concrete and metal that dominates New York. The ever-present sun in LA shimmers much like fairy dust, casting a light that is quite breathtaking, no matter how illusory. It's the sun that can turn the ugliness of Sunset at Vermont into something approaching grandeur. Again, illusion, nothing tangible. It's only when the sun is gone, replaced by gray and rain, that the true grit of the city reveals itself, much to the distress of its citizenry.

For the average New Yorker, reality, the grim and the transcendent, presents itself on every street corner. It's hard to get caught up in games that aren't germane to your current life, no matter how tantalizing it might be. So, the 'old' money of private equity and hedge fund will be, no doubt, replaced by some other game of cards. It will give birth to another batch of super kings, who will, like all their predecessors, face their demise at some point. The city will get caught up in the major sport of consumption, the memories of reflection, introspection, and kindness all a dim memory. And in another decade, the New York magazine will, again, spell doom and gloom for this city that seems to survive, despite it all.

Super Bowl Champs

Our son, who'd never paid close attention to football, had been excited about this Super Bowl since his home team, the Giants, were playing for the big title. We didn't want to tell him what a long shot they had of winning. It seemed cruel, even for us, to deflate his enthusiasm by telling him the Giants were going up against one of the best teams in football's history. It was exciting for him, and for us, to have arrived here, a city that has a team, and to have that team go on to the biggest sporting event of the year. It felt much like Cinderella arriving at the big ball, disbelief marking each magical moment.

I baked our chicken as my boys got ready, the big one with his six pack, the little one with his plate of gourmet cheeses and crackers. The game, by all accounts since I didn't watch all of it, was exciting, nail-biting till the very end. Our son finally went to bed, his eyes drooping despite his best efforts to be a big boy and stay up. In truth, I fell asleep, until my husband woke me to tell me the Giants had won. His voice, which I recall, sounded incredulous, a man struck dumb by the lightning bolt out in an field.

The morning papers arrived, each one with a snapshot of the winning team, hoisting the trophy into the air, confetti falling around. This morning's drop off was all about each child having the bragging rights to claim having stayed up to watch the big game. It's funny, how even at such a young age, they understand the significance of such moments. It's unlikely any of them may end up as a player in the NFL, having their lives defined by such a cataclysmic event. Yet, it is the participation in these collective moments, the team's victory hoisting each of us up, even if just for a moment. And even at the age of five, each was now a participant, no matter how peripherally.

All of the parents rushed outside to be met with the falling of big, downy snowflakes. It's the kind of day when curling up with a book, slippers on one's feet, and a bowl of something hot in a mug, is the ideal antidote to such a gray, wet day. We haven't had any significant snow, yet. In fact, my son's in disbelief that it snows in the city at all since he's always asking to go to places where it snows. But as that Prince song goes, it can snow in April, so I'm certain by this winter's end, he will be a convert to the vicissitude of winter here in the city. And when he is much older, we will remind him how his first year as New Yorker was capped off by the fairy tale win of the Super Bowl by the Giants.

Election Debate---LA Style

Last night's debate, held at the Kodak Theater, home to the "American Idol" finale and the Academy Awards, was a revelation in the cultural mores of LA. The debate was hosted by CNN and the Los Angeles Times (a paper that is just a cut above one of those small town regional papers), moderated by Wolf Blitzer (could that really be his name?), and much anticipated by those politically obsessed. It was a big night, no doubt, and each of the candidates worked hard to convince us, and the world, that they were ready to take the helm as President. It was the most nuanced debate, thus far. There was substantiative discussion and dissection of their differences, or lack thereof, in policies.

But one had to remind oneself they were watching CNN and not the E! Channel since there were so many celebrity cut aways, those 'dignitaries' sitting in those coveted seats. Let's just say the camera panned to Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa and Police Chief Bratton just once. The rest of the evening felt like we were watching one of those inane award shows, such a specialty of Los Angeles, where every opportunity is taken to show celebrities sitting, and trying to appear serious and intelligent.

So, who, you might ask, was in attendance? Well, here's a run down (it became sport as the broadcast wore on) of those noteworthy attendees: Steven Spielberg, his wife (what is this woman's name? Does it really matter?), Leonardo DiCaprio, Diane Keaton (in her trademark hat, looking as if she'd just stepped off the set of 'Annie Hall'), Rob Reiner(who is the stereotype of a liberal Hollywood person), Roger Ebert(does he live in LA?), Stevie Wonder(could be really mean and point out how pointless it was to give such a good seat to a blind man, but will refrain myself), Alfre Woodard (black actors had to represent), Isiah Washington (that homophobic actor), Pierce Brosnan(really, he's Scottish or something, right?), Topher Grace(hmmm...his name, what can one say about it?), West Wing Actor (don't know his name, but does it matter?), Louis Gossett Jr., Gary Shandling, Fisher Stevens (what, exactly, has he been in?), and Fran Dresher.

Now, it might be important to point out that Jane Harman, the 7-term, Democratic member of the House, was seated up in the balcony, and not given one of those front row seats. Hmmm. I did point out this night exemplified the cultural mores and problems with Los Angeles, right? Yes, actors do vote. But did they really need to be given those prime seats? Where were the bastions of the Democratic party? You know the ones I'm talking about, the Steel Workers, the housekeepers, the taxi drivers, and all those other worker-types.

Now, it might be the celebrities' feeling deprived from prime time coverage since each of the award shows seems to be a non-event. Or perhaps it is the historical event itself, and the star power of Barak Obama that had them clamoring (oh, come on, you can picture all of their agents calling in favors to secure those seats for their clients and themselves) for those coveted seats. It was a spectacle, truly. And CNN did a masterful job of making themselves look less like a credible news organization with each shot where the camera lingered on the face of one of these inconsequential persons.

As I scrambled to write down all of these celebrity names, keeping track, I felt such relief we were no longer Angelenos. This evening's broadcast crystallized all I found reprehensible about the city's inability to become serious about anything other than celebrities and Hollywood. The evening would have been perfect if Paris Hilton had been sitting behind the homophobic actor, trying to look sexy, kittenish, and scholarly, all at the same time. She would, much like Demi Moore, have had on glasses to make herself appear more intelligent. But someone in the Los Angeles Democratic Party machine, CNN, and the LA Times drew the line--no matter how narrow it may have been. Perhaps Spielberg's attendance (he is considered royalty in this town) signaled the seriousness and gravitas of this evening. Unfortunately, for the city and its lost citizens, the rest of the world didn't quite see it that way. But that is the beauty and tragedy of Los Angeles, isn't it?

Visitors--Most Unwelcome

We've had two visitors, those who actually stay with us, thus far. One was my crazy aunt, the other, my crazier mother. Both being family makes them the easiest to have spend a night or two on our very comfortable (we've been told) pull out couch we spent a fortune purchasing when we moved here. We've had another visitor here the last two nights, convincing me to make sure our place is never too comfortable to warrant more coming to stay.

Our visitor, someone I only met in Aspen at the writers' conference, is a person I don't know well. I found it quite remarkable she asked to stay with us while attending the AWP conference being held here in the city this week. I know such a thought would never, ever cross my head, much less have it voiced. And being so conditioned to be proper and nice, I said yes. A decision I instantly regretted and resented. I fretted, oh how I fretted, about how to get out of this gracefully--an impossibility since she'd already purchased plane tickets.

So, I did what I could to circumvent her need to stay with us for 6 nights (yes, 6 whole nights) by telling a fib, and thereby reducing her ability to stay with us down to 3 nights. This is the worst solution since I am the world's worst liar, ever. I was the kid that always told the truth, no matter what the consequences since lying was something that would only get me into bigger trouble. And since I was such a lost cause when it came to lying, well, it always seemed more prudent to admit, 'yes, I'd gotten drunk last night'.

This visitor does leave each morning, and stays out all day. But again, she's someone I know so tangentially, so having her in our place is something of a nuisance. I don't think she was bothered by any of this since we just saved her a small fortune in hotel costs. I couldn't figure out why she was coming since the conference is always interesting in concept, but always disappointing in reality. When I asked her what she hoped to get from the conference, she admitted she just wanted to come to New York--and stay for free. That's when I realized we absolutely must not have an apartment that is too comfortable, by any means. I know people always want to come here, and if they can stay for free, all the better.

There are friends and then there are the freeloaders, like our current house guest. She, of course, arrived without a hostess gift, and so far has been the worst house guest. This would be somewhat excusable if she weren't as old as she is since she has daughter's just a few years my junior. Thankfully, one more night and she will have packed her bags for wherever her next free lodging may be. She did offer, as some consolation, if I ever wanted to come to Boulder, Colorado, I'd have a place to stay. Hmmm. I've been to Boulder once. And that would be about as many times as I'd need to go to that quaint, college town. The inequity in her offer is lost on her, obviously.

This all gets to the heart of my problem: my inability to say no. It is something I must work on. Really, none of this is this woman's fault. She asked. I answered. Bottom line. So, next time some other cheap person, who is barely an acquaintance, makes this same request, I know to answer with an affirmative, 'no!' Of course, I'll have to do it all on paper or, better yet, in an email.

Confusion

Women and men are worse off today than our parents may have been. How, you ask? Yes, there is the whole devaluation of the dollar, the shrinking of the middle class, blah, blah, blah. But the real confusion, the kind that can pit one spouse against the other, occurs because gender roles for men and women are no longer so clearly defined. The patriarchal world, the one our mothers understood and maneuvered, has been scrambled, jumbled, and messed up, leaving all of us scratching our heads. This is the age when the Metrosexual Male, those men in touch with their feminine side, is a part of our consciousness about male identity. We now know there is a distinction between swishy men and those simply into good grooming practices. This gender confusion now makes a marriage a constant battle ground as we try to figure out what our roles are supposed to be.

Most of my friends in LA had no such concerns. They seemed content to stay at home, assuming traditional roles, the very roles Betty Friedan and others had fought against. Most seemed relieved actually to be able to stay at home, even if they were bored witless by the lack of intellectual strenuousness in this 'privilege'. Now that I think about it, most never, ever voiced concern at all. It was more of a collective sigh of relief that they'd found a man, caught a man, and thank goodness he's a good earner, and can now stay at home being taken care of by this very man. It was all a bit disturbing, as if the last forty or so years since the ardent feminists had argued more for our sex had never occurred.

Some could argue that educational levels may play a part in a woman's satisfaction or dissatisfaction with their marriage. The more educated you are, the less likely you are to be satisfied. And certainly not to stay at home playing the dutiful wife. Sad, isn't it? The higher your degree, the certainty of your unhappiness. When I look back on this particular group of friends from LA, most had a BA, although some couldn't even claim that. Very few had anything beyond a BA. Most had worked, but seemed to be happy to not have to do it again. Some even had lucrative careers, financially, if not all that stimulating. One could say they were happy to have avoided a life of the middling management life by getting married. And most could never understand what it was I did with my time when I claimed, 'to be working.'

The writing life is a mystery for most people, other than other writers. We do this thing, most people aren't really capable of doing, alone, for hours on end. The end product may or may not get published, thereby adding a sense of futility or, if one is so inclined, as masturbatory. We are a world where productivity has to match some result. But the writing life is one where such artificial expectations defeat the whole purpose of this thing you are driven to do.


My marriage sometimes feels like an archaeological expedition as we try to dig out clearly defined roles for both husband and wife. Our search and negotiation is all the more vexing because of the ephemeral quality of my work. What's worse for my dear husband is the fact I was raised by parents, despite being Asian, who are ardent feminists. I was told my entire life that a woman's happiness depends on her ability to carve out a separate identity from wife and mother. That really, men may leave, and children will definitely leave, therefore you'd better have something of your own or you are screwed. This also went along with all women should absolutely have money of their own. The idea of a woman's financial life being dictated by a man is absolute anathema to them, and would be a signal of failure.

With such pressure, you can imagine the sense of urgency in our search for our respective roles as husband and wife. And how complicated it all becomes since I view my career and the productivity of my writing life as important as his. Sometimes when we've gone around and around about these very issues, I secretly wish I could be more like my friends, those content with being just a wife and mother. This secret wish lasts a nanosecond once I recall the underlying boredom and unhappiness each exhibited, sometimes unwittingly. But nonetheless, I do harbor it, every so often.

Life would be so much easier if our roles for husbands and wives, were clearer less amorphous. But it seems all of it gets murkier each year, all of us floundering around trying to figure it all out for ourselves. I suspect divorces will start to occur with some frequency in the next five years. Whether or not they will be the result of the confusion in gender roles still remains to be seen. All I know is the archaeological expedition seems to go on and on, each year bringing a new territory to be explored.

Weepy Politics

Politics rarely make me emotional, other than outrage when compromise is the only certainty for every elected official. I suppose compromise is what we hope for rather than outright financial malfeasance or corruption on a level that would mean your elected officials being taken away in hand cuffs.

But yesterday was that rare moment in my life. I am a part of a generation, raised on the myth of Camelot, the offspring of John and Jackie Kennedy, our generation's Prince. We did not experience first hand that moment in our history when anything and everything seemed possible. A man walked on the moon as our country was being divided by the war, civil rights, and the loudest argument for the cultural legitimacy of what it meant to be an American. What followed those magical moments was one heartbreak after another as each of the leaders of this era was gunned down, meeting their fate in such a final way. Their fate, unfortunately, also sealed our country's fate. What followed, the eruption of divides and the cynicism coming from Washington felt, somehow, inevitable. See, I wasn't even born when President Kennedy was shot, so I have no ability to recall for anyone what I was doing when I learned the news. For those from this era, they can recall with such exact details of that moment when they learned their youthful innocence and hope had come to an end. This one moment would, in so many ways, shape our country's fate for generations.

So, it was surprising to me to find myself getting weepy as I listened to the rousing, heartfelt, impassioned speech given by Senator Ted Kennedy. There's nothing like listening to Senator Kennedy give a speech on the Senate floor, covered on C-Span. This man's unerring commitment for all the truly liberal causes of the day is one that should inspire us. If not for that fateful night when his demons were too great, the outcome of one error in judgment sealing his fate to forever remain a Senator, we might have had a third Kennedy in the highest office in the land, carrying the torch left in mid-flame by his brother.

Why, you might ask did I find myself so moved by this political speech? For the first time in my life, it didn't feel like politics as usual, but something more profound in what was occurring on that stage. Yes, there was the unmistakable torch of the Kennedy legacy being passed to the unlikely of heirs, Barak Obama. But there was something grander, more important than just a legacy, more myth than reality, that was being touted. It was a sense that we, at this moment in our country's history, has a chance to bank on a risk. Like all risks, the outcome is uncertain. We might all wake up from this euphoric trance to find this man, whose life story is in itself an embodiment of the possibilities of our country, is just human and like all the rest. But I hope not. As all of those who are betting on him are hoping not.

As Senator Kennedy's speech reached that peak when the roof of the building seemed ready to erupt, I felt my eyes well up. I knew I was watching something historical. I knew this Democratic Primary was historical. And for once, I wanted this sense of possibility and hope to be something my son experiences in his short life. So, that when he is of voting age, a black man, or a woman, or a black woman, or a biracial man or woman, or a gay woman or man, running for the highest office in the land will not be the central part of their election. But that they are running because they are no different than any other politician that came before them. Whether he wins or she wins the nomination, something remarkable has already happened in our country. We've all overcome the notion that either a black man or a white women could ever run for the highest office of the land in any serious manner. We know now, after yesterday, just how serious both of their candidacy is for them, their parties, and for our country. And so, that is why I felt myself weeping as I listened to these seasoned politicians speak. For once, it felt historic for all the right reasons, even if it was all still just political theater.

Reading

It's true I am a voracious reader. As my husband likes to point out, it's not simply the volume, but the breadth of what I read that he finds astounding. It is one of those annoying traits that I can, and usually do, refer to something I'd read when we're in discussion about whatever topic. What's worse for him is when I, not only refer to the article or book, but then tell him he should read it as well. My need to read, or always have things to read, can sometimes feel more like a compulsion than simply a life long passion.

If I had nothing to read, I would read the box of any food item from my cupboard, taking in the ingredient and nutritional information. I know I've read more than many people I've met, except for my professors from grad school. Actually, it was the first time I'd met people, who could recommend books to me.

In any given week, I will have plowed through the current New Yorker, the Economist, the daily paper, the Sunday New York Times (which gets delivered on Saturdays here), a quick perusal of the Wall Street Journal and through the two or three books currently on my nightstand. If I'm getting my nails done, you can count People and UsWeekly into that list. I also purchase Vogue and Elle, not only for the pictures, but to actually read the articles. I've been known to rip out articles from those glossy magazines of female aspirations and mail them to friends who might find them interesting. Yes, it is a sickness. The one thing I don't read, which I'm quite proud, is any book that sounds remotely like self-help. Pop psychology with titles like "Chicken Soup for the Soul," never, thankfully, enter our home, ever.

When I was in LA, I had to do my reading during the day, usually at lunch. If I wasn't completely exhausted from the day, I could read before bed. Despite the very little time during the day for reading, I did still manage to read more than most people I knew--not a real challenge in LA.

However, now I find I can read on any bus or subway, which means I can get through the New Yorker in two days versus the five it took me in LA. What does this mean? It means I'm reading more, faster, including books. And since we have such limited space for books, this is a challenge, indeed. I try to avoid going to book stores weekly, but allow myself a monthly visit, which usually means sheer gluttony as I make my way through each section.

This Saturday was a designated book store day. After getting my son and husband off to their activity, I headed to Barnes and Noble in Union Square. I prefer the Strand, but the nice people from Barnes had sent me a coupon, which I'd carted around with me for over a week. The first thing that struck me was how busy it was inside. True, the weather is cold, so an afternoon spent at Barnes and Noble can be highly enticing. Unlike the Barnes and Noble at the Grove, it wasn't the magazine section or the cafe that was the center of activity. But rather, each section had people browsing, or better, reading a page of a book that had caught their attention. You know that stand and read position people take at bookstores or libraries.

I made my way through each section, finding the new book by J.M Coetzee and Bernhard Schlink among the treasures. It was, all in all, an intensely satisfying day at the book store. As I left with my bag, I emerged from the doors of Barnes and Nobles, falling into step with others headed east. Now, the question remains how I am going to store all of these new books that seem to enter our apartment on any given month. For me, it is a good worry to have since the alternative would mean scouring box labels for insight and inspiration. Even for me, this would border on the absurd, signaling a long stay at a place where I would make arts and crafts out of Popsicle sticks.

Strange World

A young actor has died tragically in a rented Soho apartment. Despite the heated political competitions, all of the news organizations have been covering the story, news cameras and their correspondents stationed outside his building. Our fascination with celebrity has reached such a fevered pitch that an actor's, who was talented, untimely death can supplant news coverage of a much bigger issue facing our nation: the next Presidential election. This blog is not to smear this actor's name, or to cast his death as irrelevant. I can't imagine the grief consuming his parents as they make that long flight from their native Australia to New York City. No, I'm trying to make the point that our culture has to gain a new perspective beyond what is covered between the pages of US Weekly.

Our country is facing real problems, some too complicated to be solved by a few platitudes or rhetorical flourishes. Yet, each time a news correspondent reports live from his apartment, the spontaneous shrine seems to be growing each day as strangers come by to drop flowers, notes, candles, and pictures of him cut from magazines. This need for the public to connect with someone they never knew is a strange response, something I have a hard time comprehending. I, like everyone else, was shocked when I heard he had died at such a young age. I was overcome with grief for his parents as they made their heartfelt statement outside their home. Losing their son so suddenly must seem surreal, the pain settling into their lives long after their son is buried, the news media long moved on to another titillating story.

But my shock, sympathy, and passing interest in the unfolding story has not propelled me to go the short distance to his Soho apartment to leave flowers or a note expressing my grief for someone I never knew. His short-lived career, unfortunately, made him a public figure. Yet, the assiduous coverage of every moment of his death feels intrusive, as if we've now crossed a line somehow. I can't help but wonder whether he'd appreciate this growing shrine outside his apartment door. He struck me as someone who tried to live his private life behind closed doors, even if a zoom lens still splashed pictures of his unguarded moments on to the pages of countless magazines.

His life and death should be in sharp contrast from Anna Nicole Smith, who courted any, and all, coverage, good or bad. The tabloids were how she stayed relevant, and how she made money. This actor, obviously a sensitive person, didn't court the media, but understood his rise in stature meant his privacy being compromised. So, shouldn't we draw a distinction in his death from that of someone like Anna Nicole Smith?

Learning the details about his death has made me reflect on my own health. See, I have all the same prescriptions found in his apartment. Like him, I suffer from insomnia, which has been bad of late. I also suffer from panic attacks, which can hit me unexpectedly, making me feel as if I were having a heart attack. I am what Freud would have labeled as a neurotic, a term for those whose sensitivities make them victim to such physical manifestations. I don't think this actor died of an overdose. But yet, I can't help wondering whether the combination of prescription medications was somehow the cause. And would I fall victim to just such an outcome after a bad period of not sleeping and panic attacks coming fast and furious? The one reassurance, if I were to die, is that there would be no spontaneous shrine outside our building. Hopefully, the only shrine or messages will come from those who have known me. My death, unlike this actor's, will, hopefully, be dignified as I am finally laid to rest. I hope the media moves on soon, leaving him and his family privacy as they bury their only son and mourn his death. Where is Brittany Spears when you need her?

Childhood Freedoms

It would seem a strange notion that kids in this city enjoy freedom of movement, rarely experienced by their peers in suburban towns. How, you might wonder, would I arrive at such an observation? I can only compare the life our son had had until his move to the city, a life that is now more mobile for him.

In Los Angeles, our son's first four and a half years were spent with him strapped into a car seat. Bicycles, skooters, skateboards were all toys to be used sporadically in the backyard of our home. Despite living in a cul-de-sac, a round-about that Armenian teens liked to screech around in high speeds, leaving behind skid marks, he was rarely given freedom to use his skooter around the neighborhood. Life in suburbia creates more acute anxieties about child abductions or kids being mowed down by distracted, or worse, drunk drivers. We were lucky enough to live in a neighborhood that felt "safe" enough for kids to be pushed around in their strollers, offering nannies or moms an excuse to gossip and get some fresh air. But even this illusion didn't lessen our hyper-control over our son's movement.

To get anywhere else, school, activities, play dates, was all managed with him in a car seat, being chauffeured around the congested roadways of LA. Therefore, his sense of freedom and mobility was dictated by us or his nanny, again, his world lived entirely within the confines of a car seat.

With our move to the city, all of this has changed. We walk everywhere, using public transport whenever needed, a cab if there is an issue of time or weather. With all of this walking, I've noticed how much freer his life is now, no longer strapped into a car seat. The razor, a vehicle of choice among his classmates, is no longer just a toy, relegated simply to a backyard. But now, it is a way for him to get around the city, on his own terms. "Little Manhattan", a movie about first love among Manhattan kids, clearly illustrates this freedom of movement for kids here. I can't help but notice kids, some as young as eight or nine, getting on and off of the buses, heading home from school. Such an idea would be unheard of in LA or any other suburban town where moms, caretakers, or school buses would be the only acceptable mode of transporting a child from school to home. I'm certain parents here are no less worried about their kids facing dangers. But you manage your parental concerns differently here. I'm certain by eight or nine, our son will be given a five or three block radius where he can move about without the constant watchful eye of either me or my husband. I can see the ties loosening even now. In LA his use of the razor as a way to get around would have been unthinkable. Yet, here we are, me walking briskly behind him as he pushes his skooter up 20th Street to his school.

We're reminded of how much more confining children's lives are in suburbia whenever we visit our extended families, where he is again strapped into his booster seat. Despite the "quiet" streets where both of his grandparents live, he is rarely allowed out to play, again relegated to the backyard as the only option. I'm certain all of this freedom comes at a price where kids become savvy, city-smart, and sophisticated beyond their years. Isn't that the stereotype of kids who grow up in big cities? They've seen it all, done it all, some finally seeking a simpler life in rural or suburban areas when they are given the choice to create their lives. And their suburban and rural peers, desperate to leave behind the quiet, seek freedom and excitement in the big city. I suppose none of this will ever change, therefore our son's desire to move to the woods of Vermont when he is an adult, seeking quiet and freedom to live in a more natural setting, will not come as a complete shock to either me or his dad. We would expect no less.

Quirks, How Could One Have Any More?

There are so many little details of one's life that has to be accounted for when you move 3,000 miles. Perhaps the changes might have been of little consequence if we'd ended up in a bedroom community outside the city, replacing one suburban life for another. However, with life so dramatically altered, it is the little things that make this transition all the more startling. The search for doctors in a city teeming with medical professionals has been almost as arduous as the recent rigors of trying to get our son into a private school--I did preface by saying 'almost'. I have asked others for references, finding that sometimes those who are friends may not be the best judge of doctors. Or rather, we may have different criterias for what we look for in our medical provider. Being intensely phobic of needles, doctor's offices, dentists, and just general health facilities, my needs, or requirements, are, I'm discovering, quite different from those who are much more sanguine about going to a doctor's office.

My recent search for a dentist has been a trial of patience (on the dentist's part) and a trial of all of my worst phobias for me. I am a bad dental patient. There is no other way to describe the acute panic that I have to fight while in that chair. My dental experiences weren't any more horrific than anyone else's, despite the three and a half years of braces. But the helplessness and vulnerability of lying on those reclining chairs is enough for me to self prescribe an extra dose of Xanax before any visit. My fears were so bad that for years I'd had laughing gas just to have my teeth cleaned. Thankfully, my old dentist, whom I adored, had convinced me that I didn't need to be so doped up to have the hygienist clean my teeth. He was a very patient and kind man.

Trying to find his replacement, a tall order for anyone, but excruciating for me, has been unsuccessful, thus far. My first visit with a young dentist, who appeared overly aggressive in the things he wanted to do, had me in such a panic that I was near tears when I left his office. I know, I know, I'm a mess. It's amazing my husband doesn't just laugh out loud whenever he receives those calls of distress. Thankfully, I'd met and fell in love with my new orthodontist, to replace the one I'd left behind. His calm, gentle bedside manner had me confident my old orthodontist had made the right choice for me. So, now I'm on going to interview the two other dentists referred by my new orthodontist, given my phobic predilection.

It is these small, or in my case, not so small details of remaking one's life that poses challenges that you hadn't foreseen when you were pining for this exact thing to happen. Even me on the worst day of neuroses wouldn't have foreseen the patience required to find the right doctors.
So, I have an appointment with another dentist, who will charge me a small fortune for me to interview him, to insure he wouldn't scare me half to death in his zeal to make sure I don't end up with a full set of dentures by the age of 50. It is such challenges that makes me almost nostalgic for my old doctors. I did say almost, right?

Roast Chickens

The day is one of those perfect ones here where the sun is bright in the sky, the air cold. It is the kind of day when the world seems to have woken up from a deep sleep, all perky, ready for what is ahead. I have been, of late, obsessed with perfecting a dish that is seemingly easy, but quite difficult to get just right--the roast chicken. I'm not a fan of chicken, finding the overuse of it as a substitute for meat a poor substitution for a nice piece of steak. Perhaps as a result of my indifference, I'd given little thought to preparations for it that can elevate this every day meat to something bordering on the sublime. I know the French do a wondrous roast chicken, which is heavenly in the moistness of the meat and the crispiness of the skin. But since we don't live in Provence, well, I'd always relegated chicken for something I cooked out of guilt rather than out of a real desire.

A recent cookbook put out by a food writer in London changed all of this around for me. Simon Hopkinson wrote the kind of cookbook that I love, full of interesting anecdotes about having eaten sweetbreads in a small Italian village, some, thirty years ago. The writing is very English, which means it is hyper literate and amusing, another trait the Brits have mastered. This book, unlike the mass market junk put out by the likes of Rachel Ray, is a book that should be read cover to cover.

In my thorough perusal I found his recipe for roast chicken that perked my interest. Why, you might ask after so many years of indifference? Well, it might have something to do with the pound of butter he used to lather over the bird, an absolute no-no in our health conscious eating and cooking life. But since I believe food should be savored, not devoured, therefore all things should be cooked the way they were originally meant to be cooked, there is no substitution for ingredients in my house. I cook with butter, olive oil, use butter when I bake. I do draw the line where shortening is concerned, finding that to be something I can't wrap my head around.

After reading and rereading his simple recipe for the roast chicken, I decided to bake two birds for a dinner at our house with some friends. A girlfriend was over for a visit, watching me lather the two birds with enough butter to clog up a few arteries. I knew it was bad when she said, "that's alot of butter." But despite her doubts, I put the bird in as instructed by the recipe. I'd added a few of my own touches like layering the roasting pan with root vegetables. Within fifteen minutes, our apartment filled with the fragrant aromas of butter, vegetables, and herbs. When my girlfriend and I peaked into the oven, the bird was baking to a perfect golden color, the skin very crisp, the bottom of the pan filled with the delicious gravy.

The meal was a huge hit with the kids and adults alike. The two five pound birds were devoured, very little of the carcass left by the end of the meal. The orzo risotta I'd made as a side dish was also completely gone. It was the firs time I'd made a chicken that lived up the worship of those who live on this one meat source.

I haven't tried any other recipes from this amusing, well-written book. Somehow the idea of cooking shortbreads in our apartment seems a sure way to make sure we lose all friends on our floor--not that they are plentiful.

School Interviews

My husband and I attended the last obligatory event at a potential school, just last night. We had finished our very last interview Wednesday afternoon at one of the highly touted schools. This flurry of tours, interviews, and child interviews has given us an interesting perspective about this city, its neuroses, its drives, and its insanity. The rigors of doing this in such a truncated period has felt like we had run a marathon, competing with world class runners, except we hadn't trained properly. The exhaustion from just going and coming to so many schools has been beyond anything I'd ever experienced. Then you add the anxiety of finding out February 15th your child hadn't gotten in anywhere, well, you can see how high the stakes are for all of the families involved in this process.

Last night's event, hosted by one of the schools, was a discussion about 'diversity'--code name for, we try to have some brown faces as to not appear completely racially insensitive. The issue of diversity is complex, to say the least. And diversity goes far beyond race, color, but is really about having a representation of the world at large. In a city where the middle class is shrinking faster than most actresses post pregnancy, what you see is a polarization of two worlds: the haves and the have nots with most have nots being the ones that also represent racial diversity.

My husband and I have fully accepted the reality that our son will always be different than any of his peers, that is unless he ends up in school with Tiki Barber's kids. The chances of him having a classmate with his racial, cultural makeup are about as likely as us winning the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes. With that in mind, we can hope to have a class where his black peers' families will feel much like ours. And that there will be some Asian, possibly even Korean, peers to reflect both sides of himself, even if they aren't mixed in quite the way he has been.

We found last night's event troubling in its tone of victimization. It is the classic mistake for 'liberal' or 'pc' mindsets that diversity, or being diverse, is a negative which has to be bolstered. This belief that diversity, or rather, creating an 'inclusive' world where the benefit is only for those of color is truly a narrow way to view the notion of diversity. A diverse community and its benefits is a two way street in this ever-changing world. If this current election is any indication, our country will have to grapple with gender and racial politics in a way it hasn't done, ever, in its history. Words like marginal only add to this sense that those of color are somehow in need. There is some veracity to the inequities that have be overcome, even by such fabricated methods, but the victim mentality is one that can debilitate those who don't need anything else to hinder their progress.

What is striking about attending such events is how alone my husband and I feel in our own uniqueness as a couple, but also as individuals. It is quite remarkable to us we found one another. We understand the racial politics and the inherent inequities of institutional racism, but we don't ever view ourselves as 'victims'. We don't view our color or ethnicity as a negative, but rather as this beautiful background that poses a different set of challenges and advantages for us as individuals. And what we understand better than anyone else is how different those challenges will be for our child, the progeny of our commitment that the world will be different for him than it was for us.

As a person who has taught, and will teach again, my assessment of schools is more rigorous than others who may not have an education background. There are times when I wish I'd been a baker, blissfully ignorant about the expectations of what should occur in a classroom. My critical eye makes it impossible for me to feel completely at ease with any one choice. I think there are some good choices, but my uncertainty about any one of them being the ideal fit for our son is what keeps me up most nights. It is also the need to flash forward into the future of our son's development, having to make a decision that could determine who he becomes. It is all a swirl in our heads, each of us wondering if this one decision could affect him in ways we can't possibly imagine. Again, this is when we both wish we could be much more insouciant and confident whatever decision gets made will be for the good. This is when the old adage of, 'ignorance is bliss' has some bearing.

So, now we wait along with the thousands of other families all across the city. We will, like most of us did when we'd applied to college, await those envelopes, thin signaling defeat, fat signaling victory for our 5 year old. What has happened to our world that this is apex of childhood is determined by the size of the envelope? That is what I will be mulling over as I, along with everyone else, wait for the arrival of those envelopes.

Neighborhood Gossip

When we left LA, I also left behind a social world that felt like a throw back to another era. Women stayed home, men worked, kids were shuttled to T-Ball games, soccer games, pool parties, and play dates. In some ways, the social incestuousness of these families co-mingling cast an illusion of the All-American experience. But like most idyllic scenarios, there was an undercurrent of ugliness that was stifling. Gossip was the real past time of all those twenty or so families involved. I could imagine a few affairs among the spouses causing tidal waves of unrest. During my experience it was the adults that behaved like children as phone lines lit up after a cocktail party, dissecting the evening's intricacies. The kids, all too young, hadn't become the cause of families splintering over slights, hurt feelings, bullying, and possibly even young hearts being broken. But I imagine that is all just around the corner.

The New Yorker reported on a story that resonated with me, reminding me of the cloistered neighborhood I'd just left in LA. A young troubled girl committed suicide after meeting a young boy on line on her MySpace account. It turns out the boy was pure fiction, created by her former friend and this former friend's mother. The young adolescent's suicide is tragic beyond comprehension, but the story really paints an ugly picture of a world where lives are so unhealthily intermingled and where time is plentiful. What's unfathomable is what happens when parents get so involved in their children's lives, boundaries blurring as mother's take on their child's hurt feelings as their own. The story also showed the way technology has accelerated social situations. Behind the mask of words, intimacies can be revealed all too easily. Personalities created or discarded with one key stroke, sometimes with such tragic consequences. The real tragedy here is that this young girl, in the throes of that time in all of our childhood, adolescence, was going through what most of us had gone through. Yet, with a few email exchanges, her loneliness and self-hatred took a turn impossible to comprehend.

The most shocking part of this story is that the mother behind this has shown no remorse for her part in this horrendous story. In the eyes of the law, she's done nothing wrong. Egregious morally, yes, but not illegal. These two families still live on the same block, having to face one another in this suburban town as they try and go about their lives. I don't know why this piece reminded me so much of LA. I could see all of those families we'd socialized with, the ever-changing alliances part of the amusement of most social gatherings. I could see all of those families I'd come to know so intimately, falling victim to this type of pettiness as their kids got older. It wouldn't be the slights over who got picked or ignored for a specific T-Ball team, but would now center on a few of their daughter's friendships fracturing as one girl became the target of their collective meanness. Kids learn these social games from their parents, I believe. And it is easy to see how kids would emulate their parents, whose behavior is no better than that of teenage girls and boys.

We have not yet become so ensconced in such social situations. This year has been a reprieve, allowing us a freedom to explore and examine this city without the strictures of social groups, each them embedded with expectations and rules. I don't know how moving to a different neighborhood, moving our child to a different school may change all of this for us. I'm hoping New York is much too big, much too preoccupied with games of life that extend beyond cocktail parties, to fall prey to such pettiness. But who can say? We may find the Upper West or East Side is a replication of the four blocks in Hancock Park that was the center of the universe for those families. I pray that is not the case.

Asphalt Jungle

My son is learning the rules of the game out on the concrete courtyard where recess is held. So far he hasn't been abused too badly, but given enough challenges to make me want him to leave public school forever. Let me say that any previously held convictions like, public school is important, goes right out the virtual window where your child is concerned. In the beginning of school he told me a boy from another class hit him for no reason. Hmm. This was of concern to me since I couldn't imagine why my son was being singled out. And being a neurotic mother, I spoke to his teacher about the incident.

I've noticed a few things about this school, which was rated an A by the Mayor's standards. It is a good enough school, mostly a neighborhood school. The stream of parents and kids walking down 20th Street in the mornings attests to this school's dominance in this neighborhood. Such a thing never happened in LA where neighborhood schools were forgotten by everyone except those too poor or too unaware to find something better. And the idea of walking your child to any school, even if the school were only two blocks away, was never a consideration for anyone. To be able to walk my son the short block to school has been a welcome change compared to the half hour drive that I had done for so long in LA.

For a New York City school, the lack of real diversity of the school community was a bit of a shock. The student body seemed dominated by the strongholds of Stuyvesant Town, mostly a white, middle class enclave where the rent controlled apartments are passed down from one generation to another. I believe some of my son's classmates are the second generation living in their apartment. With ridiculously low rents, most families have bought second homes in places like the Poconos, the Catskills, and the Jersey Shore. I know, romantic, you say.

The few students of color I did notice seemed to be kids already labeled as "special". I was told in confidence by a mother in my son's class that one of the two black girls in the class (they are the only black students aside from my son's status as biracial) lived in a homeless shelter. Hmm.. No one likes to mention her docility, probably personality driven, but most likely a result of having lived a chaotic life where pleasing others is a survival skill. Or the fact that she is one of the smartest in the class. Whether or not she will be able to get the kind of education she deserves is an unknown, all driven by factors that she had no hand in creating. The other black student in the other Kindergarten class is a boy, who is already labeled as a problem. The first time I saw him was when he was sprawled in the middle of the hallway, mopping the floor with his body, regardless of the various attempts by parents to get him to stand up. It was nearly impossible to not notice that there was something very wrong. Some of it may have been his personality, but I'm certain more had to do with whatever challenges he faced at home. So, you can imagine my shock when my son told me casually that this boy was now chasing him at recess and was terrorizing him. What could a mother do, but to have a serious talk with his teacher about this matter?

It seems he is a 'special' child in a program for kids that are being bused in from other areas. And that he is in need of special care, code word for a child who will be in and out of the system for the rest of his life. My son's teacher conveyed all of this to me not directly, but in the innuendos of what she was avoiding to say outright. The irony of my son's first hard lesson about life on an asphalt jungle coming from a black boy was not lost on me. This issue of color is a touchy subject for him since I don't think he sees himself in that boy. Nor does he see himself in the rest of his white peers. No doubt it will be an interesting life for him as he continually finds himself as unique, different, unlike any other.

If all goes according to plan, our son will be attending a cosseted, private school where such incidents shouldn't occur at all. How could they after the rigorous screening process each student and family undergoes to be admitted to attend their institution? I'm sure the asphalt jungle at these schools will be no less scary, but just different. I suspect I won't be as afraid about his physical safety as I will be about his emotional life. There may be less chasing down of their targets, but the fire coming from words, taunts, teasing. Oy vey, it's enough to make me want to home school him, forever relegating him to a lifetime of being regarded as weird, different, exotic.

Low Rise Jeans

I was at a birthday party for a friend's son's birthday, who also happens to be friends with my son, when I looked around the room of eclectic parents from Brooklyn. There were the really old looking parents, a few with adopted girls from China, there were the Lesbian moms, and then there were the hip-40 something moms dressed in the uniform for this group: low rise jeans, t-shirty top, and some kind of boots on their feet. I know this uniform intimately since I am one of these 40-something moms, who tries to be hip.

There was one woman, in particular, who made me reassess my group's efforts to dress like we were still 20-something, or worse, 30-something when our lives were much different than they are today. This woman, who was quite tall, had on jeans much too tight, and much too low on the hips to hide the lumpiness of her 40-something body after a few kids. The assemble would have been bad enough with the jeans if she'd thrown on a baggy sweater on top, but instead she went for the whole shebang and wore a thin, body-hugging t-shirt, the kind that really highlights back fat, stomach rolls, and other unattractive sights of our age.

In essence, she was dressed as if she were still young. Yes, I know the new 40 is the old 30, but give me a break. Our chronological age is that of a 40 year old, no matter how our generation, or each generation, seems to be in a constant regression. Might I add that this regression of each generation claiming to be a decade younger, in spirit and attitude, is a mass market push by the Baby Boomers to stave off the eventuality that is facing them: a lifetime of golf in sunny climes, bingo games, and complaining about the chronic aches and pains of old age.

It's true we, women my age, look far more youthful than our mothers would have at our age. We tend to wear our hair in styles that wouldn't mark us as moms or matrons. (This dressing as if one is much younger is de rigeur in Southern California where every mom walks around in hip-hugging jeans) We take better care of ourselves, or so we're led to believe. But more important than the physical differences in maintenance, we are just more immature in our thinking, perhaps adding to this sense of perpetual adolescence that seems to cling to women my age.

Is this a result of us having put off those responsibilities of marriage, children, and house till we were much older than our mothers? Whatever the various causes, I sat and reevaluated the slew of hip hugging jeans in my own drawer at home as I watched this mom doing that familiar tug of pulling up jeans too low on their hips. I realized it might be time to put them away for good, relegated to a life of high waisted jeans.

War of the Sexes

It's everywhere, he versus she, Obama versus Clinton. The country is seeing something unimaginable only ten years ago: the possibility of either a woman or Black President. With all the world abuzz about that tearful moment, turning the tide for Clinton as her sisters rallied around her, I happened to catch a movie that was a feminist war cry, only a few decades ago--9 to 5. This movie, seen in the year 2007, is quaint, kitschy, and yet, the anger, outrage expressed by the three women is still relevant today. Yes, not all secretarial pools (they don't even exist, and if they do they would be referred to as the assistant's lounge) are gender specific. Right? Well, one would hope.

9 to 5 is of its time, when feminism was about competing with men, or rather, women being like men. This definition of being like men was displayed in women dressing like men, carrying brief cases, and casting off any of the trappings of femininity, as to not appear like a woman. I am of the generation, raised on movies like "Working Girl" where women still strive for that office, but falls in love along the way, so that we get our Prince Charming and the corner office. What's striking in comparing these two mvies is how much more progressive 9 to 5 was in its feminist politics. The males in this movie is ultimately expendable. Only one character is married, but the husband is rarely seen. The other two are divorced, single, trying to create a life for themselves after marriages had come to an end. It's the absence of men in their lives, other than the boss, that is striking. Men still rule their world, obviously, but they don't figure in quite a dominant thematic manner as in "Working Girl."

If one were to do a true feminist critique of these two movies, some ideas would be apparent--the slide backwards in philosophy of feminism, as a whole. The days when Betty Friedan was preaching to her sisters is truly a distant hum. The world has changed, most dramatically in gender roles and its definitions. And in its wake, the world is mixed up, messier, and more complicated. See, we, women can now have it all, the world likes to remind us. Except the rules of the game haven't really changed. Instead of previous role definitions, we are now expected to be income earners, mothers, wives, and still make a pot roast on Sundays. If you lack in any of these areas, well, the world can be quite unkind. And not to indict my own sex, but women are the least empathetic toward their own. We are the first to judge our peers for whatever lapses they may face in their quest for perfect womanhood.

This idea of perfection, something that is the new disease of this new millennium, manifests in all the wrong ways. I relish this political season. It will become more divisive as he versus she becomes a war cry. They will all talk about change, but really, we all know how little the world has changed since the days when three women, secretaries, felt they had to lock up their male boss in order to make changes to their world.

Marriage--Why Do We All Do It?

Why do so many women dream about, wish for, pray for, and resort to all sorts of tactics to get themselves trapped? Why do they? Why is the myth of marriage so powerful to create industries for singles to find their ideal mate, create the perfect wedding, award more degrees for marriage counselors, and ultimately, more attorneys for those nasty divorces when the sheen of the first month wears off?

I don't understand why so many of us find ourselves trapped, in a constant of compromise with another person and yourself--for what?

If I were to do it all again, I would never, ever get married. Period. It is not for me, I know with certainty each day. It's not so much about the person I'm married to, but just the institution itself. Women, in my opinion, lose out on all fronts of this arrangement. Yes, some of us can anesthetize ourselves with shopping for unnecessary, frivolous things. Others can seek solace, permanently, on a therapist's couch. Others use anti-depressants. Others just drink. But all of us seek out some resolve for the wearying constant that is married life.

Part of the blame should be directed toward the individuals involved in the misery of married life, and in my life, my husband, who exemplifies all the selfishness of most men. I think our culture has a way of raising boys to become incompetent emotional beings, particularly for the demands of modern married life where everything has to be negotiated. Remember we are the generation raised on "talking it out," an impossibility when boys, later men, aren't well versed in parsing out their emotional life into words, always words.

So, why do it? That is what I ask myself each and every day. Sometimes I fantasize about leaving permanently. That is, unfortunately, on most days. Perhaps tomorrow will be better. Or perhaps not. I'm sure our marriage will be a ticking clock, an expiration date just around the corner.

Golden Globes, No More

LA, I'm sure, must be in a tizzy about the latest fall out from the writers' strike--the cancellation of the star-studded, glitzy, self-congratulatory, fashion show, freak show, known as the Golden Globes. This award show, created by Dick Clark, is a booze-filled night where the winners can, sometimes, give surprisingly candid speeches. But really, it's the night that kicks off a three-month long extravaganza, the culmination of which ends up with people holding parties to see the Red Carpet stroll of actors at the Academy Awards. This night is the unofficial holiday for the city of Angels.

But with the cancellation of the Golden Globes, and potentially, the Oscars, one forgets how many industries are hurt by such a calamity. The trickle down effect (such an 80's phrase) on the city's economy is huge, and not really reported. Yes, the Wall Street Journal did a woeful assessment of all the designers, whose wares will not be seen draped or strapped into the nearly perfect bodies of Angela Jolie, Cate Blanchett, and others. But think about the vast numbers of people, those responsible, for the Goddess or God-like images that are splashed across the television screens around the world, later recycled in the pages of half a dozen magazines, and soon replicated by the likes of AB Schwartz for teenag girls to buy for their upcoming proms.

Not only are designers the ones suffering. There are the stylists, whose jobs of procuring the perfect gowns for their celebrity clients, must now be put on hold indefinitely. What about the hairstylists? The jewelers? The nail salons? The caterers? The limousine companies? The alterations people? The valets? The grunts who put up the stadium seats outside the halls? The hotels? The restaurants? The liquor stores? The trainers? The colonics specialists? The facialists? The body waxers? The make up artists? The photographers? Joan Rivers and her annoying daughter? The E Channel? The musicians? The dancers? The tanning salons? The dry cleaners? Those people whose job it is to put together those ridiculously exorbitant swag bags together? Wolfgang Puck?

Can you see how this non event for the rest of the country is such a humongous deal in LA? Yes, the primaries are going on, but really, THE GOLDEN GLOBES HAVE BEEN CANCELED!!!!! I'm sure every coffee shop, every deli, every restaurant in Beverly Hills is all abuzz about this. And rightfully so once we realize what a huge industry these award shows have become for the entire city's economy, particularly the blocks west of Doheny Drive.

But that is the cost of a one industry town, which LA is, for better or worse. Hollywood, although not the driver of the economy in the city, has the perception of being the main industry. Therefore, any blips such as the cancellation of an awards show will feel cataclysmic for the entire city, especially in Beverly Hills.

It will be interesting to watch the Academy Awards, if they occur, from a distance. It will, more than likely, be put into the proper context. It will be something we may, or may not, watch, but not an event that we have to participate. I doubt we will go to any party where we will bet on the winners or losers. Again, I somehow don't see that happening here. I'm sure we will be nostalgic about how this non-event is such a big deal there. But that may not happen this year since they may not occur at all. God Forbid for Los Angeles.

New Yorkers are Rude--Fuggedit

There is that long held belief that New Yorkers are rude, pushy, and mean. Or that's what the rest of the country believes about the 8 million inhabitants, and the millions more who come into the city to work (we should note most of these people come from New Jersey, Connecticut, and even Pennsylvania).

So, here's what I've noticed about New Yorkers, thus far. They are fast walkers, a necessity here. They have no problems stepping around you if you are dawdling in the middle of a sidewalk. But they rarely do so muttering profanities under their breath. Actually if they were so incensed they would most likely just cuss you out, right there in the middle of a busy sidewalk. But that is something I've yet to see, or worse be the recipient.

You would think so many people squeezed in together would make tempers brittle, but that is far from the case. On an given day, on a crowded subway car, or bus, I will witness a person giving up their seat to an elderly person or a mother with a young child. These unexpected acts of generosity and good manners reaffirms my belief that people here are not rude, pushy, or mean. I've been the recipient of such generosity whenever I've gotten on a bus or subway with my son where a young man, young woman, or just man, or woman, have gladly given up their seat for us. I've also been aided, unasked I might add, by a passerby about which subway to take to get me home. This gentleman was not creepy, certainly not using this opportunity to ask me for a date, but was helping out a confused damsel.

Why, then, have New Yorkers suffered such labels? It does make you think about it since I'd just left a city full of sun shine and full of some of the rudest, self-involved people I'd ever encountered. It was as if the perpetual sunshine made all of their home training, if they'd had any, disappear along with most of their brain cells. I've seen grown men, sitting, or rather, lounging at the outdoor tables of any number of cafes, watching a woman struggling with the door as she tried to squeeze herself and her stroller through. It was more of a rarity for one of them to get up to open the door for the woman, but rather the norm that they would, collectively, sit and watch as if they were watching television. I've written enough about the craziness of LA drivers, how so many of them use their cars as weapons, or rather shields as they vent their frustrations out on the rest of the drivers on the road. LA is the city known for people shooting at another driver in a fit of 'road rage.' Isn't that where this term came from, this land of sunshine and supposedly laid back Angelenos?

I attribute this disconnection with propriety, good manners, consideration for others to the simple fact that life is constantly filtered through the windshield of a car. If you deal with people in the most limited, and in most cases, synthetic manner then you are apt to live in a bubble where anyone else's consideration is never considered. Angelenos can drive past the many homeless, an easy thing to do if your car radio is blaring the newest Radio Head song, allowing you to pretend that the body buried under a sleeping bag on the sidewalk is of no consequence to your immediate world.

New York, a city where you are constantly juggling yourself against the multitude of citizenry, makes it difficult for you to filter the world, in any manner. You are always forced to consider how your action, or inaction, affects someone else, even if most are strangers. Each time you walk past a homeless person asking for a quarter, or better yet, a dollar, you are forced to consider so many personal, and public questions. And no, you don't hand over a quarter to everyone that asks. But this doesn't mean you don't think about it.

I also think one's constant contact with the general public forces you to behave humanely. Look, if you were a young guy, sitting there as an old person with a walker stood by your chair, I am certain most around this young man would say, or do something to point out his lack of consideration. It is the pressure of the collective that, in the end, makes all of us just a bit nicer, just a bit more considerate, just a bit less aggressive.

A life, or rather, a city that is always lived behind gates takes this pressure off of the individual, giving you a false sense of privacy--something that can be abused. That is the strangest thing of all, this city of 8 million, can, on most days, make you think about your anonymity, your face just one of many. Yet, the sense of privacy that most in Los Angeles feels is their God-given right, is not something we can assume as a way of life here. No, we are always forced to deal with all of humanity: the good, the bad, the fragile, the hopeful, the beautiful, the ugly, the helpless, the frightening, the weak, the mentally ill, the young, the old, all of it, day in and day out. And perhaps that is what debunks the myth about New Yorkers since each of us can see something of our own fragility, humanity, in the face of someone else, thereby propelling you to act as you would hope someone would act toward you. Whatever the case, New Yorkers certainly do not earn the rudest people on the planet moniker. No, I would say some other town or city may deserve that stereotype.