Trending: No, Really

It was Father’s day this past Sunday.  It was Mother’s day last month.  Every so often there is a birthday, anniversary, death, engagement, marriage, or a variety of holidays that we used to acknowledge with a card.  Now much of the greetings we send are on line. Anyway, cards are expensive, but I do prefer any kind of card being sent, to an e-mail. But that’s not what I wanted to blob about.

 
This year I decided to give David his Father Day cards.  Not just this year, I always give him his cards in person, because I see him with great frequency and why waste the 45 cents on a stamp.  As has become our tradition or habit, we send funny, rather than mushy cards, and we always write a little something special.  Two years ago I found a card that was so funny I laughed all day. Last year, I chose the same card.  It made me laugh all day again.  But when I gave it to David he said it was just as hilarious when he read it this time as when he read it the year before.

After that experience I made a decision never to sign a card I bought for David.  This new approach to holiday celebration is much like the practice of re-gifting, but with one major difference.  We don’t try to hide the fact that we have used the card before.  In fact, not only is it practical for couples who want to save money, but if you are off to a party or a dinner and you find yourself without exactly the right  card, chances are you will have at least one carefully chosen very funny card available, because you gave it to your beloved, but you didn’t sign it. 

You are probably thinking, a card that you give your husband, wife etc.? It may not be appropriate for someone who is not as close to you.  But funny is funny for whomever gets it.  So, this is what we are going to do .  We will buy a special card, appropriate to the occasion.   We will not sign it.  We will say little loving things to one another in person. Then we will put it away for use next year or for an emergency.

None of this is what I wanted to blob about.  But if enough people do it, it will become a new trend.  What does it take to become a new trend? I was curious to find out exactly how to use the word trending?  First of all, what used to be a verb  (there is a new trend to re-gift cards),  has become an noun,  (What are the hottest topics in trending).  I get the hottest topics.  We used to say, what are the hottest topics in the news?  But now you have to fight your way through a plethora of social media, (twitter, hashtags), before you can figure out something as simple as, what’s going o   Sometimes I just feel like people who try to make a living by inventing, yet another way, to be trendy i.e. confusing.  Whether skirts are long or short is a trend. Eating cicadas dipped in chocolate every seventeen years, is a trend - or just stupid.  My mom always said, always set the trend, never let anyone else determine what’s in or out.  And with that my friends, go get yourself a card and don’t sign it. It’s the latest trend.  We’re just sayin’…   Iris

Father's Day 2013

On Valentines Day, from the time I was about five, my dad always brought me a mini box of candy in a heart shaped box, which was decorated with lace and ribbons. He was working in New York at the time. So he would travel by bus, or maybe car and I would sit in my room just waiting for him to walk through the door.  At first he would pretend that he had forgotten it was Valentines Day. Then he would hide it behind his back and do a little dance.  But eventually, he would reveal what I thought, was the most gorgeous gift anyone could possibly receive.  

In the summer my grandparents rented a small bungalow on Long Beach, in NY. My mother and I would stay there all week, and my dad would come on weekends.  It was ok during the week because my grandfather was a pro at spoiling his "little jewels."  On the weekends, when my dad was there, it was like camp. We would dig all the way to China for crabs, ( that how deep the holes were), swim, and have races along the shore.  Just me and Milty, unless a cousin or two appeared with their mothers  for some R and R. My brother was not yet part of the picture, and my father was still walking, running, dancing, and vital.

When I was six, when my brother Jeff was born, I was ripped away from my twin cousin Stevie, (we had lived together in the same house from the time we were born). And my dad was diagnosed with MS.  My brother doesn't remember Milty walking without assistance. But Stevie and I watched him go from one cane to two canes, to a walker, to a wheelchair. No one ever thought of him as sick. He just couldn't walk.  But he never lost his spirit, or his sense of humor.

My parents spent a great deal of time traveling and looking for a cure. And lucky for us, we had enough other mothers to make it easier to be without them. We did not have other fathers. There was only one to fill the void, Uncle Phil.  On weekends he would take us horseback riding, to museums (he was a talented artist), out for lunch, to the movies, and anywhere we wanted to go. We missed the active dad we loved, but because we had Uncle Phil, we were never lonely. 

On fathers day, especially since they are both gone, I miss them, to the moon and back. I think about all the good times, and I think about the painful episodes, like when I was in college protesting the war and I called Uncle Phil an idiot because he thought the war was honorable.  Or when I said vile things to my mother and, because my father couldn't really move, I had to stand in front of him so he could spank me.  

Milty and Phil. They loved us despite the fact that we were always making mischief, and we knew were connected by a friendship so deep that it couldn't be explained with words. Being a parent is always complicated. Milty and Phil made it look easy at a time that was very difficult. And I miss having them both in my life. I am comforted by the fact that they are together, eating hard salami, drinking some good Scotch, Milty smoking his pipe,  and both of them thinking, “those are our kids -- where did we go wrong?”   We’re just Sayin’.. Iris

Movin' On

It occurred to me yesterday when I was driving somewhere and back, our entire lives are spent moving on.  For example, when we were kids, our mother prepared our breakfast, usually not lunch – unless you were my mother who left those wondrous tasks to Helen Costello, her housekeeper and our, for lack of a better description, our savior. 

Breakfast was usually some kind of hot cereal, which she cooked and cooked and cooked.  Here’s the good news, hot cereal doesn’t dry out (you have to keep adding water), it gets better. (Editor’s note: it was Fantastic!) But most of us moved on. Moved on from those days with morning time before school. There’s never enough time.  If we have cereal, it’s usually cold or instant.  No one would sit and wait for my mother’s hot cereal—it took forever.  Well worth the wait, but no we’re always in a hurry.

When we were in high school, we studied things that today would seem totally irrelevant.  But our social lives were worth remembering.  There was so much drama, and so much fun. The music, the heartbreaks, the dances, (where Howie Hubler and Kenny Kida were the only boys who danced), the elections and the selections . All worth noting, but we moved on.   There’s no time or interest in high school adventures, for most people.

Yesterday, (this has nothing to do with anything—or maybe it does), I went to Costco to pick up a few things among which were new dimmable LED lights.  When David saw them he said, “well they should last for a few years,” and I said, “On the package it says 22 years,” And he said, “But how will we know.” It’s something to think about.  But moving on…

Sometimes we move on from a mode of transportation, sometimes it’s a food, often, it’s a place where we lived or a place we enjoyed dining.  Life changes and it’s necessary to move on.

People have jobs that we thought might be forever, (not me, I have never had an actual go to work from 8-6,  get a paycheck and have weekends free kind of jot that lasted for more than 4 years). But a lot of people have jobs that they thought would be forever, and then the economy changed, tastes changed, technology changed, they got old or bored, and they moved on.  Do they keep in touch with people they left behind?  I really don’t know the answer to that question unless a number of people they knew went with them. David never moves on when to comes to people.  Even my people.  A few years ago he called my third grade boyfriend who lives in Denmark.  But he still calls friends he had in grade school who he hasn’t heard from in 50 years. I try never to disconnect from people who I loved, even in grade school. But here’s the problem with me.  There are so many dear people that are still in my life, it is really crowded.  So I have to move on from people who are not nice, or that I don’t care about.  There was a time when I wouldn’t move on because there was a history. Rule of thumb, if you can only talk about the past and have nothing in common for the future,  you must move on.

In fact, the only thing that you can never move on from are the people who are precious to us. It doesn’t matter if they are alive or dead.  They are always a permanent part of your life.   We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Top Secret, Part Sank

Having heard about ad-nausea (I know it’s not a word, it’s a condition) in the past few days, Top Secret may not be what we all think it is.  Yes, once again I have a story – but they are always so entertaining.

In 1977 I was working in the Carter Administration, as the Director of the International Visitor Office.  It happened that with my job came Top Security clearance. It was probably because we were bringing in persons of questionable character – like military murderers, but anyway, they gave the Office Top Security Clearance.

One day, as I was sitting around trying to figure out how to rid the Office of Military Murderers, (which I eventually did), some security person placed a Top Secret Communication on my desk.  To tell you the truth, when I saw it, I didn’t know what to do. The first thing that come to my mind was, “how do they know they can trust me with National Security secrets?”  I am a person who, when I have information that no one else has, I not only want to share it, I want to rub everyone’s nose in it.

Anyway, since I didn’t know, I put the papers in my underwear, and took the bus to Main State (aka “The State Department on C Street)  to find my Deputy, Pauline. (My office was in a building in Rosslyn across the river, and Pauline was a Civil Servant who I knew would have an answer to this security quandary.).  I called her out of an important meeting, (if anything can really be considered important at State), and explained the predicament.  “Don’t you think we should open it before we make a decision?” she suggested. And so that is exactly what we did.  Not only was  it not a Secret Document, it wasn’t even for me.  So yes, I put it back in my underpants, took it back across the river, and called the Bozos who mistakenly delivered the wrong document to the wrong person.

For the last week we have learned of Top Secret leaks about the Government spying on the public through their phones and internet.  The scariest part of this is not that they have access to who I may speak to and what I may write (I hope they are as entertained as the blob readership) but that they have no idea what they are doing. When someone has no idea what they are doing, the likelihood of screwing up,  is far greater than when they do.

Reread your e-mails and review your phone calls.  Is it not possible that something you wrote or said might be misconstrued by people who have no idea about your sense of humor, your intentions, or -- you should excuse the implications -- your politics.

Here’s what ticks me off.  The President is perfectly OK with this.  This Democratic President doesn’t think this is a big deal. Surely he must be kidding, or so clueless that he doesn’t get what the consequences of this policy can be, After perusing millions of e-mails and phone calls, they found one potential terrorist who was such a dope that before blowing up the subway he sent a message to another terrorist to ask for the instructions, which he had forgotten. This is not a bad thing. Although I am much more frightened about the young U.S. citizens  who want to shoot children, students, and just plain folks on the streets of whatever small town or city, for no apparent reason. Here’s what I want to leave you with.  My underwear was the only thing in jeopardy when I got my Top Security letter, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there is other underwear that will suffer from the same stupidity. We’re just sayin’….Iris

Yuckey!

Yesterday I was walking on Third Ave and happened upon a protest of some sort.  There were about 30 people with hand painted signs gathered on a corner.  They were in front of a restaurant, and they were shouting, but it didn’t appear to be an organized protest. And when I finally saw the sign, it said something about being “yuckey.” Maybe it was a protest because the place they appeared to be picketing was dirty, in violation of some sanitary codes, or maybe it was an eatery that received a low rating. On the next block, I saw a police officer, so I asked him what was so “yuckey” that 40 people showed up.   He looked at me like I was nuts (which should come as no surprise to anyone).  “What are you talking about?” he said. 

“Those people”, I said, “With the signs.”

He looked and started to laugh.  “Not Yuckey,” he said, “They are protesting about the violence in Turkey.”   See what can happen when your eyes don’t work anymore…..

Anyway, I have an Addendum to my blob about friends and reunions.  I don’t believe there are any bad friends.  It’s kind of an oxymoron… with the emphasis on the moron.  If you look at a definition of friend, you will see a whole list of things, like ally, pal, chum etc.  If there is someone on your list of friends who you would define as a bad friend, then they shouldn’t be on your list. Remove them, never speak to them, write them a goodbye letter, whatever, life is too short to waste on someone who simply isn’t going to be there for you.

Moving on.  There are a few things that either confuse me or piss me off, even if I am medicated.  On the top of the list is violence against women.  And I don’t mean just in the U.S., the U.S. military, or in the rest of the world – whether it be India, the Middle East, the north, south, east or west, or anywhere in between. I seriously don’t get it. Why do men, (as it turns out, all kinds), feel like they have the right to intimidate, beat, rape, or otherwise behave in a physically or emotionally threatening way toward women, or girls.  It makes me want to provide women and every little girl, who is born anywhere in the world, with weapons and instructions on how to use them to defend themselves.  And, as a peace loving Liberal Democrat, I mean that in the nicest possible way.  And of course the panels of mostly white military males, cannot make decisions about sexual impropriety in the military – because they have no idea what that means. In the words of the female Senator from New York, “they don’t know the difference between a slap on the ass and a rape.” 

If you have ever tried to drive in New York City you will notice that the streets are a mess.  It’s like a third world country.  The Mayor, who is so worried about how much sweets people drink, and the placement of cigarettes in stores, has done nothing to improve the condition of the roads, the sidewalks or the noise and disruption from the endless construction.  Rental bicycles in the city – a plan. But no concern about the space they take up, and the inconvenience to the people who actually reside in the city and pay taxes.  Bike lanes close to the curbs, with cars parked in the middle of the streets. Understand this, I am not anti-bike.  I love bikes,  However, when people think that they can fluctuate between being a bike and a car, it can only end badly. My favorite thing a biker does is either pay no attention to the lights (because they are a bike), or when the light turns red, they stop and pull up in front of the first car,  and force the car to follow behind them.

So, that’s what pisses me off today, you can be sure there’s more to come in the very near future – and that’s not yuckey.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

...That Brilliant Display....

Upon reflection. 

A few years ago I disappointed a friend about something, like forgetting   about her wedding.  OK, it wasn’t nice. And truthfully, it just happened.... no drugs or alcohol were involved. There were so many weddings that summer/fall, it just slipped my mind. 

After the wedding she composed a letter to me which started,   “Thank you for your brilliant display of friendship....”   It was almost a half century ago and I still remember it.  It took her ten years and many miles to forgive me, but eventually she did.   Maybe. 

This weekend was my 45th college reunion. If you are asked how old I am, please decline to answer. It’s not that my age is embarrassing, it is unbelievable.  How did it happen, and so fast?  My grandfather used to tell us, in broken English, that life is like a train:  for the first half of your life you are on the Local, and then somehow, you change to the Express.  Lately, it is impossible to remember what month, day, or year it is. It is equally impossible to remember what is suppose to happen every day. They all meld together like a colorful abstract painting.

This is not meant to be a whiny blob, because my life is full, adventurous, sometimes exciting, but usually fun.  It helps to be surrounded and supported by people I love, and I am grateful for that. But that’s not what I wanted to blob about.  What I wanted to blob about was friendship, new and old.

I’m not going to talk about new friends in this blob, but I’ll get there sometime.

There are  people who you have known for 50 years.  If you see them once a year, it’s enough.  That is not a bad thing. You love to know they are fine, doing well, their kids are thriving, and enjoying whatever life they chose to live.  So many of my college friends studied one thing in school but their lives took a turn and they are doing something entirely different.  It’s interesting to find out how that happened and nice to catch up, learn about their families and even the difficulties. Although at reunions, you mostly brag about the good and skip right over the bad.  It is surface conversation. And it’s lovely.

Then there are people who you may not even speak to once a year.  But when you run into them, it’s like you saw them yesterday.  You still have stuff to talk about, and it often revolves around more important subjects, like who they love and who they lost, and had any of their dreams come true. You hang on to those relationships because you know that if you need to, you can turn to them (or they to you) in a crisis and it won’t feel like an intrusion. You knew one another as children and there is a special bond. 

Lastly, there are the people, who no matter how much time you spend apart or how infrequently you are in touch, they are a solid part of your life.  You watched them grow into the people they are. You know their families, their pain, their joy.  It would never occur to you to do something important in your life and not include them. When you are together you pick up any conversation, from where you left off, but over the years the conversation has grown and developed and become much more intimate.  You might start by talking about things that happened in the past, but you move right into the present and the future.  It’s never boring, and surprisingly, no matter how long you’ve known them, it’s never the same.

The wonder of reunions is that you remember how precious and probably tenuous these connections can be. And you know that no matter the kind of friend they have become, you never ever want anyone of them to start a letter or email to you with, “Thank you for your brilliant display of friendship...”    We’re just sayin’…. Iris

The Last Five Years

Every five years, like clockwork, there is a reunion of some sort.  The one I am about to celebrate is not one that I can even believe is happening.  In fact, everyone who is of the same age, or close to it, can’t believe that time passed so quickly.  It happens… the difference between our generation and our parents, is that at 50 or 60 or 70, they didn’t feel like they were still 20, or 25, or 30. At least it never appeared so.  They were just what they were.

One of the things we are going to do at the class luncheon is to ask people to describe their lives in 2 minutes, Try it.  Unless you did absolutely nothing but pick your nose, it is almost impossible to narrow what you think was important into a two minute snapshot.

Here’s my snapshot (I knew you were desperate to know).

Got my Masters in Communication Theory (whatever that means), had a baby.  Left out getting married because that wasn’t one of my finest moments. Was a University Professor for sometime.  Accidentally found myself working in Presidential politics. Moved to Washington (where else would you do that). Got married again (this time it was great)  Had another baby. Wrote two political humor books and a documentary.  Decided to write and produce musical theater. Did it.  Moved to NY. Found new family.  Living happily ever after.

Probably left something out but since no one but my friends from college, who are still my friends, could even try to fill in the blanks.  Who cares about health concerns or emotional traumas. They seem not so important in such a great many years. Which brings us back to the reunion.  There are a number of people who are not coming, who we would  have liked to see.  But, for the most part, we see them or speak to them as much as is possible,  so they remain connected to our lives.  Keeping the people we love in our lives is hard work because everyone is somewhere else. But it is well worth the effort. Then, why are we at this reunion?  Did I want to be acknowledged for all my amazing accomplishments.  No, they aren’t so amazing.  Did I want people to say, “Oh, she looks so young. She hasn’t changed a bit.”  Even I, in my most distorted illusion, I know that’s simply not true, even for the people we knew when we were seventeen, and who might still see us through those seventeen year old eyes.

The truth is (and you know how I am about truth), visiting with my kids, seeing one of my best buddies, Soozie, and being able to take a break from Gefilte Fish Chronicles, the Musical, is, for me what this reunion is all about. Most of the professors we admired are dead, or don’t show up. I know, they can’t show up if they are dead. Duh. Oh, and of course, making fun of the people we never liked, is part of the overall joy.

There is too much thinking going on here. So, I’m just going to go to activities, drink a lot, and enjoy the weekend.  Nothing else to say – even though, We’re just Sayin….   Iris

Team Gefilte, at the White House

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Just to give you an idea of what our life has been like for the last few weeks, when I woke up last Wednesday morning (having returned very late from Washington DC and the Gefilte Fish Chronicles the Musical, command performance at the White House), David was packing his bags. “Where are you going?” I said. “To Australia, this afternoon”, he informed me.  “You’re kidding,“ I said.  “No,” He said.  “We have talked about it and its on every calendar we own.” And off he went. 

 

in front of the West Wing

A few weeks ago, my friend Steve Rabinowitz called me to find out if we would be interested in performing in the White House, some time in May for Jewish American Heritage Month.  Sure, I thought. It will never happen so it doesn’t hurt to say yes.  Two weeks ago I called him just to say, “I assume we are not going to the White House”.

“Don’t be so sure, I’ll get back to you,” he said.  Sure enough, he called me later in the day and said, “How does the 22nd work for you.” (It was May 7).  “It doesn’t give us much time,” I said.  “OK, I’ll call you right back” Which he did, to tell me that we were on for May 21st.

the Team Gefilte bus, flashing across the NJ Turnpike

During my political career, there were a number of times when putting an event together , last minute, was not uncommon. Of course, then I had staff and money was allocated, and there was an infrastructure. (None of which was the case this time.)  First I had to raise about $16,000. When you have an Equity level cast, it ain’t cheap.  Then there was  transportation, food, per diem, costumes & props, rehearsal space, technical needs, musical instruments, the people who played them, video, printing costs and those unexpected “miscellaneous” expenditures.

a warm up stretch

Most of Team Gefilte were working in other places. It was no easy task to put them back together -- that includes the director, stage manager, and casting director.  Oye, the repeated phone calls.  Of course, we could not forget the public relations, (D.C and NY-- we were in Broadway World and the NYTimes)) programs and materials for prospective investors.  It doesn’t sound like so much, but believe me, it was mind boggling. 

Team Gefilte 

From the time we knew we were going to do this, until we got to the White House, we never had a full cast rehearsal. What was supposed to happen was that we were supposed to have a two hour, full cast rehearsal AT the White House -- which would have happened if the security people had allowed all of us, cast and crew, in at the same time.  The entanglements of Sequestration (the excuse given for anything in government which isn’t operating fully according to form,) were the supposed excuse that the clearing Secret Service officer (it was down to one guy) didn’t get everyone properly cleared through the system.   By the time the rehearsal happened (in fast forward) we had an hour -- we thought. But then we were told that they were going to let the guests in at 1:30.  Which meant that maybe there was 45 minutes to work out all the kinks.  Did I mention that Matty and I had to rewrite the show because it is a two hour show and they only wanted an hour and 15.  The first time they fully ran the ‘wedding’ scene was when they ran the wedding scene in the show. 

Team Gefilte was amazing.  Not only did they pull it off, but they had people laughing and crying in all the right places.  It was truly a living, loving production about celebrating the power of family and the importance of Jewish Heritage. 

 

Ben and James prepping with no time to prep

We rented a bus which left NYC at 6am, we rehearsed and performed from 12:30 to 3:15 and then we went to a VIP reception with the Vice President.  We loaded up the bus at 6:30 and were back in NY by 11:30pm, with a stop at the nicest rest stop between NYC and Washington --- the Delaware Rest stop. 

 [Jordan and Ben did a stretch routine at the Rest Stop:   see a video version of it here!]

Anyway, it has been a non-stop couple of weeks. I for one, (I always wondered what that meant. How can you be more than one?), am exhausted.  But let’s be honest, a command performance at THE WHITE HOUSE, what could be more of a statement on the value of what we created. Broadway World was all over it.  And so were we.  We’re just sayin’…. Iris

http://dc.broadwayworld.com/article/Photo-Flash-GEFILTE-FISH-CHRONICLES-Performs-at-the-White-House-20130522

Smash(ed)

When it started, I was curious about how the TV people would present the development of a Broadway musical.  Well, all you have to know is that they have cancelled next season, so all those questions left unanswered will live forever in our minds…. unanswered. 

When I invest my valuable time in destination TV, it is usually because I like it.  This was not the case with “Smash.”  It was a terrible show. But for those of us in the theater, we were curious about how they would portray “us.”  Or, what we really wanted was to be able to explain to all the people who are curious about what we do, that we were certain characters on the show. Nothing I liked better than to say to folks, “have you ever watched “Smash?” --- well I’m kind of Angelica Huston.”  Although to tell you the truth, I like the Jerry character, because he’s a Producer with endless funds. 

When I started writing this blob, sometime about two weeks ago, I had no idea that a performance at the White House, was in my future.  Yes, that White House. But last week, Gefilte Chronicles the Musical, invited us to the White House in honor of Jewish Heritage Month.  Who knew there was a Jewish Heritage Month? Although it is certainly a Religion with lots of Heritage, and good fish. 

Anyway, I have been spending most of my time like Angelica Huston. Except, she has people who work for her.  One does the PR, in a kind of a sleazy way.  She plants false information with people on the Tony nominating committee which discourages them from voting for anyone but her client.  This woman is truly offensive. Yes, there are sleazy people in the business but never as obvious as this woman.  It’s important to keep reminding myself that it’s only a TV show.  And on television there has to be drama, tension, heroes, victims, liars, sex, villains, and most importantly, pithy dialogue.  Unfortunately, the scripts for “Smash” were terrible.  They made some wonderful talented actors into blithering idiots. Well, maybe they didn’t blither, but it came pretty close. 

So, was there any good news about “Smash?” Of course there was. It gave a great many out of work Broadway actors a salary and benefits for at least, the time it was on.  Plus six weeks.

Back to the White House.  We are thrilled and honored to have been invited.  We are kind of like “the little engine that could.” We just keep moving forward with our gem of a show, and eventually we will have audiences all over the country and maybe even the world…. Toot, toot, toot.   We’re just sayin’… Iris

Da Fridge

When I look at my fridge in the NYC apartment, ( I can’t do it in our place upstate because it is stainless and nothing sticks but fingerprints), I see a visual diary of moments and people that are important to me.  When did putting stuff on the fridge become something people did?  (Even Wikipedia doesn’t know). And why do we make it the place where we keep these treasured memories?  Even when we were going to sell the apartment and the real estate agent said that we had to remove anything that would divert the potential buyers attention from thinking about it as theirs, the first thing we did was remove all the stuff on the fridge.  It was lonely without those things in which I found such great comfort and so much of our history.

Here’s what we have in our kitchen behind a variety of amusing magnets:

Pictures of our grandchildren and those close enough to be grandchildren.

Pictures of our children and their friends who we have come to know and love enough to attend any performance we can, within a regional geographical distance.

Sweet little notes that remind us of special days.

Telephone numbers we don’t want to lose.

Remembrances of events we attended and we liked or we hated but the pictures were good.

Pictures of people we may not know, but would like to. For example, we have a picture of Amanda Green, who produced Law and Order SVU – which we love and could watch 24/7.  As it happens, her father is a photographer who David knows, and I have met.  He’s a lovely guy, and we told him we worshipped his daughter (I think that’s how we got the picture), but we failed to mention that Jordan wanted to be the dead body at the beginning of each show.  Still we admire her genius and she has earned a place right up there.

So what criteria does anyone use for refrigerator prominence? We mostly stick things up when we have nothing else to do with them. Then we search for a magnet that will hold it, until we replace it with something more timely or meaningful. We do not have special attractive magnets that might also mean something.  We just use giveaways – so as not to take away from the importance of the stuff.

 The most interesting memento on the fridge is a drawing given to Jordan by someone who’s name got wet, so we don’t know who it is --  Ann something. But we like it so it remains. Oh yes, and a lovely note from Julie Harris, a remarkable actress, also written to Jordan.

 

Anyway, take a look at what you have saved in this prominent place and see if it creates a picture of who you are or aspire to be – ours has nothing to do with any of that, but at least I know where to find the telephone number for the garage.

Shows and Shows...Does it Show?

Of course we are not surprised that the air traffic controllers are going back to work.  A few days ago I told David that as soon as the Congress and their friends were inconvenienced, they would find money.  Who didn’t know that?  Yet, the unmitigated chutzpah, of doing that and still not restoring funds for programs involving the elderly and children, is almost unbelievable.  But who didn’t know that?  Oh, and they also got rid of a law that prevents them from having to  disclose any inside trading.  Aren’t we all looking forward  to their return from their nine day vacation – to which they can travel because they brought the air traffic controllers back. 

Since we all know everything, let’s move on to something about which we can discover something new.  Maybe not. Oh, I know, let’s talk about the theater.  It’s my favorite non controversial topic.  In the last few weeks,  I saw “Lucky Guy.”  If you are or were a journalist this is an especially remarkable show. If you are not, it’s still well worth seeing not only for Tom Hanks, (who got nominated for a Drama Desk but the show didn’t) but the rest of the cast is terrific as well.  “Kinky Boots” is so much fun. The spirit and costumes reminded me of “Pricilla Queen of the Desert,” and that’s very good, especially for people looking for visitors looking for a real “Broadway” show.  “Matilda”, is beautifully stage and precise. The kids must have worked (all of them) 24/7, to achieve the perfection of what they did. It’s a show with a message and every once in a while the public needs that.  “Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike.”  (I couldn’t remember the name unless I  thought of my mother and her sisters whose Jewish names were Basha, Sasha, Fasha, Rasha -- or something like that).  Which was not giving this incredibly hilarious show the notoriety it deserves. I usually laugh at a comedy, but I laughed so hard that I couldn’t catch my breath.  Next week we’re seeing, “I’ll Eat You Last” for which Bette got a nomination – no surprise.

It is seldom that I agree with the Drama Desk nominations, but that’s what makes the world go around – much like the truck in “Hands on a Hard Body.”  Which eventually made me sea sick.  To tell the truth, I didn’t make it through “Hands on a Hard Body.”  It has since closed. But Keith Carradine, who I worship, did get a nomination.  Which was not a surprise to me. However,  someone likes the show, the producers, the talent, whatever, because they got any number of Drama Desk nominations.   A year ago I was involved in producing a show based on the event, not the documentary, about these hold-onto-a-truck contests.  Ours was called “Slow Dance With a Hot Pick Up.”  It was much better.  So this hopefully will be like it the situation when the there were two “Wild Party” shows;  one went to Broadway, but the other was much more popular.  We never thought our show was meant for Broadway, but we did think it would be successful as a regional production.  Who said Washington is the only place where there are serious politics?  We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Welcome to Our Own Millenia -- WJS # 1000

In a world with very few personal blob(g)s lasting more than a week or maybe a couple of weeks (kind of like Gym Memberships which start on January 1st).... we are proud to present Blob # 1000 of "We're Just Sayin' "   The editor acknowledges that a large majority of the entries have been penned by Iris (probably about 60-65% but who's counting!?)  but since April, 2006 -- 7 short/long/incredible/boring/amazing years we have struggled to maintain our editorial POV in an ever changing world.  If we had started Twitter or Instagram then, who knows what the world be like now, but instead, we just chose to share with our small, dedicated, vast readership, our views (and reviews) of what's doing.  Thanks for tuning into the Blob, and in honor of #1000, we'll first reprint #0001, April 19, 2006, followed by Iris' latest, penned, as many of them were, on a plane to NY this morning.


This is the first line of the first graf of the first post, and so far, blobbing has been extremely exciting. We couldn't just sit by and let all the other Blobbers just post blob after blob, and not react. I mean, what are we chopped Liver? (You CAN enjoy chopped liver during Passover, but somehow it seems to take a back seat to gefilte fish, but that's another story.) So we started blobbing, and it really seems easier than TYPING 101 Class: just let it flow, let it run, and you're blobbing. Wow, we're blobbing. Well, here we are, blobbers and happy to be here. This space in the future will be occupied by various observations, travel memoirs, rants, witticisms, and other wise uncorroborated opinion (apparently in blobbing, contrary to ACTUAL Journalism, you're not supposed to either verify information, follow up rumors by checking them out for veracity, nor be sure what you're saying is for real) which we hope will cause our readers and viewers (yes, as a photographer unleashed, images will find their way here too) to feel that Blobbing is the wave of the future. So enjoy We're Just Sayin, because, after all, I mean, you know, We 're Just Sayin.

Correction:

Apparently it's supposed to be BLOGGING not BloBBing, however given what we've actually read online, we think BLOBBING makes a whole lot more sense (see the original film The BLOB, 1958 and you'll know what we mean). Come BLOB with us.

Iris Burnett ( political operative, novelist, world traveller, humorist, entrepreneur, mother, discount shopper  & now Musical Producer)
David Burnett (photojournalist, world traveller, beer gourmand, mimic, possessor of a keen eye and keen wit)


#1000:

Flying is just not what it used to be.  On our trip to Palm Beach we discovered that

Mr. Bland, who was asked to identify himself, had been upgraded to 3A.  Wow, Mr. Bland is a lucky guy, he’s going all the way from 12 B to 3A.  In the short term this was good news, but in the long term, people like us felt only sorrow because he is stuck being identified as “bland”, for the whole of his life.  You can only imagine what that was like, which we did by imagining that people would shout, “try to be a bit more colorful.”  (Or you finish the shout with something equally smart.)

That was amusing, right?  Today we were flying back to NY on a plane that was crowded beyond belief, or maybe it just felt that was because we were sitting with our legs above our heads, in some kind of a distended yoga position.  In the middle seat of the row behind us was a big elderly woman.  The aisle seat was occupied by a portly gentleman and, briefly, the window seat was unoccupied.  When the passenger in 11A arrived, the gentleman stood.  Not so the woman in the middle.  There was a brief pause while Mr. Window seat waited for Ms Middle seat move.  After a few minutes and uncomfortable eye contact, the woman said, “Jump!”   She was not kidding and he was a bit bewildered, but he jumped.  It wasn’t pretty.  The only thing we hoped was that he would not have to go to the bathroom. Two Jumps might have killed him.  I was reminded that the mini-STOP signs at the club where we were staying (either meant for small dogs, or to make it clear the STOP sign wasn't for cars, just golf carts....)  would have been handy.

There was a horrific bombing during the finish of the Boston Marathon, about which I am not going to talk.  There really is nothing to say, since the media covered the news 24/7 and made sure to tell us over and over that there were arms and legs all over Copley Square and in front of the Boston Public Library.  Maybe we should change the name of our country to Americarnage.  Too long.  Australia is almost that length but seemingly with a few Alligator incidents, instead of violent attacks on children and people who like to run.

Speaking of Alligators (nice segue´ huh?), We spent the week in West Palm Beach, staying with cousins in their home, on a golf course where there are alligators, who don’t bother anyone, not even the Woodstorks  (who did not go to upstate New York to protest the war, and stay with hundreds and thousands of their closest friends listening to music. Nor did they smoke dope or bathe in puddles left by gargantuan rainstorms.) Did I digress?  One of the things I like about Florida is the tropical vegetation. For example, there are camellia bushes as big as trees, and some folks cut and shape them and use them as hedges. And there are palm trees and birds of paradise as well as lovely little birds, who, without an announcement, know enough to stay away from alligators.  I also like the weather, the fruit, and the shopping centers on every block.  You are never more than a half mile from any discount clothing shop. I could do without the people who drive their cars but who, at no time, can see above the steering wheel.

Anyway, it was a busy week for “Gefilte Fish Chronicles  - the Musical,” which has yet to find a tropical home, but there is certainly interest.  And the best news is that Zachy is six years old, cuter than any of the three cats in his house, and smarter than almost any other kids who are not my grandchildren.  It’s my blob, I get to say anything I want.  We’re just sayin’… Iris 

About Passover

The writers of this blob take great pleasure in letting you know that, in a world of most blogs lasting  a week or maybe a month,   this entry is # 999, in the sixth year of running, and we salute the hard core followers of “We’re Just Sayin’”  for staying with us, through all the typos and trailing prepositions. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_jvKfKJhPBw.  While it is unusual to begin a blob with a Youtube link, in this case you will be glad I did – or perhaps you won’t. 

What with the opening of ‘Gefilte Fish Chronicles - theMusical,’ followed soon after by  the actual holiday, the last few months have been particularly busy. Passover has always been one of my favorite holidays. When we were kids our mothers/aunts began the  special preparations weeks ahead of time. They scrubbed every counter in the house, washed the windows, shampooed the carpets and changed all the dishes to the glass dishes with little bubbles that could be used for meat and dairy (glass was cost effective and made my grandmother happy when she did her yearly list of questions.)  We studied the Four Questions, watched Aunt Peppy ferment the beets for the horseradish, and dream about the silver dollars we would receive from our uncles (who we were sure had a silver mine), for finding the treasured Afikomen.  Oh, and we were permitted to drink a glass of wine, which we knew was wrong – and that made it even better. It was always a joyous time, one to which we looked forward.

As I reflect on Passovers past, it seemed so many important things have happened to me on or around it. The most important of which was my first date with David in 1979. It wasn’t a particularly romantic evening (everyone invited was told to wear a colorful hat) but he schlepped a  half case of Manischewitz Cream Concord along with a few bottles of actually drinkable wine. The extended family Seder/reunion, was usually on the second night of the holiday, and for many years it was a holiday that was also a reunion.  Then it became a study of the Haggadah, which was interesting, but it was not easy to catch up.  So I had my own Seder on the first night. It was a real Seder, but since a number of people weren’t Jewish and I wanted it to be memorable, we did things like wear silly hats. It somehow made the Four Questions make more sense when read by someone wearing an Orioles cap.

As our Aunts got older and a little less likely to stay awake all night plucking chickens—they played cards instead— the next generation was called on to give a hand hocking the fish, making the sponge cake, assembling the cholent, and grinding the horseradish.  It took them six weeks to prepare for the holiday (we have since done it in 3 days), but they loved to be together arguing, remembering, crying and laughing.  What a gift they gave to all of us who were ready to unwrap it.

David – having been raised in Salt Lake City in what was definitely a “less Jewish” atmosphere, was fascinated by six week process which duplicated what the family had been doing every spring for a hundred years. “The GefilteFish Chronicles”  started as a little family home movie to record for the kids as yet unborn, just what life was like, and became an award winning documentary. And now, to continue this celebration of family, it’s a musical show.

This year we hosted 62 people for the Seder.  We (I hosted, but it is not my Seder—it was a shared family project) cooked for 80 just in case, though once you’re over 50, it doesn’t really matter.  We celebrated the Seder the day before Passover because that was when most cousins and their children could come.  There was some controversy about having a Seder on a day that was technically not Passover—but it was Passover somewhere in the world and it certainly was in my house in Newburgh – with my grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends.  They were all watching over us, and saying (to each other and in our minds) “…. look at the children.  They’re making an effort to do exactly what we wanted them to do – they are all staying connected.”   I feel sure they said this while they were playing cards, and I know it made them happy, because it sure made the rest of us enjoy the celebration. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Keep on Truckin

If I were still writing my Bulletin's Over Broadway Blob,here's what I would have written.  Passover plus, which I am writing tomorrow will be our 999th blob. Almost 1000.

Sometimes the unexpected happens, unexpectedly.  For example, the “Wild Party” was a musical with a book by George C Wolfe and music and lyrics by Michael John LaChiusa. It was based on the 1928 Joseph Moncure March narrative poem of the same name. Oh wait.  “The Wild Party,”was a musical with book, lyrics, and music by Andrew Lippa. It too was based on Joseph Moncure March's 1928 narrative poem of the same name. They both debuted during the same theatre season (1999–2000). While one was well funded and peopled with popular stars and a well-known creative team, the other emerged as the “Wild Party” of hip choice.

Two years ago, “Slow Dance with a Hot Pick-up” (having been work-shopped previously at Indiana University’s Premiere Musicals Lab, selected for development at the New Harmony Project by Tony Award Winner, Anna D. Shapiro, further developed at the Florida Studio Theatre and the legendary Barnstormers Theatre in New Hampshire where it won the New Hampshire Theatre Award for Best New Musical and then selected to be presented in Montreal at the 2009 Next Wave Festival of New Musicals), had its World Premiere in Boulder, Colorado at the famous Boulder Dinner Theatre.  A few months later “Hands on a Hard Body,” (based on the documentary of the same name), with the exact theme and similar story, was work-shopped in California, prior to its Broadway debut this month.

“Hot Pick-up” which was inspired by these same Hands On contests that came about during the 1980’s was researched and written by John Pielmeier (Agnes of God,  Pillars of the Earth , and many screenplays). Music and lyrics for “Hot Pickup” were penned by Emmy awarded winning composer Matty Selman (“Goddess Wheel”, and “Uncle Philip’s Coat”).  John and Matty’s story, about a grueling marathon contest, where the prize (a pick-up) was awarded to the last person still able to hold  on to the truck, was not based on the documentary.

“Hands on a Hardbody”, has a book by Pulitzer Prize winning Doug Wright (I am My Own Wife)  with music and lyrics by singer song writer, Amanda Green (Bring it On) and Trey Anastasio (Phish).  Both these shows, have notable creative teams and a “real American” tale to tell.  Both revolve around dignity, dreams, and frustrated aspirations to succeed in lives where they have had only disappointed expectations. Both are musicals.  Both are passionate and musically appealing.  But only one was able to be a Broadway show. Because only one had the financial backing to stay alive long enough to find out if the public is interested in watching what they have produced. It appears they aren’t.

Like “The Wild Party,” there seemed to be room for both productions. And like the Wild Party, one went to Broadway, while the other remained Off Broadway.  Broadway loves new visions for an old story (revivals) and themes that are universal, (love, hate, struggle).  But Broadway has room for only one production of the same story and that production has to be, if nothing else, well funded.

There is a kind of sadness in this theater reality. It doesn’t matter who was first or which show has the most merit. It’s not about talent since both of these productions are notable.  But it is incredibly expensive to produce a Broadway show, so the only thing that is for sure is, that if you have access to the money,  (are Phish, have parents who are legends, or have won a Pulitzer Prize), you will have the funding necessary to support an artistic effort.  And, if you fail, it will be considered a successful failure, because you raised millions of dollars, and you will not have to worry about being able to buy your own lunch.  It will be interesting to see what happens to both productions in the next few years.  Once a show is produced, whether it’s on Broadway, off, or off off off, it has a life of it’s own.  It can tour, or be licensed by almost anyone. If the show has a compelling story, memorable music, and interesting characters, it can play somewhere forever, as long as it costs a lot less than a million dollars. We're Just Sayin...... Iris

Painful doesn't beGIN to describe...

 

An old writer friend opened a show off off-Broadway recently.  It was a painful but productive experience for him.  Speaking as a novice musical theater writer I cannot imagine why he didn’t have a nervous breakdown.  But I am told this kind of thing happens more often than any of us can imagine.

He didn’t care that there was no red carpet, he didn’t expect one and having never had one before, didn’t miss it.  All he wanted was for the actors to know their lines and for the musicians to be somewhat practiced.  Not so fast—apparently, it was too much to ask.

I could go on and on but it wouldn’t make any difference. We all (aspiring producers) invest a great deal of time on stuff that has nothing to do with what we envisioned. So moving on, I am always amazed at the depth of the correspondence on Facebook.  I love Facebook because it allows me enter into the lives of people who I have known for a long time, or are people with whom I would like a continuing relationship.

Let’s get back to my pal for just a brief moment.  Should he have known better than to trust strangers with his baby?  Should he have choreographed the piece so no one could make mincemeat of it.  Should he have been skeptical enough to know that the people with whom he entrusted his vision didn’t have a clue? Probably. But none of that happened, so what next?

Artists are a curious lot.  Unlike most normal people, artists think they are special.  They have to think they are special because they put their work out in public, where anyone can make judgments about what they have done.  If artists doesn’t believe in their work themselves, then why should anyone else think it’s special?  When an artist produces a work of art, be it a play, a song, a book, whatever, it’s like giving birth to a baby.  For some period of time, the artist wants to nurture what they have produced.  They don’t trust a stranger to protect its integrity, or give the baby the same attention they will give it.  As the baby grows the artist will give relinquish control but not until they know that they have left their baby in competent hands.

And on a totally different subject, (which I could connect but it would be too painful for our readers) has Mayor Bloomberg driven uptown, crosstown, or downtown in NYC?  Probably not,  because the construction and the condition of the roads are abhorrent.  Yesterday when he announced his concern over displays of cigarettes, and last month with his push forbidding 32 ounce drinks, I said (to anyone who would listen) “this guy is totally out of touch with the important issues.  He’s so busy monitoring our personal behavior that he has totally lost his focus on problems that effect those of us who try to live in NY.”  I want to yell, WAKE UP BOZO!, but it’s not respectful, much like someone decimating a lovely musical show because they have lost their ability to distinguish between what is worthwhile and what gives someone immediate gratification. We must protect ourselves from the people who only see superficial, and be on the lookout for those who value expediency over thoughtful decision making.  We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Lost..... and Found? No, Just Lost

English language words can be fascinating or bewildering.  So many of the words we use either mean more than one thing, or they are not pronounced the way they are spelled.  Such things as silent ough’s or a ph that is pronounced as an f, don’t make it an easy language to learn. It’s always been an amazing to me that a little child can speak and pronounce confusing words correctly. 

The other day, as a direct consequence of my exhaustion, I lost a day.  It is unclear whether it was Monday or Tuesday, but it got lost.  When I got out of bed on Wednesday, despite the fact that the trash cans in our neighborhood were all awaiting a Wednesday pick-up.  And, although I had watched NCIS on the previous evening.  When I went over to my cousin Debbie’s just to say hello, she asked if I was meeting my aunt for lunch the next day. “Yes,” I said. “I told her I couldn’t meet on Thursday so I was going to meet her tomorrow, on Wednesday.”

“But” she said, “today is Wednesday”.  I argued for a while, but she was right.  It was 9:30 and I had to pick  Auntie up at 11:30.  The trip would take an hour and fifteen minutes.  “Guess  better move my touchas or Auntie is going to be standing in the cold for way longer than she expected.”

There are a number of definitions for this four letter word.  It can mean no longer possessed or retained: lost friends.  No longer to be found: lost articles. Or having gone astray or missed the way; bewildered as to place, direction, etc.: lost children. It can also mean one has missed an opportunity to win some kind of a race.  The first “lost” I discussed does not really fit any of these. The closest it comes is to be bewildered. I was not bewildered or befuddled.  I was as sure of the day, as I was of my own name. And I was wrong.  I spent the day (after lunch) trying to figure out if I lost Monday or Tuesday, when I realized it didn’t make any difference.  The weird thing is that I knew exactly what I did on Monday and Tuesday,  and still, I insisted it was Wednesday.  Lost? Maybe.  Definitely.  Lost.  We’re just sayin’.. Iris

Measuring Silly

How do we measure our lives?  T.S Eliot, said that J. Alfred Prufrock did it in coffee spoons. Sports teams do it in number of victories.  Doctors may measure in the number of lives they have saved. Business people will likely measure in money and material success. Those of us whose lives have been more eclectic, find alternatives to the win/lose or money earned/spent evaluation of our lives.

Yesterday, when we needed to make some changes in our EZ-pass, David got on the phone and pretended to be me. When David was pretending to be me, he mentioned, in passing, that the EZ-pass had been passed on to the next generation because Rose was dead.  They insisted however, on speaking to her (“sir… only the account holder can change the account….)  So I got on the phone, and passed myself off as my too colorful mother.  After about five minutes of question answering, the EZ-pass representative hesitated and said, “just a minute, I thought someone said that Rose was dead.”  I laughed and said, “how can I be dead, I’m talking on the phone.” It felt great.  When mom was alive and we would have to do business on the phone for her, banking, bill paying, insurance issues, David would initiate the call.  Whoever he was calling was insistent on speaking to my mother. I would then get on the phone and drive the person we called so nuts, that they would insist I put “the nice young man” back on the phone.

One of the ways we measure our success is by how we deal with people who call during dinner to sell us something we will never buy.  Usually David takes these calls because he was never a bad boy.  I have never been a good girl—in the most innocent ways. In college when the pay phone in the hallway rang – we didn’t have our own phones, and cells were a thing to be discovered thirty years later, we would all rush to the phone because a call on the pay phone was assuredly a pervert call. Perverts were the only people who had the phone number.  (No one in the dorm knew any of the pay phone numbers.)

As children we would play this game where we would compete to gross out the pervert.  It was a timing thing.  The idea was that whoever grossed out the pervert the quickest, would win the game.   It was an incredibly challenging competition, where the language and energy knew no bounds. Let me say, (I don’t think you’ll be surprised), I was usually the champ.  It was such fun that when David and I started to get these dinner interrupting phone calls, I didn’t want to deny him the opportunity to have some fun.  His responses  took a number of forms.  This is not a complete list but, sometimes he would pretend to be hard of hearing, sometimes he would be pretend to be screaming at his uncooperative wife, and sometimes he would pretend not to speak any English.  There was even a conversation which included the phrase (yelled to a theoretical off camera young child,) " I swear if you drop that watermelon I'll crown you with a Sand Wedge!"   Whoever the character, it was always hilarious.

You remember that there was a ‘no call’ list.  If you signed up, you were not supposed to get any of those tiresome solicitations or pesky non-stop political sales (yes they think they are selling a product).  Despite our attempt not to get calls, we continued to be bombarded by optimistic, hopeful, soon to be discouraged, sales personnel who, at their expense provided us with a way to measure our creativity. Anyway, one of our measurements for success and personal growth, was the ability to delight in getting rid of unwanted dinner interruptions, as well as ability to entertain one another. Humor is an excellent measure of personal growth,  as well as  proving that no matter how old someone gets, you’re never be too old to be silly.  We’re just sayin’… Iris